Hearts That Survive Part 16

Did anything?

Nevertheless, an object came into view. Something inside warned she might be hallucinating. "Careful. Be still," someone cautioned.

But hope stirred in the little boat as the bigger object drew nearer. Where the rowers found strength, she didn't know. They wanted to get on that s.h.i.+p, for it to take them somewhere, for some reason unknown to her.

The s.h.i.+p stopped. People in the boats climbed up rope ladders. Some were taken up in chairs dropped for them. Officers quietly gave orders. Crew members acted in a professional manner, as if this took place every day.

Lydia was fastened into a chair, and she began to rise. Looking up, she saw pa.s.sengers lining the railings, silent, staring with the kind of concern and disbelief she'd seen on that other s.h.i.+p.

Maybe John was here. Had been in another boat. When she was brought to the deck and taken from the chair, someone wrapped a blanket around her and held her around the shoulders while she s.h.i.+vered. They were asked if they were first-, second-, or third-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She was led to the wall, and she slumped against it and slid to the floor, exhausted.

People were around but it was like a-no, not a dream. A vague awareness. So tired, so cold. "Let's take the coat off and wrap you in another warm blanket."

After a while she was able to reach out and take the cup offered. It was warm. She could swallow, but it hurt going down her aching throat. That didn't matter. Finally she could lean her head back.

Someone mentioned the lovely sunrise.

Nothing was lovely. She should have let the sea swallow her up. But not as long as there was a chance, for John. She was wearing a wedding dress. Harriett's wedding dress.

"Harriett," sc.r.a.ped across her throat and onto her tongue.

"She wouldn't leave without her models and staff and dresses."

Lydia wasn't sure she had uttered the name aloud. Nor had she known Molly was next to her. Then she saw Caroline and the children.

Molly added to her statement, "That was her life."

Was.

John was her life. When feeling returned to her frozen limbs, she went to the railing and stood looking out to sea with the others, ignoring those who said soup and sandwiches were available in the dining room. She couldn't eat.

She stared at the hundreds of people who were being brought aboard from the lifeboats, more slowly than the sun rising above the horizon. Then someone said there were no more boats.

No more?

There had to be.

One more.

"Nothing more out there but ice." That was said so quietly. So matter-of-factly. She looked to her right. And left. Sympathetic expressions were on every face. So different from those below that grand staircase, in that other life she had lived. These people were divided into cla.s.ses too.

Pa.s.sengers wore stylish clothing.

Survivors wore blankets.

"Beautiful sunrise," someone said, as if it hadn't been said before, and a response was, "Yes."

What was wrong with them? That must be a Carpathia pa.s.senger saying such a ridiculous thing. She would never have a sunrise without John.

She didn't know the blanket had slipped from her shoulder until it was put back on and held with an arm across her shoulders. After another forever moment she allowed her eyes to slide to the side. Was it John?

Her head turned quickly.

Craven.

It started to come. It rose in her throat. She put her hands on her stomach. Nothing came up but the taste of bile. The sound from her throat was foreign. She'd heard it somewhere. Yes, now she knew. She'd heard it on the ocean. From those helpless, freezing to death. It was a death groan. A hundred, a thousand death groans.

She was freezing to death without John.

He would not leave her. Like this. With her hand on her stomach, she remembered. His look had said Take care of our child. She couldn't. Without him. Her stomach seemed to know that.

What little sense her mind had, knew that.

So she stared at Craven, saw his mouth move with incoherent words like come away from the rail, let's get you something, you need to sit, eat, drink something, sleep, foolish meaningless things like that. What good would any of it do?

She tried to give voice to her thoughts. What are you doing here? Why didn't you put John in the boat instead of yourself? If you cared about me why didn't you make sure John was with me? You could have picked him up instead of that child.

That's when she knew she was an evil person. Oh, she wanted that child to be safe. Her thought was not against that child. She wanted the thought to go away. She looked toward the sun, and it hurt her eyes. They were filled with dry tears, and the sun baked her eyes, hurting.

She wanted everyone to be safe. But for herself, she wanted John. She turned, and the announcement was made that everyone should meet in the main lounge. There would be a service.

As if they were the walking dead, they obeyed. They crowded in and sat or leaned against walls and each other. A minister thanked G.o.d for those who were saved and spoke a few respectful words for those lost at sea. Many murmured prayers.

A woman became hysterical. A few others joined. Captain Rostron fought back tears, and when the short service ended, he announced that names would be taken. Survival lists would be wired to New York. A doctor would examine each person. Then they could go to the dining saloon for brandy, coffee, breakfast, and then be told where they might bunk.

Like sheep, first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers followed stewards and stewardesses to the dining saloon, and Lydia sat at a table.

"Your name, please?"

How could she speak? She had not spoken all night after yelling herself hoa.r.s.e calling for John. She could only make a rough sound. She didn't know how she'd managed to say "Harriett" earlier.

She would try. With effort she began. "Mrs. Jo-"

"Her name is Miss Lydia Beaumont," the familiar voice said.

She didn't bother to look up. "No."

