The Explorer's Apprentice

62:An Hour to Live

Eleanor Brown

“Sir!” A small, speedy body brushes right past Eleanor, knocking her to the side a bit but never once pausing to apologize. It’s as if she’s not even there. Death is so radiant in the midnight air that she swears she can feel it, eating away at her very soul as it eats away at the ship. Eleanor has never felt so hollow. “The Carpathia says they’re at full speed, sir!”

“And she’s the only one whose responding?” Questions a second voice. It’s low and drips with authority. The voices are growing more and more distant, though. They’re walking away.

Eleanor holds her breath and inches towards the conversation. She isn’t sure what pressures her to do so—perhaps it’s their somewhat hushed voices that make it obvious that a secret is being shared. Perhaps it’s the fact that one of them speaks like he’s in charge, like what he says is important. Either way, though, Eleanor’s curiosity is building at a fast pace. It’s intriguing. It’s fascinating. But most of all, it gives her something to hold onto.

Holding onto the voices feels so much better, so much cleaner, than holding onto the pain. The regret.

“The only one close, sir. She says they can be here in four hours.”

The two men make their way around a bend on deck. Eleanor has to keep a steady jog in order to keep up with their long-legged strides.

But then they stop. Just like that.

Eleanor presses her shivering body against a white wall. She takes little breaths and peaks out—only her head. The men are facing away from her so she can only see their backsides. One of them wears a small blue hat, and little white hairs prickle out from underneath. A spark of recognition ignites within Eleanor’s soul. The captain.

“Four hours?”  He exclaims suddenly, turning to the young man beside him. Eleanor catches the captain’s profile, she can see his eyes. They’re wide and glisten with an emotion she’s seen on young children quite often, but never, ever on a captain. Especially not one who mans an ‘unsinkable’ ship.

She sees fear.

The second man shifts uncomfortably, his arms clenched at his sides. His collar is drenched with nervous sweat.

The captain takes a deep breath. He turns away and stares at the ocean. “Thank you, Bryant.”

And in that moment, Eleanor knows. She knows—better than she’s ever known anything else. She saw it in the shaking ship guard’s anxious movements, she saw it in the captains eyes, and she can feel it, like a story she’s been told over and over. One she didn’t write, so no matter how many times she reads it, she can’t change the terrible ending. All she can do is watch as the hell unravels before her.

That’s all she’s ever done.

“My God….” Mutters the captain. In the background, somewhere far off in the distance, an orchestra starts to play. A few feet behind Eleanor, Jacob Palmer fingers curl and stretch to bring together hundreds of little notes to make one song.—a happy song, light and blissful, in an attempt to balance out the chaos that’s soon to come. His fingers bleed with irony. Titanic bleeds with irony.

Eleanor almost laughs. Almost. We don’t have four hours. We hardly have one.