Searching the desperate, panic-stricken faces on the decks they passed, and among the boats which were already lowered, Maggie prayed that she would see her friends or her aunt. She saw nobody she recognised.
‘Séamus,’ she sobbed into her hands. ‘Séamus, Séamus, Séamus – I should never have left you.’
It was an old lady who placed her arm around Maggie’s shoulders, assuming that, like all the other women in the boat, she was sobbing for a man she had left behind on Titanic. ‘You have to be strong now my love. You have to believe you will see him again. If not in this life, then the next.’
Maggie stared up at the unfamiliar, wrinkled face, barely able to see through her tears. ‘But, I love him,’ she cried, clutching the woman’s frozen hands and gasping though her sobs. ‘I love him and I want to go home.’
CHAPTER 27 – County Mayo, Ireland, Monday, 15th April 1912
‘Maggie! Maggie! It’s alright. I’m coming.’
Séamus woke in a cold sweat, unsure as to whether it was his own voice he’d heard calling Maggie’s name or someone else’s. She was drowning, calling out desperately for him to help her as she slid under the water. ‘I can’t swim,’ she kept shouting. ‘I can’t swim.’
He sat up in the bed, grabbing for his pocket watch to check on the time. Lighting the lamp by his bed, he looked at the glass face. It was the early hours of the morning, just past two a.m. if his eyes weren’t deceiving him. The dream had shaken him and he got up to fetch a glass of water, looking in on his father as he passed his room. He’d taken a turn for the worse in the last few days and the doctor had told Séamus to be prepared for the worst.
He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the frail old man’s outline until he caught the definite signs of the blanket moving slowly up and down with each laboured breath. He made his way then into the small kitchen.
‘I can’t swim. I can’t swim.’
The words kept replaying in his mind. He knew it was something which had troubled Maggie about the Atlantic crossing; knew that she didn’t care for the water at the best of times. His heart racing, he tried to settle back into bed, but the image of Maggie, calling for help, refused to leave him. He could see her face as clearly as if she were standing in front of him now; her small, heart-shaped face, her lustrous curls falling naturally around her face, her soft, chestnut eyes and small mouth which formed into a perfect cupid’s bow on her top lip.
Trying to put the images of the dream out of his mind, he turned to wondering whether she’d read his letters. He’d been unsure what to say when he’d first sat with the blank sheet of paper in front of him, but when his aunt Bridget had suggested that he write about what he remembered most from each month of his relationship with Maggie, the words had flowed freely, openly. There was so much he wanted to remember about his time with Maggie that he hadn’t struggled to fill the pages. But as he’d reached the final letter, the month they were in now, it had become harder to express his feelings about her going away. He knew she desperately wanted him to go with them, but it was impossible with his father sick. So he’d pondered for many nights what to say to her in that final letter, until it suddenly became very clear. How would she feel, he wondered, if she’d read those final words? Would she be pleased, or angry maybe that he’d made it impossibly difficult for her? Would she write back to him from America with an answer? Would she write back to him at all?
Lying back down on his bed, he closed his eyes and tried to push the disturbing dream from his mind. He just wanted to be with her, wanted to protect her.
For an hour he lay in the darkness, unable to shake his troubled thoughts, unable to sleep. Eventually, he got up, dressed and did what he always did when his mind was troubled, he went outside, to nature.
The pitch-black which fell across the landscape at night was always dramatic, but something which Séamus found exhilarating, the mass of Nephin Mor looming over everything as usual, its brooding silhouette just visible against the blackened sky. A light rain fell, bringing the distinctive smell of the wet, peaty earth from the ground around him. There wasn’t a sound as he walked, with a small lantern to light his way, down the narrow track which led from his father’s cottage to the Holy Well. He hadn’t intended to go there but felt somehow drawn to prayer. He knelt, crossed himself and prayed for Maggie’s good health, and for all those she was travelling with.
