"A Thousand Points of Light"
Author: carmen_085
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters from James Cameron's Titanic, not any real people. I do not own Titanic or any characters from the movie. I do own all original characters.
Summary: Fifth Officer Harold Lowe and Titanic's Nurse Clara Barnett lives become intertwined on the ship's maiden voyage when a young drifter is brutally beaten.
Chapter One
The first thing that Clara had noticed about the Titanic was how large it was. Inside and out, she'd never laid eyes on a larger object in all her life. It was, for lack of a better description, a floating city. When Harland and Wolff had towed the massive ship into port a few days ago she found herself standing on the dock with many of the other White Star Line Employees mouths agape in pure wonder. Her crossing on the Oceanic had been eventful with constant evaluations and assessments performed by the senior nurse on board. After seven days of hard work, nearly round the clock, she had satisfactorily proven herself and was deemed competent to accept her position on the Titanic.
There would, of course, be additional medical staff on board, Dr O'Loughlin chief among them. The old surgeon set forth the protocols and procedures for the voyage and would perform any emergency surgeries should the situation arise. The day to day situations, however, would be Clara's problem. There were, of course, lunches to be taken in the Palm Court, dinners to be had with the rich and famous, and cigars to be smoked until the wee hours of the morning. Yes, she'd gotten the message loud and clear, unless someone was dying he didn't care. Clara was both shocked and relieved by the stance of her superior. Relieved because she could do what she needed without someone looking over her shoulder, shocked because in all her existence she'd never been so overtly assaulted by the class system.
The hospital she'd left had a hierarchy of sorts, with doctors being a top the pile and the immigrants- those that barely spoke any English- at the bottom cleaning the floors and changing the sheets. Still though, no matter the station of someone they all came together to effect a good outcome for the patient, each contribution producing the overall result. This was not that. Not at all. And she wondered silently as she sat on the deck of the Oceanic, New York a disappearing glow in the distance what she'd gotten herself into.
Most of the White Star Line employees were British. As an American, they immediately looked down upon her. Without knowledge or a care for their upright customs she took care of her patients the only way she knew how. Straight forward and warm, she had her superiors clicking their tongues in shock when she down next to her patient on the cot and held his hand in hers. A young sailor who'd broken his leg slipping in the engine room, he'd been in terrible pain whimpering softly before the Morphine took effect. Like she would any other patient she offered him what she could. Medications, splinting, and her own steady presence. They looked down upon her with dismay, coddling someone like that- no less another employee. Demonstrative gestures, if dispensed at all, should be reserved for the rich only. It had been enough to send her into a tail spin, rushing up to the boat deck and ready to fling herself off the stern- swimming all the way back home if she had to. This was madness. Perhaps the money wasn't worth it at all.
Looking around the infirmary she was satisfied that she had all the supplies she could possibly think of. With no one but herself and few stewards manning the infirmary, she was in charge of the set up as well as the stocking. In review she found that the White Star Line had been very generous in furnishing the ward with the most up to date equipment and accommodations.
"Only the best." Dr. O'Loughlin had touted as the local newspapers had toured the facility earlier today snapping a few photos as Clara stood back in her dark blue dress and white apron. While the stewards wore black with white aprons, the White Star Line had outfitted her in dark blue with a white apron and red cross on her chest. It was the only differentiation they offered to recognize her a a skilled, educated worker. Underneath her dress she wore a pair of worn brown boots that had served her well. She had a bit of extra money and could have afforded a pair of white heels like so many other women in her profession wore but it was just plain impractical. While that might have been alright for the ward, this was a ship with gangways and ladders, narrow catwalks and searing boiler rooms. She had a duty to her patients to go where they were and care for them the best that she could. On the Oceanic she'd asked how they would care for an injured stoker in the boiler room. One of the most dangerous parts of the ship, surely injuries happened quite regularly. Offering a small laugh and a curt nod, the senior nurse simply replied. "We don't."
That wasn't good enough for Clara. She'd never turned her back on a patient ever, St. Luke's keeping their doors wide open for every penniless immigrant that needed help. While she was in Southhampton, awaiting the ship, she'd wandered into a shop full of clothes-men's clothes. Exhaling she straightened herself, preparing for the strange looks and questioning glares. Twenty minutes later she emerged with a pair of brown trousers, a navy blue linen shirt, and a belt. Flowing skirts and stark white aprons had no place below decks. She hoped it wouldn't be needed but should the moment arise, Clara would be more than ready to attend to her patient.
