Heart of Silver

Charles Darling sighed. It was a sigh of insurmountable distress, the kind that echoed through centuries both forward and past. Such a sigh was irreplicable by the average man, for only a man distraught beyond his time could produce such a potent exclamation. Charles Darling had never expected to be the victim of such a sincere tragedy. These kinds of things happened to the average man, not a man like himself. And yet here he was, sat in the middle of a calamity.

Steeling himself, Charles wiggled his fingers and dove forlorn into his right trouser pocket. A disgusting tang of cold metal met his aging fingers, his brow furrowing completely of its own volition. Silver . Charles scoffed, surveying his cabin quarters to ensure nobody was watching. If anyone caught him checking the time with a silver pocket watch, they’d think him a fool. A fool, or worse, a simpleton.

The coast was clear. Licking his lips, Charles tentatively withdrew the bland device and splayed the rancid metal open. An unornamented face stared back at him,the time dully depicted by boring hands jabbed at unimaginatively fonted numbers. Eleven Ten. That was all he needed to know. Snapping the nasty thing shut, he placed it back into its rightful prison within his trouser pocket. Eleven Ten. It was a boring voyage, this one. Only sadists enjoyed boat rides, which unfortunately seemed to make up the lot of them. To sail for days on end, constantly rocking and sputtering about in the drink… How could they tolerate it so well?

Sleeping was difficult, entertainment was elusive. A task as simple as reading a book left your guts burbling and head spinning, leaving Charles with nothing to do. He’d plenty of work to do, but he faced the same problem. It wasn't a worthwhile venture to begin his stack of ledgers if he’d ultimately sign each one with a spatter of vomit. He eyed the window in his cabin, an ephemeral darkness just beyond reach. He knew that waves crashed distantly below, faintly audible over the chattering hum of passengers above. To call a room ‘first class’ and place it in the loudest sector of the ship seemed cruel.

Charles Darling felt angry for a multitude of reasons, but at the forefront, was the tragedy. As he’d packed his belongings in a hurry, he’d completely forgotten his golden pocket watch. His prized trinket, a companion of duality in its time-telling timelessness. For such a wondrous thing to be replaced by a bland, undecorative silver impostor was insulting.

Four days without his pocket watch. And many more to come, considering not only the remainder of the voyage, but the time he would be forced to spend in New York.. Having to travel across the sea just to ‘delegate terms’ on a firmly non-negotiable agreement was nearly as frustrating as forgetting his trusty watch.

His stomach grumbled. He’d ordered food ages ago, long enough for his hunger to surge. Gluttony was an ungentlemanly prospect, but the thought of a succulent lamb chop left him salivating. Charles suspected that if he’d had his golden pocket watch, then he would most certainly be eating by now. Those crooks had obviously seen the silver watch chain dangling from his coat and assumed him to be some sort of fluke. He scoffed at the prospect of being weighed as such. Charles Darling was a name every household ought to learn. Eventually, it would be, but for now…

Well, for now, he was stuck with a silver pocket watch. Reduced to a mere pedestrian, even in the first-class quarters of a king. Yes, that must be it. Those dastardly waiters had placed him on the bottom rung of importance, knowing well that he held no weight over them. Anyone could have a silver pocket watch, if they deemed fit. It was relatively expensive, of course, but it also just so happened to perfectly resemble every other household metal on the market. Why, any ‘silver’ pocket watch could be pewter, tin, even aluminum. One could not be sure who to trust, when one claimed that his pocket watch was made of pure silver.

Now gold, on the other hand, was distinct. Gold radiated class and poise, immediately placing you in the upper echelons of society merely for owning your share. That was why it was so frustrating to have left it at home. Such a simple error. Increasingly, these simple things were left forgotten. Dementia, the doctors had said. Charles believed them, of course, as he’d had his golden pocket watch on hand when the diagnosis was given. Aging was as worthy an adversary as any. Every day it felt like he’d gotten into a ruffian’s scrap, awaking with aching joints and cracking bones.. Even as his coffers grew stiff at the seams, he felt increasingly weak and forgetful. What good was his wealth, when he couldn't buy himself more time?

