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Chapter Text

SCENE ONE
INT. LIFEBOATS

The survivors are left in darkness, in a daze.

Above their heads, the night sky is a canopy of twinkling stars. They are impossibly bright; to the audience’s ears, the night is quiet, echoing with the soft trill of a starry score. Numb shock is reflected in the faces of each man, woman, and child fortunate enough to find a seat in a lifeboat. We pan over their faces, taking in their shock, their horror. There is no way to comprehend the impossible loss of a great ship. In the numb silence, they do not know how to begin.

In Lifeboat 4, STEWARDESS VIOLET RANSOM (24) is white-faced, staring fixedly at nothing at all. Beside her, MARION THAYER weeps. MADELEINE ASTOR (18), pregnant wife of the richest man in America, calls out for her husband, as if in a trance — she mouths his name, drowned out by the score. In Boat 6, QUARTERMASTER ROBERT HICHENS’s hands are tight around the tiller, his jaw set, his face haunted; he keeps his back to the scene. Many women in his lifeboat are sobbing. FOURTH OFFICER JOSEPH BOXHALL, in his own lifeboat, lingers upon a third-class family — a man with his wife and little daughter — holding each other, sobbing. Boxhall is pale, trembling slightly. In another boat, THIRD OFFICER HERBERT PITMAN stares out at sea, his face a stricken mask.

As we pan over the faces of the crowd, the reverie breaks as the soundtrack fades away; slowly, over it, an indescribable cacophony is growing louder.

The awful screams of the dying.

The sound is piercing, agonizing, unbearable — it is every awful noise at once, all the torment of hell rolled into a discordant chorus. There are no words — only agony, suffering, fear, raw desperation that pierced even the most hardened hide in the lifeboats. Every person is affected, but none of them are moving.

What can they possibly do? To row back amongst the throng of 1,500 drowning people would be a death sentence.

The poor souls in the water are dead already.

CUT TO:

INT. LIFEBOAT FOUR

Focus on Violet Ransom, still in her daze of horror. She has her rosary clasped between stark white hands, and is praying silently.

VIOLET
Deliver them now from every evil
and bid them eternal rest… the old order has passed away…

The women in the Boat are being tortured. They are so close, so close — they can see swimmers splashing in the water, hear their individual cries. How can they stand by and do nothing?

MRS THAYER
My god, can’t we help them?

MRS CARTER
They’ll swamp the boat and kill us all!

QUARTERMASTER WALTER PERKIS
No panic, now! We can’t come any closer.

MISS ROSALIE BIDOIS
God help them…

Violet’s eyes are full of tears. She can only continue praying, as though it it the one thing keeping her composed.

VIOLET
… welcome them into paradise,
where there will be no sorrow,
(voice breaking)
no weeping or pain…

MRS IDA HIPPACH
(suddenly)
My god, there are swimmers!

A splashing sound alerts the women that they have not towed far enough. Two young crewmen already shiver amongst the mass of ladies, picked up from the sea as they were rowing away. Now, more are coming to join them, the splashing growing ever closer. They have not rowed far enough.

MRS ASTOR
(leaning over the side)
John? John!

An able seaman pulls her back. Several of the women pick up their oars, frantic to escape, but MRS EMILY RYERSON, hugging her thirteen year old son JOHN close, rounds on them.

MRS RYERSON
Dear god! Do you hear that sound? Our husbands, our sons! How can we abandon them? How can you think it?

One of her daughters, SUSAN, is crying.

SUSAN RYERSON
Mama, please…

But the ladies heed Mrs Ryerson’s words for a moment, and that’s all it takes. A man suddenly slams up against the side of the boat with a great gasp of air. Several ladies shriek, but a seaman takes charge. The man is quickly hauled into the boat, shivering violently — and he’s followed by several more at his heels.

MRS ASTOR
We can’t leave them!

It is the young girl’s plea which shakes the fear of everyone on board. Even Violet Ransom is roused from her stupor, as though awakening from a dream. She looks up, the rosary vanishing into her hands. As another man makes it to the boat, landing near her, she joins a group of women in hauling him into the boat.

FREEZING CREWMAN
S-s-so cold… c-c-cold…

On instinct, one of the first class ladies wraps her shawl around his shoulder. He hunches down into it, sobbing. Violet, horrified, nonetheless seizes upon something to do as it’s presented to her. She begins rubbing her hands up and down his arms, muttering to him soothingly.

VIOLET
There, it’s alright… you’re safe now, it’s alright, lad…

The man slumps against her chest as though she’s his mother, weeping against her. He’s still trembling, but his teeth have stopped chattering. Violet doesn’t know if that’s a good sign. She can only hold him, as the occupants of Lifeboat 4 stand by, waiting to pluck more men out of the water. Someone else reaches them, and they pull them aboard.

Violet, unable to help thinking of another unfortunate crewman who just went down with the ship, presses her chin to the frozen man’s head, staring intently into the night.

VIOLET
It’s alright, now… god help you.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWO
EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN - COLLAPSIBLE B

God himself seems to be on SECOND OFFICER CHARLES LIGHTOLLER’s side tonight. After nearly being pulled down with the ship in her final plunge, he was thrust up against an overturned Collapsible Boat B. Now, he, along with a dozen other survivors, struggle to pull themselves up and out of the lethal water, despite their violent shivering.

Lightoller can barely force his limbs to work. The cold has gotten to him, and it's taking its awful effect. No one who has managed to scramble atop the boat is helping him; it is a battle each man must fight on his own, and a precarious struggle not to overturn the boat. His nostrils flare, eyes wide and wild, breath coming out in desperate huffs.

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
I cannot describe the cold. It pierced one utterly, driving the strength from your limbs and power from your senses. the It was… like a thousand blades being driven into your body. Relentless… merciless.

Using a rope hanging from the side, Lightoller finally manages to haul himself up. He pants in relief, and lends a hand to another man swimming next to him.

VOICEOVER, UNKNOWN MAN (SENATOR BURTON)
You were in the water for how long?

LIGHTOLLER
Long enough, sir, that I was beginning to lose interest in things. Had I not reached that overturned boat… well. There were so few lifelines in that frigid darkness that a man clung to whatever he could find.

VOICEOVER, UNKNOWN MAN (SENATOR BURTON)
And you were simply - one of the few lucky enough to survive?

Focus on Lightoller’s face before the camera cuts to black.

CUT TO:

INT. ROOM OF THE SENATE BUILDING, ASSEMBLED INTO A MAKESHIFT COURTROOM

• small title reads ‘APRIL 20, 1912 — U.S. SENATE INQUIRY — NEW YORK CITY’

Charles Lightoller is at the stand, facing an unseen courtroom. Pressed and dry, in his best suit, immaculately put together, he looks every part the Edwardian gentleman. Like a respectable ship’s officer — not at all like someone who just survived a mass-tragedy, save for the haunted look in his eyes.

Lightoller stares out into the audience, face set in a stony mask.

LIGHTOLLER
I would not call it luck, sir. Not at all.

CUT TO:

TITLE OVER BLACK SCREEN : 

Chapter Text

SCENE THREE
EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN — COLLAPSIBLE B

In the midst of the chaotic throng struggling to survive in the dark Atlantic, the overturned Collapsible B is a miracle. The men who cling to her have been given temporary respite from death. Shivering, the group huddled on top of the boat — among them Officer Lightoller, passengers JACK THAYER (17) and COLONEL ARCHIBALD GRACIE (53), cook ISAAC MAYNARD (31), and third class steward JOHN PRIDEAUX. At least 25 men have now made it onto this boat. Many people are swarming around the boat, trying to get aboard. With their lone oar, several of the men beat them back, warning loudly that they’ll be swamped if they try.

MAN
Get back! You’ll drag us all down!

MAN #2
Keep away!

No one is proud of it, but this is survival. 

The crowd doesn’t come en force, but more people are milling around the boat, trying to keep close. They are a tiny island surrounded by sharks. The faces of the men are white, terrified.

PRIDEAUX
We can’t last long like this!

Lightoller looks back at the men, surveying them grimly through chattering teeth.

LIGHTOLLER
We don’t need to last long. Just long enough for the boats to come back for us.

A man huddled near Lightoller’s end of the boat, slumped over with his dark head hanging low, chuckles. In the shadows, we cannot see his face.

MAN
How many of ‘em d’you think are coming back?

The man lifts his head. It is JACK PHILLIPS (25), Titanic’s Senior wireless operator. He is waterlogged, and thoroughly exhausted, but a grim smile lingers on his face nonetheless.

PHILLIPS (CONT)
Coming back now? In this? (scoffs) It’d be bloody suicide.

Slowly, the camera pans up from the lifeboat to reveal the truth — a mist on the water where Titanic used to be, and a sea of people — hundreds upon hundreds, surrounding the lifeboat and stretching far beyond it, all struggling for their lives in the perilous waters. The screams ramp up to a pitch nearly-unbearable, enough to shatter the audience’s ears.

Chapter Text

SCENE FOUR
EXT. LOWE’S LIFEBOAT FLOTILLA

There is at least one rescue effort underway, whether the men in the water realize it or not. FIFTH OFFICER HAROLD LOWE has already resolved to go back, and he is not taking no for an answer. He’s assembled a team of multiple lifeboats, tied together, and is busy trying to hail more. The sharp trill of his whistle rings out over the screams of the dying. It does not manage to hail a boat. Turning back, he redirects his efforts to the progress being made transferring passengers out of Boat 14 and into the rest of the assembled bots. They have to make room — who knows how many people may be dying in that water, or how many lives they’ll be in time to save?

People are terrified. Men flinch at the chorus of screaming, women whimper, children sob. Lowe surveys the crowd, his brows furrowed. He’s doing his utmost, yet still feels helpless. It isn’t enough.

LOWE
Steady, now! We want all the passengers out of this boat, and a team of crewmen with me.

WOMAN IN BOAT
My god, they’re dying! They’re dying! Don’t you hear them?

Lowe’s face is tight and grim. He has to play his cards carefully, but the stress has got him pulled taut.

LOWE
You should be damned grateful for your own lives at a time like this. Hurry up, now! 

He reaches out to help what appears to be an old lady into the adjacent boat. Just as she’s getting in, Lowe notices something queer. He suddenly grabs the “woman” by the arm, jerks her around, and yanks the shawl off of her head.

It’s a young man, scared out of his wits.

The officer stares at him, disgust plain in his face; the young man stares back, breathing hard. After a moment, Lowe roughly tosses the man into the other boat, lips curling back in contempt. He doesn’t say a word.

LOWE
(gesturing to the next woman)
Come on!

Patience is running thin. As soon as most of the women are transferred out, a seaman grabs Lowe by the arm, hissing in his ear.

SEAMAN
We’re going back in that? They’ll pull us straight down!

Lowe regards him grimly.

LOWE
No, not yet. (pause) We’ll wait. Until some of the… screams die away.

The screams ring out over the water, piercing both men to their core.

CUT TO:

INT. ROOM OF THE SENATE BUILDING, ASSEMBLED INTO A MAKESHIFT COURTROOM

The cut is sudden and jarring. Harold Lowe is on the stand, looking awkward in a borrowed suit, agitated and uneasy.

SENATOR SMITH
You were in a position to rescue people — why did you hang back?

LOWE
(tersely)
I did not hang back, sir. I made the attempt as soon as my boat was able. 

SENATOR SMITH
You say, by your own admission, that you lay by until things quieted down. What quieted down, Mr Lowe?

Lowe looks haunted.

LOWE
The voices of the drowning.

SENATOR SMITH
So you hung back until the sounds of drowning people had thinned out… and then returned to the scene of the wreck?

LOWE
Yes—

SENATOR SMITH
Only when their cries had died away? Along with, presumably, the people?

LOWE
It wouldn’t have been safe for us to go back any earlier. The whole lot of us would be swamped, and then none of us would’ve been saved.

SENATOR SMITH
Your boat had a capacity of 65 people, you say?

LOWE
(evenly)
Yes. But what can you do with a boat of 65 when 1,500 people are drowning?

SENATOR SMITH
(simply)
Save 65 people.

LOWE
And die in the process.

He’s thoroughly done with the inquiry. Slumping back in his seat, movements terse and angry, his face is set in a tense mask. The rest of the courtroom are enraptured by the tension; they murmur in low voices, reporters snapping shots.

SENATOR SMITH
You could have gone earlier, but made no attempt to do so —

LOWE
How could I, sir? What else could I do? It would have been suicide! Put one lone boat amidst of a sea of drowning people, and — and —

He can’t express it in words, visibly affected to the point of anger. Instead, he mimes with his hands a boat being swamped and sinking. It gets his point across.

SENATOR SMITH
(unruffled)
Very well. How long did you wait before starting back towards the wreck?

LOWE
About… an hour, sir.

The courtroom murmurs, aghast. How could anyone survive in that frigid, deathly water for an hour? Lowe, however, doesn’t flinch.

CUT TO:

EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN — NIGHT

Harold Lowe and his crew of men, silhouted darkly against the night, start back towards the wreck. We cannot hear what they are hearing, but their faces are afraid, haunted.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
What else could we have done?

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
Here is what you did . You rode away from the sinking ship, took your those people out, placed them in these other boats. You waited until things quieted down — an hour — and then sailed back to the place she sunk, simply hoping to find people still alive. By that time, the waters had gone quiet… meaning, presumably, few people were. 

They come across the first floating bodies, bobbing like white corks in the water. Lowe, in his boat, flashlight in hand, looks thoroughly haunted.

LOWE
I ask again, sir — what would you have done?

Chapter Text

SCENE FIVE
EXT. COLLAPSIBLE B

At least one man has no intention of dying in the frigid waters — Charles Lightoller.

Thirty-odd men are huddled atop the lifeboat now, and it sinks lower with every moment. Air keeps escaping from the pockets below, bringing the men closer and closer to the frigid waters. Hardly any of the swimmers are finding their way to the lifeboat now, though the screams are still piteous. Towards the middle, another man is being pulled up, out of the water. Lightoller, balanced at the far end, is trying to find his knees.

COLONEL GRACIE
(off-screen)
Stop moving, lads, you’ll overturn her.

