Chapter 7
Will
“Sink?” I’m careful to repeat the word quietly so as not to alarm the nearby passengers, no matter how preposterous the idea. I wouldn’t want anyone to panic or begin to listen in on what they would naturally find to be an absurd conversation..
“Yes, sink,” she insists, thankfully still whispering. “Everyone said it was unsinkable until it hit an iceberg and sank.”
I sit back in the deck chair, struggling to decide what to make of it. She sounds like a madwoman, yet she is so certain about everything she’s saying. But I didn’t choose the ship for our voyage lightly. “In Southampton, the press followed its construction closely, as did my brother and I. They offered quite some detail about its design. There are several safeguards to ensure that sinking is quite impossible.
“You don’t get it,” she insists. “That’s what everyone thought. But everyone was wrong. That’s why there aren’t enough lifeboats.”
I look around. The number of lifeboats on the deck does seem scant for the number of people aboard, but then, that’s not unusual.
“If it didn’t sink, this ship probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal,” she adds. “And there wouldn’t be so many movies, books, and websites about it.”
“Websites? The things that are like books–but on some sort of contraption.” I still can’t fully picture what she means by that.
“Exactly.”
“Your head injury may have you confused,” I suggest, trying to be gentle. Whatever the case, she’s clearly upset. “Perhaps you had a dream about a shipwreck that’s now mingling with your thoughts because of the blow to your skull. Or you may have read a story about such an event. But I assure you, you are safe aboard the Titanic. This is the largest ship in the world. She’s built solid. The hull has compartments that are watertight. It cannot sink.”
“Tell that to Jack and Rose.”
“Come again?”
“Never mind. Yes, it had sixteen supposedly watertight compartments.” I raise a brow, surprised she knows the details. “When it hit the iceberg, it ripped into the ship, plus they had weak rivets that pulled the compartments apart even more. It’s not watertight if it can rip.”
“The construction was not up to par?” I ask.
“Not in that case,” she confirms.
“How do you know so much about the ship?” It’s so unusual for a woman to be so knowledgeable about such things.
“The History Channel is pretty thorough.”
“Now I’m confused.” I shake my head. “Of which ocean channel are you referring?”
“It’s not an ocean. It’s a channel on TV,” she says, but I still have no idea what she means.
“TV?”
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Never mind that. You–we are still a few decades before TVs. The important thing is that the water spilled over the bulkheads, and eventually, the ship started to sink. It even broke in half as it went down.”
I shake my head again, looking around at the huge, sturdy ship beneath our feet. Compared to smaller liners I’ve been on, the ride is smooth, so much so that it’s difficult to tell we’re at sea.
“It was an iceberg?”
“Yes.”
Inhaling, I try to imagine that possibility.
Her green eyes lock with mine. “You still don’t believe me.”
“I want to.” I gaze at the setting sun. Its position was effective in convincing her she really was here sailing toward America. Perhaps there is a way I can understand her perspective through similar means. “Very well,” I say, sitting up and facing her. “Tell me all the details you know about the Titanic.”
Her eyes look hopeful. “That’s way too much info, and we probably don’t have time, but okay. Um, I already explained the iceberg and the bulkheads. What else? Oh… the people! I remember a lot of names. The Astors… um, John Jacob the Fourth—he’s the richest person on board, a real estate developer. His second wife was—is only eighteen and pregnant, and she came with him on the Titanic.”
I’m surprised she’s so blunt about the woman’s condition. I look around to ensure no one can hear, but the other passengers seem to be oblivious to our conversation.
“They were going back to America to have the baby,” she continues. “There’s Margaret Brown. After she survives, they call her the unsinkable Molly Brown. She’s quite a character, that one. Um, Isidor and Ida Straus; they owned Macy’s. That store gets huge, by the way. They have a parade every Thanksgiving with giant character balloons. Mr. Ismay from White Star Lines—I forget his first name—and Thomas Andrews, who designed the ship, were both on board because it’s the maiden voyage. I guess they wanted to see how it would go, which was, yeah, not very well.”
“I’m familiar with Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews, but not all of the others,” I admit. A lot of them are American, and I don’t keep up with socialites from overseas.
“They’re pretty much famous,” she adds. “Oh, there were so many names. It’s hard to remember them all now. I do remember a few third-class passengers who survived,” she adds. “A couple of names stick in my head for some reason—Mary Elizabeth Davidson and Catherine Connolly. And then there’s Millvina.”
“I don’t know any third-class passengers,” I tell her with a shrug.
