Come Josephine...
The waters were cold, mind-numbingly so. She felt the wood beneath her rock with the gentle motion of the sea. As though she was a child been rocked to sleep. Above her, the stars glittered, pinpricks of diamonds in the absolute black of night, and she counted them as she lay, slowly freezing. She had long since lost feeling in her feet and her sodden, ice-hung clothing pressed down on her, making it difficult to breathe. Her body no longer seemed to exist. It was just her mind...
"Come, Josephine, in my flying machine...it's up we go, up we go..."
Someone was singing softly in the darkness. She thought absently, 'That's the song that Jack sings.''
The notes drifted around her eerily, half whispered, and she couldn't tell where they were coming from but she listened to the beautiful sound and it almost soothed her to a state of sleep. A slumber so deep that she didn't know if she would ever wake from it. She was slowly drifting...rocking... going...falling...
Without warning, a light hit her in the eyes and she blinked dumbly as it fetched her back to the place she had been travelling to with a sudden jolt. As if through a tunnel, a shout echoed across the silent ocean. At first she could only hear sounds, but gradually they resolved themselves into words
"Is anybody alive out there?"
''Alive'', she mused. ''Am I alive? Who am I?''
Stiffly, she managed to wrestle her dysfunctional body around to face-
A corpse-
Rose sat straight up in bed, screaming.
Philadelphia, PA. 26th May 1912
The Pittsburgh Times reported:
PITTSBURGH STEEL TYCOON TO WED ON SATURDAY
A society wedding has been planned for the marriage of two of Philadelphia's most prominent families. Steel heir Caledon Hockley, son of Nathan Hockley, will take the Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater to wife this coming Saturday. It is also rumoured that Miss DeWitt Bukater will be adorned with the legendary "Le Coeur de la Mer"-a fabulous blue diamond once owned by Louis the Sixteenth. The happy couple plan to venture to Europe for an extended honeymoon.
Rose tossed the newspaper aside, bitterly. Happy couple, indeed! This was a marriage of convenience-nothing more, nothing less. The Hockley's needed a well-bred wife to carry on their line, and the DeWitt Bukaters needed the Hockleys' fortune. Truly well matched, as Ruth would say. She sighed, looking longingly out the window. Ever since her last rebellion, Cal Hockley, so-called "dashing millionaire", had consigned her to her rooms, lest society take note of what its current celebrity debutante was up to. Which was, in this case, simply self-expression. Something a girl of her standing wasn't allowed to have.
Rose loved art. Moreover, she loved to haunt what some would call the seedier parts of town, including the parks where new artists worked laboriously to sell their dearly created art. There was something wonderful of the way they worked and lived. Perhaps she had been a bohemian in Paris in a previous lift. Unfortunately, in this life, neither Society nor Cal were one to approve of such forays. This last time she had been caught eluding her assigned chaperon to head for her one refuge.
Stupid, really. She had been so bent on tracking down one of her "new finds"-an artist whose work was exquisite, but anonymous, her only clues being the initials "JD" hidden in a corner of the work-that she had neglected to watch for followers. That manservant Lovejoy had smoothly ushered her back to the house before she even left the block. His eyes seemed to be all over the town and she was sure he was more than a valet, more like a policeman.
The artist, 'JD' seemed to be so honest in their work. She was sure it was a man's work and she envisioned such fine hands. Ones which would be gentle to touch and yet roughened by their beautiful work.
At that moment, her reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Trudy wheeling in the breakfast cart. The little maid briskly whisked a few stray books off of Rose's sitting room table and set down an egg cup, a small bowl of fruit, a roll, and a cup of coffee.
"There, now, miss. Eat up!" she admonished before bustling off to make up the bedroom.
Rose smiled wanly and gamely cracked open her egg. She ate mechanically, her mind wondering over diverse, futile ways to escape her house arrest. The day was beautiful, or so it seemed and so she refused to be stuck in the house another day. The egg was tasteless to her, just as food and drink had been for days. She had very little interest in anything other than the artist, or finding him.
"Trudy?" she called.
"Yes, miss?" A head appeared around the doorway.
"Is today a market day?"
Trudy bobbed her head. "Yes, Miss Rose. Connie and Sadie leave in about fifteen minutes-should be gone most of the morning."
"Thank you."
Trudy returned to her cleaning. Rose began to smile as a plan formed in her head. Connie was about her height and colouring, and she was somewhat adventurous...she might comply with Rose's wishes...she was Irish, perhaps a wild streak was hidden beneath the maid's aprons.
As Trudy was wheeling the cart out, her duties completed, Rose stopped her and said, "Please send Connie up-I want to add some items to her list.''
''Perhaps-''
''No, don't bother Sadie''- as Trudy began to protest, "she's busy enough with the wedding approaching. Just send Connie. Oh, and I have a bit of a headache this morning. Could you please tell my Mother that I'm staying in my rooms until lunch?"
"Yes, Miss," Trudy bobbed, but with a suspicious twinkle in her eye. She had an inkling as to Rose's intentions, but wisely kept them to herself. It was deplorable, the way they treated Rose, and if Trudy could play a silent part in helping to cheer up Rose, then she was all for it.
