Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

“He’s one of them, same as the Captain. Wouldn’t listen,” muttered Ransom. “I mean when it might’ve done some good to listen.”

“I hardly see how this is Mr. Lightoller’s fault at all; I mean he at least read Declan’s journal, and he was first to come round.”

“A toast to Mr. Lightoller!” exclaimed Thomas. The trio was drinking to everyone and everything now, but Declan had slowed his intake of wine.

“We can hardly hold Captain Smith at fault either,” added Declan.

“If that silly man, and his officious officers, and that damned Dr. O’Laughlin had listened to us at the outset, Declan, we might’ve had a chance!” wailed Thomas again.

“All may not have been lost,” finished Alastair, head down, eyes focused on his shoes, which seemed to be whirling about thanks to the whiskey. “Still, wish I had new pair of shiny shoes to go out in. These are for shit!”

“Perhaps if you asked the captain nice,” joked Declan, smirking.

“He did look your shoe size,” finished Thomas, and the boys had a good laugh at Ransom’s expense.

After feigning hurt and saying he was much bigger than Smith, Ransom joined in the laughter.

“Frankly, I don’t care to ask Smith for a thing ever again. Perhaps I could win a new pair at cards, I mean before the ship descends.”

“Now there’s a gamble,” said Declan.

“Time’s been our enemy from the beginning, now hasn’t it, boys? Damned that Smith, and his officious fools like that Dr. O!”

“Alastair, come on!” Thomas leaned into the bar. “Who do you know could swallow a tale like the whopper we spouted? True or not!”

“Anyone here in this place would believe us in the blink of an eye.” Declan pointed about the room while draining his fourth drink. “Fantastic architecture in here, really. I mean look at the place… really look at it, Thomas.”

“I always imagined myself dying in a barroom in Chicago,” Alastair said in a grim tone. “Nothing so grand as this, boys!”

Titanic ’s Grand Saloon and entryway were advanced design and magnificent construction—even by modern day Victorian standards found in the richest estates in England and America. Completely enclosing the winding marble staircase, gilded columns supported a vast framework of the most expensive and exquisite wood sculpture found anywhere. Carved walnut flowers adorned the stairwell from floor to ceiling. The luxuriousness of this place filled the senses: ankle-deep oriental carpeting, horse-hair sofas, and crystal chandeliers throughout—all now slowly drifting to hang at an unnatural angle.

Suddenly from outside and high above the ship came a strangely persistent roar like the sound of a passing train. “What is happening?” was on everyone’s lips.

“I suspect,” said Declan to his friends, “it’s caused by excess steam from the idling engines.”

“That’s it. Declan’s got it,” added Ransom.

Declan explained to Thomas, “Steam makes its way up a pipe to the top of the smokestack and is released there.”

“Makes conversation difficult, to say the least,” added Thomas. “Perhaps if we get drunk enough—” Thomas laughed more—“we won’t have any need of conversation.” Ransom laughed too, but young Declan could find no more laughter in himself; he’d gone suddenly silent. He watched passing ladies and gentlemen who had been abed now lumbering by the windows of the Grand Saloon, a parade seeking the boat deck on both port and starboard sides. The men and women wore grey and beige life jackets over their expensive suits and fur coats, some of the ladies even wearing huge feathered hats in peacock fashion.

Thomas and Ransom joined Declan at the window. “Looks like the souls on their way to the boat that’ll take them across the River Styx, don’t they?” asked Ransom. “Dante’s Inferno,” muttered Thomas.

“The parade’s begun… news is finally getting ’round the ship,” Declan told his friends.

“Lifeboats.” Ransom shuddered at the thought. “A mechanism of suicide to avoid death.”

They saw Thomas Andrews leaning against a mantel at the far end of the room, staring into a fireplace as if reading the flames. The man looked as lonely and dejected as a hopeless, jilted lover.

“He’s learned the worst of it, I suspect,” said Ransom.

“I imagine Smith’s finally told him the whole story,” added Declan.

“That’d explain the blank stare on his face.” Thomas lifted two bottles, one of ale, the other whiskey and poured Varmint a heftier drink, then poured for Alastair, while Declan poured another of wine for himself. When Andrews looked in their direction, Thomas hefted the whiskey bottle high as if to invite him to join them.

Instead of joining the ‘losers’ at the bar, Andrews stepped to the bandleader, whispering into Wallace Hartley’s ear, and Hartley then nodded repeatedly. Andrews next took the stand, and the bandleader shouted for everyone’s attention, gaining all but the card players’ notice. At their table, the card sharks were fixated on their poker game so their chatter continued.

Andrews, in a solemn tone, introduced himself and added, “I am speaking for your captain, Captain Smith who wishes for everyone to go to your staterooms, find the life jackets tucked below your beds, and make your way up to the boat deck.” He paused a moment, long enough to give Ransom and his party a nod as they toasted him. “We appear to have struck an iceberg, and it could get… well, dicey.”

No one moved.

No one wanted to leave the well lit, warm room for the chilled April 14 thnight, and certainly, no one wanted to get on board a lifeboat. A lifeboat in the mind of most equated to being marooned, a lingering death at sea, or moreover suicide.

Behind them, however, the bartender fled for his berth and his life jacket and a possible seat on a lifeboat. Ransom sauntered around the bar, lifted four brandy bottles, and eased over to the card game and asked in.

The man who seemed in charge of the sharks looked him up and down.

A second asked, “What’ve you got there?” inquiring about the four bottles dangling from his fingers.

“Chips… chips, of course, and I should like to play for a pair of shiny, new shoes,” he replied.

Shoes?” asked their leader, the others laughing.

“I would like a size eight and a half. Anyone here an eight and a half?”

The card players broke into even more raucous laughter, but one whom the others called Konrath snatched off his shoes, slammed them onto the card table, and announced, “I’m a nine. Let’s play cards.”

The leader, a fellow the others called Walker, conferred with his cohorts primarily with eye and head movements, indicating he agreed with Konrath. He finally pointed to an empty seat for Ransom and said, “Join us, Constable.”

“You know who I am then?”

“It’s our business to know who’s who on board,” said Walker with a serpent’s grin, “and you have become something of a celebrity here, chasing a killer they say.”

“Then my reputation precedes me.” Ransom snatched out a cigar he’d saved from his time in Dr. O’Laughlin’s clinic, and on chewing off the end, another player lit it for him. He puffed and sucked in the smoke, whirling it about his palate before exhaling. It appeared these once likely raw riverboat gamblers had traded in their winnings for a chance at men like Astor and other wealthy marks here on the high seas.

“Gambling with the richest men on the planet aboard this floating palace ought to’ve netted you fellows tons of cash.”

“Are you here to jabber or play?” asked the one they called Savile.

Ransom puffed anew, smiled wide, and let out a long sigh. “Ahhh… what more could a man want on his way to Kingdom Come, gentlemen?”