Queenstown, April 11

1:30 p.m

At about half past one, the tender "Ireland" began to pick up passengers leaving Queenstown, as well as sellers, journalists and other curious people. I went to say goodbye to Father Francis Brown. Running to the gangway doors on deck E, I found him on the threshold saying goodbye to McElroy. The priest rejoiced at me:

"Decided to see me off, Henry?"

"I thought I wouldn't have time", - I caught my breath, - "It was very nice to meet you, Father Brown."

"Thank you, Henry. I'll send your pictures to 25 Grey Road, Liverpool. Is that correct address?"

"Yes. Exactly"

"Mr. McElroy. Don't worry about photos. I will send you copies. Have a good travel!"

Father Brown stepped onto the gangway, moving onto a small tender. Following his trail, Hugh and I went upstairs.

During the anchorage, I was quite surprised by the fact that food waste from the board is poured directly into the sea, although the coast is nearby. Totally unsanitary conditions. Around all this, flocks of seagulls. I thought I'd share an embarrassing observation with the Purser:

"Did you see how many seagulls near the slops?"

"Why are you surprised, Henry?", - Hugh sincerely did not understand, - "all things from our ship are poured all the time."

"It's not eco-friendly. Imagine that here in ten years it will be a dump. A man leaves the house, goes to the sea, and on the shore, all sorts of garbage floats. The sea is not a dump."

"Eco…what? You're kind of weird the last few days. It's like you're not at all." – Said McElroy- "Seagulls will eat food waste; dirty water will dissolve into the sea. We don't have anything else."

On deck C, we parted ways. Hugh went to his office, and I went to the forecastle to prepare for sailing.

Turbines turned on, giant propellers, raising sand from the bottom, gained momentum. The doors are closed, the tenders are gone. Passengers are located in cabins; the crew took their places. Telegraph pens ring "slow ahead". Ship's horn sends farewell signal, Titanic leaves the small port town. Now only the ocean and we are alone in the whole world. What remains is a triumphant arrival in New York or stay forever in the cold black ocean. There will be no third.

Lightoller and I stand on the tank again, watching for safe movement. A ship built by the poor Irish is carrying other poor Irish to a new life.

Next to us, several hundred more people saying goodbye to their native land. Many forever.

I also get very sad. I will never see my land either. No, I'll be back in Britain in a couple of weeks, but Home is lost forever.

"Henry, are you crying?" Charles asks in astonishment.

"No, it's just windy".

"Come on, come on, look at me.

"What's wrong with you, Henry? We will be at home on the 27th".

"Can you imagine what it is like for all migrants to say goodbye to their homes forever?"

"Don't be dramatic, Henry. If they were happy here, they would not leave. And if they succeed there, they will not remember Ireland at all".

"Just imagine the scale of Britain's loss of a young, active, able-bodied population. People who could benefit their country turned out not to be needed. Every day, ships with thousands of migrants sail to America. And no one cares."

The second mate did not share my point of view:

"All people won't leave. And not everyone who left will succeed in a new place. There is far from paradise. People also return back. I know what I'm saying".

"On our return trips the third class is not filled more than half. That says a lot, Charles. A lot".

The Irish coast was left astern. The white trace from the propellers forever drew a line in the lives of the people on board. In a week, they will all disperse across the vast country called the United States of America. Many will never see their native land again, some lucky ones will become millionaires, forgetting the eternal need that they endured at home. All will be. But for this we need to bring them to America. Only. Very easy, if the ship was not called Titanic.

At half past five we passed the last European lighthouse, the Fastnet lighthouse standing alone on a rock. It marked the beginning of the transatlantic route. The weather became warmer. The ocean was calm.

A sound of machine telegraphs for me was more beautiful than any music. Lord... I saw everything with my own eyes. Titanic increased speed.

I climbed up the metal ladder to the roof of the wheelhouse. The sight made my head spin. Below is the endless expanse of the ocean, seagulls and the sun above us. Sitting on the roof, I breathed in the cool clean ocean air. Fortunately, black smoke from the funnels was blown in the other direction.

The grandeur of the Edwardian era was amazing. Steam, steel, unlimited freedom.

April 11

Evening

Atlantic Ocean

Three days before the iceberg hit. I haven't even begun to think about how I'm going to save the ship. Who to talk to? Who to warn? Wouldn't it be better to just warn Murdoch on watch at X hour and turn Titanic aside? I don't see any other options. And I don't have to reveal myself. Because only in movies or books everyone immediately believes a person who knows the future.

I was very naive then. If only I knew what awaits us on the night of April 14-15...

Before going to my watch. I decided to sit quietly far in the corner of the lounge on D-Deck and listen to the music. According to the company rules, officers were not allowed to be among the passengers. Except for technical or organization matters. I did not interfere with anyone, did not talk to anyone, and passengers simply did not notice me.

But Dorothy did. She sat down in a nearby wicker chair.

"Good evening, Henry!" Dorothy smiled.

"Hello, Dorothy" Not knowing what to say next, I just remained silent.

"Why Are you so brooding?" she smiled again

"I just listen to beautiful music. People in vain underestimate classical music".

"Sailors like classical music?"

"Sailors are the same people as everyone here on board".

"Many people here are even not listening", - Dorothy sighed.

"They are missing so much"

"That's exactly what I'm trying to explain to my friends here. But they only want play bridge and endless talking about the business"

"Normal for such people", - I shrugged my shoulders.

One by one people went to restaurant for dinner. Pauline Gibson appeared near staircase with two unfamiliar for me first-class passengers.

"Oh…my mom. Time to go for dinner"

"And for me to sleep before night watch"

After we said good bye to each other, I went to sleep.

Night on 11 to 12 April

Atlantic Ocean

Before the night watch, I managed to go to the hairdresser's. In my time, almost every second person had shaved sides and long hair on the top of his head. Extremely popular hairstyle. And here the hairdresser at first could not understand what I wanted, but when understood, he was surprised how stylish it looked.

When I took off my cap, Lowe was surprised at my new style

"Nice haircut, sir".

"Thank you, Harold. Life is short, why not freshen up my look?" I wink at Lowe.

Fifth officer just smiled and it seemed like he was worried of something.

"What happened Harold? Are you worried about something?"

"Even don't know how to say, sir"

"Oh, please. No "sir". Just Henry. We are team. Not servants and hosts"

"Ok. Thank you. Worried? Rather, a premonition. Don't want to sound paranoid. I don't like our sailing from the start".

"Are you talking about avoiding a collision with steamer in Southampton?"

"Not only. It was as if fate itself did not want us to go to sea. Coal strike, bad weather. Europe did not let us go".

We didn't finish our conversation. An excited sixth officer, James Moody, came to the bridge with a book in his hands.

"Mr. Moody, you're three minutes late." I looked sternly at my watch.

"My bad, sir. I've found very unusual book and got into reading"

"What is unusual there?"

"Strange, but very interesting" James was delighted with my interest.

"What's strange about this book?"

"It looks like a fantasy. In America, prohibition, and the action takes place after the so-called First World War. The plot is not particularly complex. About a man who loved one woman all his life, and she turned out to be unworthy".

Surprised, I choked on my coffee. Coughing and gasping for air, I ask

"Who is the author?" I asked nervously

"Francis Scott Fitzgerald. Never heard of him" Moody answered.

It seems that James did not understand what fell into his hands.

"Can I take a look at it?" - I asked

"Sure" – Moody gave me that book.

Stepping aside with the book, I shined by a pocket flashlight on the last page where the year of publication was indicated in very small print - 1925. God…