November 21, 1916
The tilt to starboard had grown exponentially over the previous ten minutes, becoming far steeper than the list forward. Faint smoke rolled from the forward three funnels and dispersed in the warm, tropical wind; the smell of salt tinged the air and gulls flew and wheeled overhead, some alighting on the after mast and watching the evacuation with detached curiosity. The bow rested mere feet above the water, which lapped hungrily at the hull, and the propellers, still now for all time, were completely exposed. Given the degree of the rightward slant, the port deck sat a great deal higher than the starboard, and standing was becoming difficult. In the wireless room, Harold Phillips sat at the apparatus and tapped out another distress call, Jack Bride bent next to him, one hand on the table and the other on the back of Phillips' chair. Bride, at some point, donned his life vest, and sat Phillips' next to him.
As he worked, Phillips held the headphones as close to his ear as he could; perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he heard something, and if he strained, he might be able to make out a reply in the white noise.
In the wheelhouse, Captain Bartlett collected the ship's manifest, log, and passenger registry, shoved them into a green seabag, and drew the string tight. Officer Stone stood by the door leading to the starboard boat deck, his hands clasped behind his back and his face expressionless. His feet were planted farther apart than normal so as to retain his footing.
Beyond the windows overlooking the forecastle, the sea appeared so close to washing over the deck that Bartlett expected it to happen at any moment. He turned away and crossed to his second-in-command, the floor sloping heavily beneath him. Without a word, he handed the bag to Stone, who patiently awaited further instruction. Bartlett did not meet his eyes when he said, "See to the passengers, then go yourself."
Stone hesitated, then nodded. "Anything else, sir?"
Bartlett considered the question a moment. He glanced out the window and frowned. He couldn't think of anything. "No, that'll be all," he finally said. "There's not much else to be done. Before you go, make sure all the women are off. And the patients too. Otherwise, you're free to go." He turned pointedly away and laid his hand on the wheel, watching from his periphery as Stone lingered, then left.
Alone, Bartlett allowed himself a deep, gloomy sigh. Everything happening now, from the men dead and minced in the water to the millions of pounds in damages the sinking would cause rested firmly on his shoulders, and his shoulders alone. One cannot help hitting a mine - and he was certain that it was a mine - but the master of a ship is responsible regardless, he believed. He may not have caused the fatal wound, but that didn't stop shame from abiding deep within him.
Two hundred yards off Britannic's starboard side, Colleen Kennedy sat next to Mr. Charles in Boat 15C and stared rapt at the sight before her: The ship rested at a shallow diagonal angle, its stern risen high enough from the water line that the red paint of its keel and its giant propellers were both visible, and the head sitting so low that the bow deck was dangerously close to being consumed by the waves. The Union Jack fluttered proudly from the top of the aft mast, and smoke still billowed from the funnels - save for the last one, which was purely for ventilation. Officer Wright told her that once. Remembering their plans to walk the deck this morning, she felt a rush of bitter disappointment. She hoped he was alright; she rather liked him.
Beside her, Mr. Charles watched the ship as well, one foot tapping restlessly against the floor of the boat. He was upset that Lynn wasn't with them and, at first, refused to get into the boat without her. Colleen didn't know where Lynn went, but, though she wouldn't show it for Mr. Charles's sake, she was worried as well.
On the port deck, Lincoln stood back as the aft crane davit, hitherto standing vertical, leaned forward with a mechanical whirr. It clanged to a stop, suspending a packed boat more than a hundred feet over the sea. The sailor operating the lever pressed a button, and the wires tethering the boat fed through the riggings, lowering it slowly and evenly. It passed deck level and disappeared; beyond, other boats dotted the sparkling blue ocean, some pulling away and others simply floating in the swell, standing by to pick up survivors once the ship was down. When it touched the water, the seamen inside cast off the cables, hefted their oars, and started rowing. Lincoln glanced down the deck and absently chewed the inside of his bottom lip as he considered his next move. The list to starboard was nearly ten degrees, he judged, and launching boats from the traditional Welin davits was impossible: The last one he sent off scraped against the hull on its way down and nearly capsized. It took him and three seamen holding the lines with all their might to keep it steady; his palms were covered in nasty rope burns that ached and throbbed with every beat of his heart, and each time he cheeked, his flesh was still tacky with blood.
This was the final gantry davit on this side, and all of the other boats on port were virtually useless. He looked at the four seamen under his command and scrunched his lips to the side. There were the collapsibles stored amidships - boats with hard bottoms and canvas sides. "Alright, men, follow me," he said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started forward, brushing past an RAMC man emerging from a doorway. "No boats on this side," he said, "go starboard."
