right.
Padraig stirred and opened his eyes. “Tara?”
“Hush, little man.”
He looked up at her, dazed. “Mrs. Flaherty? Where’s me sister Tara?”
“Your sister is dead. Drowned, with all the others. You were floatin’ all alone when we pulled you out of the water.”
“No! You’re lyin’! I want Tara!”
“Sure and I wish she was alive, along with me Danny and Tim, but she’s not. She’d want me to take care of you, Paddy. I know she would. A little boy, all alone in the world. We have only each other now. Lay your head back down, Padraig. I’ll look after you now. I’ll be your mother…”
If Padraig had been older, he might have been troubled by Mrs. Flaherty’s brittle smile, by the glassy look of satisfaction on her face.
But he was only six years old. He lay back down to sleep so that he wouldn’t have to think about anything. Not about Tara, or his mother, or what he might face in the days ahead.
Mrs. Flaherty stroked his hair and smiled to herself. This little one was hers now. Danny was dead. Padraig was alive. Out of all the little boats fanning out from the watery burial ground of the great ship, God had seen to it that Padraig was pulled into the selfsame one in which she sat.
It was fate.
• • •
Tara listened to waves lap against the sides of her lifeboat. She heard someone singing—a fragile, plaintive melody that carried out over the cold, clear air like a seagull in flight. She recognized with surprise that it was her own voice, but didn’t stop. Music was the only thing still alive in her. Perhaps it would sustain her.
Her voice gained in strength, each note reverberating with emotions colored from the palette of her soul. The song crested, then subsided. She felt not at peace, but as if she had temporarily put the pain at a distance.
When the last notes died out, a new sound took their place. Applause. An officer started clapping, then several people near him joined in. Soon, all the passengers in the lifeboat were clapping for her. Even Mrs. Rutherford shook herself temporarily out of her trance, to stare at Tara in amazement.
“What a magnificent voice you have, my dear,” someone said.
Tara blushed.
Mrs. Rutherford leaned toward her and took her by the hand. “Where did you learn—?”
“Look!” A shout interrupted her. “There! On the horizon.” A distant flash briefly lit up the sky, then winked out. A moment later, a dull boom sounded out over the water.
The officer in command of the lifeboat looked pleased. “That’s very good news, ladies and gentlemen. It’s a steamer, coming in our direction. She’s firing off rockets to let us know that help is on the way.”
It would be some time before they were rescued. The steamer was still miles away. A chillingly exquisite dawn illuminated the wretched expanse of ocean where so many had died. Bit by bit, the sun spread a brilliant coral glow over the widely scattered lifeboats and smaller, inflatable crafts.
Into view came four enormous icebergs reaching hundreds of feet into the air, dwarfing dozens of smaller bergs in the indigo water surrounding them. They gleamed with cold radiance, as many-faceted as diamonds. The shadows that crawled across their deadly, impassive faces turned them first mauve, then dusky blue, then blush.
Tara, reluctantly, thought them almost beautiful.
• • •
The lifeboat maneuvered alongside the Carpathia with some difficulty. Instructions were shouted; lines were quickly dropped over the side of the ship and the lifeboat was made fast.
Along with the other Titanic survivors, Tara climbed up a rope ladder that was dangling over the Carpathia’s side. One steward had a hot mug of coffee ready for her, another threw a blanket around her shoulders. She was so grateful for their kindness that she wept.
The four days it took the Carpathia to reach New York might have been forty, for all Tara knew. She kept herself apart from the other survivors, standing at
Padraig stirred and opened his eyes. “Tara?”
“Hush, little man.”
He looked up at her, dazed. “Mrs. Flaherty? Where’s me sister Tara?”
“Your sister is dead. Drowned, with all the others. You were floatin’ all alone when we pulled you out of the water.”
“No! You’re lyin’! I want Tara!”
“Sure and I wish she was alive, along with me Danny and Tim, but she’s not. She’d want me to take care of you, Paddy. I know she would. A little boy, all alone in the world. We have only each other now. Lay your head back down, Padraig. I’ll look after you now. I’ll be your mother…”
If Padraig had been older, he might have been troubled by Mrs. Flaherty’s brittle smile, by the glassy look of satisfaction on her face.
But he was only six years old. He lay back down to sleep so that he wouldn’t have to think about anything. Not about Tara, or his mother, or what he might face in the days ahead.
Mrs. Flaherty stroked his hair and smiled to herself. This little one was hers now. Danny was dead. Padraig was alive. Out of all the little boats fanning out from the watery burial ground of the great ship, God had seen to it that Padraig was pulled into the selfsame one in which she sat.
It was fate.
• • •
Tara listened to waves lap against the sides of her lifeboat. She heard someone singing—a fragile, plaintive melody that carried out over the cold, clear air like a seagull in flight. She recognized with surprise that it was her own voice, but didn’t stop. Music was the only thing still alive in her. Perhaps it would sustain her.
Her voice gained in strength, each note reverberating with emotions colored from the palette of her soul. The song crested, then subsided. She felt not at peace, but as if she had temporarily put the pain at a distance.
When the last notes died out, a new sound took their place. Applause. An officer started clapping, then several people near him joined in. Soon, all the passengers in the lifeboat were clapping for her. Even Mrs. Rutherford shook herself temporarily out of her trance, to stare at Tara in amazement.
“What a magnificent voice you have, my dear,” someone said.
Tara blushed.
Mrs. Rutherford leaned toward her and took her by the hand. “Where did you learn—?”
“Look!” A shout interrupted her. “There! On the horizon.” A distant flash briefly lit up the sky, then winked out. A moment later, a dull boom sounded out over the water.
The officer in command of the lifeboat looked pleased. “That’s very good news, ladies and gentlemen. It’s a steamer, coming in our direction. She’s firing off rockets to let us know that help is on the way.”
It would be some time before they were rescued. The steamer was still miles away. A chillingly exquisite dawn illuminated the wretched expanse of ocean where so many had died. Bit by bit, the sun spread a brilliant coral glow over the widely scattered lifeboats and smaller, inflatable crafts.
Into view came four enormous icebergs reaching hundreds of feet into the air, dwarfing dozens of smaller bergs in the indigo water surrounding them. They gleamed with cold radiance, as many-faceted as diamonds. The shadows that crawled across their deadly, impassive faces turned them first mauve, then dusky blue, then blush.
Tara, reluctantly, thought them almost beautiful.
• • •
The lifeboat maneuvered alongside the Carpathia with some difficulty. Instructions were shouted; lines were quickly dropped over the side of the ship and the lifeboat was made fast.
Along with the other Titanic survivors, Tara climbed up a rope ladder that was dangling over the Carpathia’s side. One steward had a hot mug of coffee ready for her, another threw a blanket around her shoulders. She was so grateful for their kindness that she wept.
The four days it took the Carpathia to reach New York might have been forty, for all Tara knew. She kept herself apart from the other survivors, standing at
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