The Light in the Darkness 2 Read online

  Henry wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in towards him, resting his forehead against hers. “Celia, there is nothing that I want more than to be your husband. There is nothing that I can imagine that would tear me from your side, certainly not willingly. If you truly want me, you can have all of me, forever. I will never waiver from your side, and I will lavish and cherish you as much as possible, while all the while never forgetting that you are, in every way, my equal. I will love you with every fibre of my being, as I have loved you from the moment I saw you smile on the Boat Deck that Wednesday.”

  Cecilia wasn’t sure what to say; how to match his passioned speech but found that he didn’t leave much of her chance; he swept down, kissing her again, more hungrily than he had in the past. Cecilia pushed back, her hands grasping at his white shirt. She could feel his heart beating underneath his shirt, and she longed to remove it, to gaze upon his body. Henry lifted her up, placing her on his bed, and Cecilia wrapped her legs tightly around her as he gently placed his weight on her body. She knew he would not dare to take her maidenhead and did not feel ill at ease laying on his bed. Instead, she stared into his eyes, and kissed him again. Warmth spread through her entire body, his hands tangled in her hair, his lips on her neck.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday, April 14th, 1912

  Evans

  Evans wiped the sleep dust from his eyes; he’d been working tirelessly at the ship’s wireless system – there were plenty of icebergs in the vicinity, and he’d been sending out warnings to boats in the area all day. Some were too small and unlikely to be fitted with a Marconi Operating System, but it was Evans’ duty to try all the same. Captain Lord, a cautious man, had ordered on approaching a massive ice shelf that surrounded the Californian on all sides, the boilers to be shut; the ship had since shut down for the night, her engines now still.

  It was nearing eleven-thirty, and he had not slept for sixteen hours. He hadn’t been a wireless operator for long – only six months – but he’d trained well. It was an excellent job for a young lad of twenty, he thought, and his parents were proud of his station; he’d had ten months operating experience, and had been an excellent wireless candidate for any ship; he’d worked briefly on the White Star Line’s boat, Cedric, though it’d only lasted one journey; the rest of his time had been spent on the Californian. The Californian was a good ship, and Captain Lord an excellent captain, one Evans had grown fond of.

  Lord had not wished his boat, nor its passengers and crew, come to harm; he’d heeded each iceberg warning they’d received, and added additional lookouts. When Evans had last conversed with Lord, Lord had told him that, “Moonless nights make me nervous.” He hadn’t elaborated, even when Evans asked what he had meant. He’d just repeated, “Moonless nights make me nervous, Evans,” as if he’d assumed the boy hadn’t understood him the first time.

  Lord had requested that, before Evans turned in for the night, he radio any ships in the vicinity. “The night is dark, lad,” the Captain had told him. “They may not see the ice field until it’s in front of them. Then, it may be too late.” Evans wasn’t sure what he was meant to do for the boats who had not yet been fitted with an operating system.

  Earlier in the day, Evans had reached the Titanic while relaying a message to the Antillian. Phillips had caught upon his call, hearing of the iceberg warning. He’d written, in his iceberg report, that at “42 3 north, longitude 49 9 west. Three large bergs 5 miles southwards of us. Thanks.” Evans had resent the message to Phillips, who’d replied, “It’s alright, O.M. I heard your transmission to the Antillian. Bi.” ‘Bi’ meant enough; though it was not unkind; Evans was friends with both Jack and Harry. It was a way many of the operators ended their calls, especially when busy with work. He could not imagine the messages the Titanic operators would be required to send, especially when he was working sixteen-hour shifts as the norm even to manage his workload – though, Evans thought, at least they had each other for company.

  Evans had worked with Harold at school, and he’d met Phillips in the London office. Both had been pleasant chaps; he’d even had a schooner or two with Harry, and they had bonded over discussing the dames that belonged to their heart that month. It wasn’t that neither lad had no wish in settling down; however, a woman rarely sought a man whose life was at sea. Women didn’t like competing with other women, especially when one of those weren’t even human.