The RAMC man nodded and hurried off.
Along the way, Lincoln passed a neat pile of wooden deck chairs stacked in an alcove. "Toss those over the side," he commanded and gestured. In the absence of boats, deck chairs made excellation flotation devices. Two of the men stopped, grabbed one in each hand, and carried them to an empty set of davits, throwing them into the sea with a series of flat splashes.
The collapsibles were housed in a special storage shed at the foot of the third funnel back. Lincoln turned briskly and climbed a set of metal stairs, the smokestack looming over him like a modern colossus. He produced a key from his jacket pocket, inserted it into the padlock, and twisted. He whipped the chain away, dropped it onto the deck, and opened the doors. His men stood by, ready for orders. "Drag them out and we'll take them to starboard."
"Aye, sir," one said. They set to work, and Lincoln went to the rail overlooking the starboard side. In the distance, boats bobbed in the surf and, on deck, a crush of men loaded into three more; most of the davits were empty, the lines hanging over the sides; the only boats he saw were the ones closest to the navigation bridge. He scanned the faces below, looking for Wright...then, with a shudder, remembered.
Shoving those thoughts aside lest they overwhelm him, he stared toward the bow; water was beginning to wash across the deck beneath the raised forecastle from starboard. He did a quick bit of math in his head, and ascertained that when she went, she'd most likely go on her side more so than by the front. He and his men could pull the collapsibles to the wheelhouse then, as she started to go, push them off as the water came level with the boat deck.
Turning, he went over to the shed, where three boats lie near the top of the stairs, their soft sides folded down. Collapsibles were considerably lighter than normal wooden boats, but they were still heavy enough to need two men to carry them. Nodding toward the rail, Lincoln walked over and waited; two men brought one over and Lincoln called "Look out below!" Then, with that, they tossed it over the side; it landed on the deck with a thump.
Once all three boats had been dropped onto the deck, Lincoln and his men went down the stairs then around. On his way, he looked around for an extra set of hands, and spotted an RAMC officer leaning against a wall flanking a door. "You there," Lincoln called, and the man looked at him. "A spot of help, please?"
Without question, the man came over. Lincoln picked up one side of the boat - the others already having been sprinted away by his men - and nodded to the other. "Grab that side."
The man squatted, picked it up, then waited. "Alright, come on."
Walking backwards down the deck, Lincoln stared over his shoulder to make sure the path was clear. At the wheelhouse, Lincoln dropped his end. "Right then," he said, "thank you for your help."
"Pleasure," the man said politely, then turned and went aft again, disappearing into the crowd.
Lincoln glanced down at the boat, but stopped when the roar of the sea found his ears. Frowning, he went to the wing wall and peered over. Swirling water covered most of the bow, cranes and capstans jutting from the rapidly rising tempest. For the first time since the blast, a true, keen sense of urgency gripped him. He pushed away and turned to his men, who were busy setting up the boats. "She's starting to go, boys," he said, and they all glanced up at him, their already ashen faces growing whiter. "Step lively."
They looked at each other, then stepped as lively as anyone Lincoln had ever seen.
Lynn leaned heavily against a wood support column and rested to catch her breath; her ankle ached monstrously and her slender frame trembled with exhaustion. She'd been pulling herself along for fifteen minutes, hopping on one leg and steadying herself on the wall, tables, and anything else she happened across. The list to starboard was much, much deeper now than it was before, and keeping her footing, especially in her state, was quickly becoming impossible. Currently, she was in the first class reception room on B-Deck, far forward of the grand staircase. Ahead of her was a narrow set of steps leading to A - if she could get to them, she'd be able to claw her way to the boat deck where she stood a good chance of being saved. How far between those stairs and the gangway topside? She realized there being a hallway and then another set of stairs leading to the deck, but she wasn't sure as she didn't often come to this part of the ship. She did know that whatever route she took would lead her forward, toward the bow...and the steadily rising water.
On her arduous trek through the bowels of Britannic, she did not let herself dwell on the hopelessness of her situation: When she felt panic threatening to overcome her, she prayed to God, and He soothed her worried heart. All things are possible through Him, the good book says, and that included getting off of this blasted ship.
