Reupload from my old account, which I cannot get back into.

January 25, 1965

Winslow, a slight, middle aged man of forty-seven with big glasses and a receding hairline, pulled his 1964 Ford Anglia into a parking slot facing the gray, crashing sea bordering Liverpool's wharfs and cut the engine, killing I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again on the BBC Home Service mid-laugh. An avid reader and historian, Winslow rarely listened to radio programmes, but the silence on the ride from Manchester became too great, and he turned it on to occupy himself. He was nervous about the meeting ahead, and how he would be received, and as he got out into a blast of damp sea air, he prayed to the God of his mother that the old man would hear him out.

Pulling on a newsboy cap, he hurried along a concrete pathway flanking a rush of boarded up storefronts that once catered to the seamen who called Liverpool home, but served only the gulls now. With the advent of air travel, seafaring had fallen by the wayside as a practical mode of transportation, which never ceased to annoy him. Once, long ago, proud and majestic ships sailed the routes between Southampton and New York, replete in their splendor like queens in their royal vestments; today, for the sake of speed, people flew on cramped and possibly unsafe metal tubes that lacked the decadent beauty of those bygone liners.

The sea had always interested Winslow. As a boy, he thought he would like to be a sailor, but his asthma and overall frail constitution negated that possibility. Denied knowing it himself, he took to reading about it, devouring every book on nautical subjects that he could lay his hands on. His mother encouraged his pursuits with patience and forbearing, and for that he was endlessly grateful.

One oceanic related subject that always fascinated him was shipwrecks, life and death dramas played out on the decks of sinking vessels, microcosms of human suffering, pain, resilience, and bravery. The Titanic was the most complete and intriguing of shipwrecks - also the most storied - but there were many others just as interesting. Today, he intended to hear an account of one straight from the mouth of a survivor.

The docks ran the length of the coast, lined by warehouses, stockyards, and pubs...he counted three before he came to the one he wanted. The Lion's Head was a tiny structure wedged between two larger ones, a splintered wood sign hanging over the door, gold leaf writing on faded green. Inside, it was warm and dimly lit, like most pubs are, with gleaming oak woodwork and green upholstery. A bar stood along one wall and a number of tables filled the space to the left. The scent of fish, chips, and stale vomit tinged the air like childhood memories both pleasant and otherwise. Several men sat at the bar, one chatting with the keeper and another eating a sandwich. Winslow looked around, and at the end, far removed from the others, was his mark.

A tall, bullish man of about sixty-eight with a large stomach straining against a wool sweater and tufts of white hair sticking out from beneath a brown Andy cap, Marshall Collins was the embodiment of the old Englishman, his face ruddy and weather beaten, his eyes faded, and his expression one of stoic indifference. He was not inviting, but Winslow went over and stood next to him anyway.

Taking a drink from a glass of amber liquid, Marshall looked up at him, his bushy eyebrows rising quizzically. "Can I help you?" he asked. It was clear from his tone that he was ready for a fight...and would most likely win.

"Marshall Collins?" Winslow asked.

"Aye," Marshall responded, "who's asking?"

Winslow stated his name and held out his hand. Marshall flicked his eyes contemptuously from it back to Winslow's face. "What do you want?"

Sitting in an empty stool, Winslow lied, "I'm from The Manchester Times and I'm writing an article on the HMHS Britannic."

Marshall stiffened at the mention of Britannic, as Winslow had expected. "You were on it when it sank, correct?"

For a long, suspenseful moment, Marshall stared at his glass with a misty, faraway expression. "I was," he finally said.

"Would you mind telling me about it?" Winslow asked, animation creeping into his voice. "I know it must be a hard subject to speak of, but I'd very much like to get your account of the sinking."

Sighing, Marshall sat up straight in his chair and half turned to face Winslow. "I'd rather not," he said.

He turned away again, and Winslow's stomach clutched. "Please," he said with a beseeching hilt. "I'd love to hear it, and I'll even buy your drinks. Hell, I'll buy you dinner."

The barkeep had drifted over during Winslow's talk and regarded the old man with a knowing expression. "Tell 'im, Marsh," he said, "I'd like to hear to. You keep saying you been to sea but you don't talk about it. Makes me think you're a bloody liar."

"I'm not a liar," Marshall said flatly.

"And I'm not a Welshman," someone down the bar said, and everyone but Marshall and Winslow laughed uproariously, one pounding the counter with his fist, another shaking his head, and another still throwing his head back.