  At Captain Lord’s request, he’d tried communicating with Phillips again, warning that they had stopped for the night for ice; that had been at 9.05, NYT. Due to the proximity, his message must have come through loudly, jamming the signal from Cape Race; Jack’s angry reply had been fast, “Shut up, shut up, I am busy; I am working Cape Race.” He wasn’t annoyed; the Titanic must have been close in the vicinity, as the range perception on the wireless was extraordinary. To Jack, it would have sounded like Evans was shouting.

  Evans glanced at his watch; it was 11.25, ST. He picked up the wireless system, and he could hear the operators chatting with Cape Race. He was too tired to listen properly; he wasn’t sure if they were talking of ice or sending messages for the passengers.

  After listening for a few more minutes to the idle chatter, Evans decided he did not want to interrupt the Titanic again. They were aware of the Californian’s position, and the fact that the ship had stopped for the night. There wasn’t anything to fear; they were on the Titanic, and while an icefield would certainly pose a challenge, it was unlikely anything that would disturb the ship’s maiden voyage. Evans yawned, stretching his arms, putting down the phones for the night, changing into his nightclothes.

  The last thing he remembered was the time; 11.35.

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, April 26th, 1912

  Howard

  Howard felt relief as he watched, through the fog, as the Minea, another funeral vessel, had begun collecting the dead. The Mackay-Bennett would not be able to stay much longer, and there were still plenty of bodies to recover. Likely, they would remain the victims of the sea. He knew no other ships came with extensive embalming equipment; it wouldn’t matter what the newspapers printed. A man had to see the graveyard before him to believe that such a wreck happened.

  Through the wireless system, he’d heard that the men on the Minea, which was currently two miles west of the Mackay, had recovered Mr Hayes’ body, who was someone of great importance, except Howard had no idea who the man was. Perhaps it was one of the ship’s famous builders on engineers. To Howard, the dead were just the dead; they were all the same, no matter what they’d been when they were alive. God loved them all the same.

  The man had broken for an early lunch when the Captain made an announcement. Howard looked up from his oodle, staring at the Captain’s face.

  “Men, we’re steaming toward the Minea,” he said, his face cracked and worn. “We will meet up with them and send supplies via cutter boat. They are to collect what we cannot, and issue more sea-burials. After we’ve sent the Minea the supplies she needs to undertake her task, we will be travelling back to Halifax.”

  The men began cheering, and even Howard couldn’t help but feel joy soar through his body. He no longer wanted to be in a graveyard. He was sure and certain he could spend the rest of his life and never forget the horrors he’d just witnessed.

  “It’s good we’re heading back,” Larnder said. “And it’s good you’re in a good cheer. But we’ve collected us some three hundred and five bodies, and buried sixteen and a hundred. It’s a sombre time, one I’m sure won’t leave your minds for some time. With that said, I urge you now that we’ll be resting more as we make our way back to port, that you take some time to earnestly rest. These horrors make even a seasoned man queasy.”

  Howard did not disagree.

  At night, the victims spoke to him in his sleep, some of their faces deformed.

  He wondered how long they would haunt him for, and how long it would be before he could sleep soundly once more.

 
Chapter Eleven

  Sunday, April 14, 1912

  Barrett

  Barrett glanced at his tattered pocket watch; it was eleven-thirty-eight; he had finished his shift and was now in stokehold ten of his boiler room, speaking to Hesketh. The hull was no longer glowering, which Hesketh took to be a good sign. “It’ll likely help the ship in the long-term,” Hesketh was saying. “But off with you – it’s the end of your shift. You look like you can all but stand.” Barrett was about to retort, stating that Hesketh didn’t look much different, when all of a sudden bells and a red light started ringing and flashing.

  The moment he saw the red, he yelled at his men, “Shut the dampers! Shut them now!” before, just a moment later, he felt the scrape of the ship, running along the starboard side. The ship shuddered, and Barrett braced himself for impact; water was already rising through the steel breastplates of the floor. Water flowed through the side of the ship; it was rushing in quickly, the water already two feet deep, his feet numb from the cold, harsh seawater. Barrett ordered his men to continue shutting the dampers and grabbed Hesketh as they ran to boiler room five, scarcely missing the sudden-drop of the watertight doors; they fell the last metre, locking in place. The damage of whatever they’d struck had extended to boiler room five, though the water wasn’t rising nearly as fast as his own. Herbert Harvey, junior second assistant engineer, yelled for the fireman to retreat up the escape ladders. “Get out! Get out now!”