A few moments later, a smart tap announced Connie's arrival. Rose opened the door and hurried her inside.
Five minutes later, the serving girl emerged and trod lightly down the back stairs to meet Sadie. As usual, she paid no attention whatsoever to the younger girl, instead focusing her attentions on Mr. Phillips, the stable man. The older couple lagged behind, trading flirtatious banter while the maid walked some ways ahead. It made Rose smile, the way people lived in a world outside of her own and it seemed to call to her, just for a moment.
At the corner, Sadie stopped to bid farewell to Mr. Phillips, and the housemaid walked a few steps more, rounding a corner. There, she stopped and passed a five-dollar bill to the real Connie. Quickly, she returned the other girl's pinafore, thanked her, and hurried off in a new direction. Sadie called for Connie, and the girl obligingly returned.
"Connie, stay with me! We have lots of things to do, and I can't have you wandering!" Sadie snapped. Connie tossed her head but apologised, and the two resumed their course, Sadie none the wiser for the switch.
Five blocks away, Rose headed toward Clayton Park, hoping that the young woman who had sold her the mysterious JD's sketch had been correct as to his location. If it was indeed a man. Rounding a corner, she barrelled ahead as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She only had a couple of hours before she had to switch back with Connie to get into the house-hours that she could not waste. Her heart was soaring on this particular day, not because of the escape but for other unknown reasons. Her mauve skirts billowed behind her in the light breeze and she tucked away a curl as she went.
The park sloped gently below her, and she decided to start from one end and work her way through. She slowed, took a deep breath, and began a calculated saunter through the artists scattered along the path. The first two she ruled out solely on gender. The seller had said JD was a man-youngish, perhaps twenty to twenty-three years old. What else? Rose thought. Ah-'light brown hair, tall, tanned...handsome.' An interesting mental picture, at any rate.
As she meandered down the walk, she surreptitiously measured each young male artist she came upon, stopping periodically to examine their work. So far, nothing. There were painters, sketchers, sculptors-but none with the same simple style and grace that had drawn her to "JD." None of the works caused her to stop in her tracks and admire it. Not one. Did he work here on this particular day? Had he moved towns to migrate with the other artists?
A paper brushed past her, blown in a gust of air. She caught it in reflex, as though she had sheer practise of such a sport, then took a closer look at it. Rendered in charcoal with elegant strokes was a woman's hand clasped around a bouquet of wildflowers. This was the reason for her racing heart. Immediately she recognised the handiwork and began to scan the area for its creator-and there he was, jogging up to her, chasing after the errant drawing. Hair fell about his face in the light breeze.
"Would this belong to you?" Rose asked, holding it out to him.
"Thanks," he replied, taking it back, but not before Rose had noted the initials JD in a corner. "The wind's sure acting strange for May. It just gusted out of nowhere and took this little bit with it."
He tucked the paper into a battered leather folder, and stuck out his hand. "Jack Dawson."
"Rose De-" Wait! She quickly closed her mouth and realised that giving a surname would be a wrong move. "I've been looking for you," she added somewhat breathlessly, to her surprise.
He looked a little blank, so she rushed on. "Oh! Forgive me-your drawings! They're wonderful! I've been trying to find you and now here you are, and here I am, and-'' she finished lamely. To her delight, he threw back his head and laughed. It was a wonderful sound that filled the air with such a light energy, that she was smiling, too.
"That has to be the most unique introduction I've ever had the pleasure of hearing, Miss-."
"Rose," she interrupted. "Please call me Rose."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Rose," he said, and bent over her hand, doing a silly impersonation of a 'proper' gentleman. He looked up, grinning, and caught her eye. His lips went to her bare skin, touching lightly.
An unexpectedly intense looked passed between them, and they both froze, startled. Unbidden, Rose suddenly heard a voice humming "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine..." somewhere-then realised it came from Jack.
She looked unnerved, and they pulled apart. Her body seemed to shiver as though ice water had been thrown at her. He stopped humming, looking confused and almost terrified of her reaction.
"Now where did that come from?" Then he seemed to see her for the first time as his eyes widened. "If you don't mind my asking-have we met before?"
Rose stared at him. There was something so familiar-but she couldn't place him, it was too vague. "I-no, I don't think so, but-pardon my familiarity, Mr. Dawson, but I do feel as though we've met before. The song-I've been having dreams about it for some time-it startled me-"
Jack studied her carefully. "I'm sorry-I've only heard it once or twice. Can't imagine why I was humming it."
There was a brief, almost awkward pause, and suddenly they couldn't quite meet each other's eyes. The bird song in the trees above was very loud, which startled Rose; she hadn't heard anything before except the sound of Jack's voice. Everything had been blurred away as though he was the only person in existence besides her.
Jack cleared his throat. "Well, if there's anything else I can do for you...?"
Hastily, she answered, "Yes. Could I see your work?''
He nodded. ''Sure.''
He led her down the path to a rickety park bench, where he opened the folder which he carried with him and drew out several sheets of drawing paper. She received them carefully, trying not to crease or bend them in any way, entranced by the hypnotic lines.