The infirmary had a small stove to boil water and clean bandages. Additionally there as a ceramic tea kettle and a rack of mugs all bearing the White Star Line logo. The British were big on their teas, and while she didn't object to the drink she much preferred coffee. Still she couldn't deny the healing effect of tea and wanted to obtain some lemon, honey, and ginger from the kitchen to have on hand. Coughs, sore throats, and the ever present Mal de mer could be easily cured with such remedies. Mind wandering she also hoped they may have some mint or lavender- herbs that her mother had used to heal so much when she was a child. The thought of her mother, her family, made a lump well up in Clara's throat before she swallowed it back. There would be time to think of them later, when she was alone in her bunk. Straightening her dress, her apron, and the cap on her head; she resolutely set off focusing on nothing but the task at hand and how not to get lost in the endless maze that was the largest ship in the world.
Fifth Officer Harold Lowe bent over the desk and sighed. The sun was going down and he still had a million things to do. As a junior officer he found that as soon as he completed one task they added another five. He didn't mind hard work but this was insane. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon with Sixth Officer Moody- Jimmy as the eager kid liked to be called- uncovering and swinging a lifeboat out into the davits. Lowering the small craft to the water, they demonstrated to the British Board of Trade that at least two people on the whole ship knew how to use the damn things. Harry found the whole display an egregious waste of time. A dog and pony show if he ever saw one. No one on the ship nor at White Star Line gave a flying fuck about life boats. On a ship built for well over two thousand, they only had the capability to rescue less than half. The fact itself nearly caused Harry to turn and leave the day he found out. It was stupid and reckless and a clear British message about class and the worth of life in general with the obvious implication that should an emergency arise the precious seats would go to those who "deserved them".
It made his stomach churn as not even the leakiest schooner of his boyhood had flouted personal safety quite like this. Titanic was 'unsinkable', however, and no one saw the need to press the matter any further. Harry had considered taking it up with his senior officers but decided against it and let the matter go. From the first day they'd all set foot aboard the ship in Belfast, it had become clear to him as well as to anyone else who was looking that he didn't belong. Unlike the other Officers he'd never made the trip across the Atlantic, nor had he served on a passenger liner of this size. Those facts, while patently true, took a little digging. On first sight, the thing that stood out about him the most was that he was an outsider…an unknown. The Captain, Chief Officer Wilde, and First Officer Murdoch had all previously served together on the Olympic- the premier White Star Line Vessel prior to Titanic. Nearly a carbon copy of the brand new ship, the three of them were undoubtedly confident in their berth. Lightoller, Boxhall, and Pittman were junior to the big three but still had several Atlantic crossings under their belt and had worked with the others on several past occasions. That left him and Moody; the kid being ebullient and enthused about nearly every task they handed to him easily winning over his senior officers with a smile and endless energy. Harry, on the other hand, was not quite as personable. Affronting and arrogant at times, he came off as an aloof outsider that wanted nothing to do with the others. Which was true, partially, at least. He didn't care to socialize or listen to their yarns of time spent at sea; he himself had plenty enough experience being on a boat in some capacity for more than half his life. Nor was he impressed by their fancy certifications or education having come up the ranks the hard way himself. If they left him alone that would have been just fine, but instead his lack of personability had earned him wary glances and hardened stares. Message received; we don't want you…we don't need you.
So he told himself he would suck this voyage up, being as high profile as it was, and as soon as his feet touched ground in New York he would apply for a transfer to another vessel and get away from this God awful cadre of Officers. Keeping his head down he continued to re-calibrate the instruments pleased that he was getting the same value each time. Despite not being well liked among the men, Harry took his job seriously and didn't stop until he was absolutely satisfied with his work. Commanding his full attention; he'd not noticed Second Officer Lightoller until the man was nearly on top of him.
"Mr. Lowe have you made your rounds yet ?" Setting his navigational tools aside, Harry sighed. He hadn't, totally lost in his work time had slipped past him.
"Not yet sir." Lightoller admonished him with a click of the tongue.
