"Let it go. I told you-Astor dies."

"I need to see for myself."

Wells shrugged and turned to Morgan. "Can't you make him see reason?"

Morgan laughed darkly. "Nothing's less likely."

"If you come to your senses, I'll be on the boat deck." Wells' face was a pall of hopelessness. "Don't be too long. I'll try to hold them off launching the lifeboat."

"Don't interfere," Kennedy said firmly.

"Speak for yourself." Wells reached out a hand to grasp Kennedy's. "I'll see you topside."

Kennedy nodded. He approached the railing with Morgan in tow.

Astor had his hand in his coat pocket, and he pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He turned at Kennedy's advance and said, "Well, and what now, I wonder?"

"You've seen to your wife, Colonel?"

Astor nodded glumly.

"As have I mine." Kennedy offered his hand. "Major Joseph Kennedy." He watched Astor wince in his grasp. "Tell me, Colonel, didn't you bring your dog along for the voyage?"

XXV.

Above the Grand Staircase, the chandelier hung askew.

They descended level after level in Morgan's wake. A few stewards stood along the stair, holding lifebelts before them as if presenting arms.

The ship groaned around them, offering preternatural grumblings as she vainly dealt with the Atlantic's piecemeal intrusion. Morgan was thinking about a book he'd once read. Like Stead's portentous novel, it dealt with an ocean liner lost at sea after colliding with an iceberg. Similarly, it had been published in the previous century, its dire message unheeded. It had been titled Futility.

Futility, from the Latin futilis, as in leaky or related to pouring.

He tried to dismiss the image of crumpled bulkheads and surging waters.

They were back on D deck, their cabin only yards away down the corridor. They had stood here, long ages ago, with Wells saying, "We need to get off this level. We need to be on the boat deck." He was up there now, perhaps boarding the last lifeboat.

Morgan led them down a smaller staircase and out along Scotland Road. The corridor, so accustomed to the tramp of crewmen, was empty. It leaned crazily towards the bow. They worked their way against the gradient towards a wrought-iron gate by the engine casing. The enclosing walls of the great turbines below were cool and silent now. He twisted the latch and held the gate open for his companions, and suppressed the impulse to run back down the passageway.

The gate slammed after them with disconcerting finality.

"I hope you remember the way back," Astor whispered.

Morgan gave him a strange look. He was thinking about breadcrumbs. The Astor he remembered was an elderly man who'd led his country through turbulent years. That country would never come into being, and this man would be dead within the hour. Morgan nodded to him reassuringly.

A wooden block was set in the wall above the doorway ahead. "Crew Quarters" was carved into it. Morgan reached the door and tried the latch.

He gazed back at Kennedy, his expression empty. "It's locked."

Kennedy shoved him aside and tried the latch. He pulled back and threw himself against the door. It held firm.

"Is there another way?" Astor ventured.

Kennedy slammed against the door again. It creaked its objection. Something was propped up behind it.

Morgan couldn't think straight. They would have to back up. Traverse the aft corridors and return below, somewhere rear of the quarters.

Kennedy took a few steps back, his head tucked down and his shoulder forwards as he prepared for another charge.

There was a snapping sound from beyond and the door fell away on its hinges. Wells was standing there, within the small landing. He was wearing a lifebelt. His clothes were wet. He held an axe at his side.

Kennedy straightened up.

"Turns out the collapsible wasn't to my taste either." Wells smiled at Morgan. He nodded a greeting to Astor and added, "Down here."

They took the winding metal stair down to F deck. They twisted their way between the boiler casings along a dimly lit passage. The carpet was damp in patches but there was no sign of water. The walls were dry. The kennels lay ahead.

Astor pointed up. A stain stretched across the ceiling.

"The compartments above us are flooded," Wells said. "We'll have to leave by the way you came."

The door to the hold was secured by a heavy lock. It split at Wells' third attempt. He left the axe quivering in the wooden panelling.

The entry opened into an expansive, high-roofed compartment lit by a series of naked bulbs that dangled away from them to cast wild outlines on the walls. A foul stench assailed Morgan, disorienting him further. The howls of distraught animals tortured his ears.

He eyed the caged animals. They pressed against metal, hackles raised, ears folded back. He watched Astor make his way to a larger stall at the far end of the hold. Stood transfixed as Kennedy followed him, the axe in hand. He had the weapon reversed, the haft upright.

Astor was calling for his dog in muted tones. A sharp yapping reply was echoed by the other animals. Morgan couldn't stir from his place. Kennedy had the weapon raised. There was a swift movement and a dull clatter as it struck the floor. Wells was close by Kennedy. They struggled silently while Astor, preoccupied, worked the stall gate.

Morgan regained his motility. He raced up to them.

"He's seen on deck with the dog, damn it." Wells' voice was a growled whisper.

"It's just a story," Kennedy replied, just as softly. He reached for the holster at his belt.

Wells had his hands locked around Kennedy's wrist. "A bullet wound will be much worse."

Kennedy stopped thrashing. He could have taken Wells any number of ways. "That's why you came down here?"

"We don't change a thing, and we don't interfere."

"How do we know this isn't how it's supposed to play out?"

"You didn't murder me. You don't kill him."

"Why do you think I came down here?"

"The same reason you haven't left on a lifeboat. To bear witness. To pay penance."

Morgan took in the scene bitterly. It's going to cost us, he thought.

Astor returned, smiling triumphantly. Behind him padded a small wiry dog, its coat dappled in gold and black. The terrier jumped repeatedly at the back of his thigh. He leaned over to scratch behind her cocked ears. "We should probably get going."

"What about the other dogs?" Wells said. "What shall we do?"

"Rules of the sea, old boy." Astor laughed. "Every man-and dog-for himself."

