TITANIC--Rose's Story

[Esmeralda]

Adaptor's Note: I adore novelizations of movies--it's like being able to hold the movie in your hands. So I was more than disappointed when there were no novelizations published after Titanic became one of the most popular movies ever.

Then I bought a book that included James Cameron’s magnificent shooting script. used for casting, rehearsals and other production preparations (along with a lot of gorgeous pictures!). Reading it, I could see how it could become a novelization, told from Rose's point of view, so I decided to do one myself and send parts of it to the publisher, hoping they would see how a novelization would work.

Because I was hoping Mr. Cameron himself would write the novelization (especially after I had seen how well he had written the script), I did a lot of copying directly out of the book, so much of this isn't truly my work, just the adaptation from script to Rose's point of view.

Please note that this shooting script was later modified during the actual filming, with much of it cut out for timing purposes or to change certain characters, but I’ve discovered that I like many of the deleted scenes and have kept them in this. On the other hand, since I’m doing it all from Rose’s point of view, other scenes, scenes she would never know about, I’ve left out.

I hope this helps bring you back to Titanic, or if this is your first trip, that you'll decide to look up the DVD!

Titanic—Rose’s Story
A novelization of the script
Written by James Cameron
Adapted by Esmeralda
Based on “Titanic: James Cameron’s Illustrated Screenplay”

My name is Rose Calvert. Two years ago I started my second century of life. In my long life, I have done many things. I have been married and widowed. I have raised children, watched them raise my grandchildren, and now watch them raise my great-grandchildren. But I have also acted in silent pictures. I have flown a plane. I have ridden a horse in the surf. But all of these things I might have never done had it not been for one man, one man whom I think of and thank every day of my so-long life. I had not spoken of him in over 80 years, keeping him close to my own heart, but last year something happened that changed my mind.

It was the summer of 2005 and I was sitting in my glassed-in studio that was attached to the living room of my small house in Ojai, California, throwing a pot on my potter’s wheel. The liquid red clay covered my hands…hands that might be gnarled and age-spotted, but were still surprisingly strong and supple.

My forty-year-old granddaughter, Elizabeth Calvert, who I call Lizzie, was in the kitchen, opening a can of dog food for my Pomeranian, Freddy. I will always be grateful to Lizzie for taking care of me for the last ten-twenty years so that I can continue to live in my own home—no nursing homes for this old lady! As the can opener buzzed, I could barely hear the small television set sitting on counter, so it was simply background noise, until a certain word caught my attention.

It was one of those news programs and the announcer was saying, “Treasure-hunter Brock Lovett is best known for finding Spanish gold in sunken galleons in the Caribbean. Now he is using deep submergence technology to work 2 ½ miles down at another famous wreck…the Titanic.”

Hearing that name, I turned off my wheel and began wiping the clay from my hands with a rag as I listened more carefully. The announcer was saying, “He is with us live via satellite from a Russian research ship in the middle of the Atlantic. Hello, Brock?”

And for the first time, I heard the voice of Brock Lovett, treasure hunter: “Yes, hi, Tracy. You know , Titanic is not just a shipwreck, Titanic is the shipwreck. It’s the Mount Everest of shipwrecks. I’ve planned this expedition for three years, and we’re out here recovering some amazing things…things that will have enormous historical and educational value.”

Hearing this, I rose from my stool, took my cane and slowly began walking towards the kitchen. As I walked, the announcer’s voice sounded skeptical. “But it’s no secret that education is not your main purpose. You’re a treasure hunter. Your expedition is at the center of a storm of controversy over salvage rights and even ethics. Many are calling you a grave robber.”

Entering the kitchen, I told Lizzie, “Turn that up, dear,” and after she did, I could clearly hear the sneer in Mr. Lovett’s voice. “Nobody called the recovery of the artifacts from King Tut’s tomb grave robbing. I have museum-trained experts here, making sure this stuff is preserved and catalogued properly. Look at this drawing, which was found today, a piece of paper that’s been underwater for 84 years…and my team was able to preserve it intact. Should this have remained unseen at the bottom of the ocean for eternity, when we can see it and enjoy it now?”

As he spoke, I was standing right next to the television set, staring at the screen, which showed an old, old pencil drawing still in excellent condition except for its partially-disintegrated edges. The drawing showed a beautiful young woman, beautifully rendered. In her late teens or early twenties, she was nude, though posed with a kind of casual modesty. She was on an Empire divan, in a pool of light that seemed to radiate outward from her eyes. Scrawled in the lower right hand corner is the date: April 14, 1912.

The girl was not totally nude. At her throat was a diamond necklace with one large stone hanging in the center.

Staring at that drawing I had to say the only thing I could think: “I’ll be godd*mned.”

That program was the beginning of my journey. When I told Lizzie what I wanted to do, she was certain that I had finally lost my faculties, but since she loves me, she humored me. She telephoned the local television station, which transferred her to the network. When they found out what I wanted and why, they connected me with the Russian research ship, and a Mr. Bobby Buell, who represented the partners who were bankrolling the expedition.

When I told him what I wanted, he told me to “hang on”, then I could hear him running, Soon I could hear his feet running back and his voice saying, “You gotta speak up; she's kinda old,” and I smiled before I heard the same brash, impatient voice I had heard on the television set. “This is Brock Lovett. What can I do for you, Mrs….”

“Calvert,” I introduced myself. “Rose Calvert.”

“Mrs. Calvert?”

With a smile in my voice, I asked, “I was just wondering if you had found The Heart of the Ocean yet.”

The same smile was in Mr. Buell’s voice. “I told you, you wanted to take this call.”

“All right. You have my attention, Rose,” and I smiled, having verified my guess as to where he had found that drawing and why it interested him. “Can you tell me who the woman in the picture is?”

“Oh, yes. The woman is I.”


Less than a week later, I was inside of a large helicopter, holding Freddie in my lap, Lizzie sitting next to me. We watched as the Keldysh, the Russian research ship, came into view. I knew that I would have to prove myself to the people on that ship if I were to fulfill my purpose. I was certain that they thought I was a liar, a nutcase, someone just looking for attention. I felt certain that they would have researched my story.

I had told them that my name was once Rose DeWitt Bukater, but their records would show that Rose DeWitt Bukater had died on Titanic at the age of seventeen.

If they had taken the time to trace Rose Calvert back to the twenties, they would know that I was working as an actress in Los Angeles, which certainly would have raised their suspicions, especially because my name was not Rose Bukater but Rose Dawson. Had they continued to trace Rose Dawson, they would know that I married Joseph Calvert, moved to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and had my two children. They would also know that I was now a widow living in Ojai.

All of this is quite true. There was just one thing missing from that “biography”. Everyone who knew about The Heart of the Ocean was now dead. But I knew.

Soon we were landing on the helipad on the Keldysh. Three men awaited us, awaited me. One appeared to be in his late forties, deeply tanned, wearing a number of chains holding chunks of gold that covered his gray chest hairs. I was certain that this was Brock Lovett. A second man was huge and wide-bodied with scruffy hair and beard. I believe the word Lizzie used to describe him was “grungy”. The third man was short and slim with dark hair and unlike the others, looked like a businessman. Mr. Lovett looked eager; the second man looked skeptical; the third man looked worried. Knowing that they had not found The Heart of the Ocean and certain that that was the true reason for the expedition, I was certain that the third man was Mr. Buell, worried because the expedition was over budget.

No sooner was the helicopter on the pad than Mr. Lovett opened the door. It was amusing to watch their faces as the helicopter pilot handed out our ten suitcases—I do not travel light. Then I was lowered down in my wheelchair, clutching Freddie, before Lizzie jumped out. Even as she introduced us, and Mr. Lovett introduced himself, Mr. Buell, and the grungy man, Mr. Lewis Bodine, the pilot handed out one more item. As Mr. Buell led Lizzie and me towards our stateroom, Mr. Lovett found himself holding my goldfish bowl full of fish.


Later, Lizzie was unpacking our things in the small utilitarian room that would serve as our stateroom while I was placing a number of framed photographs on the bureau, arranging them carefully next to the fishbowl when the door opened and Mr. Lovett and Mr. Bodine looked in.

“Stateroom all right?” Mr. Lovett asked.

I turned to smile at him. “Yes. Very nice. Have you met my granddaughter, Lizzie? She takes care of me.”

Lizzy also smiled. “Yes. We met just a few minutes ago, Grandma. Remember? Up on deck?”

I softly hit my forehead, “Oh, yes,” and the look Mr. Bodine gave Mr. Lovett told me that he was certain that I was senile. I would enjoy proving him wrong. I finished arranging my photographs, then turned to smile at them. “There, that’s nice. I have to have my pictures when I travel. And Freddie, of course.” At the sound of his name, my dog barked. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“Would you like anything?” Mr. Lovett asked, obviously thinking of food or drink.

But I wanted something else. “Yes. I should like to see my drawing.”


Soon we were on their laboratory deck in their preservation area and I was staring at the drawing in its tray of water, confronting myself across a span of 84 years. The drawing swayed and rippled in the water, almost as if alive.

Suddenly I could see a hand, holding a Conte crayon, deftly creating a shoulder and the shape of her hair with two efficient lines. Then I could see his eyes, just visible over the top of a sketching pad, looking at me--soft eyes, but fearlessly direct.

I smiled remembering.

Mr. Lovett was more interested in something else. He showed me a period black-and-white photograph of a diamond necklace on a black velvet jeweler’s display stand. The diamond necklace had a complex setting with a massive central stone which was almost heart-shaped. As he spoke, awe filled his voice, awe and greed. “Louis XVI wore a fabulous stone, called the Blue Diamond of the Crown, which disappeared in 1792, about the time that old Louie lost everything from the neck up. The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped, too--recut into a heart-like shape—and it became Le Coeur de la Mer: The Heart of the Ocean. Today it would be worth more than The Hope Diamond.”

I shuddered. “It was a dreadful, heavy thing.” Pointing at the drawing, I added, “I only wore it this once.”

“You actually believe this is you, Grandma?” Lizzie asked, surprised.

“Oh, it is I, dear. Was I not a dish?” and they all had to laugh.

All but Mr. Brock, that is. Even as they laughed, he continued, “I tracked it down through the insurance record…an old claim that was settled under terms of absolute secrecy. Do you know who the claimant was, Rose?”

I smiled. “Someone named Hockley, I should imagine.”

Mr. Lovett’s eyes glowed as if I had just told him that I was a leprechaun about to lead him to my pot of gold. And perhaps I was. “That’s right. Nathan Hockley, Pittsburgh steel tycoon. For a diamond necklace his son Caledon Hockley bought in France for his fiancée…you…a week before he sailed. And the claim was filed right after the sinking. So the diamond had to have gone down with the ship. See that date?” he asked Lizzie.

“April 14, 1912,” she read.

“If your grandma is who she says she is,” Mr. Bodine’s skeptical voice added, “she was wearing the diamond the day Titanic sank.

Maybe Mr. Bodine did not believe me, but Mr. Lovett most certainly did. He turned to look at me hungrily. “And that makes you my new best friend. I will happily compensate you for anything you can tell us that will lead to its recovery.”

I shook my head. “I do not want your money, Mr. Lovett. I know how hard it is for people who care greatly for money to give some away.”

“You don’t want anything?” and Mr. Bodine’s voice was even more skeptical.

“You may give me my drawing, if anything I tell you is of value.”

Mr. Lovett grinned wolfishly. “Deal.” Then he pushed my wheelchair over to a worktable, saying, “Over here are a few things we recovered from your stateroom.”

Shrunken in my chair, I could just barely see over the tabletop, staring at the fifty or so objects laid out on the worktable. Some were valuable, others mundane. With a trembling hand, I lifted a tortoise shell hand mirror, inlaid with mother of pearl. I caressed it wonderingly. “This was mine. How extraordinary! It looks the same as the last time I saw it.” I turned the mirror over and looked at my ancient face in the cracked glass and shuddered. “The reflection has changed a bit.”

Then I picked up an ornate art-nouveau hair comb—a jade butterfly taking flight on its ebony handle. As I handled that comb, I could remember taking it out of my hair, letting my hair down. A rush of other images and emotions that had lain dormant for eight decades swamped me.

Seeing it, Mr. Lovett asked, “Are you ready to go back to Titanic?”


They led Lizzie and me to their imaging shack, a darkened room lined with television monitors. Each one showed a different image of the wreck. “Live from twelve thousand feet,” laughed Mr. Bodine.

“These are coming from our two submersibles,” Mr. Lovett explained.

I stared at one which showed the bow, memories overwhelming me. That bow, that railing, once so shiny and new. That is where I first felt as if I were flying. I could feel the wind in my face, feel the strength of his arms around my waist and the gentleness of his lips on my cheek. Now here was that same bow--that same railing--covered with sea urchins and an overgrowth of “rusticles” that draped them like mutated Spanish moss.

“The bow’s stuck in the bottom like an ax, from the impact,” Mr. Bodine explained. “Here...I can run a simulation we worked up on this monitor here.” Lizzie turned my chair, so I could see the screen of Mr. Bodine’s computer. As we waited for the file to open, he kept talking. “We’ve put together the world’s largest database on Titanic. Okay, here...”

“Lewis,” Mr. Lovett interrupted. “Rose might not want to see this.”

“No, no. It is fine. I am curious.”

So Mr. Bodine started a graphic on the screen, which paralleled his rapid-fire narration. “She hits the berg on the starboard side, and it sort of bumps along...punching holes like a Morse code...dit, dit, dit, down the side. Now she’s flooding in the forward compartment...and the water spills over the tops of the bulkhead, going aft. As the bow is going down, her stern is coming up...slow at first...and then faster and faster until it’s lifting all that weight, maybe twenty or thirty thousand tons...so SKRTT! It splits! Right down to the keel, which acts like a big hinge. Now the bow swings down and the stern falls back level...but the weight of the bow pulls the stern up vertical, and then the bow section detaches, heading for the bottom. The stern bobs like a cork, floods, and goes under about 2:30 AM. Two hours and forty minutes after the collision.

“The bow pulls out of its dive and planes away, almost a half a mile, before it hits bottom, going maybe 12 miles an hour. KABOOM! The stern implodes as it sinks from the pressure and rips apart from the force of the current as it falls, landing like a big pile of junk.” He turned to grin at me. “Pretty cool?”

My own voice just as cool, I replied, “Thank you for that fine forensic analysis, Mr. Bodine. Of course, the experience of it was somewhat different.”

“Will you share it with us?” asked Mr. Lovett.

“Yes,” I replied. “After you share what you have seen with me,” and he nodded then began playing the film they shot the day they found my drawing.


Out of the darkness, like a ghostly apparition, the bow of a ship appeared. Its knife-edge prow was coming straight at us, seeming to plow the bottom sediment like ocean waves. It towered above the sea floor, standing just as it landed 84 years ago.

I could hear Mr. Lovett’s voice coming from the player. “Seeing her coming out of the darkness like a ghost ship still gets to me every time. To see the sad ruin of the great ship sitting here where she landed at 2:30 in the morning of April 15th, 1912, after her long fall from the world above,” and although Mr. Lovett’s voice sounded sarcastic, Titanicwas getting to me, all over again.

Now we seemed to be diving aft down the starboard side, passed the huge anchor, its chains still laid out in two neat rows, its bronze windlass caps still gleaming, then up and over, the railing, landing on the Boat Deck, next to the ruins of the Officer Quarters. Mr. Lovett’s voice continued, “Dive 6. Here we are again on the deck of Titanic, 2 ½ miles down, 3,821 meters. Pressure outside is 3 1/4 tons per square foot. These windows are 9 inches thick, and if they go then it’s ‘Sayanara’ in two micro-seconds.” I heard the beginning of Mr. Bodine’s guffaw, just before the sound went mute, but the pictures continued, somehow more real without Mr. Lovett’s insincere narration.

As I watched the now-silent images on the screen, they began triggering memories. I recognized one of the Wellin davits, still in place. I could almost hear ghostly waltz music, and the faint and echoing sound of an officer’s voice, English-accented, calling, “Women and children only.” Looking down at the deck, I could almost see screaming faces in a running mob. I could hear people crying, praying. I could feel the pandemonium, the terror.

Now they were sending a remote-operated vehicle, which they had nicknamed “Snoop Dog” even deeper down into the wreck. Through the eye of its camera, we saw more of the wreckage, and more of my memories came flooding back. With “Snoop Dog”, I now seem to be descending through an open shaft that once was the beautiful Grand Staircase. I stared at the ruins of the clock, still set at 2:20, and could almost feel him waiting there for me.

Now I seemed to be going down several decks, and I could almost feel my hand on his arm, or hear shots firing behind me. Now I seemed to be entering the First Class Reception Room, moving through the cavernous interior. The remains of the ornate hand-carved woodwork, which gave the ship its elegance, moved through the floodlights, the lines blurred by slow dissolution and descending “rusticle” formations. Stalactites of rust hung down so that at times it looked like a natural grotto then “Snoop Dog” would turn, and the lines of a ghostly undersea mansion could be seen again.

In the sand covering the bottom of the wreck, I saw a broken pair of glasses that I was certain I had seen on an old gentleman’s face. I saw the head of a doll, and I remembered the little girl who carried it. Now we seem to be going down a long corridor, and I could see a little boy, who could not have been more than three years old, standing ankle-deep in water, lost, alone, crying, and I could see a wall of water thundering down the corridor, engulfing the child and threatening to engulf me.

That wall did not engulf me, but my memories did. Shaken by the flood of memories and emotions, my eyes welled up, and I put my head down, sobbing quietly.

Lizzie began wheeling my chair toward the door. “I’m taking her to rest.”

“No,” I protested, because now I knew I had to tell them the full story. I had to make them realize that these people, these emotions, were more important than a hard piece of crystallized carbon, no matter how rare or how beautiful that diamond might be. Only by putting them on that ship, forcing them to share that journey with me, would I even have a chance. I already knew how very much it would hurt me to relive that experience, but I also knew I no longer had a choice.

“Come on, Nana,” Lizzie urged, using the name she had called me as a child.

“No!” I cried, more forcefully, and she stepped back. I turned my wheelchair away from the screen and stared at the others, who stared back at me. How could I possibly find the words to make them understand?

Mr. Lovett turned on his recorder and pointed the microphone at me. “Tell us, Rose.”

And I realized that it was as simple as that. “It has been 84 years,” I began.

“It’s okay,” he coaxed condescendingly. “Just try to remember. Anything.”

I glared at him. “Do you want to hear this or not, Mr. Lovett?”

He nodded, apologetically but still with a trace of condescension, so again I spoke. “It has been 84 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called The Ship of Dreams, and she was. She really was.”

I glanced again at the pictured hull on the screen behind me, coming from one of the submersibles’ cameras, way down below us, and suddenly in my mind’s eye, the hull became shiny and new again. I could feel myself become that seventeen-year-old girl portrayed in the drawing. I could feel myself riding in the Renault, Cal on one side of me, my mother on the other, as we stared up at the gleaming white superstructure of Titanic, as she rose mountainously beyond that rail, and above that, the buff-colored funnels that stood against the sky like the pillars of a great temple.

I gathered myself and turned back towards my audience. I started to speak again, knowing that I was about to lead everyone on a journey through time, deep into the expanses of my now-unlocked heart...


To be continued if there's interest...

[pubesy]

please continue!

[Esmeralda]

Thank you! Here you go!

It was April 10, 1912, sailing day in Southampton, England, and White Star’s dock swarmed with activity. Crewmen moved across the dock, dwarfed by the awesome scale of the steamer. With most of the passengers already onboard, the pier was still choked with onlookers, luggage and last-minute provisions arriving in amounts that defy comprehension: 2 tons of Oxford marmalade, 50 tons of fresh fish, meat and poultry, 20,000 bottles of beer and stout. The last batch of immigrants was undergoing health inspections, scrutinized for lice and other maladies.

We did not need to do that--we were Americans, on our way home. My fiancé, Caledon Hockley, had taken advantage of last-minute arrangements to provide my mother, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, and me with the finest accommodations White Star Line had to offer--the millionaire suite of B Deck. He had boasted of all of its amenities ever since he had made the arrangements. He had also boasted that he would be the richest man on the ship--or at least until J. J.. Astor would board the next day at Cherbourg, France.

The expense of the gift was not lost on me any more than it would be lost on the social elite whom Cal strove to impress. They were the reason why we were arriving so close to sail time in Cal’s pristine-white Renault, and the reason why we had just finished this long shopping spree in Paris, so we could dress in the latest Edwardian style, as we were now--Cal, a fashion Clydesdale in collar buttons, tie pin, cuff links, watch chain, gloves, hat and walking stick, and myself in my stunning white and purple outfit, complete with an enormous feathered hat.

All around me, people oohed and aahed over the ship. I could not help myself. Looking up from under the brim of my hat, I said, “I do not see what all the fuss is about. It does not look any bigger than the Mauretania."

Cal laughed. “You can be blasé about some things, Rose, but not about the Titanic. It is over 100 feet longer than the Mauretania, and far more luxurious.” He turned to help my mother step down from the Renault. “Your daughter is far too difficult to impress, Ruth.”

Mother laughed her refined laugh--the one that told me that she was not pleased with me--then she looked up at the ship. “So this is the ship they say is unsinkable.”

“It is unsinkable,” Cal declared. “God himself could not sink that ship,” and I inwardly gasped at his blasphemy, while keeping my look of boredom pasted on my face.

Just then a man dressed in a porter’s uniform stepped up to Cal. “You’ll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, sir. It’s around that way, sir.”

Reaching into his pocket, Cal brought out a wad of bills, which he pressed into the porter’s hand. “I put my faith in you, good sir; now see my man,” and he indicated Spicer Lovejoy, his manservant/bodyguard.

Staring at the wad, the porter cried out, “My pleasure, sir; if I can do anything at all for you, sir...” but Cal was already walking away, leading Mother, myself, and our maid, Trudy Bolt, towards the gangplank, while Lovejoy dragged the man in the other direction. I wonder if that porter regretted his words when Lovejoy showed him the three vehicles overflowing with our luggage.

But I gave very little thought to the man’s dilemma; I was much too preoccupied with my own.

As we drew near the gangplank, my attention was caught by a well-dressed young man cranking the handle of one of those new wooden Biograph “cinematograph” cameras mounted on a tripod. I was to learn that he was Mr. Daniel Marvin, whose father founded the Biograph Film Studio. He was filming his young bride in front of Titanic. Mrs. Mary Marvin stood stiffly and smiled self-consciously.

I heard Mr. Marvin tell her, “Look up at the ship, darling. That’s it. You’re amazed. You can’t believe how big it is! Like a mountain! That’s great.”

He may have thought so, either that or love had blinded his eyes. To me, Mrs. Marvin didn’t have an acting fiber in her body. She did a bad Clara Bow pantomime of awe, hands raised.