LIGHTOLLER
Phillips.

The wireless operator looks up, his face exhausted and very white.

LIGHTOLLER (CONT)
(teeth chattering)
Who did you reach — on the wireless. What sh-sh-ships?

PHILLIPS
Many steaming our way. The Carpathia — she’s nearest. Three hours out, maybe less.

LIGHTOLLER
(for the benefit of the whole boat)
Three hours. We’ve just got to stay afloat ‘til then.

As if in response, another bubble of air escapes from under the boat. The men submerge lower, hissing and cursing softly. The awful cacophony of dying souls still rings out through the night; all too soon, they could be among them. No one wants to end up in the water; it’s a death sentence.

CUT TO:

INT. COLLAPSIBLE B

Trapped beneath the overturned hull of Collapsible B, JUNIOR WIRELESS OPERATOR HAROLD BRIDE (21) is foundering in pitch darkness. He splashes, breathing heavily, whimpering in the frigid water. He’s freezing to death beneath the waves, and there’s no way out. His head keeps connecting with the seats hard. The only noise is splashing, kicking, and Bride’s own desperate gasps. From a muffled distance, he too can hear the screaming.

BRIDE
(hammering against top of boat)
Help!

CUT TO:

The men on the lifeboat shiver; someone slides off and slips into the water. He fumbles to get back on, but can’t make it. Everyone is quiet. Phillips lowers his head, shivering violently, shrouded in shadow.

CUT TO:

No help is coming for Harold Bride. If he’s going to survive, he’ll have to save himself. Realization dawns with a terrible silence, not even daring to inhale a breath… and then, determination. Bride braces himself, sucking in a deep gasp of air, and plunges under the water with a splash. We follow his point of view in darkness and silence, nothing but the swish of water around him… 

And he emerges into chaos. The open air is still filled with people begging to live, screaming in their death agonies. Bride immediately tries to grab onto the lifeboat, but someone in top tries to shove him away.

BRIDE
(breathless)
Please —

MAN
No more.

BRIDE
Please! For god’s sake —

Phillips looks up suddenly, his eyes feverishly alert.

PHILLIPS
Bride? Is that you?

BRIDE
Phillips!

PHILLIPS
Bleedin’ Christ, let him up!

MAN
We can’t take any more!

PHILLIPS
You’ll take this one, or I’ll toss you in the damned water myself.

Bride is trying to scramble aboard the lifeboat, but he’s struggling; his legs are badly injured, and frozen on top of that. Gasping like a fish, he struggles to pull himself up.

BRIDE
I — I ca—

PHILLIPS
I’m here. I’ve got you.

There’s no way to reach him from the other end of the lifeboat. Phillips is forced to do the unthinkable. Easing himself over the side, he slips back into the frigid waters. With a hiss, he begins skirting the edge of the lifeboat, clinging on for dear life as he makes his way to the other end. There, he’s finally able to grab ahold of Bride. Phillips hauls the half-drowned man up, mostly out of the water, aside from his wounded legs, which hang uselessly over the edge. After a few seconds, he pulls himself up as well.

Bride immediately slumps back against his partner. Phillips wraps his arms around him, desperate for warmth.

BRIDE
Oh god, Phillips — god —

PHILLIPS
How the hell did you hurt your leg?

BRIDE
The bloody boat fell on me, that’s how!

Phillips huffs out a breathless chuckle, holding his fellow operator closer.

PHILLIPS
Christ, Bride. Always trouble with you.

With the wireless operators reunited, the other passengers can only shiver. The boat sinks lower with every moment; they’re in dire straits, and their only hope — their only prayer — is that help will be coming soon.

After all, the terrible screaming is slowly beginning to die away. 

PAN UP to a brightly lit sky full of stars. When we pan down again, we join the assembled lifeboats drifting nearby.

Chapter Text

SCENE SIX
INT. LIFEBOAT THREE

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
Why did you not return to the scene of the ship?

In his own lifeboat, Officer Pitman is looking up at the sky, aghast, drowning in the dying screams. His face is shadowed. The camera pans over the people in his boat, revealing frightened passengers huddled together, breaths fogging in the night air.

VOICEOVER, PITMAN
The passengers in my boat were frightened.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
You were the man in charge, yet you allowed the passengers to dictate your course?

VOICEOVER, PITMAN
The crew would have obeyed my orders.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
Orders you did not give.

Pitman looks down, casting his face in the dim blue light. His eyes are glossy; he looks utterly traumatized.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH (CONT)
These cries you heard, from the people in the water — could you make out any words—

VOICEOVER, PITMAN
(choked)
Please — don’t speak of it. I cannot speak of it. You mustn’t —

He chokes up, and his voiceover cuts out. Pitman on screen lowers his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and exhales a tremulous breath in the night air.

CUT TO

EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN

Pan over the lifeboats standing by, as slowly, the screams begin to die out. We can barely hear them anymore over a soft, almost surreal score, but we can see the horror on people’s faces… yet how they, all of them, are just standing by. Standing by, listening to people die.

Officer Boxhall is a still, black figure in his boat, utterly unmoving. 

Lifeboat 4, with its picked-up cargo, is rowing away from the scene of the wreck. The man against Violet Ransom’s shoulder has frozen to death, his eyes wide open; she stares at him in numb horror, brushing his frozen temple with her fingertips. It’s a tender gesture. Some of the women are weeping.

Officer Lowe, still standing by, has a look of utter conflict on his face, as though physically pained by what he’s hearing.

So much suffering, so much grief… yet no one is doing anything to save them.

CUT TO:

EXT. COLLAPSIBLE B

The men on the Collapsible are shivering, fading. Another man slides off and into the water, despite his companion’s attempts to hold him up, he doesn’t resurface. Officer Lightoller, balancing on his knees, is trying to encourage other men to do the same, to keep the boat steady so it does not sink any further in the water.

LIGHTOLLER
(muted)
Steady, now…

He has a few men up on their knees, balancing precariously… but many are too frozen to even try. At the end of the boat, Jack Phillips and Harold Bride still huddle together. Bride looks dazed. Phillips, though exhausted, is trying to struggle to his knees; at his companion’s insistent tug, urging him to go still, he obliges.

The men are all almost thoughtful, listening as the screams slowly die out. There aren’t many of them, now. All they can really hear is soft sobbing, and the murmur of voices.

ISAAC MAYNARD
Don’t you think we ought to say a prayer?

The men huddled on the boat exchange glances.

LIGHTOLLER
Right. Who do we have here? Protestants?

A few men murmur.

LIGHTOLLER
Catholics?

Another few murmurs.

LIGHTOLLER
Jews? Methodists?

He looks around the boat warily, exhausted, before pointing a thumb to himself.

LIGHTOLLER
(chuckling)
Christian Scientist. Well, lads, we’ll meet our maker before we can agree, so how about the Lord’s Prayer?

No one has any arguments to this; it’s the one thing they all know. Bride props himself up against Phillips’s chest, lifting his shivering head to recite the words along with everyone else.

MEN
Our father, who art in heaven…

Chapter Text

SCENE SEVEN
EXT. LIFEBOAT 14

At last, Fifth Officer Lowe has spurred into action. His lifeboat, armed with a single flashlight and a crew of six men, they cut through the waves with considerable haste. The night is quiet now, the men’s efforts to row the boat audible over the few faint cries that remain. Lowe stands at the helm, steering the lifeboat like an experienced sailor — not one used to steamships, but working right on the water. His deft hand with the boat is obvious.

They cut through the silent night, making a beeline for the nearest bobbing wreckage. We follow them as they slowly approach.

CREWMAN #1
Here! What’s that?

They draw up alongside; it’s nothing but pieces of wreckage from the ship, some bobbing deck chairs. More rubble is scattered nearby.

CREWMAN #2
Wreckage. That’s all.

CREWMAN #3
I might’ve swore —

The boat jolts something hard; at once, everyone goes silent.

The nearest crew member leans over the side of the boat to investigate, and his breath draws in sharply. He crosses himself, a gasp fogging before him in the night air.

CREWMAN #1
God have mercy…

Floating facedown in the water is a man, kept up only by his life jacket. As soon as they crew of the boat realize this, the other white shapes bobbing around them in the dim light become clear. It’s not just wreckage — there are several people scattered in the still waters. No, not people — for when Lowe runs his flashlight over them, their eyes are hollow, faces waxen and frozen. Bodies .

Lifeboat 14 has arrived on the scene, but for many, rescue has come too late.

CUT TO:

EXT. COLLAPSIBLE B

On Collapsible B, things are really not going well. The lifeboat is so submerged by now, both by the amount of people piled on top of it and the simple movement of the ocean, that she has sunk low beneath the waves; only a bit of her top is still dry, and the water laps hungrily at whatever higher ground it can reach. Any man who is not too frozen to do so is upright now, either standing or on his knees; they are all facing the same way, trying to keep their balance.

But it is cold, so cold, and getting more difficult by the second. Some men are murmuring to themselves. Some are praying.

When CHIEF BAKER CHARLES JOUGHIN swims up to the boat, half-frozen and gasping like a fish, he’s shoved off by someone’s shoe.

MAN
Go ‘way. No room.

Joughin flounders, too frozen and exhausted to even beg. He slips under the water once, and emerges gasping. Swimming around the edge of the boat, he reaches again. Another man tries to shove him away.

JOUGHIN
P-please…

Were they rational, they wouldn’t acknowledge him at all — but one of the men on the boat, Chef Isaac Maynard, can’t help taking notice of a familiar voice.

MAYNARD
Joughin? Bloody hell…

JOUGHIN
Maynard? Is that you?

Maynard shifts over slightly to peer down at his colleague. Frost has accumulated on Joughin’s brow, but he’s not frozen yet, still huffing like a racehorse.

JOUGHIN
You’ve got to — let me up, just — please. Please.

There’s no room, and they’re sunk too low to try. Based on some of the glances his boat companions shoot him, Maynard suspects he’d be thrown overboard if he jeopardized the others by trying to haul someone else aboard.

Still, Joughin is a colleague — a familiar face, if not exactly a friend. With a shallow sigh, Maynard crouches down, extending a hand to the other man. Joughin slips under the water once more. As soon as he emerges, he seizes hold of the lifeline, treading water while hanging off of Maynard desperately.

MAYNARD
There you go, old chap… just hang on for a while. Hang on to me. I’ve got you.

It’s the best he can offer — and without the help, Joughin would have no chance at making it through the night. He meets his colleagues eyes, and mutual understanding passes between them; Joughin is grateful for even this small scrap of humanity.

Officer Lightoller is shivering violently, ice crystals crusted upon his brows. He scans the dark horizon, as if searching for something, anything familiar… but can find nothing. Their little boat may as well be alone against the world. Lightoller steels himself and looks back upon his unorthodox crew.

LIGHTOLLER
Keep balance, men. Keep steady.

JACK THAYER
S-so c-c-cold…

Towards the middle of the boat, a bit of space suddenly clears up. Third Class Steward John Prideaux’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he slumps sideways. Just like that, he’s gone — into the water. He sinks before anyone can try to rescue him, and he was frozen long before that anyways. The men watch him vanish without a whimper.

At the other end of the boat, Phillips and Bride are still holding each other, trying desperately to stay upright and out of the water. Phillips has pulled Bride up to the driest part of the hull. Now, Bride is slumped against his side as Phillips kneels on the boat. The senior operator sways slightly, head hanging heavy with exhaustion, while Bride keeps his fist knotted around Phillips’s lifejacket.

Neither of them want to break the silence… but finally, Bride can endure it no longer.

BRIDE
P-P-Phillips… (pause) Are we dying?

In spite of the circumstances, Phillips can’t restrain a scoff.

PHILLIPS
Don’t be daft. Not like this. Not — not here.

BRIDE
I don’t want to die. (chuckle) I h-haven’t — never got to —

PHILLIPS
(suddenly serious)
Bride. You’re not dying. (pause) You got a fiancée waiting for you back home, remember that? Plenty of reasons to make it home. Everything you haven’t done… do it the first chance you get. Damn the regrets.

Bride gives a tiny laugh, half-delirious. It’s not what Phillips hoped for, but it’s all he has the energy to achieve. With a grunt, he hoists Bride a bit further out of the water, casting a worried glance at his legs.

BRIDE
You’re invited to the wedding.

PHILLIPS
(huffing)
I’ll buy the first bloody round of drinks.

Chapter Text

SCENE EIGHT
INT. LIFEBOAT 14

Lowe and his crew are truly in the worst of it now. From above, we see a sea of bodies — like little white corks, motionless in the water. They make an almost tranquil scene… until one realizes each white cork is a person, lifeless.

The faces of the men in the rescue boat are haunted. Lowe scams his flashlight over the faces, not lingering on any one too long. He’s breathing hard, breath fogging in front of his face.

LOWE
Call out! Anyone who still lives, call out!

No one does. The sea is silent.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
(gentler voice)
How many bodies did you see… floating near the wreckage?

CUT TO:

INT. ROOM OF THE SENATE BUILDING

The transition is not jarring, the melancholy score uninterrupted. Lowe is looking down at the pad and stationary in front of him, unable to meet the eyes of the courtroom.

LOWE
Too many to number. Too many to say.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
And they were all —

Lowe looks up sharply, eyes blazing.

LOWE
Yes. They were dead.

CUT TO:

INT. LIFEBOAT 14

The men in the boats gently prod the frozen corpses, trying to stir a flicker of life. Dead eyes gaze up at them from vacant, empty faces. Each man in the boat looks haunted. 

VOICEOVER, LOWE
We would hear shouts in the dark — murmurs, really, calling out to us for help. We’d holler to them, and make as fast as we could, following the sound… but it was always quiet when we reached them.

Over this monologue, we see the men in the boats doing exactly that — reacting in silence, drowned out by the score, as they follow someone’s voice. They do not make it in time, looking around helplessly.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
We picked up one man out of the water — a great big man, a New Yorker, soaked to the bone when we found him.