On the first page, a woman's hand was drawn in three poses-extended, cupped, and just relaxed. In each position, the sweeping lines of charcoal perfectly captured the grace and strength inherent in the hand.
"These are wonderful," Rose breathed, and switched to the next print. In it, a man (presumably her father) held a young girl high in the air. The man's back was to the viewer, but the child was grinning straight out of the paper. Her infectious smile flew off the page, and Rose found herself chuckling in delight. In the background, she could make out what appeared to be a ship's rail, and pointed to it.
"Did you draw this from life?" she asked. He nodded. "Which ship was it?"
Jack thought for a moment-he could have sworn it was-but that wasn't possible, was it? Hadn't he heard that the R.M.S. Titanic sank barely a month ago? And yet, he had a recollection of the ship, seeing the name on her prow-a little confused, he answered, "It's an ocean liner I won passage on." At her uncomprehending look, he went on, "Believe it or not, I won the ticket in a poker game on the dock only five minutes before she left Southampton. I just got to Philadelphia a few weeks ago-I can't believe I don't remember which ship!" Rose pursed her lips and returned her attention to the drawing in her lap. "Well, did you hear of the sinking of the Titanic?''
Her words echoed strangely between them, and for a brief moment Jack thought he heard distant cries and a strange ripping, groaning shriek.
Rose's head shot up suddenly, her face white and drawn.
"Did-did you hear something?" she asked shakily.
Jack edged away from her a bit; his eyes wide. "A screeching sound? But deeper?"
"Yes-and people screaming...did you hear that, too?"
Jack stood up. "How did you know? How can you hear what I hear?''
And yet, at that moment, they both clearly heard someone shout "Women and children first, please! Women and children only!"
Rose gazed blankly into thin air, absorbed in a living, nightmarish memory that was hers, and wasn't. She heard someone humming quietly nearby, "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine..."
Dazed, she murmured, "Only Jack sings that song."
A heavy thump brought her attention around to the man sitting next to her. Head in his hands, he was muttering something to himself over and over, as if in litany. "Wha-what's happening?" She spoke through lips that were strangely stiff and lethargic.
Jack raised his head slowly, his eyes were red. "Rose, do you ever have dreams? Nightmares? About a ship sinking?"
Shocked, she nodded numbly. He continued. "About floating on a piece of wood in the middle of an ocean, surrounded by frozen corpses?" Again, she shook her head.
"For about a month, now, right?"
"Yes."
"Come Josephine, in my flying machine..." he sang softly. Rose clutched one hand to her chest, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Her clothes changed from feeling light and airy-normal-to stiff and unyielding. Cold.
Without warning, the spring air plummeted from a pleasant warmth to bitter, freezing cold. Rose looked around wildly-the sky was falling-the sun had disappeared, and it was night: never ending, frightening, horrifying.
"Jack! I remember, Jack! Jack!" She forced the words out through frozen lips. Four days aboard Titanic. Four days in which she had experienced her first love, her first hate, and now...
She seemed to moving, rocking gently in bitter air. Instead of standing, she realised she was lying on her back looking up at beacons of light piecing a deep, dark blackness. What was happening to her? A sudden ugly suspicion precipitated in her mind, and she wondered if she had entered the final stages of madness...it was the only reason that there could be?
A sudden shout close by broke through her tangled thoughts. "IS THERE ANYONE ALIVE OUT THERE?"
Frantically, Rose called, in barely a whisper, "Jack! Jack, there's a boat! Jack!" Hearing no reply, Rose heaved herself onto her stomach to face him whose hand was still clutched woodenly into her own. Cold. So very cold. She rubbed the blue fingers, searching desperately for a hint of life. His eyes were closed.
"Jack? There's a boat-" No breath froze in the air in front of his mouth. Rose stared at his lifeless face, disbelieving. 'NO!' her mind howled.
He didn't wake up-and she suddenly gave up. 'No. No. Jack, what do I do?'
The lifeboat was beginning to pull slowly away. Her last chance at life, any life. No more dreams, no more hallucinations.
Rose gazed into the face of the man who would never be, and finally let go of his hand, watching as his form disappeared silently down into the sea. He was in his eternal resting place.
'Come Josephine, in my flying machine...' Someone was singing again. Rose thought she heard a soft voice say, "Never let go."
Never let go.
I must get to that boat.
She remembered a whistle nearby...Chief Officer Wilde blowing a whistle nearby. Across from her. She slipped into the icy water and painfully struggled to the dead man's bobbing form. Flailing, she managed to grasp his whistle and began to blow.
They had to pry it out of her nerveless fingers.
On board the Carpathia, a solitary figure roamed among the third-class survivors. Others noted her haunted look and left her alone. Some heard the strains of a popular tune trailing behind her as she walked. When the ship docked, she melted into the crowd and vanished. Many years later, when her face adorned movie posters all over the world, someone would nudge a friend and say, "She was one of us-a survivor. Only ever sang one song as long as she was on Carpathia. An old tune. Always gives me deja vu when I hear it."
Come Josephine...