Chapter Text
The bridge and its surrounding areas were eerily quiet when Harry finally reached the covert side entrance to the officers’ quarters. Sticking to the shadows that ran along the structure’s perimeter, he could scarcely move fast enough in the biting cold, his limbs stiff and deadened to sensation even with his heavy wool clothing.
He hooked his numb fingers around the door handle and slowly pulled so as to not make any noise, but an intense glow from above made him pause, and he looked up.
My God- I cannot for the life of me get over those damn stars, he thought, his lips parted in awe as billions of diamond-like points of light shimmered in the inky blackness. There was a cruelty to their beauty, he noticed- clear and sharp as knives, they appeared to mock the small, insignificant ocean liner and her human cargo as she traversed the North Atlantic.
In the grand scheme of the universe, they really were small and insignificant. Man’s ego and hubris were no match for the universe and its laws- Titanic might as well have been a dandelion seed adrift on the wind, her fate left to banal, random indifference.
But for the merest fraction of a second, Harry felt that the universe’s indifference was anything but banal or random. As he lowered his gaze from the celestial display above, his eyes coming to meet the flat expanse of the sea, he noticed an unusual sight just above the water’s surface. A crystalline mist floated there; wisps of vapor hovered just several inches above the glass-like façade. He had never seen anything like it before, and he had seen many strange weather phenomena in his many years at sea. Mirages, cloud formations, storms- even the Aurora Borealis, but never the ghost-like fog that seemed to defy the laws of thermodynamics at that moment.
A hollow pit formed in his stomach, and he swallowed hard. There was a sour taste in his mouth, and he forced himself to look away from the sea. Joss was right when she said we may not get another chance to make love, he told himself with a silent, bitter laugh as he slipped into the officers’ quarters, taking care not to let the door slam on its hinges behind him. As much as I believe we’ll make it, there’s something very foreboding going on, and I don’t like it. Not one f*cking bit.
He headed down the reverse of his earlier path- slow, silent footfalls past Moody’s cabin, making a sharp left turn, until he finally arrived at his door. The light bulb in the corridor glowed a deep yellow above him, casting shadows all around that could be any number of people or things. Not realizing he was holding his breath, he fumbled a few attempts at unlocking his cabin door, only exhaling once he had wrested the stubborn thing open and closed it behind him.
It had been a close call, and he knew it. For as he stood in his simple, spartan cabin with his back against the door, his shoulders sagging in measured relief, there was a sudden burst of activity in the corridor outside- determined footsteps, loud coughing, and another person yelling something that he couldn’t quite make out. Snapping himself into action, he hurriedly removed his shoes and clothing, tossing them haphazardly about the cabin in a manner that was contradictory to his neat and orderly ways.
His fellow crew likely believed he was sleeping- he wasn’t due to his post until six o’clock, and as had always been the case, when Harry slept, he was completely and utterly dead to the world. He slipped into his long johns, then followed up with his flannel pajamas; he needed to look the part, as at any moment someone could come knocking for him.
As he moved to slip into his bunk, he noticed something else strange, something so subtle that he would not have noticed it if he hadn’t already been in a heightened state of vigilance. The floor beneath his feet was absolutely still; the faint, routine vibrations of the ship’s steam-powered engines curiously absent. He stood frozen in place, his ears seeking out any semblance of movement or sound, but he came up empty.
Why the f*ck have the engines stopped? What could possibly necessitate such an action-
As if on cue, a loud, insistent series of knocks startled Harry out of his anxious thoughts, and he immediately jumped into his bunk and yanked the heavy blankets up over his head, but not before turning out the lamp on the bedside table.
The room bathed in darkness, he closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep as his heart beat a thunderstorm in his chest. God, what a lucky son of a bitch I’ve been tonight- so far, anyway. His mind was pulling in multiple directions at once, thoughts rattling about in a way that only served to raise his apprehension further. His number one thought, of course, was Josephine, those green-grey eyes taking up the most real estate amongst his fears for the ship and the potential for life to imitate nightmares.
“Lowe?”
