Not many people can lay stake to a truly life changing moment. I can. One cold, terrible night my life changed forever. On April 15th 1912 at 2:20am the Titanic sank from under me. But, my dear Lizzie, you know that story. The following is what I do not have time to tell you, but I hope you will find time to read. I struggled for a long time with how to start these pages, so I shall start with what you know.
My life changed on 15 April 1912 when Titanic sank from under us. 1500 people went into the sea that day. There were 20 boats floating nearby and only one came back. One. 6 were saved, myself included. Six out of fifteen hundred. Afterwards we had nothing to do but wait. Wait to die. Wait to live. Wait for an absolution that would never come.
I remember lying in the almost empty lifeboat—the all too empty lifeboat—fighting hypothermia, shivering in a bundle of blankets, completely and utterly numb. My whole world had been turned upside down. I had lost the love of my life, burned all the bridges in my life and left everyone and everything I knew behind. I had no belongings, not a single penny and I had no idea what to do next. If I ever survived that is. The coldness had me in a prison I had never felt before or since. It had penetrated every single cell of my being. My water logged shoes were heavy shackles, sloshing about with every rise and fall of the boat. I considered removing my wet clothes but I had no energy to do so. I was numb. My hair felt disgusting, the salt water and freezing temperature had turned it into matted sheets, crusty and crunchy, hard yet somehow soft. My breath was a ghost, a faint cloud, illuminated only on occasion by a flare, and it soon dissolved into the ether of the atmosphere.
In the years that have passed since this night, I have noticed one common thought from other survivors. I share it too. There is one overriding memory of that night, so vivid it leeched into my slumber for years, so horrific I have never forgotten it. When Titanic sank from under us, there was an almost defeating roar of screams and begs from those of us in the water, a chorus of desperation, the most horrific swan song. These screams lasted for what felt like an eternity, a constant cry of agony. What came next is what I never expected and I can never ever forget the silence. The sickening, complete and utter silence. No more cries for help; there was no one to cry. No more shouts of fear; there was no one to be afraid. No more wails of agony; there was no one to suffer. There was complete unimaginable silence, a silence so defeating that it swallowed any noise those in the boats made, it completely enveloped us, and a thick, heavy palpable atmosphere accompanied it. The atmosphere was rife with guilt, sorrow and death. The icy air only amplified the horror we felt.
As I lay in the boat, I fought against the urge to sleep. I did not want to sleep-I could not sleep- but my shivering body desperately craved the warmth and safety that only sleep can bring. My body shuddered with the cold, shaking almost violently to keep warm. My eyelashes stuck together whenever I blinked, the small ice crystals that had formed flaking now and then as I stared into nothingness. Laying in the darkness, only illuminated in occasion by a ghastly green flare, my mind raced as I considered, at some considerable length, my predicament.
My first thought turned to my mother. Despite my desire to never lay eyes on her again, oh how I hoped-and to my later relief discovered- that she had survived. Mother had placed a lot of pressure upon my shoulders. The responsibility to help-and save-the DeWitt Bukater name had fallen on my shoulders. My father, Jacob Bukater, to my mother's eternal shame had been a gambler. During his life he had amassed great debts playing cards and roulette in gentlemen's clubs, the odds never in his favour, and ultimately losing more and more money. We were rich. Very rich. My father had inherited millions from his family who were early investors in the railroads, as well as tracing back to the aristocracy of England before America was founded. Family legend had it that we were related to Abraham Lincoln somewhere along the line, and that each year on the anniversary of his brutal assassination, we were to have a day of mourning for our graciously fallen family member. My father did not buy into this notion, but from what I gathered in the 16 years I knew him, he was quietly proud of this claim to the presidency and that it had been a source of fascination to my mother when she married him. My mother of the DeWitts was equally as rich as my father's family had been, but was the only air to a small family line, and married my father at the age of 18, just two months before the last of her family died. As such there was no one of the lineage to turn to for support, and with my father mounting immeasurable debts, there was only a very limited-yet large-fund to draw money out of. Towards my 16th birthday my father completely fell out with his family over some argument-which I have been led to believe was over their disapproval of my mother, being only third generation wealth and that she was only 'after your money', combined with his increasingly erratic behaviour behind closed doors. This resulted in me and my mother never again talking to that sect of the family, and just three months later my father died—officially of heart failure, but anyone who knew him would tell you the same thing; he drank himself to death.
