The Ship of Dreams: Chapter 10

The British Naval Officer Edward Smith stormed the deck. He was fitted to be tied, and absolutely fuming at the bits. He had been enjoying a cup of tea and had hardly had the time to set it down when he felt a thunderous rattling all around him. Rattling at sea was never a good thing.

What he had just experienced made him livid. This was not how he envisioned spending his last voyage. He was mad at Murdock for once again showing that he was not capable of any position that carried with it an iota of responsibility. He was upset with Fleet and Lee, and all of the naval officers that he oversaw. But mostly, he was disappointed in himself, because it all reflected and rebounded on him and his ability to Captain a ship.

All of the acting officers met on the starboard side bow at about the point of impact. They busied themselves either by looking backward in the direction of the phantom iceberg that was growing the more distant and unperceivable behind them or shuffling around with their heads down like little children that had just got caught in the action of robbing the cookie jar dry. Captain Smith had to sidestep some passengers that still occupied themselves with kicking the ice on deck like some amateur soccer match to get to them.

“What in the hell is going on,” he inquired of the men with a great bellow as he stamped himself in place in front of them. For a moment, he was met only by faces of guilt and what seemed to be the look of shame combined with embarrassment, as if they were dogs meaning to tuck their tails between their legs.

“We’ve struck ice sir,” First Officer Murdock informed the Captain, the look of shock still evident on his face as if he wasn’t quite sure whether or not what they were experiencing was real or not, or rather some surreal dream that he was desperately hoping to wake up from.

“Tell me something that I very well don’t know. Status report please,” he roared, his intelligence feeling all the more insulted, with a slight nod at the passengers enjoying themselves in their little soccer game.

“Sorry Captain,” First Officer Murdock immediately let out, bashfully putting his head down as he did so. As soon as these words had departed his mouth, two more officers arrived on the scene as if they were idiosyncratically waiting for the Captain’s command.

“What news have you,” Captain Smith asked again of the new arrivals.

“Quartermaster Hichens reporting Sir,” the officer started. “We are experiencing a number of statements in the lower levels telling of flooding sir. This information comes from Boxhill, the mailroom, and from the carpenter respectively Captain,” Hichens informed of his superior.

“As I feared. Is there anything else,” Captain Smith asked almost hesitantly, fearing the worse from all of his years at sea?

“Chief Officer Wilde reporting sir. Unfortunately, there is Captain,” the second officer chimed in. “I can validate that what Hichens says is in fact true. That, and I thought that you should know that in checking the clinometer, she shows a five-degree list to the starboard side of the bow. I thought it should be brought to your attention given the situation.”

“Not good at all,” issued Smith almost subconsciously, for it was not in his intention to make the little remark. It was more of a thought than anything that let itself. “Does anyone present have any idea as to what the total damage done has been,” Captain Smith asked with the same hesitancy as before, fearing the fate of two-thousand souls bearing down his back with each passing moment?

“No, not as of yet,” Murdock interjected hoping to add something, anything at all to the conversation at hand while making himself useful.

“Alright then, here’s what we are going to do. I am going to convene with Mr. Andrews in the ship's forecastle so that we can make calculations and access the damage to the ship. We will regroup here in about twenty minutes to go over this information to plan from there. I’m going to want us to split into two groups; one to stay on deck for a worst-case scenario, and another to inform the staff to do a life jacket call in said event. Mr. Murdock, I will leave it up to you to assemble these two groups together.”

Geoffrey was wrought with the heavy burden that was placed on his shoulders. The sound of pen scratching against paper on the tabletop was the only thing that could be heard as he feverishly wrote his article. The journalist hunched over the contents of the pages like a madman searching for something that was not in the context of reality. It was as if he was oblivious to his environment.

Mr. Stead was an expert in the field through and through, and they would be writing on nearly the same thing. For this reason, Geoffrey felt like he was racing for time. To which extent, he was, but in ways, he knew not. It was his hope that he could get the editorial out through the Cape Cod communications before it was closed down for the not. Little did he know that he was at the center of the story of the century.

