“It’s only temporary,” said Smith.
William Murdoch had originally been selected as chief officer for the Titanic’s maiden voyage. But then on the advice of Smith, White Star had decided to bring on Henry T. Wilde from the Olympic, forcing Murdoch to step down to first officer. Wilde had a good understanding of the ship’s handling, and Smith felt he could offer valuable assistance during the Titanic’s first trip across the Atlantic. Wilde was scheduled to return to the Olympic once they got back from New York.
Smith patted his first officer on the shoulder. “You’ll make a fine captain one day, Murdoch.”
“As fine as you, sir?”
“I do believe so.”
April 12, 1912
THOMAS ANDREWS
Morning came as the sun rose over the stern of the ship in a glorious display of brilliant color, its golden light gleaming atop the endless seascape and glowing ever brighter as it ascended into row after row of circular white clouds.
Being the first real morning at sea, many passengers came out to watch the natural spectacle. They stood on one of the uppermost decks and watched the swell of the sea extend outward from the ship to the horizon line—watched the white foamy road left in the Titanic’s wake be wiped away by the blue-green waves that curled inward from opposing sides.
Those not outside admiring the sunrise could be found enjoying a nice breakfast in the dining saloon. First-class passengers could choose to have breakfast delivered to their stateroom, while those in steerage were just glad to be fed, since only a few years back they would have had to bring their own food to last the entire trip.
After breakfast, passengers would wander off in different directions to explore the ship. The men often went in packs to the barber shop for a quick shave, women to the swimming pool or to try out the Turkish baths. The gymnasium was also proving to be a hot spot of activity.
On this Friday morning, however, one passenger in room A-36 at the top of the aft first-class staircase chose work over adventure.
His name was Thomas Andrews.
He sat at a desk covered with plans and charts, scribbling notes and observations on to a small notepad. One entry in particular dealt with converting part of the reading and writing room into additional staterooms, as the room had proven less popular than initially imagined.
Thomas Andrews was the managing director and lead designer at Harland and Wolff, the shipyard that had built the Titanic, the second of three ships to be built under his careful eye; the first being the Olympic, and the third still in production, the Britannic.
Andrews had overseen construction from start to finish, and had come along for the maiden voyage of the Olympic in June a year earlier to scout for any possible improvements. Now aboard the Titanic, he had the same task before him.
There was a light knock at the door.
“Come in,” Andrews said, not looking up from his notes.
Steward Henry Etches entered the room carrying a tray of fruit and tea.
“Where would you like this, sir?”
Andrews gathered some of the papers and piled them on one side of the desk.
“There will be fine, Henry,” he said, pointing to the spot he had cleared.
“Might I be of anymore assistance?”
“No.” Andrews smiled thinly up at the steward. “Thank you. That’ll be all for now.”
BRENNAN
Elise had felt fine when she went to bed.
She shared a room on D-deck at the stern of the ship with a woman much older than her, also travelling alone. They had talked briefly on her arrival the previous afternoon, but the older woman seemed more interested in keeping to herself.
Elise had found better company in the general room, including a number of other women around her age, and a French man whose advances were less than subtle.
Dinner that night had been equally satisfying.
Corned beef, sweet corn, boiled potatoes, fresh biscuits. Even dessert.
Her stomach had never felt so full.
In her things, she had brought along a diary to document her trip to America. So far, all it contained was trivial information about the ship, her roommate, the food. She had left out the part about Queenstown—the incident. She hadn’t even thought about it much.
She had showed the doctor the mark on the back of her neck during inspection yesterday.
She had lied and told him it was from a bug bite.
And he had said there was only a slight amount of redness that would probably go away soon, but to come see him again if she began noticing any other symptoms.
The first of the “other symptoms” came in the middle of the night.
She had woken suddenly in a cold sweat, her heart drumming inside her chest.
A moment later she was vomiting in the washbasin between the two beds, over and over again, each time reminded of what she ate for dinner. Thankfully, her roommate was a heavy sleeper.
Exhaustion lulled Elise back to sleep as well.
When she woke the second time, it was morning and her roommate was gone.
Her symptoms were not.
She visited the doctor again and told him about the vomiting.
The chills.
The lethargy.
The brutal headache that felt as if her brain wanted to grow beyond the limits of her skull.
The doctor had given her some Dover’s Powder and recommended lots of rest.
Rest?
It didn’t happen.
Hours later, she felt worse.
She remained in her cabin for most of the day, developing a high fever and continuing to vomit here and there and everywhere—all liquid, some of it blood.
In between sessions, she would write in her diary.
Everything, no more holding back.
The truth.
And the truth was there would be no dinner tonight. No fun, relaxation, or making new friends. No more enjoying the marvelous new ship.
Would she even make it to America?
Would she even make it through the night?
While the sun set in the west and passengers moved from the dining saloons to the smoking rooms, Elise lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, the realization finally taking hold.
She was going to die.
She knew it.
By the time she stumbled out of her room and up the stairwell, she no longer knew anything. Not where she was from. Not even her name.
The people she passed were blurry shadows, their voices a demonic cacophony of slurs.
They couldn’t help her.
They didn’t even try.
Elise Brennan came to a rest on the aft well deck at the ship’s stern, face up to the starry night, shaking from the cold and mumbling incoherently.
MARGARET BROWN
9:42 p.m.
Margaret Brown sat in the first-class lounge across from Colonel John Jacob Astor, the wealthiest passenger on the ship, and his second wife, Madeline.
Margaret had been travelling with her daughter Helen and the Astor party on a tour of Europe that led them from Egypt to Italy to France, when she received a telegram that her five-month-old grandson was ill. She immediately booked passage on the Titanic, while Helen stayed behind in Paris where she attended the Sorbonne.
They were discussing some of the sights they had seen when Thomas Andrews walked up.