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Authors: Charlotte Rogan
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never saw him before the day of the disaster. My experience of the deckhands and servants was as uniformed furniture, usefully located for the convenience of the passengers, and by passengers I mostly mean Henry and me. I was newly dazzled, not only by the ship’s grandeur, but by Henry, who was proving as substantial in personality as he was in breeding and means. In London, Henry had arranged for me to purchase a new wardrobe, and I glided up and down the decks like a fairy princess, intensely but selectively aware of my surroundings, so that I noticed the chandeliers and fluted champagne glasses and the sunsets that spilled buckets of color across the sky, but not the intricate mechanics that allowed the meals to be served on time or the ship to keep to her course. I have mentioned seeing the Colonel and Mrs. Forester on board; eventually, I also remembered Mrs. McCain, for she could often be found playing bridge or solidly ensconced with a book of fiction in the reading room on the first deck, but I can’t say I remember her companion, Mrs. Cook, or her servant, Lisette.
Later, I had a lot of time to think about the ship—about what I remembered and what I didn’t—and I tried to apply what Mr. Sinclair had told us about the science of remembering and forgetting. Dr. Cole told me that the mind can work to suppress traumatic experiences, and I suppose that is true, but sometimes I think the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person’s attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two.
I remembered one incident to do with the Empress Alexandra ’s crew, however. As the ship prepared to set out from Liverpool, I was standing at the rail and gazing with astonishment at the crowds of well-wishers who had come to wave us on our way, when Captain Sutter came striding along the deck as if he were restraining himself from breaking into a run. His boots made a great clatter, and he was followed by several seamen, who were struggling under the weight of two large wooden chests secured with massive locks. The captain kept glaring back over his shoulder and muttering, “You fools!” and then he would look ahead again and shout out, “Pardon me, pardon me,” in order to clear a path through the crowd of passengers trying to spot their loved ones on the dock below.
“Why didn’t you take those straight to the safe room?” the captain hissed to the men just as he brushed past me. “You might as well have posted an advertisement so that any thief will know exactly what to look for!”
I followed along at a distance, pretending to scan the faces in the crowd whenever the captain looked back to chastise his men, but he was preoccupied and took no note of me. When he descended a set of stairs, I held well back, my heart pounding as if I were transgressing some unwritten law, but I had no trouble making out what was said in the echoing stairwell. The group soon stopped at a door next to the purser’s office, and the captain called out: “Mr. Blake, did you bring the key?” I stayed in the shadows, then hurried back up the stairs so I wouldn’t be discovered when their attention turned from their task, as it was eventually bound to. I supposed the door led to the safekeeping room where they had stored the box containing the necklace Henry had bought me in London, as well as my rings and Henry’s heirloom watch. This is how I knew that what Penelope Cumberland later told me about two chests full of gold was the truth.
Henry was more interested in the other passengers than I was, but he was always attentive to me, and he more than filled my need for human companionship, which has always been low. He wouldn’t have stayed up late to play cards and talk about politics in the smoking room if I had asked him not to, which I never did. I liked to have time to myself to fix
Later, I had a lot of time to think about the ship—about what I remembered and what I didn’t—and I tried to apply what Mr. Sinclair had told us about the science of remembering and forgetting. Dr. Cole told me that the mind can work to suppress traumatic experiences, and I suppose that is true, but sometimes I think the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person’s attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two.
I remembered one incident to do with the Empress Alexandra ’s crew, however. As the ship prepared to set out from Liverpool, I was standing at the rail and gazing with astonishment at the crowds of well-wishers who had come to wave us on our way, when Captain Sutter came striding along the deck as if he were restraining himself from breaking into a run. His boots made a great clatter, and he was followed by several seamen, who were struggling under the weight of two large wooden chests secured with massive locks. The captain kept glaring back over his shoulder and muttering, “You fools!” and then he would look ahead again and shout out, “Pardon me, pardon me,” in order to clear a path through the crowd of passengers trying to spot their loved ones on the dock below.
“Why didn’t you take those straight to the safe room?” the captain hissed to the men just as he brushed past me. “You might as well have posted an advertisement so that any thief will know exactly what to look for!”
I followed along at a distance, pretending to scan the faces in the crowd whenever the captain looked back to chastise his men, but he was preoccupied and took no note of me. When he descended a set of stairs, I held well back, my heart pounding as if I were transgressing some unwritten law, but I had no trouble making out what was said in the echoing stairwell. The group soon stopped at a door next to the purser’s office, and the captain called out: “Mr. Blake, did you bring the key?” I stayed in the shadows, then hurried back up the stairs so I wouldn’t be discovered when their attention turned from their task, as it was eventually bound to. I supposed the door led to the safekeeping room where they had stored the box containing the necklace Henry had bought me in London, as well as my rings and Henry’s heirloom watch. This is how I knew that what Penelope Cumberland later told me about two chests full of gold was the truth.
Henry was more interested in the other passengers than I was, but he was always attentive to me, and he more than filled my need for human companionship, which has always been low. He wouldn’t have stayed up late to play cards and talk about politics in the smoking room if I had asked him not to, which I never did. I liked to have time to myself to fix
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