"I would say you should be off by now…" Harry nodded although inside he wanted to tell the man exactly where he could go. Pushing the charts and navigational tools aside, Harry straightened his jacket and offered a clipped acknowledgement.
"I'll be off then." Lightoller watched him go without another word. Once outside on the boat deck, Harry let his stiffly squared shoulders slump. His dream of being appointed to a large passenger liner was not off to the start he had imagined. Just another week he told himself, one more week and then he could wager this berth against something he could tolerate.
In addition to all the shipboard navigation and operations on the bridge, the Officers all had secondary areas of responsibility that they needed to round on once a day. For him he'd been assigned the mail room, the D-deck kitchens, Boiler rooms 1-5, and the infirmary. He'd need to monitor working conditions in each area and ensure that the overall integrity of the ship was not being compromised in any way. Mentally he crossed the infirmary off his list; not caring one shit about it. Fires could easily start in the other areas and weaken or disable a part of the ship. That's all he cared about, not a wayward tea kettle in the ship board hospital. Still, because Lightoller had been all but up his ass he reasoned that he would need to make a cursory stop by the infirmary to prove that he'd been compliant in his secondary duties. And to tell the man he could fuck off if there as any shit about it. Well..he wouldn't say it like that but knowing he'd done his duty would assure him a certain degree of smug satisfaction.
Thankfully, the infirmary was very near to the galley and after making his rounds there he headed down the back stairs into the white washed ward. It was quiet and he took the time to breath if only for just a moment. Taking his hat off he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. White iron bunk beds, similar to those in third class lined the walls, each with their own set of fresh sheets and flannel White Star Line blanket. The ship had spared no expense, not even when furnishing the most inconspicuous areas. More than the furnishings, however, Harry was interested in actual human touches someone had put into the small space. Above the small stove pots hung neatly on the wall with bundle of mint tied just below them. Reaching out, he touched the green leaves, rolling them between his fingers bringing them to his nose. His mother grew mint in her garden back in Wales. Well at least she used to- before the cancer and the never ending pain and nausea- it reminded him of her and of home. Swallowing back an unexpected lump in his throat, his eyes continued to wander over the bowl of lemons, the jar of honey, and thumb sized piece of ginger. All home remedies for teas and tonics- another memory of his childhood surfacing before he expertly batted it away. He'd had a lifetime practicing keeping his emotions at bay and he wondered idly why he was thinking of this right now. Sighing loudly he donned his hat and shook his head. He was exhausted and anxious; continually out of place and on the fringes. He just need some rest. When he woke, the ship would be off and he would not have time to think of anything but his job.
Clara sat back on the bench as she gazed out at the lights of Southhampton. The seaside English town had been her home for the past two weeks and a part of her would miss it. While it was hard to escape British customs, she found the small town to be relaxed and accepting in a way the rest of the country was not. Of course no one had the slightest inclination that she was American, until she spoke however, and then the eyes always narrowed and the lips always pulled into a line. No refinement, too pushy, too entitled. She'd heard it all while she'd been here, and after being subject to a week's worth of training at White Star Line's Liverpool Headquarters she was relieved to be released back to Southhampton. The port city welcoming newcomers from all over the world, she felt less like a pariah.
No one had ever asked but if they had she would have told them that she was proud of being an American. Confident and resourceful, her father had been in the Union Army and settled his young wife and growing family on the frontier when he received his first posting at Fort Buford during the Indian Wars of early 1880. Passing those traits onto all four of his children, Clara had learned to survive on the frontier riding a horse just as soon as she could walk. She grew up in the garden with her mama and in the forest with her daddy. This small piece of rough land was theirs and they could make of it what no one else ever had. That was what it meant to be an American.