During the final few years, as his alcoholism and gambling became worse and worse, and he made increasingly poor investments our money began to dwindle, without our knowledge. My father had bled us dry, and though we were still well respected by the community, our situation was precarious. My father's death led to my mother's discovery of his debts and after recovering somewhat from the horror, she began to pay them off, although by now we could not afford it. With no family on either side to turn to, we were left with just one option; to marry me into wealth.
The plan to marry me off and to rescue my mother and the family name from 'certain shame and destruction' consumed my mother and launched her into a frenzy and we went through suitor after suitor until Ruth found one she liked, a good English family whose son was interested in me. The Hockley's son was at least a decade older than me, and although charming at times, I had absolutely no interest in him emotionally, and could not imagine spending the next 60 years with him. This sentiment, along with the pressure of having to save my family made me resent him and the situation all the more, and I felt trapped, suffocated and isolated, as though I was standing on the edge of a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared or even noticed.
Now, I did not hate my mother as much as you, my dear Lizzie, may imagine. My mother had raised me for 17 years and was the only family I knew intimately, and for this reason alone I did not wish death on her. This was why, now as I lay in a boat in the middle of the night, in the vast and endless ocean, I prayed that my mother had survived. I could not go back to her, this had been decided on the boat deck where I rejected both her and Cal to find Jack, and going back would not help me at all. Running was my only hope at happiness. You don't need wealth to be happy if you know where to look for it. Despite my resentment at the situation I still prayed she had survived. I don't know if I believe in God, or if I ever did, but right then, in those first moments in the wake of Titanic, in the wake of unbelievable pain, I could think of no other thing to do for the others that had been on that boat than pray.
Oh! Those poor souls who had not been as fortunate as I to survive! More than half the people on the ship were dead, all those children, all those mothers, all those men, all those people who had suffered the most terrible fate I could imagine! And Jack! Poor Jack! To freeze to death! Imagine! I rubbed my icy hands and caressed the spot where his hand had frozen to mine. I longed to hold his hand again in mine; I longed to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his warmth. I had known him for all of 4 days, and yet I knew him better than I had known anyone in my life. I did not know what to do. He had become my world, my symbol of hope, my path to freedom, and he was gone. Fate had cruelly taken everything away from me, after giving me so much. It was overwhelming. I thought of what he had said to me, about how I should not—how I could not—give up tonight or indeed ever. About how I should continue regardless of all destruction around me, how I should continue to fight in the face of all adversity and live as full a life as I could, and about how I should never let go of this promise. I could not even consider letting go now, his dying words were to me, to make me promise that I would try and live as much as possible and I decided that I owed it to him to do so.
Officer Lowe, whose name I only learned later during the inquest, broke into my thoughts with a question and a gentle shake on the arm.
"Miss, are you alright?" he asked sternly, yet full of concern.
"Mmm." said I, opening my eyes which had closed despite my better judgement of avoiding all sleep.
"Try and not sleep ma'am, I believe—that is I have been told—that sleeping after exposure can lead to one succumbing to such adverse conditions."
I could barely see him in the darkness, I could make out just about his eyes and mouth, he must have been about 2 feet from me.
"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I… I just… I'm so cold."
"I know ma'am," he said with clear authority. "We will be rescued soon, I hope."
I could tell he was uncertain, but I decided to agree with him. Hope, albeit false, was better than nothing.
"Soon." I echoed. And we returned to the impenetrable silence.