Chapter 17 #3
“They’re not going to have any luck there,” George noted quietly. Rita looked up at him, the lines carving his face more pronounced than ever in the hard direct light. “At this rate, when they try to lower them, they’ll just scrape along the hull of the ship. The rivets will shred them apart.”
“Should we try starboard, then? When Mr. Scott returns, I mean?”
“Doubt it will help. We’re going too fast. I suppose they can’t reverse the engines, or they would have done it by now.
Lowering a boat at this speed will likely cause it to capsize as soon as it touches the water.
But even if we slow, those starboard boats are likely hanging too far off the side by now to board. ”
She shook her head. “So … we just …”
“We just stay here. We watch and see.”
“We’re getting farther and farther from land.”
Neither man responded; they didn’t need to. The green-and-gold promise of Ireland’s shore was obviously, gradually receding. Along with the engines, the rudder must have been incapacitated too.
Staff Captain Anderson was making his way through the crowd, arms lifted, braid glinting under the sun, shouting that everything was fine, it was all fine, the ship would not sink, of course she wouldn’t sink. Everyone must remain calm.
A surge of people from steerage trampled past him, dragging children of all ages along by the hand or wrist as they hurried toward the lifeboats. Stokers coated in coal dust wove between them all like living shades moving through the chaos.
“Here,” George said briskly. He turned Rita by the shoulders to face him. “Let me fix this jacket for you.”
“Is it not right? I was in something of a hurry when I put it on.”
He smiled. “It’s backward, which will do you no good at all.
These jackets are designed in such a way to keep your head up and your front as much out of the water as possible, almost as if you could float on your back.
But you must have it on the right way ’round, or you’ll be in for an unpleasant surprise. ”
She shrugged out of it, put it on again the correct way, and as George was fastening her tapes Captain Scott returned with three more.
“Here we are. Took a bit of searching, but I found these. Mr. Frohman, sir, may I help you into yours?”
Charles waved his cigar in the air. “I don’t need one. Give it to someone else.”
“Charles,” Rita protested. He looked her, pushed out his lower lip, then nodded.
“All right. If I must.”
Rita stood back to give them room, clutching the third life jacket to her chest. George quickly donned his as the captain assisted Charles.
The commotion around them was growing more frenzied.
People were running, stumbling, knocking into each other.
Dogs were barking and snarling, at least a dozen of them skittering about unleashed.
The deckhands had achieved some success with one of the boats; the rush to fill it was like watching wasps swarm.
Within moments, it was packed with women and children and unhappy infants.
An extra set of crewmen began to yell at everyone else to get back, get back, while the other sailors were handling the ropes.
A man in his shirtsleeves darted up to Rita and wrenched the life jacket from her hands, hard enough to send her to her knees.
“Figlio di puttana,” she shouted after him as he ran off, in her loudest, reach-the-back-of-theatre voice. “You ruddy bastard!”
“I’ll go back down,” Captain Scott said, as he and George helped her to her feet. “Don’t worry. I’ll find another.”
“No, you can’t,” she argued, stupidly close to tears. “Don’t go. There’s no time.” She began to pull at her tapes. “Take mine instead.”
“I’ll find another,” he repeated, patient, and disappeared into the bedlam.
The filled lifeboat started at last to jerk lower, swinging wildly as it went. The ladies aboard began to cry out, echoed by the little ones, but still the boat lurched down, down—
One of the crewmen lost his hold on his rope. The stern plunged, a sickening dip, and everyone in the boat was thrown screaming into the sea.
Rita was staring at where it had been—just seconds ago, where that boat had been, all those people—horrified, both hands pressed over her mouth. She realized she was breathing in short, choking sobs around her fingers.
Charles limped close, put his arm around her shoulder.
“Come away, my sweet. Come stand back here with me and save your strength. We’ll find our calm together in this storm.”
They retreated to the exterior wall of the ship, George too. Rita closed her eyes, managing her fright. Then Captain Scott was back as well, thankfully wearing a life jacket.
“This was it,” he told them, low. “There’s no power anywhere, no lights, nothing. As far as I could tell, everything below the Promenade Deck is awash. I could go no farther.”
“The lifeboats are no good,” George replied, just as low.
“Agreed.” Alick Scott rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“Down by the Smoking Room, there had been one loaded and ready to go, but the rope broke, or was cut, poor bastards. It must have swung like a damned pendulum back against the wall, crushing every—” He shot a glance at Rita, cut himself short.