Time. Charles Darling rose from his chair, pacing the few strides it took to reach the end of the room. Then he turned, and doubled back. It was a small quarter, considering the sheer size of the Titanic. It was a name befitting of the giant, so large it made you wonder what else mankind was capable of creating. A perfect, seamless machine that shrunk the world tenfold.

His reflection glared at him as he paced. It watched in stasis, awaiting the moment for Charles to glance over and find a decrepit hobgoblin in his reflection. He was wasting away. Why, then, if he had so little time left, that he’d forgotten the one thing that let him keep a hold of it? Charles succumbed to the reflection in the corner. Wrinkles had gnawed away his features like ravenous insects, leaving nothing but drooping flabs of face. What had previously been a handsome, hawkish face now seemed miserly, brow furrowed perpetually in a scowl.

A knock sounded at his cabin door. He tore himself away from the reflection, giving it no heed. Reflections were your own worst enemy, an adversary greater even than the mind. He paced to the door to the cabin, yanking it open.

“So sorry about the wait, sir.” A scrappy lad said, bowing reverently. On his accompanying cart sat a silver platter, steaming at the sides with the fresh warmth of a cooked meal.

“Our chef actually gets seasick real easy. It’s a funny story, if-”. The lad stopped himself, meeting Charles’ infernal glare with a wince. Nodding, he handed the tray over and scuttled off back into the hall. Charles sighed once more, setting the tray down on his small table. It was inconvenient for all parties for him to have ordered food directly to his room. Most people sputtered about like engines upstairs, wine and beer oiling their gears so soundly they might slip apart.

Charles wobbled, sitting down in the ornate wooden chair with a series of pops and cracks. Ignoring the cacophony of age, he withdrew the platter’s lid.

A pork chop. A pork. Chop. Charles roared, hurling the lid across the cabin. The metal rung as it struck the bookshelf, clattering to the floor in a rolling heap. He had ordered a lamb chop. Lamb! Were they blind, or just stupid? Or could it be… Yes, surely, they were mocking him. They knew the great Charles Darling had but a silver pocket watch on his person, a mere bauble picked up in haste before the voyage. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to relax. This trip was stressful enough. What he needed was a stiff drink, and a little food. A pork chop, even an ill-intended one, would have to do.

He set to work picking the chop apart, intermittently sipping from his glass of chilled whiskey. While the meat and sauced vegetables were mediocre at best, the whiskey was actually rather pleasant. It dulled the ache of his creaky bones, soothed away the sorrow of the day like a warm hearth. He let out a sigh, though this one was far less world-cursing than his previous had been. Setting the empty platter aside, he laced his fingers atop his filled belly and closed his eyes.The distant crash of the sea’s waves pulsed through his quarters,somehow overtaking the distant chatter in the dining room above. Sitting still for a time, he let himself doze off.

Charles Darling jolted as the ship rocked. Grumbling, he forced himself out of his seat and over to the wardrobe. He’d only one night gown, a garment he withdrew with the utmost reverence. Undressing, he was forced to face the sour possessions of his discarded trousers. A silver pocket watch, and a notebook of reminders. Equally insidious. With a tired groan, Charles slipped on his nightgown and placed the objects aside his bed. Knocking down the light switch, he slipped under the silky covers and let himself doze off once more.

A harsh bang sounded on a distant quadrant of the ship. Charles gasped, shooting upright and fumbling to flick the light switch of the small bedside lamp. Roaring, metallic groans rumbled all throughout the quarter, the rolls of mechanical thunder blasting all around. Metal screamed like it was being tortured, a crushing grunt sounding from the Titanic’s ribs. Charles shuddered, listening to the horrible maelstrom. Within moments, all went still.

Nothing to worry about. Perhaps a solitary generator had gone out, or they’d skimmed over a shelf of rock. He flipped the lamp off, nestling back into his covers. He’d be awake in the morning with no recollection of the interference, no doubt. It was simply unreasonable to assume the worst at all times. Such a thing was ungentlemanly, Charles told himself. He would not fall victim to the follies of his treacherous mind. Though it took a while for sleep to find him again, he eventually fell back into its loving embrace.

