Twenty Minutes till Midnight

By Rebecca Morgan

North Atlantic Ocean, April 14, 1912, 10:00 p.m.

“Oi!” Jewell says as he drops onto the deck. “Keep a sharp lookout for ice, particularly growlers.”

“Sea’s calm tonight.” Symons lands beside him and rubs his hands together. “It’ll make it rougher. Keep your eyes peeled, Fleet.”

“Thanks,” I respond tightly. I always dreamed of being on lookout. And just because the Titanic gave me my first opportunity does not mean I’m inept. I know perfectly well what calm seas mean.

“Not that you have anything to worry about.” Jewell chuckles, slapping my back. “We could be warm in our beds instead of being out here. White Star said God couldn’t sink this ship.”

I cringe at his words as I ascend to the crow’s nest. Here, ninety feet above the water line, the great expanse of ocean before me, I feel as close to God as a man can get.

11:39 p.m.

“Twenty minutes. I’ll be happy when our shift ends.” Lee stomps his feet beside me, blowing into his hands.

“It’s the most beautiful night I’ve ever seen. The stars are like lamps.”

Lee scoffs. “Save the poetry, Shakespeare. Your ‘lamps’ are doing little to help us see.” He shakes his head.

“Well, I…” My words hang frozen in the air. I squint, eyes burning. A black shape materializes ahead in the water.

I swear, grabbing the bell rope with numb fingers. Pull it three times before telephoning the bridge. It rings once before it’s picked up, Moody’s voice coming across.

“What do you see?”

“Iceberg, right ahead!” I cry. I can hear Moody’s commands before he hangs up.

“Please,” I whisper as the ice looms closer, a guardian of the waters. “Come on.” The Titanic turns like a great lumbering beast. But it isn’t fast enough—the ice is nearly upon us.

“Take a breather.” Lee admonishes. “They can’t just—”

The ship shudders, and Lee and I crash into each other. Metal creaks and groans as bits of ice rain down on the deck. Cries of surprise sound from below.

“Sweet Mary,” Lee breathes as the ship glides on past the cold and callous ice. It’s massive, rough, and razor sharp. And yet, at the same time, frighteningly beautiful.

12:00 a.m.

Lee and I climb down from the nest. The bow of the Titanic is disappearing in the Atlantic.

This can’t be happening.

Lightoller hurries by. “We have two hours at most. Prepare the lifeboats. Women and children only. Do not load until the captain gives the order.”

Passengers watch us warily as my mates and I ready the lifeboats. Some disappear back into the ship. No doubt to get their valuables. Or refusing to believe we are sinking.

A gunshot. A hiss. The wailing of a ghost. Tendrils of light and smoke stand stark against the sky as the flares are lit. Their presence drives home just how much danger we are in.

The deck becomes crowded with people clawing for a spot on the lifeboats, and the truth becomes all too clear. There are not enough boats to save us all. I swallow, throat thick and tight. How did such a thing happen?

I begin to load the lifeboat. As I turn to beckon more passengers, Lightoller’s harsh whisper echoes in my ears. “Do not fill them to capacity. We have no idea if the davits can support the weight of a full lifeboat.”

No, we wouldn’t, would we? We never had a drill. Never tested them.

Another flare illuminates the hard set of Lightoller’s jaw. With a heavy heart, I help him lower the half-empty boat, trying to ignore the looks of hopelessness people give. The slurs they hurl our way.

People become more desperate, pushing and shoving as the ship sinks lower. The begging is killing me.

“Fleet!” Lightoller calls from where he’s loading lifeboat number six. A man sneaks inside while he’s distracted. “Row,” he commands, and I clamber into the boat. White faces and wide eyes look back at me. As we are lowered, people toss children to us.

I’ve barely handed off a wailing bundle of blankets before a boy is hurled my way. Vomit and bits of blue stain his nightshirt.

More flares light the sky.

But no help will come in time.

My muscles warm as I propel away from the disaster. At a safe distance, I let the oars slip from my hands. The ship is still aglow, its soft light illuminating the hell unfurling before me.

Passengers jump, crashing into the water. Gunshots splinter the air. Pleas and cries and wails. The water is littered with hundreds of bodies alive and dead.

The lights are extinguished, robbed of their power source as the funnels fall like trees toppled by a wind.

Seconds, minutes, maybe hours pass in an agonizing stream. Wood creaks, metal shrieks, and the Titanic splits down the middle, as easily as a toy broken by a child. The bow disappears as people scramble up the stern like ants. The propellers are exposed. Their sheer might and majesty make my blood run even colder. The stern rests upright in the water, and unwarranted hope blooms inside me.

But then it, too, is sucked beneath the surface where muffled explosions sound. The water boils and froths before settling smooth as glass.

2:20 a.m.

The Titanic is gone. Falling to dark unknown depths where no man will ever find her. An unmarked grave.

Who was man to claim himself greater than his Creator? To assume that God couldn’t command the seas and those that dared to cross her?

Did God blind my eyes to the iceberg to show the foolishness and smallness of humankind?

Perhaps it was fate? A series of failures of mortal man?

Or—God forgive me—did I send hundreds to a watery death?

I stifle a sob as I bury my face in my hands.

I suppose I will never know.

Iceberg, right ahead, said seconds too late.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan has been writing stories since before she could read—or at least, she thought she was! All these years later, she is definitely writing, having written four novels and countless stories and poems. Rebecca aims to write stories that heal and bring healing through the written word. Besides writing, Rebecca loves cooking, reading, journaling, blue oceans, and salsa. She lives in the South with her family.

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