The Dressmaker (14 page)

“You’re impressing those reporters,” one of them said, pointing at a swarm of men holding cameras and notebooks, now rapidly being left behind on the platform.

Smith was secretly pleased to hear his aide’s somewhat awed, breathless report. He’d shown them audacity all right, and it hadn’t taken long. His position on the Commerce Committee had helped, of
course. His resolution to set up an investigation, with himself chairing, had gone through the Senate like a hot knife through butter; now, there was a good old midwestern expression. And he was going to start the hearings in New York instead of Washington—right there in midtown at the Waldorf hotel. He’d snag more witnesses there, and get to them faster. Tomorrow morning, the show would begin.

The senator settled himself into a seat and checked his watch for the twentieth time. “We’ve got to get on the
Carpathia
before it docks,” he said to the aides. “Those White Star people will vanish if we don’t slap subpoenas on them right away. Especially that slippery Ismay.”

“You think they planted those phony messages saying the ship hadn’t sunk?” asked one.

“Absolutely.” It made him angry, thinking of all the people who had set off for Halifax to greet friends and family members after being reassured that the
Titanic
was safe. A brutal, cowardly lie, and for what? To gain more time for White Star officials to save their hides?

He frowned and leaned back in his seat. Yes, he had played his cards right. No one in Congress had thought faster than he. This, he told himself, staring out at the passing landscape, would crown his career as a public servant. If he made it in time.

Slowly the
Carpathia
inched forward, steaming ever closer to New York Harbor. By five o’clock people had begun lining the railings, straining for a glimpse of land. The evening would be brisk, and Tess pulled her sweater close. She watched the cook’s wife, who had now taken to wandering the deck, grabbing at people’s arms. “Have you seen my children? Are they eating dinner?” she kept repeating. “Please tell them I’m waiting. If they don’t come soon, I have to go find them.”

Jim was standing by himself, smoking a cigarette, staring ahead where land would soon appear.

Tess looked around swiftly; Lucile was nowhere near. “Will you be met?” she asked shyly, joining him at the rail, feeling awkward. Most likely, reaching land would make them strangers to each other again.

“Nobody here for me.” He said it with a light shrug. “White Star says they’re bunking us down somewhere for the inquiry. We’ll see; Ismay has other ideas.” He looked down at her, seeming to search her face for something. “I heard some U.S. senator is coming aboard soon to start interviewing the officers and crew,” he said.

“The captain says the government hearings begin tomorrow.”

Jim let out a short laugh. “That means the politicians take over. Sorry, but I figure it will be one more dance of greedy businessmen finding excuses for their mistakes. No one gets blamed—that’s what usually happens. None of them care about all the poor blighters in steerage or the men down in the boiler room. The stokers—they never had a chance.”

“You knew someone down there?” she guessed.

“A friend. A good man. We were going West together. He was stoking the boilers when we hit the iceberg. Sometimes I think I should’ve been down there shoveling coal with him, but I was sick of coal; told him nothing was going to get me within a mile of the stuff again.”

“I’m sorry.”

It was inadequate, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“None of those men stood a chance, you know. The rest of us, we get to live and find out things. Nobody on that shore will care about them or remember them. I should’ve been with them, gone down with the ship.”

“They needed you on that lifeboat—you were the only one who knew how to row and what to do,” Tess said quickly. “You were just doing your job. I know it feels wrong to be alive when all those people died. I feel that, too.”

He smiled slowly. “It’s all right, Tess. I guess there’s enough pain and sadness on this ship without wishing for more of it.”

“And your carvings comforted the children,” she said quietly. “I admire you for that.”

“I didn’t do much,” he said. “The girl I made the giraffe for? Both parents lost; she hasn’t spoken a word since she told someone in the lifeboat her name. She followed me around all the time. Watched me carve for hours.”

Tess breathed deeply, wishing she could expel the anguish. Who would understand, other than those who were there?

“The children made this whole bloody time bearable. And so did you.” He seemed embarrassed, hesitated, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out something that he put in her hand, gently closing her fingers over it.

“This is for you—maybe not a memento you want, but it’s what I found myself making. It’s just whittling.” He smiled. “Welcome to America, Tess. I hope we see each other again. Goodbye.”

“Jim—” It was the first time she had spoken his name.

But he put his finger to his lips, the gesture she remembered from their promenade on the deck of the
Titanic
, and walked away.

Tess opened her hand. She was holding a carefully carved wooden lifeboat. Peering at it in the waning light, she saw two tiny figures inside—each holding what looked like an oar. When she looked up to thank him, he was gone.

And so was the cook’s wife. What happened? One moment there she was, standing on the deck. And now gone in search of her children; slipped into the sea.

THE
CARPATHIA
THURSDAY, APRIL 18
9 P.M.

