Unsinkable

The Minnow

“The Titanic unsinkable?” The American's voice curled with sarcasm. “Of course not. Everything that floats can fail.”

Then he looked at his cards. “I’ll raise you.”

The ivory chips clinked softly as he slid them across the velvet table top.

One of the Englishmen, the one wearing the brown suit and the shining ring, shrugged. Then he knocked back the last of his brandy. “Well they say this one is too big to fail. I’ve seen the papers. She’s a behemoth. And they’re talking about how the waterline rooms are engineered. If she ever does spring a leak in her outer hull, the ocean won’t be able to penetrate any deeper than those sealed compartments.”

He poured himself another brandy and set the decanter back on the bar. The lamplight danced over all the fine crystal and warmed their amber-smooth liquor.

When he returned to the game table, he shrugged again and pushed some chips forward. “I’ll meet.”

The American sipped from his own drink. “How about another kind of bet? How about a half a million my way if the Titanic ever sinks, and 5,000 your way for each trip she completes above the waterline?”

One of the other players whistled and shook his head. Then he drew on his cigar.

Then brown suit lowered his voice: “Isn’t that a bit mad? 5,000 staked against 500,000?”

“Well then, what was all that gob about her being unsinkable? I mean the people who bought tickets are betting their lives aren’t they, and you’re too timid to buck up for the pay. But if you need more incentive: ten thousand per trip until she’s retired, against five hundred thousand if she ever sinks?”

He hesitated. "Well the stakes aren’t balanced, but neither are the odds! It's a bet-- money in the bag for one of us, after all…. I think you’re going to be paying me quite a lot over the coming years Mr. Danning.”

They raised their glasses and drank, both feeling like the winner, while the other players were glad to stick to poker.

***

The Couple

“Betty, sweetheart, did you see the papers?”

“Which papers Arthur?”

“The news papers, Bet.”

She nodded and smiled indulgently, wondering where he was going with this.

“You saw ‘em… well, what did you think?”

She shrugged. “What did you want me to think Art? Why are you so full of beans anyway?”

He chuckled. "I'm talking about the ship Bet, as if you didn't know. The Titanic."

She winced and shook her head. "Not in this lifetime Arthur... I know what you're about to propose and the answer is a very decided 'no thank you.' You know how I feel about boats Art, there's no use flogging a dead horse."

"Betty my beauty," he drew her close and embraced her shoulders, "hear me out, love."

She rolled her eyes, and after a moment's silence, she said, "I'm telling you my mind's set Arthur, but if you're looking to faff around a bit, then go ahead, out with it!"

He smiled at her, and his eyes carried a deep, shining affection. "Yes darling, I certainly know how you feel about boats. And you know I feel rather differently. Despite all our years, and your prohibitions— I still like boats a great deal, almost as much as I like you. I know you're afraid, and you know I would never force you into anything. But I have to ask, did you actually read that page, or did you skip it all together?"

She tried to keep her face smooth, but couldn’t suppress the crack of a smile. “How is it possible that you know me too well and not well enough all at once? You’re right Art, I skipped it. What I don’t understand is why you believe you can persuade me. I’m deathly afraid, too afraid to go on the water, and too afraid to free you from your agreement to stick to land too.”

"Well then, I think you ought to read this dear. She is a boat unlike any other. They're calling her a world wonder, a modern feat of engineering. She's unsinkable Bet. And you’re always talking about how badly you wish you could see New York City.”

Her brows wrinkled, and she grinned. "You must think I'm a daft cow."

He pressed the paper into her hands and pointed at the print. "Give it an honest read then, and we'll talk after."

***

The Shark

“Good evening Mr. Morgan, I’m here to make my report.”

“Excellent, have a seat.” The financier gestured to his liquor table. “Would you like some poison Mr. Danning?”

“Not today, thank you. I’ll have a glass in celebration after the win.”

John Pierpont Morgan smiled, and the long curve of his mustache conveyed a vague impression of tusks… or fangs. “So tell me Mr Danning, did last nights poker game go well?”

Danning grinned. “Swimmingly, I lost 2,000 dollars but won the whole game!”

Morgan's smile lit his eyes with a strange, hungry fire. "And the numbers?"

