Chapter Text
It was raining. A thick, heavy downpour that drenched Arthur to the bone as he stood on the deck of the Carpathia, holding fast to the railing as he stood beside Alfred. They hadn't left each other's sides for this entire incident, not from the moment they'd been pulled from the water. But it was hard to find the words. He could feel Alfred tensing beside him, as they came into harbor. He could feel the anxiety all but rolling off of those broad shoulders, as they came closer and closer to Alfred's shores. America, the beautiful. Even in the rain, he could feel how beautiful the city was that awaited them. One with lights, and heat, and solid ground to stand on, a ground that couldn't be broken beneath their boots as they both looked forward to docking. He, looking forward to a good cup of coffee, mostly.
Yet as they both stood there, and in silence, watched, as the Carpathia first approached and then bypassed Pier 54, its Cunard Line pier, he felt his heart dropping to the pits of his stomach. They hadn't stopped. A brief moment of hope that they'd been so close to ending this venture, and closing this chapter, had that very hope dashed as the Carpathia continued, and sailed up the Hudson River to Pier 59, the berth for White Star Line and where Titanic was supposed to have arrived. Where they should have arrived earlier. Should have come in, laughing, happy, having just left the lap of luxury for a week of fine dining and living it up in the town.
He could almost see it, the two of them in their fine black suits, tall hats, hair slicked back. Chatting with waiters, flirting with women, Alfred telling him how he never needed that first class ticket to begin with. "See? We had a great time without me staying in first class. I still got to steal all your fancy meals, Artie." But that hadn't happened. All the joy that he'd hoped for, a coming back together after Alfred's civil war, had been dashed in one night. It didn't matter how well the trip had begun, only how it had ended. While it had ended in a miracle of human cooperation and kindness? It had also ended in tragedy. He didn't know any details, just that they'd hit an iceberg, and promptly sank. He didn't care to replay the memories of that night, not yet.
Hands that were numb from the cold, from the wet, knuckles white from holding fast onto that metal railing, only released the unforgiving steel as the crew members approached, and told them to step back, so that the empty lifeboats could be dropped off. A menial task. He didn't understand why that had to take precedence, as the railing he held onto so tightly was robbed of him, and his cold, shaking hands, were left nothing to grip. Nothing to cling to as he was unable to simply stand there, but unable to say a word. Just Alfred's arm, wrapped around his shoulders as he was lead back and away, back into the multitude that were also braving the rain to be a little closer to the shore, neither of them speaking yet. His own port in the storm. He was certain Alfred was cursing him in his heart, remembering how the water had been so cold, so sharp, it had been nothing less than an ocean of knives, drawing deeper with every breath they'd taken. But he was still grateful to him, being there. Grateful he hadn't experienced it alone. And now, in the rain, both of them were left looking at the crew as they disposed of the empty lifeboats, one by one, lowering them down.
For some, no doubt a chilling reminder of where those boats had been bobbing but days before, holding those who had nothing left but the clothes on their backs, what they'd thought to grab off the ship.
Ah, that was why they were at Pier 59. Because even in tragedy.. The White Star Line would want their property back. Their lifeboats. It disgusted him. A physical revulsion that had his throat swelling shut, rejecting the spit that should have been hurled in the face of the bureaucrats and capitalists that were in charge of this mess he was now finding himself in. That even in the face of such tragedy, the property of others was being prioritized before the lives of the many. People that had no eyes for him, as he took a moment to just lean against Alfred. Against the cold, against the rain. Forced to swallow after all, least he get spittle on the innocents around them.
America was taller than him now, only just. That golden hair was plastered to his forehead, he noted, as he glanced upwards. Alfred's glasses covered by the wet so kindly shared by the falling rain. He didn't know how long they stood there like that, he glancing at Alfred and those around him as the lifeboats were offloaded, Alfred's eyes not on him, but on his own shores. The arm around his shoulders not loosening, not moving. If anything, that hand was holding him more firmly, as if warring with himself. Arthur could almost see the gears turning behind those glasses, knowing just how miserable Alfred might consider himself to be currently, versus just how much more wet and miserable he might become, if he just jumped off the ship early and swam to shore. But that would have garnered too much attention.