I gave a little sigh. That, being a film-actress, was once one of my own dreams. I stood still to watch, but Cal immediately grabbed my arm and tugged me towards the gangplank.

As he did, he was jostled by two yelling steerage boys, who shoved passed him. And he was bumped again a second later by a man who must have been their father.

“Steady!” yelled Cal, very affronted.

“Sorry, squire,” apologized the Cockney man as he pushed on, running after his kids, shouting.

Cal brushed himself off. “Steerage swine. Apparently missed his annual bath.”

“Honestly, Mr. Hockley,” Mother complained. “If you were not forever booking everything at the last instant, we could have gone through the terminal rather than running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family.

“All part of my charm, Ruth. At any rate, it was my darling fiancée’s beauty ritual which made us late.”

“You told me to change,” I reminded him.

“I couldn’t let you wear black on sailing day, Sweetpea. It’s bad luck.”

“I felt like black.”

“Here I have pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites and you act as if you’re going to your execution.”

I looked up as the hull of the Titanic loomed over us...a great iron wall, black and severe. Cal motioned us forward, his hand closing possessively over my arm. He escorted me up the gangway to the D-Deck doors, and I entered the ship with a sense of overwhelming dread.

The Titanic was the Ship of Dreams to everyone else. To me, it was a slave ship, taking me back to America in chains. Outwardly I was everything a well-brought-up girl should be. Inside I was screaming. I was drowning before the Titanic even set sail, flailing against the restrictions of gender and class washing over me. I was once a very spirited girl myself, one who had a lot to give to the world and eager to do so. I wanted to explore the whole world, but I knew that that would never happen. I was engaged to Mr. Caledon Hockley and was being pressured into his limited world of what was proper and what was acceptable.

Oh, I admit, initially I had fallen madly in love with him. I was very flattered by his affections and attention and was thrilled when he proposed to me. Nobody forced me into this engagement. It was only recently during our European trip that I realized that he was a rather pompous piece of work, who balanced that powerful charm with great arrogance.

My mother was not helping matters. Deep in debt after the death of my father, Mother encouraged me to marry for money as a means of saving us both. The wedding being planned around me was like a death trap, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, but continue to play the role for which my mother had been grooming me since the day I was born.


Our so called “Millionaire Suite” was in the Empire style, and comprised of two bedrooms, a bath, WC, wardrobe room, and a large sitting room. In addition, there was a private fifty-yard promenade deck outside.

Shortly after we arrived, Cal was out on that covered deck, which had potted trees and vines on trellises, as one of the porters showed him all of its amenities.

In the sitting room, a room-service waiter poured champagne into a tulip glass of orange juice and handed me the Buck’s Fizz. I was looking through the paintings I had bought in Paris, beginning to arrange them. When Trudy wanted to know if I wanted them all out, I replied, “Yes, we need a little color in this room.”

Cal, leaning in the doorway, holding a drink of his own, moaned, “God, not those finger-paintings again. They were certainly a waste of money..”

“The difference between Cal’s taste in art and mine is that I have some,” I told Trudy. “They are fascinating. Like being inside a dream or something. There is truth, but no logic.”

“What’s the artist’s name, miss?” asked Trudy.

“Something Picasso.”

“Something Picasso,” scoffed Cal. “He will not amount to anything. He will not, trust me. At least they were cheap,” and then he waved to a porter to put the safe, which he carted around with him wherever he went, into the wardrobe room.


Later, I brought a large Degas painting of dancers into my bedroom. I set the painting on the dresser near the canopy bed. Trudy was already in there, hanging up some of my clothes.

“It smells so brand-new!” she exclaimed. “Like they built it all just for us. I mean...just to think that tonight, when I crawl between the sheets, I’ll be the first---”

“And when I crawl between the sheets tonight,” Cal interrupted, looking directly into my eyes, “I’ll still be the first.”

Trudy blinked at the innuendo. “S’cuse me, Miss.” She edged around Cal and made a quick exit.

Cal did not notice. He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “The first and only. Forever.” It was not an act of intimacy; it was one of possession.

At Cherbourg, France, the next morning, a woman came aboard named Mrs. Margaret Brown. We all called her Molly. History would call her the Unsinkable Molly Brown. Her husband had struck gold some place out west, and she was what Mother called “new money”. At 45, Molly Brown was a tough-talking straight-shooter, who might have dressed in the finery of our genteel peers, but whom Mother was certain would never truly be one of us.

By the next afternoon we had made our final stop, and we were steaming west from the coast of Ireland, with nothing out ahead of us but ocean.


The next day, Mother, Cal and I took luncheon in the Palm Court, a beautiful sunny spot enclosed by high arched windows. With us were Mr. Bruce Ismay, the Managing Director of White Star Lines; Mr. Thomas Andrews, the Master Shipbuilder of Harlan and Wolf Shipbuilders, and Molly Brown.

Mr. Ismay boasted, “She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history, and our master builder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up.”

“I may have knocked her together,” replied Mr. Andrews, modestly, “but the idea was Mr. Ismay’s. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is, willed into solid reality.”

Everyone else raised glasses, calling out, “Here! Here!” while I continued to hide behind my guise of boredom. But I found that difficult, when Molly Brown asked, “Why’re ships always bein’ called ‘she’? Is it coz men think half the women ‘round here have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage? Jest another example of the men settin’ the rules their way.”

At that moment, our waiter arrived to take our orders. As I waited, I placed a cigarette into a holder, brought it to my lips and lit it.

“You know I do not like that, Rose,” whispered Mother.

“She knows,” replied Cal as he took it from me and put it out. Then he turned to the waiter. “We will both have the lamb. Rare with a little mint sauce.” He only turned to me after the waiter had moved on. “You like lamb, don’t you, Sweetpea?”

I smiled back. Yes, I do, but I like it well-done, covered with mint sauce. But I knew better than to say anything--he would not remember the next time he decided to order lamb.

Molly Brown must have seen the frustration in my eyes that I tried to hide. “You gonna cut her meat for her there, too, Cal?” she asked. When he glared, she changed the subject. “Hey, who thought of the name Titanic, anyway? Was it you, Bruce?”

“Well, yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength.”

“Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay?” I asked before I could stop myself. “His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

Mr. Andrews nearly choked on his breadstick, suppressing laughter. I exchanged a smile with him. Not Mother. “What has gotten into you?” she quietly demanded.

At that I excused myself and stalked away. I could hear Mother’s apologizing for me, but I continued walking. But I could not help smiling when I heard Molly Brown say, “She’s a pistol, Cal. Hope you can handle her.”

My smile faded when I heard his reply. “Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, will I not, Mrs. Brown?” Would even the pleasure of reading, my one and only escape, be taken from me?

But my smile returned as I heard Mr. Ismay ask, “Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?” then I opened to the door to the Palm Court and went back out on deck, walking to the railing. I stared out at the ocean, wondering what I could do.

I stared down at the water. Then I unpinned my elaborate hat and took it off. I looked at the frilly absurd thing then tossed it over the rail. It sailed far down to the water and was carried away astern. A spot of yellow in the vast ocean. I wished I could throw all of my restrictions overboard, but knew I could not.

Then my attention was drawn to the Third Class Promenade, down on E Deck. There my eyes were met by the piercing stare of one of the steerage passengers, a lanky man with his blond hair a little long for the standard of our time, unshaven and smoking. His clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them. We stood there, only about sixty feet apart, with the well deck like a valley between us, I on my promontory, he on his much lower one. Something in his eyes seemed to touch my very soul, but I knew I was no more likely to make his acquaintance than I was to escape my marriage to Cal. These thoughts were immediately confirmed when Cal himself came up from behind me, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me back to the Palm Court, first berating me for losing my hat then making it very clear that I was never to embarrass him again.


That evening, at dinner, I saw my whole life as if I had already lived it, an endless parade of parties and cotillions, of yachts and polo matches, always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice with no one to pull me back, no one who cared or even noticed.

That night, I stood in the middle of my stateroom, staring at my reflection in the large vanity mirror. I just stood there then suddenly, my control shattered.

With a primal, anguished cry, I clawed at my throat, ripping off my pearl necklace, which exploded across the room. In a frenzy, I tore at myself, my clothes, my hair then attacked the room. I flung everything off the dresser, clattering against the wall. I hurled a hand mirror against the vanity mirror, cracking the very mirror I’d hold in my hands on the Keldysh.

Spinning around, I went out onto the deck. First, I was walking, but then I began walking quicker, soon running, tears flooding my cheeks, choking in my throat. I ran as fast I could, trying to run away from everything, to escape from my life.

I was upset, but also angry, furious! Shaking with emotions I did not understand--hatred, self-hatred and desperation, I barged passed the other people on deck, who glared at my gauche behavior, but other people’s opinion now meant nothing to me; I no longer cared about anything or anyone else, not even myself. One thing and only one thing was important--freedom.

I ran down the First Class Promenade, across the well deck, clattering up the stairs to the stern deck, running across the dark and deserted fantail. My breath caught in an occasional sob, which I tried to suppress. I slammed against the base of the stern flagpole and clung there, panting. Staring out at the black water, I suddenly knew what I wanted to do, what I had to do.

So I started to climb over the railing. I had to hitch my long evening dress way up, and the climbing was very clumsy. Moving methodically, I turned my body and hooked the heels of my evening slippers on the white-painted gunwale, my back to the railing, facing out toward blackness. Sixty feet below me, the massive propellers were churning the Atlantic into white foam, and a ghostly wake trailed off toward the horizon.

I stood there, like a figurehead in reverse. I leaned out, my arms straightening, looking down hypnotized, into the vortex below me. My dress and hair were lifted by the wind of the ship’s movement. The only sound, above the rush of the water below, was the flutter and snap of the big Union Jack right below me.

I looked down at the water, preparing to let go and finally gain my freedom.

“Don’t do it!”

The voice almost startled me into letting go, but I hung on, looking towards the voice. It belonged to the same steerage passenger into whose eyes I had stared earlier. His accent was American, but definitely lower class. What was he doing in first class, and how dare someone so far below my own class try to stop me from doing what I so desperately needed to do!

“Stay back!” I cried. “Do not come any closer.”

“C’mon. Jest give me your hand and I’ll pull ya over.”

“No! Stay where you are. I mean it. I will let go.”

He slowly walked up to the railing and threw his cigarette overboard. “No, you won’t.”

“What do you mean, no, I will not? Do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do. You do not know me.”

“Well, you woulda already done it.”

“You are distracting me. Go away.”

“I can’t. I’m involved now. You let go, and I’ll havta jump in there after you,” and reaching down, he began to untie his shoe.

“Do not be absurd. You would be killed.”

“I’m a good swimmer.”

“The fall alone would kill you.”

“It would hurt. I’m not sayin’ it wouldn’t.” He took off the shoe and began untying the other. “To tell ya the truth, I’m a lot more concerned ‘bout the water bein’ so cold.”

Cold? I had not thought about the water being cold. I thought its warmth would welcome me into oblivion. “How cold?” I asked.

“Freezin’. Maybe a few degrees colder.” He took off the other shoe. “You ever been ta Wisconsin?”

“What?” I asked, totally confused by his change of subject.

“Well, they got some of the coldest winters around. I grew up there, near Chippewa Falls. I remember when I was a kid, me and my dad, we went ice-fishin’ in Lake Wissota. Ice fishin’ is, you know, where you--”

“I know what ice fishing is!” I snapped.

“Sorry. You jest seemed like, you know, kinda an indoor girl. Anyway, I fell through some thin ice. And I’m tellin’ ya, water that cold, like that, right down there, it hits ya like a thousand knives stabbin’ you all over your body. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. At least ‘bout anythin’ else ‘cep’ the pain. Which is why I’m not lookin’ forward to jumpin’ in there after you. Like I said, I don’t have a choice,” and he took off his jacket. “I guess I’m kinda hopin’ you’ll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here.”

“You are crazy!”

“That’s what everybody says, but with all due respect, miss, I’m not the one hangin’ off the back of a ship here. C’mon. Gimme me your hand. You don’t wanna do this.”

Did I? A few moments ago, there was nothing that I thought I wanted to do more. But thinking about that freezing, knife-like cold, did I? I stared at the madman for a long time. I looked into his eyes and they somehow seemed to fill my universe. A universe that included someone like him, whose eyes said he cared, was not one that I wanted to leave.

Unfastening one hand from the rail, I reached it around towards him. He reached out to take it, firmly.

He smiled. “Whew. I’m Jack Dawson.”

“Rose DeWitt Bukater.”

“I’ll have ta getcha ta write that one down for me. C’mon.” And I started to turn. Without meaning to, I looked down. Now that I had made the decision to live, the height was terrifying. I was overcome by vertigo as I shifted my footing, turning to face the ship. As I started to climb, my evening slipper became entangled in my long skirt and my foot slipped off the edge of the deck!

I let out a piercing shriek as I plunged, certain I was about to die, which I now did not want to do. But Mr. Dawson still had my hand, the only thing that prevented me from falling to my death in the cold waters below! Again I screamed and screamed.

But Mr. Dawson continued to hold my hand with all his strength, bracing himself on the railing with his other hand. I tried to find some kind of foothold on the smooth hold. He tried to lift me bodily over the railing. I still could not find any footing in my long dress and evening slippers, and again I slipped!

“No!” I screamed. “Help me!”

“Listen to me!” he commanded. “I’ve gotcha. I won’t let go. Now pull yerself up! C’mon!”

I nodded. I believed him. My life was literally in his hand, and I somehow knew that it was safe there. He pulled, I pushed, and soon he had his arms around me, awkwardly clutching me by whatever he could grip, as he pulled me over the top of the railing. But our momentum not only carried me over, it also pushed us to the deck, rolling as we fell, so he landed on top of me as we hit the deck.

“Well, what do we have here?”

We both looked up. My screams had brought some of the officers running. Now they stared at us--at me, lying on the deck, my face still pale, my eyes large and dark with fear, my dress torn and pulled up to reveal my leg, my hair awry. And Mr. Dawson, obviously not of my class, his shoes and jacket off, lying atop me. We both knew what it must have looked like.

“You stand back and don’t move an inch! Call the master at arms.”


Not only the master at arms, but Cal was called also, and he brought a number of the men who had been sharing brandy and cigars with him. All high class, all looking down their noses at Mr. Dawson. One of them, Colonel Archibald Gracie, wrapped a blanket around me, handing me his brandy, while the master at arms snapped hand cuffs on Mr. Dawson.

Cal marched up to him. “This is completely unacceptable. What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancée?” I called out Cal’s name several times, but as always, he did not listen to me as he continued to yell at Mr. Dawson. “Look at me, you filth. What do you think you were doing?” and he grabbed Mr. Dawson by his shoulders and began shaking him.

That did it. I broke away from the Colonel and ran to them. “Cal! Stop! It was an accident!”

He turned to stare at me. “An accident?”

“It was. Stupid, really. I slipped.” Mr. Dawson stared at me, unable to believe that I was standing up for him, but after he saved me, I had to save him., despite Cal’s skeptical stare. “I was leaning far over to see the propellers and I slipped. And I would have gone overboard, but Mr. Dawson here saved me and almost went over himself.”

“She wanted to see the propellers,” Cal told the other passengers, his voice making clear how absolutely stupid he considered my actions.

“Like I always say,” declared Colonel Gracie declared. “Women and machinery do not mix.”

“Was that the way of it?” the master at arms asked Mr. Dawson.

Mr. Dawson looked at me and I looked back, begging him with my eyes to agree with me and not mention my near-suicide attempt.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was pretty much it.”

“Well, the boy’s a hero then!” exclaimed Colonel Gracie. “Good for you, son. Well done, so it’s all’s well and back to our brandies, huh?’ he asked Cal.

As the master at arms unlocked Mr. Dawson’s cuffs, Cal rubbed my arms through the blanket, saying, “You must be freezing. Let’s get you inside,” and he started leading me inside the ship.

“Uh,” reminded the Colonel. “Something for the boy?”

“Uh, Lovejoy, I think a twenty should do it?”

“Is that the going rate for saving the woman you love?” I asked.

“Rose is displeased. What should I do? I know,” and Cal began walking back towards Mr. Dawson. I could almost hear Cal’s thoughts as he appraised this man whom he considered a steerage ruffian, unwashed and ill-mannered. His nose high in the air, he suggested. “I know. Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening to regale our group with your heroic tale.”

“Count me in.” Mr. Dawson’s eyes were on me, not Cal.

“Good.” He began walking back towards me, muttering to the others, “This should be interesting.”

As we walked away I heard Mr. Dawson ask Mr. Lovejoy for a smoke and Mr. Lovejoy say, “You want to tie those. It’s interesting how the young lady slipped so suddenly and you still had time to remove your jacket and your shoes.” I knew he did not completely buy my story. I also knew that if he did not, neither did Cal.


Later, I was sitting at my dressing table, brushing out my hair, holding the mirror I had cracked earlier, the one that I would hold on the Keldysh 84 years later. Then I heard a soft knock and Cal came in. “I know you have been melancholy,” he softly said. “I do not pretend to know why. I intended to save this until the engagement gala next week. But I thought tonight,” and he brought out a jewelry case.

I knew he was trying to cheer me up the only way he knew how. And yet, I could only think, “Oh, please. The last thing I need is another jewel from Cal.” Then he opened the case to reveal a giant, beautiful blue gem on a golden necklace.

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed.

“Perhaps it will be a reminder of my feelings for you.”

“Is it...”

“A diamond? Yes.” He placed it around my throat. “56 carats to be exact. It was worn by Louis XVI, and it was called Le Coeur de la Mer, the...”

“The Heart of the Ocean,” I translated. “It is overwhelming.”

“It is meant for royalty. We are royalty, Rose. You know there is nothing I could not give you. There is nothing I would deny you if you do not deny me. Open your heart to me, Rose.”

But I knew I could not. His words spoke right to the heart of what was wrong with our relationship. Of course, his gift was only meant to reflect light back onto himself, to illuminate the great that was Caledon Hockley. It was a cold stone, a heart of ice. That diamond felt like an albatross. If it was ever possible to call the wedding off before that moment then that diamond sealed my fate, and I knew there was nothing I could do about it.

Mr. Dawson was right. I did not even have the courage to take my own life.

At the reminder of that awful weight of that necklace around my neck, I forced my thoughts back to the present, looking my audience, especially Mr. Lovett, right in the eye. “After all these years, I can still feel it close around my throat like a dog collar. I can still feel its weight. If you could have felt it, not just seen it...”

He grinned wolfishly. “Well, that’s the general idea, my dear.”

“So let me get this straight,” interrupted Mr. Bodine. “You were gonna kill yourself by jumping off Titanic?” He guffawed. “That’s hilarious!”

“Lewis,” Mr. Lovett warned, but I was laughing along with Mr. Bodine, laughing at an irony I had come to appreciate many times over the years.

Mr. Bodine vocalized it. “All you had to do was wait two days!”

Everyone joined in the laughter, except Mr. Lovett, who checked his watch impatiently. “Rose, tell us more about the diamond. What did Hockley do with it after that?

“I am afraid I am feeling a little tired, Mr. Lovett.”

Lizzie picked up the cue and started to wheel me out of the room.

“Wait!” cried Mr. Lovett. “Can you give us something to go on here? Like who had access to the safe? What about this Lovejoy guy? The valet. Did he have the combination?”

“That’s enough!” cried Lizzie, glaring at him then she pushed me out and back to our cabin.


I took a nice long nap then Lizzie brought me back up on deck then went to find us some dinner. I watched as she walked up to Mr. Lovett, who was watching as a big hydraulic jib swung one of the submersibles out over the water. Before she reached him, a very angry Mr. Buell beat her. Although I normally would not have been able to eavesdrop on their conversation, their voices bounced off the waters, and their words easily reached my ears.

“The partners are pissed.”

“Bobby, buy me time. I need this.”

“We’re running thirty thousand a day and we’re six days over. I’m telling you what they’re telling me. The hand is on the plug. It’s starting to pull.”

“Well, you tell the hand I need another two days! Bobby, Bobby, Bobby! We’re close! So close! I smell it! I SMELL ICE! She had the diamond on...now we just got to find out where it wound up. I just gotta work her a bit more. Okay?”

Lizzie gasped in horror, and Mr. Lovett turned and saw her. He hurried to her and then hustled her away from Mr. Buell, his back to me. “Hey. Lizzie. I need to talk to you for a second.”

“Don’t you mean work me?”

“Look. I’m running out of time. I need your help.”

“I’m not going to help you browbeat my hundred-and-one-year-old grandmother. She thinks I came down here to ask about dinner, and I will, but I’m also here to tell you to back off!”

I smiled, very proud of her, but the smile faded when I heard the undisguised desperation in Mr. Lovett’s voice. “Lizzie...you gotta understand something. I’ve bet it all to find the Heart of the Ocean. I’ve got all my dough tied up in this thing. My wife even divorced me and took away our kids over this hunt. I need what’s locked inside your grandma’s memory.” He held out his hand. “You see this? Right here?”

I could not, but whatever he was doing, Lizzie must not have understood either, because she asked, “What?”

“That’s the shape my hand’s gonna be when I hold that thing. You understand? I’m not leaving here without it--I can’t.”

“Look, Mr. Lovett, she’s going to do this her way, in her own time. Don’t forget; she contacted you. She’s out here for her own reasons. God knows what they are. I thought she simply wanted to see her drawing, but she’s seen that. There’s something else.”

“Maybe she wants to make peace with the past.”

“What past? She has never once, not once, ever said a word about being on the Titanic until two days ago. I never knew she was on it.”

“Then we’re all meeting your grandmother for the first time.”

“You think she was really there?”

That surprised me. I was certain that my own granddaughter believed me. I found myself loving her more than ever before. Despite her own doubt, she had not tried to stop me. She had let me live what she thought was my fantasy.

Mr. Lovett erased her doubt. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m a believer. She was there.”

Later, after a nice dinner, back in the imaging shack, Mr. Bodine started the tape recorder, as I gazed at a screen, watching the live feed from the wreck as “Snoop Dog” moved along the starboard side of the hull, heading aft. As I watched the rectangular windows of A Deck march passed us, I felt myself pulled back there once more.


As I walked along that deck that next morning, I remember thinking how warm the sun felt, as if I had not felt the sun’s warmth in years.

But despite my happiness, I still felt very self-conscious as I unlatched the gate to walk down into the third-class portion of the ship. I could feel the eyes of the steerage men on the deck as they stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I asked for directions, and soon I was entering the Third Class General Room, looking for a Mr. Jack Dawson.

Titanic was a symbol of our structured society. Even if Mr. Dawson did not know, everyone else on that ship knew where they belonged, up and down the social classes, or up and down the decks, if you like. First-class passengers did not got down to E Deck, nor did third-class passengers go up to B Deck. But Mr. Dawson had come up to B Deck, and in doing so, had saved my life--and both my reputation and my dignity, by not telling the others about my attempt to take my life. I had not had the proper chance to thank him the night before. My breeding demanded that I do so now.