  “We’re fucked,” Barrett whispered, his eyes taking in the damage. He was somehow freezing cold and boiling hot, and the water was rising fast, even in boiler room five.

  “Keep it to yourself, Barrett,” Harvey ordered. “Yell for Shepherd! Someone call the bridge! Everyone be at your posts and be prepared. If the ship is not to founder, we’re going to need all men stationed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday, April 14th, 1912

  Bride

  Bride had only recently woken up, so that he could relieve Jack who had been working non-stop during his six-hour shift, when Mr Ismay burst through the door, looking aghast. The man was dressed in superb silk pyjamas, wearing a dressing robe and slippers. “The Titanic has struck an iceberg,” he informed the operators, and Bride exchanged a sceptical glance with Jack, who looked as exhausted and worn as Bride. Neither of them had felt even a small jolt, nor heard any commotion. Surely it wasn’t a serious matter? If it were, the captain would be here, not Ismay, Bride mused.

  “We’re inspecting the damage. Regardless, radio our position and mark it as distress. Have all stations on standby.” Ismay didn’t utter another word after issuing his order, turning on his heel and exiting the small wireless room. Bride was shocked by the man’s height – he towered in the Marconi room, having to hunch; though he wasn’t as softly spoken as others had said.

  “He’s not serious, is he?” Bride asked, turning to his friend.

  “Well, he probably is,” Jack mused. “But it’s the Titanic. We shan’t be at risk for sinking.” Jack grinned. “I’ll message me Mam, write and tell her we’ve struck ice. She’ll find it a lark.”

  Both men laughed, and Bride listened as Jack typed his message away, stating to his parents not to worry, for they were on the Titanic.

  “Did you feel anything, then?” Jack asked, his message sent.

  “Not a shudder,” Bride replied with a smirk. “It’s like you said –”

  The door opened again; this time, Captain Smith’s ashen face sobered the mood; he removed his hat, holding it against his officer’s suit. Bride was surprised to find him changed into his uniform; he had long since retired, leaving the helm at Murdoch’s command.

  “We’ve struck an iceberg,” Captain Smith said, his face grim yet neutral. Even so, while a chill ran down Bride’s spine, it did not waver him. He put his faith in the ship’s builders. They’d built her to last. Anyway, part of the reason he’d been interested in becoming a Marconi wireless operator was because of Jack Binns, who had saved the passengers of the Republic with his quick use of the wireless operating system. Bride had always imagined what it would be like to be Binns; the reality seemed like a dream, as if he expected to wake. “I’m having an inspection made to tell what it has done for us. You better ready yourselves to call for assistance; but do not message until I’ve returned.”

  Bride and Jack shared awkward glances. “Must be something,” murmured Jack. “Mr Ismay, and Captain Smith? They seem to be in uproar. Could be serious.”

  “Of course they are,” Bride said. “It’s the Titanic. They don’t want the ship to make the papers for the wrong reasons. I’m sure the White Star Line would be displeased if the papers wrote of Titanic’s maiden failure, not voyage. It would be a slight against the ships, especially after Olympic’s collision this time last year. People might invest, instead, in Cunnard. It’s just a pretence, nothing more. Anyway, we’ve a full load on the way back, word is. They won’t want to be delayed for that, not for any reason. You said it yourself. You even telegrammed your parents.”

  Jack nodded. He looked thoughtful and unconvinced. “That annoying chap from the Californian – he spoke of ice. I think they’re nearby, in any regard, which’ll come in handy if we find we are in trouble.”

  “Really?” Bride felt hopeful. If a ship was so close, there was no need for worry; they could be heroes like Jack Binns, but with less effort. “What’d Evans say?” Bride liked Cyril Evans. They’d shared more than a pint or two. In his downtime, he’d spoken to Evans a few times since they’d reached the Californian. The Titanic’s wireless system was capable of picking up messages within four hundred miles; that didn’t mean that other ships could do the same. The only ship that came close to rivalling Titanic’s system was her sister ship, the Olympic.