Having dropped off the empty lifeboats, Carpathia then sailed back toward Pier 54. Where else would they be going? He felt the small lurch of the boat as they moved again, his fingers reaching into Alfred's sweater, a sweater he had once made for Alfred to wear, a guernsey for him to go out fishing, as if it had been some sort of mark of approval. Some sort of forgive me peace offering between them, after they'd gotten back in contact following that Civil War. In this case, he was aware of a jersey worn underneath that black suit that had surely offered Alfred more comfort than not. He also knew that his hand, still incredibly chilled from the railing, holding fast to the American was acting as if warning him against such foolishness as jumping off, when they would be on solid ground again soon. But now, away from the side of the Carpathia, he was denied a clear view of where they were going, or what was happening. His warning might have very well been moot.
But then he saw something in his peripheral and turned from Alfred, and saw up alongside the Carpathia was a little tug boat. A little tug boat with an unwelcome group of passengers. A tug boat filled with photographers following the ship to the pier, and the flashlight of cameras was lighting up the evening, as they came ever closer! He tucked himself back against Alfred, muttering to him to keep his head down. The flash of the cameras meant documentation. It meant pictures of faces in the newspaper, flashes lighting up the ship in the night sky to no doubt reveal that the decks were crammed with passengers, covered in people all wanting to get to land, and to be done with this horrendous event! They were being documented when he just wanted to get home!
How could any of them have expected what awaited them in full, as the Carpathia came to port? As Rostron gave his orders, that the Carpathia passengers were to disembark first.
Before the Titanic survivors!?
But it was with the thinning of the crowd as so many moved to follow orders, that Arthur saw the horror that was truly before them. So many people he couldn't count, masses bobbing like ants swarming spilt sugar. These masses could not be counted in the hundreds. There were thousands, no, tens of thousands, braving the weather and the cold, horrendous and curious creatures, looking for news, for updates, for word of their families, for confirmation of what was nothing less than a true maritime disaster!
And they'd be on top of the Titanic survivors, as soon as they got off the ship. He knew he and Alfred had to be with those of the Carpathia, least they be documented as those among the Titanic. That no one rightly cared about the regular folks, denied their trip from New York to Europe of the Carpathia. The Titanic survivors would be the ones getting press, the ones whose names would be written down and shared. At least, until something newer, shinier, and more heinous took the attention off of that sinking. The smattering of lifeboats among the ocean of ink, the screaming.. A Hell of sight and sound, until the cold had taken so many, that the only sound that broke until the break of day was the occasional scream of grief as the dead slipped beyond the reach of the living.
Yet, as he and Alfred were standing there, the gangplank situated, as the first of the Carpathians were stepping down, he felt a grip on his wrist, and smelled maple syrup.
"Follow me."
Each of the nations had gifts of their own. Gifts that others could hardly remember, save when experiencing them in front of others, made to forget whether by providence or by nature of what they were. Matthew's, as he was reminded in that moment, was at least in part? Invisibility. A gift he felt washing over himself as a warm embrace, while the firm arm around his shoulder was robbed from him, and he was left with only that magic to keep him company, as Matthew and his golden hair, pulled back in a fast ponytail, became visible to him, albeit hazy, as if a mist had come over him, or that he was lit up by only candlelight. Still, he wasn't in a position to argue, as he heard Matthew say something to Alfred in a tongue he little recognized, and was being pulled towards the Carpathians stepping off of the ship, joining behind a woman so close he could have sworn she could feel him breathing down her neck.
A useful way to avoid being among those who would no doubt have little privacy for sometime to come.
As the rain still splattered against his head, the hand on his wrist firm and unyielding as the iron he'd been holding to earlier, his mind began to drift, despite his best intentions. A mind that was getting away from him, as Matthew ducked them both out of line, and towards the masses, and didn't let go until he was so caught up in all the people he could scarcely tell the scent of maple syrup from the cheap cologne he was certain now stunk up his clothes.
From the brandy he'd stuffed down his throat to keep warm, from the rocking of the ship to solid ground, Arthur found himself suddenly terribly lightheaded, a gag rising up that promised bile and bitterness- a sensation wholly staved off by a second touch from Matthew. His second and final gift, healing.
