Written by Terry Ward – His brother died when the ship sank. He never saw him while the lifeboats were being loaded, even though he searched desperately. Men, women, and children were moving about the decks in uncertainty and panic. He was lucky to find a lifeboat himself as the ship was going down at the bow.

The Chief Engineer in the engine room had dismissed all the trimmers who stoked the furnaces, so he and the other men found their way to the outside decks. His only thought was to find Freddie, his younger brother. He knew that Freddie would be on one of the top decks because at seventeen he was too young and too slight of build to work below. Instead, his job was that of elevator operator for the first class passengers, his first job with regular pay. Not much, but regular.

Freddie wanted to see the world and find how the world resembled the pictures he had seen in his school books. He thought that this ship would be a grand start, even though he knew that he’d spend all of his time operating the elevator that carried First Class passengers up or down, down or up. Time was not his own. From early morning to very late evening it was always the same. He performed this repetitious task dutifully and without complaint. Such was the demeanor of the British in the early 1900s.

Occasionally, when he opened the brass doors for passengers, he could glimpse the ship’s activity through a distant window in the corridor. Once or twice, while the elevator was stopped, he saw young passengers–one about his age–playing games on the deck outside. They were playing quoits with a small ring of rope that was thrown at pegs on a board several paces away. Everyone was having fun on that sunny day.  He felt a rush of longing as he closed the elevator doors and reassumed his youthful smile and courteous demeanor. He felt empty inside as the passengers talked about their elegant breakfast or late morning stroll on the Promenade Deck with notable people or watching the ocean from the comfort of their deck chairs. Or watching the children play games.

All Freddie wanted was to be free from his post long enough to walk the Promenade Deck and look out to sea and imagine the places that he had only read and dreamed about. Large cities with tall buildings called skyscrapers. Horse drawn carriages with footmen dressed in black. Ladies in elegant dresses being escorted into the theatre.

His imaginings were soon interrupted by the familiar buzz on the overhead brass panel indicating that service was needed on another deck. Up then down; down then up. The wooden handle on the control wheel would be turned back and forth to comply. It was never-ending.

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But Freddie was not to be found on the boat deck or anywhere nearby. The ship’s bow was now sinking at an alarming rate. Water had reached the topmost roof of the forward cabins where the collapsible boats were kept. Men were hurriedly unfastening the ropes that held these boats. He searched the dimly lit faces but there was no sign of Freddie. Collapsible Boat B had begun drifting off of the roof and people were climbing in while they still could manage. Survival was the motivating force.

No sign of Freddie. Only time to climb aboard the lifeboat that was already filling up with people and with cold seawater. Another scan of the faces in the semidarkness.

No sign of Freddie as the lifeboat moved away from the tilting forward deck of the sinking ship. The icy water was chilling his bones. He was soaked to the skin and was shivering violently.

As they moved farther and farther away, the ship’s lights flickered several times, then went out. All was dark except for moonless starlight. Screams and calls for help from those in the water became a cacophony of desperate human voices. Lifeboats moving away from the ship did not return for survivors in fear of becoming overloaded or being pulled under by the suction of the giant ship as she went down.

His heart shuddered as the ship broke in two, then seemed to sink in slow motion. Perhaps Freddie was still on the ship looking for him. With that thought, he felt the outer cold now deep within himself. He felt as helpless and as alone as he had ever been. The cries of those dying in the water added to his aloneness.

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Freddie was lost at sea according to books printed many years later, his body not even recovered for a proper burial in Halifax with hundreds of others. No gravesite to visit; no flowers to leave in his memory in the coming years.

Freddie was seventeen, seven years younger than his brother who survived in Collapsible Boat B with twenty three others. They and hundreds more were picked up by the Cunard liner Carpathia at dawn on April 15 and taken to New York City.

Is the greater tragedy to die a horrible death or to survive and deeply grieve the loss of your only brother for the remainder of your life?

The question goes unanswered. There is no consolation in either. Only sadness.

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Epilog

Three months after the sinking of the Titanic, Ernest Allen was awakened by a strange dream. He had had trouble sleeping ever since the tragedy and loss of his only brother, and this particular dream had a power all its own.

He awoke around midnight with a start and found himself staring at a spot on the ceiling above his bed. It was an uneven break in the plaster that seemed to trace a shape.  He was puzzled by the spot, then his eyes relaxed as if he were going back to sleep. But rather than sleep he found himself in a foggy mental state where he began to hear muffled voices near him in the room. At first the voices were disturbing to him, then they became mellow and then lighthearted. Some were even playful.

Along with the voices he began to see shapes on the ceiling that were blurry but had a quality of people gathered together. One of the voices became more distinct and he recognized it as Freddie, his deceased brother.

Ernest was caught between disbelief and wonder–the wonder that comes from hope, and the hope that comes from the possibility that it was actually Freddie talking with some of the others and smiling. But there was no mistaking Freddie’s voice.

As the images and voices continued in his dream, he was reminded of the playfulness of Freddie, playfulness that he remembered from their growing up together. Chasing through the summer meadows towards the stream where they swam to cool off. Jumping off of the big rock in the middle and making a big, noisy splash. Dunking each other, giggling and laughing, knowing that there were no adults around. The sheer fun of being together.

He was distracted from this reverie as he heard Freddie say directly to him “I’m OK!” with a big grin. There was a soft light surrounding Freddie. “Wanted you to know!” he said, followed by another grin as his shape became less distinct and began to blend into the light.

In an instant, the light was gone. Freddie was gone. But “I’m OK!” echoed and lingered for a second, then it, too, was gone.

The crack in the plaster over Ernest’s head had now come back into focus. He was wide awake. And the dream–or whatever it was–had ended. Ernest was immersed in a calmness that he had not known since the tragedy.

He smiled at the crack in the plaster, took in an easy breath, then fell asleep.

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Terry Ward lives in Asheville and has been writing poetry and prose since high school. Ideas for writing come from personal experiences and a love for the history of sailing ships. Pastimes include playing guitar, photography, and teaching sacred geometry.