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“Mr. Andrews, in the expert opinion of an esteemed man such as yourself, how many lifeboats should our dear 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 possess?”

𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤’𝘴 chief designer fiddled absentmindedly with the pen in his hand, pondering the query briefly before his mind arrived at a suitable answer. His eyes flickered upwards to meet the piercing stare of 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧, the financial magnate to whose mercy the entirety of 𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂’𝒔 𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒎𝒚 was ʙᴇʜᴏʟᴅᴇɴ. This was hardly his first encounter with the infamous ℜ𝔬𝔟𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔅𝔞𝔯𝔬𝔫, and yet, Thomas still found himself quailing under this man’s hawkish gaze. 

For the briefest of moments, Thomas was surprised that his mentor, 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐞, was not the recipient of this query. Surely, as Master Shipbuilder, the man was far more equipped to provide a satisfactory answer than he?

Then, he realized a crucial fact: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵. He could not fail it. Failing this test meant losing the respect of J.P. Morgan, and by extension, the 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒚 of elite society.

Thomas gulped, taking a deep shaky breath before uttering his response in what he prayed was a 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 tone.

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“Thirty-two lifeboats ought to suffice.” The young shipbuilder was surprised by how steady his voice sounded; given his present company, there was a very real possibility that his words — and his courage — would falter. “Therefore, in the 𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒆 of an emergency, all passengers would be guaranteed some semblance of 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐲.”

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Mr. Morgan’s brows furrowed, providing a blessed indication that the elderly economic tycoon was genuinely 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 his proposal. So too was White Star Line chairman 𝐉. 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐈𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐲, who frowned, his eyes darting back and forth between Mr. Morgan and Thomas Andrews. Beside Mr. Ismay, Master Shipbuilder Alexander Carlisle donned an 𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 expression as he observed the entire affair.

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“Yes, that seems like a reasonable proposition.” Mr. Ismay agreed, his finger absentmindedly caressing the blueprint spread out on the table. “Titanic’s total capacity is 3,320 passengers; thirty-two lifeboats ought to account for every single soul on board.”

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Thomas suppressed a shiver as he observed the incredulous stare that Mr. Morgan gave Mr. Ismay. Immense 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 began to brew in his heart — what could possibly force the cunning, conniving Mr. Morgan to experience such a reaction? Were the situation any different, Thomas might have laughed at the sight of Mr. Morgan’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, but presently all this sight provoked was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

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Mr. Morgan regained control of his bearings and once more became the perfect picture of 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔰𝔪, but Thomas would never forget the incredulous expression that the man donned upon the suggestion of regulations to ensure the safety of all souls. As though nothing of note had come to pass, Mr. Morgan rested his hands on top of the table, steepling his fingers and straightening his back.

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“While I can appreciate your desire to ensure the safety of all aboard, Mr. Andrews, there are other factors we must consider.” 𝑺𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒉 as honey and as 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚 as a poisoned dagger, the silver tongue of America’s most powerful industrialist struck with 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 possessed only by the deadliest of vipers.

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A true master of maintaining 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔩 over the scene, Mr. Morgan permitted the subsequent silence to stretch onwards until the tension in the room became nigh 𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. Thomas had to admit it; as much as he might loathe the obstinate American beyond his capabilities of description, John Pierpont Morgan was indeed an expert 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒎𝒂𝒏. Perhaps, he thought, Mr. Morgan ought to have considered a career in the theater industry instead of finance.

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Finally, the tycoon broke the silence by addressing 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦 𝐏𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞 with a simple statement of fact.

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“Lord Pirrie, as the chairman of 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐟, you know better than any of us gathered here on this fine day the 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 to which your nephew’s proposal is bound.”

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Lord Pirrie startled slightly upon processing the unexpected interruption to the silence. The elderly man blinked, then took a step forward, as though ready to 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆 at the esteemed Mr. Morgan’s beck and call. Thomas’ beloved uncle had been 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔱 up until this point, content to observe his nephew’s test from afar. Now, however, he was forced upon the chessboard as a 𝐩𝐚𝐰𝐧, governed by the dictatorial demands of a 𝒈𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆. 

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“Yes, sir, I do.” Pirrie responded, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He eyed Mr. Morgan warily, as though the man were a 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 lurking in the shadows of the night. ⠀⠀⠀

Thomas found this display of wariness reassuring, accepting it as a sign that he was not alone in his emotions. This relief vanished as quickly as it came, however, when Mr. Morgan continued his masterful game.

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“Will you please enlighten those of us present to these limitations, then?” Although spoken as a request, all present knew that it was an order. Just as 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒐𝒍𝒇𝒇 was beholden to 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝑳𝒊𝒏𝒆 and by extension the 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑴𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒆, so too was 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝑷𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆 beholden to 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑷𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏.

“W-well, Mr. Morgan, cost is the primary factor.” Contrary to his usual eloquence, Lord Pirrie stumbled over his first words. He paused and cleared his throat, then continued to speak. “Yes — cost. That’s the main one. The price we would have to pay for sixty four lifeboats—“

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“—and what price is that, William?” Mr. Morgan interrupted smoothly, the corners of his lips tugging upwards into a smug smile. 

