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...
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The first thing she noticed about him was his voice.
Corrine Donnelly was walking out of the White Star Line offices in Southampton, ticket clutched tightly in her right hand. There was no way she was taking any chances having it fall out of her pocket, or worse yet, stolen in the crush of the crowded streets. That ticket represented more than weeks and months – maybe even years – of hard work in her uncle's shop. It represented freedom, a way out... a new life. Ah, the possibilities! She could do anything in America – imagine it! They said you could come from nothing, with no money and no fancy pedigree, and make a fortune. But Corrine wasn't interested in fortunes; she just wanted adventure, an opportunity to make a life for herself, away from the obligations she owed to countless generations of her ancestors. In America, she would have a chance for a new start - she could be whoever she wanted to be, do whatever her heart chose. The freedom was intoxicating, more precious than gold to her – certainly, it was worth far more than she had paid for her one-way third-class ticket.
Deep in thought as she was, the man's voice still caught her attention. Maybe it was the accent – Welsh, she thought, though she could tell that he was trying to hide it – or the agitation that was apparent in every syllable. Whatever it was, it made her ears perk up, enough to catch the next part of the conversation:
"-need the damn key, and I need it now! We can't sail without it!"
Strange, to hear such strident words in the middle of a well-mannered establishment like these offices. She slowed as she approached the door, hoping to hear more.
"Surely, the entire fate of Titanic cannot possibly rest upon a single key," said a smug-sounding voice.
That did it. She had to hear the rest of this. After all, they were talking about the ship she was just about to board. What could they mean about a key, and why was it so important? She smiled to herself. Her mother had always told her that it was impossible for Corrine to resist the pull of curiosity.
She hovered near the doorway, and, despite the press of people and constant foot-traffic, she took a calculated risk: she let the ticket fall from her hand and flutter to the ground. While she was bent over to pick it up, she chanced a quick glance at the scene. The man on the receiving end of it, bald and middle-aged, stood behind a counter, similar to the one where she had so recently picked up her ticket. He wore glasses and a self-righteous expression. She nearly groaned aloud. There was no talking to a man like that, kindly or otherwise. These petty bureaucrats loved to lord it over common folk; she knew that from personal experience. Whatever that loud man was trying to accomplish, it was practically hopeless.
But who was the man who was causing the commotion? From her angle, she couldn't see the man's face, only the back of his head. He was of average height, and had on a dark-colored uniform. She stood up, folding and shoving the precious ticket deep in her coat pocket, and watched as he took a deep breath, perhaps to calm himself.