Hurriedly, they moved among the cages, opening them. Within moments the cargo hold was transformed into a menagerie of animals that ran furiously around the room, snatching at portions of food and menacing one another.

They made for the doorway. They had difficulty avoiding the animals underfoot. Astor had his dog tucked up under an arm, the terrier licking excitedly at his face and chin. Morgan held the doorway open and Astor scurried through, pursued by a small horde that raced, barking, into the damp passageway.

Morgan heard a faint mewling sound. Wells stood before him, a small cat in his arms.

"Hurry up," Astor shouted from up the hallway.

Morgan said, "You're out of your mind. Leave it."

Wells shook his head decisively.

"Kill it."

"Gentlemen, I urge you to hurry." Astor's voice was more distant.

Kennedy was nowhere in sight. He still had the gun.

They ran out into the passageway.

Kennedy stood beside Astor at the foot of the winding stair. Water was spilling down in a cascade of icy spray. The dogs, directionless, were milling around their feet.

"Let's go," Astor cried, and began climbing the stairs.

They followed at his heels. The dogs pursued them up the watery stair. At the top they found Astor staring. The crew's quarters were flooded. A wave frothed towards the landing. Beyond, the water surged out towards the corridor's roof. Underlit, it seemed to course with a malign intelligence.

They sloshed their way hurriedly past the iron gate, calf-deep in the freezing water. They forded a path through the swirling debris to the next stairway. The dogs thronged at their knees.

On D deck, the reception area was saturated. A tide of water lapping at the vestibule coaxed wicker furniture down into its maw.

A middle-aged man in a corner of the room was hunched over an open suitcase, picking at the scraps that floated away from his overturned valise. Kennedy called out to him and the man answered with a feral growl. Wells advanced and the man swiped him away with a poorly thrown punch. One of the dogs, a greyhound, bounded forwards and tore at his jacket with snapping jaws. His eyes flashed primordial understanding. He threw the bag aside and ran for the Grand Staircase. They all dashed after him.

Morgan slipped on the stairs, slamming his jaw against hard oak. He scrambled to his feet, with Kennedy dragging him up by the collar. The ship seemed to heave beneath them, shifting violently. He couldn't catch his breath. A knot of muscle in his chest clenched tightly. Springing up onto A deck, he was granted a view of the stairwell below. It wound down into the briny water.

The first-class entrance had been abandoned, save for two men. Guggenheim and his valet. Neither wore a lifebelt. Guggenheim turned to Astor and said, "Goodbye, John." He knelt down to pat the terrier, and offered the rest of them a cursory nod.

Soft music greeted them on the boat deck. Hartley's group had abandoned their spirited ragtime in favour of a waltz. The pack of dogs dispersed along the slanting floor, their yelps only compounding the surreal aspect of the night. The shrieks from distant decks might have been the wind but there was no movement over the ship. The air was a frigid mantle.

Astor turned to face them and said, "My gratitude to you all." He continued to Kennedy, "I believe you would have made it quick, and I'm thankful for that, but I so wanted one more moment with Madeleine, even if it's shared across the water." He drew the terrier into his arms and left them, returning to the railing.

Kennedy's jaw hung slack.

Wells said, "He must have seen you."

There were no lifeboats in sight. Passengers stood quietly in small groups. A few glanced back at them with quick, furtive movements.

Kennedy said. "He's as tied to this as we are."

Wells reached into his pocket and withdrew the scrawny mass of the cat. He presented it to Morgan.

Morgan glanced at Kennedy.

"Patricia likes cats." Kennedy's tone was remote.

Some undertow had already taken hold of them. It curled about in a manifest coda to all their dark nights on this ship. It promised an end, at last, to misery.

Morgan felt it reaching a tendril towards him. He found himself taking a step back.

"Do any cats survive the sinking?" he asked softly.

"It can be our secret," Wells replied.

Morgan reached out and drew the cat away from their dark current. It stirred, warm in his palms.

XXVI.

The band fell silent.

In the ensuing stillness Morgan heard voices joined in prayer. A small gathering on the second-class promenade began singing a hymn.

The stern decks were crammed with steerage passengers and crew. Ahead, the Titanic's bow had yielded to the black ocean. Her rigging jutted out of the rising water, isolated and forfeit. Much further out, the lifeboats coasted beneath the flicker of lantern light; lost stars spread out across the water.

The singers wavered. Individual voices struggled to carry the melody, faltering, until the deep tones of a cello swelled beneath them, bracing their song. The rest of Hartley's band joined in.

"Is that what I think it is?" Kennedy asked.

"Nearer, My God, to Thee," Wells intoned. "That's last call, gentlemen."

Some crewmen were gathered around the officers' quarters. Oars had been arranged beneath the collapsible lifeboats. It looked like they planned on sliding them down onto the deck. Within moments, collapsible A was loose. It crashed down to entrench itself in a portion of the splintered floorboards. Collapsible B dropped next and landed upside down on the port side of the deck.

Wells looked at them and said, "They're going to be our best bet."

"It's going to be a shit fight," Morgan replied.

Captain Smith emerged from the wheelhouse. He had a megaphone pressed to his lips. "Do your best for the women and children, and look out for yourselves." He moved across the deck, repeating the message at regular intervals.

"If you miss out on the lifeboats, get into the water fast," Wells said. "You don't want to be caught on the stern. The crowds will drag you down, if the ship's suction doesn't." He was bent forwards, hands on his knees, as if preparing for a sprint. "The ship's baker has thrown most of the deckchairs overboard. Gather a few together. Stay as dry as you can. It's the cold that will get you, not the water." He turned to them and said, "Good luck."

Kennedy tightened his lifebelt.

Morgan's eyes strayed to the bulge of his holster.