___________________________________________________

Charles Darling awoke to distant sounds, the dining hall above his cabin suddenly far more rowdy than it had been prior. He grumbled a handful of obscenities as he turned over, cursing the drunken youth and their riotous vigor. As he settled his head back down onto his pillow, his ears isolated the noise from the grumble of the engine.

Were those screams? Indeed, the dining room above was no longer rolling with chatter, but with blood-curdling cries of terror. Metallic howls accompanied those of flesh, the ship’s bowels grumbling in structural discontent. Another thump, and the world around him lurched. His possessions slid from their place on the bed stand, clattering to the floor and sliding all the way across to the far end of the room. But that was impossible. How could it move as such unless…

Unless the floor was at an incline. Nearly imperceptible, but just steep enough to make the pocket watch slide across the entire room. Charles gasped, forcing himself out of the bed and stumbling towards the door. For once, he did not concern himself with being gentlemanly, pushing out of the room’s door while still in his nightwear. To be seen in his sleep attire on any other day would be unacceptable, but right now…? It would have to do. Fear began to chew on his mind as his mind raced through possibilities.

Snatching the silver pocket watch off the floor, he made across the slightly distorted hallway to the flight of stairs upward. Normal road bumps didn't make the floor warp and shift around, nor did they cause people to scream.

Anxious adrenaline eased his bones and joints as he stole up the metallic stairway to the dining hall. Screams grew louder as he scurried up the steps and flung open the door into the dining hall. It was about as chaotic as one could have imagined, people running about like frightened mice. Tables rattled and slid, silverware and dining sets clattering to the oak floors. Bugger that. It was good oak, too. It would take a lot of work to get wine out of the-

Idiot. He thought. There will be no floors to clean, if they find themselves at the bottom of the sea.

Charles strode up to a woman gazing distantly out of one of the many windows, arms crossed in contemplation.

“My good lady, what on earth is going on??” He pleaded, trying to see whatever the woman did in the vast ocean beyond the glass.

“Ol’ codger at the wheel hit sometin.” She hissed, voice proudly portraying her Irish heritage. The accent was so thick he had to piece the words together for a time before responding.

“Why aren't you running?? We’ve plenty of lifeboats attached, do we not??”

“Not nearly enuff. ‘Sides, it’s mothers and children first.” She sighed, pursing her lips.

“Couple months and I'd be one of em…” She whispered.

Adrenaline had done a dandy job of keeping him from panicking before, but something changed within. It was as abrupt as the flick of a switch, a combustion that left Charles heaving as he stumbled away. Panic filled his mind like a wineskin, the frigid truth sending chills across his entire body. They were sinking. The Titanic, the immortal beast of steel, was SINKING.

Charles’ gaze darted about, hazel irises scrambling to find the exit. Without thinking about what he was doing, he snatched the Irish woman by the wrist and hauled her along with him.

“T’hell d’ ye think yor doing?” She sputtered, pulling away from Charles’ weak grip.

“Just follow me. I’ll…. I’ll…” He pursed his lips. Money suddenly seemed inconsequential. While it had given him great power and prestige before, now he was on the same level as everyone else. Luxuries, possessions, they were all just a concept. In a situation like this, they did him no good. Bugger! Why was the imminent threat of death making him rethink his entire life’s work??

“I-I’ll bribe them.” He stammered, trying again to haul her along. She batted his hand away, but begrudgingly followed after him.

“You’ll bribe em? In yor’ bloody jammas?” She retorted, looking him up and down. A solid point. Charles hadn't a bill on him, let alone much to barter with.

That is… Except for one possession. Nestled in the small breast pocket of his nightgown was his silver pocket watch. It was far less revolting an object now, he realized. He licked his lips, nodding to himself quickly. It would have to do.

“Yes, my good lady, in my bloody jammas.” He said, flourishing the pocket watch and urging her along the dining hall. A confused scowl was all he got in return, though she did follow.

After a small walk through a labyrinthine corridor, they would find themselves on the upper reaches of the ship. If ever a chance at survival, they would find it in the frigid night, not it in the ship’s mechanical bowels. Their only hope was the lifeboats, though… Just how many of the several thousand passengers would be able to fit on the rafts? Charles cursed, trying to steel his emotions. Leave it to the brain to be a treacherous little imp when you needed tranquility the most.

