Work Text:
12/04/1912
I am utterly exhausted. First of all, the sea trials have been relentless—endless inspections to ensure all is in order and functioning as it should. Then there was Mr. Clark, the Board of Trade inspector—Lightoller was not wrong to call him a bore. He counted the lifebuoys, examined the boats, and even tested the ship’s stability. Yet we held our own, and I confess a fleeting urge to taunt him: “Well, sir, are you satisfied?” Yet he may be right in his thoroughness. And moreover there's a fire broke out in one of the coal bunkers. It seems to be a common thing but anyway it worries me that I kept it concealed. They cannot extinguish it; it lingers, still smoldering. It's no longer a joy that the ship has finally went out into the open ocean. The further she’s taking us to our journey’s end the further she’s taking us from home.
Helen and my father are already unwell, and now they will worry for me. I fear this may do them harm. My darling Elba seemed to be healthy, but one hears such tales of childhood maladies… I heard that the wife and two sons of the chief officer Wilde perished of scarlet fever while he was at sea. The thought sends shivers through me, I don't even want to think about it.
Passengers, for their part, are largely satisfied. What is more, both they and the crew marvel at the Titanic. She is magnificent, by God—such power, such speed, and all crafted, it seems, for the utmost comfort of those aboard. They congratulate me and it's flattering, though at least Mr. Carlisle and Edward Wilding deserve to share in the praise.
Today I am to lunch in in Palm Court with Ismay and some Americans he introduced me to yesterday. Caledon Hockley, son of the steel magnate, who supplied the metal that some of our material experts found wanting. And I found wanting their conclusions but one must always balance desires with abilities. So the young Hockley seems well-versed in his father’s affairs, which is commendable. But he obviously needs a couple of manners lessons regarding how to treat the ladies. Even I, a stranger, felt unease when he snatched a cigarette from his fiancée’s hand—granted, she ought not to have smoked in company, but could he not have reproached her with more tact? Worse still, he ordered her meal without so much as consulting her. If this is his usual manner, it is no wonder the poor thing is so anxious.
This young lady, Rose Dewitt Bukater, is a charming yet willful creature with—alas—the appearance of an ancient goddess. I'm ashamed to admit it to myself, but her presence stirred in me thoughts not entirely proper. I assume it's because I haven't seen Helen too long since I last saw Helen, too long since I held her. I would that my mind recalled only Helen in her white dress during our honeymoon—when young Rose passed by, distressed after her joke at Ismay.
...But I could not swear to it under oath.
No matter, work will purge such nonsense. And of work, I have plenty.
...At dinner, I noticed the young Rose again. She is as good as fine wine, beautiful as a wedding night, yet achingly sad. I could not tear my eyes from her. I would like to follow when she left too soon. I longed… to see her unveiled.
I'm a scoundrel. Alas, I can't punch myself. How can I write a letter to Helen now? She must be anxious and feel sad. Yet I am as ashamed to pen her letter as I would be to meet her gaze.
13/04/1912
The fire is at last extinguished. but the bulkhead’s condition troubles me. Its lower corner is warped, the paint peeled, the wall visibly bowed. Hendrickson has promised to clean and repaint it; I hope it will be enough.
Rumours circulate among the stewards and passengers that a woman nearly fell overboard last night. It happened at the stern. She supposedly wanted to view the propellers. What nonsense—who would come to see such things at night? Something is amiss. I must speak with the ship’s constables. I would not have Titanic’s maiden voyage marred by murder or suicide.
I regret having spoken with them. Since this moment I am plagued by a vile, dark jealousy, akin to when, as a suitor, I saw another too courteous with Helen. It is a primal instinct, reducing a man to a beast, stirring urges to violence, to bloodshed, to kill. And this very time I have no right to such feelings. Hear me, Thomas Andrews, Jr.: it is no concern of yours that Rose DeWitt Bukater may be clandestinely meeting a lad from third class. The poor thing needs respite—you have seen her fiancé, her mother, who, despite being American, might outdo the primmest of English matrons.
Yet such dalliances will bring her no good. I pity her.
Hockley seems to have believed the fabricated talе. He invited this lad, young Dawson to the dinner tonight. Dawson appeared having managed to get somewhere the tailcoat. Though, from the sly look of the eccentric Mrs. Brown, it was not difficult to guess who had helped him. Well, he is lively, carries himself well, even bold sometimes. I wanted to get a better look at him, but Rose sat beside me, and I had to bury myself in my notes. I tried to avoid gazing at her, her eyes sparkling with admiration for that Dawson boy, her breath rising and falling within the modest neckline of her gown. I must not let my eyes wander there, nor dream of seeng my hands on her, touching the soft, rose-white skin. Yet she spoke to me, and I feared I might lose my mind entirely.
Damn it! I would have stabbed myself with a fork to sober my senses, but I was afraid to draw attention to me. Instead, I recalled Helen’s labor with our little Elba—the heart-wrenching cries echoing through the house, my Helen’s pale, exhausted face among the pillows as I first held our treasure, our child. And even after that I betray her coveting another woman.
"Hey, Tommy! "Dr. O'Loughlin caught me up at the exit of the dining saloon. "You look pretty unwell."
"A slight headache."
"Shall I fetch you some aspirin?"
