To Make It Count

chapter 7

Nobody seems worried.

As they make their way through the first-class section, everything is business as usual – the men stand smoking cigars and drinking, the women sit in cliques gossiping and sharing late-night cups of tea. Y/n keeps close to her side. “Did nobody notice we hit a giant chunk of ice?”

Camila shrugs. “Either that, or they assume the ship is truly unsinkable.”

Behind them, a group of terse officers walk in a group, speaking frantically in low voices. Among them is the captain and, beside him Bell. He’s holding an armful of papers, likely the plans to the ship. He looks tense and worried. Camila's anxiety heightens. Gesturing to Y/n to be quiet, she edges them towards the group.

“Boiler room 6 is flooded over 8 feet, and the cargo hold is worse. She’s all buckled in along the forward hull.” “Can you shore her up? Stop the flow?” “Not unless the pumps get ahead. We hit it hard, sir, and a long way down the hull.” “Can you see the damage in the hold?” “No, sir, it’s already underwater.” “How many are flooded?” The group moves on, the conversation getting more grim as they walk.

Y/n looks pale. “This is bad.”

Camila nods. “I want to know how bad. Let’s follow them.” They trail behind the group, who seem too preoccupied to notice them, until they all crowd into a small officer’s room. As Bell lays out the ship plans on a large table, Maxwell Lord bustles in behind them in his pyjamas and slippers, hardly sparing a glance for Camila and Y/n as he ties his dressing gown. “What exactly is the meaning of this, Captain? Calling me out of my bed in the dead of night –“

Joseph starts speaking over him. As he explains the extent of the flooding, Camila feels fear grip her. Bell sounds hopeless. His hands shake as hard as his voice as he describes how the water will flood the ship.

“She can stay afloat with the first 4 compartments flooded, but not five. And we breached five. Five compartments are open to the ocean.”

“When can we get underway, damn it?” Maxwell Lord’s pompous voice cuts in. Camila feels seething hatred fill her at his tone. She remembers speaking to the Captain on their tour this morning – “I spoke to Mr. Lord, and he thinks we can make it to New York by Tuesday morning.”. She clenches her fists. He has no idea. He did this, and he has no idea we’re going to sink.

Bell cuts him off angrily. “The water will spill over the watertight bulkheads and fill E-Deck, back, and back, until the bow goes under and the stern follows. There’s no stopping it. From this moment, no matter what we do, Titanic will sink.”

Mr. Lord sputters indignantly. “This ship can’t sink!”

“She’s made of iron, sir. I assure you, she can, and she will. It’s a mathematical certainty" Bell's  voice is hard as flint. It’s clear what he thinks of Maxwell Lord.

“How much time?” The Captain’s smoother tones cut in.

“An hour. Two at most.” A few beats of silence follow the prognosis.

“And how many aboard?”

“2200 souls on board, sir.”

The Captain’s voice has lost it’s smoothness, now. It practically shakes with anger. “I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Lord.”