Titanic Ashes by Paul Butler Page B

yet, so none of it is real.
If he skips away now, if he weaves downwards into the
ship away from the familiar, through steerage, into the
bowels, he will be able to un-imagine it all. He will die as
Thomas Ismay’s son and heir, a man always destined to
out-build his father. He will exit the world a success. The
new world, the one of agonizing pain and unmitigated
disaster, will be forever unborn.
    Something breaks the quiet, no more than a murmur
really, from the jerking collapsible C, but he catches the
words.
    “Someone will have to pay, that’s for sure.”
    He finds himself nodding silently in agreement, as
though he were a passenger, quite outside his own
clothes. Recompense does indeed follow a tragedy that
has been inflicted by human agency. Hard-earned money
paid everyone’s passage on this magnificent ship, whether
it is the first-class industrialist’s family, the second-class
headmaster, or the humble steerage passenger hoping to
build a life as a fruit farmer somewhere in the great
American interior. They gave the White Star Line their
money and their trust. In the tipping deck, the violently
creaking davits, in the distant thunder of falling lamps
and tables, he feels injustice and betrayal just as they do.
There’s something comforting in the truism: someone will
have to pay; it’s solid and reliable like the ground beneath
one’s feet when all else is scattered.
    It takes a while, though less than a second perhaps, for
Ismay to realize that the “someone” referred to can only
be him. The speaker, whose face now drops almost level
with the deck, didn’t know that, of course; she likely doesn’t know who he is, yet it mars the oblivion of which he’s
been dreaming. His father built ships and so did he. But
everything has changed. He remembers the image of Saint
Sebastian from his Religious Studies school book, thetortured face and the dozen or so fiery arrows burning
into his skinny flesh. This is the future beyond this
moment should he choose to live through it. He must pay.
    “Hold it!” cries Wilde to one of the seaman. “Slower
your end. Wait, wait, crank it back an inch and start
again.”
    The lifeboat rim thumps against the hull again and
seamen inside push carefully with the paddle end of their
oars to keep it clear.
    “Well, Ismay?” says Carter. “What about it? There’s no
one else on deck.”
    Has the man been reading my thoughts again? Ismay
wonders. Carter lifts his hands, palms out, as though to
signal futility, then with the careless ease and balance of
an athlete steps onto the boat.
    “Trouble, Mr. Wilde?” asks First Officer Murdoch.
Ismay hadn’t noticed him approach and wonders now
whether Murdoch is making reference to Carter, who is
now seated.
    “We’re trying to keep it clear, sir; we’ll have it in a
moment.”
    A single oar paddle keeps the lifeboat rim several
inches clear.
    “All right. Hold it steady a second.”
    Wilde and Murdoch both turn and look expectantly at
Ismay.
    The decision, Ismay realizes, is made. It’s just a question of making his limbs obey. Spider-like, they do, as he
clambers quietly aboard. Carter’s hand comes under his
arm. Someone else shifts to the side.
    “Lower away, ” comes the order.

    “ MILES AWAY AGAIN , FATHER ?”
    “Yes, miles away.”
    It’s a radical change, that he should admit it, and so
effortlessly. Evelyn smiles, and a kind of comfort settles
over them. The acceptance of it all—that he is the “villain”
who stepped onto the lifeboat, that she is the furious
young woman who has caused their near ejection from
the restaurant—seems like a balm. What else can touch
them now, after all? Even the frantic energy with which
the surly young waiter hands the dessert menu first to
Evelyn, then to Ismay, can’t quite dispel it. The man
stands, hands behind his back, to the rear of Ismay’s chair.
    “Take your time, Evelyn dear, ” Ismay says.
    As his eyes skim the offerings, everything from French
cuisine