No Moon (17 page)

At last, boat 14 pulls away, skirting the debris to pick up any survivors.
How long can they last in these freezing waters? How long is it since the
Titanic
sank?
All I can do to help is pray.

Lines echo in my head from the hymn we sang on Sunday morning.

Is He strong enough to save? Has He heard the cries?
I can’t remember what words come next, so I repeat the same phrases over and over again to myself.

Miss Portia whispers, “Has the singing stopped?”

I wipe the tears off my cheeks before they freeze there. “Yes,” I manage to answer. My thoughts are of my little brother and the pale faces of the drowned.

Thankfully, Miss Alexandra is asleep. Her arms are fastened round my neck, her legs around my waist.

Miss Portia tugs at my sleeve. “Look, Gardy, the moon is awake again.” A crescent moon appears over the horizon. Tonight, I am too sad to say we will make a wish on the new moon, as I normally do.

Who or what could we wish for? Rescue for ourselves, for Lord and Lady Milton, for Hart, for all the good kind people on board? For the woman who played the harmonica to her children to the last moment? For the brave men of the orchestra, who gave us comfort? For old Mr. and Mrs. Straus, who were never seen one without the other? Is she alone in a lifeboat without him?

The moon illuminates white patches covering the surface of the water. They might be giant seabirds, resting on outspread wings, waiting like us until morning. But they are not birds. They float, some with faces submerged, others turned towards the sky–bodies, held up by cork life jackets.

“Don’t cry, Gardy,” Miss Portia says.

Dawn arrives, and with it the palest of pink clouds amidst a glitter of color–green and violet and softest blue–shimmering and glistening on the tall white
sails of ships that surround us.
Rescue at last!

“Icebergs,” the oarsmen cry hoarsely.
And I thought they were ships!
Now our small convoy of boats is in greater danger than ever before! A whistle shrills through the silence.

A voice calls out, “Get us off.”

“Aye, aye, sir, Officer Lightoller,” one of our crewmen answers hoarsely. He cuts us loose from the other boats and rows towards the capsized collapsible. We shift, trying to make room for survivors. As many as twenty or thirty are helped aboard.

One of the officers says, “This was the last of the four collapsibles to leave the
Titanic
. It capsized as it hit the surface. We are mostly crew and officers. We’ve been kneeling or standing for hours, knee-deep in water. One of my men is trapped beneath the boat–his legs are badly damaged, broken I’m afraid. We could not have lasted much longer. Thank God we sighted you!”

Our boat sinks lower in the water with the weight of the extra passengers. We were overloaded before, but now we are crammed together so close that some women must stand. No one complains.

A stoker is pulled aboard. His face is covered in soot, and his thin shirt is torn to shreds. He trembles so violently with cold, I hear his teeth chatter. Someone winds a muffler around his neck. A woman tears her blanket in half and folds up one
part as a pillow for the man with broken legs. I take off my coat to cover one of the shivering sailors. Someone in another boat might do the same for Patrick.

Officer Lightoller is the last to jump into our boat. He points to the man with broken legs: “It is thanks to this chap, we are saved. Look there, coming towards us, braving the icebergs, is a ship answering his SOS. Remember this man’s name, Harold Bride, our radio operator. He would not leave his post until Captain Smith ordered us to abandon ship! Hang on, man,” Officer Lightoller says. “You’ll soon be safe!”

We cheer.
A ship, coming to help us!

Miss Portia whispers to me, her lips blue with cold, “I made a wish on the moon, Gardy, and it came true!”

Nothing has ever looked as beautiful to me–this ship, with only one black funnel; this ship, not even half as big as the
Titanic
, but braving the dangerous seas to rescue us. Another cheer goes up as the first of the lifeboats draws to the shelter of the ship’s side. Ladders are lowered for the first boatload to climb aboard. Soon it will be our turn.

The wind has risen, and water begins to swell and ripple into waves strong enough to wash over the sides of our boat. We were full when we started out, but now, with our second load of survivors, we must number over seventy!