On screen, the men in the lifeboats struggle to haul in a frozen passenger. W.F. HOYT is huge and drenched, still murmuring faintly. Finally, he lands in the boat… but one glance, and it’s clear there’s little anyone can do for him. Blood trails past his lips, caked beneath his nose; his eyes gaze up at the sky, vacant. The men struggle to cut the collar of his shirt to give him room to breathe.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
He was too far gone. 

Hoyt dies, staring vacantly up at the sky. Lowe presses his lips tight, and turns away.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
We took in three more from the water; that was all we could find.

On screen, the rescue lifeboat slowly approaches a Chinese passenger, balanced on a piece of rubble, half-frozen but very much alive. The men help him scramble into the boat.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
We must have combed the area for hours — it felt like ages, I cannot say for sure. There was no one left. If we’d seen even a stir of life, from anyone, we would have —

One of the men in the boat struggles to haul in a frozen steward, only to be stopped by his comrade — the man is already dead.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
(voice unsteady)
But there was nothing.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
And the people in the water…

Lowe runs his flashlight over a sea of frozen corpses. He lingers on a few — frozen children huddled together, a woman with tears crystallized on her face, a baby floating facedown.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
Passengers, mostly. Some were submerged, many were… I saw only men. No women. No children. 

In the lifeboat, Lowe turns his face away. Some things simply can’t be endured.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
There was… nothing more to do. What could we have done?

The rescue lifeboat finally begins to row away from the scene, out of the field of debris and bodies, leaving the horrors behind. Several men are trembling with sobs; Lowe’s cheeks are wet, but he remains stolid.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
Towards daybreak, we came upon a collapsible boat. She looked rather sorry, so I thought, “well, I’ll go down and pick her up”.

As the faint traces of dawn begin to appear on the horizon, turning the black sky a rich shade of purple, Lowe spots Collapsible D sinking low in the water. He steers his vessel over to her. Her passengers, dazed from the cold and despair, look up in bemusement.

HUGH WOOLNER
(in Collapsible D)
We have about all we can take!

LOWE
I can see that. Care for a tow?

With the half-sunken lifeboat hooked up to his own, the rescue effort continues on.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
We found another boat not far off… it seemed to have been pierced by something, sunk low in the water. It did not have long to live.

Against a pinkening sky, Collapsible A is in a sorry state as the two lifeboats come upon her. The boat is thoroughly swamped, overflowing with people both dead and alive. The faces of those in the lifeboat are gaunt, frozen, haunted. They look like corpses themselves.

Lowe fires into the air to get their attention. It startles the passengers from their corpselike reverie.

LOWE
The lady first! Death to any man who tries to come ahead of her.

True to his word, half frozen ROSA ABBOT is the first into the boat. She slumps over immediately, like a doll with her strings cut — after all, both her young sons have just died. Lowe continues his work, transferring all of the passengers into Lifeboat 14. Three corpses are left lying at the bottom of the half-submerged boat.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
Anyone who didn’t stir, we did not take. My duty was to the living, not the dead. We had no time for corpses. 

As Lifeboat 14 rows back to the drifting flotilla in the distance, now laden with over 50 people, Collapsible D is left to drift — a sad, lonely sight, weighed down by its human cargo.

Chapter Text

SCENE NINE
EXT. COLLAPSIBLE B

Dawn is slowly breaking over the sky, and the men of Collapsible B are still left to linger. Lowe and his crew didn’t find them; they didn’t get close enough, or they weren’t heard. All of the men still linger on the lifeboat — most of them standing now, directed by Lightoller’s command.

It’s been so long, though — so long in the freezing water. The boat is sunk low, water up to their calves, and even the indomitable second officer’s energy is flagging.

LIGHTOLLER
(hoarsely)
Lean left… keep her steady, men. Keep left…

Another man slides too far left, sideways and into the water. He does not have the energy to swim. He flails for a moment, then sinks. The other men on the boat don’t even flinch.

COLONEL GRACIE
I would give the world for a brandy about now…

JACK THAYER
(chuckling)
I’ve — n-n-never even t-tasted brandy.

IRISH MAN
Whiskey’s what ye need. That’ll put the warmth in yer bones.

In the water, Charles Joughin is still treading. He’s had more than his share of whiskey tonight, not to worry.

Phillips and Bride, kneeling at the other end of the lifeboat, are holding each other upright. Bride prays softly, while Phillips watches him.

BRIDE
Forgive me all my sins, and bear me through my sorrows, O Lord…

PHILLIPS
(hoarsely)
Thought we only prayed to the God of the machine.

BRIDE
Who says they’re not the same?

Phillips laughs softly, his eyes sliding shut. They stay shut for too long. Bride, noticing, elbows him. He stirs back to life with a shallow sigh.

LIGHTOLLER
Keep left, now…

Even his energy is leaving him, though. None of the men have long, but Lightoller has been working all night, with no break. His breaths come heavy from lungs that don’t want to support them. He closes his eyes, and they want to stay closed. When he opens them again, he cannot chase away the disorientation of the half-frozen damned. He finds himself listing to the side, and struggles to correct it.

It is too easy to drift. His gaze wanders to the sky. Is it really getting lighter, or is that just his imagination?

LIGHTOLLER
Steady… men…

His eyes slide shut. The soft churning of the ocean waves blurs into something inscrutable, almost pleasant to the ears. Like a white-noise melody. Slowly, things become clearer; he sees the world in silhouette, as though through a veil. He is standing on a beach, the sun high in the sky and the ocean at his heels. His wife, Sylvia, is a phantom-like shape in a big hat, a smile on her face. She reaches out to him, the wind whipping her dress.

SYLVIA
(very faintly)
Come with us, Bertie!

Two young boys are running down the sand, shrieking with laughter as they chase each other. A baby girl sits in the sand, playing. Lightoller can make out none of these figures clearly — they’re so hazy, so out-of-reach, like a half-remembered memory… but they feel like home.

When the camera turns on him, he is out of his officer’s uniform, in a handsome wifebeater swimsuit, sun-bronzed, his hair tousled by the breeze. Unable to help himself, he breaks into a wide grin.

Yes, he wants to go to his family. He wants to go home. This is what he’s wanted all along.

MAN’S VOICE
(in the distance, in distinct)
Lights…

Lightoller moves forward, towards the figure of his wife, reaching out to him.

MAN’S VOICE
(suddenly much clearer)
Lights!

Something seizes hold of his arm, jerking him back violently. Lightoller spins around. When he turns, suddenly, the beach is gone, and his family with it. Everything is gone. Instead, he’s somewhere he’s not quite sure of at all — it seems like the outer deck of Titanic’s bridge. But how can he be on Titanic’s bridge, when Titanic is gone?

MAN’S VOICE
Lights.

Lightoller looks up, and comes face to face with his best friend. WILLIAM MURDOCH (38) gazes back at him, handsome in his chief officer’s uniform, a good-natured smile on his lips. Backlit against the rising dawn, he looks almost resplendent.

Lightoller shakes his head. He can’t understand what’s happening.

LIGHTOLLER
Bloody hell, Will…

MURDOCH
Not yet. You’ve still a while to go… and thank God for being the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met!

Lightoller shakes his head, stumbling back a step. The deck feels solid beneath his feet. When he grasps the rail to steady himself, it’s certainly real.

LIGHTOLLER
We’re too late, aren’t we? For… for families. For children. For the Captain, for Moody, for…

He cuts off. He cannot say it — can’t admit it to himself.

Murdoch doesn’t deny it, either. He just looks… sympathetic, which is almost worse. Lightoller isn’t the one who’s dead.

Lightoller presses a hand to his face, slumping forward, immobilized by the weight of his grief as it dawns on him. Friends and colleagues, young protégées, passengers who relied on them…

MURDOCH
Not for you, though.

Lightoller looks up.

MURDOCH (CONT)
I’m sorry, Lights.

LIGHTOLLER
(huffing incredulously)
Sorry? You didn’t — it’s not as though you meant to —

MURDOCH
I’m sorry it has to be you.

Lightoller doesn’t understand. He stares at his friend, uncomprehending, until Murdoch takes a step forward. He clasps a hand around Lightoller’s shoulder and his touch feels so solid that Lightoller can’t help reciprocating the gesture. Something mournful gleams in Murdoch’s bright eyes.

MURDOCH (CONT)
You just have to bear it. No one could bear it but you. And when you make it home…

Lightoller is slowly coming to understand. His lips press in a thin line, still twisted with grief. 

LIGHTOLLER
I’ll keep an eye on Ada for you.

MURDOCH
Good man.

He offers Lightoller a smile as bright as the rising dawn. After a beat, Lightoller returns it.

Murdoch pulls away, turning forward, out to the horizon. Lightoller watches his friend in mild interest. Suddenly, Titanic seems to be steaming forward — on ahead, faster and faster than ever before. Than should be possible. The ocean rushes by, blurring into the dawn. It’s like being on a speeding train. Murdoch stands steady, but Lightoller is thrown off balance, nearly lurching off his feet. There’s an impossible sensation, like being caught in the middle of a thundercloud…

And then he lurches sideways, opening his eyes to find himself back on Collapsible B. Dawn is breaking over the horizon, and Lightoller has nearly lost his balance… but he manages to steady himself just in time.

Dying is not an option. 

The camera roves over the frozen men, taking in their exhausted, desolate faces. They are all an hour from death, at best… and the awareness shines in their eyes, in their resignation and fading will. For a moment, the scene is almost surreal; against the rising light of dawn, as faint sunlight begins to shine on the men’s faces, they still look as though they cannot even feel it. They may as well be dead already.

Then, suddenly — a stirring. One of the men lets out a hoarse cry, jarring the others.

THAYER
There! 

The men all turn as one to look. Sure enough, a distance away, Lowe’s small flotilla of boats can now be seen. Dawn has illuminated the open sea, and it’s clear they are closer to rescue than they ever imagined. The boats are still too far off to discern faces — indeed, they probably don’t even see them — but it’s certainly a boat.

A few of the men begin to shout. Their voices are hoarse; they can accomplish nothing. Some wave their arms, and nearly overbalance the boat; a yell goes up as it sinks lower, water creeping up nearly to the men’s knees.

The boats can’t hear them. They’re too far away.

MAYNARD
They can’t bloody hear us!

Lightoller realizes, almost unconsciously, his hand has drifted to the whistle around his neck. He looks down, gaze hardening in surety. Of course — that’s what must be done.

Raising the whistle to his lips, he blows with all his might, sending a high, shrill noise across the sea.

CUT TO:

EXT. LOWE’S FLOTILLA

In the small group of lifeboats assembled together, the noise reaches them. Huddled passengers jerk their heads up, eyes suddenly wide.

VOICEOVER, JOHN POINGDESTRE
We spotted the boat low in the water, close to sinking… she had minutes left, if not an hour. Were it not for daylight, we’d have never spotted her at all.

As the sky fades from purple to pink, two of the boats — Lifeboats 10 and 4 — break away from the flotilla, commanded by the seamen in charge. The start rowing towards the overturned Collapsible, a great distance away.

VOICEOVER, JOHN POINGDESTRE (CONT)
We could hardly believe what we were seeing.

CUT TO:

EXT. COLLAPSIBLE B

The men on Collapsible B watch in muted, breathless anticipation as the boats draw closer and closer to them. No one waves now; no one calls out, for risk of overturning the boat. The agony is overwhelming. Any minute now, they will end up in the water. Any minute, any minute… and rescue draws closer with the second, yet is still so far away…

Phillips and Bride, still holding each other up at the end of the boat, gaze at the boat in hazy awe.

BRIDE
Would y’look at that?

PHILLIPS
Never seen a thing more beautiful… in my life.

Phillips’s voice is weak, barely above a whisper. His head is sagging against Bride’s shoulder. Bride barely notices.

Lightoller dares to wave his arms once as the boats draw nearer, but not near enough.

LIGHTOLLER
Ahoy!

Several men are weeping. A few pray softly; God has not forgotten them.

CUT TO:

INT. LIFEBOAT 10

As they draw nearer to the boat, the tiny, bobbing figures become discernible. The passengers in the boat can hardly believe what they’re seeing, faces alight with numb awe at the sight of survivors.

VOICEOVER, SENATOR SMITH
How many men were aboard the raft in total?

VOICEOVER, JOHN POINGDESTRE
At least thirty… thirty-five, total. How they fit all aboard, I cannot say. Even as we neared the boat, it became obvious…

CUT TO:

EXT. COLLAPSIBLE B

The pallid faces of some of the men on the lifeboat, propped up by their companions, barely register anything at all.

VOICEOVER, JOHN POINGDESTRE (CONT)
For some of the men, we were too late.

Phillips’s feverish haze lingers on the boat for a long moment, his breaths coming hard. They’re still far away… so far away…

It happens like falling asleep. There’s no warning, not even a shudder. Phillips goes limp all at once, sinking to his knees… and then, even as Bride still leans against him for support, to a sitting position in the water. His head bows; he is utterly still.

BRIDE
Phillips? Phillips!

Immediately, his fellow operator has a hold of his shoulders, trying to rouse him. It’s no use. Phillips’s face is slack.

His head falls sideways, revealing an utter lack of response. Bride pulls back all at once, dropping his friend in his shock. Phillips slumps forward as Bride leans back. He cannot do anything; there is nothing to say. All he finds himself capable of is staring at his friend in numb, terrible horror.

Lightoller, at the other end of the lifeboat, doesn’t miss the sudden loss.

LIGHTOLLER
Keep his head up — hold him!

Bride cannot move. Several other men take over the task, keeping Phillips propped up and his head straight, gazing up towards the sky. He is limp as a ragdoll, utterly unresponsive.

Bride cannot react. It seems like something inside of him has shut down; his gaze is totally blank, face lifeless.

CUT TO: 

Over a score, the lifeboats pull up alongside the swamped Collapsible. The men are left to precariously step inside, pulling along those who no longer have the strength to move on their own. Several bodies slump into the water, unheeded. Someone must carry Harold Bride into the boat, for his injured legs make him incapable of walking on his own. Phillips is nearly left there, slumped at the bottom of the boat, but Lightoller — the last man off — won’t allow it. Gesturing animatedly, he makes several of the retreating men carry Phillips along with them, propping him up between them in the boat.

