[Fanfic] Titanic - Part 2 of 2

[pink-vader0001.livejournal.com]

Title: Titanic
Author/Artist: pink_vader0001 
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mostly England, smatterings of America here and there.
Rating: Hard T still
Warnings: Horribly sad, a bit of choice language -- oh, and it's about 12k words.
Summary: “She’s the ship o’ dreams, Arty. Safest ship o’ her time. C’mon, ye really don’ think I’d put me wee baby brother on a ship that could kill ‘im, do ye?”

 

April 14, 1912

Arthur sat in one of the deck chairs just after the first class Sunday service had let out.  Most of the time, Nations held the same beliefs as their people.  Arthur was the same, really.  It was just that most citizens of England only went to church on Easter and Christmas.  But on a ship like the Titanic, going to the Sunday service was like a social gathering.  He had a feeling that only a few people were actually focused on the Heavenly Father during the service that had just transpired.  It was that kind of faux spiritualism that made Arthur occasionally wonder if their patriotism was just as fickle.  Hence why he had retreated to the quiet of the aft promenade.

A man passed by with a leather trap stuffed with all sorts of notes.  As Arthur wondered what kind of hurry he was in, or whether he was always so, the man tripped on the corner of a deck chair which had been moved a touch.  As he fell, his notes sprawled with him, and Arthur sprang to his feet to start gathering the notes as the man gathered his wits.  Not a single slip of paper slid from the polished wood of Titanic’s deck.  Arthur straightened the notes he had gathered and helped the man to his feet, offering him the sheets of paper which he gratefully tucked into his folio.

“Thank you sir, you’re a lifesaver,” the man said lightly, in a soft Irish accent.  Arthur spied the Harland and Wolff insignia on the leather of the folio, and suddenly recognized the man.

“You’re Thomas Andrews?” he asked.

“One and the same,” the Irishman replied. “Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met, no, but your reputation precedes you, Mr. Andrews,” Arthur replied. “Arthur.  Kirkland,” he added after a moment’s thought.  Andrews held out his hand.

“Well, Mr. Kirkland, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  I trust you’re enjoying your trip so far?” he asked, as Arthur took his hand and shook it.

“I am indeed.  This is a fabulous ship you’ve built.  And safe, I hear?”

“Indeed she is,” Andrews replied. “The safest ship you’ll lay eyes on.  I’m not one to tempt fate, but...have you heard of her bulkhead system?”

“In passing,” Arthur replied.  Andrews sat on the very deck chair that had caused his spill, and Arthur took the hint and sat down on the one next to it. “But I could always stand to hear more.  Shipbuilding has come so far in my life, it’s utterly fascinating.” Andrews laughed.

“I know the feeling,” he said. “Titanic has sixteen watertight compartments along her bottom.  She can still stay afloat and limp into port if by some stroke of ill-fortune as many as four are filled.” Arthur smiled.

“Well that’s refreshing to know,” he said. “I was taking stock, actually, and noticed that if these are all standard 65-capacity lifeboats, then there aren’t nearly enough for everyone aboard.  Is that true, Mr. Andrews?” he asked, and the shipbuilder’s expression changed to a butterfly just before it’s pinned to a corkboard.

“That’s true,” he confessed. “About half, actually.  There’s room enough on her deck to fit a whole ‘nother row, behind the row that’s there.  But a higher power than myself deemed that it would make the deck look too ‘cluttered.’ So I was overruled.” Arthur got the overwhelming sense that this sensible Irishman’s nemesis had come in the form of a wealthy Englishman who knew nothing of shipbuilding, or the dangers of the sea.  His gaze turned troubled.

“Rest assured, sir,” Andrews said. “I’ve built you a sturdy ship as well as a beauty.  If you’ll excuse me,” he said as he stood and offered his hand to Arthur again.  Arthur took it and shook it firmly, smiling.

“Of course,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Andrews.”

“The pleasure was mine, Mr. Kirkland,” Thomas replied and set off once more, headed toward the belly of the ship and wondering why Mr. Kirkland’s stunningly green eyes had made him so heart-sick for his home of Belfast.

Arthur turned and put his feet up, lying reclined on the deck chair, and rested his eyes.  The ship was in the hands of God, Captain Smith, and the sea.  And Arthur trusted a solid two out of those three.