Officer Lightoller does his best to move our lifeboat closer to the ship, but we sit so low in the water that we make no progress at all. Every wave that advances us a few yards also pushes us out again. Each time, it seems, we are carried further away from safety.
Have we come so far only to perish now?

We wait and hope. Watch canvas bags being lowered over the side for the children, eager hands lifting survivors onto the deck. It is light enough now for me to read the name painted on the ship’s side. She is named
Carpathia
.

We are the last boat to come in, all of us too cold and wet to speak. My mind is numb, and I no longer hope nor despair. One great swell of water threatens to swamp our lifeboat, then, mercifully, heaves us close enough to reach the ladders and safety.

The children are helped into the canvas bags. Harry Bride, the wounded radio operator, is hoisted on board, looking pitifully white and still. After all that he has done and suffered, he will surely survive.

I
t is my turn. Ropes are passed around my waist, and I climb halfway up the rungs of the ladder. I look down, stop, and realize I cannot go even one step more. Every bone and muscle in my body refuses to obey this final task. I lean my forehead against my arm and close my eyes. The children are safely on board; that is all that matters.

“You are almost here. Look up, girl, you can do it!” Of course I can, I have come this far.
Get a hold of yourself, Louisa Gardener. Others are waiting behind you
.

I raise my head to see a sailor’s face smile encouragement from above. Painfully, I pull myself up the remaining rungs towards him. Strong arms lift me the last few feet, and the rope around my waist is removed. Someone wraps a dry blanket around my shoulders and I clutch it. I had forgotten what
it feels like to be warm.

Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra greet me as if we had been parted for days! They cling to my legs. Lady Milton and Hart are here, too. Hart and I hug each other, forgetful of place. Lady Milton comes towards us, and Hart steps back, an arm around each of the girls. Lady Milton takes my cold hands in hers.

“Thank you, Gardener, for my daughters’ lives.” Her hands drop to her sides. “This was the last boat. My husband…was he, is he, in the boat with you?” she asks.

I wish with all my heart that I could reply differently. “No, ma’am. I am sorry, but we saw him only before we left.”

“Mama, Mama, Papa gave me a letter to give to Roger. Don’t cry, Mama, you can have it!” Miss Portia hands the damp boarding pass to her mother.

“Thank you, my darling. What a good girl you are to keep it safe. We will give it to Roger when we come home.” She turns away. Her whispered “He has gone, Hart!” breaks my heart.

An officer hurries us downstairs, where we are given dry clothes and broth or coffee to drink. A steward tells Lady Milton a cabin has been made available for her and the children. The doctor will come to see her presently. Hart and I follow, carrying clothing donated by the
Carpathia
’s passengers. Everything possible seems to have been prepared for us.

I remove the children’s damp things and hang them on hooks to dry. The girls fall asleep instantly, in the second bunk. A tap on the door and a steward informs us that a service of thanks is to be held in the main lounge for the
Titanic’
s survivors, followed by one of prayer for those who perished.

Lady Milton insists on attending. Hart goes with her, and I stay behind to watch over the children. I do not believe that our crowded lifeboat could have lasted much longer if the
Carpathia
had not arrived when she did. I sit and listen to the children breathe. Now and again, one of them sobs in her sleep.

I murmur, “We are all safe now,” hoping it is true.

When Lady Milton returns, she can barely speak. “Captain Rostron says he has not found any survivors, other than the 705 he was able to rescue. He has circled the area several times where the
Titanic
sank. More than 1,500 people are gone. I am a widow, on a ship of widows.” Lady Milton is white as a ghost and looks as if she is about to faint. She refuses to sit, though Hart offers her a chair.

“Please, Gardener, repeat every word my husband said to you,” Lady Milton asks.

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Portia and I were about to climb down into the lifeboat behind Miss Alexandra when Miss Portia cried, ‘Papa.’ Somehow, Lord Milton must have persuaded the officer to let him through to find us. He grasped Miss Portia’s hand for an
instant, gave her the boarding pass for safekeeping, and told me to look after the children, your ladyship. ‘I promised my wife,’ he said. Then he disappeared back into the crowd.”