By the time Lightoller is the last man standing, the water is up to his knees. He does not look at all regretful as he abandons the collapsible which saved his life. It gives a gurgle, releasing a pocket of air as he leaves it — as if in goodbye.

The score crescendoes as Titanic’s last survivors row off towards the horizon, where a ship can be seen in the distance. 

As we zoom out, taking in the lifeboats floating around, and the rescue ship CARPATHIA on the horizon, we see — in the two last lifeboats’ wake — an impossibly wide field of debris and floating bodies. This is all that remains of Titanic.

Chapter Text

SCENE TEN
EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN

Fourth Officer Boxhall waves a flare high in the air as his lifeboat steadily approaches the rescue ship Carpathia.

Looming above the people in the lifeboats’ heads, Carpathia seems massive. Compared to Titanic, she’s nothing of the sort — only a quarter of her size — but as Fourth Officer Boxhall’s lifeboat pulls up alongside her great hull, it would be easy to become overwhelmed by the sheer relief of deliverance.

The lifeboat is now being jostled as the seas turn rougher. It is a frightening ordeal for the passengers, who rise unsteadily to their feet, one-by-one, in the boat. Several rope-ladders have been tossed down for the passengers’ use, but few are able to climb them. Instead, most passengers opt for the boatswain’s chair — a swing-like chair, lowered into the sea — to haul them up onto the safety of the deck. A woman sits unsteadily in it, and is hoisted high into the air as the other passengers watch; her feet dangle over the rail for a moment before she’s pulled onto the Carpathia’s safe decks. Men on board the deck help steady her.

Children are loaded into sack cloths and hoisted up. While the men who are able climb the ladders, most women choose the chair. Soon enough, the lifeboat is empty; Officer Boxhall is the last up, emerging onto the deck to greet the waiting CAPTAIN ARTHUR ROSTRON. Rostron immediately goes to him and shakes his hand. An exhausted Boxhall reciprocates the gesture, just looking relieved to be aboard.

CAPTAIN ROSTRON
Where’s the ship?

BOXHALL
(bemused)
The ship? She’s sunk.

CAPTAIN ROSTRON
Sunk?

His eyes drift out to the horizon, as though searching for something that isn’t there. He can’t believe it.

CAPTAIN ROSTRON
She’s gone? Everything?

Boxhall can not manage a reply. He just nods his head.

Chapter Text

SCENE ELEVEN
EXT. BOAT DECK OF THE CARPATHIA

The deck of the Carpathia is a hive of activity. Her crew works frantically, hauling Boxhall’s lifeboat aboard, and manning the ropes as they look out for more lifeboats. Titanic’s traumatized refugees are hustled inside by concerned Carpathia passengers, blankets being tucked around their shoulders; some collapse into strangers’ arms, exhausted and grieving.

VOICEOVER, BOXHALL
It’s a miracle they made it to us in time. The R.M.S. Carpathia steamed through the night, breaking every speed record her designers thought her capable of. Her heating was shut down, every ounce of steam pushed into the engines. She wove through fields of icebergs at top speed, covering sixty miles of distance in four hours. All the time we were praying for deliverance from a mystery ship on the horizon, Carpathia was making fast towards us.

Other lifeboats in the water spot Carpathia and begin rowing towards her, like moths drawn to a flame. From his own lifeboat, Officer Pitman waves at the great ship.

Passengers are hauled over the rails of the Carpathia, shaking and dazed. They stumble inside the ship’s plain dining room, which has been thoroughly overhauled and now turned into a refugee center. People sit at the tables and on the floor in small, blanket-covered huddles. Stewards and medical personnel rush back and forth, attending to them.

VOICEOVER, OFFICER BOXHALL
Her crew, roused from their sleep in the dead of night, were all sent to man their posts. They found doctors, beds, blankets and hot drinks; nets were strung up alongside the ship, in hopes great numbers of swimming survivors could be pulled from the water.

Chairman of the White Star Line, J BRUCE ISMAY, is hailed aboard. Ismay is white, shaking, dazed; there is a look of impenetrable horror in his eyes. He looks between the crew surrounding him and the devastated clusters of passengers on the deck as though he cannot quite comprehend it all.

ISMAY
(muttered)
Ismay… I’m Ismay!

At the mention of his name, several heads of wealthy passengers turn in disbelief. The Carpathia’s officers recognize him, too. Quickly, they hustle to Ismay’s side and begin to usher him away, tucking a blanket around his shoulders… but Ismay cannot avoid the stares and judgement of the other survivors. They follow him even inside the ship, while he hangs his head in shame.

VOICEOVER, BOXHALL
The crew of the Carpathia deserve the greatest honors. There can be no doubt… we owe them our lives.

CUT TO:

EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN

A small cluster of boats, containing Lightoller and the others rescued from the overturned lifeboat, pull up alongside the Carpathia. The seas are rough; Lightoller is visibly struggling to hold the boat steady as the passengers make their risky escape.

A dazed Harold Bride will not be parted from his fellow wireless operator. By now, Phillips has grown still and grey, his face slack, his eyes iced over… but Bride still clings to him, like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. A few men reluctantly pull Bride away despite his muted protests, helping him to his feet. Lightoller watches, his regretful gaze lingering on Phillips. It doesn’t seem right, after all that, to just leave him there.

LIGHTOLLER
(gesturing to the body)
Take him.

SEAMAN
But —

LIGHTOLLER
Take him up!

That settles it. The body of Jack Phillips is hoisted up on the boatswain’s chair as well.

CUT TO:

EXT. CARPATHIA’s DECK

On the deck, scenes of great relief and confusion are being played out. MARION THAYER, in a heavy blanket, her hair wild and face pale, watches raptly from the doorway leading inside the ship as more and more survivors are hauled up. Beside her stands the pale form of Violet Ransom, clothed only in a black dress, still trying to comfort her passengers. Suddenly, Mrs Thayer lets out a sharp cry, rushing forward.

Jack Thayer climbs onto the deck, and is immediately enveloped in his sobbing mother’s arms. For a moment, it’s all Mrs Thayer can do to hold him.

MRS THAYER
(cupping her son’s face)
Father? Where’s Father?

JACK THAYER
(shaking his head)
We tried to stay together —

Mrs Thayer sobs anew, burying her head in her son’s frozen coat.

From the doorway, Violet watches; a tiny smile of relief passes over her face, but it is short-lived. Her gaze flickers along the faces of traumatized passengers, searching for anyone she recognizes. There are so few, so few… she catches on the figure of two officers, standing at the far end of the deck, and her eyes go dull.

Harold Bride manages to pull himself up the rope ladder; as soon as he makes it onto the deck, he stands still, then wobbles unsteadily. His strength gives out; he crumples into a waiting woman’s arms without a whimper, out cold.

Lightoller, using the rope ladder, hoists himself over the rail. Immediately, he is greeted by his two junior coworkers. Relief is plain in his eyes as he takes in the familiar faces.

LIGHTOLLER
So you both made it away, did you?

BOXHALL
Lights.

He steps forward, clapping his friend’s arm. Lightoller cherishes the intimacy for a moment, offering Boxhall a strained smile.

PITMAN
It’s bloody good to see you, old man.

Lightoller glances around — not expecting, but hoping to see anyone else.

LIGHTOLLER
Have you spotted anyone else?

PITMAN
I know I heard Lowe bellowing in the night, but he hasn’t made it yet; word is, he went back to save people.

Lightoller shakes his head, unsurprised.

BOXHALL
And, you know, Ismay.

Now, Lightoller looks up sharply.

LIGHTOLLER
You’re not damned serious.

CUT TO:

INT. CARPATHIA

Half-open door of the ship surgeon’s cabin, one of the most comfortable on the ship; through the gap, we can see a number of men fussing about Ismay, getting him into bed and bundling him up. Off to the side, the doctor is preparing an opiate. It might be needed — Ismay is trembling too hard to move of his own accord.

Bruce Ismay has outlived his ship, and is already beginning to regret it.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWELVE
EXT. CARPATHIA’S DECK — MID-MORNING

A number of Carpathia crewmen work to haul up some of Titanic’s lifeboats, determined to salvage as much of the disaster as possible.

CUT TO:

INT. CARPATHIA’S DINING ROOM

Amidst a sea of weeping first and second class women, Violet Ransom weaves slowly. The boundaries between crew and passenger have broken down now that there’s no longer a ship to service on, but she still feels a sense of responsibility to the people in her charge. She did what she could, but it wasn’t enough — not for everyone.

Violet stops various people, anyone who looks in a fit emotional state to reply.

VIOLET
Have you seen the Allisons — the Allison family? Have you seen —

Across the room, a group of new widows are weeping. One girl is trembling almost too hard to breathe.

YOUNG WIDOW
We’ve only been married a month!

All around the dining room, scenes of utter devastation play out; it is too much to bear. An injured Harold Bride is carried past on a makeshift stretcher, unconscious, his legs bound up in blankets.

CUT TO:

EXT. CARPATHIA’S DECK

VOICEOVER, HAROLD LOWE
It didn’t bloody matter how many lifeboats there were… we couldn’t have saved everyone. 

A small group of crewmen work near the rail, under the cover of clouds; they have a body laid out on a sheet of canvas. Slowly, they begin to bind the man up, tying something around his feet to weigh him down. Standing over the sorry scene is a priest, offering silent last rites.

Just before the man’s face is covered up, we see him — it’s the corpse of Jack Phillips.

Titanic’s senior wireless operator is slipped over the rail, and consigned to the deep.

CUT TO:

INT. CARPATHIA’S KITCHENS — NIGHT

LOWE
Even if there was space for every soul aboard, we didn’t have the damned time.

It’s late at night, well past the time the kitchens have closed. Titanic’s officers are a sorry scene. Despite having been offered the Carpathia officers’ cabins, none of them can make use of them tonight; sleep is beyond them. Pitman is nursing a cup of strong coffee, leaning against the counter. Boxhall has a scone, picking halfheartedly at it. Sitting across from him at the table, Lowe is brooding. Lightoller leans against the opposite counter, his face in shadow, his posture stiff and exhausted.

LIGHTOLLER
We couldn’t even get the last two collapsibles launched. Our men — Wilde, Murdoch, Moody — they worked at it to their last breath.

At the mention of his junior colleague's name, an expression of impossible grief crosses over Lowe’s face. He slumps forward, burying his head in both hands, messing up his hair. For a moment, all he can do is breathe.

LOWE
(slowly)
I don’t understand it. Moody told me — he said he was going to get away. He told me to go. I - I wouldn’t have gone, were it not for him.

PITMAN
You’d have gone. On a sinking ship, anyone would go.

LOWE
(sharply)
Moody didn’t.

There’s a moment of heavy silence. Lightoller fights a sudden, inappropriate chuckle.

LIGHTOLLER  
Wilde told me — he ordered me into the last boat. I replied, “not damned likely”, and jumped back aboard.

Lowe lets out an awful snort, still massaging his temple. Boxhall gives an exhausted chuckle.

BOXHALL
You must be the only man in history to jump back onto a sinking ship.

It’s an almost light moment… but it passes quickly. Soon, every man has sobered again, and returned to their mute horror.

Lightoller is the only one bold enough to say what they’re all thinking.

LIGHTOLLER
There’s going to be a line, and we’ll all have to follow it. When we reach New York… the company will be scrambling to save face. It’s not our lives now, but our careers on the line. Whatever the White Star Line says…

PITMAN
(pained)
Is now really the t—

LIGHTOLLER
When is? The press on shore, from continent to continent, will already be clamoring at the news. ‘The Unsinkable Titanic, downed in the depthless seas! Her captain lost, some of the world’s richest men dead, and her crew…’
(pause)
Well, her crew lived to tell the tale. The lucky ones, at least. See how lucky we feel when the New York press lambasts you for not saving enough lives, or not working quick enough, not trying hard enough. All things they would have done in our shoes, of course.
(pause)
I’ve been in shipwrecks before. It’s never easy. It’s never clean. And it’s never just about the ones who drown; the hardest part is left up to those who live to tell the tale.

Boxhall slowly sinks down to sit at the table. His hands are shaking. He looks haggard.

BOXHALL
I just want to go home… 

The rest of the officers exchange grim glances. None of them know how soon that will happen.

Lowe looks up, sparing the sole senior officer a decisive grimace.

LOWE
Well then — if we’re going to tow the company bloody line, we may as well know what the line is.

Lightoller looks grim.

LIGHTOLLER
I’m trying.

Chapter Text

SCENE THIRTEEN
INT. CARPATHIA’S DINING ROOM

Lightoller makes his way through the dining room, which has turned into a veritable refugee camp for the leagues of displaced Titanic passengers. Walking through the room filled with broken women and crying children, he is a straight-backed, proud figure; his posture hides the faint uneasiness on his face. The horror is still sinking in, but confronted with the human cost firsthand, it's inescapable.

The camera follows him as he makes his way out of the dining room and down a long hallway, until he reaches the end.

The door leading to the ship doctor’s cabin is firmly shut. Visitors are not encouraged, or allowed. Even at a time like this, the chairman of the White Star Line demands his privacy.

Lightoller doesn’t hesitate. He raps three times, and opens the door, which is unlocked.

Inside, a doctor stands by the table, arranging his medicines. He looks up sharply at Lightoller’s entrance.

DOCTOR
Sir, you can’t —

Lightoller holds up a hand, silencing him.

LIGHTOLLER
I’ll only need a few moments. This man is the head of the White Star Line, he needs...

As he speaks, his gaze drifts to the chairman himself, laid up in bed. Ismay makes a disappointing figure. He has been thoroughly sedated, the only thing that would settle his shattered nerves. He lies back, limp like a doll, his eyes lazily focused on something by the bedside. Though his lips are moving, it’s difficult to make out words. He does not seem aware of his surroundings.

LIGHTOLLER (CONT)
To make a statement. Where in hell is he?

DOCTOR
Mr Ismay was in a state of acute nervous exhaustion. We had to sedate him…

LIGHTOLLER
I can see that. Heaven forbid you left the man with any sense in his head — Mr Ismay. Ismay!