"Add another five hundred thousand in the pot! Which brings us up to... 5 million across 13 bets. And with complete descretion! As far as they now, they’re only betting with Mr. Danning, your good name is not attached.”

"Beautiful work my friend! You've earned your twenty percent! Now relax and enjoy yourself and wait for that slag heap to go down."

Danning nodded and sighed. "How are you going to sink her though?"

Morgan chuckled and shook his head. "I have a man on the inside. Or rather a rodent. That little rat, Bruce Ismay. When I bought out Whitestar back back in 1902, he demanded he retain his chairmanship. I suppose I can't fault him there, it was his daddy's company after all and I'm sure he felt sentimental. He wanted to retain creative control of his little company. As long as it drew me a profit, I could probably accept that. But the damned fool also had the audacity to insist on a leadership role within my shipping conglomerate. He wanted to be president of IMM!"

Morgan's eyes flashed, with a cold but clever light, a patient hatred. "I agreed, only so I could own him. I took a great deal of pleasure, from steering him where and how I willed. Over the years I've had him well trained, one might say."

Danning frowned and squirmed. Morgan caught the message and laughed benevolently. "Relax my friend, I say 'trained' regarding Ismay, not you. Ismay, he had the audacity to think himself my partner. Up until now I've let him believe it. You are strictly my employee, and our work relationship is therefore better. You know your role and perform it to the greatest satisfaction, and have earned nothing but praise and profit!"

Then he grimaced. "Brucey on the other hand... Started as a competitor! And even after his financial gelding, he often tries to overstep his bounds. He has earned some discipline. He was very proud of his ship this time, don't you know? When the building started. He said 'She'll go down in history,' and 'she will be our legacy.' Again, trying to paint himself as my equal. But he was more than half right. The Titanic will go down in history, and it will be his legacy too. Not mine however. To me the Titanic is small. A game and a fixed wager, and a chance to cow that rat Ismay."

Then suddenly his expression changed. The furrow in his brow relaxed, and his eyes lost their narrow edge. And he smiled.

"Well I'm getting ahead of myself. You just wanted to hear how I'll sink her, not why. I simply told little Brucey he had no choice. Either he sinks the Titanic, or I dissolve Whitestar Lines. And you know, as proud as he is of that particular boat, he is all the more wrapped up in the line itself. He glories in it, even though it's such a meagre, little thing. I believe he will sink his favorite ship, for fear of me sinking his father's company. He’s an insufferable pest but I believe he’s capable. My hope is he’ll find a way.”

Morgan’s eyes seemed to loose focus again, but they bore the soft, fond twinkle of fat off fantasy… “and you don’t need to trouble yourself with the details Mr. Danning, to you this is nothing more than a chance for financial gain… But rest assured, I’ve set up contingencies, in the off chance that Ismay suffer a crisis of conscience. Whether he obeys me or not, the Titanic will never reach New York City. She will sink. You must understand, for me this is an exertion of will, and that transcends mere control. Because Bruce Ismay is a smaller man than I. He will either defy me and go down with his ship, or obey and come back a broken man, in full submission to me, his better. Those are the only options available to any who deigns to draw equal to me.”

Then Morgan lurched out of his chair, and poured himself a glass of spirit. It glimmered like sin.

He held it up and flashed a toothy grin: “You said you’d take a drink to celebrate when we’d won… well I won’t rush you but this bourbon is exquisite, and the way I see it, we’ve already won!”

He drained his class and laughed from his soft warm belly.

***

The Couple

“Well Elizabeth, what do you say?”

She sighed. “Really Art, when was the last time you called me Elizabeth?”

“I can hardly be sure Bet, but I think it was when I proposed, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Back then you said yes, if my memory serves.”

She raised her eyebrows, but the expression wasn’t without a sense of good natured humor. “I said yes, because you were asking me to marry you. Not to go on a sodding boat with you! These are two very different proposals!”

He drew her to the couch and pulled her to her seat.

Then he draped his arms over hers. “Look Bet, this boat, she’s safer than any automobile.mShe’s safer than riding horseback. For that matter she’s a whole lot safer than walking!”