When he awoke, it was to the strain of the bugle announcing lunch, and lunch was no different than it had been for some time.  It was sumptuous and rich as usual, and as usual far too bountiful for Arthur to put away in entirety.  Afterward he retired to his cabin, while the women went off to entertain themselves.  He was sorely tempted to send Alfred a telegraph from the ship’s wireless.  Imagine his surprise at getting a telegraph from the R.M.S. Titanic!  If America wasn’t so busy trying to conquer the skies, Alfred had said when news of the Titanic had crossed the pond, he would so cross just so that he could book passage on the greatest ocean liner ever.

And now Arthur was the one on board the Titanic, and boy would Alfred be jealous.

But that would also ruin the surprise, to send him a telegraph.  So Arthur contented himself by sitting down at the rich mahogany desk and writing a long, detailed letter of his experience so far on board the Titanic.  He also wrote to his brothers, complimented Ireland on a job quite well done with the construction of Titanic, told Wales and Scotland that not only could he say with certainty that the English were still lords of the sea but they should sail on Titanic if they ever wanted to visit Alfred.

Of course, the fact that the youngest brother was the canary in the coal mine, so to speak, when it came to sending Titanic across the Atlantic didn’t elude Arthur’s notice.  But he was above calling his elder brothers out on it.  By the time that he was done making imaginary contact with his fellow Nations, it was time for dinner. 

He couldn’t think of going among the flock of normal humans in the dining saloon, but he was dreadfully hungry, so he dined in the a la carte restaurant instead, not caring about the price attached.  After, he took a walk around the promenade deck, watching the sunset and marveling at the still calm of the water below.  Near the horizon, it was like the sun was being reflected in a smooth mirror rather than an ocean.  It was eerily calm.  Even lakes had more waves than this.  But the vibrant red tendrils snaking out from the sun, the streaming trails of Apollo’s chariot lashing out one last time before their return the following dawn, set his sailor’s heart at ease.

He eventually drummed up the nerve to go while away the time with the men in the smoking lounge, playing (and losing) quite a few hands of cards, and drinking only sparely.  By the time he retired to his stateroom, it was nearly eleven o’clock.  By the time his head hit the pillow, it was eleven-thirty.

And by the time that Arthur was just starting to doze, a dreadful groan wailed into his ears from the ship’s iron hull, and she trembled as if frightened beneath him.  Green eyes immediately snapped open, but when the groan and the trembling stopped and nothing seemed amiss, he closed them again and drew a deep breath.  Whatever had just happened, it seemed like Titanic had weathered it.

Still, he had the sense that there was more to the situation than met the eye, and that nagging thought kept him from falling asleep until he noticed that something was quite wrong.  It took him a second to realize why: Titanic’s engines had stopped.  She was at a standstill.

That did get him out of bed, throwing on a robe over his dressing gown and hissing and spitting as he fought to find the lamp and instead found the desk with his toe.  Once the light was on, he didn’t stay long in the room, heading out toward the hallway.  It seemed like not a few of the other passengers had had the same idea, as heads of men, women, and even some children peered out from around stateroom doors.

“What’s going on?” a woman down the hall asked, reaching out to get a passing steward’s attention by grabbing his arm.

“Nothing, madam,” the steward replied, and smiled at her. “We must have just thrown a propeller blade.  That’s all it ever is when the engines stop like this.  Is there anything I can bring you?”

“No thank you,” said the woman, plainly appeased.

“Sir?” called a voice right in front of Arthur, and he turned his attention to the steward – the same one who had helped him when he had misplaced himself four days earlier. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Why has the ship stopped moving?” Arthur asked worriedly, drawing his robe tighter around himself to shield him from the cold.  The steward smiled.

“Nothing to worry about, sir,” he said. “There was a bit of a bump there.  My guess is we just threw a propeller blade.  You can return to bed without a care, sir.  This ship is in good hands.” Arthur nodded his thanks, but as the man walked away he decided he was quite unsatisfied with that rote, stock answer.  He went back inside his stateroom and moved to the wardrobe, dressing quickly in the warmest clothes that he had, feeling inexplicably like he needed to avoid the stewards milling about the hallway as he made his way to the upper decks of the ship.

He had to back against the wall as soon as he emerged on the boat deck, because Captain Smith, Mr. Andrews, and a sooty-faced boiler man rushed past him through the door he’d just come out of.  Mr. Andrews saw him and paused.