He walks closer to the bed, laying a hand down on the blanket as he stoops to look the fallen Ismay in the eye. Lightoller’s manner is not at all hesitant, but it is almost gentle. He tries to get Ismay’s attention, and fails. The man is on a different planet, staring fixedly at something off to the side.

ISMAY
… should’ve seen it, E.J. We should have… by god, the women. The children. How could we have known?

LIGHTOLLER
Ismay.

ISMAY
We should be dead, E.J… we all ought to be dead. 

Lightoller’s gaze shifts from concerned to incredulous; he retreats, set on edge. Sure, it’s something he thought to himself once or twice, but Ismay in his delirium has come out and said it.

ISMAY
(muffled)
We’re all dead already… oh god, the children…

Lightoller turns to the doctor, brisk and commanding.

LIGHTOLLER
The very moment he comes out of it, summon me. He must be lucid to decide what we do from here.

He barely waits for the doctor to nod before striking out of the room, his face pale, posture stiff. Ismay is still murmuring as he’s left alone.

Chapter Text

SCENE FOURTEEN
EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN — MORNING

From a distant wide shot, we see the Carpathia plowing through the waves. She is a far less impressive ship than Titanic, but can move quickly; her pace is steady and sure, her way ahead clear.

CUT TO:

EXT. CARPATHIA’S BOAT DECK

Of course, the officers have plenty more to take care of on their own. Even without Ismay’s say-so, they’re still in charge of what remains of Titanic’s passengers and crew; there's much to be done, and not much time to do it.

A cluster of Titanic’s lifeboats pulled from the sea during the rescue lay clustered at the far end of the deck. Officers Lightoller and Pitman stand in two of the boats, stomping around, inspecting them. They can’t be heard over the wind, and water, and the distant calls of sailors. Both men wear grim expressions. Of course, they’ve done lifeboat inspections a hundred times before… but this time is notably different.

CUT TO:

INT. CARPATHIA’S LOUNGE

Some of the officers are keeping busy making the acquaintance of the passengers. Fifth Officer Lowe has proved particularly popular. He sits at a table beside a woman — CHARLOTTE COLLYER — with a paper and pencil spread out in front of them. Charlotte speaks softly, while Lowe writes what she says down. Charlotte’s daughter MARJORIE (7) balances on Lowe’s knee, perfectly content.

Fourth Officer Boxhall walks through the crowd of passengers; he’s unsettled, shaky, and his posture shows it. He pauses to cough into a handkerchief — a good excuse to avoid the lingering gazes of passengers, watching him.

Off to the side, a cluster of gossipers — one man and three women — catch his attention.

WOMAN #1
— swore he could see the pistol flashes! There were gunshots —

WOMAN #2
We could hear the gunshots all the way from the lifeboats! As though they were right next to us.

MAN
Men were shot .

WOMAN #3
How do you know?

MAN
I was right there. I saw it all.

The woman make noises of interest and awe, listening to him attentively.

MAN
It was the very last boat — the one that didn’t get away. The sea was up to our ankles at this point, and of course they were mobbing it — foreigners, not a care for the life or limb of any lady aboard. They’d have swamped the boat entire, had the officer not done it.

WOMAN #2
He… fired? 

MAN
Straight into the crowd. Two men fell down dead, and the rest of the crowd fell back. The chief officer… stood very still for a moment. (pause) Then he raised the pistol to his head, gave a salute, said “Goodbye, gentleman,” and fired.

The woman make noises of horror, while the man nods enthusiastically. 

MAN
I saw the whole thing!

Unnoticed by Boxhall, Pitman has come up behind him. His head is lowered, eyes dark with distaste.

PITMAN
That man left in one of the earlier boats. I distinctly remember him wanting to go back to his stateroom for a pocket watch.

BOXHALL
He’s not the only one saying it, though.

PITMAN
I’ve heard four versions of the same story.

BOXHALL
Stories don’t spin themselves up from air. At least one detail’s the same in all of them.

Pitman is quiet for a long moment, deliberating.

PITMAN
We can’t know. Never will know, now.

BOXHALL
I just can’t imagine Murdoch — I don’t want to imagine it. He was a good man.

PITMAN
He was. A bloody good man, and he should stay that way.

His gaze darkens as he starts forward, intent on giving the man a piece of his mind. Only Boxhall’s grip on his arm stops him.

BOXHALL
Don’t. None of us can afford it right now. (pause) With any luck, these stories will never make it off the ship.

Pitman frowns at him sideways.

PITMAN
Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us.

Chapter Text

SCENE FIFTEEN
EXT. CARPATHIA’S LOWER DECK

There are plenty of surviving women and children who don’t have the benefit of warm drinks and luxurious dining rooms; the class divide is very real, and much of the surviving third class has grouped together on the lower decks once more. Hollow-eyed women and children cluster together in small groups, shivering under blankets and nursing hot drinks. There’s no one left to take care of them. STEWARD JOHN HART and Stewardess Violet Ransom are making themselves useful, darting between weeping widows and traumatized mothers with children. They’re doing all they can, but for most of these people, there’s nothing to be done but leave them to their griefs.

Pausing in her busy work, Violet’s attention is snared by a young woman, holding a man’s coat, weeping piteously. She’s wearing a plain wedding band. Something in the girl’s visage strikes her; looking ill, she has to turn away.

Rushing off, she nearly collides with Hart, who steadies her before she can lose her footing.

HART
Easy there, Miss Violet.

Violet says nothing. Her face is drawn; her attention is snared by another weeping widow. Without having to ask further, Hart, who’s already served as a listening ear to Violet with her worries about Moody, understands.

HART (CONT)
Still no news about him, then?

Violet shakes her head.

HART (CONT)
Ask one of the officers, if you can find ‘em. They’ve got all the secrets, and keep them well.

Violet nods, taking this advice into account. It’s at least worth a try. Her gaze wanders up to the decks, where Lightoller and Pitman can be seen crossing to go inside… and something stops her from going towards them. Someday, she’ll work up the nerve, but… not now. Not yet.

Chapter Text

SCENE SIXTEEN
INT. CARPATHIA HALLWAY

Lightoller steps out of Ismay’s cabin, several telegrams clasped in his hands. He’s robed in shadow, face grim. It’s a few days after the disaster now, and finally, Ismay has returned to coherency enough to speak. He’s dictated his orders. Now, all that’s left is to send them out. Lightoller looks down at the messages, frowning deeply.

CUT TO:

INT. CARPATHIA’S WIRELESS SHACK

There’s no rest for the wicked, and truer words have never been said when it comes to wireless operators. The Carpathia employs only one, HAROLD COTTAM (21); as luck would have it, he’s an old friend of Bride’s from training school. The two are familiar with each other, so it’s no trouble to have Bride in the room with him… also working.

As Cottam taps away at the wireless, Bride hunches over a long list, reading them off. He is nowhere close to recovered — he’s still in a wheelchair, pale and frail, his frozen legs bandaged and covered in blankets — but doing his job is the only way to keep himself sane. Lay around in bed all day, and he’ll go the way of Ismay — positively batty.

BRIDE
Mrs G.D. Widener, but not her wife or son.

COTTAM
I sent that name out already. Have we already gone through that list?

BRIDE
(flat and lifeless)
Maybe. We should mark them off.

He sets the list aside, almost robotically, and reaches for another page. The movement takes a lot out of him. His eyes close, and he exhales deeply. Cottam pauses in his feverish working for a moment, gaze lingering on his friend.

COTTAM
(softly)
Bride. You don’t need to be here. You ought to be resting.

Bride ignores him.

COTTOM (CONT)
After what you’ve been through —

BRIDE
(sharply)
Don’t tell me what I’ve been through!

His friend goes silent, eyes wide. After a minute, Bride sighs, the anger deflating. Cottam says nothing; he just reaches for another list, and begins transmitting the names.

BRIDE
(quietly)
It’s important work. Families back on shore... need to know who lived, and who didn’t. They need to know what happened. You can’t do it alone.

COTTAM
I appreciate the help. (pause) If you’re so eager, why don’t you take over the key for a while? My wrist’s about to bloody snap off.

BRIDE
(flatly)
I’ve got it…

As Cottam moves out of the way, Bride slides his chair in front of the machine, ready to take his shot. Before he can even transmit a letter, however, Lightoller enters the room without knocking.

LIGHTOLLER
Set everything else aside, lads. This is more important.

COTTAM
More important than the names of who lived and died?

LIGHTOLLER
More important by far.

He leaves the message with the two wireless men, and exists the room as quickly as he appeared, wanting nothing more to do with it. Bride picks up the message, frowning down at it.

BRIDE
Bloody… take a look at this.

Cottam shuffles over to read the message. His eyes widen.

COTTAM
Well, well… your stay in the city might not be so long at all.

Close-up on the telegram, where we see Ismay’s orders: “Very important you should hold Cedric daylight Friday for Titanic's crew to leave NY immediately.” In bold print at the bottom, the Telegraph is signed — YAMSI .

Chapter Text

SCENE SEVENTEEN
INT. NEW YORK NEWSPAPER OFFICE

Meanwhile, on shore, the entire world is losing their collective minds.

In a busy New York newspaper office, reporters rush back and forth, trying to trace their stories. Their chatter is an incoherent buzz, yet one word rings consistently through it all: “Titanic, Titanic, Titanic.”

A series of newspapers slam on a series of desks, all blaring headlines: “ALL SAVED FROM TITANIC AFTER COLLISION” (The Evening Sun); “TITANIC’S PASSENGERS ALL RESCUED” (The Syracuse Herald); “TITANIC SINKING; NO LIVES LOST” (The World).

CUT TO:

Outside of the White Star Line offices in Liverpool, the front door is mobbed with panicked family members, desperate for information on crew and passengers aboard the ship. It’s a polite mob scene, too many people to even make it through the doors. A White Star Line CLERK stands on the doorstep, hollering.

CLERK
At this time, we don’t know the extent of —

The clerk is ignored, drowned out by the mob.

CUT TO:

A harried radio operator in a dark room is being hounded by his newspaper editor. Hunched over his desk, he taps rapidly at his machine, listening for the transmissions being sent overseas. When he looks up at his employer, his face is grim.

CUT TO:

In the streets outside of London, young newsboy NED PARFETT holds a large newspaper blaring the headline “TITANIC DISASTER. GREAT LOSS OF LIFE. EVENING NEWS.” While trying to sell papers, he raises his voice to bellow to the passing crowds:

NED
Titanic goes down in the middle of the ocean! Many lives lost! Millionaires dead!

CUT TO:

In New York, a wealthy, immaculately dressed man, relative to one of the first class passengers aboard, hurries down his gravel driveway, and jumps into the back of a million-dollar Renault. He’s clutching a newspaper blaring information about the sinking.

CUT TO:

A familiar sight — the same senate floor chamber from the beginning of Episode One, the same booming voice. This time, we see the culprit — the stocky, bullish figure of SENATOR WILLIAM ALDEN SMITH, standing in the middle of the floor as he addresses the Senate.

SMITH
— American pillars of industry, of government, dead at the hands of the intemperate ocean. A tragedy, yes! But it’s isn’t that simple. Why was a ship touted as unsinkable able to go down with the loss of 1,500 lives? What kind of catastrophe of design or incompetence on behalf of the White Star Line crew —

CUT TO:

An outraged crowd in front of the White Star Line offices in New York. One man waves a paper over his head. “HEAD OF WHITE STAR LINE SURVIVES SINKING; ISMAY LIVES”

CUT TO:

The Senate floor, and Senator Smith once more, concluding his address.

SMITH
We demand an investigation, conducted to the full extent of American judiciary powers!

In short… Carpathia is sailing straight into a powder keg.

Chapter Text

SCENE EIGHTEEN
EXT. COAST OF NEW ENGLAND — DUSK

• small title reads ‘APRIL 18, 1912

Viewed from a wide shot, The Carpathia is steaming along the coast of New England, steadily approaching New York. Sailors rush along her decks, fussing over Titanic’s lifeboats still assembled there, preparing to unload them before they land in New York.

CUT TO:

INT. CARPATHIA OFFICER’S SMOKE ROOM

Titanic’s four surviving officers (Lightoller, Pitman, Boxhall, and Lowe) have assembled with Captain Rostron, preparing to land.

LIGHTOLLER
We need a full media blackout. No quotes, no interviews, nothing for them to put on their pages. This needs to be a quiet affair.

CUT TO:

It's going to be anything but quiet. As the Carpathia steaks along the Hudson River to Pier 54, she is flanked on all sides by pursuers. Tugboats trail the vessel — at least fifteen, and that’s only on this leg of the journey — with reporters standing on the deck shouting up with megaphones.

REPORTERS
Fifty dollars for a story! One hundred dollars! Give us an exclusive interview!

A rope ladder dangles from the side of the Carpathia; a tantalizing invitation to any reporter bold enough to try. Two are. As the newsmen begin to scramble up the ladder, the harried crew on deck take notice and rush over. Carpathia’s SECOND OFFICER JAMES BISSET springs over the railing, shaking the rope ladder and bellowing until the reporters are forced to fall back.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICER’S CONFERENCE

The men exchange serious glances, their mood somber.

LIGHTOLLER
The crew must remain a united front. We keep our heads down; we stay aboard even once the passengers are gone. With any luck, there’ll be a ship waiting for us in the harbor, and we’ll be steaming towards home by supper time.

No one wants to ask the hard questions, but someone has to bite the bullet.

PITMAN
Do you really s’pose it’ll work? Can we just go?

CUT TO:

EXT. NEW YORK HARBOR — NIGHT

Several very important-looking black government automobiles are pulling up to the harbor. Senator Smith sits in the front seat, his face set in determination.

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
I, for one, don’t intend to wait around and find out.

Senator Smith has come prepared. In his lap, he holds a copy of the telegraph from “YAMSI”, intercepted on its way. In the other, he holds a stack of subpoenas.

Titanic’s crew aren’t going anywhere on his watch.

