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⠀⠀⠀Retrospectively, his demise was in no uncertain terms the highest peak of irony, and were the circumstances any other, such a fact might be cause for amusement.
⠀⠀⠀It had the makings of a lost story from the Christian Bible. Mr. Andrews had once proudly proclaimed to a close friend that his Titanic was "as nearly perfect as human brains can make her.", and yet, his masterful creation was now foundering before his eyes. His ship, the floating palace which he and so many others strove to bring to life with bare hands, became an instrument of death from the very moment of her unfortunate collision. Titanic was destined to sink beneath the waves, and as she plunged to her untimely death, Fate and Destiny would ensure that 1,500 innocent souls died with her.
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⠀⠀⠀Upon the utterance to Mr. Ismay regarding the “mathematical uncertainty” that his floating palace was doomed to founder – nay, from the very moment he witnessed for himself the damage that the damnable ‘berg did to his ship – Thomas Andrews accepted his fate as one of the 1,500 who would perish on that tragic night. As the architect responsible for Titanic’s birth, the responsibility for that which would transpire the night of April 14-15, 1912 fell to him. Like an anchor nestled in the bottom of the sea, the sheer guilt of it all crushed his shoulders and crushed his soul, rendering him forever chained to this precise position in the First Class Smoking Room. Escape would be a sensible endeavor for a gentleman of sound mind and profound intellect, but Mr. Andrews at that moment was neither. Any semblance of sanity and rational thought abandoned him long ago, just as those lucky enough to climb into a lifeboat abandoned Titanic.
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⠀⠀⠀He could envision it all. Within his mind’s eye, Mr. Andrews was able to imagine a picture perfect recreation of his Titanic’s fate, and what he witnessed chilled him to the bone. Although the mechanisms of the ship’s demise would remain a mystery to all others on board, he understood innately that which was to pass. In what appeared to be the blink of an eye, yet in reality was a prophecy centuries in the making, the Ship of Dreams became the Ship of Nightmares. Mr. Ismay truly proclaimed it best; Mr. Andrews did indeed know “every rivet” of the Titanic like the back of his hand, but now, his intimate knowledge of Titanic chose him as the subject of vicious taunts. The ship would begin her plunge bow-first, he knew, the stern raised to the sky, and fifteen thousand would die–
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⠀⠀⠀“--Wait!”
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⠀⠀⠀Thomas barely registered the feminine voice that penetrated his consciousness, his only sign of acknowledgement being the shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. Only when that same voice uttered his surname did he look up, faint recognition flickering across his features upon identifying this achingly familiar intruder. A pang of grief — not the first experienced that night, and certainly not the last — pierced his heart, and his soul writhed in agony when he came face to face with Rose Dewitt Bukater.
⠀⠀⠀“Oh, Rose,” He murmured, his lips parting as he began to process just what this young woman’s presence on the sinking ship meant. His blood ran cold — hadn’t he told her to get to a lifeboat as quickly as she could? Rose, the brilliant, vivacious girl that she was, had figured out the limitations posed by Titanic’s lifeboats long before he even ventured to the topic; she more than anyone surely must comprehend the severity of the situation at hand, and yet, here she stood.
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⠀⠀⠀Why had she remained? Thomas found the answer to this pressing question in the form of the blond-haired boy tugging urgently on the sleeve of Rose’s coat, and in that instant, the solution to the puzzle known as Rose Dewitt Bukater presented itself. Evidently, Mr. Dawson landed himself in some form of trouble wherein the Master-At-Arms was involved, and Rose took it upon herself to save the man from a watery grave. Upon arriving at this realization, the respect Thomas already possessed for Rose grew in multitudes. Although her chosen endeavor was immensely reckless, Rose had entered the bowels of a doomed ship with the intention of rescuing her true love, and succeeded against all odds.
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⠀⠀⠀If the inhabitants of the world possessed even a small fraction of Rose’s courage, multitudes of once-impossible feats would have been achieved long ago.