Luckily, while the entire occupancy of woodwork and dining ware lay in a pile at the far end of the room, the side exits were entirely free of blockade. Numerous passengers streamed out through the door, though their numbers dwindled by the second. The Irishwoman following suit, Charles strode through the exit with as much speed as he could manage. Plaguing aches poked at his bones, occasional jolts of pain nearly causing him to stumble. He’d never been one for canes, anyway.

As they approached the exit to the ship’s deck, the screams redoubled. Stempeding footfalls went this way and that, people of all walks equally as distraught. Steps splattered across the soaked deck of the ship, mortal desperation gleaming in the eyes of mothers bearing their children. Men darted about anxiously, some brave enough to dive forlorn back into the ship’s halls to find whatever it was they sought.

The ship gurgled with an otherworldly groan, the angle of its descent growing ever steeper. Water began dragging the ship down with greedy claws, wrapping its digits around the prow and yanking it under.

Where were the bloody lifeboats?!

“No, no no!!!” A man screamed, waving desperately towards a lowered lifeboat atop the waves.

“Come back, you bastards!!” He howled, climbing up onto the guardrail as if to jump. Charles grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him backward, the ensuing catch sending his back alight with pain.

“A drop that far will kill you, you loon!” He asserted, holding tightly to the man’s shirt. The man regarded him with a quilt of emotions, grafted patches of confusion, anger and sorrow marbling in his glare. Slowly, the man nodded and broke off down the prow.

The Irishwoman pointed solemnly at a large conglomerate of people. They ran up to the bubble of people as fast as Charles could manage, back aching fiercely. Indeed, the bubble flocked around a solitary vessel, a husky man in an important-looking uniform beating away the desperate crowd.

“Children and pregnant women only!!” He boomed, decking a man who tried to climb aboard. Charles eyed the Irishwoman, who’s expression was caked in an ‘I told you so’ sort of glare.

Metallic barks of inanimate pain sounded farther down the ship as water rushed in through the frontmost quarters. Charles heaved in and out, adrenaline no longer a pleasant crutch. Many would not survive this day. Countless families would lose their loved ones, countless dreams of better futures dying in the depths of the icy drink. Charles bit his lip, tears beginning to roll down his wrinkled face.

He would not survive this day. Many other men would not either. For years, he’d built his banking empire, accumulating immense wealth and prestige. And now, here he was regretting every sodding moment of it. He couldn't help but feel that he had wasted his entire life on trivialities, led only by a whispering force of greed. Why was he only realizing this now?!

Charles Darling knew he was going to die. It was a realization few could come to terms with, something that many denied to their last gasping breath. But oddly enough, he didn't feel as afraid of death as he’d thought. Here lay a fork in the road, a choice to make. It was a choice of impossible importance, one dying for nothing, and one dying a hero. He was burning bought time anyway, wasn't he? Destined to rot away within his own mind, memory and experience withering into dust until all that was left was a living husk? It would only take a couple years for the dementia to grow serious. To be trapped within his own mind, unaware of who he was…

Even the sea offered a more enticing alternative to a fate like that.

Charles Darling was a dead man walking, his fate looming above his head like a rusted guillotine. But in these final hours, perhaps even final minutes, he could make the right choice. It was surreally tranquil for him to know he would die. His final hours were his own, and he could do with them as we wished. Why, he could go get sloshed with a bottle of whiskey, or raid the kitchens for a final feast.

But no. These things were trivial, choices as greedy as the countless mistakes he’d made in his past. A rare opportunity beseeched him, one that very few men on death row had the privilege to experience.

He had the chance to change his fate.

A wobbly, teary smile overcame his lips, breathing in a deep misty breath. The salt of the sea burned his nostrils, flaring his alertness like a wildfire. He’d no reason to worry about the long term, no purpose to consider the future. Charles Darling. A household name, to be sure. Household in the families he would reunite, the children and mothers he would save.