CUT TO:

EXT. NEW YORK DOCKS — NIGHT

Carpathia steams into the harbor under the cover of a rainstorm, to be greeted by a crowd of impossible size and urgency. Scenes from the beginning of the first episode play themselves out over again — passengers slowly descending the ramps, traumatized and shaking, to be greeted by frantic family members. Some are loaded into waiting ambulances; the Red Cross is stationed, handing out soup and blankets.

Mrs Astor rushes into a man in an expensive suit’s arms.

Violet, a blanket over her shoulders, gazed around warily as she steps off the ramp, with no one there to greet her.

Through one of the porthole windows, Ismay can be seen peering out; the camera lingers on him through the glass for a moment, as he watches his passengers depart, before the curtain flutters and he disappears.

CUT TO:

As the last of Titanic’s passengers disembark, a cortege of three very official-looking men  ---  Senator Smith, SENATOR FRANCIS NEWLANDS, and PHILIP FRANKLIN, the head of the International Mercantile Marine Corporation, make their way aboard. We see their feet upon the ramp. Franklin carries a bundle of fresh clothes under his arm. Their ominous approach is interspersed with cut shots of Titanic’s crew, unaware of the storm approaching them.

• Lightoller paces the smoking room, arms clasped behind his back, tense.
• Lowe watches the passengers depart, shaking some of their hands.
• Pitman’s hand trembles around a cigarette.
• Bride, exhausted, is still working at his wireless machine.
• Boxhall is slumped in a chair, coughing bitterly into a handkerchief.

The Senators make it aboard. 

From inside Lightoller’s stateroom, a knock sounds at the door, and Lightoller looks up sharply. The game is up.

Chapter Text

SCENE NINETEEN
EXT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE DOCTOR’S QUARTERS

The two Senators linger in the hallway outside of Ismay’s “stateroom”, with Carpathia’s doctor and Lightoller standing by. The Senators are determined, the seamen nervous; Mr. Franklin has vanished into the stateroom to speak to Ismay; through the closed door, they can hear soft voices and movement, but see nothing. The wait is tense. After a moment’s pause, the doctor breaks the silence.

DOCTOR
Mr Ismay’s state of acute mental agitation does not enable him to —

SENATOR SMITH
But he was able to get himself into a lifeboat, while two-thirds of the people on his ship went to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Lightoller flinches, but doesn’t speak up in his boss’s defense.

DOCTOR
That is completely beyond the matter, Sir —

Even as the doctor blisters, Senator Smith has no time for it. He moves towards the door, rapping insistently. All sound from within the room goes quiet.

Mr Franklin opens the door, carefully blocking the gap with his body. His face is schooled into a mask of implacability.

MR FRANKLIN
Mr Ismay is in no condition to be seen at the —

SENATOR SMITH
I’m sorry, but I’ll have to see that for myself.

He pushes his way past Franklin, into the room. The sight he’s confronted with is incriminating. Contrary to the doctor’s reports of an invalid, Ismay is up and on his feet, buttoning a new waistcoat with slightly trembling hands. He still looks a nervous wreck, but certainly recovered enough to take visitors.

SENATOR SMITH
Joseph Bruce Ismay?

ISMAY
(gaping)
I say, man —

Senator Smith thrusts the subpoena into his chest with very little fanfare, and absolutely no courtesy.

SENATOR SMITH
Mr Ismay, you are hereby obligated to appear tomorrow morning in front of the US Senate, investigating the loss of the Titanic and her 1,500 souls aboard. You will be the first called to the stand; I suggest you be ready, sir.

Ismay is left gaping like a fish. Lightoller, standing in the doorway, ruefully glances down at his own subpoena, clasped in his fist. None of the Titanic’s officers have been lucky enough to escape Smith’s crusade.

Smith and his entourage stride out of the room, eager to leave Ismay in the dust. Ismay is left staring after them in utter shock. Slowly, he sinks down to the bed.

ISMAY
Does this mean — we won’t be going home?

Lightoller steps in the room, discreetly shutting the door behind him.

LIGHTOLLER
I’m afraid our plans fell through.They didn’t hold a ship for us; we couldn’t leave even if any of us were allowed to.

Ismay runs a hand through his hair; formerly a deep brown with traces of grey at the temples, it is now a sandy grey in streaks across his head. He is too caught up in his own grief to pay any attention to Lightoller.

ISMAY
They’re going to hang me in the press. They want a damned villain… they’ll string me up like a dog.

Lightoller clearly pities the broken man. He steps forward, arm twitching as though he considers reaching out; some instead sense of propriety stops him.

LIGHTOLLER
The crew won’t let it happen. The Americans can say what they like. You’d be hard pressed to find a man who was there who’ll condemn you.

ISMAY
The widows blame me. The orphans.

To that, Lightoller has no reply.

LIGHTOLLER
We stand behind you, sir… the White Star Line is our Line, and we’ll quote it ‘til the end. We shall present a united front. No rogues, no cracks in the plaster. Nothing will leak through to incriminate the Line… or you.

CUT TO:

The shadowed figure of Harold Bride, still working away at his Marconi machine, even as midnight encroaches upon the Carpathia. He is dead to the world, lost utterly in work.

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
Every employee of the White Star Line is yours.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY
EXT. NEW YORK DOCKS — NIGHT

Game is afoot, and it approaches the Carpathia in the form of another coterie of three. This is an odd trip — a distinguished older gentleman, dressed in tails — GUGLIELMO MARCONI, inventor of the Marconi telegraph; a plain-clothesed Marconi engineer, FREDERICK SAMMIS, wearing a trench coat against the rain; and a smart-looking gentleman in a suit, New York Times reporter ISAAC RUSSELL. They approach the ship, Russell drinking the entire sight in like he’s already taking notes in his head. Marconi is undaunted, but Sammis looks nervous, repeatedly glancing between the other two men and the ship. This gives away that they’re up to no good.

As they approach the gangway, a police officer suddenly steps in front of them.

OFFICER
No unauthorized personnel beyond this point.

Mr Marconi smiles with the benign air of a kindly old gentleman, utterly non-threatening. Something about him is gentle, endearing; one trusts him immediately. He speaks in a strong Italian accent.

MARCONI
Indeed. Unauthorized, but I hope not unwelcome. I am Marconi.

The Officer’s eyebrows raise. He knows the old man immediately.

OFFICER
The — the inventor of the —

MARCONI
My machine, yes. The Marconi Telegraph. There is a young man aboard this ship whom I would like very much to meet. From what I’ve heard, he is a hero. My associates and I are eager to make the acquaintance of Mr Bride… if you would be so kind.

His tone is very polite, very pleasant… but it isn’t a request. The officer is fainted by such an important gentleman… but as his gaze flicker between the two men with him, they narrow in suspicion.

OFFICER
Associates? Alright, then…

The men start to move past — but without warning, the officer bars Mr Sammis.

OFFICER (CONT)
But I can recognize a damned reporter when I see one! Wait for your story on the docks like the rest of the swill, you. Mr Marconi — you and your associate can carry on in.

Russell is gaping, but Marconi doesn’t miss a beat. Smiling, he doffs his silver-tipped cane at the Officer, and moved on his way up the ramp. Russell trails behind him, leaving Sammis behind.

As soon as the men get inside the ship, Russell breathes a sigh of relief.

RUSSELL
Damned lousy sleuth-sniffer he is! Lucky I’ve got my notebook tucked away somewhere he couldn’t see it — otherwise you’d be interviewing the boy on your own!

MARCONI
The New York Times isn't guaranteed your exclusive yet, Mr Russell. 

Marconi knows exactly where a wireless room would be on a ship like this; he leads them there, without the men being intercepted once. They pause in the doorway, which is wide open, letting a little light into the room.

The faint figure of Harold Bride sits hunched over the desk. He makes a tragic sight, pale and waxy, his legs heavily bandaged and a blanket tossed over his lap. A dinner plate sits next to him, untouched. His eyes are shadowed, sunk deep in his face; exhaustion and grief drips from him, but he cannot give up the work just yet. There’s still so much more to be done… so much left to say…

He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice the two men now in the room with him… until Mr Marconi gently lays a hand over Bride’s feverishly working one.

Bride starts, jerking upright. He goes very still. As the camera zooms out, we see Bride taking in Marconi… and behind the old man, a photo of the very same man in a place of high honor in the wireless shack. Any radio boy can recognize Mr Marconi by face, never mind by legend.

MARCONI
(gently)
I believe your work is done, dear boy.

BRIDE
(dazed)
No, sir — the — the people out there, they need these messages, they’re — they’re waiting —

Marconi clasps Bride’s hand in both of his, deeply empathetic.

MARCONI
You have done enough, boy. You have done enough.

It’s enough to move Bride to tears. He sits up straight, full recognition dawning in his eyes, chasing away the last of his feverish mania.

BRIDE
Mr Marconi!

He slumps into the man’s arms, utterly exhausted. Marconi holds him like a father as Bride trembles. In the background, rapt upon it all, Mr Russell watches, noting every detail down in his mind. It will all make an incredible exclusive later.

CUT TO:

INT. WIRELESS SHACK — FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER

Marconi and Russell have pulled Bride away from his work. The young man is now sitting at a table, slumped in exhaustion, with a half-eaten plate of food in front of him, and a mug of warm coffee. He clutches it, eyeing the two men warily.

BRIDE
It… doesn’t seem wise, sir.

MARCONI
It is the wisest thing for you to do, my dear boy… the world wants to hear how you survived.

Bride shakes his head. Also in front of him is a subpoena — another one of those persistent notices from Senator Smith, summoning him to appear before the court as well. He glances down at it, fingers worrying restlessly along the edge of the paper.

BRIDE
We’re not to say a word to the press. A united front — Mr Lightoller was very firm on that. The White Star Line is worried about liabilities, I think —

RUSSELL
But you’re not an employee of the White Star Line! They don’t sign your paychecks, Mr Marconi does.

The suggestion rattles Bride. He lets out a half-choked chuckle.

BRIDE
Funny… Phillips used to say the same thing.

His smile fades, a look of raw grief passing over his face.

RUSSELL
One exclusive, for a sum in four figures. You won’t just be setting foot on American soil a hero, but a rich man. (pause) Mr Bride, the White Star Line wants to silence you. Believe me, the true tale of what happened that night… they do not want it to come out. They’ll censor you. They’ll drown out the actions of yourself and your college that night to save their own skins. Whatever loyalties you feel are binding you —

BRIDE
(sharply)
Because you were there, were you? You saw the ship go down? You felt the bloody ice water slicing straight to your bones? You pulled yourself out of the sea… more dead than alive? Of course, I forgot, you know all about —

Marconi silences him by laying a hand over his own. Bride, utterly in the man’s thrall, goes silent immediately; his expression is raw, eyes wide. Marconi does not mistake the man’s anger for vitriol; he recognizes pain when he sees it.

MARCONI
Mr Bride… the story of that night, your story, matters. You feel it inside you. It will eat you up if you do not set it free. Dear boy, you have every right to speak. Indeed, you owe it to yourself… and to your friends who did not leave the ocean that night.

Bride exhales deeply. He stares down at his hands, dazed. After a moment, his brows crease, pain mixed with uncertainty.

BRIDE
Phillips… would have said damn them all.

Marconi, undeterred, slowly lifts his hand from Bride’s one, still gazing at him intently.

RUSSELL
(pencil in hand, attentive)
What happened to Phillips, Mr Bride?

Bride looks up and takes a deep breath. Something goes resolute in his eyes. 

Just like that — his story is sold.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY-ONE
EXT. NEW YORK CITY STREETS - MORNING

• small title reads ‘APRIL 19, 1912

Come morning, the papers are flying off the shelves. People clamber over one another to get copies of the New York Times, with the headline visible in blazing black ink: “THRILLING STORY BY TITANIC'S SURVIVING WIRELESS MAN; Bride Tells How He Escaped”.

CUT TO:

Charles Lightoller pacing in a darkened hotel room, hands behind his back, silently furious.

CUT TO:

Senator Smith, in a small office within the Waldorf-Astoria, hollering at a poor aide - his fury is drowned out by the score, but it’s intense. He slams the newspaper down on his desk.

CUT TO:

Outside the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, a mob of curious press and spectators are in an uproar. Newspapers are clasped in eager hands, the crowd shouting too loud for any individual voice to be made out. Guards at the door are trying to block off people who are not permitted entrance to the hotel, but many spectators find their way in anyways, slipping in through side doors. The scene is a madhouse… and Harold Lowe is trying his damned best to skirt around, unsure how to make it inside the building.

He’s maneuvering through the crowd when a voice suddenly catches his attention, close to his ear.

WOMAN
Mr Lowe!

Lowe looks over, and recognizes Stewardess Violet Ransom as a familiar face. She is pale, clinging to her composure in the crowd, utterly fixed on him.

VIOLET
I need to speak with you!

She seizes hold of his arm; without a word, he pulls her forward, through a side door into the hotel lobby. The lobby is somewhat less of a madhouse; the pair are able to exhale, Violet loosening her hold on the officer’s arm.

LOWE
You’re a stewardess. I recognize you from —

VIOLET
Yes. My name is Violet Ransom, I — they haven’t called me to testify, I haven’t come here because of that —

LOWE
You mean, you’re here willingly?

VIOLET
I need to speak to you. To… anyone. No one seems to have an answer, and you…

She trails off. Lowe looks at her expectantly. At last, Violet finds her words.

VIOLET
Why didn’t Officer Moody make it into a lifeboat?

Surprise flashed across Lowe’s face, raw like an open wound. He takes a step back; this was not what he expected.

LOWE
I — I don’t know.

Desperate, Violet surges after him; she’s come too far to let him escape now.

VIOLET
Why not? He was the junior-most officer on the ship. He was loading lifeboats all night. Why didn’t anyone send him away? Who didn’t order him — who had seniority —

She reaches for his arm. Lowe pulls away again, frightened by her barrage. Violet is desperate.

VIOLET
What happened?

Lowe lingers on her for a long moment, shaking his head.

LOWE
I can’t answer you.