“Mr. Kirkland!” he called. “Sir, please go back to your stateroom and put on your lifebelt.”  Arthur’s brow furrowed and he caught Mr. Andrews’ arm when he tried to leave it at that.

“Wait, what’s going on?” he asked.

“We’ve struck an iceberg,” Mr. Andrews replied, and the grave expression on his face said all that needed to be said about the odds. “We’re on our way to inspect the damage. If you’d please...” Hastily, Arthur released the shipbuilder’s arm, sinking against the wall once the man was gone.  He covered his face with his hands, shaking imperceptibly.

“Oh God,” he murmured. “Oh God, oh God, oh God...” There were so few lifeboats.  Not nearly enough.  Mr. Andrews’ words came rushing back to him suddenly, from earlier that very day. “About half”.  About half.  Half of the people on board could easily die because of a bureaucratic fallacy.  Arthur sank into a deck chair.  Men, women, and children.  Nearly every country in the world had someone on board this ship.  Nearly every Nation in the civilized world would be mourning, Arthur was certain.

“Christ!” Arthur snapped, punching the deck chair with his fist.  It didn’t leave a mark, but his body was trembling as if in the aftershocks.  He wasn’t concerned for himself.  Nations were nigh on immortal.  True, most of them were in no hurry to test that, but Arthur felt confident that he, personally, could survive whatever fate had in store for him that night.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to put on a lifebelt.

When he got back to his stateroom, there wasn’t a steward in the hallway.  It was an eerie calm, knowing that all of the passengers in the staterooms lining the hall were soothed, some possibly back in their warm beds, thinking that there was no way that anything bad could happen to the magnificent Titanic.  Arthur, meanwhile, was looking for his lifebelt.  A steward knocked on the stateroom door next to his.  He could barely hear what they were saying, but he knew what it was already.

They were issuing orders for all passengers to don their lifebelts and head to the boat deck.

“Shit!” Arthur swore, because he was in the solitude of his stateroom, and redoubled his efforts.  He finally found the white lifebelt and slipped it over his head, buckling it securely around his middle.  After one look in the mirror, he unbuckled it and pulled it off, shucking his long coat so that he was dressed in only his vest, shirt, and trousers before putting his lifebelt back on.

He’d never minded the cold much.  And if he was going to be going for a swim, he wanted to weigh as little as possible.  His eyes focused on the room around him rather than

He turned toward the door with a start when he heard a knock on it.  He had been staring blankly at his reflection, his mind miles away.

“Yes?” he called.

“Sir, if you would, the Captain has ordered everyone to don their lifebelts and report topside,” the steward called through the door.

“Very well,” he replied. “I had a devil of a time finding the blasted thing, but I’ve got it now and I’ll go up in a moment.” On the other side of the door, the steward’s lips quirked in amusement.

“Splendid, sir,” he replied, and moved on to the next door.  Arthur scrutinized his reflection in the mirror again, straightening his lifebelt, taking comfort in the twinkle of light just behind his left shoulder.  So he had their protection after all.  There was another knock at the door, this one more frantic, somehow, more delicate.

“Arthur!  Arthur!” came the almost childlike cry from the other side.

“Mr. Kirkland!” the softer Southern accent came through next.  The girls!  Oh buggerall, Arthur had completely forgotten he had more than just himself to look after!  He moved to the door and opened it.  Georgette clung to him immediately, trembling like a leaf.  There was something haunting, something almost ghostlike, seeing these terrified young women with their lifebelts flung on over their evening dresses.  He put his arms protectively around Georgette instinctively, which only made her cling to him harder.

“What’s going on, Mr. Kirkland?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes wide with fright, trusting him implicitly to tell her what the worry was.

“We’ve had a bit of a bump with an iceberg,” Arthur replied honestly. “If they’re ordering everyone topside, I’m afraid that means Titanic’s going down.” Elizabeth’s hands flew up to her mouth, and she shook her head, suddenly pale.

“Oh God.  I told my aunt’s maid it was alright to go back to her cabin.  My aunt is still asleep!” Arthur reached out and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll go rouse her now,” he said. “We must hurry, there isn’t a moment to lose.” He didn’t share the heavy burden of knowledge that he bore.  He didn’t want to scare the ladies further with the thought that by the time they got topside, it honestly might be too late.  He couldn’t think that way.  These women were his sole responsibility, a solemn duty that he had taken on himself to make sure that they safely reached New York.