His friends' taunting, as light hearted as it may have been, visibly grated on Marshall 's nerves: The red color in his not-so-jolly cheeks deepened and his fist closed tightly around the glass as though he were trying to break it. "I don't lie," he said in a low, menacing growl.

"Shipwreck, you say?" a man with silvery hair asked in a Cockney accent. "Was he the one what dressed like a woman to get in the lifeboat?"

"He was the one who wrecked it," the barkeep said and favored Marshall with a shark-like grin, "drunk at the wheel again."

Marshall shook his head in annoyance and breathed a long-suffering sigh. Winslow couldn't be sure, but it looked like him being made sport of was a common occurrence at The Lion's Head.

A man in a peacoat sitting at one of the tables spoke up, adding his own insult to the already battered and bruised sexagenarian. "He ain't been to sea, that's a lot of rot. A real seaman can't shut up about blimey mermaids and other tall stories."

"You'd know semen," Marshall said over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, "wouldn't you, you fucking poof?"

Everyone howled with laughter, and Winslow looked about, feeling lost, a man who had wandered into a theater mid-show and had no clue what was going on. "Marshy's getting mad, boys," the bartender said, "better lay off or he might go back to sea!"

The pounder pounded, the head shaker shook, and the head thrower backer threw back. Marshall jerked the glass up, and Winslow instinctively cringed, sure the old man would brain someone with it. Instead, he drained it and sat it back down with a thunk. "Alright," he said and glanced at Winslow, "you wanna hear, you'll hear." He held up one gnarled finger like a headmaster reprimanding a wayward student, and Winslow couldn't help drawing back. "But I'm holding you to it. Drinks and dinner. I take my steak medium rare and my chips burnt."

"A real sailor eats seafood," someone snorted.

Marshall pushed back from the bar and looked past Winslow, his wrinkled visage hard. Winslow wasn't an overly nervous sort, but the look upon the old man's face was frightening nevertheless. He did not know what Marshall Collins looked like in his prime, but if now was anything to go by, he was tall, steely, and what men back then may have called 'hard boiled' or 'a tough egg.' He darted his eyes quickly and fritatively to the old man's countenance and tried to imagine him as he was in 1916, but was perturbed and disappointed to find that he couldn't. "You shut your bleeding trap or I'll come shut it for you."

The man held up a placating hand, and Marshall glared at him, then turned to the bartender. "My friend Wilson's buying me a pint. Put it on his tab."

"It's Winslow," Winslow corrected quickly, then added a respectful, "sir."

"Right, Watson, like Holmes. You wanted to hear about Britannic?"

"Yes, sir," Winslow said.

"For your paper, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

Marshall took his glass from the bartender with a nod then drank a good half before putting it down. He took a deep breath, fortifying himself for the story ahead, and suddenly, Winslow was aware of a bated hush. The men at the bar all watched the old man expectantly, some with mocking smirks and others with genuine curiosity. "It was a damn big ship," Marshall started, "and I was a newly minted deck officer…"

November 12, 1916

Marshall Collins stared absently out the grimy, rain sluiced window as the dreary English countryside flashed by without. His hands rested on his lap, his threadbare rucksack sitting on the floor between his knees; he wore a heavy wool coat and a gray newsboy cap against the pervasive chill. Presently, he removed a pocket watch from his inner vest. Two O'clock. Sighing his irritation, he returned it and gazed once more at the drab green landscape beyond, the churning gray ocean visible in the distance, its boundary marked by pale, rock-strewn sand. Farther out, the sea and sky blended together so that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began, both gray, both somber. Gulls dipped and wheeled overhead, and more hopped about on the beach. White caps broke on jagged rocks protruding from the swell, and even here, absconded in a swaying train car and surrounded by the clack of its tires on the track, he imagined he could hear the low, roaring whisper the drink made as it battered the shore, much like the chant of damned souls - beckoning the denizens of land to come and join them in the deeps.

A shiver ran down his spine and he turned away from the glass, his brow furrowing in annoyance. Being abroad and not shipboard always put him in a morbid mood, especially being abroad here, in England. At twenty-two, Marshall had long detested the land of his birth. Not her people, mind you, nor the King, but the place itself: The persistent rain; the bare, rolling hills in the north; the smog-choked, cobblestone streets of London where a man could lose his purse to a pickpocket as easily as he could find a public house; he even hated the look of the villages lining the railroad - slate roofs, stonework faded by centuries, ancient churchyards crowded with slanted headmarkers one could scarcely read if they took it in their heads to try.

England also reminded him of his past, and he strove very much to forget his past. Britain, as far as he was concerned, could stay on its perch betwixt the North Atlantic and the North Sea and rot; he would long always to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and when he was here, he would despise every moment as a personal affront to his sensibilities.