It was at this time of his composition that he felt the disturbance that the night brought with it, which snapped him out of his manic state. The very table before him quaked and shuddered and it sent ink spilling out onto the contents of the papers before him and onto the floor as well. This was enough for Geoffrey to cease his work and investigate the cause, for he figured vibrations at sea could never be a good thing.

“What on earth was that,” Geoffrey said out loud to himself as he retired himself from his writing. “That can’t be good,” as he rose from his place by the desktop. His curiosity getting the best of him, Geoffrey proceeded to make the journey across his room. Next, he opened the door and stuck his head outside of his first-class cabin.
Much to his surprise, he found Mr. Andrews at the far end of the hallway marching his way towards him and the grand stairwell, toting with him what looked to be a blueprint and a bag of other essential tools. Geoffrey couldn’t make much from the sight of him, albeit he carried with him a grave expression and countenance, which made Geoffrey fear the worse.

At that moment, Geoffrey’s mind was made up. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity of a lifetime pass him by. There was very good reason to believe that this development was going to bring bad news to the doorstep, but it was worth the risk.

There wasn’t a second to spare. He hurried back into his room to throw his shoes on. There was a very small part of him that even wanted to forget doing so much, but he did as much for he had the slightest idea how far the trek would take him, and the kinds of judgmental folks that he would pass along the way that would have something to say on the manner, bringing more attention onto himself than he wanted.

Once he had finished tying them, he flung himself from the room. To his great relief, he found Mr. Andrews to be ascending the great stairwell. The distance gave Geoffrey ample room to back off in the case that his presence was noted, and so he began to follow the brilliant architect.

The exhibition that Thomas Andrews took was relatively short in comparison to other passages the length of the great ship. After his ascent of the great stairwell, he made an immediate turn to the ship's great boat deck towards the direction of the bow. Together, they passed a group of Titanic officers that gave the designer a solemn nod. Some several meters up ahead, they made it to the ship’s forecastle where there stood Captain Smith, who seemed to be eagerly awaiting the young designer.

Captain Smith opened the door to the enclosed steel encampment with a stern look of utter dismay. From his position, it seemed to the watching Geoffrey that the grey-haired Captain was aging the more with each tick of the clock. It was deeply displeasing to the background wallpaper observer to see the captain so distraught as he did so.

More than the same could be said for Captain Smith, who in all of his years had never found himself in such a situation. This mockup contingency plan was the stuff of his absolute worst nightmares, and on his last voyage too.

As Thomas Andrews rounded the corner and climbed the stairwell leading up to the ship’s forecastle, the Captain contemplated on the moments that had led up to this, wondering if there was anything that he could have done differently to prevent the interaction that he was about to have.

Thinking back on it all, he would have to say that it began all the way back with his overseeing the Olympics and his transfer to Titanic. Surviving the collision of the Olympics and seeing how easy it made it back to port exaggerated an over-confidence in Titanic that she was truly unsinkable. Even now, he was still slightly certain that this was the case.

There was one issue that did plague his mind though. Over the course of the voyage, he wished he had paid more heed to the iceberg warnings. Whatever the outcome, it was not going to look good that Titanic had struck the ice with so many warnings.

Not only that, but he was sure that an issue of negligence could be made in Titanic’s apparent need for speed. A God-fearing man that did not have a bone of aggression in his body, he could still have strangled Ismay for his constant exigencies that he placed upon Titanic and for putting his discernments into question in order to make headlines.

What concerned him was the air of seriousness that Andrews carried with him along with his little blueprints. Thomas had always been one to hold himself in a combined state of grace mixed with sheer astuteness, always emulating all the qualities of a man very confident in his abilities. It was the airy poise of a man that was damn intelligent, that knew they were good at what they did, and that knew it as well. However, this was not the demeanor that he bared with him as she approached the Captain, and Geoffrey sensed it.

