Against the Wind

  I trembled from the chill wind funneling up from the sea…and from the realization of what one more step would have meant. The crevasse was a canyon, stretching at least three decks high and two cabins wide…and included the space where my room had been.

  Where I might have been.

  The back wall and one side wall of my living quarters were all that remained intact. No floor…no ceiling…no bed or nightstand or cupboard. No pendant watch.

  If I had not stopped to visit with Mariah, if I had not paused to tell Connor good night, if Miss Pike had not detained me, I would have been directly above the strike of the torpedo, right in the path of the explosion.

  Stark reality brought me, shivering, back to my duty. Seawater filled the space beneath where my cabin had been, and the level was rising. This was no minor alarm.

  Newcastle was, indeed, mortally wounded, and our time was short.

  Through a haze of acrid smoke I saw the door where my five girls were quartered. A mere twenty feet from where I stood, they were on the far side of a chasm filling with the seawater and rimmed by fire from the burning ship. I prayed they had not been blown away by the blast that demolished my cabin. Above the roar of gushing waves I heard faint cries for help. “Betsy! Lindy! Alice! Margaret! Nan!” I called their names, “Oh, Jesus! Help me!”

  They began pounding frantically. Had they heard me?

  I remembered the passage from Isaiah Mama taught me when I was a little girl terrified of thunder:

  When you pass through the waters,

  I will be with you;

  and through the rivers,

  they shall not overwhelm you.

  When you walk through fire,

  you shall not be burned,

  and the flame shall not consume you.12

  Was there ever a moment when the threats named in that verse were so real? Could God’s ancient promise to His people be living and true for us on this terrible night? I knew somehow I must save my girls!

  Muffled pleas reached me. “Help! Somebody please! Help us!”

  It was not possible to go farther forward by the path I had intended to follow. There was no way to cross the yawning gulf. At first glance it seemed the only way to get to them was by retreating.

  I stared into the void. Circling the inner edge of the abyss, like a ledge above a canyon, was a thin ribbon of deck. Six inches wide at most, the shelf tapered in places to the thickness of a slice of bread.

  Could I do this?

  “I’m coming! Hold on!”

  “Elisa? What?”

  I turned. Miss Pike and her sniffling girls shuffled toward me. Like a bossy mother hen, she kept them close. Each was dressed in a warm coat with her life vest securely buckled over the top.

  “Elisa?” she questioned again.

  “Your lifeboat station is Number 6?”

  “Yes. Why?” she demanded.

  Her commanding manner had returned. It and the bloodsoaked scarf knotted around her head gave her a distinctly nautical air, like a pirate queen.

  The most direct route to Station 6 was forward. “The hall is…is blocked,” I said. “The blast. The floor is gone.”

  Miss Pike caught the significant tremor in my voice.

  “Your girls?”

  “On the other side.”

  “Ah.” She stooped and peered through the debris to examine the damage beyond. She gasped as her eyes swept across the devastation. “Oh, Lord! Lord have mercy!”

  “My cabin. Gone.”

  Her face registered horror at how close I had come to losing my life. The frantic pounding from the children’s cabin sounded again.

  “How many lost in the blast?” she asked.

  It was a question I could not answer. “My girls…I must join them. You can see I must. Miss Pike, go back the way you came.”

  “Yes, back. The stairs were open, and then up before we go forward to our station? But you?”

  “You go,” I said. “I…I’m going to them…the fastest way.”

  “Elisa, how?”

  “A bit of a ledge remains. Like walking a fence when I was a girl. I can do it.”

  “My dear,” she cried. “My dear girl!”

  “I must try, Miss Pike. But please, send someone down. A ship’s officer. Someone to help them…in case…” I swallowed hard. “Send someone to help me.”

  Miss Pike read the determination in my expression. Her eyes brimmed, and she muttered, “God keep you, Elisa.” Then squaring her shoulders she instructed: “Come, girls. No dawdling. Follow me.”

  I was alone again with my fears, juggling the terrifying prospect of creeping along the tiny ledge against their urgent need. Taking a deep breath, I stretched my foot through the hole and planted it on the narrow rim. The metal shelf was solid under me, and my confidence grew.