If he could help it, he would stay far, far away from this loathsome isle, but there were times when he was forced to return - sometimes for business, and sometimes when his services were temporarily not needed by The White Star Line - shore leaves were common for sailors, and typically he took the opportunity to enjoy himself in exotic ports of call. Every once in a great while, however, he had to take holiday in the United Kingdom, and he looked to those excursions with dread.

Today, despite having spent two harrowing weeks in a rooming house on a narrow side street in Manchester, Marshall was in good spirits, for he was returning to sea an officer aboard The White Star Line's largest ship, the HMHS Britannic. Prior to that, he served as an able seamen on the SS Zealandic, and had been training for a post on the bridge since the onset of the war. His certification was granted in June, but, as there were no openings, he was left to his fate. In September he put in for transfer to another liner, and last month, just before going on leave, the Line telegramme him to say that no spots were available anywhere, a bit of rough news that left him more melancholic than normal as he set off for the city. As luck would have it, the sixth officer of the Britannic was taken violently ill on the seventh and could not make the ship's next voyage. The telegram Marshall received informed him that owing to your faithful service, you have been chosen first from many candidates.

His hard work and perseverance, it would seem, had paid off at last, just when he was beginning to think his superiors were ignoring him. Moving up ranks happened with galaical speed, and waiting for it to happen often made a man feel as though time moved slower for him than everyone else. He was pleasantly shocked, therefore, when he was actually approved for advancement. This godsend put him one step closer now to one day piloting his own liner, a dream he had nursed since he was a boy in Whitechapel reading penny dreadfuls where brave and larger-than-life Captains always knew what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. They were stoic, steadfast, dependable, and wise. They could do anything from navigate a fifty ton ship through treacherous waters to charm passengers into line loyalty for the rest of their lives. To a boy of Marshall 's station, Captains were as Lords, and in some hazy, ill-defined future, he would become one of them.

Shifting in his seat, he crossed his legs, propped his elbow on the arm, and pressed his index finger to his cheek, his eyes appraising the man sitting across from him; short and portly with a walrus mustache and hound dog eyes, he stared out the window and puffed grandly on a pipe, the smoke rising from the bowl in rings, whereupon it hung heavy in the air. Clad in a tweed jacket and flap-eared deerstalker cap, he reminded Marshall of an eccentric college professor, or a magnifying glass wielding sleuth. All he needed was Watson the manservant and the image would be complete.

Shortly, the fields flanking the rail gave way to the dismal outskirts of dismal Southampton: Factories along the waterfront belched smoke from tall smokestacks, cheerless buildings crowded slanted streets thronged with horses, men, and automobiles, and grim industrial buildings loomed over trudging workers like cruel masters over downtrodden slaves. It all put him uncomfortably in mind of Whitechapel, the slum of his nativity, and he looked away.

Ahead, in all her queenly splendor, was Britannic, a majestic and richly appointed triple screw vessel towering over the roofs along the wharf, its four yellow funnels and its masts reaching unto heaven as though in praise. Marshall 's breath caught and the corners of his thin lips twitched into as wide a smile as he was capable, which was not very wide at all. He had never been married, but he imagined that the queer feeling in the pit of his stomach was what a groom must experience as he watched his bride sweep down the aisle. It was rather like lust - scanning the boat deck and the enclosed promandones beneath it, he suddenly longed, with keen desire, to know her entire, to linger upon her beauty and to explore her body from the top to the bottom and then back again.

The tracks angled to the right, and more of her came into view, her massive hull painted white with a long, green stripe down the center broken only by red crosses to clearly denote her function as a hospital ship. More crosses had been erected on either end of the poop to be more easily seen. The Great War had been on for over two years at that point, but Marshall had paid it little mind: The Zelandic carried troops to the front, but beyond that, he knew very few details; from those he did, he could not confidently say that paint and crosses would dissuade German submarines in the event one crossed their path. Just last year, one torpedoed the Lusitania off the coast of Ireland, killing thousands of civilians, many of them women and children. Would they really think twice about sending wounded soldiers to the bottom as well?

Not that he minded for himself, of course. All men must perish at some point. He did not fear death, nor was he attached to life. He had no family beyond the deck crew, no home off a keel; nothing to bind him to living, in other words.

To be quite blunt, he did not care whether he lived or died. He would have to shove off his mortal coil at some point, and when he did, he wanted it to be at sea.