I
t wasn’t as difficult as Pinky had anticipated. It took just a little chatting-up of a friendly dockworker to discover that a tugboat was set to go out to the
Carpathia
before the ship docked—an important senator from Washington wanted to get on and talk to people. That had to be William Smith, the senator from Michigan, who was slated to chair a congressional investigation. Starting tomorrow morning. What a show
this
would be.

Then it was a matter of being in the right place at the right time, wearing a pair of pants cajoled from a copyboy, her hair tucked under a cap, looking like a dockworker, when Senator Smith came hurrying up, sweat on his brow from the race from the train station. A little bustle, some hellos, some “welcome, sir”s, some shouts to crew members, all in a flurry, and Smith and a couple of officious-looking aides stepped into the tugboat. The important thing always, Pinky knew, was to act like you belonged where you were forbidden to go. Hesitation was the mark of an amateur.

Whistling, she jumped onto the tugboat in the dark. Maybe this would be worthwhile after all.

The tugboat captain cut his engine and slowly approached the
Carpathia
. Pinky looked up and saw clusters of people huddled in sodden knots at the rail, hunched forward like mourners on a funeral ship. Not even a child’s shout or wail broke the silence from the deck above; for a moment, the soft lapping of waves against the tugboat stern was the only sound. Then, unexpectedly, thunder began to roll and lightning crackled in the sky.

She considered trying to sneak closer to the aides surrounding Smith for a better idea of what they were about, but she couldn’t take her eyes off those still figures on the ship. The tugboat inched forward; they were almost touching the hull.

Suddenly there was an explosion of flashing lights, revealing the presence of several more tugboats approaching the
Carpathia
. Flash-powder. Shouts.

“Hello, up there!” bellowed a voice through a megaphone. “Are you the survivors? Any of you want to talk? Jump in, we’ll take care of you!”

Pinky smiled. She knew who that was, holding the megaphone—a
World
reporter, full of strut and swagger and few brains. How could he think making all that noise would persuade anyone on
this
ship to jump into the sea? Had it not occurred to him to sneak on and scoop everybody else? This would make her job easier.

Within minutes, as her rivals kept shouting up to the silent watchers on the deck, she was climbing a rope ladder behind Smith and his entourage, slipping onto the deck and stepping back into the dark. She was sure no one saw her.

Tess was watching the newcomers climb aboard when she saw a shadowy figure break from the group and dodge behind a smokestack. She made her way across the deck for a closer view, wondering why someone was trying to hide. She saw a woman in dungarees, mumbling to herself as she tried to shove long, thick hair under the cap on her head.

“Could you help me with this? My hair won’t stay in place,” she said impatiently as Tess approached.

“Who are you?” Tess asked.

“An impostor, obviously. Please?”

Maybe it was the casual cheerfulness of her request. For whatever reason, Tess found herself lifting the back of the cap and tucking in Pinky’s wayward locks, resisting an impulse to laugh. “You look silly,” she said.

“Well, so would you if you were disguised as a man. I should’ve cut this whole mess off.”

“So who are you?” Tess asked again.

“I guess I’m stuck with explaining, aren’t I? I’m Sarah Wade, but everybody calls me Pinky.”

“Why are you hiding in the shadows?” Tess stepped backward to get a better look at this rather bizarre creature, and stumbled over a coiled rope. Jim’s carving flew from her pocket, hit the deck, and skittered toward the edge. With a sharp cry she reached for it.

Pinky was faster. She dived and caught the piece of wood just before it went over the edge and into the sea. Silently she stood and handed it back to Tess, squinting at it through the meager light.

“A boat?” she said, curious.

“Yes. Thank you.” Tess’s hand was much quicker this time as she took the carving and shoved it back into her pocket.

“Okay, to answer your question, I’m a reporter. I want to talk to
Titanic
survivors, and this outfit made it easier to get on the ship. Did I alarm you?”

“Hardly, sorry.”

Pinky looked almost comically crestfallen. “Oh, right. You think I look silly.”

“A little. How did you keep from being found out on the boat that brought you out here?”

“Men aren’t too observant, in my experience.”

“Unless you’re wearing a skirt,” Tess said.

“Oh, right. Then they just want to get their hands underneath.”

Tess laughed. She liked this cocky little person. “Are pants more comfortable than a skirt?” she asked.

“Of course, kind of freeing—like bloomers but better,” Pinky said. She peered at Tess’s sloppy, worn sweater, something obviously out of a ragbag. “I’m guessing you were on the
Titanic
. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Tess said, her smile vanishing. The question was coming from another world—a safe world, one she hadn’t inhabited for days.

“It must have been dreadful.”

“Yes,” Tess repeated. She felt itchy now. Unwilling to stand still.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Tell me about you first.”

“I work for the
New York Times
. It’s one of the good papers, not a scandal sheet. Everybody says so.” She quickly amended her words. “Well, almost everybody.”