  Grasping the wreckage with my bandaged hand, I ducked my head, stepped into the opening, and made the mistake of looking down. Below me the sea surged and crashed. When Newcastle wallowed in a swell the steel canyon filled with streaks of foam and watery fingers stretched up as if to seize me. A puddle of burning oil gestured with tendrils of smoke. When the wave crest passed, the pulsing black mass receded, like a hideous monster preparing to spring. The air was filled with chilly, salt-and-oil-laden vapor.

  I froze in place, unable to either advance or retreat.

  God, help me, I groaned inwardly.

  “Elisa. Elisa? Please hurry! We’re stuck, and Lindy’s hurt. Badly hurt, I think!”

  “I’m coming,” I yelled. “Hold on!” Relinquishing my white-knuckled grip on the last secure handhold, I inched forward. My cheek was pressed against the cold metal. My body might have been tattooed on the wall. I slid my feet sideways, testing each step. My arms outstretched to either side reflected the entreaty of my pounding heart for divine assistance.

  The hall and cabins had been seared by the blast. Dangling scraps of paint hung like flayed skin, tempting me to trust their false support.

  The ledge narrowed. Six inches…five…three…

  My safety rested on my toes and fingertips. There were no further obvious grips. The bulkhead was as smooth as the inside of a well—and just as deadly. How could I go farther?

  Newcastle creaked and growled.

  From somewhere ahead and above me I heard the ship’s whistle wail, a continuous, despairing moan. It was the sound of a death agony that reverberated within the chamber enclosing me.

  Beyond my right hand, beyond an expanse of bare metal, just out of reach, was what remained of a wooden handrail. Right below that desirable goal the rim of deck on which I perched widened again. If I could lunge across the intervening blankness, I would have a renewed handhold and secure footing.

  “Elisa! Are you there?” The cry was agonizingly frightened and desolate.

  Saving my breath for what was coming, I did not reply. Lifting my right foot carefully, gently, I stretched my leg as far as I could, then forced my trembling, unwilling right hand to do the same. I waited for the swell to subside so the ship would be neither rising nor falling when I moved.

  Now! My hand shot toward the rail, grasped it triumphantly. My toes touched the shelf of deck…and slipped off! My shoe fell away, spinning into the blackness to land with a distant splash. The ship rose again, corkscrewing sideways. I lost my balance and tumbled, digging my nails into the wooden bar. I managed to get both hands on the scrap of banister, but my feet flailed for purchase. I screamed for help as my own weight threatened to yank me loose and plunge me into the gaping maw of icy water.

  Answering shrieks of alarm emanated from the cabin as my terror echoed within the hearts of my girls.

  And then my foot touched something solid. It was almost as if a hand were under my sole, steadying me. I pushed off the unseen step, and both my feet regained the ledge.

  The next roll of the ship tossed me sideways again, but this time the motion threw me across the remaining space. I fell on my face, sprawled on carpeted flooring. When I
got to my knees, I was outside the door of my girls’ cabin.

  I slapped the door with my uninjured palm. “Girls, I’m here! I’ll get you out. Don’t worry.”

  The doorframe was bent, the metal so twisted the door would not move when I shoved it and hit it with my shoulder. I hammered at it with my fists, and when it failed to yield, I kicked it.

  It still did not budge.

  A small, white hand appeared through a gap between the portal and the flooring. Nan’s voice, hoarse from crying for help, floated out beside it. When I touched her imploring fingers, she seized mine like a lifeline. “It’s Lindy…she’s really hurt, Elisa. We don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m here now,” I repeated, my frustration at my own helplessness mounting. “But I’ve got to find something to pry the door open.”

  Nan’s grasp squeezed even tighter. “No!” she implored. “Don’t leave us.”

  “But I must.”

  A light flickered out of the darkness. I spotted a glass cabinet containing an axe, a flashlight, and a fire extinguisher. Cries for help had ceased, but the sniffling and sobbing had redoubled since I reached the door. “I’m going to fetch something to break open the door. Nan? Nan! Can you hear me?”