There was another series of knocks, more obnoxious this time, and Harry recognized the voice of the late-night caller as that which belonged to Boxhall. He remained silent, doing his best to play off his indiscretions.
“Lowe- you have to wake up. It’s important.” The fourth officer’s voice was strained and muffled behind the door, and Harry felt his stomach flip-flop at the sound of it. Not good, not good, not good.
There was a click, and then the turning of the doorknob as Boxhall insistently pushed the door open and stepped into his cabin. Even under the covers with his back facing the door, Harry could feel the man staring down at him, willing him to get up.
He could hear Boxhall sigh, then take a few steps closer to the bunk. “Lowe, man, are you awake? It’s important. Come on, get up.”
Light suddenly flooded the room as Boxhall turned on the bedside lamp. It penetrated the tiny holes in the weave of the blanket, and Harry finally groaned, making a show of pulling it down from his head. “What- what time is it? What’s going on?” He stifled a fake yawn and rubbed his eyes before looking up at the fourth officer.
Boxhall stood over him, his sharp nose and prim bearing still apparent, but now there was humbled air to his expression, one that did nothing to make him feel better about the strange occurrence. “Lowe, she’s hit a berg- an iceberg. Less than ten minutes ago, to be exact. Captain wants everyone up and in the chart room immediately. Mr. Andrews and Chief Bell are on their way up to the bridge as well- looks like they’re going to want to check for damage.”
Ice.
Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That damned ice- I had a feeling you would be making an appearance, my friend. He struggled to sit up in bed, trying to absorb the facts laid out before him. “A bloody iceberg, you say? I saw the message from the Baltic, but I assumed- “
“Well, she hit. Murdoch did his best to put her to starboard, but there wasn’t enough time. Lee and Fleet didn’t see it until it was practically on top of us- they said it didn’t even look like a berg, just a dark shape blocking out the stars on the horizon. If those boys had the damned binoculars, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess, but there’s no point in dwelling on it now.” Any trace of snootiness and disdain Boxhall may have harbored for Harry was now absent. His face was pale, and he looked down at him with a wan smile, as if there were more he wanted to say but didn’t think it pertinent at the moment.
“You had better layer up- it’s a cold one tonight. I’ll tell the captain you’ll be up in five minutes.” With a curt nod to Harry, Boxhall turned on his heel and walked mechanically out of the cabin, a dazed look on his face as he shut the door behind him.
Now, as Harry sat in his bunk with an equal measure of disbelief, the peculiar quiet that had settled over the men’s quarters began to lift. Outside his cabin, he could hear an assortment of muffled voices and urgent footsteps, both in the corridor and out on the boat deck. There didn’t seem to be any panic- not yet anyway- but there was a heaviness in the atmosphere that didn’t belong there.
Two and one-half hours.
Like a match that had just been struck, the voice appeared out of nowhere, ringing as clear as a bell in the maelstrom of his thoughts. He jerked slightly, turning and looking around the room as if he would find the voice’s owner lurking in one of the corners. There was nothing to see, of course- the voice had come from within. But how? And what was the significance of ‘two and one-half hours’?
Puzzled, he decided to ignore it. There were far more urgent matters at present, and his superiors would have his guts for garters if he dawdled any longer. He put one foot on the floor, then the other, until he was finally able to swallow the creeping terror that threatened to hold him back and get up off the bed. Get a move on, you wanker. Your fellow men need you. Joss needs you.
He got dressed again, slipping on the wool trousers and jumper he had worn earlier. The jumper smelled faintly of lilacs, and he smiled to himself, his eyes closed as he pressed the sleeve to his face and inhaled Josephine’s sweet scent. At least he would have that lingering remnant of her to power him through the next hour, come what may.
Looking about his surroundings, he grabbed his officer’s cap and greatcoat and slipped them on, then finished his ensemble with a fur-lined pair of leather gloves. No way was he going to chance it out there in the freezing night; he would need his manual dexterity if the boats needed to be swung out and lowered, though he fervently hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Checking to be sure he had his billfold, he prepared to leave the cabin, but stopped when he suddenly remembered the contraband he had kept stashed under his bunk since the day he first boarded Titanic in Belfast. He strode back over to the bed and knelt down, feeling for the small leather rucksack that he took with him on every ocean faring assignment.