This unexpected wrench in the plan didn’t change a thing.

Arthur shut his stateroom door for the last time, and Elizabeth led the way, Georgette clinging to his hand as they ran to Mrs. Roberts’ stateroom.  Georgette pounded on the door.

“Mother, mother, wake up!” she called. “Arthur says the ship is sinking!  We have to go!” Arthur impatiently reached over the teenager and knocked his own tattoo on the door.

“Mrs. Roberts, please, there isn’t much time!” he said.

“Miss Allen!  Miss Allen!” Almost comically, all three in the hallway turned to the girl running toward them.  Elizabeth met her with a wide-open embrace. “Miss Allen, I went back down like you told me to, but my cabin was flooded,” the girl said.  Arthur blanched, and pounded on the door.

“Mrs. Roberts -!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” the woman replied.  She appeared in the door, with her lifebelt over her shoulders but unbuckled. “I swear,” she said as Arthur took it upon himself to buckle the lifebelt onto her securely. “If we end up just getting sent back down here...”

“You won’t have to worry about that, Madam,” Arthur replied. “Come on, now!”

The boat deck was filled with people milling about, a chilling swarm of men, women, and children all in the ghostly white lifebelts.  A line of sooty-faced men filed by in front of them, calm as can be, sixteen or eighteen stokers.  They tried to sneak into a lifeboat which hung in its davits ready for loading.

“Now wait just a minute,” Arthur said, incensed beyond imagining at the cowardice, but he was cut off by an officer.

“Get out, you damn cowards!  I’d like to see every one of you overboard!” he barked, and when the stokers saw the pistol that he was carrying they obediently filed out.  Arthur made his way forward with the four women frightened and shivering behind him. “Women and children into the boat,” the officer said.

“I’ve four women here, sir,” Arthur piped up, voice tinged with military briskness. “Come along, ladies.” Georgette burst into tears.

“Arthur, Arthur please come with us!” she wailed, clinging to him.  Mrs. Roberts’ maid was the first in, followed by Mrs. Roberts, and then it was just Elizabeth and Georgette.  Arthur didn’t look at the officer.  He knew that he could make a compelling argument to go with them.  Elizabeth climbed into the lifeboat after only a moment’s hesitation.  Arthur knew that by now, he would probably be allowed.  But he pried Georgette’s arms from around him, and saw her into the arms of her cousin.

“I’ll see you later, Georgette,” he said, smiling and waving at her. “Be brave.  I’ll meet up with you in New York, if not sooner.” Georgette said nothing, just hid her face in her cousin’s bosom and didn’t look at him.  Elizabeth met his eyes and smiled, but it was tinged with sadness and understanding.  They both knew.

They would never meet in New York, or ever again.

As the boat was lowered, and his four charges disappeared below the railing, safe and away from the catastrophe he knew was inevitable, Arthur felt a rush of relief.  All he had to worry about was himself, now.  He pulled out his pocket watch.  The time said one-thirty.  There were a few lifeboats still to be lowered.  Not nearly enough, he was reminded.  Not nearly enough.

A distress flare exploded overhead, sending showers of crystalline white light down over the evening.  Arthur walked along the deck.  It was sloping distinctly, now.  She was going down at the head, taking on water at an alarming rate.  Distant strains of music floated through the night, and Arthur marveled at the dedication of the band to play as the world was going to hell around them.  A group of crew members and assorted male passengers were trying, down the deck, to get one of the collapsible rafts off of the top of the officers’ quarters.

For lack of something to do, he ran over to help, setting up a complex ramp of oars underneath it to guide it slowly to the deck.

And like all the other men, he felt a pang of hopelessness when it fell from atop the officers’ quarters and snapped the oars like matchsticks.  As they fought to lift it and get it to the davits anyway, Arthur heard something that was out of place amidst the sounds of panic and chaos.  There was a small boy, dressed in hardly more than rags, hidden behind a deck chair.  The boy could have been no more than four, hiding his face in his knees.  Arthur moved to push the deck chair out of the way and kneel next to him, nearly losing his balance on the slope of the deck.

