Chapter 16 - The Ship I Knew Was Disappearing
After one o’clock, time became unreliable.
Minutes stretched.
Then vanished.
Things happened too quickly and too slowly at once.
The deck grew steeper.
The cold worsened.
The boats disappeared one after another.
More passengers finally understood the truth, and understanding changed the sound of Titanic.
Earlier there had been questions.
Now there were calls.
Names.
Prayers.
Orders.
Arguments.
Crying.
I moved with Henry toward the starboard side.
We helped where we could.
A woman could not fasten her child’s life belt.
Henry fixed it.
An elderly passenger stumbled.
I helped him stand.
None of these actions felt heroic.
They felt small.
Everything we could do was small compared with what was happening.
I passed the entrance to the Grand Staircase again.
For a moment I could see inside.
Electric lights still burned.
The carved oak remained golden.
The clock remained above the landing.
But people moved rapidly through the space.
Water was somewhere below.
That realization nearly stopped me.
Only days earlier I had stood there joking about furniture.
I had watched women descend for dinner.
I had listened to music.
Now the same staircase was part of a sinking ship.
I thought about Café Parisien.
The wicker chairs.
The green trellises.
The sunlight.
The pool.
The gymnasium.
The ridiculous mechanical horse.
My cabin.
My letter to Clara.
My notebook.
I had left the notebook behind.
That suddenly struck me.
Every page I had written was still in my cabin.
My article.
My observations.
Names.
Descriptions.
I almost turned back.
Then I understood how insane that thought was.
Paper.
I had nearly risked my life for paper.
I put my hand into my coat pocket.
The peppermint Eva had given me was still there.
That was enough.
Henry grabbed my shoulder.
“Ethan.”
A crewman was calling for anyone able to row.
A starboard lifeboat still had space.
The interpretation of the evacuation orders differed along the deck; here, men were being allowed when women were not immediately waiting for places.
Henry looked at me.
“Go.”
“You too.”
He shook his head.
“There are people behind me.”
“So?”
“So help me bring them.”
We moved back.
Two women came forward.
A teenage boy.
An older man.
Another woman carrying a child.
Seats disappeared.
The officer shouted again.
“You! Can you row?”
He was pointing at me.
“Yes.”
It was not entirely true.
I had rowed small boats on a lake.
The Atlantic was not a lake.
“Get in.”
I looked at Henry.
He smiled.
“Go.”
“Henry.”
“Someone has to educate Ohio.”
“Then get in.”
“No room.”
There might have been.
There might not.
Memory becomes cruel after disaster.
You spend years counting spaces.
Replaying angles.
Inventing alternatives.
At that moment, the officer shouted again.
Hands pushed me toward the boat.
I climbed in.
Henry remained on deck.
“I’ll see you in New York!” I shouted.
He lifted a hand.
Another promise.
The boat lowered.
Titanic rose above us.
From the level of the sea, her size became monstrous.
Deck after deck towered overhead.
Rows of windows glowed.
People crowded the rails.
The hull was a black wall.
The lifeboat reached the water.
Crewmen released ropes.
“Pull away!”
We rowed.
At first I did it badly.
Then fear taught rhythm.
Pull.
Lift.
Reach.
Pull.
The boat moved.
Titanic began growing smaller.
Not small.
Never small.
But distant enough that I could see the angle clearly.
Her bow was deep.
Her stern higher.
Lights reflected in the black water.
People in our boat stared.
Some cried.
Others were silent.
A woman whispered her husband’s name repeatedly.
I looked for Henry among the shapes on deck.
Impossible.
I looked for Samuel.
Impossible.
All the people I had met had become silhouettes against light.
May you like
The city at sea was dying.
And we were rowing away from it.