“I know, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I know it’s not sensible, but the idea of floating over the unknown, it completely terrifies me. Art, you don’t know what it’s like to be afraid.”

“Sure I do. I’ve got one big fear Bet, and that’s anything bad happening to you. The thought of losing you tears my heart up. But I don’t have any fears about losing you to a boat. Listen Bet, you and I need some time away. I love boats and I have never been on one with the woman I love most in the world! That’s not sensible!”

Her frown softened.

He pressed the advantage: “Look Bet, I wouldn’t risk you for the world. But the Titanic is our chance to get away for a little while. Your chance to face and finally conquer your fears. And my chance to see the sunset over the New York skyline reflected in your pretty eyes!”

She smiled and pulled him close. “And your chance to get back on a boat, seeing as I haven’t let you go sailing since our wedding?”

He chuckled, “Well naturally, that as well. But this won’t be anything like sailing. For starters, the ship is so big we won’t even feel the waves. And what’s more, this will be closer to heaven since I’ll be with you.”

***

The Rat

Joseph Bruce Ismay stood at the front door to his home and trembled.

His hand rose to the handle, then faltered and fell.

He had to open it in order to leave, but… that took a courage he had never possessed.

The past few months had been emotionally draining, and now he felt paralyzed.

JP Morgan loomed in his mind’s eye, a threat made human. A financial bully and a legal thief. A man filled to the brim with hate and money.

He remembered the self-satisfied gloat in Morgan’s voice and the evil light in his eyes…. When he had told him in no uncertain terms to sabotage his Titanic: “I told you months ago it was time for you to resign, to make way for someone of my choosing. You could have left me your company on good terms, but you dared to refuse! Now, allow me to be forward and clear: I’ve endured you long enough. And the pride you seem to carry for Titanic is too much to bear. You will sabotage her maiden voyage or I will use my endless political and economic powers to utterly ruin your reputation and your daddy’s little shipping line.”

The Whitestar. A point of pride for England, a point of pride for his family. Under threat by an American financier.

And why?

Because he’s said he wasn’t ready when Morgan told him to resign?

That didn’t make sense. How and when did Morgan become his enemy? He hadn’t harmed the financier in any way. He simply put all his heart into the shipping business. Why had Morgan taken such offense?

Why wasn’t Morgan content to own the Whitestar? What would Morgan gain by edging him out?

Bruce drew up a blank. The Ismay name was trusted and dependable, and Morgan was a fool.

Perhaps it all boiled down to Morgan’s self importance. He exerted his power because he could, power and domination for its own sake….

And there Bruce was caught in the wake with his legacy on the line.

That was what he stood to lose by refusing Morgan’s insane demand.

Perhaps even more…. Morgan had the power of a king. Would he be content to ruin Whitestar? Or would he try to destroy more as an unprovoked show of might.

He thought about his family….

What if Morgan sent someone after them? Would he stoop to that level?

He wished he had the power to expose Morgan for the rotten thing he was. But what could he do? Levy accusations? That wasn’t much to set his hopes by.

He had to complete the voyage, and take the hit. He had to refuse Morgan and accept his ruin.

The alternative was to condemn over 2,000 souls to a cold, dark death.

He’d do nothing to sabotage their voyage. His passengers and crew would land safely in New York, and then he’d try and fight whatever financial misery Morgan had in store for him.

Better to go down swinging.

He looked at the door handle again, and wished it might fuse solid, and lock away the outside world forever.

He didn’t have the power to open it and step outside.

“I believe in you Joseph Bruce Ismay. You’re a good man, and you’re doing the right thing.”

He turned and saw his wife, and the beauty in her eyes hurt his soul.

“Am I? No I don’t think I am darling. A good man wouldn’t be scared.”

She pulled him into a tight embrace and said, “I think you’re wrong. A good man can certainly be afraid. It takes a lot of goodness to do what’s right even when one is afraid. And what’s more, I think a man who never admits fear is either lying to himself or likely to be a monster. That evil pig Morgan for example. Do you think he’s afraid? Or does he only feel rage and hate and pride and greed?”

“Florence, he’s the richest man in the world. What am I going to do?”

