Calvert was a simple man.
He followed orders. He followed them very well. So when his superior officer gave him a clipboard to go and take names, he knew just what to do: what he was told.
Calvert hadn't had the chance to get up and close with the survivors yet. So he was surprised when he walked out onto the poop deck to see gaunt and ghastly faces staring up at him. Every one of their eyes told a story, a different horror, a personal nightmare. He gulped back the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat and fought against every fiber of his being that insisted he run back to the wheelhouse.
"Can I have your name, miss?"
"What's your name, love?"
"Name please?"
"Can I catch your name sir?"
Every time it was something almost unintelligible, something he hoped he had scrawled down correctly.
Following orders was difficult to do, much more difficult than it ever had been.
It was dusk by the time Calvert had gotten around to the port side deck. A black umbrella, black as night, protected his list. His hand was beginning to cramp. He must have taken down at least five-hundred names since morning.
"Can I take your name, miss?"
The woman was staring forlornly at the Statue of Liberty—an ironic symbol of freedom for survivors such as her. She would never be free again, never from the images that plagued her.
She didn't seem to hear him at first so he repeated himself. She swung her head towards him and he almost gasped. She had such a piercing gaze, defiant in the face of tragedy. Calvert felt as if she could stare right through his heart with those eyes. Her face was both beautifully gaunt and gauntly beautiful, her skin pallid and grey, her hair a matted, cold mop.
The shrill chill of the rain didn't seem to affect her. It was nothing compared to the chill she had gone through.
"Dawson." She turned her head, almost as if she were bored with Calvert. "Rose Dawson."
She said her last name with such reverence that Calvert felt like he was being let in on a secret; he nodded and scurried away.
"Calvert!" Grimley's booming voice resounded through the officers quarters as Calvert shouldered his bag. "Ready for our leave?"
Calvert nodded. He wasn't a very sociable man—not one to make friends. He preferred books to people, boats to women. Which was why he was never particularly fond of leave. He didn't want to leave the comfort of the waves.
New York was a bustling city, a hint of gloom surrounding the docks. Haunted faces and tear-stained cheeks dominated the docks, hope and then disappointment was almost tangible every time a survivor stepped back onto dry land.
Calvert buttoned up his peacoat against the chill and strode into the bowels of the city, as eager to leave behind Titanic as her former passengers were.
The soft sounds of delicate sobs pervaded the silence. Calvert looked around, he was alone on the street, and he knew it wasn't just echoing from the docks—he was more than ten blocks away. He kept on walking, and sure as day, the sobs began again.
"Hello?"
They seemed to stop suddenly, hiding.
Calvert turned his head to the side, seeing a dark silhouette in a nearby alley. It leapt to its feet, ready to dart away, but Calvert was quicker. He was in the alley within a few seconds. The figure slumped back against the brick wall and collapsed onto the ground. Defeated.
"Hello?"
The figure was silent.
Calvert approached the shadow carefully. He didn't know how to handle a situation like this. Fumbling around in his coat, he found that he still had his torch. He switched it on, and the pallid face of Rose Dawson stared back at him.
Her hair had dried, and Calvert could now appreciate the full richness of her fiery curls, but her face was still sheet white. The defiance Calvert had seen in her eyes was now vanquished by something darker and more terrible than he could ever hope to understand. He made a mental note to never ask.
"Who are you?"
She was blunt, manners cast to the wayside. He pardoned her for it—she had gone through an ordeal too terrible to imagine.
He again felt the urge to run, to flee from her piercing gaze. But he knew his duty. He imagined Grimley ordering him to stay put, and following orders was what Calvert did best.
"C-Calvert."
The waif of a woman nodded. "Calvert." She repeated, more for her benefit than his own. She seemed to mull over every syllable. It was much different than her surname, he noticed. Dawson seemed reckless and carefree. Calvert ended with two hard consonants—practical, safe. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Calvert."
He helped her to her feet, daring to look her straight in the eyes. "And it's good to meet you too, Miss Dawson."
Her eyes clouded again with tears. "Make sure I never forget. I must never forget." Her voice was dreamlike yet demanding. An order. She was giving him an order. He didn't exactly know what her words meant, and had a feeling he never would, but it was an order all the same.
And Calvert was good at following orders.