If not for the Dewitt-Bukater girl, I might never have found Thomas. Chaos had descended upon the Titanic, with the slanting of the ship, and the rumors spreading fast, from one person to the next. Why did they allow only women and children into the boats if the boats could accommodate all? Why dozens of flares sent into the sky if rescue was certain? The crowd on the boat deck increased and pushed forward, their pace quickened with insistence. I pushed my way through, back down towards the hallways that ran the length of the first class corridors. The electric lights were still too bright in those corridors, my eyes adjusted slowly from the relative darkness of the boat deck and I averted my eyes towards the floor, ran my fingers along the wall, used my sight sparingly. Soon the lights would dim and go out anyway. I was surprised that they hadn't already. The thought was not at all comforting.
I preferred walking through low light, and whether cast by moon and stars or kerosene street lamps, I cared not. But I much preferred walking through bright, even painfully bright, electric light to walking through none at all. Blindness feels very much like being trapped in a box under the stairs.
My father's country estate had extensive grounds, with a tributary of the Thames running straight through it. The original manor house had been built by a Roman proconsul in the sixth century for his second wife, so the story goes. Successive generations built around it, added to it, renovated it, until it resembled, I'm sure, nothing that Roman proconsul would be able to recognize. That is, except for the west side hallway, running the length of the west wing, on the north side, an eighth of a mile from one end to the other, constructed with granite and marble, alabaster molding, floor to ceiling windows spaced no more than three yards apart. When the moon shines brightest, full and hanging low in the sky, the windows allow an incredible amount of light into the hallway and it reflects against the whiteness of the alabaster. If light can seem cold, it is in this context, where moonlight and stone produce eerie luminescence.
I used to walk that hallway, by myself, as a child, in the stillness of summer nights, when I could not sleep, and found the darkness of the inner rooms overwhelming.
And oh, what I wouldn't give to be walking that hallway instead of these corridors…
I almost turned right towards the reception room, on instinct, nothing more. But Rose Dewitt-Bukater's voice down the left corridor restrained me, made me stop and turn towards her.
"Mr. Andrews, thank God!" she exclaimed, breathless. "Where would the Master of Arms take someone under arrest?"
"What?" Thomas, not understanding, answered her incredulously. "You have to get to a boat right away, Rose! No time…"
"No!" The girl was on a mission, you could see it in the way she stood, hear it in her tone, words spoke with determination, laced in purpose. "I'll do this with or without your help, sir. But without will take longer."
Thomas paused, must have recognized her resolve.
"Take the elevator to the very bottom, go left, down the crewman's passage, then make a right," he said sternly, seeing the plans in his head, the shape of the Master of Arms' office, the height of the ceiling, the port side windows.
"I'll take her, Thomas," I commented from the far side. Both of them turned towards my voice, unaware of my presence until then. Rose seemed astonished, wondered, I imagine, why I offered this. And further wondered, I'm sure, why Bruce Ismay's sister was not on boat six with her mother and the other first class ladies of notable society. Thomas said nothing, the expression passing his features spoke well enough for him.
What have you done, Mary Catherine?
"She'll be longer trying to find which right to take in the crewman's passage, and it's likely near to flooding," I continued. There was no time for objection, for explanation. I knew this ship as well as he did, and time was running out. The lower decks, where the Master of Arms would keep his prisoner, might well be under water already. He shook his head, looked as though he'd like to strangle me.
"Hurry, Mary Catherine!" he insisted, and I nodded violently, led Rose down the corridor past Thomas, leaving him to empty the state rooms, corral the remaining passengers to the boat deck. I turned back briefly.
"Thomas!"
He looked up, met my gaze.
"They've put gates across the third class corridors…"
My words settled over him like unwanted sleep, and he looked older suddenly, as Captain Smith had earlier, in the chartroom, and tired, as if the weight of Atlas lay on his chest, crushing him. Oh, but they wouldn't dare…
As Thomas raced down the aft side corridor, Rose and I ran to the elevators on the opposite side. The lift operator was reaching up, closing his gate when we came near, our intention plain.
"Sorry, ladies, the lifts are closed---" He had half-turned when he heard our approaching footsteps, and his awkward stance allowed Rose to shove him back into the elevator, with surprising force. I followed her in.
"I'm through being polite, goddamnit! I may never be polite again in my life!" she exclaimed, pouring every ounce of her frustration onto this poor elevator operator. Her approach was effective, and, I suppose, necessary. This was not a time to mince words. And she did not, commanded, "Now take us down!"
The operator fumbled with the gate. I grabbed the left side and helped him lower the wrought iron door as he started the lift. The mechanism lowered smoothly, and faster than I recalled, past the upper decks, one floor and then another. As we neared the bottom, I prepared myself for what we might find there.
"Go slow now," I warned softly, hoping the flooding was minimal, if present at all. The operator slowed the carriage.
Water poured into the lift, ice cold and swirling around our legs, in rushing fury. Rose cried out, in surprise and anguish. The lift operator, as well, jumped at its sudden appearance. We'd landed in a foot or so of seawater. My black laced boots offered no warmth against the frigidness, my ankles and lower calves ached in response, taking my mind off the pain in my head momentarily. Rose clawed the doors opened and hiking her skirt up, splashed out of the lift. I followed.
Hearing the lift gate close once more, I turned back, where the operator was fumbling with the lift controls, overcome by panic and hysteria, in the face of the rising water. I reached back took his hand through the wrought iron door.
"Give us two minutes, we'll be back directly," I stated firmly, without compromise. "If we aren't, take the lift back up…after two minutes. You understand?"
He nodded, grateful that I didn't acknowledge that he had been about to abandon two women at the bottom of a sinking ship. Shamed that he had. Rose was already splashing down the crewman's passage, left as Thomas had instructed. I chased after her.
"Rose, you've gone too far!" I called, as she passed the hidden cross corridor without realizing. She turned back, said softly, "Thank you, Mary Catherine."
We took the right hand corridor, two rows of closed doors on either side. Rose, without pausing, striding through the foot of water as fast as she could, turned back to me, question obvious.
"Last one on the left," I answered.