He sat then in silence, staring up at the stars, imagining those same stars illuminating the sky above the vast Atlantic Ocean where Maggie would be sleeping now. He closed his eyes and thought about her, willing her, wherever she was, to hear his voice. ‘I’m coming,’ he said out loud into the silent, night air. ‘I’m coming Maggie.’
As Séamus prayed alone in the all-consuming darkness, his father took a last, rasping breath and the covers on the bed were still.
New York, 15th April, 1912
Catherine Kenny was glad of the spring sunshine as she made her way home from her day of work, the soft rays of light bringing some small degree of warmth against the distinct chill which still hovered above the New York skyscrapers.
As she walked down Fifth Avenue, passing elegant society ladies on their way to dinner appointments and dour domestics returning from cleaning the houses of the elegant society ladies so they could start work on their own, she caught snippets of conversation; well-dressed men in their suits and ties, discussing matters of industry and finance, the women fussing about the dreadful noise coming from the building sites nearby.
As she walked further away from the elegant avenue, she overheard the burly construction workers, shouting above the noise of their machinery, talking in a hundred different accents as they continued with the seemingly endless task of building more and more offices for the well-dressed men to occupy, going up higher and higher into the clouds above. The profound diversity and cruel contradictions of this city never ceased to both amaze and appal her.
She passed a few coins to a beggar sitting on the steps of a church, telling him strictly that he was not to buy ale. ‘Get yourself a cup of soup or some hot tea from the Army,’ she said, speaking to him quietly, yet firmly. ‘They will look after you.’
‘God bless you Miss,’ he replied, his accent unmistakeably Irish.
It saddened her to think that his story had no doubt followed the same path as so many other Irish she had encountered since arriving on these shores herself; travelling here in search of a better life on American shores and yet life having worsened somehow by crossing the Atlantic Ocean. She sighed, and gathered her thoughts to the business in hand.
She mentally ticked things off the list in her head as she walked from the Walker-Brown home; things she needed to do in final preparation for Katie’s arrival the next day. Her anticipation at seeing her sister was heightened by the excitement there had been in the Walker-Brown household earlier, when a telegram message from Vivienne and Robert was delivered.
‘Oh, look! It’s from the Marconi Company. It must be from Vivienne,’ Emily Walker-Brown had shrieked, bustling through the large entrance hall of their spacious apartment, the two small Pekinese dogs she kept, yapping at the hem of yet another new skirt.
Catherine was used to these showy displays from her employer and knew that she was required to continue with her dusting as if not hearing the conversation between Emily and her sister who had called in for tea, but that really much of what was said was purely for her benefit.
‘Listen Bea,’ Emily entreated, settling herself on the edge of the chaise longue next to the large, ornate fireplace. ‘She says, ‘Dearest Mother. Had the most wonderful dinner with Captain Smith this evening – quite the occasion altogether. Mr Astor dined with us along with his new young wife. Robert is well and Edmund is enjoying the sea air. We will arrive Tuesday! Fondest affections. Vivienne.’ So they will arrive a day early,’ she continued, standing up and clapping her hands in glee. ‘They will arrive tomorrow! Goodness me, and there is still so much to do to prepare for their arr
ival.’
Catherine chanced a half-smile in the general direction of the two women, the excitement in the room impossible to ignore.
‘Isn’t that terrific news,’ Emily enthused, almost acknowledging Catherine’s presence, ‘and how wonderful to have dined with Captain Smith himself! I believe he is to retire after his arrival in New York. Twenty-six years at sea – no wonder he is ready to retire after all that rocking from side-to-side. It’s a wonder the man can walk in straight line at all!’ The two sisters laughed heartily at Emily’s joke. ‘I presume the dinner was in honour of the many years’ service he has given to the White Star Line,’ she continued. ‘I suspect it nearly killed that dreadful Bruce Ismay to bestow such an honour upon him.’