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⠀⠀⠀Nightmares, Thomas once read, were the demons of dreams who brought with them a desire to educate humanity. Were one brave enough to look into the dark recesses of the human brain, their deepest fears could provide invaluable, irreplaceable lessons. If this was indeed the case, then what wisdom could be gained from this experience? Why did the Lord taunt him with the knowledge that a soul as kind and vivacious as Rose Dewitt Bukater was flirting with death? Rose had barely begun to experience the joys of life, and already, there was a possibility that her wonderful life could end.
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⠀⠀⠀𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦. That fate ought to be reserved for himself, and himself alone. It was no less than a perfect punishment to face for the 1,500 deaths which would soon burden his conscience.
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⠀⠀⠀“Won’t you even make a try for it?” The sheer hope and desperation in Rose’s voice tugged at Thomas’s heartstrings, forcing the shipbuilder to swallow the lump that formed in his throat. Thomas took a deep, shaky breath, steeling himself before finally addressing Rose in a quiet, barely audible voice.
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⠀⠀⠀“I’m sorry that I didn’t build you a stronger ship, young Rose.”
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⠀⠀⠀This was not an apology to 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 Rose; with these twelve words, Mr. Andrews sought to apologize to 𝙖𝙡𝙡 2,240 passengers of the Titanic. Thus, Rose Dewitt Bukater assumed 2,240 different faces. Young or old, English or Swedish, First or Third Class — all were amalgamated within the soul of this fiery redhead. An apology to her, Thomas, prayed, would suffice as a substitute for an apology to all.
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⠀⠀⠀Titanic produced a mighty groan, and though he remained the epitome of courageous stoicism in front of Jack and Rose, Thomas shuddered internally. His masterpiece did not have much time left; he would give her less than forty minutes at most, and this was a generous, optimistic estimate. In the wake of unfathomable tragedy, he must cling to any shred of hope he could acquire. If that hope was forty minutes spent on death’s doorstep, then so be it. Thomas may have lost all hope long ago, but the young couple standing before him could not. Loss of hope meant the loss of a sacred opportunity to survive. This was something they could not afford. Just as he parted his lips to utter this fact aloud, Mr. Dawson beat him to it, his tugging on Rose’s overcoat growing more urgent than before.
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⠀⠀⠀“She’s going fast – we have to move!” Jack exclaims, and were he of sounder mind, Mr. Andrews would have nodded in agreement. Yes; it was indeed important that the two teenagers make their way above decks, before it was too late and–
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⠀⠀⠀A lightbulb turned on in his head. Now, it was Thomas’ turn to utter the word “Wait!”, which he did so while extending his hand as though to seize Rose’s arm. Rose froze in her tracks like a deer caught in headlights, her eyes snapping up to meet Thomas’ own. Thomas reached for the lifebelt sitting on the nearby table and held it out to Rose, whose breath hitched as she gazed at him with parted lips. Heavy silence fell between the two; both understood the gravity of this present moment.
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⠀⠀⠀Mr. Andrews had just offered his lifebelt to Rose, and with it, squandered the very last sliver of hope for survival. Passing on the lifebelt was a silent death knell of his own, the equivalent of the groans and moans his ship currently emitted.
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⠀⠀⠀“Good luck to you, Rose.” Thomas murmured as the lifebelt left his hands and entered hers, and he meant it. If there was anyone on this damned ship that he wanted to survive these fateful events, then it was the young fiery redhead standing before him. Rose Dewitt Bukater was a startling phenomenon; she was blessed with a mirror into his desired future. In the form of Rose, Thomas found the perfect example of the woman that he prayed his darling daughter, Elizabeth, would one day become.
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⠀⠀⠀“And to you.” Rose murmured back, idly wondering if she would ever see the kindly young shipbuilder again. Evidently, this was the last time she would see him alive, but was there an afterlife? She certainly hoped so; a man as compassionate as Thomas Andrews, who took all at their face value and never judged on the basis of class, deserved to live forever.
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⠀⠀⠀Rose’s hug, though short and sweet, spoke these words when her voice failed her. It seemed to last both an eternity and a millisecond; on Death’s doorstep, time was meaningless and once-unique seconds blended together like expert strokes of watercolor upon a canvas. Thomas watched her leave, his vision blurring as she and Jack raced out of the room. 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. The sinister thought sent a shiver down his spine and sent his mind reeling, chilling him to the bone just as effectively as the freezing waters of the Atlantic Ocean. How this thought came to be he did not know, but he knew in his very soul that it was the truth.
