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The question rested upon the tip of his tongue, but he did not dare to utter those fateful words. If he spoke those words, Captain Smith knew, he would doom them all.
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⠀ God, Ted wanted to hit Tommy Andrews. Kind, easygoing Irishman that the fellow was, he could have killed him on the spot. How could the architect remain so calm and collected under fire, when all Ted wanted was to crumble into a thousand pieces?
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⠀ Two thousand two hundred and eight souls. Of course he knew the precise number of individuals on board; he had signed the paperwork himself. Twenty lifeboats to carry only half of these souls to safety. This disparity was precisely that which damned them all. Ted’s breath caught in his throat when this realization slammed into his mind with the force of a thousand tsunamis.
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⠀ Titanic was the biggest, most luxurious ship afloat; no expense spared to fit her out. The papers touted her as almost unsinkable, but that was a myth. Just a myth, like the twelve labors of Hercules or Odysseus’s journey to the Underworld. Almost unsinkable became unsinkable in the public mind — and the sad truth was that his own successful career had contributed to this narrative.
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⠀ Was it paperwork that he had signed, or was it a death warrant in disguise? He wondered, a shiver traveling down his spine as the thought crossed his mind. By virtue of his position as Captain, Edward Smith was inherently damned to perish on this fateful night; however, he was not the only one. The blood of nearly half the ship’s innocent passengers would be on his hands, their deaths the consequences that he must bear.
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⠀ There was just one thing left that he needed to know. Captain Smith swallowed his fear, mentally preparing himself to become the stoic leader his ship’s passengers deserved.
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⠀ ❝ How much time? ❞
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⠀ Finally, he had uttered the question that had plagued his mind ever since he learned of Titanic’s collision with that damn iceberg.
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⠀ ❝ An hour, two at most. ❞