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Thomas’ jaw clenched, righteous indignation coursing through his veins. His hands, concealed behind his back, curled into fists. It was an excruciating effort to keep his handsome features wiped clean of all emotion; his very soul ached to exact the wrath of the gods upon his foe. How dare Mr. Morgan saunter into the Harland and Wolff offices, acting as if he 𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒆𝒅 the place? 

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“An 𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 price.” Mr. Ismay, not Lord Pirrie, was the individual who answered Mr. Morgan’s question, his eyes widening slightly at the unspoken implication. “More lifeboats mean a more cluttered deck space, which would therefore impact our passengers’ enjoyment of their voyage.”

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“Precisely.” Mr. Morgan nodded, agreeing with Mr. Ismay even as his eyes remained fixated on Thomas. “A more cluttered deck space — less 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, less 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔣𝔦𝔱. 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 intolerable.”

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𝘈𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. Of course this 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅 would object to further safety measures because of such reasons. Thomas had entered this meeting clinging to naive hopes that 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 would outweigh 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦, but those hopes were 𝒅𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 the moment that Mr. Morgan broached the subject of the lifeboats. Were 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤’𝘴 lifeboats to be lowered to twenty as Mr. Morgan would prefer, less than a third of her passengers would be granted the opportunity to reach safety in the event of an emergency. Blood would be on Mr. Morgan’s hands. 

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“If, God forbid, Titanic were ever in danger, twenty lifeboats would not be enough to rescue all individuals on board. At the very most, the total capacity of Titanic’s lifeboats is 1,178 total.” Thomas’ voice acquired a tone of deadly calm, and as he spoke, his hands rested on his hips. He met Mr. Morgan’s gaze once more, but he did not avert his eyes as he did previously; this time, the young shipbuilder held the millionaires’ stare defiantly, daring the other to blink first. “Tell me, Mr. Morgan, are you prepared to sacrifice human lives for the purpose of profit?”

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“Mr. Andrews!” Although Lord Pirrie snapped out a stern rebuke towards his nephew, those who knew the Harland and Wolff chairman well would recognize that inside, he was almost vibrating with pride. Thomas exhibited the courage to do what he could not – namely, stand up to Mr. Morgan – but for the sake of maintaining cordiality, a half-attempt at correcting his nephew’s behavior must be made. “Your comment was uncalled for. Return to gentlemanly practices, and calm yourself at once!”

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Lord Pirrie took a deep breath and allowed his eyes to flutter shut momentarily, as though taking his own advice to achieve a state of calm. He hesitated, then his eyes opened once more, holding such emotion within their depths that Thomas could almost 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 his Uncle 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 him to not provoke J.P. Morgan any further. 

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“Tommie, our Titanic is the 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. This marvelous ship is already viewed worldwide as 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, not only because of the press, but also because of 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔. She’s the pinnacle of The White Star Line’s success; her dominion over the seas will be unmatched, and I see no reason to fear for her safety.”

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Lord Pirrie’s words soothed a small fraction of the worry in Thomas’s heart, but the rest continued to gnaw at him as though he were a dog’s bone. Thomas stole a quick glance at Alexander Carlisle, and the look on the man’s face made his heart skip a beat; his mentor was staring at Lord Pirrie like he was seeing the 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆 man for the first time. 

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“𝑨𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 unsinkable is the operative phrase that we ought to heed, Lord Pirrie.” Mr. Carlisle said quietly, his soft-spoken voice carrying an underlying current of steel. “No object built by the hands of 𝒎𝒂𝒏 is immune from destruction. I see no reason 𝒏𝒐𝒕 to have more lifeboats; one can 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 be too careful or too complacent.”

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“Alexander, think of the 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒕!” This time, Mr. Ismay flew to the defense of Mr. Morgan’s rhetoric. “𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 is fitted with 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 lifeboats than the Board of Trade requires; more than is necessary.”

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Mr. Ismay turned his attention to the blueprints on the table, his eyes scanning the familiar document with the scrutiny of an experienced architect. 

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“We’ve room enough for fourteen clinker-built boats and two forward cutters,” The businessman murmured, brows furrowing in concentration. “Perhaps, if we placed four collapsibles on the … hmm …”

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Mr. Ismay trailed off again, then a small smile graced his visage. “Well! You already have those collapsibles, right here on the roof of the officers’ quarters! Good man!” He exclaimed, his behavior not unlike that of a proud parent. Thomas fought the urge to roll his eyes; he and Mr. Ismay were only eleven years apart in age.

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Within the very marrow of his soul, Thomas knew that he mustn’t let this battle be lost so easily. If he played his cards right, there was still a fighting chance. “Perhaps if we double-stacked the boats—“

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Lord Pirrie pinned him to the wall with a glare so fierce that Thomas’ suggestion died in his throat. 

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“Thomas, 𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚 boats will suffice.” His uncle responded sternly, the tone of his voice leaving no room for dissent. “You said so 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 as recently as yesterday — the RMS 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 is almost unsinkable. Am I to now label you a dishonest and untrustworthy man?”

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“No, but I—“

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“𝐄𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, Thomas. This discussion is 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓.”