As I stepped into the social center of steerage life, I saw that it was a loud, boisterous place, teeming with life. There were mothers with babies, children running between the benches, yelling in several languages and being scolded in several others, girls doing needlepoint and reading dime novels. Although it was stark by comparison to the opulence to which I had become accustomed, and very simple, it was also comfortable, and the people behaved as if they were surrounded by as much luxury on their deck as we were on ours. It occurred to me that perhaps these immigrants were living in better conditions aboard the ship than they had left at home.

As I walked into the room, the activity in the room stopped and a hush fell. The steerage passengers stared openly at me, some with resentment, most with awe.

I found Mr. Dawson sitting on one of the benches, talking to a small girl whose head was covered with dark curls. She was holding tightly to a doll--the doll whose head I would someday see on Keldysh’s screen.

Near him, a darkly handsome man was struggling to start a conversation with an attractive blonde.

“No Italian?” asked the man. “Some little English?”

She shook her head. “No, no. Norwegian. Only.”

Then she stopped, staring at me. The dark man also did a take, and then a double take. That caught Mr. Dawson’s attention, and he also looked up, staring as I walked towards him.

I gave him a little smile, walking straight to him. He rose to greet me, a large smile brightening his face.

“Hello, Mr. Dawson.”

The Italian’s chin dropped. It was as if I had just slipped the glass slipper onto Mr. Dawson’s foot.

“Hello, again,” Mr. Dawson replied, his smile even brighter.

“May I speak with you in private?”

“Uh, yes. Sure. Of course. After you.”

He motioned me ahead and followed me, and I led him to the side of the room. I was very nervous, very self-conscious, but managed to inquire as to how he was enjoying the pleasant weather.

He must have sensed how uncomfortable I was in my fancy day-dress amongst all those rags, because he suggested that we return to B-Deck. I quickly agreed and we were soon strolling down the First Class Promenade on the Boat Deck. As we strolled, I still could not quite find the proper words to thank him, so out of polite curiosity, I asked how he happened to be on Titanic, and he told me quite a tale.


At the same moment that I was walking up the gangplank, Mr. Dawson and his Italian friend, Fabrizio de Rossi, were not far away. Among the many public houses nestled in and around the dock was a place where Cal would have starved before stepping over the threshold. In it, four hopeful travelers had bet their dreams on one honest hand of five-card draw.

The other pair, both men Swedish, had just bet their tickets for steerage on Titanic, in hopes of winning money they could spend once they reached the New World. Seeing that, Mr. Dawson raised the stakes.

“Jack!” cried Mr. de Rossi. “How can you bet everything we got?”

“When you got nothin’,” replied Mr. Dawson, ‘You’ve got nothin’ ta lose.”

Now Mr. Dawson dealt the cards, and they all looked at their hands. After each man was allowed to exchange one or two cards, Mr. Dawson told them, ‘All right, moment o’ truth, boys. Somebody’s life is ‘bout ta change.”

Mr. de Rossi had nothing. Neither did one of the Swedes. But the other Swede had two pair, and Mr. Dawson turned to look regretfully at his friend. “I’m sorry, Fabri.”

His friend’s eyes grew huge with horror as he began to protest, “What, sorry? What you got? You lose my money?”

But Mr. Dawson patted his hand. “I’m sorry, coz you’re not gonna see your mother for a long, long time, coz WE’RE GOIN’ TO AMERICA!” He slammed down his card. “Full house, boys! I’m goin’ home!”

“Dio mio, grazie!” cried out Mr. de Rossi fervently, as he began jumping up and down in joy.

The entire table exploded into shouting in several languages. Mr. Dawson raked in the money and the tickets, kissed the tickets then jumped on Mr. de Rossi’s back and rode him around the pub. It was as if they had won the lottery.

“Goin’ home!” cried Mr. Dawson. “To the land o’the free, and the home o’real hot-dogs! ON THE TITANIC!”

“Capito??” Mr. de Rossi shouted at the tavern owner. “I GO TO AMERICA!”

“No, mates,” declared the older man, pointing at the clock behind him. “Titanic go to America. In five minutes!”

“Sh!t!” cried Mr. Dawson. “C’mon, Fabri!”

So carrying everything they owned on their shoulders, they ran out the door and sprinted towards the pier.

“We’re ridin’ in high style now!” yelled Mr. Dawson. “We’re practically d@mned royalty, ragazzo mio!”

“You see?” Mr. de Rossi yelled back. “Is my destinio!! Like I told you. I go to l’America. TO BE A MILLIONAIRE!”

“Yeah,” yelled Mr. Dawson, “But I’ve got the tickets!”

They tore through milling crowds next to the terminal. Shouts went up behind them as they jostled slow-moving gentlemen. They dodged piles of luggage and weaved through groups of people. They burst out onto the pier and sprinted toward the third-class gangplank aft, at E Deck. They reached the bottom of the ramp just as one of the officers detached it at the top. It started to swing down from the gangway doors.

“WAIT!” yelled Mr. Dawson, waving their tickets. “We’re passengers!”

“Have you been through the inspection queue?”

“Of course,” cried Mr. Dawson, lying cheerfully. “Besides, we don’t have lice; we’re Americans! Both of us!” and Mr. de Rossi wisely just smiled.

The officer had a porter reattach the gangway and the two travelers came aboard. The officer glanced at their tickets, entering them in the passenger list. “Gundersen. And....Gundersen?” He handed the tickets back, eyeing Mr. De Rossi suspiciously, so Mr. Dawson grabbed his friend’s arm, calling out, “C’mon, Swen!”

They whooped with victory as they ran down the white-painted corridor, grinning from ear to ear. Mr. Dawson called out, “We are the luckiest sons of b!tches in the whole world!”

They ran down the corridor then burst through a door onto the aft well deck. They ran across the deck and up the steel stairs to the poop deck. They reached the rail, and Mr. Dawson started to yell and wave to the crowd on the deck.

“You know somebody?” Mr. de Rossi asked.

“Of course not! That’s not the point.” Then he turned back to the crowd. “Goodbye! Goodbye! I’ll miss ya!”

Grinning, Mr. de Rossi joined in, adding his voice to the well of voices, feeling the exhilaration of the moment. “Goodbye!” he called out. “I will never forget you!”

Then the two young men ran for their cabin in steerage, acting as if they were in the Millionaire’s Suite, rather than Cal and Mother and me, and somehow I found myself wishing that I could have been there with them. They were truly living, while I was slowly dying.


You know what to do if you want more!

[pubesy]

LOL....more more more!

(are you typing this yourself or copying and pasting>)

[~.:Alysha:.~]

Well.. I must say that I too, can't believe that there is no novelization of such a terrific film! I still cry EVERYTIME i watch this movie, and I have seen it over 100 times lol! I absolutely love it so of course when I saw TITANIC - Rose's Story in the fanfics and also that it was written by the wonderful Es I HAD to take a look, and thankfully I did!

What a great idea you have come up with Es, its absolutely brilliant, your going to be famous one day for this I can see it Don't forget us little people though .. I love that you are writing this from Rose's POV and that you arn't going to include things that Rose didn't actually experience or see herself, I never understood that with the movie!! It was supposed to be her story yet you seen all these different things that Rose would of had no idea about, but I guess they had to make it into a movie and it wouldn't of made much sense any other way.. But what you have done seems to fit in so well so far! I'v only read the first update so far but I can tell you I am totally hooked ;D I love how you have included all the dialogue from the movie and I can't wait to read the extras that was never shown etc.. Anyway I have to go so ill read the latest update a bit later!! Thanks again Es, its taking me back!! I LOVE Titanic hehe

[Esmeralda]

Thank you so much, both of you!

Yes, Pubesy, I have this written in Word, so I'm copying and pasting it here. I know for some computers, when you do that, it ends up formatting funny, so I hope that's not what's happening with yours.

Alysha, all I can say is I doubt if I'll ever become famous just because I never come up with original ideas; I'm always adapting from either other people's works (like Charmed and Titanic) or from real life. But I appreciate the comment!

What makes me happiest is that you think I'm doing a good job of just telling it from Rose's point of view, since that's my main part in this--most of the beautiful writing is James Cameron's. Like you, I never understood why if they were going to use Rose as the narrator, they'd show things she could never see or know about.

Here's more:

Jack also told me that when we made eye-contact, back when I went out onto the deck during luncheon, Tommy Ryan, a young Irishman whom Mr. Dawson had just met, told him,. “Aw, ferget her, laddie. You’s jest as likely to have angels flyin’ outta your arse as gettin’ near the likes of her.”

Mr. Dawson said this in a perfect Irish accent, and we both laughed, because, of course, at that moment, Mr. Ryan had spoken the truth, and yet, now here we were walking down the Boat Deck together.


Then I asked him where his parents, his family were. His smile turned sad as he said, “Well, I’ve been on my own since I was 15, coz my folks died and I had no brother or sister or close kin in that part of the country, so I lit on out o’ there and ain’t been back since.” Now his smile came back as he added, “You can jest call me a tumblin’ tumbleweed, blowin’ in the wind.”

We walked a little farther and then he said, “Well, Rose, we’ve walked ‘bout a mile ‘round this Boat Deck and chewed over how great the weather’s been and how I happen to be on this ship and how I grew up and all, but I reckon that’s not why you came to talk to me, is it?”

I felt a lot more comfortable with him, so now I could say it. I started, “Mr. Dawson, I...”

“Jack.”

I thought about it. Yes, it did seem strange to address the man who had saved my life so formally. Nodding, I started again, “Jack...I feel like such an idiot. It took me all morning to get up the nerve to face you.”

“Well, here you are.”

“Here I am. I...I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for....pulling me back, but for your discretion.”

“You’re welcome, Rose.”

“Look. I know what you must be thinking--poor little rich girl, what does she know about misery.”

“No. No. It’s not what I was thinkin’. It’s not what I was thinkin’ at all. What I was thinkin’ is what coulda happened to this girl to make her think she had no way out.”

I was shocked. It was the first time someone actually saw the real Rose, hidden beneath my high-society facade. That someone might actually understand what was going on inside me, and because I so badly needed someone to understand me, I reached out to him. “Well, I...I do not ...it was not just ONE thing...it was everything. It was THEM, it was their whole world. And the inertia of my life, plunging ahead and me powerless to stop it. I just had to get away...just run and run and run...and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship...even the Titanic was not big enough. Not enough to get away from them. And before I really thought it through, I was over the rail. I was so furious. I would show them. They would certainly be sorry!”

“Uh, huh. They’d be sorry. ‘Course, you’d be dead.”

I lowered my head. “Oh, God, I am such an utter fool.”

“That penguin last night. Is he one of THEM?”

“Penguin. Oh, Cal. He IS Them.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

I nodded and raised my hand, showing him my engagement ring with its sizable diamond.

“God, look at that thing! You woulda gone straight to the bottom!”

We laughed together. A passing steward scowled at Jack, who was clearly not a first-class passenger, but I just glared him away. Then I grew serious. “500 invitations have gone out. All of Philadelphia’s society will be there. And all the while I feel like I am standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs and nobody even looks up.”

“So you feel like you’re stuck on a train you can’t get off, coz you’re marryin’ this fella.”

“Yes,” I cried. “Exactly!”

“So don’t marry him.”

“If only it were that simple.”

“It is that simple.”

“Oh, Jack, please, do not judge me until you have seen my world.”

“Well, I guess I will tonight.”

We looked at each other, suddenly both uncomfortable at the reminder of that night’s dinner.

Looking for another topic, any other topic, I grabbed for the portfolio he was carrying. “What is this thing that you are always carrying? Are you an artist or something?”

I opened it to find a drawing. A very good drawing. I flipped it to find another one, as good as the previous one. “There are rather good,” I admitted. Then I looked at a couple more. “In fact, they are very good.” Again I flipped though a few more. Each one was better than the previous one. Each one was an expressive little bit of humanity: an old woman’s hands, a sleeping man, the little curly-haired girl at the rail with her father. The faces were luminous and alive. His sketchbook was a celebration of the human condition. “Oh, Jack, these are exquisite work.”

“Aw, they didn’t think that much o’ ‘em in ole Parree.”

“Paris!” You do get around for a poo--” NO! I almost made a very bad faux paux. Trying to recover, I corrected myself, “Uh, a person of limited means.”

He laughed again. “Go ahead. A poor guy. You can say it.”

“Well, well...” I’d flipped passed a few more, each as good as the previous one, to find some nudes, some very good nudes, as exquisite as his other work. They were soulful, real, with expressive hands and eyes. They felt more like portraits than studies of the human form, almost uncomfortably intimate.

I blushed, raising the book as some strollers went by. Then, trying hard to be very adult, I looked up and self-consciously asked, “And these were drawn from life?”

He shrugged, not self-conscious at all. “Nice thing ‘bout Parree--lotsa girls willin’ ta take their clothes off.”

I gave him a look then continued perusing his work. “You like this girl. You used her several times.”

“Well, she had beautiful hands, you see?” and he showed me a drawing of just her hands.

Yes, I could see, and I could imagine her putting those beautiful hands on him. I did not understand the strange feeling that shot through my heart at that thought. Again I tried to sound adult when I felt anything but. “I think you must have had a love affair with her.”

Again he laughed. “No, no, no. jest with her hands. She was a one-legged prostitute,” and he found a drawing that clearly showed her impediment. “See?” And I had a hard time hiding my horror. Not Jack. He laughed fondly. “But she had a great sense of humor.”

He flipped passed that page. “Oh, and this lady. She used ta sit at this bar ev'ry night, wearin' ev'ry piece of jewelry she had, waitin' for her long-lost love. We called her Madame Bijou. See how her clothes are all moth-eaten?”

But somehow he had not had to tell me any of this--I could see it all, just by looking at his drawing. Looking up, I said, “Well, you have a gift, Jack. You do. You see people.”

“I see you.” And I admit it. My heart fluttered.

“And?’ I asked, thinking that he meant that I would make a good artist’s subject, an idea I found I enjoyed, and I laughed with delight.

He didn’t. “You wouldna of jumped.”

My heart stopped fluttering; it almost stopped.


Later, as we strolled aft, passed people lounging on deck chairs in the slanting late-afternoon light. Stewards scurried to serve tea or hot cocoa.

“So, if you didna haveta marry this guy, if you could do anythin’, what would you be?”

I stared at him in surprise. Jack Dawson was the first man, the first person, who had shown any interest in my dreams, my desires, so I told him. “Well, my dream has always been to just chuck it all and become an artist like you...living in a garret, poor but free!”

Jack laughed. “You wouldna last ten days. There’s no hot water and hardly any caviar.”

How dare he laugh at my dreams! He did not know me! “Listen, buster...I hate caviar! And I am tired of people dismissing my dreams with a chuckle and a pat on the head!”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Really. I am.”

He truly sounded apologetic, the first time someone had apologized to me and meant it, so I shrugged. “Well, all right.” Then I turned serious. “There is something in me, Jack. I feel it. I do not know what it is, whether I should be an artist, or, I do not know...a dancer. Not a ballerina--I have had ballet lessons for years and I do not like doing the steps I am supposed to be doing. No more like Isadora Duncan, a wild spirit...” And laughing, I leaped forward, landed deftly and whirled like a dervish. Then I saw something ahead of us, and my face lit up. “...or a MOVING-PICTURE ACTRESS!”

I grabbed his hand and ran, pulling him along the deck toward Daniel and Mary Marvin. Mr. Marvin was cranking a big wooden movie camera as Mrs. Marvin posed stiffly at the rail.

“You’re sad,” Mr. Marvin told her. “Sad, sad, sad. You’ve left your lover on the shore. You may never see him again. Try to be sadder, darling.”

Suddenly I leaped next to Mrs. Marvin and struck a theatrical pose. Mrs. Marvin burst out laughing, clapping her hands. I pulled Jack into the shot and made him pose, too.

Mr. Marvin grinned and started gesturing wildly, while yelling directions. I laughed then moved aside from the other two then posed tragically, the back of my hand to my forehead.

“Yes! YES!” exclaimed Mr. Marvin. “See, my darling? Like that! Just like that!”

Mrs. Marvin did her best, and it was somewhat better.

Mr. Marvin did not care; he had thought of some other scenes. After asking for Jack’s and my permission, he corralled us over to the deck chairs. There he had Jack sit on one of the chairs, pretending to be a Pasha, while Mrs. Marvin and I pantomimed fanning him like slave girls.

“Yes! YES! Perfect! Now over here!”

In our next scene, Mr. Marvin put Jack on his knees, pleading with his hands clasped, while he had me standing, turning my head in bored disdain. Mrs. Marvin laughed and clapped then tried to do the same.

Finally, at Jack’s suggestion, Mr. Marvin showed me how to crank the camera, so he and Jack could have a western-type shoot-out. Jack won., and then he leered into the lens, twirling an air mustache, just like a melodrama villain.

After that. the Marvins had an appointment elsewhere in the ship after that, and I hated watching my dream leave with them. I do not know if I had ever had such fun. Yes, I thought, this was what I was meant to be, what I was meant to do, even though I knew I never would. But I was very grateful to the Marvins and Jack Dawson for allowing me to live it for those few short glorious moments.


Later, Jack and I stood by the railing, watching the sunset reflected on the water, as the sun slowly disappeared beneath the distant horizon. It was a perfect moment, and I found myself wishing that he painted in colors, so he could draw it for me, so I could hold its memory in my hands always. Even as we watched, he continued to regale me with some of his adventures, concluding with, “Well then loggin’ got ta be too much like work, so I went down ta Los Angeles, to the pier in Santa Monica. That’s a swell place, they even got a roller coaster. That’s where I started doin’ portraits for ten cents a piece.”

“A whole ten cents?” I asked in pretended awe.

“Yeah,” he agreed, accepting my awe as real. “I could make a dollar a day sometimes. Could eat like a king. But only in summer. When it got cold, I decided ta go ta Parree and see what real artists were doin’, so I got work on a tramp steamer goin’ that way.”

He made me see things I always wanted to see, but that I knew that I never would. With deep longing in my heart, I asked, “Why can I not be like you, Jack--just head out for the horizon whenever I felt like it? Say we will go there someday, to that pier, even if we just talk about it.”

“No, we’ll do it! We’ll drink cheap beer. We’ll ride the roller coaster until we puke,” and I laughed at doing something so gauche that sounded like such fun. “Then we’ll ride horses, right in the surf. But you’ll haveta do it like a real cowboy--none of that side-saddle stuff.”

He just kept shocking me. “You mean, one leg on each side?’ He nodded, so I asked, “Can you show me how to ride like a man?” now affecting a Western accent.

“And chew tobacca like a man,” his accent stronger than mine.

“And, and, and SPIT like a man!” I cried, my accent even stronger, enjoying getting into the spirit of the fantasy.

“You mean they didna teach ya that in finishin’ school?”

I laughed at the thought of any of my teachers actually spitting out a stream of tobacco. “No.”

“Well, c’mon, I’ll show ya! Let’s do it!” and he began leading me back towards the Promenade.

Suddenly the fantasy had become reality! Me, Rose DeWitt Bukater, a high-society girl from Philadelphia, the fiancée of Caledon Hockley, learning how to spit like a lower-class man?! ‘JACK!” I protested, terrified. “NO!”

He kept pulling me, telling me “C’mon!” while I kept pulling back, protesting, “No, Jack, no! I could not possibly do that!”

But he led me back to the Promenade, where he could lean over the railing with not fear of falling over the edge into the ocean. Leaning way back, he shot out a huge gob of spit.

No! That was totally disgusting! No, no I could not do that! So when he said, “All right, your turn,” I very daintily, very embarrassedly, turned my head and spat a very tiny amount of saliva onto the deck.

“Pitiful!” he mocked. “C’mon, you really gotta hock it back, get some leverage, use your arms,” and he let out a monstrous spit that actually went over the Promenade and out into the ocean. “See the distance?”

Yes, I did. Not only did I see it but I suddenly very much wanted to do it. So I hocked it back until I had a full mouth of saliva, used my arms to find some leverage, leaned way back and let loose the full mouthful.

“Better.” he encouraged as he started to show me again, this time really hocking hard, making unbelievably gross sounds as he filled his mouth. I began to follow his example when I saw something that absolutely horrified me--walking towards us was Mother, Molly Brown and the Countess of Rothes!

Jabbing Jack with my elbow, I turned him towards the trio. I knew I would have to tough it out. Enunciating carefully, pretending that I was actually introducing the Crown Prince of England, I presented him to my mother. “Mother, may I introduce Mr. Jack Dawson?”

Breeding forced her to say, “Charmed, I’m sure,’ but her tone made it very clear that she was anything but charmed.

The others were gracious and curious about the man who had saved my life. But my mother looked at him like an insect, a dangerous insect that must be squashed quickly.

“Well, Jack,” smiled Molly, “it sounds like you’re a good man to have in a sticky situation,” and she indicated that he should wipe his chin. He did, smiling at her appreciatively, when the bugle sounded for dinner. “Why do they always insist on announcin’ dinner like a d@mn cav'lry charge?”

I laughed and Mother glared at me, so I quickly said, “Shall we go dress, Mother?” As we began walking away, I looked back at Jack. “I will see you at dinner, Jack,” and he gave me a little wave, while Mother marched me away as quickly as she could.


Later, as Cal, Mother and I walked towards the Dining Salon, Cal insisted that he had invited Jack to dinner, the most formal and important ritual of our class, to thank him for saving his fiancée’s life, but I was certain that he had actually done it to provide some rather unusual entertainment and to remind me of my proper place.

As the ship’s string quartet wafted melodies into the air, more than three hundred men and women descended the Grand Staircase and strolled into the expanse of the First Class Dining Salon. As I walked down, I worried about Cal turning Jack into a laughing-stock. I should not have. I should have realized that Jack Dawson could take care of himself under any circumstance, even these.

When we reached the first landing, Cal and Mother spot the Countess and went forward to converse with her. I went back up to the top of the Grand Staircase, waiting to rescue Jack when the steward at the door refused him entry. Then Molly Brown entered, a very handsome, well-dressed young man on her arm. I knew she had a son, but I was under the opinion that he was not on the ship--this was the first time he had joined her for any meal.

I watched as Molly continued on without him, and the young man took a step back, his breath obviously taken away by the opulent splendor spread out before him. I saw him look up in awe at the enormous glass dome with its magnificent chandelier at its center, the beautiful golden clock near the entrance. Then I saw his gaze take in the Grand Staircase, the epitome of the opulent naval architecture of our time, as it swept down six full stories. As he stared in open-mouthed amazement , my own mouth almost imitated his--I now realized that he was indeed Jack Dawson!

Unable to do anything but stare, I watched as he watched other men going up to various women, watching them go through the ritual of greeting and watching his attempt to copy them. Once it appeared that he was comfortable, I walked up to him.