“Why are you crying, boy?” he asked.  Wide, baleful blue eyes (so much like Alfred’s, like Alfred’s when he was this age and he still needed--) looked up at Arthur, and the boy sniffled and wiped his nose on his hand.

“Got lost,” he murmured, and it became clear that the boy was Irish. “I want my mama,” he said suddenly, setting up a wail.  Arthur smiled, a bit sadly, and stood, bending down to scoop the boy into his arms.  The child sensed that this man meant him no harm, so he put his arms around his neck and held on.

“We’ll find your mum,” Arthur said reassuringly, and the little dark-headed child nodded into his neck.  The child was steerage: that much was obvious. And not wearing a lifebelt.  Arthur moved higher toward the stern, toward where it would be driest the longest.  He was concerned with keeping the boy safe.  There was always the possibility of finding the boy’s mother later, when they were rescued.  He saw Thomas Andrews throwing deck chairs to those people who had already fallen into the water, throwing them anything that they could grab onto.

The futility of the effort would have been hilarious, if Arthur wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.  He held the boy closer, and continued his ascent, using the arm not holding the child to brace himself on the railing as the slope became almost too tall to climb.

“Be British, men!” came a cry, and Arthur looked around for its source.  Captain Smith stood atop the officer’s quarters, and Arthur suddenly understood what the order was for.  He was declaring every man for himself.  He was releasing them from duty, he was telling them to...to...

September 2, 1999

“’Be British...’” Arthur’s eyes were glazed and faraway, and he just stopped talking.  For all intents and purposes, he was back there on that ship, eighty-seven years in the past.  Alfred took off his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Arthur?” he called, after a moment of silence.  Briefly he feared that telling the story had triggered some kind of psychotic break.

“...I’ve always wondered what the opposite of patriotism would be called.” Arthur’s voice was thin, monotone.  Finally his eyes focused again, and bored into Alfred’s eyes with an intensity that sharply reminded the younger Nation just how much longer Arthur had been alive, how much more he had seen. “When a Nation is so proud of his people that it swells inside of him until he feels like he’s going to burst, when he realizes that whatever they do, however stupid they can be, they’re his people and in that moment he loves them so much that he would do anything to protect them.”

Alfred didn’t have a response for that.  A couple of times over his history, he’d witnessed things that had made him proud of his people, sure.  But never anything like this.  Never anything like what Arthur had experienced.  The Englishman turned away, and his shoulders trembled as he clenched his eyes shut.

“And I couldn’t do shit!” he snapped, out of nowhere, punching the arm of the sofa with all of his might.  Tears ran down his cheeks and his shoulders tensed up. “D-damnit... I couldn’t do a damn thing to save any of them!  It was every man for himself, and...and...the best of those men did the noble thing.” Alfred just watched Arthur as he started to sob, and tears coursed down his own cheeks.  Not even a hero could save someone from his personal demons.  Arthur scrubbed at his eyes furiously until his cheeks were rubbed red.  His face was blotchy and his eyes were bloodshot, and he didn’t look up at Alfred.

“I’m sorry, I know you lost people in the sinking too – good people, great people, even.  It’s just... that order...” Arthur’s voice broke, but he stubbornly fought off another bout of weakness, drawing a deep, shaky breath. “’Be British’.  It sounds silly, in a way, but that night, those two words were everything.  You’ve heard of how the band played on until the end, how those heroic men each died to the last because they were trying to keep everyone’s spirits up.  The engineers too died to the man, brave, good men, trying to keep the old tub’s lights burning until she snapped in half.  And the mail clerks...the mail clerks fought to save the mail in the hopes that they would be able to save it.  They lugged enormous mail sacks up from the belly of the ship when she started to flood, going back again and again until the water was too high.  They died defending the mail from the cold North Atlantic, and for what?  It was all lost anyway!” He stared at his hands as they trembled.

“Good men of the Isles stuck to their duties to the very end.  They died doing their jobs: because they were doing their jobs.  That, Alfred, was what ‘be British’ meant.  To carry yourself to your doom with honour and dignity.” He sighed, then let out a bark of inappropriate laughter. “I’m England.  I’m the United fucking Kingdom.  But that night...that night, I...I feel like I wasn’t half as brave, like I wasn’t half as British.  When I found out about those last acts of heroism, I was ashamed.  Ashamed that I couldn’t do more.  That I couldn’t...die with them.”