Still, his head spun for a moment, robbing him of the sense to even ask which way they were headed, or which general direction they were going.
A paper was thrust at him, and he was let go, made to follow on his own as Matthew threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders, and without that magic or Alfred's arm, he felt as cold and as miserable as he truly was.
He saw police, many of them, amidst all the men in their hats. He saw ambulances, ten, twenty? More, from around the pier. It couldn't be 10 o'clock yet, but was well past the time for dinner. He felt a hush come over the crowd, and glancing back? He saw first class passengers beginning to disembark. Some, carried off, no doubt to be taken to those very waiting ambulances. Even here, the third class passengers were of the last.
Arthur didn't rightly know how he and Alfred had managed to be found at all, floating among the dead as they had been, before being rescued by the Carpathia. He understood less how they had arrived in New York on April 18th, yet Matthew was handing him a copy of the New York Times that had an admittedly partial list of survivors that was dated as April 16th. Save that in the rounds being made on the Carpathia, reports had been sent to at least the New York Times. The Carpathia itself, he understood well enough, as he moved in a shuffle behind the golden haired twins, Matthew's arm around Alfred as they made it through the crowds no doubt for the safety of his brother, even if Alfred could best them all if it came to it. The newspaper it seemed, little more than a distraction, as one would hand a toy to a child so that the adults could talk. The twins were doing as they always did when one of them faced something traumatic, they reverted back to their base roots: discussion in their mother's tongue.
With them gabbing on to each other in a language that he was certain they were the only ones who could understand it in the crowd, he just moved along, they moving in the opposite direction as the crowd, which was pressing on, to try and get a look at those that were surely to come now off of the ship. His precious books, sure to be otherwise ruined, were still stuffed under his shirt, he and Alfred having shrugged off the numerous Guernsey's they had packed themselves under, shared them with the survivors once around them.
Carpathia, their savior. The only reason why more people hadn't frozen to death out among the icebergs, left adrift under that moonless night, the dark more damning than anything around them. The Carpathia, whose captain had done all that could be done. A Cunard Line transatlantic passenger steamship, that had been going in the opposite direction as themselves. Her course had been from New York to Fiume, Austria-Hungary. Arthur Rostron had gotten to them in record time, based off of his conversation with the crewmen. The passengers on board had been as friendly as they could have been, given all they could. They'd given up their rooms, blankets, extra clothes, and still, he and Alfred had given up what they'd had, huddled with others survivors in the ship's common area. There hadn't been enough cabins for everyone, not among the survivors, not among the Carpathians. He'd entertained what he could, with tales of Robin Hood and King Arthur, but the mood had mostly been somber, with few adults around them wanting to hear his tales. He'd told them still, all the same, hoping to help where he could.
He'd expected that they'd be taken to Halifax initially, the closest landfall. But Captain Rostron had taken them to New York instead, where the survivors had originally been bound to travel. A kindness, in itself.
The passengers had greeted them with open arms, sympathy everywhere. That sympathy, replaying in his mind over and over. They would have likely been in New York before this evening, save for one bad stroke of luck after another, storms and fog. And now he was regretting giving away just so many sweaters, though they had been but two or three, greeted by a cold, raining, New York evening. He had to keep the newspaper close to himself, least the ink run, as Matthew worked to detract them from the official survivors, to keep them separate. It wouldn't do for them to have to share the names they'd listed on their boarding passes, to be counted among the living. It would lead to too much attention, possibly photographs, and notoriety.
There would be press after all, the Titanic itself had been seen off with much fanfare. And now, escorted by the USS Chester, the Carpathia had come to port, her home in Britain, an ocean away. Goodness his mind was wandering.
The ground was wet beneath his boots, forced to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with the long legged North Americans. But so too was he, and Alfred, following Matthew to where and hence he willed, as he tried to get a look at the first paper that Matthew had slipped him.
TITANIC SINKS FOUR HOURS AFTER HITTING ICEBERG;
866 RESCUED BY CARPATHIA, PROBABLY 1250 PERISH;
ISMAY SAFE, MRS. ASTOR MAYBE, NOTED NAMES MISSING
Who the Hell was Mrs. Astor?