Taking a series of deep breaths, she hopped toward the stairs on her good foot, her arm out and her hand resting on the column to keep herself even. She hopped again, pulled her hand away, and started to sway; she threw hers arms up on either side of her like a bird and retained her balance. She hopped a third time, and the sloping floor tripped her up; she toppled forward and cried out, landing hard on her hands. The air knocked from her lungs in a rush and her injured foot twisted again, sending a sharp bolt of stomach-turning pain slicing up her leg. Tears welled in her eyes and she bore down on her teeth, cutting off a high whimper; flashing in frustration, she balled her fist and slammed it against the floor.
Getting hold of herself, she drew herself to her hands and knees and started to crawl again, pausing to swipe her bangs from her eyes. The floor seemed to shift beneath her, and though it could have been fancy, she thought the ship listed even more. Her heartbeat quickened and she moved faster, dreadfully sure that at any moment, Britannic would roll over and sink like a stone with her trapped inside. She scuttled across the carpeted floor like a crab, wincing when a clock slid off the mantle over the fireplace and shattered into a million pieces. The ship gave a ghostly groan, and she hurried her pace, reaching the bottom of the stairs and pulling herself up on the banister. She drew her bad foot up behind her and, leaning upon the rail, hopped up one step at a time, pausing frequently. At the landing, the fire snaking up her leg became too great and she sank to her knees, her forehead pressed to the wall and her chest heaving. A familiar din rose behind her, and she turned just in time to see water spreading across the floor. Her stomach flipped and her eyes widened in terror. She darted her gaze to the corridor she just traversed; seawater gushed from vent grates along the baseboard and flowed freely down the canted hallway like a stream over a rocky creek bed. Not much, but a dark hair bringer of things to come.
Looking away, she grabbed the railing and got to her foot with a hiss through clenched teeth. She started up the next flight and reached the top, whereupon she stopped to rest. To her left was a stateroom door, and to the right, a long, wide passage with richly carpeted floors and dark, oaken walls. Brass lamps spaced every five feet provided a low, ambient brilliance that would have been warm and inviting were it not cast upon a grotesquely tilted hall; hours ago it would have been comfortable, now it seemed a nightmarish satire on normality, everything familiar but off. The list was so great now that she had to lean against the wall to keep from going over. Panic squeezed her chest and she pushed herself to go faster, hobbling now and panting over her teeth at the pain in her ankle. Things in the rooms on the port side crashed and banged, unable to stay put on the pitching floor, the din wearing on Lynn's frayed nerves and making her heart beat faster. Ahead, a chair slid out out of an open door and hit opposite wall, blocking her path. The footboard of a bed appeared from another door but was too big to fit all the way through.
When she reached the chair, Lynn splayed her hand on the wall for balance and shoved it away, then proceeded on, limping heavily; putting all of her weight on one foot was becoming too much and if she didn't hurry, she'd die in this blasted hallway totally lame.
The ship groaned again, the walls emitting a portentous creak. She hopped and almost sprawled again, but saved herself at the last second. Nervous energy filled her and she strained to keep from rushing headlong down the hall as fast as she could.
Momentarily, a green placard appeared on the wall: An arrow pointing down the way with the word STAIRS. Oh, thank God; she didn't know how much more fight she had in her.
The roar of water found her ears, and her step faltered. The stairs were just up ahead, once she got to them she'd be safe and this would all be over. Summoning all her strength, she hopped to the open threshold, only to sag in bitter defeat when she discovered that the stairs went down, not up. The roar was loud here, the water just out of sight. She started on but froze when a man rounded the corner and ascended toward her, his head down and his feet frantically pounding the treads. For a heart-stopping second, she thought it was the steward, but then he glanced up and to her relief she saw that he wasn't. From his clothes - dirty trousers, grimy, short-sleeved white shirt, and black smudged face - he was one of Britannic's stokers, the very brave (or very stupid) men who shoved heavy loads of coal into the hot boilers. His features were twisted in fear and his movements were jerky and overwrought.
He saw Lynn but instead of stopping, he brushed past her and fled down the hall. She was so stunned by both his sudden advent and his callous disregard that her mind blanked. Recovering, she called out, a pleading edge in her voice. "Wait! Please don't leave me!"
His shoulders tensed and he came to a stop, half turning and favoring her with the wide, traumatized eyes of a man who has seen hell and would do anything to keep from seeing it again. He sucked great gulps of air and quivered as though he were in danger of exploding...or breaking and running away. "Please," Lynn begged, "m-my ankle, I-I can't." Articulating her predicament - even if in the vaguest of terms - somehow made it real, and in the the twinkling of an eye, she was so scared she could barely speak. "Please help me," she said, and her vision blurred with tears. "Please."