Finding it, he unbuttoned the top flap and pulled out his personal firearm, a fully loaded 1910 Browning revolver, and shoved it deep inside one of the inner pockets of his greatcoat. It was completely and utterly against regulations for him to have it with him in his lodgings, much less on his person, but it was one concession he had refused to give up.
“You never know when you may need it!” he had once told a fellow officer on the Australian run, and they were words he lived by. He refused to relinquish his right to self-defense, determined to never be caught with his pants down in an unpredictable situation if he could help it, rules be damned.
Satisfied that he had retrieved everything important, Harry left the room. It was a short walk to the bridge, passing through the short corridor where four of the other five officers had their cabins before crossing the threshold onto the bridge proper. He turned right, heading for the chart room, and was dumbstruck when he saw the sheer number of men who had gathered there.
All of his fellow officers were present, minus Boxhall, along with Quartermaster Hitchens, the captain, and a motley assortment of able seamen. Murdoch was visibly upset as he conversed in a hushed tone with Captain Smith, his mouth a thin, hard-pressed line and his blue eyes wide with fright. Next to them, Lightoller stood staring in disbelief, his rumpled pajama shirt peeking out from the bottom of his jumper, while Moody clenched his jaw and repeatedly ran his hands through his sandy-colored hair, his gaze focused on something faraway.
The light in the chart room was intensely bright, leaving the room and its fittings awash in a garish hue that made Harry feel the need to squint. Spotting Pitman in one corner, he made his way over, slipping through the tight cluster of bodies mostly unnoticed. The third officer was engrossed in something one of the bo’suns was telling him, his eyes large and round, but he looked up and gave Harry a meek smile when he saw him approaching. “Evening, Lowe.”
“What say you, Herbert? Is it true what Boxy said- we’ve struck ice?” Harry looked around nervously, trying to read the other men’s faces to gauge the severity of the situation. Just then, Wilde entered the room, a set of keys in one hand and a whistle in the other. The chief officer’s expression, to his dismay, was grim. “I would have thought with all those ice warnings that the captain would have readjusted our course.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s true- and as for why we haven’t changed course, I’ve no idea.” Pitman sighed, stroking his mustache. “Apparently, the lookouts couldn’t see a f*ckin’ thing. Just pitch blackness, with an amorphous shadow blocking out the starlight. By the time they spotted it, it was already too late- she was set on a collision course, and there was nothing anyone could have done to stop it. Murdoch is torn up, of course, but he made a damned good effort, and I told him so. Didn’t seem to help the situation, unfortunately.”
He gestured to the first officer, whose eyes appeared damp with unshed tears as he turned to say something to Hitchens. “Poor bastard blames himself, I bet. It’s rubbish, obviously, but you know the kind of man Will is.”
“I do.” Harry sighed. He looked over his shoulder and caught the eye of Moody, who only gave him a half-hearted nod in greeting. This is bad, he thought, alarmed at the normally cheerful sixth officer’s change in demeanor. He had never seen the young lad so pale and morose before tonight, and the sight of him standing there clutching his cap in his hands until his tanned knuckles blanched white only further churned Harry’s stomach. If jolly-good-time-Jimmy was alarmed, then there must have been a good reason for him to be.
“’Scuse me, old man, but I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Harry murmured to Pitman, then turned to make his way over to Moody.
However, before he could do so, there was the clatter of fast approaching footsteps and then a whirlwind of movement as Thomas Andrews, Chief Engineer Joseph Bell, and another man who was unfamiliar to Harry’s eye strode hurriedly into the room.
With the ship’s blueprints tucked under his arm, Andrews shoved his way past the men clustered near the doorway until he could reach the long, flat drafting table near the center of the room. His complexion was ashen and mask-like, though his mood was difficult to read, and he quickly slammed the blueprints onto the table without a word. Next to him, Bell stood rigid, biting his lip as he looked down at his feet.
