21

DECK C. TITANIC SURGEON’S QUARTERS.

SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 2:20 A.M.

Dr. O’Loughlin coughed. Rancid phlegm filled his throat. He was packing his medical bag to join the captain’s quarantine party on Deck E. He quickly removed his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and expectorated into it. He looked down to find his death sentence.

On the white cloth, the great gob of mucus was stained black. Hours earlier he’d felt the onset of what he considered exhaustion, perhaps only a cold. Now he knew better.

O’Loughlin understood the way his story would end. Indeed, was the examination of King’s severed head how he’d been infected? He had worn gloves and taken every precaution. There’s much about this sickness that Mr. Weiss still does not understand, he thought bitterly.

O’Loughlin’s bones ached as he slowly made his way down the promenade deck. At least he would have some say in the way things played out. And why shouldn’t he? The doctor was an orphan, raised by an uncle long since passed; there were no blood ties to be concerned with. William Francis Norman O’Loughlin. His parents had gone to an awful lot of trouble thinking up names before leaving him to fend for himself in the world.

He had never married, and at age sixty-two, there was little likelihood he ever would. There had been women, yes, but after forty years at sea, they were mostly of the “ships passing in the night” variety. Married to the sea, O’Loughlin often thought. Tonight he would tie that knot hard and fast.

To think he’d initially refused service on Titanic, having been quite content with his duties on Olympic. The doctor had discussed those reservations with his friend Mr. Andrews. “I’m too tired at this time of life,” O’Loughlin argued, “to be waltzing from one ship to another.”

“You’re old, true enough, but no need to be lazy as well,” Andrews had chided. “Pack your bags and have an adventure.” O’Loughlin relented and agreed to serve aboard Titanic.

It had been his job to examine the crew muster sheets with the immigration officer from the Board of Trade. “It’s a healthy crew,” O’Loughlin had pronounced, which had been accurate at the time.

Given that his symptoms weren’t yet severe, O’Loughlin determined he was still early in the infection cycle. But he couldn’t confess to his malady. Captain Smith would lock me in a cabin, where I’d turn into a ghoul. It served no purpose telling anyone, not even Andrews. Goodbyes were never a strong suit.

Weiss and the rest would have to identify the sick on Deck E on their own. O’Loughlin would defy his captain’s command in order to follow an oath he’d taken long ago: to first and above all else, do no harm. There was only one way to keep that promise.

Arriving at the railing, the surgeon reached inside his coat, withdrew a bottle of well-aged rye he saved for special occasions, and pulled the cork with his front teeth. He leaned over the bar, peering down at the black water rushing beneath Titanic. He took a long swig and quickly spat it out—his personal brand of medicine had turned on him. It now tasted acrid and bitter to his diseased tongue.

He kissed the bottle—he didn’t know why, perhaps for luck?—before flinging it into the sea. And then William Francis Norman O’Loughlin jumped.