  “I’m not sure.” Jack closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. “I told him to bugger off.”

  “Why?”

  “He was screaming in my ear, that’s how I know they’re so close.”

  “What else did Cyril say?”

  Jack frowned. “That they’d shut the boilers down for the night. They were surrounded by ice, or something.” He glanced at Bride’s worried face. “The Californian is a small ship, commanded by a cautious captain.” However, as if the Titanic wanted to contradict Jack on purpose, steam began billowing from the three tunnels. While most the passengers assumed the ship had four, only three worked. The fourth was a dummy, where some of the stokers would sometimes climb. Passengers, Bride had learnt, preferred four chimneys, seeing them as a sign of prestige. He didn’t disagree; the fourth tunnel added something to Titanic’s magnificence. It added symmetrical elegance that three-tiered vessels could not complete with.

  Not ten minutes had passed, while Jack and Bride were joking, when the captain had returned to the wireless room. His demeanour had changed, Bride noticed; this was not the same man he’d just spoken to. Before, his face had been grave; now his face was that of a broken man. It was a like Bride had never seen before; he looked as if he’d been told his child had been fatally wounded and had hours to live. He appeared sickly, as if he’d taken ill, and a light beaded sweet grazed his forehead.

  “Send the call for assistance,” he breathed, his tone fast and terse.

  “What should I call?” asked Jack.

  “Send the International Regulation Call code. Call for help. Send them our coordinates, ask whoever responds to come as soon as they can. Tell them time is of the essence. We have struck a berg and will commence lowering the lifeboats of women and children shortly. I cannot impress upon you, gentlemen, just how serious this situation is.”

  The captain left again, quicker than the first. Bride turned to crack a joke but found that Jack was already sending out the emergency code, broadcasting to all open Marconi operators. Bride’s smile was quickly replaced with a frown; he’d expected the joking to continue, but the fact that Jack had taken the Captain’s order so seriously gave him pause.

  “What are you sending?” Bride asked,
as he moved to do the same.

  “CQD,” he replied.

  “Maybe you should send SOS instead,” Bride joked, the situation absurd to him. He could not believe that the ship’s master and captain both seemed to think the ship could founder. They had built it so it would precisely do the opposite. Why were they so worried now? Plus, the idea of being the new Jack Binns – who consequently was meant to be a Titanic operator but had elected not to – seemed intriguing to Bride. Perhaps he could woo a girl back home, as he told the story of how he helped aid the Titanic. Maybe he could even ramp up the drama, and invent a few facts, to make it seem as if they were in more peril than they actually were.

  “SOS? Why?”

  Bride shrugged, laughing. “It’s the new call, and if we’re really sinking, it could be your last chance to do so. You don’t wanna die without having the chance to send SOS, Jackie boy.”

  Jack grinned, and both men began alternating ‘CQD, MGY’, and they listened to the taps of replies, all of them checking to be sure and certain the Titanic operators hadn’t drunk themselves on wine and decided to play a prank for the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunday, April 14th, 1912

  Adene

  Adene enjoyed her nightly bathing ritual. It was peaceful, knowing no one was awake at this hour, with the exceptions of maids cleaning the halls, preparing for tomorrow. The past few nights, not a soul had bothered her; eleven appeared to be the perfect bathing hour. The Common Room had closed by then, with everyone returning to their beds for the night. Only Adene seemed interested in a nightly bath. The bathrooms hadn’t been all that fashionable within third class, and Adene had somewhat wished the baths had not been segregated, as the men had even less interest in bathing than many of the women. Most women bathed their children, at the very least; though she found it amazing how dirty children could become, even when surrounded by water. The Syrians and Italians appeared to take advantage of the baths more than the English and Irish; something she found peculiar, not realising how much some cultures cared for cleanliness when hers did not. And, Adene was ashamed to admit, she imagined both to be dirty, as vulgar and disgusting as the stories they’d been branded with. She’d never thought people who could be vulgar could also be clean.