The silence hung between them for a second.  Alfred’s hands trembled as he fought to keep from grabbing England and shaking sense into him.  The men that night hadn’t been fighting and dying for their countries on foreign battlefields.  They hadn’t been defending democracy or justice – the first world war had been years away.  But in a way, that made their sacrifice all the nobler.  That much, Alfred could understand.  And in a way, he understood why Arthur had wanted to go down with the ship.

But that didn’t stop that selfish part of him from still being glad that Arthur hadn’t.

“What about the little boy?” he asked finally, because he was genuinely curious.  This was the first time he’d heard about a little boy.  Arthur looked up at him in surprise, but then he nodded.

“The boy,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, I was sidetracked.” He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and Alfred held his breath until he was ready to continue.

April 15, 1912

The slope of the deck was still low enough to stand on, but only just.  The boy in Arthur’s arms whimpered.  Arthur saw that he wasn’t going to get all the way to the stern.  And if he couldn’t get to the stern...he was better off jumping.  Even with the boy.  He held on to one of the cargo cranes, detaching the boy from around his neck and setting him on one of the cables.

“Sit tight there,” he said, and his hands flew to the buckle of his lifebelt, detaching it.  The boy’s big blue eyes watched him in fright, and then he looked down the sloping deck into the water lapping up toward them.  He squeaked in fright and clung tighter to the cable.  Arthur followed his gaze and swallowed hard.  But he lifted the lifebelt over his head, and put it over the boy’s.  The unyielding cork and canvas seemed to swallow up the boy, but Arthur pulled the belt as tight as he could anyway, and prayed it was tight enough to stay on him.  He gave the boy a reassuring kiss to the temple, and then turned.

“Climb on,” he said. “And hold on as tight as you can.  Don’t you dare let go, do you hear me?” he asked.  The boy nodded fearfully and wrapped his tiny arms as far as he could around Arthur’s neck.  Arthur looked down, and looked for a way to ease them into the water.  If he jumped, he knew, the boy would let go when the cold hit them.  Then he noticed the slope of the deck, and got an idea.

“Alright, lad,” he said. “This will be just like going down a slide.  It’ll be cold at the bottom, but whatever you do, you can’t let go of me,” he ordered again.  A tiny face nodded against the back of his neck, and he could imagine the boy’s face screwed up in preparation.  He smiled. “Good lad,” he said, reaching back to give him a reassuring pat on the hip.  He inched over to one side of the deck, walking nearly parallel to the wooden floor of the deck now.  He chose a spot where it was a clear slide to the water below, and he carefully, slowly, sat down and closed his eyes, holding onto the rail with white knuckles as his other hand held the boy’s leg around his waist.  One finger at a time, he let go of the railing, and then all at once, clutching the boy to him, not watching as the cold Atlantic rushed up toward them.

It was like a thousand knives digging to the very core of his soul, and his lack of truly warm clothing didn’t help matters much.  The last thing he heard before he went under was a pitiful shriek from the boy on his back, and then they were both under water, and Arthur was just fighting for breath, fighting to get back to the surface.

When he broke water, he gasped for breath, and the first sound that he heard was the boy gasping and coughing.  He had held on.  God bless him, he had held on.  What a good, amazing, brilliant boy.  Arthur laughed with relief, and he couldn’t tell if he was crying or that was just the water dripping from his hair.

“It’s c-cold,” the boy murmured.

“I know it is, boy,” Arthur soothed, and he started swimming away from the ship, for something, anything, floating that could shelter them from the whirlpool when Titanic went under. “Talk to me, alright?  What’s your name?” he asked.

“A-Arthur,” the boy replied.

“That’s a good strong name,” Arthur replied, smiling, already panting a little as the cold knocked the wind out of him. “Go on, keep talking.”

“I...I want my m-mama,” the boy stammered, and sounded on the verge of tears.

“Is...Is your mum pretty?” Arthur asked, because if the boy was talking then the boy was alive.  The boy nodded into the back of his neck. “Answer with words, there’s a good lad,” Arthur encouraged.

“She’s very pretty,” little Arthur replied softly, and he sounded almost sleepy. “’m tired, Mister,” he murmured.

“No, don’t...don’t sleep, you can’t go to sleep until we’re safe and warm, Arthur.” The Nation’s heart seized with worry, but he couldn’t stop swimming.  Swimming was the only thing that kept little Arthur mostly out of the water.  No answer met him. “Arthur?”