The train pulled into the station shortly thereafter; people milled upon the platform and a beggar made his rounds, hand out and eyes down. The man across from him stood and took a green bag from the overhead compartment. Marshall waited for him to leave, then got to his feet, slung his sack over his shoulder, and exited. Outside, the air was damp and clogged with the stench of smoke. He pulled his coat closed at the throat, bowed his head against the cold, and followed the platform to a set of stairs that led to the street. Britannic was fully visible now, sitting in its berth and awaiting its departure, thick moorings tethering it to bollards on the pier. Longshoremen scuttled about like ants, loading boxes and crates onto cranes along the bow, whereupon they were hoisted aloft.

Laid down in 1911, Britannic was the sister of both Olympic and Titanic, and nearly identical as well. Marshall was an able seaman when Titanic set sail in 1912 and requested transfer from the Adriatic. He was denied owing to the long wait list: Most every man employed by White Star wanted on Titanic, as she was the largest and most luxurious ship to ever float; only a lucky few were chosen...and most of them went down with her too.

As fate would have it, Adriatic left Liverpool several days after Titanic foundered, and on the return trip from New York, a great many of her passengers sailed on Adartic. Among them was J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of White Star, a man whose very presence terrified Marshall , as to Marshall , he was more lofty and powerful than God. He was more subdued than Marshall imagined, though he did just survive a shipwreck, and even then, scandal swirled round him, as he lived while many others perished. London society shunned him as a coward, and in 1913 he resigned his post in disgrace.

To this day, Marshall regretted not being on that ill-fated ship; its grandeur would more than make up for dying in freezing waters.

But as grand as Titanic may have been, Britannic was grander, its size second to none and its opulence, hitherto unrealized as it was pressed into service by the Admiralty the moment it touches water, put its older sisters to shame. She was also safer, as many changes to maritime law were made following the death of the aforementioned vessel. The most obvious was the presence of several large, crane-like davits on the boat deck, each powered by an electric motor and capable of launching six lifeboats which were presently stored on gantries. The rest of the davits were traditional single-boat Welins like those used on Titanic.

Standing there in the drizzle - as a light, misting rain had begun - Marshall wondered after the evacuation procedure of a hospital ship. He had never been on a sinking liner before, but he imagined putting passengers off in the boats was stressful; putting off sick and wounded men who couldn't see to themselves struck him as neigh on impossible unless ship sank very, very slowly.

Reaching into his coat, Marshall produced a silver cigarette case, pulled one out, and lit it with a bronze lighter upon which were engraved his initials. He inhaled deeply, the smoke pinching the back of his throat, and blew the smoke out in a plume. Men in caps and coats hurried up and down the canted street, and a horse-drawn carriage passed in the direction of the wharf, the clip-clop of feet and the rusty squeak of wooden wheels finding Marshall 's ears. The shops bordering the walk were all low end, as were the people; their clothes were dirty, rumpled, and of poor quality. Many of them worked at the shipyard or in an attendant profession; others toiled in one of the factories. What Marshall could see of this neighborhood reminded him even more of Whitechapel, and the pit of his stomach gurgled as if with indigestion.

He knew virtually nothing about it even though he'd come through many a time, but he hated it.

Pulling his cap down, he descended the stairs and crossed the street ahead of a horse-drawn cart. A tall fence ran the length of the sidewalk, and at its end, a booth guarded the entrance to the shipyard. A man sat inside, his shirtsleeves rolled up his hairy and powerfully built forearms. Marshall showed him his papers, then continued on, the ship growing larger and larger until it blotted out the sky. Laborers hurried around him, shouting up to men on the deck and to one another. Ahead, a gangplank lead to an open hatch in the hull. At the top, an officer lounged against the frame and smoked a cigarette. He was dressed in black slacks, a long, dark blue knee length coat with two facing rows of gold buttons, and a cap with a white topper. From the gold stripes on the cuff of his coat, he was the fifth mate, one place above Marshall in the chain of command.

He looked up when Marshall approached and narrowed his eyes in suspension. Marshall had served on more ships than he could remember and had worked with a thousand men; he felt no anxiety or nerves, no hesitation, and no self-consciousness. He reached into the pocket of his coat, took out his papers, and said, "I'm Marshall Collins, replacement for Officer Jessup. Is this where I board?"

The officer creased his brow, ripped the paper from Marshall 's hand, and scanned it. Drops of rain made crisp tapping sounds as it struck and dampened the sheet. His features softened a little and he glanced up. "Aye," he said shortly, "report to the bridge." He stepped aside, granting Marshall entry, and pointed down the passage, a long, uncarpeted and utilitarian hallway lined with doors and bare pipes. "Follow to the end and up the stairs. There are signs."

