The Memory of Eva Ryker (35 page)

Twenty feet below Eva an old woman swung from a ventilator port, tongue lolling blue from her mouth, strangled on her diamond necklace.

Hundreds of people writhed around the aftermast, those slipping off plummeting to the water.

The sea embraced them all. Up over the third funnel. Then the fourth.

Blood drooled down from Eva's wrists.

Over the davits. Spouting through the portholes.

A hundred feet below. Eighty feet. Seventy-five.

Past the fourth funnel. Seventy feet.

Eva's fingers slackened on the cable.

Men and women plunged, struggling into the wake.

Sixty. Fifty-five. Surging around the aftermast.

Eva's fingers slipped. Shouts spiraled around her as she tumbled over and over in a tight ball.

The sea hit, driving through her body like a million needles. Breaking surface, she snarled with the cold.

The
Titanic
dove past her, the poop deck railing gliding before her eyes. By instinct she grabbed it and felt herself being dragged below, following the ship.

No! No! A voice in her skull yelled. Let go! Let go! Her hands were free but still she was dragged down. Life belt straps were snagged around the railing.

Eva struggled, air bubbling from her mouth. Sinking in the cold. Her hands grasped the belts, throwing off the jacket.

She kicked to the surface. Huge pieces of cork mat and deck chairs floated in the way. An unseen arm hit her face. Her teeth clenched tight. Lungs aching, dying. Water seeped into her mouth.

Eva broke the surface with fifteen hundred men, women, and children crying in agony under a gray shroud of fog. The noise roared across the water.

“Save one life! Save one life!”

“Help me! Somebody help me!”

Eva flapped past a baby floating face down.

A Japanese man swept past, tied at the waist to a door.

Hands grappled around her, a voice panting in her ear. She glimpsed panic-bulging eyes as she kicked him away.

A low black shape loomed ahead, shadowy figures scuffling on top. Eva's hand reached out and grasped the edge of the overturned Collapsible B. Men crouched in an effort to balance the hull.

“Help me!” she cried. “Help me!”

No one heard her amid the clamor of voices. The boat sunk lower in the water with each new arrival.

“Lean to port; we're losing balance!”

Eva knew the voice. “Mr. McFarland! Mr. McFarland!”

No one answered. The boat floated away in the night.

Eva half-swam, half-drifted, unaware she was even moving. Cries faded away and bodies littered the sea. The white jacket of a steward. A young French girl from steerage. An old man in a tuxedo. The war veteran, his hooked arm spread across the water.

Still she swam, arms moving by rote, no longer under the control of their owner.

Her hand hit wood planking with a hollow knock. Eva turned dazedly, aware of something blocking her path, but too far gone to respond. Her arms battered feebly at the side of the boat.

“Over here!” a man yelled, as footsteps pounded to her. Hands grabbed her arms and dragged her aboard Number Four.

“Who is it?”

“A little girl. Half dead. Anyone got a blanket?”

Eva felt cloth wrapping around her. Lamp trimmer Samuel Hemming called out to the stern.

“Is there some room back there? The girl's got to lie down.”

Women chattered and dresses rustled. “It's all right. We've made some room.”

Eva vaguely felt herself being passed from Hemming to another man.

“Put her over there. By the women.”

Looking up, she saw the man's head silhouetted by the stars.

“She looks pretty bad,” Jason Eddington said. “I don't think she's going to make it.”

Eva screamed and screamed as the stars whirled around her, flinging away like water drops from a spinning wheel as she fell through a blackness that had no end.

29

The eighteen lifeboats drifted across a five-mile area of the black sea. Most were alone, wandering aimlessly, their grief-stricken passengers listening to the dying cries of hundreds of swimmers freezing to death in the dark. Very few boats went back to pick up the helpless. Many erroneously feared a suction in the
Titanic's
wake, which would drag them under if they returned to the scene. Others, more rightly, had visions of being swamped by panicky swimmers fighting to get aboard. So they sat and listened and wrestled unsuccessfully with their consciences.

There were some exceptions. Boat Number Four was moored with Ten, Twelve, Fourteen, and Collapsible D in a rescue attempt under the leadership of Fifth Officer Lowe.