The sisters set to gossiping then about the many millionaires and influential businessmen travelling on Titanic, the most interesting topic of conversation seeming to be about Mr Astor and the scandal of his recent divorce and the disgrace of his hasty marriage to a young girl, only nineteen-years of age. ‘And him nearly fifty years old. Goodness me, he’s old enough to be her father.’
Catherine busied herself, not interested in their idle gossip, her mind racing at the prospect of her sister arriving tomorrow - a whole day earlier than expected.
As she finished for the day, she plucked up the courage to speak to Mrs Walker-Brown about her hours of work the following day. ‘I was wondering whether it might be acceptable for me to start work an hour earlier tomorrow so as I can leave a little earlier than usual,’ she explained as demurely and politely as possible. ‘I couldn’t help hearing you mention earlier that Titanic is expected to arrive a day early – and I would love to be at the terminal when my sister arrives.’
Distracted by her own excitement at the prospect of Vivienne and Robert’s arrival and the setting of a date for their wedding, Emily Walker-Brown gave her consent. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. I do keep forgetting that you have someone on the ship also! With all Vivienne’s talk of the grandeur of the First Class accommodations, it’s easy to forget that there are others travelling in the lower portions of the ship. That will suit me anyway as I will be asking the chauffeur to drive me to the docks so I can welcome Vivienne and Robert off the ship myself. They say that there will be quite some party to welcome Titanic – I shouldn’t wonder that half of New York will turn out for a look at her!’
Catherine left then to make her way home. It was later than usual, having stayed on a while longer to attend to a few extra chores and make sure that her employer had absolutely no reason to keep her late the following day, as she was apt to do whenever she had visitors arriving.
Idly gazing out of the El train window from her usual seat, she noticed a large number of people gathered outside the White Star Offices on Broadway. It wasn’t her usual stop, but she alighted, drawn by the scenes of the crowds gathered there and wanting to confirm the expected arrival time of Titanic for herself.
Walking towards the mass of people gathered on the sidewalk, she sensed a strange air of tension and confusion. Men and women rushed up and down the stone steps at the front of the offices with a profound sense of urgency. Passers-by turned their heads to observe the commotion as they strolled by, some stopping those already converged outside the building to enquire as to what was happening. Police officers on foot and mounted on horseback moved among the crowds which spilled off the sidewalk into the road, trying to restore a sense of calm and order to the melee. Motorcars and horse-drawn carts stopped in the middle of the road as the occupants conversed with the officers or with the uniformed White Star Line officials who had braved the crowds to pass among them and relay information.
Catherine’s gaze fell on a group of women, dressed in the finest clothing and wearing the most impressive headwear. They stood alongside humble, conservatively attired domestics like herself, who, in turn, stood next to smartly dressed gentlemen in bowler hats and ties, themselves standing alongside dock workers with the grime of a days’ hard labour still evident across their hands, faces and clothing. All of society, it seemed, were gathered there at that moment; all divisions of rank and social class forgotten.
Moving into the throng, Catherine overheard fragments of conversation.
‘An iceberg apparently. She’s limping back to Belfast.’
‘Well, I heard she sank like a stone. They didn’t stand a chance.’
‘My cousin works for the White Star Line and he reliably informs me that Captain Smith personally ensured that all the women and children were safely removed in the lifeboats before any men were permitted to board, himself included.’
Over the shoulder of a man in front of her, she saw a newspaper which bore the headline All Titanic Passengers Are Safe; Transferred in Lifeboats at Sea.
Bewildered and with a rising sense of panic, Catherine continued to move through the crowd, towards the front of the office building. It was then that she saw the newspaper stand, bearing the day’s New York Times headline in wide, black, over-sized typeface as always. Usually she would pay little attention to the words, having no real interest in the latest political scandal or news from Wall Street. The headline today was the most shocking she had ever seen, or would ever see again.
NEW LINER TITANIC HITS AN ICEBERG; SINKING BY THE BOW AT MIDNIGHT; WOMEN PUT OFF IN LIFE BOATS; LAST WIRELESS AT 12:27 A.M. BLURRED.
