“It was unbelievable … they got us fore and aft….” The young man's eyes were wild and glazed, his face a mass of charred flesh, and Liane had to fight back tears as she listened to him and murmured softly.
“It's all right now … you're all right …”It was what she would have said to the girls if they'd been hurt, and she found herself holding him tenderly as the doctors worked over him. The next thing she knew, she was watching them in surgery and Nick was outside. And when one doctor was through, he asked her to stay as he applied salves to burns and tended wounds and amputated one hand. It was a night they knew they would never forget.
And at six o'clock the next morning, the doctors sat down for an instant and looked at someone's notes. There were 204 survivors of the Queen Victoria on board, and there was no further sign of life outside. Hundreds of charred bodies had floated past, and a lifeboat of walking wounded had come on board half an hour before with only minimal wounds. They had been taken to one of the vacated cabins that had been prepared. There were twelve and fourteen men to a cabin now, in hammocks hung side by side, on beds, and on sleeping rolls on floors. The dining room still looked like an infirmary, and everywhere was the smell of burned flesh. They had been covered with tar and oil as they came on board. Washing the wounds had been the worst of it, and that fell to Liane as the doctors observed her gentle hands, but now as she sat beside them, she knew that she could not do one more. Her entire body ached, her neck, her arms, her head, her back, and yet if they had brought one more in, she would have stood up again, as they all would. The passengers of the Deauville wandered slowly inside now. They had done what they could and done it well, and many of the survivors of the Queen Victoria would live because of what they'd done.
For many of the men who had formed teams on the deck, it was their first real taste of war. For the doctors, the work was not yet done, and already there had been volunteers to work in shifts who would nurse the survivors until they reached New York, but the worst was over. And silently, on deck, they watched the Queen Victoria sink at eight o'clock, belching horribly as she went, plumes of steam shooting into the sky, and the captain and crew scanned the sea for two hours afterward. There was not a single soul left, only the dead floating horribly amidst the gentle waves. Already nine of the survivors of the night before had died, reducing the survivors aboard to 195, all of them housed in the cabins the passengers had given up. The passengers would sleep now with the crew, in hammocks or on sleeping rolls, their luggage shoved under beds or out in the halls. The only exception in the midst of the chaos was to have been Liane and the girls, but she had insisted that their cabin be used too. And at 4:00 A.M. she had hastened briefly downstairs with one of the crew, to carry the girls to the quarters of the first mate. He would sleep in the captain's cabin for the remainder of the trip, and the two girls were to sleep in the first mate's narrow single bed.
“Et vous, madame?” The crew member had looked at her with awe, she had worked all night like Florence Nightingale, but she shrugged quickly.
“I can sleep on the floor.” And then she had hurried back to the doctors in the dining room, the hands to hold, the wounds to clean, the limbs to set. The sounds of sheets being torn into bandages, of groaning men, became as monotonous as the sounds of the sea, hour after hour. But as the Queen Victoria sank, there was no sound on the deck. And moments later the captain spoke to them all on his bullhorn.
“Je vous remercie tous … I thank you all…. You have performed the impossible tonight … and if it seems that so few have lived, remember that nearly two hundred more would have died, without your help.” They had learned that thirty-nine hundred men had died on the ship.
The passengers and crew worked in shifts, attempting to keep the survivors they had fought so hard to hold on to alive and stave off infections that would cost them limbs and lives. There were men so fever ridden that they were delirious but only two more had died, and many of the problems were under control. The doctors were ready to drop as the trip wore on, as was Liane, but they were still less than halfway there. They had lost more than a day in assisting the men from the Canadian ship, and their zigzag course cost them still more time, but the captain was even more cautious about encountering the Germans now as they made their way to the States.
It was only on the second day after the rescue that Liane was persuaded to go to the first mate's cabin, and there she fell into bed. The girls were somewhere on the ship, crew members had taken them in charge and she knew that they had spent much of their time on the bridge. But she could barely think of that now as she lay down on the narrow bed, and it felt as though she hadn't slept in years as she fell into a deep black pit and slept. And when she woke, the blackout was in force again and the ship was dark. She heard a soft scuffling sound somewhere in the room and sat up in the unfamiliar bed, wondering where she was, and then she heard a familiar voice.
“Are you okay?” It was Nick, and as he approached the bed she could just make out his face, from the moonlight that snuck in through the corners of the windows around the black paint. “You've been asleep for sixteen hours.”
“My God.” She shook her head trying to wake up. She was still wearing the same filthy clothes she had worn for two days, but he looked even worse. “How are the men?”
“Some of them are better.”
“Have we lost any more?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Hopefully we won't and they'll hang in until they get to shore. A few of them are walking around the ship.” But he was more concerned now with her. She had been amazing in the makeshift operating room. He had seen her each time he had brought another man in. “Do you want something to eat? I brought you a sandwich and a bottle of wine.” But the thought of food made her feel ill. She shook her head and sat up in the bed, patting it for him to sit down.
“I couldn't eat. What about you? Have you had any sleep?”
“Enough.” She saw him smile, and she took a deep breath. What an incredible experience to live through.
“Where are the girls?”
“Asleep in my hammock upstairs on the deck. They're safe there and the officer on watch is keeping an eye on them. They're all wrapped up in blankets. I didn't want them coming down here to wake you.” And then, “Come on, Liane, I want you to eat.” They were all living on reduced rations now with more than three times as many people on board than before the rescue, but the cook was working miracles and everyone was still being fed. The coffee and whiskey were holding out, miraculously, and there was enough for all. He handed her the sandwich then and uncorked the half-full bottle of wine. He pulled a cup from the pocket of the borrowed jacket he wore and poured her some.
“Nick, I can't … I'd throw up.”
“Drink it anyway. But eat the sandwich first.” She took a tentative bite, and felt her stomach contract at the shock of food, but after an initial wave of nausea, she had to admit that it tasted good, as did the first sip of wine. She handed him the cup then and he took a sip too.
“I should get up and see what I can do to help.”