“How bad is it, Mr. Andrews?” Captain Smith inquired, rushing to the young architect’s side. He stroked his beard nervously, his tired eyes pouring over the enormous diagram of Titanic’s boiler rooms and watertight compartments. “It seems she only grazed a bit- surely any damage can be mended quickly, and we can be on our way.”
There was no response as Andrews positioned a paperweight at each corner of the large diagram to hold it down, then stared down at the drawings with a look of intense concentration. His dark eyes poured over every seam and bulkhead, every rivet and porthole as if he were studying for a midnight examination.
Behind him, in the doorway of the chart room, the unnamed man who had accompanied them appeared to be gripped with anxiety. He was nattily dressed for bed in a pair of red silk pajamas pants, fur slippers, a navy and tan argyle sweater, and a long satin robe in hunter green with the letters JBI embroidered near the collar. His fingers impatiently twirled the ends of his well-groomed mustache while he used his other hand to grip the doorframe, hanging on as if for dear life.
“Mr. Andrews?” the captain repeated. “How was it? What did you see?”
There was a soft murmur that passed through the room, the men talking quietly amongst themselves as Andrews suddenly jerked his head up from the blueprint. Instead of looking directly at the captain, his eyes seemed to peer past him, over the shoulder of the fastidious gentleman holding up the doorway and into the black night that lay beyond.
There was a slight intake of breath, and it was then that he began to speak. The words came out fast, yet his voice never wavered. “She’s taking on water in the forepeak and the three cargo holds, as well as boiler rooms five and six. See these here? These lines denote the watertight bulkheads.” He pointed with an ink-stained finger to the thick, meandering white lines that ran from the keel all the way to E Deck.
“The damage is slight in the forepeak, so it’s filling more slowly. Unfortunately, it’s much more extensive the further aft you go- boiler room six is taking on water many times faster, and the men there have already had to evacuate. You see, she can stay properly afloat with four compartments flooded- forepeak and cargo holds, like here- or any variation of boiler rooms, the engine room, etcetera…but not five. Not five.” Andrews finally looked Captain Smith straight in the eye, and from his vantage point, Harry could see the icy sheen of fear in his gaze.
A hush fell over the room as everyone seemed to grasp the severity of the situation. Lightoller looked as if he were about to retch, and poor Murdoch stood frozen in shock, looking as if he’d just seen the Grim Reaper himself. To his left, Moody only stared at Andrews, his handsome brow furrowed in disbelief. This is a joke, isn’t it? Has to be a joke, it is, his expression seemed to say, but Harry knew this was definitely not a joke.
Not at all.
Joss was right, God damn it. It’s all coming true, the whole bloody nightmare. Harry forced himself to take deep, slow breaths, not wanting the others to see him blubbering like a hysterical little chit. He was a hardened sailor, after all- keeping calm and composed was second nature to him, wasn’t it?
Next to Andrews, Captain Smith retained a sliver of hope. “But the watertight doors- we’ve already deployed the doors; surely that will keep everything contained?”
“Only for the time being. The watertight doors only continue up to E-Deck- as more water comes in, it will spill over from one compartment to the next, and then the next, and so forth,” Bell responded in a monotone voice. “Until she’s- “
“The pumps,” Smith interjected, his voice weakly triumphant. “We could use the pumps, if we started now- “
Now it was Andrews’ turn to interrupt, and he sighed with a mixture of frustration and resignation, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “The pumps, yes, the pumps will buy us time, but minutes only! I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but Titanic will founder. It is a mathematical certainty, it is. She cannot remain afloat with more than four compartments breached.”
Harry could hear whispers of ‘bloody hell’ and ‘Jaysus Christ’ as Andrews finally spoke out loud the words everyone had dreaded to hear. To his right, he looked over and saw Pitman with his hand over his belly, looking as if he had just been gut-punched by a prize fighter, while the seaman he had been conversing with covered his face with his hand.
“What?! Why, that’s bloody ridiculous!”
