Harold Lowe has managed to claw his way up the career ladder of the British merchant marines, rising from a ship's boy to a master mariner with one of the world's elite passenger lines. Along the way, he's learned to master not only his craft, but...
All right, we've heard enough from Harry for awhile, haha... it's time to get someone else's perspective. In this final interlude before the main story resumes (yes, Corrine will be back next week!), you'll get to hear the terse, no-nonsense voice of our catalyst for the first time. It occurs after the events in 'Unease' and the forthcoming Ismay meeting mentioned in that chapter.
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Charles found him leaning on the stern railing, smoking a cigarette and staring desolately out to the sea.
He approached him cautiously. The man had been unpredictable lately - more so than usual, even - and he wasn't sure what to expect. But he had a request from the captain, and he wasn't going to back down just because this young upstart was a hard case.
"Mr. Lowe," he said by way of greeting.
The man just grunted. Charles suppressed his annoyance. He may not be his commanding officer anymore, at least not officially, but he still outranked him; Lowe should show more respect than that.
"Captain Rostron wants to know if you'll relieve Mr. Rees for the eight to midnight watch," he said, more abruptly than he had intended.
"Certainly," came the weary reply.
Charles raised his eyebrows, surprised he didn't argue. He looked closer at him. With Smith, Wilde, and Murdoch gone, the mantle of command had fallen squarely on his shoulders, and he felt a responsibility toward all of the survivors, from Mrs. Astor down to the lowliest stoker. And yes, he thought ruefully, for this cranky junior officer as well. The anguish on Lowe's face told him that something was on his mind... and Charles supposed he should try to find out what it was.
"What's eating you?" he asked finally. "Is it Ismay?"
"That fucking twat," Lowe snarled unexpectedly. He spat on the deck in disgust.
Charles was no stranger to swearing, yet even he was shocked at the vulgarity - and the vehemence behind it. He recoiled slightly.
"I can't believe he called that meeting to tell us he's ordering us back to England at the earliest opportunity. Trying to spirit us out of town..." his face twisted and he spat again.
Why he sounds just like a spoiled child, Charles thought, disgusted. What the hell is wrong with him?
Lowe went on. "What's his damn hurry, anyway? Why can't we stay in New York for a few days? He's got us running like cowards! I don't even know how he's sending these messages - they say he hasn't left his cabin at all."
Charles studiously avoided his eyes. Lowe didn't know that he was the one delivering the messages to the Marconi room, arranging the details for Ismay. Charles was trying to please his boss, yes - but he also wanted to return home as soon as possible for his own selfish reason: Sylvia. But he kept quiet about all of that; no need to aggravate the man further.
"You mean you don't want to go back?" Charles inquired, curious about the man's motives despite his offensive behavior.
"Yes- No... I don't know." Lowe exhaled in frustration. "I just... it's too soon."