“Consider yourself under my command!” he barked, standing at the bow of Boat Number Fourteen. “We're going to go back and pick up any survivors we can find. I'll need some men to volunteer.”

Scattered figures rose from the boats.

The fifty-five passengers in Number Fourteen stood uneasily, tottering and jumping one at a time to the other boats.

Mumbled words and the low clunking of oars drifted into the ears of Eva Ryker as Boat Fourteen cast off on its errand of mercy. Sitting in the lap of a woman, unseen in the darkness, she didn't move. Her face was upturned to the bright dispassionate stars overhead.

The boats floated on through the night as the passengers scanned the horizon.

“Be on watch for two lights,” said Trimmer Hemmings in Boat Number Four, “one just below the other. That'll be the mast lights of a ship.”

Everyone intently watched the sharp line between sea and sky.

“Over there!” Jason Eddington pointed southeast.

Hemmings turned and examined the sparkling light. It slowly drew above the water, but no second light appeared beneath.

“A star,” he said dully.

Through the still air the cold bit into Eva's marrow. She clutched the blanket and bit the corner to keep her teeth from chattering. Her hair crackled with every move, the strands frozen stiff.

“Keep a lookout for icebergs,” Quartermaster Perkis was saying.

Icebergs … icebergs … icebergs … icebergs …

His voice waned into blackness as Eva slumped against the woman's breasts.

She awoke with a jolt. Breathing heavily, Eva stared at the gray-black shadows surrounding her.

“Ssh … ssh,” the woman whispered, tightening her embrace. “Be still. It's all right.”

A fuzzy patch of light glowed on the horizon. Mrs. Astor pointed. “The sunrise. It's morning.”

The light grew, then faded, only to flare again.

“No.” Hemming's voice was cold. “It's the Northern Lights.”

Eva watched the glow fan across the northern sky, faint streamers stretching toward the Pole Star.

The night wore on as the passengers huddled together to escape the cold. Far in the distance Fourth Officer Boxhall fired flares. Green sparks reflected in long streaks across the water.

Ghostly white shapes of other boats materialized, only to be lost again. Boats Four, Ten, Twelve, and “D” were still strung together like trinkets on a bracelet. The last wild cries in the night faded like the buzz of a dying fly. Officer Lowe and Boat Number Fourteen had been swallowed in the darkness.

A crewman lay in the bottom of Boat Four, looking up pleadingly at Mrs. John Thayer, the woman holding Eva. “One of you ladies wouldn't happen to have a little drink handy, would you?”

No one replied. Eva smelled a strong brandy breath.

The air grew colder and everyone on board hugged themselves against a rising breeze. Timbers creaked as they wobbled on a newly choppy sea.

A light flashed in the southeast, followed by a distant explosion. Eva shuddered and clung to Mrs. Thayer.

A pinpoint peeked over the rim of the water. Then one below it. Jason snapped to attention, eyes trained on the distance.

Lights rose row upon row over the edge of the world. Firing rockets, the big steamer throbbed toward the boats. Cheers and cries of relief echoed among the boats as the ship hove to, three miles away, revealing deck after deck of lighted portholes.

A band of gunmetal gray shimmered to the east and a soft golden glow spread in all directions. Thin clouds stretched along the horizon, growing pink as Eva watched them.

The stars faded as if their power supply was failing, leaving Venus gleaming low near a pallid new moon.

Gold and pink rays shone across the bright blue sea and revealed an incredible scene. Throughout the night the survivors imagined themselves floating in limbo. But the lights now sparkled off a vast field of surrounding icebergs ranging from icy handfuls to two hundred-foot mountains looming over the boats.

Five miles away solid field ice stretched to the north and west horizons. The ice gleamed in the sunlight—white and pink where the beams caught an outcropping; purple and blue in the shadows.

The
Titanic's
eighteen lifeboats were little dwarfed specks among the bergs as they rowed toward the steamer. Lisa Eddington watched the rescuing ship come into view as Boat Thirteen steered around an icy mountain.

A crewman pointed at the bands on the ship's single funnel. “It's a Cunarder.”

Lisa could already see other boats reaching the liner's gangway.