Sipping her coffee she adjusted the cape around her shoulders. It was early April and while warm during the afternoons, chilly at night. On her maiden voyage across the Atlantic, Clara had witnessed the evasive maneuvers a ship must go through to ensure safe passage in an ice field. It was nerve wracking and she barely slept a wink until she knew they were safe and well on their way. She hadn't been looking forward to the return trip, but at least this time she would be headed back home. Life at sea was an adjustment indeed and she missed home more than she thought. Looking down at her hands she took a deep, steadying breath. The lights of the aft deck buzzed as she enjoyed the quiet. Closing her eyes she let herself drift thought to thought with no real purpose, allowing her mind to process what it needed and discard what it didn't
It was his shoes that she heard first, clicking on the carefully polished deck. Steps that were purposeful at first and then slowed to a languid pace. Clara was quiet, remaining with her eyes closed. She heard him take a lighter out, and flick it twice before the deep smell of a tobacco filled her nose. Slowly she turned her head, her eyes falling on a man in a ship's uniform; his posture slouched against the railing, one leg up the other down as he stared out at the sea. A cloud of smoke rose from around him, the ever present breeze picking it up and blowing it in her direction. Despite her attempts, Clara was unable to stifle the cough that gave way her presence. The man turned, clearly not aware that anyone was there, and for the first time she became aware that he was wearing an Officer's uniform. Casting a look toward him, she tried not to appear too curious.
"Well this just bloody figures…" Pitching the cigarette overboard, he shook his head in irritation. "Not a damn moment of peace…" Clara, just within ear shot, had heard it all not missing the uppity English accent. Another god damn Englishmen thinking he owned the whole fucking world. Well she had just about enough of this. Taking her coffee she made a big show of pitching it overboard in clear frustration of her own.
"Didn't know I was interrupting…" The officer stilled against the railing in shock that she had clap backed at him so quickly. Turning slowly he had half a mind to take her name and report her to the captain, who did she think she was talking to him like this ? Some stewardess with a chip and a bad attitude. He wouldn't stand for it. "Didn't know you owned the entire boat deck." Harry's mouth opened in surprise. This was absolutely absurd and yet he couldn't make himself walk away. Pushing off the railing swiftly he took a step toward her moving into the ring of light on the aft deck, his dark features clearly illuminated.
"Look I don't know who you think you are but I'm this ship's fifth…" She stepped into the light and he saw her face for the first time. His mind going blank, his heart going still he stopped in mid sentence his brain short circuiting entirely. She was absolutely beautiful, the air in his lungs sucking out and leaving him breathless. Just a bit shorter than he and built solidly; she had worked in her life that much was evident by her strong frame and tanned skin. Her dark hair had fallen out around her face and blew carelessly in the wind. But the thing he noticed the most, the thing that left him absolutely breathless and weak in the knees was her eyes. Gray- very light gray and nearly colorless- like a foggy morning leaving the harbor. A cool mist that enveloped a man totally wrapping its comforting chill around everything that ailed him. He inhaled his mouth closed as he stood there staring at her unable to move even if he wanted to.
Clara's eyes settled on the young officer as any further protest died on her lips. He looked at her and looked right through her. Like no one else ever had; peering into her eyes and straight through to her heart. The mug slipped from her fingers hitting the deck with a ting but no one seemed to notice. He was handsome, unbelievably so with dark features and deep expressive brown eyes. Beneath the anxious tension and the carefully curated mask of professionalism she saw a man in constant conflict with himself; an emotional tornado that could spin out of control if allowed. He was strong and cut, she could tell even thought he had several layers of clothes covering his muscular frame. Clearly he'd been working for a long time, using his hands and his scrappy attitude to get where he wanted, not willing to apologize or back down from anything.
"I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." She was first to speak. Harry had thankfully had the presence of mind to shut his gaping mouth, although, his brain still refused to form a single syllable. "I've had my moment of peace…you can have yours."
Her candor endeared her to him immediately. He'd never met a woman who was so straight forward and honest. It was really quite refreshing. Finding his voice he shook his head, "It's alright." He sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and yet still he had no idea what else to say. Looking down he took quick note of her dark dress and apron. She must have been a stewardess. Funny, though, he'd not seen her earlier at the ship inspection. Ducking her head she showed the first sign of deference to his status as she nodded toward the stairwell.
"Good night sir." Turning on her heel she exhaled walking away and hoping that her shaking legs didn't betray her on the stairs. Her mind tumbling head long into thoughts she'd never had before.
Harry watched her go as he finally felt the air enter his lungs once again. Everything that had been eating away at him disappeared, floating away with the wind. He felt light and at ease; a notion he hadn't fully believed to actually exist in the last several years. Just one look into her eyes had left him simultaneously at peace and more thrilled than he had ever been. Staggering back toward his cabin he silently wondered what had just happened and how he could make it happen again.
TBC…just getting rolling here with my characters. Let me know what you think