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APRIL 14th, 1914.
Aboard the RMS Oceanic.
11:40 PM.
The ship groaned as they plowed through the sea. A minor list to port, soon corrected by the next rough wave, then pushed over to starboard by the next after that. But she remained on her course, she did. She was smaller, sturdier, accustomed to be driven hard. Not like Titanic.
Charles was well aware of the date, of course he was. He lay under his bedcovers, yet he had never been more awake. Every creak set off his nerves. The engines never stopped, but maybe his heart did, once or twice.
“How can ye sleep?”
That’s right, how could he? It was the anniversary of the worst night of his life, and believe me, it was tough competition in that category. Yet here he was, hurtling across the Atlantic at 20 knots, as if nothing had changed. As if nothing had mattered.
The ship shuddered as they crashed through another wave.
“I’m sorry.” A faint whisper on the wind. “I’m sorry.”
Charles recognized that painfully, pointlessly apologetic voice. As if it was his fault. He would believe that, wouldn’t he? Charles buried his head in his pillow and tried to ignore the thought.
There was a lull, before he whispered again. “The stars are beautiful tonight.”
He remembered that. The night before, they had taken a stroll around the deck, spoke of dreams and ambitions and promises for tomorrow. The night before the iceberg, before the sinking. Before he never saw another sunrise again.
Charles sat up in his bed, listening, squinting into the dark. There were no other whispers, but the previous one implied an invitation. He pulled on some pants, sweater, and coat and stepped outside.
Standing at the railing, staring out at the black horizon, was none other than William Murdoch. He appeared as he did back then, clad in a long coat with a squared stance, his presence undeniable. Not quite straight-backed; he always had something of a curve to him, a proud jut of the chest. There was a biting wind out on deck, but this image of him remained perfectly still. Charles approached and found his expression was grim, darkened eyes shifting slightly, as though he were deep in thought. When he exhaled, no puffs of air accompanied it.
Charles leaned on the railing besides. “Am I dreaming or am I… Not right in the head?”
William made no move to acknowledge him. Until, a small smile crept onto his face, and he spoke clear as day, “I didn’t love ye for being right in the head.”
After a beat, they laughed over it, though in a manner constrained by the ever-lingering shadow of grief. Charles did not know what to say, but William’s smile stayed, and he was looked upon with such familiar fondness he thought everything might be alright after all.
“I’m here,” William reassured, responding to some unspoken query. “How have you been?”
“Fine, fine.” Instead of any of the last two years, he touched on current events. “I am hoping to get home sooner rather than later, as I’ve missed my girl’s birthday. As usual. She’s one so I think she can forgive me.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sylvia Mavis.”
“Mavis,” he echoed as his eyes crinkled at the corners. Happy for him, deeply so. He had not aged a day.
“How about you?” Charles asked, uncertain of what sort of response he would get. “How have you been?”
“Oh, y’ken…” He awaited the usual edict of “it could be worse”, but it did not come. “I am with a few friends,” William said instead, “Sparks, Tommy… I went looking for ye, last time around, but I could not find you.”
Charles tried to follow. “Last time around… You mean last April?” A nod. “Ah, yes. They had me on the Australian run then.”
He hummed, lips pressed in a line. “That does nae seem a coincidence.”
“No, I suppose it wasn’t.”
After an unnatural pause, William continued, “I wanted to say that I received your letter.”
“My letter?” Furrows appeared between his brows. “What letter?”
“Your letter. Dated April 24th, from a hotel in Washington,” he said with certainty, as though having committed every word of it to memory. He does not like to remember that time much, but now that he mentioned it, Charles recalled scribbling something to him one midnight weary—and chucking it straight into the bin. “Though it took a while after that to reach me.”
“Huh. Never thought it’d see the light of day.”
“It doesn’t. But I keep it close.”
There it was again. Vague mentions and unusual pauses, that had Charles considering this was not a product of an addled mind, but a true apparition tied to that sunken death site somewhere to their current north. Every minute they hurtled through the dark, they went farther and farther from it and would not stop, as much as Charles wanted to say “Hold on, wait. Let me stay a while and listen.”
With a sudden sense of urgency, Charles spoke, “William, about the letter. Those rumors about your end- The rumors were very prevalent, back then. At times, most times, I felt the only man providing an alternative. Even now, I can’t be sure- I can’t be sure of anything. Won’t you tell me the truth?”
William smiled and shook his head. “You ken.”
“I don’t, that is why I am asking-”
“You ken.”
Charles frowned. Stubborn to the last, he was. But, it prompted him to think back to those brief few minutes in William’s cabin—wasted minutes, Charles would say, for they were spent handing out the guns. It was not the last time he saw him, but it was the last time they looked into each other’s eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” Charles concluded. In them, he had found resolution, and a silently bidden farewell. “Because when I saw you then, I knew I had already lost you.”
“I intended to go down with her, regardless,” William agreed quietly. “I think you were right, Charles. About what came after. I would have hated it. It is… Better, this way.”
“You know I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Aye.” A vague smile, and his next words were as faint as before, “You’ve been looking out for Ada, have you?”
“Yes, of course. Always.”
“Thank you.”
When he turned, William was gone.
“Will-?” His heart lurched as the ship did, cresting over a rolling wave. “Will?” The ice-cold spray of seawater that hit his face as they settled into the trough failed to bring him to his senses. There was a fellow in front of him, tall, young, and handsome, with a look of concern. Charles babbled, “Jim? Jim, what are you-?”
“Sir?” The spell was broken. This was his sixth officer, yes, but not James Moody, no, not that poor chap. Due to his rotten luck, this one went by “Jim” as well, though he supposed that was in his favor in this present instance. “Are you alright, Mr. Lightoller?”
“I’m fine,” he said hastily, wiping the saltwater from his face, regardless of origin. “Couldn’t sleep, was all. Good night to you.”
Charles turned tail to his room, and stared at the wall until morning.