A toffee-nosed voice from outside the cluster of officers pierced the chilly air, and Harry turned back to see the man in the doorway step forward into the room with his arms crossed adamantly across his chest. On his face he wore an enraged sneer, as if this whole kerfuffle were a contrived inconvenience. “This ship can’t bloody sink! She’s an Olympic-class liner of- “
“She’s made of iron, sir, I assure you, she can!” Andrews shouted back with surprising force. He turned to look at the faces of all the officers and seamen who now gathered around him, his eyes pleading for them to take him at his word. “And she will- before the night is over, all of this will be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Titanic, I'm sorry to say, will founder. It is imperative that we begin notifying the passengers to don their lifebelts and report to the boat deck- but we must be calm about it, as we don’t want a panic.”
The dumbfounded man in the doorway only stood there, his arms still crossed as his mouth hung open in incredulity. He closed it, then opened it again as if to say something, but thought better of it, instead staggering back out of the room to pace the wheelhouse in a bewildered daze, muttering to himself with both hands atop his head. His oddly contentious demeanor bothered Harry- he had worked with men with his temperament before, on previous passages. He watched as the man's chest heaved up and down erratically beneath his fancy robe, his knees and arms shaking in a borderline hysterical manner. He appeared to be exactly the type to get in the way of things and make the evacuation of passengers all the more difficult.
Better keep an eye on that one, Harry thought to himself as he watched the gent complete yet another nervous lap around the wheelhouse.
“How- how much time?” the captain asked, his voice soft. It was as if a rug had been pulled out beneath him; forty-odd years at sea, a fast-approaching retirement, and now this?
Andrews was silent for a few moments, his hands tense as they grasped the edge of the drafting table. Outside, possibly on the forward well deck, the faint sounds of excited shouting and laughter traveled through the cold night air and into the chart room. No doubt the steerage passengers on that side of the ship had been roused by the impact with the iceberg and had decided to come up and investigate. Little did they know, this was no cause for celebration.
“An hour- maybe two, if we’re lucky.” Andrews’ voice shook when he finally responded, and there was a sharp intake of breath by Captain Smith as he came to realize the gravity of it all. “We ought to start preparing the boats, Captain.”
“How many souls on board?” Smith asked, scanning the room for an answer.
“Just over twenty-two hundred, sir.”
Harry recognized Murdoch’s Scottish brogue, now quavering with fear, and he shuddered in dismay as a horrific conclusion suddenly came to him. Twenty-two hundred passengers and crew- more than twice the capacity of the twenty lifeboats on board. Two emergency cutters, two collapsibles, and sixteen standards was all they had, yet the current safety regulations in place deemed them sufficient. During his orientation and training in Belfast just a few weeks earlier, he had remembered the number printed in bold in the section of his officer’s manual dedicated to lifeboat protocol.
R.M.S. Titanic total lifeboat capacity: 1, 178.
Less than half the people on the bloody ship would make it into a lifeboat warm, dry and safe, which meant the remainder would be at the mercy of the freezing North Atlantic water and whatever makeshift flotation devices they could find- if they had the time, which Andrews had surmised they may not.
“Good God.” Smith sighed, staring blankly down at the unfurled blueprint before him. “Well, I- well, let’s not stand idly by. As Mr. Andrews suggests, we shall immediately begin readying the boats, and I’ll let the pursers know to begin rousing the passengers. Mr. Murdoch, I want you to report to starboard and supervise lifeboat preparation there; Officer Pitman will assist you.”
“Yes, sir.” Murdoch swallowed hard, his cheeky countenance tense with despair.
“And as for you, Mr. Lightoller, I’d like you to supervise the port side boats, with Officer Lowe to assist. Officer Wilde and I will oversee everyone and help where needed.” The captain’s weary eyes fell on Harry then, and he felt his heart drop to his feet.
This is real then, isn’t it? By Jove, it’s all bloody real.