“Captain Smith, there isn’t a moment to delay,” the engineer declared as he passed the threshold into the room without so much as a side glance at Captain Smith. Thomas Andrews crossed the room and sat himself down at the table in the center of the room, sprawling out his blueprints of the ship onto the table as he did so. “Captain Please. Time is of the essence.”

Captain smith stood at his place by the door on the opposite side of the room in astonishment. He simply could not believe what he was witnessing. If there was anything that he didn’t like, it was that of being given demands upon his ship. Ismay was one thing, and his frustration with him was growing by the day. Mostly, he was upset with himself for allowing it to happen. But it was entirely different coming from Andrews. And he was so stern with him.

Not knowing what else to do, the Captain followed suit and took his place at the far side of the table next to Andrews. Geoffrey watched the whole thing unravel with eager anticipation that was combined with equal parts curiosity mixed with guilt, or perhaps shame, acting as a kind of voyeur to the whole thing fearing to be caught. He clung to the small circular port window that the small forecastle provided on each of its sides, for which he was thankful, not wanting to miss a single word.

What he immediately noticed was that the men in the room idled as if they were waiting for something. He scanned his immediate environment, hoping to find the reason as to why this way, peering every which way to see if he could find some kind of clue while not risking being detected, his hands still grasping at the window whilst he did so. Had anyone actually been watching, they would have been suspicious of a ravaging madman, for he seemed completely taken over by the fever.

Footsteps approaching from off in the distance caught his attention. Their owner had obviously just stirred from a deep sleep or had taken Geoffrey’s idea of not getting dressed altogether. This was evident in his attire of elaborate silky lavender robes that billowed behind him as he marched the length of the boat deck in his fur slippers.

Watching over him, Geoffrey had to admit that he looked rather absurd, especially in the backdrop of his surroundings. It was all the more so in the way that he pompously puffed himself outward with an air of self-righteous importance as if he was the end-all above all things, being White Star Line's acting chairman. Although Geoffrey also had to be honest with himself that he was one to talk, as he cowered out of sight. Even more, he was shocked himself that he was judging a member of the social elite as they typically did to others, they felt beneath them.

Geoffrey hunched over and crawled out of sight, concealing himself in the safety that the far side of the building provided him. Ismay’s looked like he was going to explode in apparent irritation and frustration as he stomped up the stairwell like a child throwing a fit for not getting their way about a thing, his thick mustache curled up and scrunched up onto itself from behind his contorted facial expression.

The weary writer waited motionless as Ismay stormed into the room with the door snapping back into place behind. He paused and remained in his hunched over position like a black cat in the night, until the moment that he could discern a commotion going on in the room between the three men, at which point he slowly crawled back to his place at the small circular porthole window and peered inside.

“What the devil is all this commotion? I demand to know this instance,” bellowed Ismay who stood towering over Andrews on the table side opposite Captain Smith.

“Well, what is it then? What is it than Thomas? Status report,” Smith quickly inserted, with a gentle clearing of the throat to assert that he was the authority figure amongst them and that Titanic was still firmly under his command.

There was a part of him that feared what the engineer had to stay, but he was still thoroughly convinced that Olympic’s sister ship was indestructible based on his previous experiences. It was this other side of himself that was thinking of having a little word with the English businessman about the little power plays he had been having with the Captain since Titanic set sail.

“Here is the position it started. There is water in the forepeak. Now it’s made its way into holes one through three. That’s flooding in the mailroom, boiler room five and six,” started calmly, drawing a straight line a quarter of the way across his sketch of Titanic through the affected areas. “In ten minutes we’ve had water fourteen feet above the keel. By my calculations, that makes a tear of three hundred feet below the waterline. Yes, that seems about accurate, would you say Captain.”

“Says I,” Captain Smith responded quizzingly as if he wasn’t sure where the young Andrews was getting.

“Well? When can we get going then,” Ismay butted in, much to the Captain’s annoyance.