Ismay, the chairman of the White Starline. The passion project, overseen for the past three years, the man who believed in going on the first crossing of his ships. He'd avoided the man as they'd been on the Carpathia, having nothing to say to the washed out ghost of a man, who in turn had had nothing to say to anyone else regardless. He'd heard that the man had been expecting to retire later that year, when in first class. He didn't know of the man's plans now, only that he'd be avoiding him for the rest of the man's life. He'd sat by himself, staring straight ahead, shaking like a leaf. even when others had spoken to him, he'd scarcely responded to them, prior to being sedated by the physician onboard.
So many wished to tell their loved ones they were alright.
He only wished to get away from the crowds. He didn't exactly have the fondest memories of New York, but any port in a storm.
Mrs. Astor had to be some sort of American, as much as he could figure. He had bumped elbows with many first class passengers, but her name simply wasn't ringing a bell for him. Isidor Straus and Rosalie Blun? Those were names he would recognize. He liked Mr. Straus a fair bit.. and hadn't seen him at all on the Carpathia. Still, he hoped against hope.
Col. Astor and Bride,
Isidor Straus and Wife,
and Maj. Butt Aboard
Not the headline, but there, names he knew.
Women and Children Put Over in Lifeboats and Are Supposed to be Safe on Carpathia.
Fewer children than he should have liked to have seen. Children he'd regaled with heroic tales of chivalry from his youth. Alfred had always preferred Robin Hood, so he'd told both. Ivanhoe, Lancelot.. Tales of hope and triumph. They needed some, in this story they'd found themselves in.
Rescuers There Too Late
That wasn't anything that the Carpathia could have helped. Captain Smith, Commander of the Titanic had his picture, and a picture of the Titanic on the front page. But with the rain coming down, he closed the newspaper over and over, and tucked it into his pocket. Matthew was speaking a little louder with Alfred now, more words than Alfred had said onboard the Carpathia were spilling out, telling his twin everything he could possibly want to hear.
He looked at the second paper, knowing that no doubt it too would soon be spoiled by the rain.
NEW LINER TITANIC HITS AN ICEBERG;
SINKING BY THE BOW AT MIDNIGHT;
WOMEN PUT OFF IN LIFE BOATS;
LAST WIRELESS AT 12:27 A.M. BLURRED
Monday, April 15, 1912. An emphasis on saving the women and children, and that sounded all good and noble. Trying to focus on a positive amidst the tragedy.
Latest News From The Sinking Ship
CAPE RACE, N. F., Sunday night, April 14 - at 10:25 o'clock to-night the White Star line steamship Titanic called "C.Q.D." to the Marconic wireless station here, and reported having struck an iceberg. The steamer said that immediate assistance was required.
Half an hour afterward another message came reporting that they were sinking by the head and that women were being put off in the lifeboats.
The weather was calm and clear, the Titanic's wireless operator reported, and gave the position of the vessel as 41.46 north latitude and 50.14 west longitude.
The Marconi station at Cape Race notified the Allen liner Virginian, the captain of which immediately advised that he was proceeding for the scene of the disaster.
The Virginian at midnight was about 170 miles distant from the Titanic and expected to reach that vessel about 10 A.M. Monday.
2 A.M. Monday- The Olympic at an early hour this, Monday, morning, was in latitude 40.32 north and longitude 61.18 west. She was in direct communication with the Titanic, and is now making all haste toward her.
The steamship Baltic also reported herself as about 200 miles east of the Titanic, and was making all possible sped toward her.
"Speed," Arthur corrected under his breath, noting the lack of an "e" in the article. Which likely just meant that in their haste to publish, to try and get the news out before other papers, they'd skipped a little in the editing progress.
The last signals from the Titanic were heard by the Virginian at 12:27 A.M.
All of them would have arrived too late for most. And yet, if true, as he tucked that paper away as well, it was truly a story about the willingness of so many to reach out to a few. But Titanic had been meant to be unsinkable, he'd spoken with the ship's architect himself. None of this explained what had actually, truly, happened. He'd surely like to check with some of the other ships and see if they'd managed to find.. anyone, anyone else. A lifeboat that had floated away, a person in the water that had survived against all odds. Likely, if such a person existed, they'd be an American. They were always, an American.