She put her lips to his and whispered: “What are we going to do? Have courage. Do what’s right. And stick through it together even when we’re apart.”

Then she drew back and looked him in the eyes. “I don’t want you to forget that I’m behind you through all this.”

He groaned. “I know Flor, of course I know. That’s exactly why I’m scared. When Morgan comes for me and cuts me down to poverty, what will happen to you and our children?”

She wiped a tear off his cheek. “The point is we’ll cross that ocean when we come to it darling. Right now you simply have to do what you know is right. Board your ship, and enjoy the voyage. See the joy and happiness and pleasure your work brings your many passengers. Do everything you can to ensure their safe landing in New York. May your honest defiance give Morgan a blessed apoplexy.”

He mustered a smile… but he still couldn’t stop his voice from shaking: “Alright, I’m off. And Flor, please don’t tell the children I was crying. I’d like them to think I’ll be having a good time on my trip.”

***

She loomed before him. Once she had been the very picture of grandness and light and luxury. Once she had been one of his proudest accomplishments. But now she was a darkness. A hideous steel burden.

Like the carcass of a some metal whale had bellied up at the South Hampton Harbor.

He plastered a smile on his face and greeted the captain.

***

The Couple

“Look at her Bet. She’s… incredible. And so are you for braving up like this. I love you dear.”

She managed a few words through her chewed lips: “Art, darling, what was it you said you wanted to see in my eyes? Because I’m thinking maybe we just make do with a post card.”

“No way Bet! You’re gonna see the city yourself. From land! Up the gangway, we’re loading over there second class! Don’t let your courage fail you now!”

***

The Titanic

A mighty blast from her foghorn, and the crowds watching and waving goodbye from the harbor threw forward a round of applause. A sense of pure, unabashed excitement seemed to charge the air. She slid away from the docks, pulled by a small team of tugs.

Hearts on land and at sea thrilled, under a wind of high anticipation.

Yet the weather was mild. A gentle breeze saw them off. The passengers assembled on the open air promenades and upper decks let themselves cheer. They felt the sunshine, they breathed the air, and they tasted the mingling of sea salt and coal smoke.

A great chorus of cheers rose out across the water.

And everyone, from the desperate travelers in the below-deck 3rd class, to the ultra-wealthy socialites in the parlour suites by the grand staircase-- passengers and crew alike-- all souls aboard felt the lofty rush of importance. Some were going to make new lives, some were going home. Some were traveling for its own sake, as a luxury and an indulgence. But all were embarking on a historic journey-- the maiden voyage of the grandest ship to ever cross the Atlantic.

***

The Writer

He allowed himself to smile for the first time in a long time. Truth be told, he couldn't have held it back if he'd tried. It seemed his worries and his vague, morose sadness had been left on the dreary streets of London.

He felt a great energy welling up in the creative part of his mind, story ideas churned boiled and gained shape. He even dared to hope.

He felt like a child again, full of the breath of life and innocent of the plagues of desperation and failure.

Turning away from the familiar, he cast his gaze across the shining waters. He knew they ended on a brand new shore, and that between here and there he'd have boundless energy to write something good.

He could feel it in his blood, coursing just below the surface: He was about to accomplish.

Finally he would create something he could be proud of. Something that would allow him to be proud of himself at least once.

He'd finally make himself worthy of--

"What a moment, eh?"

Roused from his thoughts, he turned and saw a broad smile.

Though he was typically quite shy, his spirits were so high he couldn't help but return it. "Yes! A spectacle for the soul, one to fill a whole lifetime with richness!"

"Well said friend. Myself I feel very much invigorated, very nearly awake! I was up quite late last night, friends threw me a party and kept me there until 3 o clock in the morning. My wife and I did not have time to sleep, for fear of missing this departure. If not for the delight of this moment, I'd surely be asleep on my feet!"

Then he offered his hand and said, "Name's Jacque Futrelle, very pleased to meet you under such glorious circumstances."

And the writer forgot to offer his own name. He was simply too smitten by the moment: “Jacques Futrelle? The author?”

Jacques nodded, and offered an indulgent smile. “Yes, indeed.”

“What an unbelievable coincidence! I’m a great admirer of your work. I prefer Van Dusen to Holmes, and this coming from an Englishman I’ll have you know!”