“Bruce, I don’t think that you understand the severity of our situation,” Andrews responded calmly. “As I’ve shown clearly shown you, this means that five watertight compartments have been breached. Titanic can remain afloat with three of them flooded, maybe four, but certainly not five. No, not five. As the Titanic goes down by the bow, water will rise above each bulkhead at E Deck, one after the other. Nothing can stop it.”

“Then we activate the water pumps,” Captain Smith suggested.

“That will only buy Titanic time I’m afraid Captain. And minutes only at that.”

“I think that you better clarify what this means for all of us standing in the room,” Captain Smith returned, “I don’t much like where you are going with this.”

“It means that from this moment on the only possible reality is that Titanic will founder. It is both a logistical and mathematical certainty. It is inevitable,” Andrews answered. There was a thick heavy palpable tension that filled the room after Andrews’s remark. Geoffrey couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and certainly, neither could the men in the room that he was surveying.

“But that’s preposterous,” Ismay burst out with a hearty chuckle after the long pause had subsided. “This is the RMS Titanic. She can’t sink. Unsinkable that she is,” he let out through forced chortles.

“I’m sorry that I am the unfortunate one that has to be the bearer of bad news, but that is not the case. I personally designed and oversaw the Titanic being built. She’s made up of bolt, rivet, and sheet of iron. She can sink, and she will,” Andrews answered, his tone of voice turning to a stern seriousness that startled everyone inside the room, and out.

“How long do we have Mr. Andrews,” Captain Smith inquired with a matching grim austerity. He had known him for quite some time; accompanied him on many voyages even. Thomas always sailed on the maiden voyage of every one of the ships that he built, and if there was one thing that the Captain knew, is what that Mr. Andrews didn’t exaggerate things, and he didn’t joke around. If he said that the ship was going to sink, then that was probably the case.

“An hour, two tops if we are lucky,” Thomas answered promptly.

“And do you know the total headcount of the number of souls aboard?”

“Roughly twenty-two hundred or more sir. Give or take.”

“And how many can the lifeboats save,” the Captain pressed, who was finely coming to terms with the larger picture of what was going on.

“If my memory serves me correct only twelve-hundred sir. You can thank Ismay and his board for that one. I personally advocated for more, but they wanted more floorspace instead. I take it their regulations lacked the insights for such an occurrence,” responded Andrews.

“Well, Mr. Ismay, I hope it pleases you that you should have your headlines. I will tell my men and give my orders. We will have to be careful about how we conduct ourselves. There mustn’t be any kind of panic. Be mindful of what we tell the passengers. When the time comes, I’ll give the command for women and children, I hope it doesn’t come to it. By God, I can’t believe we’re talking about this,” the Captain instructed. “To you both, do as you would if I gave the demand for every many for himself.”

“Yes Captain,” answered both Andrews and Ismay in unison.

“This meeting is adjourned,” the Captain finished, at which he turned on his heel, and made his way to exit the room, the other men in the small little room following his example.

Geoffrey hurried back to his hiding place behind the wall as the men exited the forecastle. His heart hammered in his ribcage as he held his breath. It was all like something out of a bad dream. In fact, it reminded him very much of the one he had had the night before he boarded Titanic; a part of him wondered if his subconscious mind had been warning him as much, albeit he didn’t know anything about the subconscious.

Even so, he was able to find a kind of bittersweet irony in that he had unquestionably found his story, and he the leading primary source a part of it as he had always wanted, although he now doubted it would ever go published by the looks of it. As he watched three trails off into the night, he was torn between seeking the safety of a lifeboat before that deciding fatal order should be given to the male populace, or following the Captain to see how the story developed.

It was perhaps out of denial that this second idea got the best of him. Knowing exactly where the Captain would be headed, he lingered at his post behind the structure of the wall until Andrews and Ismay went their separate ways, and then abandoning his safety, Geoffrey took off in search of the Captain and the story of the century.