She simply couldn’t comprehend it, looking frantically around the crowd, not entirely sure what she was looking for. Seeing a smartly dressed gentleman standing to her right, she approached him. ‘Excuse me Sir, is it true? Do you know what has happened?’
He turned to her, a look of gravity and shock on his face. ‘I’m very sorry Miss. I don’t know. I really don’t know. They say she hit an iceberg in the night. Some are saying she’s gone down. Some say she’s returning to Belfast for repairs. We’re waiting for an official from the office to come and tell us the facts.’
‘Gone down?!’ Catherine gasped, her head spinning, her knees feeling as though they would buckle under her at any moment. ‘But everyone’s alright? Aren’t they? My sister is travelling on Titanic.’ Catherine was now desperate to get some sort of confirmation about what had happened to the passengers. ‘The passengers were all rescued weren’t they?’
‘So it seems,’ the gentleman replied. ‘We need to await further news. My wife and young daughter are aboard. I am praying for good news myself.’
At the foot of the stone steps, a woman sat with a young child on her lap and an infant in her arms. Tears streamed down her face, the words of desperate prayer tumbling from her lips. She gazed up and caught Catherine’s eye. ‘It’s gone,’ she wailed. ‘They’re all gone. My husband and my brother, gone Miss. What will I do? Whatever will I do? How will I survive with them gone?’
Unsure of what to say to comfort her, Catherine moved forward and bent down to the woman. Placing her hand on her shoulder she simply said, ‘Courage and faith. We must all try and find courage and faith.’
Unable to process what she was seeing and hearing, Catherine turned then to the other people gathered around nearest to her; women and men, all talking frantically – to each other and to anyone who looked to be in any official capacity at all - trying desperately to get some reassurance that the passengers were alright. It was simply incomprehensible to imagine that anything had happened to the ship at all, let alone that it was sunk. She couldn’t even begin to image what must have happened, or how terrifying the experience must have been. Her poor sister – her poor little sister. She tried to take some small comfort from the fact that at least she had some of the more mature women with her, like Kathleen Murphy and Maura Brennan. They were strong, confident women and at least they would mind Katie and tell her what to do.
Without much thought and barely able to stay upright with the sense of shock coursing through her body, Catherine resolved to stay with the crowds outside the offices and wait for further news. She settled herself on the stone step next to the young woman and her child and infant, pulled
her coat around her and bent her head in silent prayer. The sun began to set behind the towering office blocks and a dark shadow fell across them all.
It was nearly midnight when the first wires started to come through, confirming everyone’s worst fears.
From the Marconi radio station on top of the nearby department store, messages were picked up from the steamship Carpathia which confirmed that Titanic had gone down and that there had been a significant loss of life. Survivors were aboard the Carpathia which was expected to arrive in New York on Thursday night. The survivor names were being transmitted from the Carpathia and displayed in the window of the White Star Line offices.
As news of the scale of the disaster became known, an eerie silence fell across the now huge mass of distressed and anxious relatives and friends amassed on the street and the road outside the White Star Line offices, all the way across to Wanamaker’s Department Store. As people filed into the office, praying that the name of their loved ones would be among those listed as having survived, the first tears started to fall. Catherine watched as men and women emerged from the revolving doors, ashen-faced and weeping, falling into the arms of others as they relayed the terrible news that the name they had been hoping to see was not there.
‘Will you go and look for me Miss?’ Catherine turned to the young woman who was still sat beside her. ‘I can’t bear to go and look. Will you please check the list for me? The names are Samuel Morris, my husband and Jack Philips, my brother. He works for the Marconi Company on the radios.’
She bounced the baby up and down in her arms, trying to sooth its crying.
‘Yes, of course,’ Catherine replied, although she could barely stand the thought of scanning the list for Katie’s name, let alone anyone else’s. ‘Yes, I’ll look for you.’
She stood then and moved up the steps, patiently waiting her turn to start scanning the list.