Titanic

{Chapter Six - Rose Dewitt Bukater}

.  .  .  .  .

1912

The gleaming, white superstructure of Titanic rose mountainously beyond the rail, and above that, the buff-colored funnels stood against the sky like the pillars of a great temple. Crewmen moved across the deck, dwarfed by the awesome scale of the steamer.

Southampton, England, April 10, 1912. It was almost noon on sailing day. A crowd of hundreds blackened the pier next to Titanic like ants on a jelly sandwich.

A gorgeous, burgundy, Renault touring car hung from a loading crane. It was lowered toward hatch number two.

On the pier, horse-drawn vehicles, motorcars, and lorries moved slowly through the dense throng. The atmosphere was one of excitement and general giddiness. People embraced in tearful farewells, or waved and shouted 'bon voyage! 'wishes to friends and relatives on the decks above.

A white Renault, leading a silver-gray Daimler-Benz, pushed through the crowd, leaving a wake in the press of people. Around the handsome cars, people were streaming to board the ship, jostling with hustling seamen and stokers; porters and barking White Star Line officials.

The Renault stopped, and the liveried driver scurried to open the door for a young woman dressed in a stunning white and purple-striped outfit, with an enormous matching hat. She was seventeen years old and beautiful; regal of bearing, with piercing eyes.

It was the girl from the drawing. Rose. She looked up at the ship, taking it in with cool appraisal.

 "I don't see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauritania."

A personal valet opened the door on the other side of the car for Caledon Hockley, the thirty-year-old heir to the elder Hockley's fortune. Cal was handsome, arrogant, and rich beyond meaning.

"You can be blase about some things, Rose, but not about Titanic! It's over a hundred feet longer than the Mauritania, and far more luxurious."

Cal turned and gave his hand to Rose's mother, Ruth Dewitt Bukater. Ruth was a fortyish society empress from one of the most prominent Philadelphia families. She was a widow, and ruled her household with an iron will.

"Your daughter is far too difficult to impress, Ruth." Cal indicated a puddle. "Mind your step."

Ruth gazed at the leviathan. "So, this is the ship they say is unsinkable."

"It is unsinkable! God himself could not sink this ship!" Cal spoke with the pride of a host providing a special experience.

This entire entourage of rich Americans was impeccably turned out. A quintessential example of the Edwardian upper class, complete with servants. Cal's valet, Spicer Lovejoy, was tall and impassive; dour as an undertaker. Behind him emerged two maids; personal servants to Ruth and Rose.

A White Star Line porter scurried toward them, harried by last minute loading.

"Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, 'round that way, sir--"

Cal nonchalantly handed the man a fiver. The porter's eyes dilated. Five pounds was a monster tip in those days.

"I put my faith in you, good sir." He nodded curtly, indicating Lovejoy. "See my man."

"Yes, sir. My pleasure, sir."

Cal never tired the effect of money on unwashed masses.

Lovejoy pulled the porter back toward the cars. "These trunks, here, and twelve more in the Daimler. We'll have this all lot up to rooms B-52, B-54, and B-56."

The White Starman looked stricken when he saw the enormous pile of steamer trunks and suitcases loading down the second car, including wooden crates and a steel safe. He whistled frantically for some cargo-handlers nearby, who came running.

Cal breezed on, leaving the minions to scramble. He quickly checked his pocket watch.

"We'd better hurry. This way, ladies."

He indicated the way towards the first class gangway. They moved into the crowd. Trudy Bolt, Rose's maid, hustled behind them, laden with bags of her mistress's most recent purchases...things too delicate for the baggage handlers.

Cal led, weaving between vehicles and handcarts; hurrying passengers - mostly second class and steerage - and well-wishers. Most of the first class passengers were avoiding the smelly press of the dockside crowd by using an elevated boarding bridge, twenty feet above.

They passed a line of steerage passengers in their coarse wool and tweeds, queued up inside movable barriers like cattle in a chute. A health officer examined their heads one by one, checking scalp and eyelashes for lice.

Cal guided his entourage out of the path of a horse-drawn wagon, loaded down with two tons of Oxford marmalade in wooden cases, for Titanic's victualling department.

Rose looked up as the hull of Titanic loomed over them...a great, iron wall, Bible black and severe. Cal motioned her forward, and she entered the gangway to the D Deck doors with a sense of overwhelming dread.

It was the 'Ship of Dreams'...to everyone else. To Rose, it was a slave ship, taking her back to America in chains.

Cal's hand closed possessively over Rose's arm. He escorted her up the gangway...and the black hull of Titanic swallowed them.

Outwardly, Rose was everything a well brought up girl should be. Inside, she was screaming.

.  .  .  .  .

Here comes part two of Titanic!  Remember to vote, comment, and share!