Jacques smile grew a little more sincere, and he bowed his head. “You’re too kind, sir.”

“Mr Futrelle, I can’t help but feel a certain sort of destiny surrounding us and this voyage. I’m a writer too— or I hope to be one day. So far my writing has been…. Shall we say, less than inspired. I desperately needed a change of scenery and a breath of fresh air. And Perhaps this will sound silly and ridiculous but I truly felt drawn to this ship. I spent my savings and now I’m here, feeling new and hopeful for the first time in many long years. As though I’ve emerged from a darkness underground, and am refreshed by the daylight. And to top it all off, chance— or maybe fate— has occassioned me to meet one of my literary heroes. Is that all luck or was it meant to be?”

The author raised his eyebrows, and let his head tilt to the side as he considered. After a punctuated silence he shrugged. “Are you asking if I believe in fate? There’s nothing logical about such a notion. But what does it matter? Fated or no, here we are. If you feel this moment and this voyage have given you a new strength of purpose, why, then you’d better seize upon it! Take it from me, the urge and the passion to write, these will never be constant, so make the most of them when and where they arise. From one author to another: I urge you to write and wish you success!”

The writer beamed and shook his head, thank you Mr. Futrelle, your words are giving me too much spirit!”

***

The Rat

J Bruce Ismay felt it too. A sense of great expectation, unbridled enthusiasm…. Even, a sense of joy.

He wandered the decks, greeting passengers, and warming himself by the light of their smiling faces.

He made his way up to the first class common area, wandering in happy thoughts.

“Mr. JP Morgan isn’t aboard?”

The voice brought him back to himself, and the words reminded him of the anxiety he'd been so eager to forget.

Ismay turned to see the young-seeming face of the brilliant engineer who had led design on the Titanic.

"No, I'm afraid not Mr. Andrews. I suppose he had other engagements."

"A pity, I'd hoped he'd be here to see the success of her maiden voyage."

Ismay forced himself to nod, and then shouldered all thought of Morgan out of his mind. "Well, those who are here shall enjoy the security and the luxury of this vessel. I've just come from the lower decks, and All credit to your design my friend, you've really outdone yourself!"

***

The Titanic

The excitement of the passengers had no bearing on steel and no impact on water. The Titanic and the sea she swam were the very definition of indifferent.

No optimisim or thrill or passion could adjust her course.

She nearly sank a smaller vessel at the onset of her journey.

Art and Bet saw it almost happen. He had to hold her tight, to stop her shaking. Then and there, he’d began to regret convincing her aboard.

He still felt safe, of course. Their ship was the bigger. And what's more, they were still very near to land. But... Her fear was a bit contagious, that was all.

He still felt safe. He just regretted putting her in such an exposed position.

Arthur held Elizabeth tight and told her not to worry. "It's already over Bet, we're through it just fine!"

Perhaps if the Titanic hadn't missed... If she'd been a half degree off course maybe she'd have actually struck the SS New York City, instead of missing it by 4 feet….

Perhaps then, she'd have been towed back to the Belfast shipyard for repairs. Her passengers and crew were a mere 4 feet from a lesser setback that might have spared them the greater tragedy.

Be it deadly fate or ill luck, the ship coursed on, oblivious and unheeding to the hopes, fears, and needs of the people living on her decks.

She coursed on across the English Channel, towards her first stop at Cherbourg, France, to pick up some mail and more passengers.

J Bruce Ismay got back to enjoying the company of the passengers. The captain got back to a relaxed command, and the other officers got to laugh off the near miss. All the crew were thankful, that a crisis had been averted.

And some said it was best to get the setback out of the way early, as that meant the way to New York would now be open and smooth.

Jacques Futrelle had a nice sleep, beside his wife up in first class.

The writer sat in the second class smoking room, and let his pen fly. Never had he been so inspired. Never had his words come more freely or so quickly.

As his story unfolded his excitement grew. He knew deep down: this writing wouldn't only change his own life, it would change the world! He took bare meals, and stayed up late and chopped away at the defining work of his lifetime.