After smiling with pleasure at my appearance, Jack raised my gloved hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes never leaving mine. “I saw that once in a nickelodeon,” he whispered with a smile, “and I’ve always wanted to do it.”

I smiled back. It was something I had always wanted a man to do with my own hand. It was also something Cal had never done, nor was it something he would have even considered doing.

He told me what had happened. After Mother, the Countess and I had left to dress, Molly Brown stayed behind, asking Jack, “Do you have the slightest comprehension on what you’re doin’?” When he admitted he didn’t, she added, “Well, you’re about to walk into the snake pit.”

Then she looked him over and asked him what he was planning on wearing. When he showed her the only outfit he owned--the one he was wearing--she led him to her own cabin, where she lent him something she had bought in Paris as a present for her own son--a tux with all the trimmings. As Molly put it, “You shine up like a new penny.” Although I would not have put it in quite so quaint a manner, I agreed with her completely.

I caught myself laughing out loud. Mother and her haughty friends would soon pay for the way they had snubbed Mrs. Margaret Brown, and I suddenly found myself looking forward to it!

[heybethann9]

Keep going it is wonderful, I love it

[Esmeralda]

Let's just say your reply made me very happy, so let's get on to the update!


Now Jack raised his arm, and I proudly placed my hand upon it. Our thoughts were identical as he led me to Cal and Mother. I touched Cal’s shoulder, saying, “Darling?” He turned, putting on his high-society air as he saw me with a man who was obviously of our class. I gladly popped his bubble. “Surely you remember Mr. Dawson.”

It was great fun to watch Cal’s expression turn to confusion then shock then anger then back to high society then all the way to snobbery, with Mother’s own reflecting every change. I could tell that Jack was enjoying their reaction as much as I was, but we both kept our own high-society masks in place.

“Dawson? Amazing!” Cal finally exclaimed. “Well, you could almost pass for a gentleman.”

And Jack never changed his expression. “Almost.”

“Extraordinary. Ruth?” and offering his arm to Mother, he led us down the Staircase to the Reception Room on D Deck.

There I enjoyed pointing out people to Jack. “That is the Countess of Rothes. And that is John Jacob Astor, the richest man on the ship. His little wifey there, Madeleine, is my age and in delicate condition. See how she is trying to hide it? Quite a scandal. And that is Benjamin Guggenheimer and his mistress, Madame Auberre. Mrs. Guggenheimer is home with the children, of course. And over here we have Sir Cosmo and Lady Lucille Duff-Gordon. She designs naughty lingerie amongst her many talents. Very popular with the royals,” and Jack enjoyed all the gossip, even as he put the names to memory.

Just then Molly walked up. “Care to escort a lady to dinner?” We smiled, and Jack offered his other arm as we continued to follow Cal and Mother as they now led us into the Dining Salon.

“Nothin' to it, eh, Jack?” asked Molly, and he smiled. Then she advised, “They love money, so just pretend you own a gold mine and you’re in the club.”

Then as we walked into the Salon, she spotted someone. “Hey, Astor!”

J.J. Astor turned to us and smiled. “Well, hello, Molly. Nice to see you.”

“J.J., Madeleine,” I introduced. “I’d like you to meet Jack Dawson.”

“Dawson?’ asked Mr. Astor. “Would that be the Boston Dawson?”

I thought Jack would go along with him--I would have had I been in his position. Not Jack Dawson. Smiling, he said, “No. The Chippewa Falls Dawsons.”

Mr. Astor nodded as if he had heard of them then looked puzzled.

His young wife appraised Jack then whispered girlishly to me, “It is a pity that we are both spoken for, is it not?” and I had to agree with her for a totally different reason than she.

As we continued from personality to personality, I was so proud of him. He must have been nervous, but he never faltered. They assumed he was one of them, heir to a railroad fortune, perhaps. New-money, obviously, but still a member of the club.

Mother, of course, could always be counted on to correct their misconception. When we were seated at dinner, she turned to Jack, smiled a smile that dripped venom and said in her most cultured tone, “Tell us about the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Dawson. I hear they are quite good on this ship.”

And despite the almost-inaudible gasp of horror from the others, Jack did not bother to dissemble. He smiled back at her, saying, “The best I’ve ever seen, ma’am--hardly any rats!”

That brought some uncomfortable laughs from the others, who were certain they were both playing some sort of charade. Cal made sure they knew better. “Mr. Dawson is joining us from the third class. He was of some assistance to my fiancée last night.”

Some assistance, indeed! Since they were ganging up on him, I came to his rescue, as he had come to mine. “It turns out that Mr. Dawson is quite the fine artist. He was kind enough to show me some of his work today.”

“Rose and I differ somewhat in our definition of fine art,” replied Cal. “Not to impugn your work, sir,” and Jack only shook his head, his smile still in place.

“He knows every rivet in it, do you not, Thomas?” declared Mr. Ismay, not concerned with this interloper as he proudly returned to his favorite topic--his design of his ship.

“Yes.”

“His blood and soul are in this ship. She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews.”

“The ship is a wonder, Mr. Andrews. truly.”

“Thank you, Rose.”

When a waiter brought a large serving dish to the table, Cal looked down his nose at Jack and talked to him as if he were a child. “This is foe gras. It is goose liver.”

The waiter, who had been serving others, now asked Jack how he liked his caviar.

Before Jack could say anything, Cal ordered for him. “Just a soupcon of lemon,” he told the waiter then he explained to Jack with a smile. “It improves the flavor with champagne.”

Jack nodded then turned to the waiter. “No caviar for me, thanks.,” then he turned back to Cal. “Never liked the stuff much.” He glanced at me poker-faced, and I had a hard time not laughing out loud myself, remembering our earlier conversation on the matter.

Leave it to Mother to continue to try to drive in the dagger. “And where exactly do you live, Mr. Dawson?”

And Jack continued to deflect that dagger. “Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic, ma’am. After that, I’m on God’s good humor.”

Mother did not believe in giving up. Again she thrust. “And how is it that you have means to travel?”

And again Jack parried. “I work my way from place to place, you know, tramp steamers and such.” As he spoke, he picked up a biscuit, bit into it and continued talking as he chewed. “But I won my ticket on Titanic here in a lucky hand of poker. A very lucky hand.”

And, of course, that struck a chord with some of the men. “All life is a game of luck,” declared Colonel Gracie.

“Hmmm.” That was a philosophy that Cal could not agree with. “A real man makes his own luck.”

“And you find that rootless sort of existence appealing, do you?” Of course, Mother would not be denied.

Neither would Jack. He continued to eat his biscuit as he continued to talk. “Well, yes, ma’am, I do. I mean I’ve got everythin’ I need right here with me. I’ve got air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper. I mean, I love wakin’ up in the mornin’ not knowin’ what’s gonna happen or who I’m gonna meet,” and he smiled at me, “or where I’m gonna wind up. Jest the other night, I was sleepin’ under a bridge, and now here I am, havin’ champagne on the grandest ship in the world, with you fine people,” and he toasted us all. “I figger life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wastin’ it. You never know what hand you’re gonna be dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes to you. To make each day count.”

“Well said, Jack,” murmured Molly.

“Here! Here!” declared Colonel Gracie.

That gave me the excuse to raise my own glass. “To making it count!”

And they all raised their glasses as they repeated my words, Cal the last, but still slightly raising his own. Only one glass remained stubbornly on the table--Mother’s, of course.

But seeing the acceptance the others had given Jack, Mother admitted her defeat. She remained silent as Jack regaled them with some of the same adventures he had told me earlier that day. And they all laughed; they all enjoyed; they all accepted.

As Jack continued to speak, I found my amazement for this pauper growing with every word. Cal had brought this monkey up from steerage for the amusement of one and all, and Mother had gone out of her way to trash Jack’s reputation by informing everyone that he was from third class. But Jack, without any artifice or pre-thought, was turning the tables by just being himself. Not by what he discussed, how he grew up or where he had been, as much as the fact that Jack was able to sit in front of all those people who were completely detached from everything he represented and without fear, just lay it all out--”This is what I am,” he seemed to be saying, “Accept me for that or not.”

Listening to him, we seemed to share so many of the same passions for life, which he had already attained and to which I had once aspired. More than ever, my eyes were being opened to the world outside my gilded cage, a world I wish with all my heart could be mine, but that I knew I never could.

During the rest of supper, Jack and I never exchanged a word, but we constantly exchanged glances, communicating on a level that none of the others even sensed.

When we finished dinner, I whispered to him, “Next it will be brandies in the smoking room.”

Sure enough, Colonel Gracie rose and asked, “Join me in a brandy, gentlemen?”

Then, summing up the arrogance of my own class, I explained, “They retreat in a cloud of smoke and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe.”

Jack smiled in appreciation of my words and remained seated as Mr. Ismay rose. “Ladies, thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

The other men rose also, Cal placing his hands possessively on my shoulders. “Shall I escort you to your cabin, Rose?”

Up to that moment, I had always agreed. Now I shook my head, “No, I will stay,” and he glared at me, but his breeding refused to let him berate me in public.

“Joining us, Dawson?” Colonel Gracie asked. “You do not want to stay here with the women, do you?”

“No, thanks; I’ve gotta be headin’ back.”

“That is probably for the best,” said Cal at his snootiest. “It will be politics and business, that sort of thing. It would not interest you. But, Dawson, it was good of you to come."

Jack nodded, and then the other men left.

“Jack,” I pleaded. “Must you go?”

“Time for me to go back and row with the other slaves. Good night, Rose.” Once more he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he turned to leave. I watched him then discreetly opened the note he had passed as he kissed my hand. “Make it count!” it read. “Meet me by the clock.”

Could I really do such a thing? If Mother or Cal ever found out they would be infuriated. But Cal would spend the next two hours or so with the other men in the Smoking Room, while Mother would be distracted by all of her high-society friends as they shared coffee and dessert. After the vision Jack had given me, I knew I needed this one night of freedom. Once this night was over, I could go back to being Rose DeWitt Bukater, the proper fiancée of Caledon Hockley, living on the memory of this one night.

So telling Mother that I had a headache and was going to retire to my cabin for the night, and properly taking my leave of the other ladies, I returned to the Grand Staircase, where Jack stood by the clock, smiling a smile that said he knew I would come.

“Would you like to go to a real party?” he asked.

When I nodded, he took me by the hand and led me back down to E Deck. And what a party it was! Where our music in first class was both majestic and beautiful, theirs was loud and fast and made me want to dance. Where we sipped champagne, they swigged beer. I swigged with the best of them, and not even the best champagne ever tasted better.

Jack started by dancing with Cora, the little curly-haired girl with the doll, while I swigged beer and clapped my hands to the beat. But when the song ended and the band began playing an even faster number, Jack told her that he was now going to dance with me, although she would always be his best girl.

I shook my head, gesturing that I was enjoying just watching and he could just keep dancing with Cora, but he laughed and pulled me by my hand. “Jack!” I cried out. “Wait! I can not do this!”

But Jack Dawson would not take no for an answer. “First, we gotta get closer,” and placing his hand on my back, he pulled me into his arms. Then he began bouncing in time to the music and I bounced with him.

“I do not know this dance!”

He laughed. “Neither do I! Jest go with it!”

So I relaxed a little, let him lead me and soon we were bouncing around, spinning around, and I was laughing with pure joy. I had never had so much fun in my whole life. A number of times I would ask him to stop, and he would just laugh and spin us faster, and I would laugh louder, glad that he had not listened.

Near us, Jack’s friend, Fabrizio, was dancing with the Norwegian girl, Helga Dahl. Obviously dancing had obliterated the need for a common language. He whirled her, much the same way Jack was whirling me, when she responded by whirling him! Jack and I both laughed as Fabrizio’s eyes grew wide--she was stronger than he was!

Then Fabrizio brought Helga up upon a platform so they could show off their dancing. Jack Dawson could not resist a challenge, and despite my protest, he led us up onto the platform. He began doing some intricate footwork. I had had just enough first-class champagne and third-class beer that I let myself go. Kicking off my shoes, I did some intricate footwork of my own, and it was soon a grand battle with everyone else clapping. It was such fun! Then he grabbed me by both hands and we spun around and around and around and around, and as my head spun, so did my heart.

The tune ended in a mad rush. Jack stepped away from me with a flourish, allowing me to take a bow. Exhilarated and slightly tipsy, I did a graceful plie, my feet turned out perfectly. Everybody laughed and applauded.

We moved to a table, flushed and sweaty, watching a couple strong men arm-wrestle. I grabbed Fabrizio’s cigarette and took a big drag, feeling very c0cky. Fabrizio was grinning, holding hands with Helga.

“How you two doin’?” Jack asked his friend.

Fabrizio grinned. “I don’t know what she saying, she don’t know what I say, so we get along fine,” and Jack grinned back.

Just then Jack’s newer friend, Tommy Ryan, walked up with a pint for each of us. As Jack glugged, I glugged right along with him. When I set the empty glass down and saw him staring back at me, I asked, “What? You don’t think a first-class girl can drink?” and he grinned back.

Everybody else was dancing again, and one of Jack and Fabrizio’s new “roommates” crashed into Tommy, who sloshed his beer all over my fancy new dress. I laughed, not caring. But Tommy lunged, grabbing the Swede and wheeling him around. “YOU STUPID BASTARD!” he cried, ready to slug him.

The Swede came around, his fists coming up. Jack leaped into the middle of the fray, pushing them apart. “Boys, boys!” he cried out. “Did I ever tell you the one ‘bout the Swede and the Irishman goin’ to the wh0rehouse?”

Tommy stood there, all piss and vinegar, chest puffed up. Then he grinned and clapped the Swede on the shoulder, and everyone laughed, mine as loud as any of them.

Once Jack was certain that the crisis had passed, he turned to me, concern written all over his face. “You okay?” he asked.

How could I explain that despite my ruined dress, I had never been more okay in my entire life and that I would never have a chance to be this okay again? How could I explain that I had to squeeze an entire lifetime of okay into just a few hours? I could not, so I just laughed.

And when the arm-wrestlers began arguing over who was stronger, I knew what I had to do. I grabbed one of their cigarettes, took a deep puff then asked, “So you think you are big strong men? Let us see you do this. Here, hold this, Jack,” and I lifted up my train and handed it to him. “Hold it up.”

He gave me a questioning look, but then did what I asked. And closing my eyes, I raised my arms then finally having a chance to put every one of those many boring ballet lessons to good use, I raised first to the balls of my feet then to my toes, and then finally up onto my toenails! I held it for a full minute before calling out, “OW!” and falling into Jack’s arms.

The others cheered as he again asked me if I was okay. No one had ever shown me any sort of concern for my welfare, and now this poor itinerant artist had asked me twice within ten minutes! Jack Dawson was the first man to ever ask, “How do you feel?” and shown any interest in my desires and my dreams. Why could I not have been one of those poor women he had met in Paris? If I could have lived my life with him, I may have had few possessions, but I would have been truly rich, much richer than I would be as the wife of Mr. Caledon Hockley!

“I have not done that in years,” I told him, and his returned look told me that he was just as impressed by my skill as I was by his drawings.

Then someone started a reel--boy, girl, boy, girl--and Fabrizio grabbed my hand, so I grabbed Jack’s, and around and around we went. Although I knew I would have to return to being that bird in a gilded cage come the next morning, I knew I would never forget my one night of freedom. Ever.

Later, Jack and I decided to go out on deck for some air. We returned to the Boat Deck. The stars blazed overhead, so bright and clear that we could see the Milky Way. We walked along a line of lifeboats. Still giddy from the party, we were singing a popular song, “Come, Josephine, in my flying machine, going up she goes, up she goes!” We tried to sing the verses, but we fumbled over the words and broke down laughing.

At that moment, we reached the First Class Entrance, but I did not go straight through it, not wanting the wonderful evening to end. Through the doors, the sound of the ship’s orchestra wafted gently.

I wandered back to the lifeboats. Grabbing one of the davits, I leaned way back, staring at the cosmos. “Look! Is it not magnificent? So grand and endless.” Then I moved over to the rail and leaned on it. “They are such small people, Jack--my crowd, not yours. They think they are giants on the earth, but they are not even dust in God’s eye. They live inside this tiny champagne bubble, and someday the bubble is going to burst.”

He came over and leaned at the rail next to me, his hand just touching mine. It was the slightest contact imaginable, especially after how close we were while dancing, but all I could feel was that square inch of skin where our hands were touching, and I am sure that he felt the same way.

“You’re not one o’ ‘em,” Jack insisted. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Uh, huh. You got mailed to the wrong address.”

I laughed. “I did, did I not?” and he laughed with me. Suddenly I pointed up. “Look! A shooting star!”

We watched it as it streaked against the dark-black sky.

“That was a long one,” he said. “My pop used ta say that whenever you saw one, it was a soul goin’ to Heaven. I saw two the night after he and Ma died, so I know that’s where they are.”

“I like that idea. Are we not supposed to wish on it or something?”

Jack looked at me, and we found that somehow we were suddenly very close together. It would have been so easy to move another couple of inches, to kiss him.

I could see the same desire in his eyes, as he softly asked, “What would you wish for?”

I stared at him, desperately wanting something, but I pulled back. “Something I am afraid I can not have.” I smiled sadly, “Good night, Jack. And thank you for everything.”

Suddenly, before I could change my mind, I left the rail and hurried towards the First Class Entrance. I could hear him calling my name, each time sounding a little more desperate, but I opened the Entrance, passed through then let the door bang shut behind me, turning my back on his world, returning to my own.

The next morning, Sunday, April 14, 1912, was a bright clear day. Sunlight splashed across our private promenade, as I came out for breakfast. I was quiet, subservient, proper, everything that I knew was expected of me as the fiancée of Mr. Caledon Hockley. I was certain that everything would be all right when Cal told me, “I was hoping you would come to me last night.”

“I was tired,” I replied, continuing the lie I had told Mother.

“Your exertions belowdecks were no doubt exhausting.”

No! How could he know? Then I knew. I was shocked, scared, not sure of his reaction, but I sipped my tea, keeping my mask firmly in place. “I see you had that undertaker of a manservant following me again. How typical.”

“You will never behave like that again, Rose. Do you understand?”

His words always grated when he treated me like a possession rather than the woman he was supposed to love. After the respectful way Jack had treated me the previous night, they grated even more than usual. “I am not a foreman in one of your mills that you can command. I am your fiancée.”

But that was the wrong word to say. His tight control on his temper snapped. “My fiancée?” he demanded, as his fist came down, making the dishes rattle. “My fiancée!” he exclaimed, as he swept those dishes from the table so they crashed onto the floor. ‘YES, YOU ARE! My wife in practice if not yet by law!” he roared, first tipping the table over before sticking his face directly into mine, and I was petrified with fear, afraid that he would strike me, or worse. “So you will honor me. You will honor me the way a wife is required to honor her husband. Because I will not be made out a fool, Rose. Is this in any way unclear?”

I was more terrified than I was when I was hanging from the stern of Titanic. Tears in my eyes and in my voice, I shook my head and stuttered out a single “No.”

“Good. Excuse me.” and he left, as if I were something horrible with which he did not wish to share space, leaving Trudy and me to clean up the mess he had left behind. She held me as I trembled and wept, feeling both terrified and hopeless all at once.


In the controlling environment of our Edwardian upper-class society, I should have realized that my “exertions belowdecks” would not go unnoticed. Had I known that Spicer Lovejoy had been dispatched to keep tabs on his employer’s fiancée after she refused to go back to her cabin, I would not have accepted Jack’s offer. I knew Cal was obsessed with proper appearances. He never allowed himself to lose control for very long and never in public, but when he did, it was explosive. Every decision he made was with the intent to mine the approval of our social set. The thought that his fiancée would slug beer, lift her skirt and dance with people so much lower on the social register than he would be seen as the ultimate betrayal.

Perhaps we both would have benefited from a loving relationship based on communication and respect, like the one I was beginning to develop with Jack Dawson, but I knew Cal had been brought up his whole life to believe such things were unimportant, that women’s only purpose was to serve their men and give them heirs. So had I, until a poor man without a cent in his pocket had shown me otherwise.


But I had yet to face my worst consequence of my trip to E Deck. Later, as I dressed for the day and Trudy tightened my corset, Mother walked in, that same look of disapproval that she wore during dinner set on her face. Ordering Trudy to fetch tea, she grabbed my corset laces and tugged at them, hard and tight. “You are not to see that boy again. Understand me?” I could not respond. “Rose!” I still could not respond. She tugged the laces even tighter, as she demanded, “I forbid it.”

“Oh, stop it, Mother; you will give me a nosebleed.”

In anger, showing more emotion than I had ever seen, she spun me around to face her. “This is not a game. Our situation is precarious. You know the money is gone.”

“Of course I know the money is gone. You remind me every day.”

“Your father left us nothing but a legacy of bad debts, hidden by his good name. That good name is the only card we have left to play. It is a fine match with Hockley; it will ensure our survival.”

“How can you put this on my shoulders?”

“Why are you being so selfish?”

“I am being selfish?”

She stared at me as if I were a changeling. “Is this what you want? Do you want to see me work as a seamstress? To see our fine things sold at auction? Our memories scattered to the wind?” and she turned away from me, unable to let me see her pain and her horror and her fear.

No, I did not want any of that, not for her. But why must my happiness and my fulfillment be the sacrificial lamb to that goal? “It is so unfair.”

She turned back to look at me, on her face the look that she had always used as a substitute for love. “Of course it is unfair. We are women. Our choices and our lots in life have never been fair. Nor will they ever be,” and kissing my cheek, she turned me around. Again she grabbed the laces of my corset, pulling it tighter than it had ever been before, and I knew that as she was tightening my corset, she was also tightening the confines of my gilded cage.

Later, after chapel, Mr. Andrews gave Mother, Cal and me a tour of the ship. As we visited with Captain Smith in the bridge, Mr. Harold Bride, the Junior Wireless Officer, hustled in and skirted our tour group to hand a Marconigram to Captain Smith. “Another ice warning, sir.”

At our concern, Captain Smith reassured us. “Oh, not to worry. Quite normal for this time of year. In fact, we’re speeding up. I’ve just ordered the last boiler lit.”

Much later, I was to discover that Mr. Ismay had talked him into trying to reach New York a full day ahead of time, so Titanic could continue to make headlines and Captain Smith, making his final crossing as a Captain, could retire in style.

Later, as we continued our tour, walking down the deck, I asked, “Mr. Andrews, forgive me. I did the sum in my head, and with the number of lifeboats times the capacity you mentioned, forgive me, but it seems that there are not enough for everybody aboard.”

“About half actually.” He smiled at me, pleased. “Rose, you miss nothing, do you? In fact, I put in these new-type davits, which could take in a whole extra row of boats inside of this one. But it was thought, by some, that the deck would look too cluttered, so I was over-ruled.”