Miss Portia sits up in the bunk. “Papa said, ‘God bless you both, my darlings’ and asked me to give the card to Roger. Will Papa come back soon?”

Lady Milton goes to her daughter, touches her cheek, and crumples down beside the sleeping Miss Alexandra. I tiptoe out of the cabin.

The corridors are full of passengers looking for family members and friends. I scan their faces, hoping to see a familiar one. Suddenly I am confronted by Roberts, holding the baby boy in her arms. I almost believe she has come looking for me!

At that moment, Hart appears. “Well, I never, if it isn’t Roberts. So you made it safely. But where is your other little charge?”

“I am going to make a new life in Canada, and I’m asking you two to hold your tongues. I was not able to save Loraine. Her parents would not let her leave without them. Before I could persuade them, an officer bundled me into a boat with Trevor. They stayed behind.

“I’m leaving England for good! I never took anything that was not rightly mine to take, and you can’t prove otherwise. I’ll thank you to keep out of my
way and to mind your own business.” She pushes past us, leaving us both too shocked to speak for several minutes.

Eventually Hart says, “We’ll never find the truth out about that one, or what really happened at the end on the
Titanic
. The baby’s relatives will undoubtedly take care of him when the
Carpathia
reaches New York. There is nothing we can do, Gardener. At least Miss Loraine was with her parents at the end!” Hart straightens her shoulders, as if determined to banish any more sad thoughts.

“And now, we had better find out where everything is. It will be time for lunch soon–goodness knows how and where they’ll feed us all! Her ladyship needs every bit of her strength. She has the new baby to consider now!”

All I can think of is that poor little girl and her family and if Roberts spoke the truth. There are so many missing from the
Titanic
.
What happened to Tim, the glass-washer? Does he have a mother or wife waiting for him?
Mrs. Landers is safe–I saw her earlier.
But did Patrick escape the boiler room?

“You look as if you have seen a ghost,” Hart says, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, Gardener. Won’t we all be seeing ghosts after this!”

After supper, Hart and I go in search of a place to sleep. Many of those on the
Carpathia
have given up
their cabins, but passengers from both ships lie on tables, on the floor of the public rooms, on mattresses, or on deck chairs. Women passengers are cutting down skirts, coats, and blankets to clothe some of the children and those with nothing to wear.

Hart and I are given two blankets each and find a corner of the lounge to lie down. Neither of us can settle–there is so much we have not had time to talk about. I prop myself on my elbow, trying to get comfortable on the floor. I’m not ready to close my eyes yet. “Where were you, Hart? We looked and looked for you on deck.”

“I went back to the cabin to get my life jacket, and you’d gone. Then we went up to search for you. The officer on the port side told Lord and Lady Milton that all first-class ladies, children, and maids were to go down to A deck, that lifeboat 4 was being lowered there for us. It would be a shorter distance to climb into from the A deck windows. Captain’s orders, he said. Lady Milton told the officer to send you down to us and described you. Well, nothing went the way it was supposed to after that!

“We found the windows were locked, and a sailor had to be sent to look for the key. Then the officer discovered a sounding bar, which measures the depth of the water, sticking out beneath the lifeboat. It had to be chopped away. While we waited, the officer went up to the boat deck to help lower other boats.

“Lady Milton was frantic about the children. I tried to get back up to look for you and was sent down. Finally Lord Milton insisted he be permitted to look for his daughters! When he returned, he said he had seen all three of you climb safely into a lifeboat, and that calmed her ladyship. It was hours before the sounding bar was chopped away and the windows unlocked. We were helped through. Deck chairs were placed end to end, like steps, for us to clamber down into the boat. It was women and children only. Two boys would have been turned away, with the other men, but their fathers swore they had not yet turned thirteen.

“Lady Milton refused to leave without her husband! He begged her to think of Master Roger and the girls and the new baby. He promised that he and Colonel Astor would assist each other. And so I helped Lady Milton down into the lifeboat.

“I feel sorry for young Lady Astor–all she has left of the colonel are the gloves he threw to her before we set off. She was very brave. Do you know she expects her first child in a few weeks?