The stoker pursed his lips indecisively and shot a longing look over his shoulder, at safety. Sighing, he came reluctantly forward and Lynn let out a pent-up breath. "A-Alright, Miss, but we have to -" the words died on his lips when the lights flickered with a humming, electric buzz. Lynn's stomach dropped and the stoker's face paled. The lamps came back bright and strong, then dimmed considerably. The roaring was louder than ever, and the ship gave another long, low moan. The stoker sucked a sharp, fearful intake of breath, met Lynn's gaze...then turned and fled down the hall.
"Wait!" Lynn cried.
He didn't stop, didn't slow: Fifty feet, a hundred, then he ducked right and disappeared, presumably, up the stairs to the boat deck.
She was alone now.
A sob burst from her throat and tears threatened to overwhelm her. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath.
Leaning against the wall, she dragged herself along the canted passage, her stomach knotting tighter and tighter and the roar swelled behind her; she imagined the entire ocean chasing her and lumbered quicker. A stitch twinged in her her side and her ankles both throbbed insistently. She was feet away from the bottom of the stairs when she stepped wrong and her good ankle turned sharply. Excruciation crackled up her leg and she screeched like a cat whose tail was being crushed under a coach wheel. Her knee gave out and spilled her forward; she threw up her hands, but didn't break the fall entirely; the floor slammed against her forehead and white agony filled her skull.
For a long moment she simply lay there, everything hurting, then, tentatively, she tried to get to her knees, but pain flared in both ankles and she dropped back to her stomach. The roar grew in volume, and, heart knocking, she hazarded a glance over her shoulder: Water gushed from the stairwell as if from a font and pooled along the low side of the corridor; more flowed from the vents and adding to the deluge, causing the level to rise with alarming speed. Long, creeping fingers quested across the floor, slowly but inexorably coming for her.
Something snapped inside of Lynn, and all the terror and panic she'd been fighting back since the sick ward crashed through her like a tidal wave. She let out a desperate scream and tried frantically to crawl away, her broken body inching over the cold tile like a worm trying to escape a hungry bird. When the first trickle of water touched her foot, she gave into her panic and screamed again, higher this time, longer, her throat ripping and the edges of her vision tingling gray. "Help me! Please, God, help me!"
Her voice echoed up and down the hall, but was drowned out by the awesome power of the sea.
Lincoln slapped his hands on top of the wing wall and peered over, his face a mask of English stoicism. White, simmering seawater gobbled Britannic's bow, the final dry patch disappearing before his very eyes. She was keeling over to starboard much greater than to the front, and he distinctly felt the world shifting beneath his feet. Two promenade decks sat under the boat deck, and, swiftly, the waterline reached their starboard corners and began to spill over. To his right, the surface was gradually but steadily rising to meet the top deck, and to his left, the port wing lifted into the air. Slowly, she was rolling onto her side. They had only minutes.
If that.
Shoving away from the wall, he turned round and went over to where the three collapsibles waited, their bows facing the edge. His men stood dutifully by, their expressions somber but their resolve steeled; they'd conducted themselves with unimpeachable courage and were prepared to hang on until the last...he was proud of them. "She's going," he said, "when the surface comes flush, push them off."
The ship continued her sluggish dip, the sound of the ocean sweeping onto the lower decks like Judgement Day. A number of men remained onboard, a mixed lot of crew, stokers, and RAMC officers - some leapt over the side and dropped into the drink with splashes while others grimy waited for the sea to come closer. Lincoln went to the rail and looked down: The blue void was six feet from coming over, now five, now four.
Behind him, the whistle fixed to the forward funnel sounded, a long, honking blast rather like the mournful wail of a dying giant. Another followed: The order to abandon ship. Lincoln's heart missed a beat and he drew a deep, salty breath through his nostrils. He spared a glimpse over his shoulder, taking in, for perhaps the last time, the massive yellow smokestacks rising loftily against the heavens. He had not been on Britannic very long, but in that time, he became fond of her, and seeing her die such an ignominious death affected him deeply.
Sighing, he cast his gaze to the boats: A dozen or more men had come over and climbed in, where they waited calmly for launch.
The bottom of the starboard wing box touched the surface of the water, and a quick look down revealed that less than three feet separated the ocean from his position. Captain Bartlett staggered out of the wheelhouse, the list here so great that the old man could barely keep his feet under him, and lifted a megaphone to his mouth. "Abandon ship!" he shouted, his amplified voice rolling up the deck like the word of God Himself.
