The Explorer's Apprentice

83:Nearer My God to Thee

The musicians, who had been requested to play to keep the atmosphere calm, realize that they’ve done nothing.  The passengers still scream and cry, and not one less person is going to die because of their playing.  Despite the volume of their music, they doubt that the frightened passenger’s ears are attuned for music.  What they probably hear is the yelling of someone nearby, or the crying of a baby.

                        They know that if they keep playing, they won’t have a chance of survival either.  At the end of their song, they exchange nervous glances.  Each and every one of them has noted the water rising rapidly, and the increased tilting of the ship.

One man, the violinist, speaks up.  “Right,” he says, looking nervously at his ensemble, “That’s it then.”

                        He wants his friends to survive, even if his own decision is not to flee with them.  He’ll play until he can play no more.  If all these innocent people are going to die, he’s not going to attempt to take a seat on the life boat away from them.  His legacy in life was to play music, and he’ll do it until his dying moment.

                        “Goodbye, Wally.  Good luck,” one of his friends says before turning away.  The rest of the band members follow suit, filing past him.

                        But Wally remains.  He knows he’s going to die, yet he holds his violin and begins to play a soft, sad song.  Even without his ensemble, it’s beautiful.  It’s the single peaceful sound in a night of pain and terror.

                        The band doesn’t stay separated for long.  Slowly, each one of the band members retreats to their previous spot.  They stop struggling and trying to get on life boats.  No longer do they heave their instruments as they attempt, to no avail, to find a life boat that will accept them.  They focus on their music and play a melody to which thousands of people are dying.

                        Their music just barely reaches Captain Smith as he stands in the navigation room, watching the water as it rises around him.  It rushes from under the door, and he watches as it rises in front of him through the window, restrained by a steady wall.  It’s more rapid than he could have imagined—and for that he’s grateful.  His ship has failed, and thus so has he.  He feels dead inside, and he feels as if he could collapse at any moment.  The Titanic tips around him, the water slanting away from him so he can still, just barely, see the night sky.  He grips onto the wooden wheel, the wheel only hours before he had expertly manoeuvred without a doubt in the world.  He waits for his death.

                        One man hasn’t moved at all for the past few minutes, as the boat begins to give up.  As the water rises, he has remained in his spot, leaning against the fireplace where Rose left him.  Her words changed nothing in him.  It’s his fault.  Of that, nobody can deny.  For he designed the ship, he had last say about whether or not the lifeboats were put in.  It was up to him to make the ship resistant.  And now, because of him, hundreds of people are going to die.

                        He feels as if he’s going to fall back, but presses forward with enough force to keep him where he stands.  All he can do is stare ahead and note the last thing on his nearly perfect ship.  Mr. Andrews has always been a perfectionist, and made care that everything was right.  That the paintings matched the theme of the room, and that the trim was perfectly placed on the walls.  Now, all he can note is the clock.  Ticking along, he checks his watch.  It’s behind by a minute.  If he can’t fix the crack at the bottom of the ship, or save these souls, maybe he can at least change one thing.  He can make this one, minute thing right.