“Well, yeah, you totally wouldn’t because they separated people,” she says. “I can’t believe they treated people like that. God, especially during the sinking.”
I can’t say I approve of separating people by class, either. Even some of the first-class passengers have refused our dinner invitations, thinking themselves above us. Everyone clamors to dine with the Astors.
“I’m named after Millvina,” she explains. “She’s the youngest survivor, and was only nine weeks old…. Well, I guess she is only nine weeks old. To think she’s down there now….” Her eyes start to sparkle with moisture as she looks down and puts a curved finger over her mouth thoughtfully.
The thought of a child in danger moves me as well, and her story feels so genuine. I find myself wanting to alleviate her sadness, so I try to pivot the conversation. “So, Millie is short for Millvina?” I ask softly.
She looks up, and I see both sadness and fear in her eyes. “No, it’s Millicent.” She takes a breath. “Mom sort of named me after her, but she thought Millicent was slightly less cringe.”
I have no idea what she means by that, but I decide not to ask.
“Um, I also know about lots of crew members.” She brushes away a strand of her strawberry blonde hair. “Four officers make it. Charles Lightoller was Second Officer. I think Herbert Pitman was Third Officer. The others were Joseph Boxhall and Harold Lowe. I forget their ranks.” She lowers her voice again. “No other officers of the ship survive the disaster.”
I nod gravely, though I’m unfamiliar with the names of the crew. It does seem she knows several details. Either her imagination is quite elaborate, or these people are real.
I actually think I’m starting to believe her.
“I also know about the two wireless operators who sent out the distress calls.” Her eyes shift up as if to recall, then come back to mine. “Harold Bride and Jack Phillips were—are their names. They brought the RMS Carpathia here. That was the closest ship that responded, but even that was hours away. It took too long to save anyone. It was all up to the lifeboats. Will, we’re on our own out here.”
I don’t have a clue whether those names are correct or not, but I have to admit, she’s quite convincing.
“And I don’t even know how I got here, but I’m not supposed to be here,” she adds, her growing concern obvious. “Who knows if I’m going to make it or not?” Her next words are whispered. “This is bad, very bad. I could die here. We could both die here.”
“I’m not going to let that happen.” My words are swifter than I intend, but I feel them intensely. Many of her claims do ring true. Perhaps the bulkheads are not as impenetrable as the ship’s designers intended. “I’m starting to believe you, Millie. If everything will happen as you say, I promise I’ll make every effort to protect you.”
I see a tear form in her left eye as her countenance shifts to melancholy. “Thanks. I don’t blame you for thinking I’m crazy. This is all nuts, and I barely believe it myself. But how will we—” She shakes her head, puts both hands on her face, and begins to cry.
Patting her shoulder just doesn’t seem sufficient to console a woman who thinks she may die. I move my deck chair closer to hers and pull her into my arms.
Her effect feels different to me now that I’m holding her. The strength that defied Mr. Bishop and the doctor has melted away, and now she seems so small and timid, vulnerable. I hold her close as her quiet sobbing continues, well aware of the eyes around us turning inquisitively in our direction. I’m not concerned about the unwanted attention.
The same urge to protect her I felt when I saw her thrashing around in the pool has returned. “We’re going to figure this out,” I try to assure her as I offer my handkerchief.
She nods, yet her sobbing continues as she wraps her warm hand around my forearm and moves in closer. So many thoughts race through my mind. I don’t know the passenger count, but it’s at least two thousand souls. In my visage, there are only two lifeboats, spread quite a way apart. I can’t see any others, though I know there are more. Not a lot more, however. Surely there aren’t enough to rescue everyone should the ship go down.
Unease settles in my nerves as I realize I’m considering the possibility that Titanic will sink. Am I becoming entangled in Millie’s lunacy?
Finally, her sobbing begins to ease, and we part, leaning back into our own chairs. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Nonsense,” I tell her. “It’s quite all right. You’re upset, and you have every right to be.”
“Unless I’m insane.”
I shake my head. “You believe you’re in danger, and I truly am beginning to believe you. With what you’ve told me, grown men would cry under such circumstances. You’re being quite brave.”
“I guess.”
My mind fills with flashes of Millie sinking helplessly in the pool. How strange that none of the men nearby had seen her before she fell. There were at least a dozen, I among them, and I didn’t see her fall in or notice her anywhere in the room beforehand. That wouldn’t be possible in a men’s-only swim.
It was as if she appeared from nowhere.
Could she have truly fallen in from the future?