***

As the days went by, the people living on the titanic settled into a comfortable routine. There was music, and dancing. There were leisurely walks, where the air was so clean and the sky and sea kissed for infinity.

People wrote letters. People played and made love. People ate and drank and dreamed.

On April 14th, 4 days after departure, the officers of the Titanic received 7 warnings about Iceberg dangers along her route.

But she stayed her course. she was unsinkable, after all.

Spirits were high. And none were higher than those of Bruce Ismay. He was elated. The journey was more than half done. Had he thought it would take bravery to defy that monster banker?

All it had taken was to do nothing. Well, nothing hard. For him the voyage had been a bash.

The real work was in the hands of their competent and capable crew. So all that was left to him was to socialize and treat his guests.

He was the host of high society, and it caused his soul to buoy him to near weightlessness.

The past months had been quite withdrawn for him. He'd been living timid under Morgan's yoke. But here on the open seas, surrounded by happy people he felt free to emerge from his hiding.

Seeing the awe on the faces of the passengers, hearing their praise for the amenities and furnishings, these things caused him to swell with pride.

His favorite place to spend time: the Titanic's VIP dining room. He'd spared no expense and devoted painstaking detail, into replicating his favorite London restaurant-- the Covent Garden-- aboard the Titanic. And he absolutely loved to see the looks on guest's faces as they enjoyed the fare. In a way he felt he was sharing his joy with them, and they in turn with him.

And his smile was not fake and it was not forced.

That night, he went to his quarters and felt a powerful sense of peace and elation as he drifted off to sleep.

And he wished he'd brought his wife and kids for this wonderful journey.

***

The impact jolted Ismay out of a happy dream.

He threw some clothes on over his linens, and went to investigate.

They had struck an iceberg. But why did he feel panic in his chest, what had they to fear? This was the Titanic!

The crew snapped to action, and he felt such pride and admiration for them.

Then Thomas Andrews, the designer came rushing back up to the bridge, and the look on his face was dismay. Maybe even terror.

He said, in a voice that sounded pale and broken, "Captain Smith, there's water flooding five separate rooms. It's a mathematic certainty that this ship will sink."

And like a ghost, he walked back off the bridge.

Chaos erupted in Ismay's skull.

He quailed and heard his mind stuttering on repeat: how?

He looked at at the Captain, his face was white. Almost as white as his beard.

The captain ignored Ismay, and Ismay didn't find that rude. He found that practical.

Because what good was he anyway?

He heard Smith yell to his second, "Start the evacuation. Women and Children first!"

The second leapt from the bridge, and disappeared into the madness.

Ismay stumbled after him. But he was lost.

So he began to run. To the VIP section. Not because of any conscious sense that those passengers were more valuable. But because that was where he'd spent the most time. And he didn't want the people he'd spent so much time smiling with to die.

On the way there he saw Anders, sitting in the common area... Staring at a painting of a harbor. Anders looked at him and he felt a wave of detached concern.

It was empathy. He felt terrible for the young man.

His ship was a failure. It was going down.

Anders frowned and his voice was hollow: "How did this happen. What did I do wrong?"

And Ismay wondered the same.

Dear God!

There weren't enough life boats!

His fault. His fault!

He cursed himself, and hated himself, and forgot thr VIPs. He ran to the decks. There weren't enough life boats there weren't enough enough--

His mind was racing. An utter panic.

He rushed to the boats, and clung to Captain Smith's words. Women and children... Women and Children!

J Bruce Ismay loaded boats, while all around him people panicked. But they didn't know the half of it. There weren't enough life boats. People were going to die.

For certain.

And he didn't want to die with them. He wanted to see his kids again, after all. But he thrust that what-if far from his mind.

In order to focus.

He loaded women and children, and grimaced and sobbed, and all the while thought about not thinking about how he didn't want to die.

"Art, no!! Come with me, ART! Don't leave me."

Her voice was so high and shrill and terrified. His soul nearly broke. He looked up into her eyes. The woman he'd been helping onto a boat....

She looked like she might shatter from fright.

And her husband looked scared. But also… red with guilt?

Ismay heard him yell: "I'm sorry Bet. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you. God I love you."

And she yelled back. "GET ON THIS GODDAMNED BOAT!"