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⠀⠀⠀From now until he took his final breath, he was alone.
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⠀⠀⠀Well, not necessarily. Even now, he can still recreate in his mind a picture perfect image of the activity above decks. Young Jack and Rose would stumble into a world of bedlam and anarchy, where all semblance of order is overrun by the primal need to 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦. The artificial divides based on economic class — upon which his peers in First Class placed so much emphasis and importance — have dissolved, rendering the richest gentleman aboard the equivalent of the poorest resident of the cheapest cabin. Death, after all, did not discriminate on the basis of wealth or personal achievement, much like Mr. Andrews himself.
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⠀⠀⠀In the midst of breathless emotion, Thomas’ brilliant mind likened the vivacious Rose Dewitt Bukater to his daughter, Elizabeth. What would darling little Elba think, when her mother broke the news to her that father died? His little girl was only two, and her whole life still stretched out before her like the vast, shining sea. Thomas’ voyage was about to end, but hers had only just begun. She was too young to process the full extent of the events that led to Thomas’ demise, but too intelligent to not notice something amiss. When she grew up and learned the extent of what occurred on the night of April 14, 1912, would she view him as a coward who shirked his parental duties by taking his own life, or would she idolize him as a hero? Whichever narrative Elba chose, one thing remained certain.
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⠀⠀⠀Thomas would never be there to watch his daughter grow up. Given the great sin he now bore upon his name, however, this was a small price to pay.
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⠀⠀⠀Dear God. He hoped that his wife would be able to forgive him, for Elba’s sake, though Goodness knows her forgiveness is not what he deserved. He wouldn’t blame Helen if she refused to speak the name Thomas Andrews for the rest of her life, or Elba if she grew to loathe him with every fiber of her being. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘥.
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⠀⠀⠀Titanic’s collision with the iceberg, simply put, rendered Thomas Andrews a murderer. The blame, he fervently believed, rested entirely with him — and even if none aboard perished on this fateful night, then there was still his ship to consider. Titanic carried within her the very soul of her architect, and thus, was just as human as any of the individuals she called passengers. No matter the outcome of the night, no matter how history might be altered, blood would still be on his hands. It was his fault; blame was his to bear, and his alone. He would accept no other outcome. No individual other than himself deserved to suffer for the damage that was wrought upon hundreds of innocent souls tonight.
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⠀⠀⠀Something within him stirred, urging Thomas to reach into his coat and acquire his pocket watch. This he did, deciding to trust the same gut instinct that led to this very tragedy. Upon processing the current time, the shipbuilder heaved a great sigh, and reached up to open the clock resting on the fireplace mantle.
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⠀⠀⠀With a still, firm hand, free of quivering trembles and second thoughts and hesitation, he set the time on the clock to 2:12 am.
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⠀⠀⠀Then, he prepared himself to await his own demise. Resting his hands on the mantle and bowing his head as though in prayer, he waited for the arrival of the inevitable in all its glory.
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⠀⠀⠀The inevitable came.
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⠀⠀⠀His ship, just as much his daughter as Elba herself, let loose an ear-splitting scream. Thomas’ head snapped upwards, watching wide-eyed in undisguised horror as the ship split first above his head, then beneath his feet. The split summoned a massive, yawning chasm amidst a clap of thunder, and the failure of Titanic’s electrical system illuminated the roaring, foaming demon of water awaiting Thomas below.
⠀⠀⠀Down through the nine decks, Titanic split in half — a fate which her architect could not predict, let alone fathom. The last expression Thomas Andrews ever wore was that of a man publicly slapped in the face, etched upon him permanently as he realized the true nature of this occurrence. God, by splitting Titanic in half, demonstrated to him that he did not, in fact, know “every rivet” of his ship. It was the ultimate taunt, delivered mere seconds before death.
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⠀⠀ His soul, like fifteen hundred others, was then claimed by the darkness, never again to see the light of day.
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⠀⠀ He paid the ultimate price.