Surging with confidence, he forced himself to the front of the crowd. It was manned by a number of pregnant women, surrounded by too many children to care for. Babies were placed gingerly on the floor of the ship, writhing and crying in their blankets.

“You imbecile! You can’t put babies on the bottom of the lifeboat!. It’s cold as sin out here, and those babies need warmth to survive!!.” Charles barked. The captain flinched as if to push him away, but stopped himself as he saw Charles’ age.

Ahh, finally. A benefit to being an ancient old bag.

“And who are you to say? We save the most children this way.” The man put sternly, trying to nudge him away.

“The leading infant Physician in Southampton, that's who!” He lied.

“Babies succumb to hypothermia quickly, and those infants won’t survive a few minutes if they get splashed with that water!” Charles blurted out, yanking the Irishwoman forward. She stared at him with a mix of surprise and awe.

“Mothers! Find your children and hold them close! Huddle up as tightly together as possible, and for the love of God fetch these poor babies some blankets!” Charles shouted, waving his arms about to make himself look important.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” The man shouted, jabbing a finger at him.

“Overriding your authority. Clearly you can’t do this properly, so I will. Do you honestly want the first casualties on this ship to be a lifeboat full of infant children?!” Charles accused, pushing the man aside and waving some eager mothers forward.

“We need more women to come aboard! If its your child or not, you must keep these children warm! If ye’ve too many children, give them to another with too few! We need two to three babies per body, ladies, let's go!!” He bellowed. Women of all sorts, well-dressed and ragged alike ogled at the exclamation. They surged forward to find the babies they had expected to never see again, climbing aboard the raft and embracing them with glee. Charles plopped the Irishwoman down in one of the quickly dwindling seats, grinning to her broadly.

“My name is Charles Darling. Remember me.” He exclaimed.

“I… I cannae thank ya enough.” She whispered with shock, tears seldom distinguishable from the droplets of frigid mist. Charles nodded to the mothers aboard, all of whom stared at him with awe. He really hadn't done anything that spectacular. What he’d said was true, babies surely would succumb to hypothermia far before adults would. The lives of dozens of children, in exchange for a solitary lie. It was quite a dashing deal, was it not?

“Make yourself useful. Fetch a few blankets, say… four dozen, if you can.” Charles said to the uniformed man. He stood in bewilderment, clearly stupified that he’d been all but demoted by an old man in a nightgown. Showed him right for loading the boats so haphazardly. Within minutes, the lifeboat was being lowered, nearly three dozen mothers clutching two or more children each sat within.

Charles bowed to the mothers, saluted to the uniformed man, and strode off to find someone else to help. There was no time to waste, not when there were countless dreams and lives at stake.

People darted this way and that, clumps of the desperate hounding those manning the lifeboats. A bald man raced by, casting a clipboard to the wayside and bolting for the entry into the lower reaches. Charles strode up to him as fast as he could manage, knowing well that any damage sustained to his limbs this day would not haunt him for long.

“What can I do to help?” He stammered. The bald man looked him up and down, scowling in a polite way.

“You’re better spent on deck, unless you know how to work a damned ballast pump.” He blubbered quickly, glancing longingly at the corridor beyond.

“I… Can’t say that I do.” Charles replied, wincing. It seemed he’d have to find some other way to help, then. The man wasted no time, sprinting off down the corridor to find his duties. A good man, that one. Nodding to himself, he made his way out to the thick of the chaos. People streamed this way and that, the constant rumble of footfalls scarcely overcoming the roar of the engine. It sputtered like a man who’d sucked in chimney soot, clicking and pulsating with a motley of unpleasant pops.

Charles surveyed the scene, eyes settling on a figure huddled up against a wall. The woman sat with her knees wrapped tightly to her chest, hyperventilating rapidly. Charles plopped himself down right beside her, giving her a moment to take in his arrival. She shook with fierce anxiety, reddened eyes trembling like rippling currents.

“Are you doing alright?” He asked tentatively, placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Oh, I'm doing just FINE!” She spat, regarding him with annoyance.

“Stupid question, i suppose. What’s your name?”