Cal and Mother walked passed us. “Waste of deck space as it is on an unsinkable ship,” declared Cal, as he knocked his cane against one of the lifeboats.

“Sleep soundly, young Rose,” Mr. Andrews told me, as he took my arm and we began strolling behind Cal and Mother. “I have built you a good ship, strong and true. She’s all the lifeboat you’ll need.” Then he walked faster, trying to catch up with the other two. “Just keep walking aft,” he advised them. “The next stop is the engine room.”

I also started to walk faster, not wishing to be left behind, when someone grabbed my arm. At first I was afraid then insulted then shocked when I looked into the eyes of the man who had accosted me. Jack Dawson was back where he did not belong, reminding me of the evening I had enjoyed so much, but that I now knew I should have turned down.

My traitorous heart leaped for joy at the sight of him, but I quickly forced it back into its cage, Cal’s and Mother’s words still ringing in my ears. I pulled away from Jack, trying to rejoin Cal and the others, but Jack pulled harder, pulling me into the nearby gymnasium.

Before he could say a word, I did. “Jack, this is impossible. I can not see you, ever again.”

Then he told me that he needed to talk to me, just one more time. He had tried the previous night. While I was at service, he came back up here and tried to enter, but the steward, the same steward who let him in the previous night, predictably refused to recognize him. Then Lovjoy came over. Jack thought he would help him pass a message to me, but first he tried to pay Jack off then reminded him, “Although Mr. Hockley and Mrs. DeWitt Bukater continued to be appreciative for your actions, you hold a third-class ticket and your presence in first class is no longer appropriate,” and I could hear Lovejoy’s voice saying those words in his snooty voice. Again Jack tried to have him pass his message—that is all Jack wanted--but Lovejoy passed the money to the stewards, telling them to bring Jack back to where he belonged and make sure he stayed there.

He could only hope for another chance, and when he heard my voice, he had to try.

I apologized for the way he was treated, but told him that I was wrong before and Lovejoy was correct. “I am engaged, Jack. I am marrying Cal. I love Cal.”

Oh, how those words stuck in my throat. How very, very unfair! But as Mother’s words continued to remind me, women’s choices were never meant to be fair. Only by convincing Jack that I truly wanted to marry Cal, that I truly loved him and that I would truly be happy as his wife, would Jack leave me alone and allow Mother and me our chance to survive.

But Jack Dawson already knew me better than I knew myself. “Rose. You’re no picnic. All right, you’re a spoiled little brat even. But under that, you’re the most amazingly, astounding, wonderful girl...woman that I’ve ever known. And--”

How dare he talk to me like this! I could not listen to this! Turning away, I returned to the life I was meant to live, but before I could, he spun me back around. “Let me try to get this out. I’m not an idiot. I know how the world works. I’ve got ten bucks in my pocket; I’ve nothin’ to offer you, and I know that. I understand. But I’m involved now. You jump, I jump; remember? I can’t turn away without knowin’ that you’ll be all right. That’s all I want.”

“Well, I am fine. I will be fine. Really.”

“Really? I don’t think so. They’ve got you trapped, Rose, and you’re gonna die if you don’t break free. Maybe not right away, coz you’re strong, but sooner or later, that fire that I love ‘bout you, Rose, that fire is gonna burn out.”

How can I find the words to explain how his words made me feel? I knew every one of them was true. But I also knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, besides remind me of what I wanted so desperately, but that I knew I could not have. “It is not up to you to save me, Jack.”

His smile turned very sad. “You’re right,” he agreed to my surprise. “Only you can do that.”

I could hear the pain in his voice, could feel the same pain in my own heart, but with it, I could hear the clank of the door on my cage, so I told him, “I am going back. Leave me alone.” And turning my back on him, I left the gymnasium and hurried to find Mr. Andrews and the others in the engine room.

If Lovejoy was somewhere around, spying on his master’s fiancée, he could report that I had honored and obeyed the man whom I had come to accept as my own master.

But, later, after dinner, I wondered if I had made the right decision. We were sitting at a table in the First Class Lounge, the most elegant room on the ship, done in Louis Quinze Versailles style. Mother, the Countess of Rothes and Lady Duff-Gordon sipped their tea, but my full cup remained on the table. I was silent and still as a porcelain figure as the conversation washed around me.

“Of course, the invitations had to be sent back to the printers twice,” Mother was telling them. “And the bridesmaids’ dresses! Let me tell you what an odyssey that has been.”

Mother continued, but I did not hear her. My attention was drawn by the tableau at the table beside ours. There, a mother and her daughter were having their own tea. I watched as this very-young girl, dressed in a fancy evening gown, hat bedecked with flowers, and long white gloves, daintily picked up a cookie.

Her mother corrected her on her posture and the way she was holding her teacup, even the way she nibbled at the cookie, much the same way as my own mother used to correct me. Watching the little girl try so hard to please, her expression so serious as she concentrated on her mother’s words, I felt like I was being given a view of myself at that age. For the first time, I became aware of the relentless conditioning...the path to becoming an Edwardian geisha. As the little girl very properly folded her napkin into her lap, I saw myself, a square peg being forcibly shoved into a small circular hole, and I knew my corners hurt.

Again Jack’s words went through my head. He was correct. Maybe I was being selfish, but I knew I could no longer be sold. Although I hated hurting Mother, I knew I could no longer be a slave to her needs, her desires, any more than I could be one to Cal’s.

I very calmly and very deliberately picked up my teacup then turned it over, spilling it all over the tablecloth then rose before it could reach my own dress.

“Rose!” cried Mother, sounding both shocked and scandalized.

Just as calmly, just as deliberately, I said, “Oh, look what I have done,” then I turned and walked away, despite Mother’s demand that I return and apologize for my horrible behavior immediately.


As I left the Lounge, I knew I was turning my back on luxury and an easy life, condemning my own mother to that life that so horrified her. But I also knew I could no longer be untrue to myself. I now went hunting for the only person who would let that Rose, the real Rose, live.

I searched with no results, until one of the porters told me that he thought he had seen him near the bow.

Of course! I should have guessed! While walking the decks the day before, Jack told me how, shortly after Titanic left Ireland, he and his friend, Fabrizio, had gone out to the bow. Fabrizio looked forward across the Atlantic, staring into the sunsparkles then told Jack that he could see the Stature of Liberty already--very small, of course, but out there.

They both laughed then leaned far over, looked down ad saw two dolphins appear, under the water, running just in front of the steel blade of the prow. The dolphins did it for the sheer joy and exultation of the motion.

Jack told me that he had felt those same emotions, and somehow had to express them. So he jumped up onto the rail, spread out his arms, and cried out, “I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD!”

From his words and the way he said them, I knew that he had never been happier. I should have guessed that now, after I had hurt him so very much by my turning my back on him, that this is where he would return. And there he was, looking very depressed, almost as depressed as I was when I contemplated jumping off the other end of this ship. He saved my life then; I hoped I could bring joy back to his life now.

I softly said his name. He turned, his eyes wide in surprise, questioning, unable to believe that I had come back. “I changed my mind,” I explained, slowly walking towards him, hoping he could forgive me for hurting him so much.

The answer was in his smile, the way his eyes drank me in. My cheeks felt red from the chilly wind, and I knew my eyes were sparkling with excitement, while my hair blew wildly around my face. I never felt lovelier, and I hoped that that was the way I appeared to him.

“They said you might be--”

“Ssshhh,” he gently interrupted me. He put his hands on my waist, as if he was going to kiss me then reached towards me instead. “Here, give me your hand. Now close your eyes. Go on.” I did, and he turned me to face forward, the way the ship was going. He pressed me gently to the rail, standing right behind me. “Now step up. Now hold onto the railing. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t peek.”

“I will not.”

“Step up onto the rail. Hold on. Hold on. Keep your eyes closed. Do you trust me?”

I felt his arms go around my waist and I knew that as long as they were there, I would always be safe. So with complete confidence, I could say, “Yes, Jack, I trust you.”

And taking my hands, he lifted them from the railing and spread them full-eagle. When he lowered his hands, my arms stayed up, like wings, as his went back around my waist to steady me, before he whispered in my ear, “Now open your eyes.”

I did, and I gasped in amazement. It was my turn to stand on top of the railing of the bow, watching the water flow by, watching the sun begin to disappear beyond the horizon, leaving behind the most beautiful sunset the world has ever seen while I felt the wind in my hair, my dress, my face.

There was nothing in my field of vision but water. It was like there was no ship under us at all, just the two of us, soaring. The Atlantic unrolled towards me, a hammered-copper shield under a dusk sky. There was only wind, and the hiss of water fifty feet below.

I knew what he meant about being the king of the world, but I didn’t want to be king or even queen; I had turned my back on that world. Instead I felt free. In face, I felt like “I am flying!” I cried aloud. “Jack, I am flying!”

He let me fly solo for awhile then he placed my hands in his and we flew together as he began to sing, “Come, Josephine, in my flying machine, going up she goes, up she goes,” and I laughed with purest joy.

I closed my eyes, feeling myself floating weightless far above the sea. I smiled dreamily then leaned back, gently pressing my back against his chest. He pushed forward slightly against me. Then he tipped his face forward into my blowing hair, letting the scent of me wash over him, until his cheek was against my ear.

I turned my head until my lips were near his. I slowly lowered my arms, turning farther until I found his mouth with mine. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, and we kissed like that, with my head turned and tilted back, surrendering to him, to the emotion, to the inevitable. We kissed, slowly and tremulously, and then with building passion.

Jack and Titanic seemed to merge into one force of power and optimism, lifting me, buoying me forward on a magical journey, soaring onward into a night without fear.

If we had only known that soon, much too soon, this bow, this ship, would be at the bottom of the ocean.

At that horrible thought, I found myself drawn back to the present. After looking at that railing, now covered with rust and scales and dirt, I turned back to my audience. “That was the last time that Titanic ever saw daylight.”

“So we’re up to the night of the sinking,” commented Mr. Lovett. “Sunday, April 14th. Six hours to go.”

“Incredible,” grumbled Mr. Bodine. “There’s Smith, and he’s standing there, and he’s got the iceberg warning in his f*cking hands--” he smiled apologetically at me, “excuse me, his hands, and he’s ordering more speed.”

Unlike him, Mr. Lovett already understood what I had come to know. “Twenty years of experience working against him. He figures anything that’s big enough to sink the ship, they’re going to see in time to turn. The ship’s too big with too small a rudder. Doesn’t corner worth a d*mn. Everything he knows is wrong.”

But I was not listening to them. I was looking at the art-nouveau hair comb with the jade butterfly on the handle that lay in my hands, remembering the decision I made while we were flying. I turned back to look at a different screen, one which showed the remains of the fireplace in our stateroom, and instantly I was back there again, this time leading Jack into that room.

[heybethann9]

Oh my I can just close my eyes and see it happening like for real not just a story It his been so long since I watched the movie. I lent mine to a friend ages ago and have got to get it back. Reading this incredible. Please hurry and go on

[Esmeralda]

Thank you so much, Bethann; that's why I love novelizations because that's what it will do to you/for you. Here's more:

“It is quite proper, I assure you,” I told him. “This is the sitting room. Will this light do?”

He was wandering around, exploring the opulent word of first class. “What?” he asked.

“Do artists not need good light?”

“That ees true,” he replied, affecting a terrible French accent. “But I am not used to working in such ‘orrible conditions.” Then something distracted him. “Monet!” he cried, his voice full of awe, as he quickly crossed to the painting.

This man never failed to amaze me, the way our minds worked so much alike despite our difference in class. “Do you know his work?”

“Of course. Look at his use of color here; isn’t it great?”

“I know. It is extraordinary.”

As he continued to explore my artwork, I crossed to the safe and twirled the dial. “Cal insists on carting this hideous thing everywhere.”

“Should we be expecting him any time soon?”

“Not as long as the brandy and the cigars hold out.”

Now I brought the Heart of the Ocean over to him. He gasped in surprise. “That’s nice. That’s really nice. What is it? A sapphire?”

“A diamond. A very rare diamond.” I let him admire it for awhile, then taking a deep breath, I told him, “Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, wearing this.”

His eyes were still on the diamond, fascinated by its many facets as it sparkled in the light. “All right.”

“Wearing only this.”

That caught his attention, his eyes meeting mine, asking me if this was really what I wanted, mine saying yes, his saying he had never been more honored.

Leaving him behind, I fled into my sitting room. Taking control of myself, I changed into my butterfly robe--only my butterfly robe--then I sat at my dressing table. After placing the Heart of the Ocean around my throat, I reached up to remove from my hair the very hair comb I would hold in my hands while on the Keldysh then shook my hair free, feeling as if I was also shaking away all of my inhibitions.

Wrapping my dignity around me, I walked back into the sitting room, where Jack had moved a small divan into the middle of the room, under the light, and was now sharpening his pencils.

I loved the look of appreciation in his eyes. As I walked toward the divan, I told him, “The last thing I need is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll.” I now stood in front of him. “As a paying customer,” and I flipped a single dime to him, “I expect to get what I want.”

His smile, the look in his eyes, gave me the courage I needed. Stepping back, I reached up, unfastened my robe and let it drop to the floor.

Jack stared at me, and the uncomfortable look in the eyes of this artist who had seen so many feminine bodies made me feel beautiful, cherished, and that made me feel comfortable. He pointed to the divan. “Over there on the bed, uh, the couch,” and his nervous slip made me smile.

I sat down on the divan. “Go ahead,” he instructed. “Lie down.”

I did, reaching up to the top of its side for some balance before draping my arm over the back of the divan, saying, “Tell me when it looks right.”

“No put your arm back the way it was. All right. Now put that other arm up, that hand right by your face there. Right. Now head down, eyes to me, keep them on me. And try to stay still,” and giving a deep sigh, he began to draw.

I could only see his eyes over the portfolio, the image I have carried in my heart for my entire life, but I could feel their warmth as they touched my face, my throat, my body.

“So serious,” I teased.

He smiled, but he kept drawing, and his eyes kept touching me, touching my shoulders, my arms, my hands, the diamond, my breast.

“I believe you are blushing, Mr. Artist,” I teased in my own French accent as I felt his eyes caress my tummy, my navel. “I can’t imagine Monsieur Monet blushing.”

“He does landscapes,” as his eyes touched my hip.

I smirked, and he reminded me, “Relax your face.”

“Sorry,” and I did so, as he put on the finishing touches, using his hands to shade the lead, and I could feel those hands on me.

My heart was pounding the whole time. It was the most erotic moment of my whole life.


Suddenly I was aware of other eyes looking at me, and suddenly I was back in the present, the others looking at me in awe, even Lizzie. “Up until then, at least,” I added with a laugh.

“So what happened next?” Mr. Bodine wanted to know.

My smile grew. “You mean, did we do it?” and the others smiled. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Bodine, but Jack was a professional.”


And again I was back in that room, dressed in my robe again, watching as he added his initials and the date, that date that would later convince the men on the Keldysh that I was indeed telling the truth. Jack handed me the drawing, and I thanked him with a deep kiss. I could not believe how beautiful that person in that drawing was. She looked soulful, real, her hands and eyes so expressive. If that was the way Jack saw him, that was the way I always wanted to be.

I brought the drawing over to the little writing table and taking a sheet of my personal stationary, I wrote Cal a quick note: “Darling, now you can keep both of us locked in your safe” and signed it “Your Sweetpea.”

As Jack asked me what I was doing, I placed the drawing in the portfolio that would help protect it for 84 years then I placed the diamond back in its case, asking Jack to put both in the safe. As I returned to my dressing room, I heard his gasp as he saw its contents.

Looking through my wardrobe for an evening dress, I chose one with an Empress waist, one that required no corset, so it would flow from my waist. The blue gown was diaphanous, fragile, precious, the way Jack made me feel.

As I stepped back into the sitting room, Jack, who had been looking out the porthole of our private promenade, shivered, blowing on his hands. “It’s gettin’ cold.” Then he looked at me, his eyes widening in appreciation. “You look nice.”

I was just beginning to thank him, when there was a knock at the door. “Miss Rose?”

Lovejoy! Grabbing Jack’s hand, I led him to my room. “My drawings!” he protested, but there was nothing we could do about that now.

He could hear Lovejoy coming towards us, so we snuck out another door, walking sedately down the corridor. But when Lovejoy also stepped out into the corridor, we began to run. We ran into the elevator, yelling at the people in it to wait for us then yelling at the operator to hurry and close the gate and hit the start button. It began going down, just as Lovejoy reached it. The look on his face as we sank down, I could not help it. I raised my third finger towards him, before Jack and I broke into laughter.

Lovejoy did not find this funny. He ran down the stairs.

On D Deck, we ran down the stairs to E Deck, still holding hands, still laughing. On E Deck we had to stop to catch our collective breath.

“Pretty tough for a valet,” chortled Jack. “More like a cop.”

“I think he was one,” I laughed back.

Suddenly we saw him running down the steps. “Oh, sh!t!” cried Jack, and when Lovejoy turned and saw us through the porthole, I screamed, and Jack and I were off running again.

“In here,” and he pulled me in a door marked, “CREW ONLY” and into a small fan room, where the roar of he engine nearly deafened us. But we could still hear Lovejoy, pounding on the door, trying to enter. There was no way out, just a ladder going down lower into the ship

“Now what?” I yelled.

He grinned at me, pointing to the ladder. “After you, m’lady!”

I grinned back then scrambled down the escape ladder, Jack right behind me. There we looked around in amazement. We were in one of the boiler rooms. It looked like a vision of hell itself, with the roaring furnaces and the black figures moving in the smoky glow.

We ran the length of the boiler room, dodged amazed stokers and trimmers with their wheelbarrows of coal.

“What are you doin’ down ‘ere?” demanded one of the workers. “Ye ain’t s’poseta be down ‘ere!”

We had found an area of the ship where NEITHER of us was supposed to be! That idea just made us laugh louder as we continued to run, still laughing, still high on life, complimenting the workers as we ran, my hair and dress flying behind me.

Then we ran through an open watertight door into another boiler room. Jack pulled me through the fiercely hot alley between two boilers and we wound up in the dark, out of sight of the working crew. Watching from the shadows, we saw the stokers working in the hellish glow, shoveling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces. The whole place thundered with the roar of the fires.

Jack pulled me away from the roar and through another door, into an interior hold. Still laughing, we ran between the rows of stacked cargo. I hugged myself against the cold, after the dripping heat of the boiler room.

We ran into an open area, and there, Jack found William Carter’s brand-new Renault touring car, lashed down to a pallet. It looked like a royal coach from a fairy tale, down to its brass trim and headlamps nicely set off by its deep burgundy color.

I stood by the door, looking at Jack expectedly. He finally understood and opened the door before offering him my hand, so I could step up into the plushy-upholstered back seat., acting very royal. There were cut-glass bud vases on the walls back there, each containing a rose.

Jack jumped into the driver’s seat, his expression saying that he was enjoying the feel of leather and wood.

I rolled down the window separating us as he tooted the horn. “Where to, Miss?” and his British accent was as bad as his French.

He was joking; I was not. “To the stars!” and grabbing him by the arms, I pulled him back into the seat. He landed next to me, his breath loud in the quiet darkness. He looked at me, and I was smiling. It was the moment of truth.

He knew it, too. “Are you nervous?” and I shook my head. I was not. Nothing had ever felt so right. I reached up and pulled his head down to me. Jack had initiated our first passionate kiss on the bow. Now it was my turn. I knew that I was finally taking control of my own destiny by investing in our relationship.

When our lips finally separated, he stroked my face, his fingers cherishing me. I kissed his artist’s fingers. “Put your hands on me, Jack.”

He did and we took each other to the stars, my new most erotic moment of my life, as I reached up to the steamed window, leaving its print behind, the way Jack’s body had imprinted mine forever and mine had imprinted his.


Well, I doubt that I was the first teenaged girl to be seduced in the back seat of a car, and certainly not the last, by several million. But I wonder how many of them, while being seduced, were also seducing the man, the way I did. He had such fine hands, artist’s hands, but strong, too...roughened by work. I remember their touch even now.

We could have stayed there, that way, forever. Had we, the stewards whom Lovejoy had sent to find us and who saw the steamed windows and my handprint and who threw open the door would have seen quite a spectacle.

Instead, Jack and I, both dressed once more (and I was so glad I had chosen a gown that did not require a corset!), watched them from afar then we ran up, back up to the third-class deck, both of us still laughing in joy.

“Did you see those guys’ faces?” Jack chortled, almost hysterical with laughter, as he pulled me back into his arms. “Did you see ‘em?”

I had, but I had already forgotten them. There was something much more important to discuss. I put my finger to his lips and we both grew serious. “When this ship docks, I am getting off with you.”

“This is crazy!”

“I know. It does not make any sense. That is why I trust it,” and we began to kiss again then we kissed harder and deeper, until suddenly the world began to tremble under our feet! I had always heard that such a thing happens when one is in love, but I never believed it until then.

However, when we stopped kissing, the world kept trembling. We opened our eyes to see a huge iceberg passing by so closely that we could have reached out and touch it! And pieces of it had been shorn off--and were now flying right at us, just before Jack pulled me out of the way.

We stared as that mountain of ice went passed us then we ran to the railing where we watched that berg colliding with the ship, water already rushing in!

I have heard that the ship may have collided with that iceberg because the lookouts were distracted by something or someone. I pray that it was not the sight of Jack’s and my kiss. The thought that the moment that I finally declared my freedom was also the moment that sealed Titanic’sfate would be too much to bear.

But of course at that moment, I thought I had nothing to fear. I remember what Mr. Andrews had told us during our tour just that afternoon. According to him, Titanic was truly unsinkable. She had sixteen watertight compartments and twelve watertight doors, like those ones that Jack and I had climbed through. I was certain that even now, the watertight doors were being shut, either automatically or manually from the bridge, isolating the affected compartments from the rest of the ship. Mr. Andrews had told me that even if the first four of those compartments were breached, the ship would stay afloat indefinitely. I passed this information on to Jack.

Jack looked uncertain, but led me up the steps towards the Boat Deck. As we did, we saw people throwing an ice ball back and forth, obviously thinking this was much fun. We joined their laughter until the Captain, Mr. Andrews and a number of the other officers walked by us, discussing a couple boiler rooms and the mailroom, already underwater.

Their tone chased the laughter from Jack’s face. “This is bad.”

“We should tell Mother and Cal,” I told him, feeling loyalty towards them despite my flight to independence. Jack nodded.

As we drew near the stateroom, there stood Mr. Lovejoy. “We’ve been looking for you, miss,” as he brushed against Jack then followed us into the stateroom. There we found Cal, Mother, a couple of officers and the master at arms. “Something has happened,” I told them.

“Yes, it has,” Cal agreed. I saw him exchange a look with his man, a look I did not understand until much later. At that moment, I was too concerned about the ship and our safety. “Indeed. Two things dear to me have disappeared this evening. Now that one of them is back, I am pretty certain where to find the other. Search him.”