“Mm,” the little boy murmured.  Arthur’s heart felt like it was going to break.

“Arthur, stay awake.  I know you’re tired, and I know it’s cold, but we’ll be alright if you stay awake,” he said. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Brothers,” the boy replied. “Four.” Good, good he was talking again.  They were approaching what looked like a field of white shapes.

“Are you the...the youngest?” Arthur asked, paddling harder for a white shape he could just barely make out.  Before the boy could answer, an ear-splitting crack echoed behind them, and the golden light over the water flickered and died, as an echoing groan dragged on for what seemed like an hour to those in the water.  The sound was the hull of the Titanic splitting in two, as her bow broke free and the stern flopped back down to being level.  The waves that the settling of the stern caused floated them away from the ship, which was good because it was nearly pitch black now.  At first, it seemed like the groaning continued even after the ship broke apart.  But as Arthur paddled on, through the burning ache in his arms and legs, he came to the horrific realization of what the sound was.

It was the dying screams of thousands floating in the water.

“Arthur, are you still with me?” he asked to his little passenger. Truth be told, he was glad that the boy was wearing a life belt.  With him on his back, it still kept them both afloat.

“Mhm,” the little boy murmured sleepily. “’m not the youngest.  I was...” he said.  Arthur smiled.  At least the boy couldn’t recognize the sound echoing across the still sea.

“You know what?” he said. “I’m the youngest in my f...amily.  I have th...ree older b-brothers, too.  How ab-bout that?” he asked lightly, still shivering, pulling himself and Arthur through the water, and he felt the boy’s cold lips smile.

“’s funny,” the little boy replied.

“Are your b-brothers nice to you?” Arthur asked his passenger.  The little head shook side to side against the back of his neck.

“They’re...m-meanies,” he murmured, and Arthur laughed.

“M-mine too,” he confessed.  The boy tried to laugh, but it was more of a cough.  The shape in the distance suddenly became clearer.  A lifeboat! “Arthur, Arthur, look!  A boat!” he said.  The little head on the back of his neck lifted.  “W-we’ll be alright now, Arthur, just stay awake a bit l-longer.”

“Mmm...okay, M-mister,” the boy replied, and Arthur redoubled his efforts, not caring that it felt like his arms were going to fall off.  His heart fell when he saw the boat – it was upside-down, and already there were at least fifteen men crouched on the keel.

“Go away, you’ll sink us!” one snapped.

“I h-have a ch-child!” Arthur snapped back, and then the men on the boat noticed that the lifebelt on his back wasn’t attached to him.  One of the men reached out and grabbed the boy by the collar of the life belt.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked.  The boy was complacent as he was pulled to safety.  When they noticed that Arthur didn’t have a lifebelt, the same man who had snapped at him earlier offered him a hand on board.

“I guess one more won’t sink us,” he muttered, to hide his humane concern for his fellow man.  But Arthur’s arms gave out on him, and it took the effort of two men getting their hands under his arms to haul him on the lifeboat.

“How long you been swimming?” the man who had taken the boy asked incredulously.  Arthur got into a sitting position and held out his arms for his little charge, who was passed to him in a bundle of cork and canvas. “The lad’s half dead.” In the dark, Arthur glared at the man.

“He’d be more than half if I’d left him to his own on the deck,” he replied acidly, then rubbed the little shoulders of the icy boy in his arms. “Come on, Arthur, wake up,” he said.  Tiny, frostbitten hands rubbed at his sleepy eyes, breaking ice crystals off of his eyelashes.

“Mm...but we’re outta th’ w-water, M-mister...” the boy mumbled.

“Yes I know, but we’re still cold and wet, Arthur.” The Nation rubbed at his little charge’s shoulders, patted his cheeks, tousled his mousy brown hair to brush off the icicles. “Stay awake.” The man next to him uncurled the boy’s legs and started rubbing them back to warmth too.  The movements in attempting to warm and revive little Arthur were keeping the men warm too, anyway, and besides that he was an innocent child.  The chances were already against him.

After thirty men crowded the lifeboat’s keel, they did have to start pushing people away.  Sometime in the dark, Arthur wasn’t paying attention when, the stern of the great Titanic went under, and the screams across the water redoubled, men, women, and children screaming for help, for the mercy of God.