"I need to let her know that a wire is being sent to her father."

A wire? Her father?

She managed to turn her head then and saw a wrinkled tuxedo and knew who wore it. Craven again.

Struggling, she found her voice, although it sounded and felt like an enflamed throat. "He has to know I'm here. I'm not-"

"Lydia, save your voice. Sip your tea, it will help." He sat in front of her. "You are listed as a pa.s.senger of the t.i.tanic under the name Miss Lydia Beaumont. Do you want to give a different name, have everyone including your father think you're lost at sea? What do you think that would do to him?"

What was she doing?

What others had done during that awful night. Anything. Hope. Find just a bit of warmth. A bite of food. A swallow of fresh water. A reason to be floating for hours and hours, a lifetime in a . . . toy boat.

What they were doing was called survival. That's why they refused to go back for those pleading and freezing in the ocean. Their boats might capsize.

She took a sip of tea, and the swallowing wasn't quite so difficult. She looked over at him, handsome, calm. "How can you be so calm?"

"Somebody has to."

She stared at her cup. That was what the rower in her boat had said. "Stop your bickering, complaining, moving around, making demands. We have to keep our heads about us." He'd been quite adamant and had said even more harsh things and had used strong language. He'd done it through the night when people lost hope, wailed they might as well get into the ocean-he'd said go ahead. They didn't.

Yes, someone had to keep their sanity.

It would be easy to lose.

30.

Monday, April 15, 1912, Halifax, Nova Scotia Since Armand had been awakened by that piercing telephone call early in the morning, chaos rose in his mind, spread to his office, moved over the entire city of Halifax, and, like a thick fog impossible to see through, was settling throughout the world.

He considered himself an organized man. He chose to be an attorney who tried to make things right when there was a conflict. He liked to settle disputes, or questions of what was right and wrong, and to help solve problems, sometimes legally and sometimes with common sense, and always with G.o.d's help.

But he was struggling to grasp the truth in what was being reported. He wouldn't go as far as some who said the t.i.tanic couldn't have gone under because it was unsinkable. But it was . . . unthinkable.

Another article came through.

The gravity of the damage to the t.i.tanic is apparent, but the important point is that she did not sink. . . . Man is the weakest and most formidable creature on the earth. . . . His brain has within it the spirit of the divine and he overcomes natural obstacles by thought, which is incomparably the greatest force in the universe.

Wall Street Journal He didn't exactly care for the way the Journal reported the event, but at the moment he wanted to know what was happening, and what might be expected of Halifax. They could hardly prepare without proper information.

However, headlines and articles in the New York papers were contradictory, as Jarvis had said. So were radio reports. It seemed reporters were trying to get a story and didn't care about accuracy.

Another came.

ALL SAVED FROM t.i.tANIC AFTER COLLISON.

The Evening Sun THE NEW t.i.tANIC STRIKES ICEBERG.

AND CALLS FOR AID.

VESSELS RUSH TO HER SIDE.

The Herald As the day grew brighter, the news became darker. Radio messages were delivered, not in professional voices, but in fearful ones, as if reporters couldn't believe what they were saying. Reports of a number of lives having been lost changed to reports of a great loss, and finally, a horrible loss.

By mid-morning, the grim news was no longer rumor and speculation.

The Virginian would not tow the t.i.tanic to Halifax.

"I regret to say that the t.i.tanic sank at 2:20 this morning," came the official announcement from the White Star office in New York.

A survivor list was posted on the front window of the White Star office and a copy relayed to Halifax. Several pa.s.sengers from Nova Scotia, including the Marstons, were not on the list.

The Carpathia was taking 675 survivors to New York.

If the unthinkable were true, and only 675 had survived, then more than fifteen-hundred souls had perished.

Reports were that thirty-thousand people lined the streets of New York. Many in Halifax gathered in respect and sympathy for them. Almost everyone knew someone who knew someone on that s.h.i.+p. They certainly knew about them, since many of the most prominent people of Halifax were, or had been, aboard that s.h.i.+p.

The Carpathia reported no other information, except a revision when another name was removed from the survivor list.

The Carpathia would steam toward New York for three more days. Survivors would be in great sorrow. Have great needs.

Was there nothing Halifax could do?

Rev. Oliveera isolated himself in an office to phone other pastors, wanting to make sure those in the U. S. knew Halifax would a.s.sist in any way. Prayer meetings would be set up throughout the city.

Armand didn't know which was whiter, the face of Jarvis or the paper he handed to him. When Armand read it, he understood.

There was something Halifax could do, after all.

The request put the face of reality on the nightmare. This was not something anyone was going to forget soon, if ever.

The request had been made and confirmed. The words had been printed and accepted. The ch.o.r.e that lay ahead of those fulfilling the request involved an unspeakable horror.

31.

Captain Rostron had first-aid sections set up with doctors and nurses. Some survivors had obvious cuts and bruises. Lydia pa.s.sed the examination within a few moments. Her limbs had thawed and now moved adequately. She answered a few questions and was apparently deemed normal.

Normal?

So many things made her want to laugh. Not that anything was funny. Just ironic.