“Now what?” cried an annoyed Jack, as the officers removed his coat.

I was as annoyed as he. “What are you doing? We are in the middle of an emergency. What is going on?”

“Is this it?” asked one of the officers as he pulled something from the pocket of Jack’s coat.

It was the Heart of the Ocean! The diamond necklace Cal had given me and that I had worn for my drawing had been in Jack’s pocket!

“This is horse sh!t!” Jack cried. Then he saw the look of shock on my face. “Don’t you believe it, Rose! Don’t!”

“He could not have!” I cried, unable to believe that he could both make love to me and steal from me.

“Of course, he could,” declared Cal. “It is easy enough for a professional. He memorized the combination when you opened the safe,” and fear began to nibble at my soul--how did Cal know that I had opened the safe in Jack’s presence?

“But I was with him the whole time. This is absurd.”

And very softly, meant just for my ears, but very menacingly, Cal told me, “Unless he did it while you were putting your clothes back on, my dear,” and the knowledge that Cal had already seen my drawing, something I did not expect him to see until after I had left the ship with Jack, was almost as shocking as seeing that necklace coming out of Jack’s pocket.

“Real slick, Cal,” accused Jack. “Lovejoy put it in my pocket.”

“It isn’t even your pocket, is it, son?” asked one of the stewards, showing the label of the jacket to the master at arms. “Property of A.L.Ryerson.”

The master at arms nodded. “That was reported stolen today.”

“I only borrowed it,” explained Jack. “I meant to return it.”

“Oh,” taunted Cal. “So we have an honest thief.”

Even as they grabbed Jack and put the cuffs on him, he pressed his face closer to mine. “You know I didn’t do this, Rose! You know it! Don’t you believe this, Rose--you know I didn’t do it!” Even as the master at arms dragged him out of the stateroom, he continued to yell, “You know I didn’t do it, Rose! You know it! You know me!”

But did I? Less than three days ago, I did not even know this man existed. Was he really everything I thought he was, or had he been conning me all along, stringing me along with pretty words? I remembered telling Jack how rare the Heart of the Ocean was, how precious. I remembered the way he’d admired it, stared at it, and most of all, I remember handing it to him and telling him to put it back in the safe! That was when he did it! He had not put it back in the safe; he had put it in his jacket! While we ran from Lovejoy, while we made love in the Renault, even as I told him that I was going to stay with him after we docked, Jack Dawson had my precious diamond necklace in the pocket of a jacket that was not even his!

I did not know that at that very moment, Mr. Andrews had just been informed that five of the side waterproof compartments had been compromised, so he was informing them even now, there was absolutely nothing that would prevent Titanic, our Ship of Dreams, our beautiful, unsinkable ship, from floundering and dying in less than two hours.

But even if I had known, it would not have made any difference to me. My whole world had already been shattered, and I was sure it would never be the same again.

[pubesy]

Awesome! keep going!

[Esmeralda]

My pleasure! Here ya go!

After the master at arms dragged Jack off, Jack never stopping pleading with me, Mother tried to comfort me, again reminding me of our place in the world as women, but I did not want to hear it and stepped away from her, so she left.

Now that we were alone, Cal spun me around to face him. He regarded me coldly for a moment then slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand, making my head snap back. “It is a little b!tch, is it not?”

Although it hurt, that blow was inconsequential compared to the blow that had been dealt to my heart. He must have seen it in my eyes, because he grabbed my shoulders roughly, shaking me as he commanded, “Look at me, you little--”

Even as he spoke, there was a loud knock on the door and an urgent voice. Our steward stuck his head in. “Sir, I’ve been told to ask you to please put on your lifebelt and come up to the Boat Deck.”

“Get out!” Cal ordered. “We are busy.”

The steward persisted, coming into our room and taking the lifebelts down from the top of a dresser. “I’m sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Hockley,” he apologized. “But it’s Captain’s orders. Please dress warmly, it’s quite cold tonight.” He handed me one of the lifebelts. “Not to worry, miss, I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”

“This is ridiculous,” Cal complained.


Through the still-opened door, I could hear the other stewards, as polite, as obsequious as our own. I was certain that they were doing their best not to convey any sense of danger whatsoever so as not to upset the high-class passengers. Had I not seen that iceberg or heard the fear in Mr. Andrews’ voice, I would have ignored the steward myself.

But like the others, our steward was most insistent, and soon Mother, Cal, Trudy and I were climbing the stairs to the A-Deck foyer. Cal was carrying all of our lifebelts, almost as an afterthought. I felt like a sleepwalker--I could see everything around me, all of the people with lifebelts over their evening clothes or their night clothing, and heard all of their confused, annoyed voices, but none of it affected me at all.

Not Cal. He was still very angry, and now he had something new against which he could strike out. “It’s just the godd@mned English doing everything by the book.”

Mother, blissfully unaware, rebuked him. “There is no need for such language, Mr. Hockley.”

Then she turned to Trudy. “Go back and turn the heater on in my room, so it will not be too cold when we return.”

Trudy bowed. “Yes, ma’am” and turned back. I never saw her again.

Just then Mr. Andrews walked into the foyer. I watched him look around the magnificent room, saw his heartbroken expression. His pain penetrated my shock, and I walked over to him, Cal following me.

“I saw the iceberg, Mr. Andrews,” I told him. “And I see it in your eyes. Please tell me the truth.”

Softly, sadly, he replied, “The ship will sink.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes. In an hour or so, all of this will be at the bottom of the Atlantic,” and he nearly sobbed.

“My God!” exclaimed Cal, his turn to look stunned. I could see it in his eyes. Titanic? Sinking? Impossible!

Softly Mr. Andrews warned us, “Please tell only who you must. I don’t want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly. Don’t wait.” He looked directly into my eyes. “You remember what I told you about the boats?”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you,” and he continued passed us, moving among the other passengers, urging them to put on their lifebelts and get to the boats.


Cal hurried us to the port side of the Boat Deck, where Second Office Lightoller was loading Boat 6. Cal began to board the boat, but Mr. Lightoller pushed him back. “Women and children first. Sorry, sir, no men yet.”

Suddenly a rocket burst overhead, lighting the crowd. Startled faces turned upward. Realizing that Titanic had released a distress flare, I watched fear begin to creep into their eyes.

Still not feeling anything, I watched the farewells taking place right in front of me as they stepped closer to the boats.

Husbands were saying farewell to their wives and their children. Lovers and friends were parting after fervent hugs.

Nearby, I saw that Daniel Marvin had his Biograph camera set up, cranking away. He must have been hoping to get an exposure off the rockets’ light. He had his young wife posed in front of the scene at the boats. “You’re afraid, darling,” he directed. “Scared to death. That’s it!”

Either Mrs. Mary Marvin had suddenly learned to act or she was petrified.

Near the boats, Molly Brown was helping a reluctant woman toward the boat. “C’mon,” she urged. “You heard the man. Get in the boat, sister.”

“Will the boats be seated according to class?” Mother asked, her voice its snobbiest. “I hope they are not too crowded.”

For the first time since the master at arms pulled the Heart of the Ocean from Jack’s borrowed pocket, something filled my heart--rage, mixed with disgust. “Oh, Mother, shut up!” She froze, mouth open, staring at me in shock. “Do you not understand?” I demanded. “The water is freezing and there are not enough boats...not enough by half. Half of the people on this ship are going to die!”

“Not the better half!” declared Cal. “The world will be better off without that steerage swine anyway!” Then glaring at me, hatred in his eyes, he added, “Pity I did not keep that drawing. It will be worth a lot more by morning.”

I stared at him as it hit me like a thunderbolt. Jack was third class, caught in the master-of-arm’s office, far down below. He did not stand a chance. Another rocket burst overhead, bathing my face in white light. The rage I had felt only moments earlier seemed like love compared to what I was feeling now. Glaring at Cal, I spat out the words, “You unimaginable bastard!”

Meanwhile Molly was urging Mother into the boat. “C’mon, Ruth, get in the boat. These are the first-class seats right up here. That’s it.” as she practically handed Mother over to Mr. Lightoller. Then Molly looked for another woman who might need a push. “C’mon, Rose, you’re next, darlin’!”

I stepped back from her, shaking my head, my body still trembling with rage.

“Rose!” ordered Mother. “Get in the boat!”

And very properly, I took my final leave of her. “Good-bye, Mother,” and I turned to walk away.

I could hear Mother shouting my name over and over, her pance growing as she realized that she could do nothing to stop me; that her meal ticket was indeed leaving her in the lurch.

Cal thought otherwise. Marching up to me, he grabbed me by the arm, attempting to drag me back to the boat, but I pulled free and kept walking away through the crowd, having already dismissed both Mother and Cal from my mind, now busy plotting how I could find and save Jack.

Suddenly my arm was grabbed again and I was spun around. Cal was glaring at me, his rage almost equal to my own. “Where are you going? To him? Is that it? To be a wh0re to that gutter rat?”

“I would rather be his wh0re than your wife!”

He clenched his jaw and squeezed my arm viciously, his nails digging into my tender flesh, again dragging me back toward the lifeboat. I tried pulling away, but he was too strong.

Suddenly I knew exactly what to do. I rolled my tongue, forming a small ball of saliva then hocked it back, as hard as I could, making unbelievably gross sounds as I filled my mouth. Then grabbing his arms to find some leverage, I leaned way back and let loose the full mouthful--directly into the shocked face of Mr. Caledon Hockley! He let go with a curse, and I ran, hoping to save Jack, the way he had once saved me.


I ran to the stairs and clattered down them then began running down the first-class corridor. As I did, I saw Mr. Andrews opening the stateroom doors, checking that people were all out of their rooms. I ran up to him and panted, “Mr. Andrews, thank God! Where would the master at arms take someone under arrest?”

“What? Rose! You have to get to a boat right away!”

I was becoming sick and tired of people telling me what to do! “No! I will do this with your help or without it, sir, but without will take longer.”

He stared at me and seemed to sense my determination. Sighing with defeat, he nodded. “Take the elevator to the very bottom, go left, down the crewman’s passage then make a right.”

“Bottom, left, right. I have it.”

“Hurry, Rose!”

I nodded then turn and ran, entering the elevator just as the operator was closing the gate. “Sorry, miss, lifts are closed--”

Without thinking, I grabbed him and shoved him back into the elevator. “I am through being polite, godd@mmit!! I may never be polite for the rest of my life! Now take me down!!!” and the operator fumbled to close the gate and start the elevator.

Through the wrought-iron gate of the elevator car, I watched all of the decks going passed as we sank deeper into the ship. Then as the elevator slowed, I screamed in surprise. The car had landed in a foot of freezing ice water, which swirled around my legs, shocking the tar out of me. Jack Dawson was correct again. It did indeed feel like knives jabbing all over my legs.
But ignoring the pain, I clawed the gate open, and splashed out, hiking my heavy, floor-length topcoat, so I could move. The elevator went back up behind me, but that held no importance for me. First, I had to find Jack. Then I would worry about returning to the Boat Deck.

I muttered Mr. Andrews’ directions to myself as I slogged down the flooded corridor. The place was understandably deserted. I was on my own for the first time in my entire life. I splashed down the halls, until I came to the one that should include the master-at-arm’s office, but there was a row of doors on each side. Moving as quickly as I could through the so-cold water, I began opening doors, first calling Jack’s name then shouting it then yelling it, finally screaming it.

“Rose! I’m here!” At the sound of the voice behind me, I spun around and ran back, shouting his name as he shouted mine.

I finally located the correct door and pushed it open, creating a small wave. There was Jack, hand-cuffed to a 4” water pipe, next to a half-submerged porthole.

Crying out his name, I splashed over to him and threw my arms around him. I kissed his face, his cheeks, his lips, while I murmured, “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

“That guy, Lovejoy, put it in my pocket.”

“I know, I know.”

“See if you can find a key for these. Try those drawers. It’s a little brass one.”

I kissed his face and hugged him again then started searching through the nearby desk.

“So how did you find out I didn’t do it?”

“I did not.” Only then did I realize it myself. I turned to look into Jack’s eyes. “I just realized that I already knew.”

We shared a look then I went back to ransacking the room, searching drawers and cupboards. One cupboard was full of silver keys and large brass ones, but no small brass ones. That stole all my hopes. I stopped trashing the room and stood there, breathing hard. “There are no small brass keys here, Jack,”

We both looked around at the water, now almost two feet deep. “You have to go for help.”

I nodded. “I will be right back,.”

He shook his wrists. “I’ll wait here.”

I ran out, looking back at him once through the doorway then I splashed away, down the hall to a stairwell going up to the next deck. I started to climb the stairs, my soaked long skirt and heavy coat, now almost deadweight from the water it held, leaving a trail like a giant snail. The weight of my topcoat was slowing me down, so I tore it off and draped it over the railing before bounding up the stairs. There I found myself in a long empty corridor. A long groan of stressed metal echoed along the hall as the ship continued to settle. I scampered down the hall, now unimpeded by my heavy topcoat.

“Hello!” I shouted. “Somebody?”

Only my echo answered me. I turned a corner and ran along another corridor, now in a daze, fear beginning to clutch my throat. The hall sloped down into shimmering water, reflecting the lights. The margin of the water crept towards me.

Suddenly a young man appeared, running through the water, sending up geysers of spray. He pelted passed me without slowing, his eyes crazed.

“Help me!” I shouted. “We need help!” But he did not even look back.

I felt as if I were in the middle of a bad dream, becoming worse by the minute. The hull groaned with terrifying sounds. Suddenly the lights flickered then went out, leaving utter darkness. I screamed in horrified terror. I do not know what I would have done if they had not come back on a moment later. As was, I found myself hyperventilating. That one moment of blackness was the most terrifying of my life, even more than when I hung from the stern of this ship, because I did not have Jack Dawson’s hand holding mine.

Suddenly a steward ran around the nearest corner, his arms full of lifebelts. He was very upset to see someone still in his section. He grabbed me forcefully by the arm, pulling me with him like a wayward child, talking to me in the same tone. “Come on then,” he coaxed. “Let’s get you topside, miss, that’s right.”

“Wait. Wait! I need your help! There is a man--”

“No need for panic, miss. Come along.”

“No! Let me go! You are going the wrong way!”

He was not listening. And he would not let me go! I shouted in his ear, and when he turned, I punched him squarely in the nose!

Shocked, he let me go, staggering back, calling out, “To hell with you!” before he ran off, holding his bloody nose. I spat after him. Just the way Jack taught me.

Then, deciding that if anything was going to be done, I was going to have to handle this myself, I spun around, looking for something, anything that I could use to free Jack. And there it was! Not far from me was a glass case with a fire-ax in it. Grabbing a battered suitcase that lay nearby, I swung it hard, breaking the glass. Then I seized the ax, running back the way I came.

At the stairwell, I looked down and gasped in horror. The water had flooded the bottom five steps. My topcoat was now underwater, gone. I went down a few steps, gasping harder as that ice-cold water hit my body. I had to crouch just to look along the corridor and find the room where Jack was trapped.

Taking a deep breath, I plunged into the water, which was now up to my waist, and powered forward, holding the ax above my head with both hands. I grimaced at the agony of the literally-freezing water, but I could not, would not stop now.

I waded into the office. Jack had climbed up on the desk, away from the water, which now covered the bottom drawer.

“Will this work?” I asked.

“We’ll find out.”

We were both terrified, but trying to keep panic at bay. He positioned the chain connecting the two cuffs, stretching it taut across the steel pipe. The chain, of course, was very short and his exposed wrists were on either side of it.

“Try a coupla practice swings,” he suggested. I nodded then hefted the ax and thunked it into a wooden cabinet. “Good. Now try ta hit the same mark again.” I swung hard and the blade thunked in, four inches from the mark. I turned to look at him apologetically. He shrugged. “Okay, enough practice.”

So I waded towards him, hefting the ax. His life was in my hands as much as mine had been in his when I hung from the stern of this ship. If I was not so scared, if the situation was not so serious, so life-threatening, it could have been humorous. Here was this man who had always been so independent, now chained to a pipe of a sinking ship, whose only hope for being rescued was I, a small first-class woman who had transformed herself into an ax-wielding bundle of energy.

“You can do it, Rose,” he prompted, his voice sounding strangely calm. “Hit it as hard as you can. I trust you, Rose.”

He might, but I was not sure if I did. When he closed his eyes, I closed mine, too. I swung as hard as I could, feeling the ax jump in my hand with a loud clunk.

I gingerly opened my eyes to see Jack grinning, showing off his two separated cuffs!

Sighing with relief, I dropped the ax, all strength draining from me.

He climbed down into the water next to me. He gasped as the cold water hit him. “SH!T! Excuse my French! Ow! Ow! OW! That is COLD! C’mon, let’s go!”

We waded into the hall. I started toward the stairwell, but Jack stopped me. There was only about a foot of the stairwell opening visible. “Too deep,” he told me. “We gotta find another way out.”

We looked and tried and finally found a wooden doorframe. Moments later, it splintered as the door burst open under the force of Jack’s shoulder. We stumbled through, landing in the E-Deck’s “Scotland Road,” the widest passageway in the ship, running almost the length of the ship, used by crew and steerage passengers alike. Right then, steerage passengers moved along it like refugees, heading aft.

A steward, who was nearby, herding people along, marched over to us. “Hey, you! You’ll have to pay for that, you know! That’s White Star Line property--”

Both Jack and I turned to face him, simultaneously shouting, ‘SHUT UP!”

Jack led me passed the dumbfounded steward. We joined the steerage stragglers going aft. In places, the corridor was almost completely blocked by large families carrying all of their luggage.

An Irish woman gave me a blanket. “Here, lass, cover yerself.” I knew she was doing it more for modesty than because I was blue-lipped and shivering, since my wet dress was now transparent, but I appreciated its warmth.

Jack rubbed my arms and tried to warm me up as we walked along. The woman’s husband grinned at him then offered both of us his flask of whiskey. “This’ll take the chill off.”

Jack grinned back then handed it to me, and I took a mighty belt before handing it back. He grinned and followed suit.

As we continued to make out way down the corridor, Jack kept trying a number of doors and iron gates along the way, but they were all locked, preventing us from going up to the Boat Deck.


We followed the crowds towards a stairwell. “Fabrizio!” Jack cried as he spotted his friend, standing with Helga Dahl and her family, standing patiently with suitcases in hand. “Fabri!”

His friend turned and pushed through the crowd until he and Jack were hugging like brothers.

“The boats are all goin’!” Fabrizio told him.

“We gotta get up there or we’re gonna be garglin’ salt water. Where’s Tommy?”

Fabrizio pointed over the heads of the solidly-packed crowd to the stairwell, where Tommy Ryan had his hands on the bar of the steel gate which blocked the head of the stairwell.

As we watched, the crew opened the gate a foot or so, and a few women with their children squeezed through. “Women and children only!” warned one of the stewards. “No men. No men!”

But some terrified men, who obviously did not understand English, tried to rush through the gap, forcing the gate open. The crewmen and stewards pushed them back, shoving and punching them. “Get back!” yelled one of the stewards. “Get back, you lot!”

When they still kept trying to push through the gap, the steward ordered the crewmen to lock it. The crewmen struggled to close the gate again, while one steward brandished a small revolver, and another held a fire-ax. The crewman managed to close and lock the gate, and a cry went up among the crowd, who surged forward, pounding against the steel and shouting in several languages, Tommy’s easily the loudest. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN, THERE ARE CHILDREN DOWN HERE! LET US UP, SO THEY CAN HAVE A CHANCE!”

But the crewmen were scared now. They had let the situation get out of hand, and now they had an angry mob on their hands. Tommy raised his hands in frustration then turned around and pushed his way through the crowd, going down the stair to us. After greeting Jack with a brotherly hug, he admitted, “It’s hopeless that way.”

“Well, whatever we’re gonna do, we better do it fast,” and Jack began to lead us down the corridor, searching for anther way out.

“Wait,” Fabrizio asked then turned back to Helga and her family, praying that he could make himself understood. Using a lot of hand gestures, he told them. “Everyone..all of you...come with me now. We go to boats. Capito? WE GO TO BOATS! Come now! Please.”

But they could not understand what he was saying. They must have seen his urgency, but Helga’s father, the patriarch of the family, shook his head firmly. His innate dignity said that he would not panic and would not allow his family to go with this boy.

Fabrizio turned to Helga. “Helga...per favore...please...come with me. I am lucky. Is my destinio to go to L’America.”

She kissed him passionately, but then stepped back to hold hands with her family. Jack, after squeezing my hand, laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder, his eyes sad, regretful, but firmly saying, “Let’s go.”

Fabrizio let his eyes drink their fill of Helga Dahl before fervently saying, “I will never forget you,” the same words he had called out so gaily when he and Jack were waving to the people on the deck as the ship set sail, but meaning it so very much more. Then he turned to Jack, who led the way out of the crowd. I saw Fabrizio look back, saw the look in his eyes, so I did, too, and we both watched Helga’s face disappear into the crowd.

We pushed passed confused passengers, shouting in various languages. We went passed a mother changing a baby’s diaper on top of an upturned steamer trunk.

We passed a woman arguing heatedly with a man, her words unintelligible to us, while next to them a child wailed.

Farther down, we found a man kneeling so he could console a woman, who was just sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Just beyond them was another man, holding an English/Arabic dictionary, trying to figure out what the signs meant, while a woman and several children waited patiently by.

My heart felt for all of these people, especially the children, but I knew that if we stopped to help any of them, it could mean our own deaths. After all I had given up this night, after all I had gone through, I was going to do whatever was necessary to ensure that we all survived, especially Jack and me. I was determined that I would spend the rest of my life with Jack Dawson, and if Fabrizio de Rossi and Tommy Ryan could share that life with us, that would make it even sweeter.

After awhile, we came upon a narrow stairwell, and we ran up two decks before we were stopped by a small group pressed up against another steel gate. The steerage men were yelling at a scared steward, who yelled back, “Go to the main stairwell with everyone else. It will all get sorted out there.”

Jack took one look at this scene and finally just lost it. ‘SON OF A B!TCH!” he cried as he grabbed one end of a bench bolted to the floor on the landing. He started pulling on it, and Tommy and Fabrizio pitched in until the bolts sheared, and it broke free.

I figured out what they were doing, and I cleared a path up the stairs between the waiting people. “Move aside!” I called in my most imperious tone. “Quickly, move aside!”

Class won out; the people moved aside, and I was able to run up the stairs, like Moses running through the middle of the Red Sea.

As soon as Jack and his friends saw the path, they ran up the steps with the bench, like the Israelites following Moses through the Red Sea. I jumped aside just as they rammed the bench into the gate with all their strength. The gate ripped loose from its track and fell outward, narrowly missing the steward.

Led by Jack, the crowd surged through. The steward tried to stop us, but Tommy convinced him not to with a swift, hard punch to the steward’s jaw.