“Let’s move to the railing. It’ll be easier to hold on. ”
The forward tilt was severe enough and the deck was slick enough that they had to hold hands to reach the rails, pulling each other along in a chain.
Rita wrapped her arms gratefully around the top bar.
If she leaned out, she could see below to the water, her hair whipping about her shoulders and face, her hem smacking hard against her ankles.
To her right was the bow, rapidly going under.
To her left, out at sea behind them, was a wake of people and foam and shattered lifeboats, brilliantly illuminated by the sun.
“We need to stay here as long as possible,” George was saying, next to her. “We need to take our chances with the sea when it comes.”
High above them, the funnels began a low resonance, dull and baleful, still spewing smoke. One of the guy wires broke, then another: gunshots cracking through the air, the long wires flipping and slicing.
A perambulator rolled past, too swift to catch, dashing toward the bow. A pair of chocolate Labradors chased after it, pink tongues lolling.
George turned to Rita.
“Listen, I need you to tell Inez something from me.”
“No,” she snapped at once, instinctive. “Anything you have say, you can tell her yourself.”
“Tell her that love at first sight does exist. Tell her she is the living proof of it. Miracles are fact, as sure as she is fact.” The ship lurched; they both lost their footing, caught themselves again. “Tell her that.”
“No, George. You’re going to tell her. You are, because, by God, we’re all getting out of this, I swear we’re getting out of it.”
She spoke the words because she had to speak them; they were the only possible words to speak. But they rushed from her so quickly, without substance, without proof.
“Marguerite.” He smiled at her, chucked her lightly under the chin. Behind him rushed blue ocean against blue sky, a dazzling May day. “I know you’ll always be the strong one for her, the big sister. So remember it, please, and tell her. No matter what comes.”
THE FORECASTLE WAS gone, submerged, the base of its mast tipping crazily from the water that lathered and billowed around it, rising in a rush of green.
The Lusitania continued her endless arc out into the Celtic Sea, leaning and leaning but slowing a little.
Even so, the lifeboats swung over the deck, useless, the collapsible boats beneath them still fixed in place.
Nearly everyone around Rita and her little group had already abandoned the middle of the ship for the false safety of the stern, gradually rising above the ocean as the hull creaked and cracked in protest.
An elderly woman in a black gown lined with ermine hiked by, no coat, no life jacket, using her cane to pull herself along in slow, hard thumps.
Captain Scott went to her, urging her to take his jacket.
She never nodded or agreed, only gazed up at him blankly.
She allowed him to place the jacket on her, but as soon as he was finished, she only walked away again, ignoring his pleas to join them at the railing, making her slow, thumping way aft.
All three of them offered their life jackets to him. He declined.
“I’m a good swimmer. Lived around the world. I know tropical waters, cold waters, currents and tides. We’re not that far from land, so we might have a shot. But if I have to die here, so be it. No use worrying about it.”
Charles took a long, last drag on his cigar. He dropped it to the deck, crushing it under his heel, a smear of ash along the fine teak. When he looked up again, their eyes met, his so kind, his dear face so familiar, his gray hair tattered with the wind.
Rita tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t obey. Tears smeared her vision.
I’m the strong one, and I’m not afraid. I am never afraid. This is the end, somehow the end, and I’m not afraid.
Charles Frohman, her mentor, her guide, then said the words that would haunt the rest of her life, words she would repeat over and over again to the press and friends and colleagues, that she would put in her movie, emblazon on posters and advertisements, making certain that no one, no one, would ever forget them.
“Why fear death?” he asked, and reached up to gently wipe away a tear from the corner of her eye. “It is the most beautiful adventure in life.”
The ship reeled again and plunged again, really plunged, rousing a swell of screams from the hundreds of people crowded along the stern. A wall of water was devouring the front of the ship, frothing up from the bow.
George grabbed her hand. Rita grabbed Charles’s.
It was a mountain of green seawater, an avalanche of water, rushing faster and faster, higher and higher, filled with monstrous dark shapes—splayed people, deck chairs, sharp broken things.
Rita said, This is the end, or tried to, but the avalanche came smashing over them. It ripped their hands apart, ripped their bodies apart, sending them spinning down and away into emerald darkness.