  “Alice! Betsy! Be quiet,” sensible Nan ordered. “Go on, Elisa. I can hear you now.”

  “I say, I’ll be back to pry the door open. I’ll have you out any minute. Now tell me: who’s hurt and how?”

  “It’s Lindy. There was a big explosion. What happened? It threw us all out of bed. The lights went out, and there was a lot of crashing. We called out our names and everyone answered, except Lindy. She’s…the bed tipped over on her. She hasn’t spoken.”

  “All right, then.” I was filled with resolve as I rushed to the fire cupboard and smashed the glass. Grasping fire axe and flashlight, I staggered back. “Listen, girls: I’m going to have to bash my way in. Are you all well clear of the entry?”

  Nan’s fingers fluttered a good-bye as she reluctantly said, “Yes…yes! Come ahead.”

  I prayed for strength as I swung the axe as if intent on felling an oak tree. At my first blow the center of the door panel splintered. At the second the axe head broke through. Three more sledgehammer-like strokes and most of the barrier ceased to exist.

  I crawled through. Three weeping girls were pressed against the far wall of the cabin. Nan was huddled on the floor, shielding Lindy, who was trapped beneath the overturned metal-framed bunk. As I entered, Nan turned her face toward me. An expression of fearful anguish was imprinted there.

  Nan moved aside and made room for me to kneel next to Lindy. In the yellow orb cast by the flashlight Lindy’s cheeks were ashen. A trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping, but her breathing was labored and shuddering.

  I ordered, “Nan, you’re in charge. Take your life vests, coats, and shoes, and go at once to your boat station.”

  “I won’t leave Lindy,” Betsy protested.

  What could I do? I had to get the others to safety but could not leave the girl pinned against the deck.

  “I’ll stay with her. Go! Nan, you and Betsy and Meg and Alice grab your things. Lifeboat Number 4! Like we rehearsed. Find Missus Pike. She’ll get you properly stowed.”

  “What about you and Lindy?” Nan asked.

  “Send help. Tell someone we need help. I’ll be along soon,” I said. “Go.”

  As the girls wove their way out of the skewed confines of the cabin, only Nan looked at Lindy. The others kept their gaze away.

  I heard an officer call to them, “Anyone else down here?”

  Betsy shouted, “Miss Elisa is in the cabin! With my cousin Lindy. Cabin 22. Trapped!”

  I could hear the officer’s calm voice. “Do you know your lifeboat station?”

  “Number 6,” Nan replied.

  “Get upstairs—quickly now!” he instructed.

  Betsy demanded, “What about Elisa? What about Lindy? My cousin.”

  “I’ll look after them. Hurry along now. Station Number 6. There’s just time.”

  The bevy of refugee children tromped up the stairs. The officer progressed down the hallway, knocking on every door, directing stragglers up the dark steps.

  I knew help had come too late for Lindy. She was ashen as she opened her eyes and looked up into my face. “Mummy?” she managed to speak. “Is that you, Mummy?”

  I stroked her hair. “Yes, darling, I’m here.” I tried to console the dying child. The thought of Lindy’s last letter to her mother came clearly to my mind. I had promised to take care of Lindy. I wondered what the woman was doing now, still believing she had protected her daughter by sending her away.

  “Don’t leave…don’t leave…me, Mummy.”

  I felt as though I had failed miserably. “I won’t leave you, my darling girl. I’m right here.” I stooped and kissed her forehead. I held her hand, stroked her hair, and prayed. What had her story been? I tried to remember. Somehow it felt important. I owed it to her to recall.

  It came to me: She had been evacuated from the southeast of England because of the German bombing attacks along the coastal airfields and ports. She had been going to stay with relatives in Canada. She was her mother’s only living child, sent away amid great heartache, because her mother loved her.

  Lindy’s eyes flicked open. She coughed, spraying me with blood. “Mum?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “Mum,” she continued, unheeding, “I’ve had the strangest dream. My chest hurts, Mum.”