Marshall waited for the man to introduce himself, and when he didn't, he nodded curtly and boarded the ship.

Seen from the outside, Britannic was a lady in her finest, but here, in the bowels, she was rather like a whore: Undressed, unkempt, and disappointing...but arousing nevertheless. He looked curiously around as he made his way down the corridor, taking in every detail like a man on holiday in a strange and exciting place. At a T-shaped junction, he glanced left and right: To his left, the hall continued, and to the right it terminated at a steep and narrow set of stairs. A sign on on the wall read BOAT DECK followed by an arrow. Another informed him that he was presently on C-Deck. A third over the steps themselves screamed CREW ONLY.

Every ship boasts a special maze of passageways for stokers, engineers, officers, and stewards to move around without being seen by passengers, as though they were dirty but, unfortunately, all too necessary. That made walking about on the deck even more special.

Taking a deep, contented breath, Marshall went up the stairs and to his new life.

***

Lislea O'Rourke stood in the queue before the train station ticket counter, a green shawl over her shoulders and a plain maroon bag clutched tightly in one hand. She wore a simple, long-sleeve blue dress with a high neck and a long white apron with a red cross upon the chest. A white nurse's cap sat atop her head, nearly lost in her thick auburn hair. A heart-shaped silver locket hung around her neck, her initials and the date it was gifted to her (2/5/12) engraved on the back.

As she waited her turn, she stared down at her feet, her limpid brown eyes troubled and her forehead wrinkled. Had anyone seen her face, they would have thought her a girl deep in thought; as it so happened, that is exactly what she was.

Nineteen and not unattractive - though her features were plain - Lislea was the type of girl one might call headstrong. Once she made up her mind, there was no dissuading her; she would follow her will to the ends of the earth without the slightest hesitation. Not because she believed herself always right, but rather because once she committed to something, she saw it through. Anything less, her father said, was failure, and in her life, Lislea had failed more times than she cared to remember. Shame was not an emotion she relished feeling, and whenever she abandoned a course of action, it filled her like poison, bubbling in her mid-section as acid bubbles in a cauldron. Never, though, had it been quite as strong as this: Her stomach was a hopeless tangle of knots and her tiny heart throbbed beneath the weight of her folly. Every muscle in her body cried out for her to return to Britannic, but she couldn't. She would buy her ticket, take the train home to Ireland, and spend the remainder of her life in her home village, first on the estate of her father then, some day, with a husband. She would bear children, grow old, and die in due time. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, she would forget the awful things she had seen - would no longer hear the agonized screams of dying men ringing in her ears, or smell the stench of burned flesh lingering her nose. Britannic and its dreadful cargo would cease to haunt her and she would move on. Or so she hoped.

Could she face her father, though? Could she come home with her head down and her tail between her legs? Could she stand to see, again, disappointment in his eyes?

She did not know, and a fist of anxiety closed around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs until they burst, crushing her in its grip; her knees shook and she swallowed against a sandpaper throat, her hold on the bag tightening. She did not want him to look at her with contempt, nor did she wish to know that she brought dishonor to him. Jumping ship would doubtless bring that and more - she could even be put in jail.

It was worth it to escape the carnage.

Wasn't it?

When the war first broke out, the boys in her town all marched off to the front while she continued to haunt the shadowy halls of her father's manor, silent save for the rustle of her dress as she passed - father did not suffer commotion or disturbance, and sometimes Lislea held her breath for fear of annoying him. She was unwed and unemployed, and each moment she spent home was a moment she was failing and displeasing him. She enlisted in the Red Cross partly to get away, and partly to prove to him, and, most importantly, herself, that she could be every bit as useful in life as the son her father wanted.

She was posted to Britannic in December 1915 and trained as a nurse. She knew not the cost of war, having been spared, like the British public at large, the horrible toll it took: Missing limbs, chemical burns, gunshot wounds. One man she tended to was raked about the middle by German machine gunfire and somehow lived. His stomach was sewn shut onboard, and one night, while she was dabbing his sweaty brow with a cloth, he tried, in the throes of his delirium, to sit up - the stitching tore and his insides spilled out onto her shoes. Even if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the wet sound them made as they plopped to the floor; nor would she forget the look of confusion and horror on his bloodless face.

That incident, above all others, decided her - she could not handle the awful things her position required of her. She could not hold the hand of dying men or look upon faces blistered by mustard gas. Her father wanted a son and Lislea had always done everything in her power to be one. She was strong, rational, even-tempered, and unafraid to work or to soil her hands. At least she fancied she was those things; on Britannic, she discovered that the contrary was true. She was as weak and fragile as any woman who had ever lived, and no amount of wanting to please her father would change that. During the final leg of the previous journey, as the proud liner steamed west through the Mediterranean with a full load of sick and wounded, she resolved to leave once they returned to England.