Just then, a flustered Boxhall appeared in the doorway, his expression grim. “Water is beginning to seep into the mailroom, Captain Smith, sir. I’m afraid it’s not looking well.” He startled when he noticed Andrews and Bell already present in the room, both men only affirming his grave suspicions. “Oh- good evening Mr. Andrews, Mr. Bell. I presume you both already know the bad news… “
“Indeed, Officer Boxhall, and I’d love to return your sentiments, if only we found ourselves in a better position.” Andrews smiled weakly at the young officer, swallowing hard as he gathered up the blueprints and rolled them back up with trembling hands. He suddenly looked much older than his thirty-nine years. Turning to Bell, he nodded, gesturing to the man to follow him off the bridge. “Come then, Mr. Bell, let’s see what assistance we can offer the poor lads below decks. We’ll need to hatch a plan for evacuating them when the time comes.”
“Agreed, though I’m afraid that time may come sooner rather than later,” Bell replied with a forlorn sigh.
At those words, both men left the chart room with quickened footsteps, leaving the captain and his men to accept their lot in stunned silence. When Captain Smith had seemed to gain his bearings, he began to reel off a fresh round of orders, his voice cracking at various intervals.
Harry heard very little of it. His mind was faraway, lost in a vortex of urgency, heartsickness and dread as he failed to think of anything other than the well-being of Miss Josephine Lawrence. He had to speak with her once more, if only to ensure she gained a seat on one of the boats as quickly as possible, any protestations be damned. For if one of them had to die, he wholeheartedly wanted it to be him. There were no two ways about it, and he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.
“Are you ready to get a move on, Lowe?” a gruff voice at his shoulder asked. He turned to face Lightoller, who was struggling to maintain a façade of indifference. “The boys will be assembling soon to their lifeboat stations, and they’ll need us to direct them.”
Harry nodded, moving to follow him, but stopped before they had completely left the room. “Mr. Lightoller, sir, I was wondering if it would be alright for me to run down to the purser’s office for a moment,” he lied, hoping his sheepish expression didn’t give him away. “I’d like to send a quick jab to my father, just in case things go badly…for me. I couldn’t bear it if my family got the news from a paper rather than myself.”
The senior officer appeared to consider the request for a moment, his blue eyes shifting from side to side as he watched the other men scattering to and fro to their bleak assignments. His expression changed, however, when he heard one of the able seamen make a comment about the capacity of the lifeboats.
“I don’t mean to sound like a cold, unfeeling arsehole, Mr. Lowe, but I’m afraid our duty to the women and children of this ship comes first, seeing as seating appears to be limited. I’d love to be able to send my love to my wife and boys, but duty is duty.” His brow furrowed, and he looked at Harry with a suspicious mien. “You said your father, did you not? This wouldn’t happen to be a cover for your real intentions- say, a pretty, green-eyed first-class lady with a penchant for sneaking onto the forecastle deck late at night?”
Bastard!
“Of course not, sir,” Harry grumbled, his heart jumping at the mention of his love. Lightoller was cleverer than he had given him credit for, and he quickly realized he’d be lucky to catch a glimpse of Josephine before she left Titanic’s decks for good. He only hoped that when he failed to show up at their meeting place, she didn't doubt his love for her. “It’s just- well, never mind. I understand.”
Forgive me, Joss- I have not abandoned you.
Begrudgingly, he followed Lightoller out into the foreboding cold as all around them, dozens of seamen dashed about in their navy caps and jumpers carrying lengths of rope and other supplies that would be needed to dispatch the lifeboats. However, it was only when they found themselves on the port side deck, next to the davit of lifeboat number four, that his worst fears were confirmed.
Taking a few steps forward to converse with the second officer and five able seamen who had gathered round, their faces shiny and frightened in the dim yellow light of a nearby deck lamp, Harry noticed that his feet felt strange upon the solid oak decking. The peculiar sensation was similar to that which happens when someone misses a single step going down a flight of stairs, and his stomach lurched when he realized what it meant.
The bloody deck.
The deck had tilted forward- the difference was subtle, but it was there, nonetheless. Titanic was a doomed ship, and there was nothing anyone could do to save her.