Now the water sat even with the deck but did not yet lap over. Lincoln turned, went to the stern of one of the sparsely populated boats, and prepared to push, but froze when a faint sound drifted to his ears, much like...here he cocked his head...sobbing. He furrowed his brow and looked about, but could not discern the source. He dismissed it as imagination, but it came again, louder this time, a kneading, platative, and pitiful noise that could only be produced by a human being in great physical and spiritual peril. He stepped away from the boat and listened intently; when he heard it a third time, he left his station and walked slightly aft, coming to an open doorway just as the words "Help me!" issued forth. He braced his hands on either side of the frame and leaned in: A narrow set of stairs lead down to a dimly lit corridor.
Someone was trapped.
All worries for himself shrank to nothing, and without a second thought, he hurriedly descended the steps, his shoes splashing in inch high water at the bottom. The lights flickered and a long, phantom-like groan of tortured metal filled the passage. He cast about and started: A nurse lie prostrate in the middle of the floor, the sea rapidly closing over her.
Lincoln rushed over, and she pushed up on her hands, her head flopping back and wet, tangled brown hair covering her eyes. Even so, he recognized Lynn O'Rourke and a curious sensation cut through the pit of his stomach. Her posture was one of hysteria and the terrified scream she let out pierced Lincoln's soul like the icy blade of a knife.
Quickly recovering, he knelt beside her, water soaking through the knee of his trousers. Lynn shook violently and trembed a series of cracking sobs. The water was rising quickly and the ship gave an awful shudder, the groan deeper now, more pained; the lights cut out with a soft zap, and they were plunged into darkness, the only light the feeble rays of the sun falling down the stairwell. Lynn wailed, and without a word, Lincoln scooped her up, holding her as a groom would his bride, her feet danging over one forearm and her head nestled protectively in the crook of the opposite elbow. The water rushed along the passageway, knee-high and pushing him toward the stairwell as if urging him on. Lynn's frame trembled against him, and, on instinct, he held her close to his chest like a mother holding her baby against the cold. He could just see the outline of her face in the ghostly light: Eyes squeezed shut, mouth puckered in a quivering grimace, features screwed up in dread expectation of pain, suffering, and death.
Were he a poetic man, Lincoln would have felt a strange and overpowering stir of devotion and responsibility in his chest - he may have vowed, to himself or aloud, that he would never let harm come to such a precious creature as Lynn O'Rourke, that he would go to the ends of the earth and move any mountain to wipe that heartbreaking look from her face and to dry the tears standing out on her cheeks like trails of silver. He was not a poetic man, however, so instead of pretty words or empty declarations, he simply ran, cradling her safely in his arms and fighting his way through the deepening surge in slow motion, lending the already nightmarish scene an even more sinister quality. Things clogged the swell, bobbing forlornly like damned souls in the deepest pit of hell: A wooden jewelry box, a woman's shoe, a suitcase with the cuff of a shirt sticking out like a lolling tongue. The latter bumped into his leg and he unthinkingly kicked it away, sending it sailing into the shadows.
It felt like an eternity before he reached the stairs, his progress hampered by the gathering water, but it couldn't have been more than a minute or two; the sea was already starting to gush down the steps at a trickle, reminiscent of a waterfall. For the first time since hearing Lynn's pleas for help, Lincoln's heart blasted - the ocean was claiming the deck and if he didn't hurry, they'd be trapped in Britannic as she sank, a prospect that horrified Lincoln.
Holding Lynn tighter - the woman sobbed softly now, her face buried in his chest and her fingers clutching at the front of his coat - he rushed up, his head ducked and his shoulders squared as though he intended to ram through the sea like it were a man. At the top, water swept over the boat deck and consumed the starboard bridge wing: Britannic was going down faster now, the sea overtaking her and flooding into the wheelhouse. The collapsibles were all fifty feet or more away and the water was rising rapidly; beneath his feet, the deck tilted sharply and went out from under him. For a second, he floated, then he found it again and righted himself. Men dove off the lifting stern and swam toward the boats and the eerie groaning was so loud Lincoln couldn't hear anything over it, not even the rushing sound of the ocean pulling Britannic to the bottom.
They had to clear the ship before it went down or the suction would take them with it. Thinking fast, he slipped his coat off one arm at a time, never setting Lynn down, then tossed it aside: She stared at the sea. "Grab round my neck!" Lincoln yelled to be heard over the din. Lynn jerked her gaze to him, eyes wide with fright, but made no move to obey. "Put your arms around my neck!" he shouted again.
