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John Farraway leaned over the railing, breathing in deeply the sea air. Around the ship, the sky was darkening, becoming almost indistinguishable from the sea at the eastern horizon. Already the moon was visible, pale and crescent shaped above him. The bitter wind which had kept most of his fellow third-class passengers inside stung his bare face and hands, but he didn't care. He found the cold, empty evening a refreshing change from the cramped quarters where he'd spent most of the day. In fact, he'd only ventured out of the room once that day, to fetch Emily a pitcher of water . . . His heart went out to his daughter, but at the same time he was relieved to be away from her. The petite six-year-old had fallen ill the day Titanic had left port, and her illness had only gotten worse. She was pale and feverish, shivering underneath the thin blankets, bright spots of color on her cheeks, her glassy eyes begging him to make the hurt go away. She likely had influenza, maybe a mild case of pnemonia. She wouldn't keep anything down but water. John had sat in the tiny room for hours almost every day since they'd boarded, nursing his daughter, listening to her moan and toss and turn. She had a nasty virus. John was worried that Frances would catch it. And Katherine was worried about everything else. He sighed. He could easily picture Katherine's face in his mind, lined with worries, her dark eyes afraid and desperate. Leaving England for America was a choice he had made alone. He hadn't consented her because he knew she would refuse. But he'd lost his job. There was nothing left for him in Liverpool. So he'd booked them on the Titanic, using up nearly the last of their paltry savings, leaving them with almost nothing to start with in America. And now Emily was sick. Hospital bills were inevitable; he would not let his child stay ill if there was a way he could prevent it. And neither would Katherine. But even though she had said nothing to him, he knew that she was worried. And he was worried too. More than he would ever let on. What if he couldn't find work? What if they ran out of money? What if his children went hungry? What if Emily became sicker? And Frances did too? What if...? So many questions. John felt helpless, and angry because he was helpless. What could he do? He needed to do something, for god's sake. He couldn't just stand here. His family was at stake. But there was nothing . . . Or was there? He paused in his thoughts, switching them abruptly. The vision of a gold watch entered his mind. A gleaming gold watch, worth more than he could ever hope to possess. And the image of a red-haired girl in a glittering dress, laughing in the arms of a young man whose tousled blond hair fell into his eyes. A young man who he had seen earlier. With a sketchbook. I am looking for a man...if you have any information, I'd be more than happy to compensate you for your troubles... John sucked in his breath. Could he do that? Could he, in good conscience, help the aristocratic snob in the penguin suit? And in doing so betray the young man who had done him no wrong? He gripped the railing tightly with both hands, his mind wrestling with a decision that had no right answer. Either way, he'd hurt someone. But Emily . . . and Katherine . . . and Frances . . . He pictured again his young daughter, her dark curls clinging to her sweaty forehead as she bent forward, knuckles white as they gripped the blankets, deep coughs racking her tiny form. The image made the decision for him. Yes. He could do it. He could and he would. For he remembered the young man's name, the kind young man who had introduced himself Friday evening and offered to do a sketch of Frances. Jack Dawson was a small price to pay for his family's wellbeing. He had no choice. It would be done. |
