Bo steers me to the back rail, which gives us a view of the poop deck and the well deck. Dozens of people clutter these third-class decks, but none seem willing to bypass the waist-high gate to the superstructure.
Why the bloody hell don’t they crawl over the gate? Who cares about the rules now? The crew isn’t helping, so they better help themselves if they want to wake up tomorrow.
I strain to see Wink and Olly but don’t spot their narrow forms. “They could’ve gone into the Smoking Room or the General Room where it’s warmer.”
Bo nods. The stubble that covers his chin makes him appear older and more solemn. “But let’s make sure they’re not here first, in case we have trouble getting up again.” He’s back to Cantonese only. I guess the nerves are getting to him.
“How about we split up? I’ll look down there, and you—”
“No. If I lost you, your brother would kill me.” He offers me his arm.
With a sigh, I take it. We travel up the starboard side, a trip made trickier by the press of confused people. A lady faints, and a crowd collects, forcing us to climb a bench to pass them.
Jovial voices lift from a group of men smoking cigars, asif this were a party and the crewmen cranking the davits, the entertainment.
Orders are barked. More boats are swung to outboard. Some hang lopsided, their cables twisting and their ropes whipping about, with crewmen scrambling to right them.
One might think they had never practiced. A performance needs practice, or it will fail.
A woman slips on the iced-over pine slats, and Bo and I catch her between us. She shakes us off, hardly seeing us. “I don’t want to die. Where’s that Great Dane? I didn’t mean to lose him, Phinny. I’ll find him!”
Her words send a charge through me. Whoever Phinny is, he’s not present, at least not in the flesh. Many ghosts are being stirred up by this crisis. I hope they leave the living alone. There’s too much harm on this boat already.
Bo steers me clear of a developing brawl between an officer and a drunk fellow trying to board a boat before it’s swung out. “Sir, you must stand back!”
The drunk man swings a fist, but other men pull him away.
Then, wiping the sweat from his forehead, the officer blows a whistle. “We shall load women and children first! Men, stand back. Let the women pass.”
Bo casts me a worried look. “Maybe you should get on now.”
An offended noise clears my throat. “I’m not leaving until the rest of you can board.”
Bo scowls, and a shadow crosses his face. With a shake of his head, as if to cast off his worry, his eyes comb the crowd for the lads. “I only see first class here.”
He’s right. It isn’t just their clothes, but their better-quality life belts, with thicker shoulder straps and ties, that give them away. Wink and Olly can’t be here. Maybe they’re bottlenecked in one of the stairwells, or stalled elsewhere in the labyrinth-like passages of the ship. They’re clever boots, and as boiler monkeys, they must possess some sea sense. But panic can be a ruthless scamp, slashing the knees of reason.
People peer out of the arched windows of the deckhouse, their faces tight with worry. Some flit from the lounge only to return, like foxes reluctant to leave the safety of the den. Others appear not worried at all, like the spry young man in the gymnasium riding an exercise bicycle.
The boats on the forward end appear less crowded, perhaps because they lie farther from most of the staircases. I count four lifeboats, including a smaller cutter already swung out, plus a flatter boat still covered with a tarp. Maybe the flatter one is the “collapsible” type Jamie mentioned.
A couple pushes past, headed for the closest lifeboat, where an officer yells, “Newlyweds! We will accept newlywed couples, in addition to women and children.”
“What is a ‘newlywed’?” Bo asks me.
“A just-married couple.”
I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I swear Bo’s fingers grip mine more tightly, and despite the chill, my cheeks warm.
Past another deckhouse, marked “Officers’ Quarters,” we stop at a gate that blocks entry to the navigating bridge. The gate is half-open. We steal closer, unnoticed by the crewmen readying the foremost lifeboats on our right. On our left, anopen doorway allows us a direct view into the command center. Brass instruments give the illusion of a populated room, though only four officers stand the watch, including Captain Smith. Their movements are jerky, their voices agitated.
“No one. Take ’em three hours to get here.”
“Where are those damnable flares?”
“Someone call Bell. I need an update on the boilers.”
“Six is underwater. They’re pumping five, and four is flooding, too.”