Then, one last paper:
TITANIC
DISASTER
GREAT LOSS
OF LIFE
Simply, in a word, accurate. He didn't know what had happened in full, not yet. Just that there was a great loss.
And with a great loss? Came a great pain in the wallet. He, personally, had invested heavily in the Titanic. Yet, he could not readily forgive the fact that the lifeboats had been distributed before the victims. Margaret Brown had suggested they make an initiative, a survivor's committee to award Rostran. Perhaps Carpathia's crew could be awarded from the survivor relief. Because by the Lord above, there would be some form of relief. He would see to it himself.
He'd had to avoid Ismay and the others, though he'd heard Mrs. Brown speaking, least they recognize him and insist he alive to anyone. He'd just take this moment to bow out of high society, and re-emerge at a later date, when his face would be softened in memory. Their concerns though, at the time, had been that with the sinking, most had lost their worldly possessions, and would be unable to fund their way in America to their ultimate final destinations. Well if Alfred hadn't pulled out his wallet then and there! By train or private car, there would be costs that would need to be paid. Which meant with one sharp look from summer blue eyes.. he'd promptly lost the contents of his own wallet.
So now, as Matthew led himself and Alfred up to a hotel? They were both, entirely, wholly reliant upon Canadian generosity. He, the British Empire.. hadn't a penny in his pocket.
Certainly not for the Waldorf Astoria. One of the grandest in New York, with electricity, private bathrooms? He'd hoped to stay here with Alfred.. and surely could not afford it now.
Matthew didn't hesitate in the lobby, save to let go of Alfred and give a shake of his coat to rid it of the excess water that yet clung to it. The concept of being dry, after dealing with the ravenous fury of the sea devils from being denied even a single soul that had escaped their hungry maw? Was almost incomprehensible. They'd been through ice fields, freezing rain, few moments of brilliant sun, fog, thick sea spray. Comfort seemed a long way off.
Nature itself, had cried for the pain and loss of the Titanic.
The welcome of a new life, a happier existence, or even a simple trip from Europe to the New World, had been promised in New York. And yet, the words he'd heard from one woman onboard the Carpathia who had spoken to himself and Alfred spoke then again, in his heart, as Matthew's hands grabbed his shirt and brushed off the rain from his shoulders.
"I've nothing in the world and I've no place to go since my husband is lost. But I'm not afraid, I've always heard that Americans are the kindest people in the world."
It had brought a smile to Alfred's face, and he'd offered her any aid he could. A softness in the American's voice, and he knew Alfred had meant it. She'd brushed it off, but Alfred had still managed to give her a dollar, the dollar given before Margaret Brown had spoken to them about a fund for Rostran. If only the woman had known, even if her name escaped him now. But her face? He doubted that would ever truly leave his heart. That was the look of someone that loved Alfred, even if they didn't know who Alfred was. Loved his dreams, what he stood for. He did, in the end, wish her the best.
"I'm alright," Arthur huffed at last, soaked to the bone and absolutely freezing, but otherwise unharmed. Still, Matthew did his best, and herded the two of them up to his room, no better than cats, soaked through and in no position to complain. His papers, despite his intentions, were likely falling apart in his pockets. He'd need new ones, eager to find out the full truth of what had happened before he might leave New York.
He couldn't look at Alfred in that moment, and had only his best guesses as to what his face was right then. The sick, the injured, being carried off. He felt the pain then, as he had felt during the sinking. He knew Alfred felt it too, no doubt that ever moving mind checking in with his people, one after the other. Likely running over what he could have done differently, if anything.
But as they were let into the room, all the cold, and the stiffness he felt from the common room, from sleeping sitting up? Hit him as if it was a train, slamming into him as soon as his own body understood he was safe, and could rest. "Alfred can shower first," he offered, gracious words, but little likely that Matthew would have allowed him to go first when his brother was in need.
Sure enough, Matthew took Alfred away, closing the door to the ensuite, as he looked after him, and Arthur was left to sink to the carpet below, as his legs all but gave up.
Safe, at last. A whirlwind week, and the storm had finally passed.