We ran as fast as we could up the steps and burst out onto the Boat Deck, just aft of the third funnel. We stared at the empty davits. “The boats are gone,” I cried out in horror. “The boats are gone!”

Then I saw Colonel Gracie chugging forward along the deck, escorting two first-class ladies. I ran up to him. “Colonel! Are there any boats left?”

He stared at my bedraggled state, before nodding, “Yes, miss. There are still a couple of boats all the way forward. This way, I will lead you.”

But Jack grabbed my hand, and we sprinted forward passed the colonel’s entourage, with Tommy and Fabrizio close behind.

As we ran down the deck, we ran passed the band, still playing. I later learned that the Captain had asked them to play to try to calm the passengers to try to prevent panic, although they were having very little effect on the remaining passengers now.

Tommy shook his head. “Music to drown by. Now I know I’m in first class.”


Near the bow, we found Mr. Lightoller loading women and children into Boat 2. Looking over the edge, we saw the sea was pouring into the doors and windows of the B-Deck staterooms. We could hear the roar of the water cascading into the ship. There was not much time left. We had just made it.

But we had not ALL made it quite yet. “Women and children, please,” called Mr. Lightoller. “Women and children ONLY. Step back, sir.”

Jack turned to look at Tommy and Fabrizio. “You better check the other side. I’ll join you after Rose is safely on this one.” They nodded then ran off.

As I watched them run off, I felt my heart contract, and I thought, “No! NO! We should all stay together!” Although I had only just met them, I felt that we had bonded into a family-like team, and I hated feeling those bonds dissolve.


But at that moment, no sooner did Tommy and Fabrizio vanish around the corner, than my attention was captured by the people around me. Near me, a woman with her arms around two young girls was looking into the eyes of a man who must have been her husband, whom she knew she would never see again. He touched her face, trying to keep a smile on his own. “Good-bye for a little while, only a little while.” Then he touched the little girls’ faces. “Go with Mummy. Daddy will see you soon. There will be another boat for the daddies. This boat is for the mummies and the children.”

The woman stumbled into the boat with the girls, trying to hide her tears from them. Beneath the false good cheer, the man was choked with emotion. “Hold Mummy’s hands and be good girls. That is right. I love you all.”


Even with Jack’s arms wrapped around me, I was shivering and not just with cold. I knew I could not survive such a separation from Jack. That woman had her daughters who needed her; I did not. I hugged Jack tight. “I am not going without you.”

“Get in the boat, Rose.”

“Yes. Get in the boat, Rose.”

I gasped in shock. Caledon Hockley had found me again. I stepped instinctively closer to Jack.

Cal glared at me. The blanket had fallen open and in my wet, clinging, near-transparent, corsetless dress, I was a shocking display in 1912. “My God, look at you! You are a fright.”

He ripped the blanket from my shoulders, shoving it at Jack then he took off his coat. “Here, put this on and cover yourself!”

I numbly shrugged into it. Like the Irish woman, I knew he was doing it, not because I was cold, but for modesty’s sake, but I still appreciate the coat’s dry warmth.

Cal reached out and smoothed my hair, almost affectionately, but it was much too late for that. I stepped away from him, closer to Jack.

“Quickly, ladies,” Mr. Lightoller urged. “Step into the boat. Hurry, please.”

“Go on,” Jack told me. “I’ll get the next one.”

“No. I can not. I will not.”

“Yes, you can. Go on. I’ll be all right. Listen, I’ll be fine. I’m a survivor. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Not go on. Get on.”

“No! Not without you!”

I did not even care that Cal was standing right there. I saw his jaw clench then he leaned close to me and quietly said, “Look, I have a monetary arrangement with an officer on the other side of the ship. I was about to embark when Lovejoy spot you. He is waiting for me there. Jack and I can get off safely. BOTH of us.”

Jack smiled at me reassuringly. “See? I’ll be all right. Hurry up, so I can get goin’ I’ve got my own boat to catch.”

“Get in,” Cal urged. “Hurry up; it is almost full.”

Mr. Lightoller grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the boat. I reached out for Jack, and my fingers brushed his for a moment. Then I found myself stepping into the boat. It was all a rush and a blur then everything seemed to happen in very slow motion: The ropes going through the pulleys, as the seamen started to lower the boat. Mr. Lightoller giving orders, his lips moving, but I could only hear the blood pounding in my ears. This could not be happening!

Then another rocket burst above, also in very slow-motion, outlining Jack in a halo of light. I could feel my hair blowing slowly in the wind, as I gazed up at Jack, as I descended away from him. I saw his hand trembling, the tears at the corner of his eyes. I could not believe the unbelievable pain I was feeling.

Jack kept staring at me, unable to take his eyes off of me. I stared back, tears pouring down my face.

Then I happen to glance at Cal for an instant, but was shocked at what I saw. He did not seem worried at all--he knew he would survive; he knew he would see me again. I looked back at Jack. He was looking at me the way Fabrizio had looked back at Helga, as if he did not want to waste a single second of his very last view of me.


That was it! Cal had lied! And Jack had gone along with the lie in order to save my life! Maybe Cal did have an arrangement, but it did not include Jack Dawson, nor would it ever! This was Cal’s way of stealing me back from Jack, so he could try to put me back under his control and not endure the ultimate embarrassment of losing his bride to an itinerant artist!

NO! Suddenly I was moving, moving fast. I lunged across the women next to me. I reached the gunwale, climbing it. I hurled myself out of the boat to the rail of the A-Deck promenade, catching it and scrambling over the rail. Boat 2 continued down to the ocean, but I was back on Titanic !

“No, Rose!” screamed Jack, even as I jumped, “NOOOOO!”

As soon as I tumbled onto the promenade, I jumped up then began running toward the A-Deck foyer of the Grand Staircase, Cal’s long coat flying out behind me as I ran. As I drew near the Staircase, I saw Jack running down it, so I ran faster, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs, colliding in an embrace.”

“Rose, Rose, you’re so stupid; you’re such an idiot,” but all the while, he was kissing me and holding me as tight as he could, tears running down his cheeks. “Why did you do that, Rose?”

I kissed him back, tears running down my own cheeks then I looked into his eyes. “You jump, I jump, right?”

He smiled and hugged me tightly. “Right. We jest gotta figure somethin’ else out.”

“Rose!”

Looking up, we saw Cal standing at the top of the Staircase, glaring down at us, murderous rage filling his eyes. Obviously the thought that I was willing to die for someone he considered gutter scum was too much for him, and now his rage eclipsed all thought.

Lovejoy came up behind him and put a restraining hand on him, but Cal whipped around, grabbing a pistol from Lovejoy’s waistband in one cobra-fast move. He ran along the rail and down the stairs. As he reached the landing above us, he raised the gun. Screaming in rage, he fired.

[Esmeralda]

Although no one replied to my last update I decided to post a new one anyway in honor of Pubesy's birthday. If she sees it, I hope she reads it and enjoys it. And if anyone else does, that's fantastic, oo! ;D

And, oh, yes, fair warning! Make sure you have that whole box of tissues closeby for this update:


The carved cherub at the foot of the center railing exploded. Jack pulled me toward the stairs going down to the next deck. Cal fired again, now running down the stairs towards us. A bullet blew a divet out of the oak paneling behind Jack’s head as he pulled me down the next flight of stairs.

We heard Cal yell as he stepped on the skittering head of the cherub statue and heard him go sprawling and the gun clattering across the marble floor.

Meanwhile, Jack and I were still running down the stairs. Around us, the woodwork groaned and creaked. The bottom of the Grand Staircase was flooded several feet deep, but we took the stairs two at a time and ran straight into the cold water, fording across the room to where the floor sloped up, until we reached dry footing at the entrance to the Dining Salon, where I had walked in on Jack’s arm, only the previous night.

Two more shots rang out, and big gouts of spray leaped up near us, but, thank God, Caledon Hockley was not a great shot. He must have run out of bullets, because he called out, “I hope you enjoy your time together--your very short time together!”

Jack and I ran aft, uphill, through the Dining Salon. Behind us, the tables had become islands in a lake, and the far end of the room was flooded to the ceiling. Titanic continued to creak and groan in her death throes.

We could hear Cal running behind us as we ran through the galley. I spotted the stairs, so I began to run up them, but Jack grabbed my hand and led me down.

We crouched together on the landing as we heard Cal run to the stairs. He must have assumed that we had gone up (who would not?), because he clomped up the stairs.

Much, much later, I learned that although Cal thought he had an arrangement with Officer Murdoch, that fine officer refused his bribe, declaring that Cal’s money could not save him more than it could save Cal.

Shortly afterwards, Officer Murdoch shot Tommy Ryan in the chest when another man tried to push Tommy into a boat, so he himself could also embark on it. Tommy died in Fabrizio’s arms shortly before Officer Murdoch shot himself in the head, his body falling into the ocean from the impact of that shot.

Cal stared in horror at Murdoch’s body bobbing in the black water. The money Cal had shoved into Murdoch’s greatcoat floated out of the pocket, the bills spreading across the surface of the water.

Meanwhile, the crew rushed to get the last few women aboard the boat, and Caledon Hockley saved himself by grabbing a small steerage child and convincing an officer that he was all that she had left in the world. Of course, Cal totally forgot about the child as soon as the boat hit the water.

The steerage woman who was also on the boat and whom I overheard talking to another woman during the hearings told her friend something else.

A long, long time later, while they were paddling away from the ship, an Italian wearing a bloody lifebelt had swum to the boat. It had to have been Jack’s friend, Fabrizio. He must have been wearing Tommy Ryan’ lifebelt, and it must have helped him manage to survive alone in the water for that long. Cal, standing in the boat, slapped his oar in the water as a warning. “Stay back! Keep off! You will swamp us!”

Fabrizio, exhausted and near his limit, continued to swim, making it almost to the boat. Cal clubbed him with the oar, cutting open his scalp.

“You don’t...understand. I have...to get..to L’America. It’s...my...destinio.”

Cal pointed with his oar. “It is that way! Keep swimming!” He continued to yell and wield the oar, a demon in a tuxedo, even as Fabrizio floated, panting, each breath agony.

The steerage woman told her friend that she told Cal, “He’s only one man. Let him on.”

“No, he is only steerage garbage. He does not deserve to live.”

In anger, the woman leaned over, reaching her hands towards her fellow steerage passenger in the water, but Cal shoved her back.

And the spirit of Fabrizio de Rossi, Jack Dawson’s best friend, whose destiny was to become a millionaire in America, left him.


But that was much later. At that moment, back on Titanic, Caledon Hockley was the farthest thing from my mind, even as Jack and I listened to his footsteps recede. As we waited, Titanic gave out her longest, loudest creaking groan yet. It sounded as if she wanted to live as much as wanted her to survive.

We began to go up the stairs then we heard it...a crying child below us. We went down a few steps to look along the next deck. Standing against the wall, about fifty feet away, was a little boy, who looked to be no more than three years old. The water swirled around his legs as he wailed in terror.

I looked at Jack. “We can not leave him.” He nodded, so we left the promise of escape up the stairwell to run to the child. Jack scooped up the kid, and we ran back to the stairs, but a torrent of water came pouring down the stairs like a rapid. In seconds, it was too powerful for us to transverse. We were trapped!

“C’mon!” shouted Jack, as he led me the other way. We charged the other way down the flooding corridor, blasting up spray with every footstep. At the end of the hall were heavy double doors. As we approached them, water began spraying through the gap between the doors right up to the ceiling. The doors groaned and started to crack under the ton of pressure.

Jack saw it, too. “Back!” he yelled. “Go back!!”

I pivoted and ran back the way we came, Jack close at my heels, still holding the screaming boy. We reached a cross-corridor. A man came running from the other way. He cried out and ran up to us, grabbing the boy from Jack then he started cursing Jack in Russian as he ran on with the boy.

“No!” I yelled, terrified. “Not that way! Come back!”

But he kept running. Suddenly the double doors blasted open! A wall of water thundered down the corridor! The man and his child disappeared instantly.

We screamed in horror then screamed louder as that wall came towards us, foaming from floor to ceiling. We spun and, holding hands, we ran as fast as we could through the water, the wave gaining on us, roaring like a locomotive. Just as we thought we, too, would be engulfed, we found a stairwell. We pounded up the stairs as white water swirled up behind us.

But to our horror and frustration, a steel gate blocked the top of the stairs. Jack slammed against the gate, gripping the bars.

A terrified steward standing guard on the landing must have seen the water thundering up the stairs, because he turned to run. “Wait!” Jack hollered. “Wait! Help us! Unlock the gate!”

But he ran. The water was welling up around us, pouring through the gate and slamming us against it. In seconds, it was up to our waists. I screamed, “Help us! Please! Give us a chance!”

The steward stopped and looked back. He must have seen us at the gate, our arms reaching through, must have seen the water pouring through the gate onto the landing, because he ran back, slogging against the current. He pulled a key ring from his belt and struggled to unlock the padlock as the water fountained up around us.

We urged him to hurry, when suddenly the lights shorted out, and the landing was plunged into darkness. We all screamed, and in his fright, the steward dropped the keys. Looking at us apologetically, he turned and ran.

We pleaded with him, but he did not return, so Jack began diving underwater, again and again, feeling for the keys on the deck. We were right up against the ceiling, the water at my throat, when he finally came up with the keys.

Then he had to find the lock by feel then find the correct key and unlock it. The water was at my nose, and I was certain that I was going to die, when suddenly the gate gave and swung open. We were pushed through by the force of the water, slamming our shins into the bottom of the stairs. We ran up to the next deck, running up seemingly endless stairs as the ship torqued and groaned around us.


When we finally reached A Deck, we began running along it, trying to find a way up to the Boat Deck. As we ran along, we saw three dogs run by, including a black French bulldog. Someone had released the pets from their kennels. Much later I learned that Mr. Astor was reported by one witness to have gone belowdecks to open up the kennels, thus giving the dogs on Titanic a fighting chance. He and his butler later dressed in their finest and shared a glass of wine as the water rushed towards them. I like the fact that unlike Caldeon Hockley, the richest, most powerful man on the ship, made no attempt to use his position to save himself, but had accepted his fate with grace.

Soon Jack and I were running through the First Class Smoking Lounge, running towards the aft revolving doors. Then I recognized Mr. Andrews, standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the large painting above the fireplace, a fire still going in the grate. I noticed that his lifebelt was off, lying on a table.

“Will you not even try for it, Mr. Andrews?” I had to ask, almost begging, since I wanted him to survive as much as I wanted us to survive.

A tear rolled down his cheek. “I’m sorry that I didn’t build you a stronger ship, young Rose.”

“It’s goin’ fast,” Jack warned me. “We gotta keep movin’.”

Mr. Andrews picked up his lifebelt and handed it to me. “Good luck to you, Rose.”

I hugged him tight. “And to you, Mr. Andrews.”

Jack pulled me away, and we ran to and through the revolving doors.


Soon we were running through the Palm Court into a dense crowd. Jack pushed his way to the rail and looked at the state of the ship. All of the lifeboats were gone, floating on the ocean like tiny islands. The bridge itself was underwater, and there was chaos on deck.

“Okay, we keep movin’ aft," Jack decided. "We gotta stay on the ship for as long as possible.”

I nodded and we pushing our way aft through the panicking crowd.

We clambered over the A-Deck aft rail. Then using all his strength, Jack lowered me toward the deck below, holding on with one hand. I dangled then fell. Jack jumped down behind me. Then we joined a crush of people, literally clawing and scrambling over each other to get down the narrow stairs to the well deck...the only way aft.

Seeing the stairs were impossible, Jack climbed over the B-Deck railing and helped me over. He lowered me again, and I fell in a heap. One of the bakers, who was three sheets to the wind, happened to be next to me. He hauled me to my feet. Jack dropped down, and the three of us pushed through the crowd across the well deck.

Titanic groaned and shuddered under our feet. Near us, at the rail, people were jumping into the water. Jack shook his head, “We gotta stay with the ship as long as we can.”

Hundreds of people were already on the poop deck, and more were pouring up every second. Meanwhile people were jumping from the well deck, the poop deck, the gangway doors.

Not Jack and I. We struggled to climb the well-deck stairs as the ship began to tilt. The drunk baker put a hand squarely on my bottom and shoved me up onto the deck. He quickly apologized, but I smiled my thanks.

Now on the poop deck, we continued to struggle aft as the angle increased. Hundreds of passengers, clinging to every fixed object on the deck, huddled on their knees around a priest, who had his voice raised in prayer, as we heard the band sadly, slowly play, “Nearer My God to Thee,” the only non-waltz we heard, also the last song we heard.

The people surrounding the priest were praying, sobbing, or just staring at nothing. Jack tugged me aft along the deck, struggling on, making our way around the praying people as we added ours to theirs. A man lost his footing ahead of us and slid towards us. Jack helped him up to his feet.

We finally made it to the stern rail, right at the base of the flagpole. We gripped the rail, jammed in between other people who had the same idea as we.

It suddenly dawned on me. “Jack! This is where we first met!” and Jack hugged me tightly.

It was true. Only two nights...and a lifetime...ago, Jack Dawson had pulled me back into this ship at this very spot. It appeared that this was the place where I was fated to die after all; I’d only beaten my fate by two days, two glorious days that I was thankful I had been allowed to live.

Above the wailing and the sobbing, the priest’s voice carried, cracking with emotion. “...and I saw new heavens and a new earth. The former heavens and the former earth had passed away and the sea was no longer.”

At that moment, the lights flickered, threatening to go out. I gripped Jack as the stern rose into a night sky ablaze with stars.

The priest’s voice continued, “I also saw a new Jerusalem, the holy city coming down out of heaven from God, beautiful as a bride prepared to meet her husband. I heard a loud voice from the throne ring out, ‘This is God’s dwelling among men. He shall dwell with them and they shall be his people, and he shall be their God who is always with them.’”

I stared around me, at the faces of the doomed. Near us was Fabrizio’s Norwegian friend, Helga Dahl, who had somehow found her own way to the stern, and was now clinging stoically to her family. Helga turned her head to look at me briefly, her eyes infinitely sad.

I saw a young woman next to me, clutching her young son, who looked about five and was crying in terror. “Shhh. Don’t cry,” comforted the mother. “It’ll be over soon, darling. It’ll all be over soon.”

And again I heard the priest’s voice. “He shall wipe every tear from their eyes. And there shall be no more death or mourning, crying out, or pain, for the former world has passed away.”

And all the lights went out.

Looking back behind me, I saw that Titanic had become a vast black silhouette against the dark sea.

Then a loud crackling report drowned out even all of the screams. As we watched in horror, the deck split, as a yawning chasm opened with a thunder of breaking steel, followed by a booming concussion, like the sound of artillery. People fell into that widening crevasse, looking like dolls being tossed by some gigantic hand.

The stay cables on the funnel parted and snapped across the decks like whips, ripping off davits and ventilators. Fires, explosions and sparks lit the yawning chasm, as the hull split down through the nine decks to the keel, the sea pouring into the gaping wound.

Then our half of the ship fell back toward the water. We all screamed as we felt ourselves plummeting. The sound went up like the roar of victorious fans at a sports stadium. We could see a few unfortunates swimming in the water directly under us. They shrieked as they saw the keel, coming down. To them, it must have looked like God’s boot heel.

The massive stern section, the section beneath our own feet, fell back almost level, thundering down into the sea and pushing out a mighty wave of displaced water, swamping some of the nearby boats, although all remained afloat. For a moment, I thought we were safe and looked at Jack triumphantly, but he looked back at me and sadly shook his head.

He was correct again, because now the horrible mechanics played out. Although I did not understand what was happening then, I do now, thanks to Mr. Bodine’s graphics. Pulled down by the awesome weight of the flooded bow, the buoyant stern tilted up rapidly. We felt the rush of the ascent as the fantail angled up again. Everyone was clinging to benches, railings, ventilators...anything to keep from sliding down as the stern continued to lift.

The stern went up and up, passed 45 degrees then passed sixty.

People started to fall, sliding and tumbling; they skidded down the deck, screaming and flailing to grab onto something, anything. They wrenched other people loose and pulled them down with them.

Among others, Helga Dahl and her family, who somehow had also reached the stern, now fell, one by one, Helga herself the last.

The sound of his best friend’s friend screaming as she slid to her certain death galvanized Jack. “C’mon!” he cried. “We gotta move!”

He climbed over the stern railing and reached back for me, but I was too terrified to move.

Jack grabbed my hand and held it tight. “Listen to me!” he commanded. “I’ve gotcha. I won’t let go. Now pull yerself up! C’mon!”

They were the same words spoken the same way as he had two nights earlier at this same spot. Like then, I believed them and helped him pull me over, this time going the other direction.

I crawled over just as the railing was going horizontal, and the deck vertical. Jack gripped me fiercely. The stern was now straight up in the air. From the lifeboats, it must have looked like God’s finger pointing up to heaven. It hung there like that for a long time, its buoyancy stable.

I was lying on the railing, looking down fifteen stories to the dark sea at the bottom of the stern section. People near me, who had not climbed over, now hung from the railing, their legs dangling over the long drop. One by one, their strength gave out and they fell, plummeting down the vertical face of the poop deck. Some of them bounced horribly off deck benches or ventilators.

We watched this horrible spectacle, lying side by side on what was now the vertical face of the hull, gripping the railing, which was now horizontal. Just beneath our feet were the gold letters “TITANIC”, emblazoned across the stern.

I stared down terrified at the black ocean waiting to claim us. Then the final relentless plunge began as the stern section flooded. Looking down a hundred feet to the water, we dropped like an elevator.

“This is it!” Jack yelled. “Hold on! Now listen to me!” he demanded, talking rapidly. “Breathe deeply, Rose, very deeply. When I tell you, take a very deep breath and hold it. The ship will suck us down. Kick for the surface and keep kickin’. Do not let go of my hand. We’re gonna make it, Rose! Trust me.”

I stared at the water coming up rapidly towards us and gripped his hand harder. “I trust you, Jack.”

“Breathe deeply, Rose! Again! Again!” as he also drew in deep breaths.

Below us, the poop deck was disappearing. The plunge gathered speed. The boiling surface engulfed the docking bridge and then began rushing up the last thirty feet.

“Ready? Ready? NOW!” and just as the name “TITANIC ” disappeared beneath the waves, I drew in a deep breath and held it as the water rose to claim us.

As Jack had warned me, the ship sucked us down. All around me, bodies were whirling, spinning, some limp dolls, others struggling spasmodically.

Just as Jack had said, I kicked as hard as I could, trying to reach the surface, even as I began to see spots in front of my eyes from lack of air. Then, just as I located the surface, the suction began dragging Jack down! I tried to hold on, I truly did, but he was sucked away from me, pulling him from my grip!


I gave a mighty kick with the last of my strength and broke the water amidst a roiling chaos of screaming, thrashing people. Over a thousand people were now floating where the ship had gone down. Some were stunned by the cold, gasping for breath. Others were crying, praying, moaning, shouting, screaming; people driven insane by the water, four degrees below freezing, so cold it was indistinguishable from death by fire.