Now, she stood here in the rain, more uncertain than she was before. She took a deep breath and looked up for the first time since disembarking. Britannic loomed over the warehouse roofs along the waterfront, her yellow funnels and jutting masts rising regally against the gray sky. Crewmen moved along the upper decks like worker ants over a mound, making ready for departure. Had Nurse Forsythe discovered her absence yet? If she had, all hell would be breaking loose. She shuddered at the prospect of the other nurses' fate.

Nurse Forsythe, the highest ranking nurse on B-Deck, was a stern, bellicose woman who delighted in the power of her station and in committing small indignities to the women under her charge. Were they in an earlier time, she would almost assuredly cane wayward subordinates, but as the modern navy was kinder than it once was, she was forced to settle for lashings with tongue and finger instead, at which she was very adept. Lislea could not count the number of times she erred and received a brow beating that left her nearly in tears. Stupid girl, those vials go on the third shelf, not the second; of all the women I've to worry about, you're the dumbest of the lot. You're not even fit to was the bedpans,everything you do is wrong and just looking at your face makes me ill. You will never be anything. That example was, now that Lislea thought about it, one of the gentlest ones.

The old woman was right, though; Lislea never would be anything, and this proved it. She couldn't handle the blasted bodies, she couldn't handle constantly being at sea, and she couldn't handle the daily upbraidings and scoldings. She tried to persevere, but she fell by the way, and no matter where life took her, that knowledge would fester deep in her soul like cancer.

Drawing a deep sigh, she forced her gaze away from the ship and to the broad back of the man ahead of her.

She was stupid, useless, weak, cowardly, and good for nothing save, perhaps, bearing children; surely she would find a way to louse that up, as well.

As if by magnetism, Britannic commanded her attention once more. It sat in its berth, beckoning, calling, beseeching her to come back and overcome her fears. She looked at the ticket window, then at the ship again. She was, almost quite literally, at a crossroads, and that revelation made her breathing catch. In one direction lie ruin, and in the other, hope.

A conflict greater than the war on the continent erupted in her chest, and she frowned at her shoes. Like every woman her age, she desired to be married, but she desired peace of mind and, perhaps, pride a little more. Looking steadily at her feet, she broke from the line and hurried across the platform, her heels clicking forlornly on the cement. She descended a set of stairs to a sloping street and rushed down the sidewalk; if she tarried, her determination would waver and she would turn round. She glanced up as she came into the yard, and the giant liner stared down at her with imagined distaste. It was supposed to be a floating hospital, but in that moment, it looked more a prison, and Lislea's step faltered. What was she doing? She wasn't cut out for this; she should slink back to Cork and wait for a husband.

She was headstrong, though, and swallowing hard, she hanged her head and crossed to the gangplank, the shadow of the ship falling over her like the shade of Death. She climbed the plank and went in, offering a weak, "Hello" to Officer Farris, who manned the entrance. The atmosphere changed the moment she crossed the threshold, growing dark and heavy, like the air before a summer storm. Her heart skipped a beat, and the peculiar smell of the ship, sterile with a hint of musk, assaulted her senses and turned her stomach. She paused a tick in the corridor, her fingers curling round the straps of her bag, then she forced herself on. Come hell or high water, she was going to see this through; she made a commitment, and she would follow it to the very gates of hell. She had to.

For herself.

Holding tight to her bag, she started to walk again.

***

The first officer Marshall properly met was a thin, rat-faced man with a thick Cockney accent named Wright. He wore a blue overcoat with three stripes around the cuffs and a cap perched jauntily on his head. Marshall was drifting along the port boat deck amidships when Wright strode up from forward, his arms swinging back and forth and his short legs pumping. He looked as though he were in a rush to be somewhere, but Marshall accosted him anyway, explaining who he was and what he needed. "Aye," Wright said with a glint in his eye, "the man taking Jessup's place. Well, then, if you'll give me five minutes, I can show you what's what." He looked around, spotted a deck chair, and gestured to it, one corner of his mouth turning up in a sly smile. "Pretend you're on holiday for a bit."

Before Marshall could reply, Wright rushed off and ducked through a doorway. Marshall stared after him for a moment, then to the rain slicked chair. Holiday, huh? Indeed. Instead of sitting, he turned and wandered to the railing. Boats stood covered by canvas on either side of him, attached to Welin davits by thick riggings. Other men scurried up and down the deck to tasks one could only guess at.