And Ismay spoke up with a voice he did not recognize or enjoy, indeed it was a voice which he deplored: “Women and children first."

Art slunk away, and was swept into the churning crowd. Bet let out a chilling wail that rent his heart.

And then most of the boats had been lowered. He knew, below decks there were still hundreds of people. People who had put their trust and hope on him. And they were going to drown in the freezing dark, no matter what he did.

Part of him wanted to die with them, and part of him fought for survival. An order went up to let the last of the passengers above deck. And he knew it was then or never. He jumped into one of the last boats, and flinched away from every creak of the pulleys.

When the lifeboat finally hit the water he cowered away from the thud and the splash and tried not to vomit. Then he helped row away from the screams of the damned.

***

The Writer

He heard the impact. He'd been awake, following the magic and whim of a flurry of writing. And then the crash... he couldn't believe it. Just when his life felt full and purposed, it was being threatened.

He'd tried for the boats, but the call for second class evacuation had been late. And he was a man. There'd been no place for him. And he wondered what idiot had allowed this ship to sail without enough lifeboats.

He ran down to the open promenade and wondered why there was no wind. He wanted there to be wind. He wanted there to be a storm. That would fit his misery. His great disappointment and his final, crushing defeat….

But no. The sea was calm, like a dark mirror under a yawning, moonless sky.

He wanted to be somebody.

Now he was just going to be food for whatever ugly things scavenged wrecks in the chilly depths.

And all the worse than the eventual obscurity of his body: his writing would never be read.

It was good.

It was really good. And it could have been big. But it was going to sink and be lost forever.

He bit back a choked sob and watched the stars twinkle through the tears in his eyes.

***

The Titanic

The last life boats were away. And a steady, unearthly wail seized what should have been a placid, peaceful night.

Mortal fear and bitter loss filled the air.

Jacques the Author stood on the top deck, with a thin man he recognized from first class— and from the papers.

"What a moment, eh?"

The other man nodded. And frowned. "Cigar?"

"Thank you."

They lit up and puffed. And bathed in the crushing silence of a thousand nameless voices crying out for mercy.

Jacques asked: "Did you live a good life?"

The man replied, "I'm one of the richest people in the world. And I'm going to die just like the peasants in 3rd class. I can't help but feel I matter more than many of the people on this death trap… And many of those who made the life boats, for that matter."

Jacques nodded. "Did you know there was a famous writer on this boat? An Englishman in second class. Poor fellow. I hope he made it onto a life boat. He might change the world."

The thin man raised an eyebrow.

Jacques shrugged. "I don't know if what you've said has anything to do with a good life Mr. Astor. But you've got a wonderful mustache."

***

The Shark

He read the papers and watched the news unfold. What a tragic loss.

That saboteur hadn't come cheap. He would have preferred to keep that all money.

Still, it played out better than he could have hoped. The fool, Ismay was unanimously smeared. Hated. Reviled. Shamed.

There were inquiries and Ismay was cleared of wrongdoing and negligence. But the public never cleared or forgave his survival. Hundreds dead, and the chairman of Whitestar didn’t go down with his ship…

They called him a coward, and that was among the nicer things said.

Morgan spent many days laughing.

***

The Rat

The public was hard on him, but he didn’t need their help to hate himself.

Bruce Ismay fell into a lit of omnipresent guilt. That night haunted the life right out of him.

He retreated from the world, chose to fade away.

And even to his family, he was a broken shell of a man, ridden raw and sore by the fullness of tragedy.

… A corpse going through the motions of life.

Then he caught news that Morgan was in Europe, visiting Rome.

So Bruce, he made sure their paths crossed.

He wanted to have a few last words, for old times sake.

His fingers clenched around Morgan’s soft, fleshy throat, and he whispered: “Do you know what today is?”

The fact that his visit landed on the 31st of March, the birthdate of the Titanic’s construction?

Well that just made the justice a bit poetic.

****

****

Well that's the end. I'm definitely not used to writing historical fiction. I'm sure there's a whle hell of a lot a more experienced writer could have done better.

Anyway, here's some interesting sources:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/search/?query=futrelle&submit_search=Go%21

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-victim/jacques-futrelle.html