“We’re getting on that,” Jamie says flatly.
“You mean swim?”
Two men scramble past us, almost knocking me down, but Jamie grabs my arm. “This way.” He marches to the ladder leading up to the roof.
“Wait! Where are you going?” I pull myself up the ladder after him.
The roof over the officers’ quarters sweeps before us, empty of people. Past the first smokestack, water has begun to flood the bridge. I can’t help thinking about the proud Captain Smith, whose career will surely plummet with his ship. Even if he lives, there can be no surviving this.
On the starboard side, another collapsible is barely visible, growing smaller as its occupants row it away. Ahead, the foremast has sunk so low, the crow’s nest appears to float on the water, its brass bell swinging like a lantern. To port, the tiny light that might have been our savior has grown no bigger, still just another cold and unreachable star.
Clammy beads of sweat prickle my skin. We’re alone out here in this jungle. Who will save us but ourselves?
Jamie reaches the part of the railing where the two ropes connecting to the collapsible have been knotted. A strong current stretches the ropes taut, as if the lifeboat and the Titanic were engaged in a tug-of-war. “We’ll walk across these two lines. It’ll be a cinch, two tracks to the end just like a railroad. The less time we spend in the water, the better.”
“But, Jamie, I can barely feel my feet. How am I supposed to—”
“You won’t fall in. I’ll be right behind you. Quickly, before the boat breaks free or they cut the line. You can do this.”
He helps me up to the rail. He’s done it a thousand times, but this time feels like the first.
My heart flip-flops like a landed fish, and my pins have become pillars of ice. I doubt I can make it even one step before falling in. In theory, walking two lines should be easier than one. But not in the middle of the barking Atlantic Ocean, with ropes that can go wavy at the whim of the current. And not when you’re trembling so hard, you could shake all the bones clear of your body.
Below me, still holding my hand, Jamie’s face clouds with worry. Somehow, seeing his distress knocks mine down a notch. Fine. I’ll do this. If only to stop him from looking like his face might crumble off.
I blow a puff of air at him for luck. He blinks, then blows one back, giving me a lopsided smile.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out a numb foot and test the line. It’s hard as a rail. Balancing, I reach out my other foot. Only about ten inches separate the lines. I’ll have to make this fast, letting my momentum make me light.
Life is a balancing act. You could be killed walking down the street, but you don’t let that fear stop you. You just practice until the fear is no longer part of the equation.
I let go of Jamie and begin to move.
The ocean spits and hisses just a few yards under me, rising higher with each step forward. Squinting to keep my vision clear, I muscle the fear away, the devil that must be tamed. As my foot slips off one rope, I alight to the other. Back and forth, light as a mosquito.
Men shout. Some cry. Bodies flail in the water, their fear like crab claws, pincering my attention from every angle. Wrenching my eyes from the chaos, I focus on my footing. The collapsible takes shape before me, but I dare not look at it directly. As if sucking in a breath, I draw my mind inward, where there is only lightness, air, and wings.
The road wobbles. A drowning man has grabbed the rope on the left. Brackish curls obscure most of his face, except for his crooked nose. It’s Skeleton!
My right foot clutches at its line, and I teeter, trying to keep from falling.
Quickly, I bring my left foot to join the right, levering my arms.
Skeleton loses his grip on the rope. With a wail that rattles my soles, the ocean snatches him away.
I don’t spare another thought for the man’s wretched fate.
But then my right rope begins to slacken, and I feel myself fall.
An outstretched hand grabs me. “Gotcha, miss!” says the man, hauling me onto the overturned boat. “Though I scarcely believe me eyes.”
“Thank you,” I gasp, breathing so hard, the air must be punching holes through my chest.
Seven or eight men have managed to clamber onto the collapsible’s hull, sitting, standing, or crouching as if undecided either way.
The ropes tighten again, and Jamie starts down the tracks.
I balance on the hull, focusing all my attention on my brother. “Come on, Jamie.”
His feet move quicker than mine, bouncing from rope to rope with the confidence of the Titanic’s cellist plucking his strings. The water has risen so much that it almost looks like he’s walking on water.
“He’s doing it, too, just like her. They’re cracked as eggs.”
“Work of the devil. Bet they’re Catholics.”
“You mean Protestants, you fish friar.”
He’s halfway there. Come on, Jamie, just a few paces more. I envision for him a clear and easy brick road that even a toddler could walk.
A loud screech like twisting metal lifts my head. Something shifts behind Jamie, a piece of scenery moving out of place. My horrified eyes take in the first smokestack as it sways off its base. The tethers holding the tower break, whipping and cracking, and setting off a chorus of screams. Then, like a giant tree at the fatal chop of the ax, the smokestack begins to fall toward us.
“Jamie, watch out!” I scream.
42
The smokestack belly flops in a cloud of sparks and soot just to the right of us, sending powerful waves that wash me right off the collapsible. And, oh, that murky has teeth! The cold sets deep into the bones. It chills the blood and makes everything sluggish, even thoughts.
I flail, trying to keep my head above the water. “Jamie!”
Another wave crashes over me, tossing me around like a piece of flotsam.
The waves eventually lose their anger, and I pop up, right next to a white tub. It’s the crow’s nest. Grabbing on to the lip, I hike one leg over, then the other. Water floods the nest to knee level, but at least it’s a port in the storm while I dig through the dark for Jamie.
He surfaces with a loud gasp, forty feet to starboard.
“Jamie!” I cry, trying not to sob. “Jamie!”
The ocean sweeps my voice away. He looks around, disoriented.
One of the cables attached to the foremast drifts loosely around the crow’s nest. But to my relief, unlike the smokestack, the foremast still feels securely planted, even with its cables snapped.
“Jamie!” I wave an arm.