  “I know, Lindy. Help is on the way.”

  The pitch of the ship had increased noticeably in the last few minutes. Forward was now significantly down. Back was distinctly up.

  “In my dream, I saw Gramma. Only she wasn’t old Gramma, like when she died. She looked young. She looked like you, Mum. She told me not to be afraid. Why…” A fit of coughing interrupted the girl’s story. “Why did she say that? I’m not afraid, Mum.”

  “That’s good, dear,” I said. “Lindy? Can you hear me?”

  The officer appeared in the doorway. A pool of light fell on me as Lindy shivered and took a few shallow breaths. Too late. Too late!

  I looked up and spread my hands. “I won’t leave her.”

  He squared his shoulders. “Elisa.” He spoke to me as if I were a child in need of comfort. “You must go up with the others.”

  “I can’t. I promised her…I promised her. And her mother. I can’t.” I began to weep. I stooped and placed my face against her brow. “I can’t, you see…”

  He picked his way through the rubble until he towered over me. “She’s going home, Elisa. Do you understand me?”

  “How can I leave her?” I sobbed.

  The officer bent forward toward Lindy. “I’ll take care of her. Go now, or you will die.”

  With a penknife he cut a lock of Lindy’s hair, slipped it into a small book, and pressed it into my palm. “For her mother, Elisa. Take it and go.” Suddenly he lifted me to my feet. “You must hurry. I’ll take care of her.”

  He guided me to the doorway.

  I begged. “Please! How can I?”

  “I’ll see to her now. There’s no time left. You must run if you’re to make it off the ship.”

  Then I thought of Murphy, of my own little ones. Their faces were before me, and I knew how much I wanted to live. “Am I too late?”

  He gave me a stare that made my heart sink. “There are more who will need your help. Hurry along, Elisa. You’ve already done all you can here. I will stay with her.”

  “Stay?”

  An accepting smile curved his lips, and I felt a terror unlike any I had ever known. He would stay? We both knew to remain behind meant death, yet this man made no move to flee. He knelt and caressed the hand of the child. “Just go.”

  I could not speak again. I pressed the volume containing Lindy’s curl into my pocket. Then I turned and dashed out of the cabin. Groping toward the eerie glow emana
ting from the stairwell, I stumbled forward. Gasping for air, I struggled up and up the steep gangway to the panic and confusion of the sloping deck.

  12 Isaiah 43:2 ESV

  14

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  NORTH ATLANTIC

  AUTUMN 1940

  I still had one shoe on. Running and stumbling on a single heel soon proved more dangerous than the bits of shattered glass, so I removed it and tossed it behind me.

  The deck sloped ever more sharply downward as I went forward. When I came to a set of stairs, I had to climb very carefully because of the odd angle; none of the steps were flat beneath my tread. Amid death and destruction I warned myself not to twist an ankle!

  Rising from the relatively quiet lower decks onto the companionway of the first-class cabins thrust me into noisy, frantic chaos. It was like emerging from a London Underground train into the street-level pandemonium of Oxford Circus on the busiest shopping day of the year.

  The corridor was jammed with people in all stages of dress and undress, moving in seemingly random directions. Despite all the evacuation procedures in which we had been drilled, confusion and consternation reigned supreme. Complicating matters was the babble of many languages. French, Spanish, Polish, and Russian refugees all seemed to have lost whatever English they commanded in the struggle to make themselves understood. They substituted shouting and hand waving. This was compounded when the lascar sailors gestured and shouted in their own language in reply to every inquiry.

  My chief reaction was anger. Didn’t these idiots know that a girl—one of my girls—had just been killed? I knew there were other children in need. If the adults couldn’t be helpful, then couldn’t they at least keep quiet?

  Follow me, I gestured, no matter what language I heard, no matter what question was asked.

  I pushed and shoved as I went, determined to rejoin the children. I struggled against the tide of humanity that threatened to carry me backward. The passengers presented enough degrees of unreality to fill the sideshows at a carnival. One man matched the rotund image of a snowman. I realized he was apparently wearing every bit of clothing he owned.