Looking out over the low rooftops of Southampton, Marshall frowned. Such an ugly place. Dirty, depressed, everything lightly coated in a soot and grime. If he never saw this hell hole, it would be too goddamn soon.

When Wright spoke from beside him, he started. "Ever been in that pub right there?" he asked and pointed to a nondescript building flanked by a warehouse on one end and the sailor's union office on the other.

"No," Marshall said. He didn't like pubs. If he was drinking, he preferred to do it on his own. Drunk, one's self-control has a tendency to slip. He'd rather no one see that when it happened.

Wright hummed. "Not a drinkin' man, eh? Can't say that's a bad thing. What you think made Jessup so sick?" He laughed and swatted Marshall 's arm with the back of his hand.

Marshall arched his brow. "Indeed?"

"Nah," Wright shook his head. "I dunno what it was that got him." A shadow flickered across his face, then he smiled again. "Right then. Follow me." He pushed away from the rail and Marshall fell in behind him, looking left and right still, marveling at the exterior fixtures in amazement.

He shifted his bag to his opposite shoulder. "Hardly feels like I'm on a ship."

Wright threw a glance over his shoulder. "I've been on this girl two years and I see aint' seen her all. Fact, I still get lost from time to time. I don't go below decks if I can help it; I might not find my way back." He laughed heartily and slapped one of the crane davits as they passed. "You trained on these?"

"Aye," Marshall said. The Adriatic was small enough that it didn't need davits like these, but he was specifically taught the operational features thereof during the certification process. "Lot easier than the Welin."

"Buggers break all the time," Wright said with a dismissive wave. "Anything happens we'll have to lower off by hand anyway." They were approaching the foredeck now, the bridge ahead and to the left and the port bridge wing cab to the right. A low, waist-high wall marked the drop to the bow forecastle below. The poop deck rose directly to Marshall 's right, the gigantic fore funnel climbing high into the heavens; as they passed, Marshall craned his neck to look up at it, marveling at both its height and its breath.

Like her more famous older sister, Britannic boasted a covered navigating bridge open on either end and, behind it, a wheelhouse. An officer stood by the entrance to the former, staring off into the distance. Like Wright, he wore a long wool coat and cap.

"How long you been at sea?" Wright asked, taking a sharp left and opening a door marked OFFICER'S QUARTERS. Inside, Marshall was taken aback by the rich oak paneled walls, low, comfortable lighting, and muted green carpeting. On Adriatic and other ships, he had many chances to enter the officers' suite, and none of them were as nicely-appointed as this - it looked a facility for first class passengers rather than crew.

"Eleven years," Marshall said.

A sitting room dotted with leather upholstered wing-back chairs and oaken end tables opened off the hall, a door on either side, one labeled WASH ROOM and the other BUNKS. "Sixteen for me," Wright said, "started in the navy during the South Africa war. You a naval man, huh?"

"No," Marshall said. He considered joining the navy as a lad, but the stories he heard from the old men who swarmed Whitechapel pubs put him off. Things were perhaps different now, but in the last century, conditions were abhorrent, and being a man of high passion, Marshall doubted he could stand to have an officer yelling into his face without striking the lout.

Wright lead him through the BUNKS door, which opened onto a short, door-lined hall. Brass light fixtures upon the gleaming walls cast a soft, inviting glow. "It's not for everyone," Wright allowed. "You're in with me the way Jessup was. They were supposed to send your blues up from the galley but I don't know if they did or not." He stopped at a door, produced a keyring from his pocket, and opened it. "Here it is. You're on the right."

He snapped on an overhead light, and faint brilliance filled the space. The carpet here was green, as it was in the common area; a neatly-made bed sat flush against either facing wall, both attended by a nightstand, a wash basin, and a straight-back chair. Marshall came to a shuffling stop and traveled his gaze about the cabin, his jaw going slack. In the eleven years he'd been at sail, he'd never seen finer accommodations. An actual bed? With brass rigging? His own basin for shaving? He was used to a prison-like bunk jutting from a wall and nothing else; this might as well be a hotel than a ship.

Sensing his wonder, Wright laughed and slapped him across the back. "Real top-hole, eh? You should see the captain's place. Makes this look like a kennel." He went over to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a silver cigarette case. "You smoke?"

Marshall dropped his bag onto his bed. "Aye." He looked around and saw a wardrobe against the wall.

"Good," Wright said and took one out. "Jessup was off his onion about it; we had a few crossings, me and him. He's a good egg but I cracked him a time or two anyway." He laughed and lit his cigarette.