VIOLET
Please —

LOWE
Whatever happened that night, the men who know have taken it to the depths. Moody — he should be alive. Damned if I know why he isn’t! He ought to have gone — he ought to have got in a boat — and why he didn’t —

His voice remains strong, but something in Lowe’s face quivers, as though on the verge of breaking. He takes another step back, and quickly regathers himself.

LOWE
Don’t torture yourself with questions that can never be answered, Ms Ransom. You’d best forget them. The grief’ll… destroy you otherwise.

With a bow of his head, Lowe hastens away, towards the stairs which will take him up to the inquiries. Violet is left staring after him, her composure slowly freezing over — like a glaze of porcelain which will shatter with a sudden movement, and send every ugly, agonized feeling spilling out.

Again, she’s left alone, with no answers and too much grief. It seems that will be all she gets.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY TWO
INT. WALDORF-ASTORIA BALLROOM

A group of important men cluster around a wide table set up in the Waldorf Astoria ballroom, with spectators crowding every wall. In the center of the mess sit the men of the hour — Ismay, looking distant; Lightoller, looking stolid; Lowe, looking suspicious; Pitman and Boxhall, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.

At the head of the table, Senator Smith clears his throat, and announces in a booming voice:

SENATOR SMITH
The United States Senate calls this inquiry to order!

As the reporters mutter and titter in excitement, the “accused” exchange wary glances.

SENATOR SMITH
I now call Mr J. Bruce Ismay to come forward and take the stand…

The bustle of the room fades out. It it replaces by a tense, ticking score, a mute focus on a nervous Ismay as he testifies, with incensed Senator Smith hammering him with questions. Close-ups on the spectators’ faces see them closed off, judgmental.

Transparent newspaper headlines ghost across the screen: “ISMAY TELLS TITANIC’S FATE: CLAIMS IGNORANCE, BLAMES CAPTAIN”

SENATOR SMITH
Mr Herbert Pitman, to the stand…

A sweating Pitman answers questions in front of the committee, while Smith interrogates him; Smith wears a different suit to show a day has passed, and the spectators are different.

Another headline — a different date emphasizes the passage of time: “OFFICER TESTIFIES: Emotions Run High Describing Dying Screams”

SENATOR SMITH
Mr Robert Hichens…

Hichens, red-faced and anxious, answers questions; the spectators look disapproving, even angry at the man.

Headline: “QUARTERMASTER CLAIMS HE WAS NOT DRUNK: DENIES ABUSING LADIES IN HIS BOAT”

SENATOR SMITH
Mr Harold Bride…

Still in his wheelchair, white-faced and bundled up in blankets, a sickly Harold Bride is sworn in to testify. The crowd looks sympathetic.

Headline: “HEROIC WIRELESS OPERATOR RECOUNTS STORY FOR COURT”

SENATOR SMITH
(above the score)
Mr Charles Herbert Lightoller, to the stand…

Lightoller answers questions from the inquisition, straight-backed, looking quite above it all. He doesn’t hide his feelings about the proceedings at all; it’s clearly a waste of his time.

Headline: “MIRACULOUS SURVIVAL OF TITANIC’S SENIOR OFFICER”. Below this headline, a smaller one; “TITANIC INQUIRY MOVES TO WASHINGTON D.C.”

SENATOR SMITH
Mr Joseph Boxhall…

No one appears. Boxhall is absent. Smith looks around the room — once again in a different suit, as are all the men, to show time has clearly passed — and scowls at the table.

SENATOR SMITH
(loudly)
We recall Mr Boxhall to the stand! Is he not present?

LIGHTOLLER
Mr Boxhall has taken ill and been confined to his bed under a physician’s care.

As he speaks, one of Smith’s aides presents him with a note from Boxhall’s doctor. Smith looks it over, annoyed.

LIGHTOLLER
Perhaps your hours of enthusiastic questioning yesterday exhausted him.

Smith looks up at him; Lightoller stares back evenly.

SENATOR SMITH
(terse)
We wish Mr Boxhall a speedy return to full health, and to this court. In his place, we will recall Mr Herbert Pitman…

Pitman looks bitter beyond belief to be recalled for more questions. His fellow officers cast him sympathetic looks.

CUT TO:

INT. HALLWAY OF SENATE BUILDING - WASHINGTON D.C.

Lightoller and Pitman, with Lowe trailing behind, stride through the hallways of the building, eager to escape the exhaustion of today’s senate scramble. Lowe is looking over a newspaper as he walks.

PITMAN
(passionately)
— take his place, for what, damn him?

LIGHTOLLER
(mildly)
The doctors say it’s pleurisy.

PITMAN
And I say I’m Marie Antoinette’s lost dauphin. Doesn’t make it true.

LIGHTOLLER
He’s got a fever.

PITMAN
Why was he up making bloody tea this morning?

Lowe makes a sudden noise of surprise. His fellow officers stop, looking back at him. Wordlessly, Lowe holds out the paper, pointing to something. Lightoller and Pitman’s faces darken in sync. 

LIGHTOLLER
(lowly)
Damn them all.

CUT TO:

Another headline: “CHAOS ABOARD TITANIC: OFFICER SHOT MEN TO DEATH BEFORE TURNING GUN ON HIMSELF”. Below it is a picture of William Murdoch, incorrectly labelled “Titanic’s Chief Officer”.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY-THREE
EXT. NEW YORK CITY DOCK

Some women wear grief like a shroud; others wear it like a shield. Weaving silently through the crowds at the docks, following after her fellow stewardesses, Violet Ransom manages both. She wears a plain black dress, and a black hat; her face is pale and exhausted, dark shadows beneath her eyes. She casts one look back at New York before filing up the ramp, boarding the ship that will take her home.

Titanic’s three stewardesses — Annie Robinson, Evelyn Marsden, and Violet — come to stand at the rail. As the ship slowly streams out of the harbor, Violet stares pensively back. She is lost in another world, one of shadowed memories and half-acknowledged griefs.

STEWARDESS MARSDEN
Time to go home, Vi.

Without looking away from the shoreline, Violet nods.

The ocean stretches between them; slowly, land is disappearing from sight. Her gaze wanders down to her gaunt white hand. Displayed proudly where he placed it that last night is the ring — Moody’s ring — his final gift to her, if one doesn’t count her life.

Violet twists the ring on her finger, as though contemplating taking it off. Her eyes flutter shut. She grips it as if it speaks to her — as if, through this ring, she can still feel a little bit of Moody.

Harold Lowe’s words — forget your questions, forget him — ring in her ears. Damn him, she decides, leaving the ring exactly where it is.

She promised James never to take it off, and she’ll wear the ring until her dying day.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY-FOUR
INT. PARLOUR OF HOTEL - WASHINGTON D.C.

It’s later in the afternoon; Officer Boxhall is still consigned to his bed, so Lowe and Pitman are left to entertain themselves on their own. Pitman reads a newspaper by the window, while Lowe broods over a table in the corner of the room. He has a letter in his hands, addressed from Scarborough, opened. For the past ten minutes, he’s been staring at it fixedly, unable to get past the first few lines; by now he has them memorized.

LOWE
(murmured, reading from the letter)
Mr Lowe… we are writing on behalf of our dear son and brother, James Paul Moody… any information you have concerning his final hours… 

Lowe slumps over the table, clenching the letter in his hands. 

LOWE
(muttered)
Damn it all to hell…

He can’t bear to look at it any longer. Roughly, he tucks the letter into his pocket. Out of sight out of mind… but instead of being relieved, Lowe slumps back over the table, as though something weighs him down. Grief or guilt… it’s hard to say.

The cover page of Pitman’s paper displays another story about Murdoch. We zoom in on the headline: “TITANIC OFFICER FIRES INTO CROWD, TAKES OWN LIFE”.

CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL BEDROOM — LOW LIGHT

As we zoom out from the newspaper, we find that it is no longer being held by Herbert Pitman. Instead, Lightoller has placed it face-down on top of a red coverlet. He sits by the side of the bed in Joseph Boxhall’s sickroom, the light’s turned down and the room quiet. Boxhall is sitting up in bed, looking pale and exhausted, but healthy enough. He holds a cup of tea.

LIGHTOLLER
They’re determined to crucify him. As though Ismay’s blood wasn’t enough — now they’re going after one who isn’t even here to speak for himself.

BOXHALL
(sighing)
What did you expect? Lights… Murdoch was on the bridge that night. I saw his face. The moment she hit the berg, he knew… (pause) He knew what was coming, Lights. From the very first.

LIGHTOLLER
It’s libel! Damned American press is allowed to print whatever they like. Even baseless lies —

BOXHALL
You don’t believe he killed himself?

Lightoller stares him dead in the eye. His expression goes beyond disbelief; he can’t believe such a thing about his friend, he physically can’t.

LIGHTOLLER
There’s no proof, Joe. Nothing but stories… and none of them can even identify him for certain. I was there, I heard the shots… and even I can’t say for sure.

His hand slams down on the paper.

LIGHTOLLER
Who are they to slander a dead man?

Boxhall lays a hand over Lightoller’s, trying to calm him. This is a personal issue for them both.

BOXHALL
Murdoch was a damned good Officer, and a good man. Whatever happened… he deserves better than this. (pause) What can we do?

Lightoller looks up. Suddenly, something has crystallized in his expression. He’s got an idea.

LIGHTOLLER
Not much at all... but perhaps, something that matters.

CUT TO:

INT. SUNLIT PARLOUR OF A HOUSE — SOUTHAMPTON

A woman in a long, dark dress moves silently through her parlour — it’s ADA MURDOCH, William Murdoch’s widow. Her face is drawn and haunted, though she sheds no tears. She settles herself down a large chair by the window — it used to be her husband’s favorite, and still smells of him — and lifts a piece of paper. A letter. She opens it easily, and pulls it out to read its contents.

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
Dear Mrs. Murdoch,
I am writing on behalf of the surviving officers to express our deep sympathy in this, your awful loss. Words cannot convey our feelings... much less a letter.

CUT TO:

Lightoller, hunched at his desk, brow furrowed in focus as he writes.

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
I was practically the last man to see your husband alive; Mr Murdoch was then endeavoring to launch the final remaining lifeboat. He worked diligently through the night, with his own hands assisting the loading of each boat, and it’s clearing away. He died in the continuation of this duty.

CUT TO:

INT. PARLOUR OF A HOME IN SOUTHAMPTON

LUCY SNAPE’S MOTHER AND FATHER step through the doorway of their upper middle-class parlour, robed in black; there is a mourning party going on, with many grieving family members gathered throughout the room. Some women are weeping, including Lucy’s mother. A portrait of Lucy sits on display atop the piano. In the midst of it all, Lucy’s little daughter Isabel is clasped in her grandmother’s arms, gazing around at the upsetting scene with furrowed brows. She does not understand that she will never get to know her mother — never even remember her.

VOICEOVER, BOXHALL
His efforts that night can not be undervalued. For the lives he saved, there are families who may be reunited in relief…

CUT TO:

INT. ATTIC OF A HOME IN DUMFRIES

MARY COSTIN (21), the pregnant widow of bandsman JOCK HUME, sits on the edge of her bed, one hand clasped meaningfully over her stomach. She is surrounded by letters; a violin sits on proud display on the other side of the room, exactly where Jock last left it. The instrument is like his ghost, still existing in the room they shared together. Mary studies it, stone-faced, with grief in her eyes. Her cheeks are damp with tears.

VOICEOVER, PITMAN
Lovers who shall not be parted…

CUT TO:

INT. HOME IN WALTON

HENRY WILDE’s four young children — his eldest daughter, two sons, and tiny daughter — are all dressed in mourning, lined up in front of the door while their aunt dotes over them. Wilde’s eldest daughter JENNIE is very pale, with tear-streaks down her face; the youngest, ANNIE, clings to her brother’s side. The Wilde children have now been left without father or mother, and their future is uncertain.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
Children who are not orphaned…

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - WASHINGTON D.C.

Harold Bride sits propped up in bed, his legs wrapped up and splayed in front of him. He is thoughtful, pensive, slowly twisting the engagement ring on his finger. His mind is somewhere else… and it could not be further from his fiancée back in England.

VOICEOVER, LOWE
Their lives shall go on, for years and decades more.

CUT TO:

INT. FOYER OF RANSOM HOME - LONDON

VIOLET RANSOM’S MOTHER is waiting for her in the doorway. As Violet steps through, her mother springs from her chair to her feet, her ill health no match for the urgency to see her daughter. Violet steps through and flings herself into her mother’s arms, chest heaving. Immediately, she buries her face in her mother’s shoulder, like a child after a bad dream.

VOICEOVER, PITMAN
However they live, and wherever the tides of time take them, they owe their lives to your husband and the men who worked alongside him.

CUT TO:

A mourning procession through the streets of Southampton, following a casket; people have come out in droves.

VOICEOVER, BOXHALL
Men who, in many cases, died in their duty... saving lives until the end.

CUT TO:

INT. MURDOCH PARLOUR 

Ada Murdoch, with tears streaming down her face, continues reading the letter, backlit by the sunlight in the window.

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
Whatever rumours you have heard as to his ending are absolutely false. Officer Murdoch died like a man, about his duty until the end. If ever the title of hero should be bestowed upon an ordinary mortal, your husband has earned it.
If we may do anything for you in this time of grief, call on us without hesitation.
Yours very sincerely,
The Surviving Officers of the Titanic
.
Charles H. Lightoller

VOICEOVER, PITMAN
Herbert Pitman…

VOICEOVER, BOXHALL
Joseph Boxhall...

VOICEOVER, LOWE
Harold Godfrey Lowe

CUT TO:

Titanic’s four surviving officers are huddled around a table, each signing off on the letter. Lowe sets the pen down once he’s done; he steps back, to join Boxhall, wrapped in a blanket. The men survey their work with satisfaction.

It is far from all which deserves to be done… but, perhaps for Ada Murdoch, it will be consolation enough.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY-FIVE
INT. SENATE BUILDING FOYER

It’s an awkward scene. Today is an important day, the very last day of the Titanic inquiry; anticipation hangs heavy in the air, and it thrums through the veins of Charles Lightoller as he comes to stand in front of the lift doors, waiting. It takes him a moment to realize who’s standing next to him — Harold Bride, supporting himself on a cane, thin and frail in an ill-fitting suit.