Four miles away men balanced precariously atop Collapsible B, rolling in the roughening surf. It sank lower with every wave.

“Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!” the men on the overturned collapsible yelled, but no one responded.

Feet spread catlike on top of the hull, Second Officer Lightoller dragged his whistle from his pocket. The sharp piping blew across the water, turning the heads of crewmen in Boats Four and Twelve.

Trimmer Hemming wheeled around at the noise, then jabbed the shoulder of the Quartermaster, who jumped to the bow and pulled off the mooring ropes.

The two boats drifted from the others, oars splashing in the water. His back bent from rowing, Jason Eddington squinted at the twenty little figures standing in the middle of the sea.

They were on a cake of ice … no, it was some sort of wreckage, a lifeboat. Didn't look like they were doing too well …

As the boat closed the distance he could make out faces. Lightoller was easy to spot … Jack Thayer …

His face tightened as he saw John McFarland near the stern of Collapsible B. Jason watched him shivering in the cold as the boats drew close, nearly tossing the men overboard in their wake.

The collapsible wallowed as each man flopped into one of the rescuing boats. Jason stared down at the floorboards, hoping to look inconspicuous. Eva watched the men scramble next to her, shadowy figures flashing before her eyes.

Jack Thayer fell into Boat Twelve, not noticing his mother eight feet away in Number Four, as McFarland jumped and landed next to him.

Lightoller was the final man off the collapsible, dragging a corpse with him onto Boat Twelve. He grabbed the tiller as the boat drew away, rowing toward the still distant ship.

As Boats Four and Twelve parted, McFarland spotted a familiar face.

“Eva!” he yelled across the water.

She didn't answer. She merely shook in Mrs. Thayer's arms.

Scanning the passengers in Boat Four, McFarland's face went slack.

“Eddington! Eddington, you bastard!”

Jason met his eyes, the distance growing between them.

“Grab that man!” McFarland pointed. “He's …”

“Sit down!” Lightoller yelled, pulling him off his feet.

“You don't understand. That man …”

“McFarland, any quarrel you have can wait.”

No further words were spoken as the white boats drew apart.

At about eight-fifteen
A.M.
Boat Number Four nestled alongside the gangway of the Cunard liner. Jason looked up the side of the ship at the letters on her bow:
CARPATHIA.

A long line of people leaned over the Boat Deck railing. He spotted Lisa in the crowd. They didn't smile. Or wave. They warily appraised each other as the
Carpathia's
crewmen lowered a rope ladder.

Hands reached out to Eva from the descending ropes. Voices swirled around her.

“Grab her there … careful …”

“… she looks dead to me …”

“… almost … get her to the doctor … here, get her arm … that's it …”

The sky and ship flipped end over end.

“Watch it! Don't let her fall …”

“… I'm trying …”

A strong hand grabbed her waist. A rough wool shirt bristled her face. Puffing lungs mixed with the tang of sweat. Feet clomped the deck.

“Here. Get her to Dr. McGhee. Quick.”

Passed from hand to hand. Sky, rigging, and faces reeled about her; then wood, electric lamps, stewards, and cool hands.

“Easy. Keep her head up.”

Smooth white table linen brushed Eva's cheek. A walnut-creased face peered from above, lifting her eyebrow.

“Get her clothes off and into something dry. And get some bandages.”

The
Carpathia
turned and steamed a snaky course between the bergs, smoke from its funnel trailing a black strand across the sky.

Churning away, its wake fanned over the sea. Aqua bubbles and pale gold foam bubbled under the rising sun. In orderly waves the wake spread, splashing feebly among the ice, jostling the chair cushions, the abandoned lifeboats, and the hundreds of corpses. The famous and unknown drifted together, buoyed by life jackets.

Two weeks later the
MacKay-Bennett
would come from Halifax and recover some two hundred of the bodies. Those left behind scattered over the Atlantic in the next weeks and months.

Flesh rotted under the sun and the skeletons still floated until their water-logged, sun-bleached life jackets at last gave way and the bones plummeted miles to the ocean floor.

In the decades to follow, ships' captains would still avoid the region as a place of half-seen ghosts and uneasy folklore. It would be another fifty years before men sought out the
Titanic
's grave.