“What’s it matter?” She replied, regarding his nightgown with… unreadable emotions. When one was being claimed by dread so fiercely they shook, they didn't often get approached by elderly men in their pajamas.

“Oh, it doesn't, I suppose. After all, I'm staying aboard this ship, and you’re off to one of those lifeboats. Your legacy outlives mine by heaps, so why should I be asking after your name?” Charles shrugged, rubbing his chin in feigned thought. He sighed, trying to find the right words to say. Emotions had always been very difficult for him, especially now.

“I know this is all very scary. I don’t know what you’ve seen tonight, but I know you’re afraid. Cheesy as it sounds, fear is a choice. It’s not always an active choice, I'll give you that, but if you focus enough, you can overcome it.” Charles outstretched an arm to the still-sitting girl, nightgown rippling in the night like the robes of an angel.

“Fear is all bark, and no bite. It’s like a bully stuck behind a window, the most it can do is insult or threaten you. Fight it. Overcome it. Go find one of those lifeboats, and you’ve a decent chance of surviving this night.”

The girl sniffled, rubbing the tears away with one of her puffy dress sleeves.

“Word is that the sods didn't bring enough lifeboats to support even half of us.” She mumbled.

“So few it's practically a joke. This ship is run by fools, I tell you.”

“Clearly.” Charles mumbled, gesturing all around. Her lips curled ever so slightly at the sarcastic comment.

“No point in dying from indecision though, right?”

“And what if there was a point?” She whispered, withdrawing further into herself.

“I’m not a mother, not a daughter. Not anymore, at least. Ain't it heroic, in a way, if i let someone else take my place?”

“It would be neither cowardly nor heroic. It would just be a choice, plain as choosing the fruits to put in your gruel.” Charles winced. That was a terrible analogy. Wordsmithing was terribly difficult for him, and the effect was compounded when actively in danger. Heartbeats thundered like pounding hooves in his chest, fear still taking nibbles at his mind.

“You’re young, with a lifetime of opportunity and experience ahead of you. It’s thoughtful of you to put others before yourself, but there's a place for you on those lifeboats.” Rising, he outstretched a bony arm to the girl. She sniffled, wiping the tears away and regarding the hand. After a moment of contemplation, she took it and rose.

“Rosa. Rosa Stelsun.” She murmured, smoothing a few creases in her dress. Charles grinned like a child, all but giggling with glee. He was making a real difference here. Person by person, he was doing good. All his years, the line between good and evil had been blurry. Profits were more important than falling into either category, but now… Now he cared.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed, gesturing towards a distant conglomerate of people around a lifeboat. Breathing in deeply, she smiled and strode for it.

Tentatively, Charles paced over to the guardrail and looked to the waves below. He shuddered, only now realizing how terrible the angle was growing. The distant prow was submerged entirely, large gashes in the ship’s side filling with water. Forcing his breathing into line, he strode back out.

Excited screams broke out as a distant flare blazed in the night. Stars became inconsequential pinpricks, the rising red flame a beacon of hope for all. A ship had finally arrived to rescue them. As if solely to counteract their hope, a seam ruptured the ship down the center. It creaked with splintering tears, the ship beginning to snap like a toy.

Charles made himself as useful as he could. Time stretched on, the threat of the ship snapping completely apart looming above their heads. It strained as the minutes passed by, anxious eyes watching the floor begin to split and tear. He helped fill boats, he comforted the despondent. He did whatever he needed to, wherever he was needed. And as the rescue ship finally drew close enough to make a difference, the ship broke. The old Titanic had held on for as long as she could, but she had finally succumbed to her wounds.

Charles gripped a handrail desperately, the angle now far too steep to step atop. He grimaced, watching as the first of the lifeboats reached the newly arriving vessel. His grip was growing weak. As tears streamed down his face, Charles Darling felt a wash of relief. Not because he was going to die, but because so many others would not. He had done his part.

His grip gave way. He closed his eyes, shutting out the death all around. He’d done what he could, and there was no need to spend his final moments lamenting. You only had one shot at dying, so you might as well make it an occasion worth remembering.

He whispered a silent prayer, even as his body fell forlorn into the frigid depths below.

May these lost find their way, and live twice the life in my stead.