Gulping, she did, and Lincoln shifted her onto his back; without being told to, she hooked her legs over his hips and clung to him with fervent desperation. Again, the deck left him, and this time he threw himself forward and swam hard toward the boats laid up in the distance, passing a gantry davit as it slipped below the surface. Lynn held tight and trembled pitiably, her breathy whimpers filling his left ear and fueling him like coal to a boiler.
Behind them, Britannic dipped forward and to the side, the stern rising higher and higher out of the ocean as water swept over the roof of the wheelhouse and the officers' quarters. Bodies continued dropping from both sides of the boat deck; people scrambled frantically across the poop to reach the lower starboard end, but some were forced to dive eighty feet or more from the higher port section. The sea closed over the forebridge until only the port wing box jutted up from the seething vortex, then that too disappeared. She was submerging briskly, the superstructure groaning under the stress of her swiftly increasing angle.
A loud report like a shot rang out, followed by another, and another, and another still. Lincoln looked over his shoulder just in time to see the last cable tethering the forward funnel snap; slowly, with a shriek of bending metal, it toppled over and splashed hard into the water. A wave displaced by the impact surged forward and shoved Lincoln away from the foundering vessel, his head momentarily dunking and Lynn's grip tightening. He arched his back to ensure that she didn't go under as well, then broke the surface with a gasp.
People thrashed and failed around him, some clinging to deck chairs and others swimming for it in a bid to escape the suction. Captain Bartlett embraced an unidentifiable piece of flotsam, his cap gone and the bald spot in the middle of his head laid bare for all the world to see. Lincoln looked back again to calculate the distance between them and Britannic. She was half down, clouds of smoke and steam exploding from the base of the second funnel. As he watched, riveted, the water reached it, and like the first, it too fell over. Lynn's grip started to slip, and Lincoln shifted. "Hold on," he said, "we're almost out." Indeed, one of the collapsibles stood less than twenty feet off, the men inside staring transfixed at the sinking liner.
Lincoln opened his mouth to call out, but a thunderous racket struck up behind him as the boilers tore loose and tumbled down to the bow, ripping through bulkheads and perhaps even the hull. One of the sailors sat up straighter and craned his neck to get a better view. Lincoln waved, and the man saw him, excitedly swatting the oarsman next to him and pointing at Lincoln.
He swam toward them, and it was only then that it dawned on him: He was going to live...and so would Lynn. Presently, the girl muttered the Lord's Prayer over and over again, so distraught that she stumbled over words and repeated herself. He became acutely aware of her slender arms about his neck and of the warm weight her body made against his back. "We're gonna be alright," he heard himself saying, "I promise, Lynn, we're alright."
Two seamen heaved the oars and pulled up alongside Lincoln. "Take her," he commanded. Three men leaned over the side, laid their hands on Lynn, and dragged her over the edge; her grip tightened on Lincoln in surprise, but she realized what was happening and let go. Once she was safely inside, the men pulled Lincoln up as well. It wasn't until he dropped against the side of the boat next to Lynn that he was completely drained, his muscles quivering like jelly and every joint aching with weariness. Lynn gazed off into space in a daze, then she hugged herself and started shaking, with cold or trepidation he didn't know...nor did he care. He scooted over and unthinkingly took her into his arms; she offered no resistance as he drew her to his chest, indeed, she melted into him like a woman in a comfortable chair...and then began to sob.
Lincoln pressed her head to his chest and stroked his fingers through her long, wet hair, a low shhhhh passing his lips. His eyes were glued to Britannic, which had paused on its descent, entirely on its side and reduced to fifty feet of stern, everything else having gone under. She groaned dangerously and seemed to have trouble settling. Being 882 feet long, her forward half most likely hit the bottom. The stern shook, trembled, and swung aimlessly back and forth, then, by degrees, it slid beneath the waves. The last Lincoln saw of it was the Union Jack on the very aft end: It flapped in the warm breeze to the very last.
Lynn clutched the front of his shirt and buried her face in his breast. He circled his arms protectively around her and looked at one of the seamen. "Captain Bartlett's over in that direction," he said and nodded off to the right. "Make to and pull him in."
"Aye, sir."
As the boat rocked and swayed in the swell, and as five men dragged the hatless captain in, Lincoln softly stroked Lynn's hair and stared at the spot where Britannic made her grave.
He, too, could have gone to the bottom.
And though he never placed much value on his own life, that thought disturbed him.