The two men go tense. Neither of them have spoken since Bride’s story leaked; for a moment, neither of them are sure what to say. They exchange uneasy glances.

As though the situation couldn’t get any worse, who comes to stand next to them at that very moment but the parish of the hour himself — J. Bruce Ismay, having long since recovered his composure. Ismay holds himself stiffly, clearly not happy to be here, but determined to remain dignified about it. He looks down the line, from Lightoller to Bride, and nods.

ISMAY
Gentlemen.

Lightoller and Bride nod back, not saying much of anything. Lightoller is the one to finally break the silence.

LIGHTOLLER
This is where it ends. Today should decide it all, I suppose.

BRIDE
We’ll be headed home soon.

ISMAY
God willing.

They exchange uneasy glances again.

LIGHTOLLER
(after a pause, pointedly)
I enjoyed your exclusive, Mr Bride. Your account of the night was quite vivid… save for the details you got wrong.

He glances over at the young man, who doesn’t seem galled in the least by this confrontation.

BRIDE
Frankly, sir… I recall very little of what happened to myself after landing in the water. It comes in… pieces, too painful to peer at for long. Some of it’s… muddled. I told what I could, as best as I could tell it.

LIGHTOLLER (CONT)
You barely mention Phillips.

Bride’s gaze lingers on Lightoller, before turning straight ahead; the shadow of grief lingers in his eyes.

BRIDE (CONT)
As I said. I told what I could.

Ismay, of all people, sees fit to speak up.

ISMAY
You did quite enough by surviving, young man. No one can condemn you for sharing your story.

BRIDE
They do like to try, though, don’t they?

He and Ismay exchange a glance for a long moment, with Lightoller’s gaze hovering between them. For a moment, the three men are joined in a circle of understanding.

Suddenly, the lift dings — the doors open into the lobby, revealing an empty lift. As one, the three men pile inside, Lightoller in the center. He folds his hands, looking up as the lift doors begin to close.

LIGHTOLLER
Just one more day of this… and it’s all over.

CUT TO:

INT. SENATE ROOM

The makeshift courtroom is packed with politicians, reporters, and witnesses alike; Titanic’s surviving officer, Bride, and Ismay are all assembled along the wall, listening attentively. In the center of the room, Smith stands, reading his final verdict. It’s a long speech — we only hear a fragment of it.

SENATOR SMITH
The report of this Committee has been unanimously agreed upon, and I am directed now to make the report… our efforts here were to gather “the causes leading up to the destruction of the steamship Titanic, with its attendant and unparalleled loss of life, so shocking to the people of the world." Mindful of that duty, we have found fault now — in no one person, but the arrogance of Titanic’s managers, the complacency of her crew, and the laxity of her administration. Of contributing causes there were very many. In spite of numerous ice warnings, speed was increased throughout her voyage; messages of danger seemed to stimulate her to action rather than to persuade her to fear. Disaster was nigh inevitable by the sheer negligence of her captain and crew in the face of peril. 

The crew, listening on, glare darkly at the Senator. 

SENATOR SMITH (CONT)
When this disaster struck, the conduct of the crew ensured needless lives were lost. Lifeboats were sent out underfilled, undermanned; trained and capable men who could have filled these empty seats were denied the right to life by junior officers, a few of whom, I regret to say, availed themselves of the first opportunity to leave the ship. These same men then “laid by” from the safety of their partially filled lifeboats, listening to the cries of dying agony "until the noise quieted down". They surveyed from a safe distance the dying agonies of the passengers under their care… alongside those faithful officers and seamen whose heroism illuminates this tragedy and recalls the noblest traditions of the sea.

The Officers are furious. Pitman has his eyes closed, looking physically ill. Lowe looks ready to commit murder with a fountain pen. Ismay sits, white faced, like a marble statue; impossible depths of grief swirl in his eyes.

SENATOR SMITH (CONT)
Some things are dearer than life itself. Noble sacrifice — like that of the wireless operators, who refused to abandon their posts ‘til the end — is an example of heroism worthy of the highest praise. The death of Mr Phillips, who lost his life with the words of his last wireless message still ringing in his ears — whose life was lost due to his tireless efforts, working to exhaustion with no care for his own self-preservation — shall be the true legacy of this tragedy. 

Bride raises a trembling hand to rub his jaw; he looks as though he’s seeing Phillips’s ghost. He’s also no longer wearing his wedding ring.

SENATOR SMITH (CONT)
Not the men who survived, but those who did not — who died in duty and toil, working to save the lives their own machinery could not preserve. Their names, and their bravery, shall go down forever with the Titanic.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur. Eventually, the court adjourns; the inquiry is brought to a close; finally, finally, Titanic’s crew have been released from the chains holding them in America.

Oddly enough, as they sit utterly still in the stands, none of them look thrilled about it at all.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY-SIX
EXT. NEW YORK DOCKS

Finally free, Bruce Ismay and Titanic’s officers, along with at least 30 other crew members, file up the ramp onto the Adriatic — the ship that will take them home. Little fanfare sends them off — there are no crowds assembled, no one waving — and none of the men look back. The ship’s horn blares.

CUT TO:

INT. ATTIC BEDROOM

Violet, sitting alone up in her room, has her journal open in front of her. She gazes down at it for a moment in consternation — what to say? are there even enough words in the world? — before putting pen to page, and beginning to write. On her hand, she still wears James’s ring.

CUT TO:

EXT. LIVERPOOL DOCKS

Titanic’s officers are at last able to set foot on British soil once more. They breathe palpable sighs of relief.

The survivors of Titanic’s crew disperse, rejoining families who have come to greet them. Herbert Pitman’s sister is waiting at the docks; he moves towards her, and she embraces him. His head lowered, Bruce Ismay climbs into a black carriage without looking back; the windows are darkened, and he vanishes like a specter, a nonentity in what remains of his own story. 

Lightoller and Boxhall shake hands; Lowe stands off to the side, wary, with no one to greet him. His hands are in his pockets; slowly, he extracts a crumpled envelope. Without a word to his fellow officers, he slips off, leaving them behind.

Lightoller watches him go, and turns to say something — but at that moment, another voice catches his attention. He’d know it anywhere.

SYLVIA LIGHTOLLER
Bertie!

He spins around. His wife and two little boys are waiting there on the docks for him. Sylvia is as beautiful as ever — dressed in a smart suit and hat, favoring one leg, grinning broadly. She raises an arm to wave, and the little boys jump at her sides enthusiastically.

Lightoller breaks into a broad, beaming grin. Home at last — and it couldn’t be sweeter.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY-SEVEN
INT. FOYER OF A HOME IN SCARBOROUGH — MIDDLE CLASS

A young woman with dark hair, dressed in mourning garb, crosses the foyer with a handful of letters; she is startled by an unexpected chime of the bell.

She goes to open the door, an aged gentleman following her out. When the door opens, it reveals their curious faces — this is MARGARET MOODY (28) and her father JOHN — James Moody’s family.

On the other side of the door stands the unyielding, uncomfortable Harold Lowe. He’s got the Moody’s letter clasped in his hands; his head is lowered, almost in supplication.

MARGARET
Sir —

LOWE
Beg pardon, ma’am. My name is Harold Lowe. I served with your brother — James Moody. Aboard Titanic.

He looks up, deep grief lingering in his eyes.

LOWE
He should have made it off the ship that night; instead, he gave me his place. (pause) I owe him my life. And… I’m sorry he isn’t here today.

Margaret regards him solemnly for a moment, before her face softens. She opens the door wider.

MARGARET
Come in, Mr Lowe, please. We’d be happy if you’d join us for tea.

With a shaky smile, Lowe steps inside, and the door closes behind him.

Chapter Text

SCENE TWENTY EIGHT
INT. BEDROOM IN SOUTHAMPTON — NIGHT

It is a calm night, and utterly tranquil. In the Lightollers' silent bedroom, the world may as well be at peace. Moonlight shines in through the curtained window, illuminating the bed, and the two people within. Sylvia Lightoller lays curled on her side, sleeping. At her back, her husband Charles lies in his nightshirt, wide awake.

Slowly, he pushes himself upright, glancing first at her, then at the window. Sleep isn’t going to come tonight, and Lightoller knows it. A thousand thoughts race through his mind; he is charged up with restlessness. Slowly, taking care to make as little noise as possible, he slips out of bed.

CUT TO:

Lightoller, now fully dressed, descends the stairs of his impressive home. He immediately heads for the front door, out into the night.

CUT TO:

EXT. WATERSIDE — NIGHT

With no hope of returning back to sleep tonight, and feeling utterly out of place amidst his pleasant family life after struggling to keep his head above water for so long, Lightoller answers the only call which makes any sense to him — that of the sea.

Carefully, he unties a small sailboat from the quayside. No one is around to see him; he moves by no light, only the shining moon. Water laps around him, the only sound.

Lightoller hops in the boat and casts off from the shore, setting sail without a glance behind him.

He’ll return back to dry land in the morning. For now, the sea — in all its solemnity, all its mercilessness — is the only place his soul feels truly at rest. From the quayside, we see Lightoller sail off, backlit against the moonlight shining off the water. He cuts an austere, lonely figure.

FADE TO BLACK

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER CHARLES LIGHTOLLER, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, LIGHTOLLER
Charles Herbert Lightoller spent the remainder of his long life at sea; he won a Distinguished Service Cross during the First World War, survived a further two shipwrecks, and eventually published an autobiography. At the age of sixty-five, he served as a spy for the British before the outbreak of war; during the evacuation of Dunkirk, he personally drove his small yacht across the channel to rescue 130 British soldiers. The war took two of his sons from him. Lightoller died of heart failure in 1952.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF BRUCE ISMAY, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, J BRUCE ISMAY
Bruce Ismay retired from the White Star Line shortly after the Titanic disaster, and faded into obscurity. His professional and public reputations were ruined. He lived a quiet life, out of the public eye, until his death in 1937. Whether he ever forgave himself for saving his own life or not, the rest of the world never did.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF CAPTAIN EJ SMITH, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, CAPTAIN SMITH
Captain Edward John Smith was hailed as a hero after the disaster. His surviving wife and daughter fiercely defended him from criticism leveled against his actions, during the voyage or afterwards. They were proud of his fate. A captain, they agreed, ought to go down with his ship.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF THOMAS ANDREWS, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, THOMAS ANDREWS
Thomas Andrews left behind a legacy of ships built under his supervision that would continue to sail…  and a small family left to grieve him. His daughter would grow to know her father by legend alone — everyone who worked with Mr Andrews loved him. 

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER HENRY WILDE, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, HENRY WILDE
Henry Wilde left behind four orphaned children, who were taken in by his sister's family. His unease sailing aboard Titanic was noted in a letter to his family before her voyage. “I do not like this ship,” he wrote. “I have a queer feeling about it.” It was the last letter home Wilde ever sent.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER JAMES MOODY, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, JAMES MOODY
James Moody’s family didn’t even know he was sailing aboard Titanic until they saw his picture in the papers. He was the youngest officer on Titanic, and the only Junior Officer to lose his life. Having stayed at his post to the end, Moody is estimated to have saved upwards of 200 lives.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER WILLIAM MURDOCH, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, WILLIAM MURDOCH
William Murdoch would go down in history as the man who sank the Titanic, despite losing his life with her. His reputation never recovered. Rumours of suicide persisted long after his death, but Titanic took the truth of his fate to the bottom of the sea with her. In spite of this, the historical evidence is irrefutable; Murdoch stayed aboard Titanic until the end, loading lifeboats until the moment it was no longer possible. He gave his life to the sea, to save the lives of others.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF HAROLD BRIDE, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, HAROLD BRIDE
After returning home, Harold Bride ended his engagement; he would not marry for another eight years, until he found someone he truly loved. Bride eventually left the sea, but his love of technology persisted  -  he built his own radios, and taught his children how to use them. For the rest of his life, he could never bear to speak of Titanic, or of the colleague he lost to the sea. 

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF VIOLET JESSOP, AS PORTRAYED BY HER ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL WOMAN

VOICEOVER, VIOLET RANSOM
Violet Jessop, the inspiration for fictional stewardess Violet Ransom, wasn’t finished with the sea after Titanic; and the sea wasn’t finished with her. Violet had a long career as a stewardess and nurse. She survived a collision aboard the RMS Olympic, and during the First World War, nearly lost her life during the sinking of the hospital ship RMS Britannic. She did not retire from stewardessing until 1950. She eventually penned her memoirs of a lifetime of adventure, and died in 1971.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER HERBERT PITMAN, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, HERBERT PITMAN
Herbert Pitman retired from deck officer service, and spent a long career as a ship’s purser. He served in both World Wars, where he was decorated for his actions. He did not like to speak of Titanic. Pitman died in 1961, after more than 50 years at sea.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER HAROLD LOWE, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, HAROLD LOWE
Harold Lowe’s lifetime at sea took him across the globe, from Australia to Siberia. He served in the First World War, began a family, and settled back home in Wales, where he turned to local politics. Lowe remained in close contact with many of the Titanic survivors - especially some of those he pulled from the water that frigid night, who credited him with saving their lives. He died in 1944.

THE PHOTO FADES OUT.

FADE IN — A MOVING CLIP OF OFFICER JOSEPH BOXHALL, AS PORTRAYED BY HIS ACTOR, FADING INTO A PHOTO OF THE REAL MAN

VOICEOVER, JOSEPH BOXHALL
Joseph Boxhall returned to his family, and refused to speak about Titanic for most of his life. Haunted by memories he could not escape, he finally found his voice in 1958; Boxhall served as a consultant on the major motion picture A Night To Remember, depicting the Titanic disaster in vivid detail. His descendants say working on the film gave Boxhall something to live for; telling the crew’s story was important to him. He died in 1967, the final surviving Titanic Officer.

WRITING OVER BLACK SCREEN AT THE END:

“IN MEMORY OF THE 688 CREW MEMBERS WHO LOST THEIR LIVES ABOARD RMS TITANIC.”

CUT TO BLACK
END: EPISODE SIX