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Bridget followed the small band of survivors down the dimly lit corridor. The lights were beginning to fail, some sections of the ship were already in darkness, and the temperature was dropping. The heating had failed, which Bridget surmised, meant the ship’s boilers had failed, and if that was due to the collision allowing seawater to extinguish the furnace, then surely it was only a matter of time before the Titanic sank. She tried to cajole the old lady using her arm for support to move faster, urging her on with calm reassurance while her own fear danced a rousing polka in her chest. Having no idea how long it would take for a vessel this size to sink, she was in no mood to tarry.
The rest of the group were already some yards ahead, and Bridget worried they would become separated, losing their way in the dark. This would make them easy prey to the first slavering creature they encountered. She pulled on her charge’s arm, urging her onwards with a reassuring smile, but in her anxiety to leave the shadowy corridor behind, she used too much force. The old woman stumbled and, for a precious moment, time stopped as she struggled to regain her footing, then she slumped forward as if propelled by some invisible force, dragging Bridget down with her.
The two of them crashed to the floor. Bridget, using her free arm to brace her fall, still felt the force of the impact. She heard a loud crack and in the brief moment of surreal silence that followed, she instinctively knew what had happened. Then, the old lady’s anguished screams of pain broke the silence, confirming her fears.
Bridget pushed herself up onto her knees and looked down at the woman’s horribly bent leg. Her long skirt covered the actual break but the right foot, protruding from under the hem, pointed out at a sickeningly unnatural angle, her toes pointing towards the ceiling while she still lay face down.
“Help me!” The woman pleaded between screams as Bridget carefully climbed to her feet, pushing the woman’s desperate, imploring hands away. She knew the old lady’s chance of escaping had been dealt a serious blow and to leave her meant condemning her to death, but she could not help her. She had to think of herself and her unborn child.
“I can’t.” Bridget turned away, unable to look her in the eye.
The woman’s traveling companion bustled past Bridget, a Bible already open in her hand. “You go on, my child. Hurry! Or else they will leave without you. Time is of the essence.”
Bridget set off down the corridor in pursuit of the steward and the line of survivors following him without a backward glance. From behind her, she heard the hysterical sobs of the injured woman, then they were drowned out by her companion’s strong voice reading a passage from the Bible as she sat with her friend to await their fate.
Bridget hurried on, taking the stairs up to the boat deck two at a time, her breathing becoming deeper and more laboured with each stride. Her back, thighs, and calves felt like someone had taken an iron bar to them. She offered up a silent ‘Thank you’ to William. He had inflicted more pain on her than this, more torture and mental suffering than any one person should ever experience and it had strengthened her body; strengthened her resolve. She kept moving, digging into that resolve, determined to reach the lifeboats. She had not come this far only to fail now. If Bridget Grafton was nothing else, she was a survivor.