The only mercy that Arthur found was when the boy in his arms finally started shivering, which meant he was starting to warm.  On the other side of the boat, a swimmer apparently approached their little tentative dry island, because one of the men turned him away.

“God bless you,” the swimmer replied, and with a start Arthur turned to try to see who it had been.  He saw a head of snowy white hair swimming away, never to be seen again.  A tiny hand reached up to wipe at his cheeks, and only then did he realize that he had started crying.

Second Officer Lightoller had climbed on board at some point, and the officer’s presence gave the men comfort and hope.  He had all the men but two (Arthur, because he had to hold the boy, and a man whose feet were nearly frozen off) stand and start rocking to counter the increasing swell of the sea.  And all of the lifeboat’s occupants screamed when Lightoller told them to.

“Boat ahoy!” they shouted as one voice, and even little Arthur lent his voice to the chorus.  They screamed at a regular interval for a while.  But none of the other lifeboats came to their aid.

“All right, fellows,” Lightoller said. “That’s enough.  It’s not doing us any good.”

“...Hey,” one of the other voices said after a pregnant pause. “I think now’s as good a time as any to pray.” No one had a better idea, so they all bowed their heads.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” the man in the dark murmured, and the other men repeated what he said.  Rich or poor, first class or crew, the darkness of the night held no quarter for discrimination.  All men were equal on this cold, desperate night.  When Arthur heard his little charge’s voice stumbling over the words he’d probably been raised on, his own voice deserted him and his throat went dry.  And he realized something.  There was no other sound but their voices.  A chill ran down his spine, cold dread seeping over his nerves.  The screaming had stopped.  He clenched his eyes shut, and started to say his own prayer, one that never left his lips.

The dawn that crawled over the horizon riled up the cold Atlantic.  The lifeboat started slipping lower in the water as the air leaked out from beneath it, despite the best efforts of the men to counter the swell of the sea.  The light illuminated what they had all realized – dead bodies floating in the water all around them, suspended by their ghostly white lifebelts.  The brave little boy in Arthur’s arms sat up and looked at all of the people in the water curiously.

“Why didn’t they get in boats?” he asked. “Mister, why aren’t they moving?  Where’s the ship?” Arthur didn’t answer the boy’s questions, merely wrapped his arms around him and held him close, and tried not to crumble to pieces.

“Boat ahoy!” Lightoller called suddenly, and the men all started shouting with him.  Arthur lifted his head and turned, seeing a nearly-empty lifeboat crawling toward them.  And beyond that, seemingly no more than a toy bobbing at the far reach of their vision, their salvation – a rescue ship!

“Arthur, look!” he told the boy, and pointed at the boat. “Careful now,” he said, when the boy tried to move quickly to see.

“A boat!” the boy observed brightly. “Will it get us, Mister?” he asked, and Arthur nodded.

“It will, my boy,” he replied, and the boy smiled, nestling down comfortably in his arms. “You’ve been so brave, little Arthur.”

“I still want my mama,” the boy replied without missing a beat, before burying his face in Arthur’s chest.  Arthur looked out at the bodies that floated on the water, and wondered if his young charge’s mother was one of those, or if she had even made it to the boat deck at all.

The boat, it turned out, was number twelve.  Slowly, the tired, half-frozen men who had weathered the night bobbing on collapsible B transferred to the security of the bigger, more solid lifeboat.  Little Arthur clung to his savior as if the world would end if he let go, as they made the final jump to safety.  The oars were handed to the men just rescued, so that they could get their muscles moving and warmed as they pulled for the steamship in the distance.  Hope was on the horizon, haloed by the golden dawn, but all Arthur could think of as lifeboat number twelve cut through the water was the lives that had been lost.

“You’re the greatest, Mister,” a tiny voice piped up from his lap, and Arthur was surprised to meet a pair of bright blue eyes.  And he suddenly realized that this boy wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t found him behind that deck chair.  This boy would be like all the other bodies in the water.

So maybe he had been British enough after all.

He held his little charge close, and rested his cheek on the child’s head.  His eyes met those of the man next to him, and he saw an awe and respect reflected there that made his cheeks blush red.  He pressed a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, the gentle swell of the sea underneath them soothing him after the hellish night he’d passed.