I was screaming, too, screaming Jack’s name over and over, looking for him everywhere, unable to see him. Then a man pushed me under, trying to climb on top of me...senselessly trying to get out of the water, to climb on anything. I kept fighting, breaking the surface in time to gasp some air before he would push me back under the water.

Just when I began to give up, convinced that it was hopeless, I heard someone shout my name.

Jack!

He yelled, “Get off of her!” When the man continued to dunk me, Jack punched him repeatedly, finally pulling me free. “Swim, Rose! I need you to swim! C’mon!”

I tried, but my strokes were not as effective as his due to my lifebelt, but he kept encouraging me. Soon we broke out of the clot of screaming people. “Keep swimmin’,” Jack urged. “Keep movin’. C’mon, Rose, you can do it!”


All about us there was a tremendous wailing, screaming and moaning...a chorus of tormented souls. And beyond that...nothing but black water stretching to the horizon. The sense of isolation and hopelessness was overwhelming.

“Look for somethin’ that’s floatin’, Rose. Anythin’ that’ll get us outta the freezin’ water. The boats will be comin’ back soon, Rose. If we can find somethin’ to keep us afloat and outta the water, we’ll be fine. We’re gonna make it, Rose!” His words gave me the strength to keep stroking. He also kept stroking rhythmically, the effort keeping him from freezing to death.

“It’s so cold,” I told him.

“I know. I know. Help me, here, Rose. Look around. Find somethin’; we gotta find somethin’ soon.”

His words kept me focused, taking my mind off the wailing around us and my so-cold body. I scanned the water, panting, barely able to draw a breath. I turned and screamed.

A devil was right in front of my face, swimming right at me like a sea monster in the darkness, its coal-black eyes bugging out!

I nearly lost it, but then I heard Jack’s soothing voice. “No, Rose, no! It’s okay! It’s jest that French bulldog! It’s already frozen. Keep lookin’ for a large piece of debris before we are, too!”

I looked closer and saw that he was correct about my “monster”. I watched as it motored passed me, pushed by the current as if it were heading for Newfoundland.

Then beyond it, I saw something in the water. “What is that?” I asked.

Jack saw the thing at which I was pointing, and we made for it together. It was a large piece of wooden debris, intricately carved. Jack pushed me up, and I slithered on it, belly down.

But when Jack tried to join me on the thing, it tilted and submerged, almost dumping me off. It was clearly only big enough to support me. “Stay on it, Rose, That’s right.” He clung to it, close to me, keeping his upper body, especially his chest, out of the water as best he could.

Our breath floated around us in a cloud as we panted from our exertion. A man swam towards us, homing in on our piece of debris. Jack warned him back. “It’s jest enough for this lady; you’ll push it under. I almost did.”

“Let me try at least, or I’ll die soon.”

“You’ll die quicker if you come any closer,” Jack warned.

“Yes. I see. Good luck to you both then,” and he swam off. “God bless.”

Jack nodded, but the man’s words frightened me. “Jack. Find your own piece!” I cried. “Or we can find a bigger piece!”

He shook his head. “There is no bigger piece close by. I’m a survivor, remember? I’ll be fine as long as I can hang on and keep my chest out of the water. Besides, I don’t wanna leave you. You jump, I jump; remember?” and I nodded in resignation.

So we floated amid a chorus of the doomed. Above it, we could hear the sound of a whistle--one of the ship’s officers was nearby. He kept blowing it furiously, knowing the sound would carry over the water for miles, reaching the waiting lifeboats.

“The boats’ll come back for us, Rose. Hold on jest a little longer. They hadta row away from the suction, and now they’ll be comin’ back.”

I nodded, his words helping me to hold on. I was shivering uncontrollably, my lips blue, my teeth chattering, and if was cold for me, how much more cold he must have been, with his lower body still in the ice-cold water.


Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes. The inchoate wail of fifteen hundred souls slowly faded to individual cries from the darkness.

“Come back! Please!” pleaded a feminine voice. “We know you can hear us. For God’s sake!”

“Please!” begged a masculine voice. “Help us! Save one life! JUST SAVE ONE LIFE!”

Seven hundred survivors sat nearby in lifeboats built for twelve hundred, afraid to act for fear of being swamped. They must have told themselves that the voices from the water did not belong to their husbands or their sons or their loved ones.

They were merely the cries of the doomed.

[Esmeralda]

Although no one has replied to this recently, I decided to finish it anyway since this week is the 97th anniversary of the sinking of Titanic

Just a quick reminder to everyone reading TITANIC: Rose’s Story. Most of the beautiful prose in this story was written by James Cameron; I’m just adapting it to Rose’s point of view. Mr. Cameron’s beautiful descriptions and lines still get to me as much as the movie did, and I’m glad to know that it’s doing the same for you.

If you've seen the movie, of course you know what's coming.... I could've been tempted to change it, but I couldn't.

Because here it is, the last part of TITANIC: Rose's Story. You'll notice that one part is quite a bit different than the movie. This is the original version and I just happened to like it better. I hope you like it, too.

Ten more minutes passed. We continued to drift under the blazing stars. The water was glassy with only the faintest undulating swell. I could actually see the stars reflecting on the black mirror of the sea.

Jack moved slowly around our makeshift raft, squeezing the water out of Cal’s long coat, tucking it under my legs. He rubbed my arms with shaking hands. His face was chalk-white in the darkness.

“It is getting quiet,” I told him.

“Jest a few more minutes. It’ll take ‘em awhile to get the boats organized.”

But I just stared into space. I knew the truth. There would be no boat. Beyond Jack, I saw that the ship’s officer had stopped moving, his whistle quiet. He was slumped in his lifebelt, looking almost asleep. I knew he had already died of exposure and knew that we would soon, too; first, Jack, since he was still in the water, and then I would die, too. I also knew that I would not mind dying, not if we went to heaven together.

“I don’t know ‘bout you,” Jack told me, his voice trembling. “But I’m plannin’ on writin’ a strongly-worded letter to the White Star Line ‘bout all o’ this.” He laughed weakly, but it sounded like a gasp of fear.

I found his eyes in the dim light. “I love you, Jack.”

He grabbed my hand. “No, don’t you say your good-byes, Rose. Don’t you give up. Don’t do it, Rose!”

“I am so cold.”

“You’re gonna get outta this, Rose! You’re gonna go on...and you’re gonna make babies and...watch ‘em grow and you’re gonna die an old, old lady, warm in your bed! Not here. Not this night. Do you understand me, Rose?”

“I can not feel my body.”

“Rose, listen to me. Listen! Winnin’ that ticket..was the best thing...that ever happened to me.” He was gasping for breath, but still managed to speak. “It brought me to you...and I’m thankful, Rose. I’m thankful.” His voice was trembling with cold and with something else, but his eyes were unwavering. “You must do me this honor, Rose. Promise me that you will survive...that you will...never give up...no matter what happens...no matter how hopeless...Promise me now...and never...let go of that...promise.”

“I promise, Jack.”

“Never...let...go.”

“I promise. I will never let go, Jack. I will never let go. Now give me the same promise, Jack. Please,” and he nodded, but he did not actually say the words.

I gripped his hand and we laid our heads together, as I noticed for the first time that his arms were now resting on our makeshift raft --he no longer had the strength to hold his upper body out of the water. It was very quiet now, except for the lapping of the water. Jack kissed my hand, and I smiled at the reminder of his passing me that note.

He continued to stare me directly in the eyes, even as he held my hand to his lips, and although he did not say a word, I could hear his voice in my mind. “I figger life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wastin’ it. You never know what hand you’re gonna be dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes to you. To make each day count.” Again I vowed to myself that I would do everything in my power to keep my promise of making each day count. I knew that as long as he was at my side, I could.

More time passed. It could have been five minutes; it could have been five hours. The stars reflected in the millpond surface, and the two of us seemed to be floating in interstellar space. We were absolutely still, our hands still locked together.

More time passed. I found myself lying on my back again, staring upwards at the canopy of stars wheeling above me. My lips barely moved as I sang a scrap of Jack’s song: “Come, Josephine... in my flying machine... going up...she goes...up... she goes.”

A shooting star flared across the sky. I remember Jack’s telling me that his father told him that whenever you saw one, it was a soul going to heaven.

My hair was dusted with frost crystals. My breathing was so shallow; I was almost motionless. I could feel sleep begin to steal over me, and I finally felt at peace. I knew I was in a semi-hallucinatory state, one of the final stages of freezing to death, and I welcomed that peace.

My eyes traced down from the stars to the water, trying to see Jack’s face one final time. As I did, I saw the silhouette of a boat crossing the stars. I saw men in it, rowing so slowly that the oars lifted out of syrupy water, leaving weightless pearls of water floating in the air. The voices of the men sounded slow and distorted.

Then someone flashed a torch towards me, and the light flared across the water, silhouetting the bobbing corpses. I could barely make out the officer’s words: “It’s too late. We’ve waited too long.”

No, they had not! Jack and I were still alive! Jack was correct again! We were going to make it!

I lifted my head to turn to Jack. My hair had frozen to the wood under me, but I could barely feel it as some of my hair tore from my scalp. “Jack,” I called, my voice merely a hoarse whisper. “There is a boat, Jack.”

He did not respond. I touched his shoulder with my free hand. He still did not respond. I gently turned his beloved face towards me. It was rimmed with frost.

He was sleeping peacefully. I shook him gently, making the cuffs that were still around his wrists jingle. “Jack, wake up. There is a boat, Jack. They have come back.”

But he slept on. I kept shaking him, calling his name over and over and over, but he refused to be dragged from the deep sleep that shielded him from dealing with the cold.

A thought crossed my mind. NO! I refused to even consider such a possibility! We were BOTH going to make it! I shook him harder, angry now, shouting his name as best as I could; now demanding that he wake up.

But he did not awaken. His sleep was eternal. I could only stare at his still, beloved face as the realization stole over me. “Oh, Jack!”

All hope, all will, all spirit left me. I looked for the boat. It was farther away now, the voices fainter. I watched them go then closed my eyes. I was so very weak and had used up so much of my strength trying to awaken Jack, and now there just seemed to be no reason to even try.

NO!

My eyes snapped open as I remembered my promise, now determined to keep it. I raised my head, cracking the ice as I ripped more hair off the wood.

“Come back!” I called out. “Come back!”

But my voice was so weak, so hoarse; they did not hear me. The boat was invisible now, its torchlight a star impossibly far away. “NO!” I tried to scream. “Come back! Come back! You must come back!” But they were leaving me among the dead.

But I was not dead. I was still alive and was determined to go on as I had promised Jack I would, and now I knew how to gain their attention.

I struggled to slide off the raft, but could not. My hand, I realized, was actually frozen to Jack’s. I breathed on it, melting the ice a little, and gently unclasped our hands, breaking away a thin, tinkling film. “I will not let go, Jack. Ever. I promise.”

But although I would not let go of my promise to go on, I let go of his hand, and he sank into the black water. He seemed to fade out like a spirit returning to some immaterial place.

I sobbed my farewell then rolled off our raft and plunged into the icy water. My body was so numb; I did not even notice it. I forced my body to swim, hearing Jack’s voice in my head: “Keep swimmin’. Keep movin’. C’mon, Rose, you can do it!”

I swam to the dead officer’s body, still floating in its lifebelt. I grabbed his whistle and started to blow it, with all the strength still left in my body. Its sound slapped across the still water.

I could see the officer in the boat whip around at the sound and could barely hear his command. “Turn around! Row back! That way! PULL!”

I kept blowing that whistle as the boat came back to me. I was still blowing it when the officer, Fifth Officer Lowe, an impetuous young Welshman, gently took the whistle from my mouth as they hauled me into the boat. I could feel blankets as they covered me as I also felt myself slip into unconsciousness.

And as I felt that horror fade away, I found myself coming back to the present, staring at the faces of my entranced audience, tears shining in every eye, even on a few cheeks--the reality of what happened 84 years before had finally hit them like never before. As I had hoped, my story had put them on Titanic in her final hours, and for the first time, they were beginning to feel like grave robbers, that there were more important things in life than things.

“Fifteen hundred people went into the sea when Titanic sank from under us. There were twenty boats floating nearby, and only one came back. One. Six people were saved from the water, myself included. Six out of fifteen hundred.”

I was surprised to find myself still growing angry. Even after 84 years, the injustice of it all still resonated in my soul.

“Afterward the seven hundred people in the boats had nothing to do but wait...wait to die, wait to live, wait for an absolution that would never come.”

I paused to let my words sink in then I concluded my tale. “I do not remember much more. I know Carpathia eventually arrived to rescue us, two hours after Titanic sank. I was told that everyone else cheered. I just lay there. They helped us all up. I still did not speak. They gave me dry clothing, another blanket, a cup of hot tea. And still I felt nothing, said nothing.

“Then, as I huddled with some of the steerage women, I heard one of Carpathia’s stewards say, ‘You won’t find any of your people here, sir. It’s all steerage.’

“I hazarded a peek. As I had guessed, Caledon Hockley was indeed back, attempting to reclaim his lost bride.

“How I wish I had confronted him, letting him know that if he left me alone for the rest of my life, I would keep my silence regarding his dishonorable conduct and let him keep the sterling reputation that he valued so much. I would have loved to have finished that speech by asking him if that was in any way unclear,” and some of my audience managed a sad smile.

“But none of those thoughts crossed my mind then,” I continued. “I stayed where I was, huddled deeply beneath my blanket, thinking about nothing but my loss, still in deep mourning, along with every survivor aboard that ship. So I still did not say a word, and Cal eventually gave up and left.”

I shrugged off Caledon Hockley. “That was the last time I ever saw him. He married, of course, and inherited his millions. The Crash of ‘29 hit his interests hard, and he put a pistol in his mouth that year. Or so I read,” and again some of them smiled.

“Then on April 18th, when we finally reached New York, I stood at the railing of Carpathia, gazing up at the Statue of Liberty welcoming me home with her torch. She must have looked just as Fabrizio saw her, so clearly in his mind. Then I heard one of Carpathia’s stewards ask for my name. Taking another glance at the Statue, I firmly told him, speaking my first three words since I was rescued from the ocean: “Dawson. Rose Dawson.”

“We never found anything on Jack,” Mr. Bodine told me. “We checked during dinnertime, but there’s no record of him at all.”

I smiled. “No, there would not be, would there? And I have never spoken of him until now, not to anyone.” I smiled at Lizzie. “Not even your grandfather,” and she sadly smiled back. “I never told him why I wanted to name one of our sons--your father--Jack. A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets. But now you all know there was a man named Jack Dawson, and that he saved me, in every way that a person can be saved. I do not even have a picture of him. He exists now only in my memory.” and they all sadly returned my smile.

Later, as the submersible was returned to the Keldysh and the crewmembers were holding a desultory wrap party for the expedition, I saw Lizzie bring a beer to Mr. Lovett. He was holding a cigar, still wrapped in cellophane. “I’ve been saving this for when I found the diamond,” and he tossed it over the edge.

“I’m sorry,” Lizzie told him.

He shook his head. “I’m not. For three years, I thought of nothing but Titanic. But I never got it. I never let it in.”

I smiled. I had succeeded in doing what I wanted to do. Now there was just one more thing to be done, the real reason why I had agreed to return to this spot. I wanted to see my drawing; I wanted to do this much more.

Turning toward the stern, I slowly walked through the shadows of the deck machinery. I was using no cane, no chair. My nightgown blew in the wind. So did my hair. My feet were bare. My hands were clutched to my chest, almost as if I were praying.

I reached the stern rail. My gnarled fingers wrapped over the rail. My ancient foot stepped up on the gunwale. I pushed myself up, leaned forward and looked out at the black water glinting far below, much as I had 84 years before.

“Nana, wait! Don’t! Please, don’t!”

I turned my head, looking at Lizzie and Mr. Lovett, who, much like Jack Dawson so many years ago, were running towards me, trying to stop me from jumping off the ship.

I smiled at them then I opened my hands. Lying in them was The Heart of the Ocean.

Mr. Lovett’s eyes went wide as he beheld his holy grail in my hands, and I smiled sadly. He thought he understood; he still did not.

Much as I had told Jack, I now warned him, “Do not come any closer.”

“You had it the entire time?!” he demanded.

I smiled, and once more I was back on Carpathia, watching the Statue of Liberty go by after speaking to the steward. I was back in my own clothes, Cal’s long greatcoat once more wrapped around me. I stuck my hands into the deep, deep pockets, seeking warmth in the drizzly morning, and found the necklace. When Cal knew that the ship was going to sink, he must have decided to, as he would have put it, “make his own luck”--take along the necklace so he could always sell it later if he had the need. When he saw me so immodestly displayed near the lifeboat, he must have instinctively wrapped his greatcoat around me, totally forgetting that the diamond was still in the coat and now the coat was on me!

Back on the Keldysh, I smiled at Mr. Lovett’s incomprehension. "That was the hardest thing about being so poor--knowing that I was also wealthy. But every time I have thought about selling it, I would think of Cal. If I ever sold it, I knew the Hockleys would be informed, and I knew they would know that I was alive. And somehow I always got by without his or his family’s help. I did not wish to be forced into returning to that life.”

I held the necklace over the water. Mr. Bodine, as drunk as Titanic ’s baker, came running up behind Mr. Lovett, reacting to what he saw in my hands. “Holy sh!t!”

“Don’t drop it, Rose,” Mr. Lovett pleaded.

I heard Mr. Bodine’s fierce whisper, “Rush her! It’s two of us and one of her! We can take it!”

But Mr. Lovett held him back. “It’s hers, you schmuck. It always has been.” Then he turned to me. “Look, Rose, I don’t know what to say to a lady who tries to jump off Titanic when she’s not sinking and jumps back onto her when she is...we’re not dealing with logic here, I know that...but, please...think about this for a second.”

“I have. Many times over the years. I came all this way here, so this could go back to where it has always belonged--back to the heart of the ocean.”

The massive diamond glittered in the night. Mr. Lovett edged closer and held out his hand. “Just let me hold it in my hands, Rose. Please. Just once.”

He came closer to me. It was reminiscent of Jack slowly moving up to me at the stern of Titanic. That might be the reason why, to his surprise, I calmly placed the huge stone in the palm of his hand, while still holding onto the golden necklace. He gazed at the object of his quest.

“Look,” he told Mr. Bodine, his voice as full of awe as it had been the first time he talked to me about it, before he heard my tale. “It’s mesmerizing. And look. It fits in my hand, just like I always imagined,” and his grip tightened on the diamond.

Then he looked up, meeting my gaze.

“You look for treasure in the wrong places, Mr. Lovett. Only life is priceless, not things. Life, and making every day count.”

He stared at me for a long time, and then his fingers slowly relaxed. “That drawing is yours, Rose. As soon as we can find a way to have it preserved for you. You have kept your promise--you have told us something that has much value, more value than we could have ever imagined, and by that, I don’t mean letting us know where this diamond has been hidden all this time.”

I smiled. Now I could finally do what I had wanted to do ever since the moment when I saw my drawing on a small television set back in California. Gently, I slipped the diamond out of his hand, and then with an impish little grin, I tossed the necklace overboard, leaning over to watch as the diamond sank into the black heart of the ocean, the diamond twinkling end over end, into the infinite depths. The Heart of the Ocean was finally where it belonged, where it would never be found and never be returned to any of the Hockleys.

Mr. Bodine had given a strangled cry and rushed to the rail in time to see the diamond hit the water and disappear forever. “Aw!!! That really sucks, lady!”

I was watching Mr. Brock Lovett. His face went through ten changes before he settled on a reaction...he laughed. He laughed until the tears came into his eyes. Then he turned to Lizzie. “Would you like to dance?”

She grinned at him and nodded. I smiled, watching as the young people left, then I looked up to smile at the stars.

Later, back in my stateroom, I did what I always do each night--look at each of my pictures: A theatrically-lit studio publicity shot of Rose Dawson, silent-picture actress. A shot of me standing next to my flying machine, my scarf wrapped rakishly around my neck, my goggles on my head. Pictures of me with my husband, our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren. Portraits of a life well-lived, proofs of my making every day count.

And my favorite--me, Rose Dawson, circa 1920. I am at the beach, sitting on a horse at the surfline, wearing pants, so I could have a leg on either side of the horse. It was taken near the Santa Monica pier, with its roller coaster in the background, a roller coaster I had ridden over and over until I was sick. I am grinning in that picture, full of life.

And closing my eyes, I again thanked God for letting Jack Dawson share two days of my life.

Then I laid down in my nice, warm bunk and feel into a deep sleep.

I seemed to be inside one of the submersibles, or was I? I could see the wreck of Titanic, looking like a ghost out of the dark, but it was lit by a kind of moonlight, a light not coming from the sub, but from my mind.

I passed effortlessly over the endless forecastle deck to the superstructure, moving faster than submersibles can move...almost like I was flying.

I flew inside, and I could hear the echoing sound of distant waltz music. As I continued down the corridor towards that music, the rust faded away from the walls of the dark corridor, and Titanic was transformed back to her former glory.

I came to the First-Class entrance, and a porter smiled, opened the door and waved me in. I could now see the Grand Staircase, lit by glowing chandeliers. The music was vibrant now; and the room populated by men in ties and tails, women in multi-colored gowns and sparkling jewels. It was exquisitely beautiful, enough to take my breath away.

As I swept towards the Staircase, the crowd turned to smile at me in welcome. I saw J.J. Astor and Colonel Gracie. I saw Captain Smith, Officer Murdoch, Officer Lightoller. I saw the bandmembers, our steward standing near Trudy, and the baker. I saw little Cora, still holding her doll, clasped in her father’s arms. At the base of the Staircase, I saw Tommy and Fabrizio with Helga standing next to him, her family near her. At the other side of the Staircase, reaching his hand towards me was Mr. Andrews. All smiling at me; all welcoming me back, welcoming me home.

And as Mr. Andrews escorted me up the Staircase, I saw that there was a man standing next to the clock. He turned, and Jack Dawson was smiling, reaching out for me.

There was a mirror near the clock, and as Mr. Andrews let me go and I easily ran up the last few stairs, I glanced at the mirror, smiling to see that I was also transformed, once more a girl of 17.

As Jack drew me to him for a deep, wondrous kiss, heavenly light poured down through the magnificent glass dome ceiling, and the passengers, officers and crew of the RMS Titanic smiled and applauded in the utter silence of the abyss.

Was it only a dream or had my soul indeed taken flight? I do not know. But I do know that Jack is still waiting for me, ready to take me to a real party, one I hope to attend very soon.

The end

[dylan345]

Very good job! I love the movie Titanic, and have probably seen it a hundred times, and seeing it in a new way was very interesting. You really got Rose's character down, and you're very good at writing. Awesome job.