While he smoked, Marshall went to the wardrobe and opened it, finding three uniforms on hangers, a wool coat like Wright's, shoes, and two caps on a shelf. "They send 'em?" Wright asked. He sat on the edge of his bed with his elbow propped on the nightstand, a haze of smoke obscuring his face.

"They did," Marshall said.

"Right then," Wright said and got to his feet, "you change up then come out on deck. Captain Bartlett will meet'cha and we'll go from there." Without a further word, he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone, Marshall took a deep, even breath and removed one of the uniforms from the wardrobe.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the navigation bridge next to Wright, clad in a cap and long wool dress coat with two ranks of buttons and one gold stripe circling each cuff to signify his position as junior most deck officer.

Essentially a covered shelter against the wind and rain, the navigation bridge housed the ship's engine-order telegraphs, engine-order relay telegraph, docking telegraph, and emergency telegraph, each one arrayed in a line facing the windows and controlled by a brass lever. Immediately aft was a helm with the ship's wheel and a binnacle housing a steering compass.

Vessels such as Britannic, as state-of-the-art as they may be, relied heavily on the competence of the crew for navigation, judging distance, et al. One could not simply stand aside and let modern technology take charge; a liner required constant minding to keep it on course, and if one did not know what they were doing, disaster would surely follow.

For the first time since receiving the telegram that his promotion had been granted, Marshall felt a rush of nerves. The weight of the entire ship, as it were, beared upon his shoulders. One minor misstep on his part, and it, plus the people on it, could very well wind up on the bottom.

Shortly after mustering, a large, powerfully built man with a salt-and-pepper colored beard strode in from starboard. He wore a coat and cap similar to everyone else's, but the markings on his cuffs were different: Four gold stripes with a loop on top. Perhaps it was Marshall 's imagination, but he felt the Captain's presence the way a faithful Christian might feel the presence of God during a particularly reverent prayer: It was a calm and dignified air, one of authority and honor, commanding respect but not demanding it. Marshall instinctively stood up straighter and squared his shoulders.

Another man followed, his cap pulled low over his brow. Three stripes with a loop ringed his cuffs denoting him as Chief Officer.

Captain Bartlett glanced up, came over, and thrust out one large, calloused hand. "Collins?" he asked in a low, raspy voice.

"Aye, sir," Marshall said, and they shook.

"It's good to have you," he said briskly. "I take it you've been seen to your quarters."

Marshall nodded. "Aye, sir."

"Good." He looked over his shoulder at the Chief, who stood in the wide archway opening onto the deck. "That's Chief Officer Stone. The senior deck commander under myself. You will report directly to him unless advised to the contrary."

A tall man with icy blue eyes heavily lidded and high, arrogant cheekbones, Officer Stone seemed to look down his narrow nose at Marshall , his air the opposite of Bartlett's: Demanding rather than commanding respect. He nodded curtly, and Marshall returned it out of obligation; Marshall did not know whether or not love at first sight existed, but he knew that loathe at first sight did, for he had felt it many a'time in his life.

And now was one of them.

"Mr. Wright will show you about your duties once we're underway. They will include overseeing the boatswain, ensuring boats are covered, chained, and seaworthy at all times, checking equipment, standing the night watch, directing the quartermaster at the helm, assisting the medical staff where needed, overseeing the loading and unloading of cargo, handling the manifest, things of that sort." He put a flourish on the final four words and glanced at Stone with a heavy sigh. "We're ready to take her to sea then?"

Stone nodded. "Aye, sir," he said, voice low and chilly.

"Right." Bartlett looked at Marshall . "Stand by and observe. Takes notes if you must." He flashed a grin to show that he was jesting and clapped Marshall 's arm. Marshall smiled back and nodded.

On deck, Marshall leaned against the rail and watched as the moorings were cast off and pulled to shore by shoremen. From here, the world appeared very small and distant, as though he were standing on the summit of a mountain. A wet gust of wind buffeted him and nearly blew his hat from his head; he held on and turned his face down, away from the barrage.

Beneath him, the deck thrummed lightly as the engines fired up. Several minutes later, perhaps as many as ten, steam burst from the forward funnel and two sharp bursts of the ship's whistle rent the day, piercing above the roar of pressure escaping the stacks. Shortly, Britannic began to drift ponderously away from its berth, the gap between the hull and the dock widening by degrees, the gray swell whirling and churning.

Marshall cast one final look at Southampton, dirty, miserable little place that it was, and turned away as Britannic set out on what would be its final voyage.