A good lashing would serve me better, Doctor.
14/04/1912
Everything seems to be fine. The ship seems sound. We shall sail smoothly and “Titanic” would reign the ocean for many years yet. Only a few problems remain: the steam closet in the restaurant galley on Deck B needs attention, the plaster on the private promenade decks is too dark, some furniture on one side could use repainting, and the issue of hat hooks must be resolved.
I missed this morning service, had plenty of work to do. On the grand staircase, I bumped into Dawson today. He was in his natural state—tattered clothes—but walked with confidence, head held high. A fine lad. I would fain believe Rose can trust him. Perhaps I find him agreeable as a safeguard against my own sin.
That thought fills me with self-disgust again. Would I truly have sought to seduce Rose had she not been taken with this boy? Would I, a married man, have dishonored a young lady? Or would I abandon my Helen and take Elba from her? What manner of man am I to entertain such thoughts?
Helen, I'm so sorry. I shall overcome this, for I love you still and would gladly lay down my life for you. These shameful desires are but a fleeting madness. I miss you dearly.
Yes, my own “sea trials” are not over yet. Hockley asked that I arrange a tour of the Titanic for him, his fiancée, and her mother. To refuse would seem odd, and though I seek no further encounter with Rose, I cannot forever hide behind my schedule.
When she stands near me during the tour, so fresh and radiant, her tender-blushing round face aglow with childlike curiosity, I strive to think that in eighteen years, my dear Elba may be much like her. What would I say of a rogue who harboured toward my daughter the thoughts I have allowed myself toward Rose?
I notice a gentleman in a coat and bowler hat leading, no, stealing Rose to the gymnasium. Well played, Dawson. I must distract her mother and fiancé to cover her absence…
15/04/1912
So much for desires and possibilities, Tommy. So much for Hockley’s inferior steel, for bulkheads and boats, for sailing with a fire aboard. Many have done so before, you say? But few have struck an iceberg along. I should have thought. I should remembered the Arizona.
Will the fire-damaged bulkhead hold? The ship is doomed, one way or another, yet time, precious time, slips through our fingers...
The evacuation proceeds with agonizing slowness, yet panic must be avoided. At all cost. We all recall the La Bourgogne.
“No time, you cannot pick and choose your boat. Get in, get in!”
There are very few places left. Who could have foreseen that lifeboats might serve not merely to ferry passengers from the sinking ship to the rescue ship, but as their sole refuge? Who, indeed? Was it not my duty to foresee it? Thanks to Ismay for the additional boats, indeed, but I should have insisted on the davits Mr. Carlisle proposed. I did not.
How many souls will weigh upon my conscience? A thousand? Or two? For one murder, they convict and hang a man. For a thousand, with sufficient standing, one might escape with a caricature in the papers—or nothing at all, the guilty is left to wrestle with one’s own guilt. Yet in any inquiry, I must shield the shipyard and the company. I cannot even confess my fault aloud, admit I neglected safety, that I sent them to their deaths… as I sent Rose.
She knew the Titanic was sinking—I told her so. And still… Whether Dawson proved false or Hockley schemed against her—something tells me the latter, and I owe Hockley a blow for the mark upon her cheek—she could not have acted in time. I told her. And young Rose rushed below, to the ship’s constables’ cabin, down a corridor soon to be submerged. She must be late to save the boy, lost and probably perished there. And I allowed it.
...The ship’s time is nearly spent. Soon the last horror will begin: the bow will plunge, the stern rise, and all people on board will tumble to their doom. I fled here, craven, to avoid that sight. The ship may yet break in twain—it should not, but the dreadful groans I hear suggest it will.
Here I stand in the in the smoking room, awaiting the end with all my thoughts scattered. How hard is to wait... Would that it were my fearful death alone, not that of those I dined with, nor the wretched emigrants with their children, nor the young elevator boys.
"Mister Andrews!"
It cannot be! I turn my head and see Rose. She is drenched in a someone’s else heavy black coat, beside an equally soaked Dawson, shivering in his thin shirt. By what miracle did they escape the hold? What force preserves them? May it guard them still and on. Cause I have failed.
"I'm sorry that I didn't build you a stronger ship, young Rose!"
At least I should ask her for forgiveness, if I can't ask anyone else. She forgives me—I can see it in her eyes. Would that she cursed me instead.
"We must go, the ship is sinking..." Dawson mutters. Rightly so. He has to save her.
"Take this". I hand her a lifebelt, and she embraces me. A merciful child. May Elba grow as kind and lovely, yet happier.
Dawson helps her don the lifebelt and almost drags her to the door. Pausing, he glances back at me with disbelief. It’s nothing, go, lad, and keep her safe. If you fail her today, the fault is mine, not yours. But if you wrong her any day later, I shall await you in hell.
It seems a hymn rises from the deck. For me it is barely audible over the ship’s dying groans. She sounds like a wounded beast. Forgive me, my friend.
The clock on the mantelpiece lags behind, I check my own, and set its hands aright. Everything has to be done right.
I long to hug my parents now, to cradle Elba in my arms for one last time. But I cannot do it. Perhaps I have no right. Helen... Helen, I have failed you as a husband. Yet I love you still. And I kiss my wedding ring, recalling the last kiss I gave you as I left our home.
