Page 70 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘May your bastard souls rot in hell!’ screamed Sister Euphemia.

‘Lily-livered curs!’ cried someone else. ‘Hope yer bollocks fall off.’

Above, men were climbing the rigging, dangling from the crosstrees, shouting like maniacs.

Somehow, Irving, Mrs Simpson, the sister and I ended up in one of the lifeboats, but not before one man tried to wrench Mrs Simpson away. Without thinking, I turned and punched him fair in the face. He staggered back, blood sprayed across his cheek.

‘Oh thank you, Mrs Stoker, thank you,’ wept Mrs Simpson as she fell into the boat.

Overcrowded, filled with crying women and children, we clung to the sides as we were tossed in the frigid waves, able to see only a few feet in front. Sobs and shouts from the other boats and the sinking steamship were dulled by the opaque fog. When it occasionally parted, we saw, not too far away, the first lifeboat sinking, overfilled with clawing, struggling men. Gunshots rent the air as desperate fellows, not knowing how to signal their distress, fired meaninglessly into the ether. I wanted to throw myself over Irving lest a stray bullet catch him, but once in the lifeboat we’d been separated and ordered not to budge. He sat in the stern, jammed between two portly women.

Whether it was luck or fate, the crew on our lifeboat worked fast to pull us away from the vortex of the sinking ship. We were packed so tightly against each other, I couldn’t move. One of the seamen swore we weren’t far from Dieppe. Another mentioned Fécamp. We’d been rowing a short while when we saw a young girl clutching an oar. An old man clung precariously to a piece of flotsam nearby.

‘Look! Look!’ I cried as we were about to row right past them. ‘We must save them.’

There was some mumbling from the crew. ‘We can only take one,’ said the senior crew member, a man in his forties, with a dark beard and small bleak eyes.

I began to object.

‘Listen,’ said the sailor, his voice sharp, ‘if we take them both, we’ll sink for sure. Then we’ll all drown.’

The sailor looked at each of us in turn. I turned away. The young girl, weeping and whimpering, was pulled on board.

‘For the love of God, surely we can take one more soul,’ pleaded Sister Euphemia.

The lifeboat was foundering badly, taking on more water.

The crew members ignored her. Irving began to cry. Silently, with tears rolling down my cheeks, nursing my torn knuckles, I prayed for God’s forgiveness as the old man’s anguished cries followed us before they too ceased.

Time passed. No-one spoke.

Eventually, the fog began to thin, the moon was waning and dawn approached. The beam of a lighthouse spun across the waters. Under instruction from the senior crewman, we held up our sodden handkerchiefs, stark against the darkness as a signal, but they were not up to the task and slapped limply in the faint breeze. In the distance, I could just see the tops of white chalky cliffs, the twinkle of lights from tiny villages, safe and secure. I wished us there so badly, willed God to rescue us from the waves breaking over us, the biting cold, the rocking lifeboat, the wailing of the women, the sour smell of vomit, the uncertainty of it all.

God was listening. Seven hours after the Victoria sank, another steamship found us. They brought us on board and made straight for the port of Fécamp.

To be on land again, to know that Irving was safe, that I was too, and Mrs Simpson, was a miracle. Had God ignored or answered Sister Euphemia’s prayers? I couldn’t help but think of the figure I’d seen, the man I believed signalled my Doom. I’d held him responsible for this catastrophe, persuaded he was the harbinger of death. Only, I hadn’t died, had I? On the contrary, being on the stairs instead of in the box room when the ship foundered saved my life.

When we reached the end of the pier, Sister Euphemia knelt upon the rocky shore, offering prayers to the Almighty. Others from the lifeboat joined her. I pulled Irving into my arms and gave my thanks as well. My dress was torn and trailing, my forehead cut, my knuckles grazed, my hair undone and clinging to my shoulders and waist.

That’s where locals from the port authority and the biggest inn found us as they came with warm blankets, spirit and food. Many survivors refused to leave the shore, desperate to hear news of their relatives and companions. Names were exchanged. I remember a Miss Holt, who played a game with Irving to keep his mind off what had happened, a family called Jess, a Mrs Warlett. There were folk from Vienna, some from Constantinople. Four were the steamship’s crew and it was due to them and their strength, their impossible decisions, I swear, that we survived.

Later, we learned that all but two of the men on the first lifeboat drowned. A young married couple were also lost to the waves, along with the captain’s cousin who had spoken so grandly on the deck. Some children, caught in the forecabin as the ship sank, never made it out. My heart broke at that news. Altogether, of the one hundred or so souls who boarded, some twenty died, crew among them. There was great bravery that night and terrible, shameful cowardice.

I waited until Irving and Mrs Simpson were taken to the inn at Fécamp and tucked up before a fire, dozing, then sent a telegram telling Bram we’d survived. Reports of this disaster would travel faster than good news, and I just hoped that if information about the sinking of the Victoria reached Bram first, he wouldn’t be in agonies of doubt for long.

The following day, my trunk was found. It was returned with the lock broken, half the linen stolen and everything of value gone, even the money I’d hidden in my corset. We made do with what we could, and the generosity of the locals and the other survivors would remain with me forever.

Over the next two days, loved ones arrived to retrieve those who’d survived. So did the authorities and the press, both wanting to interview those involved. Mrs Simpson’s brother came to fetch her. With each passing hour, the number remaining at the port dwindled. We watched as they were taken away, thanking God, the ship’s crew, the kindness of the people of Fécamp.

Still Bram didn’t come.

I silently seethed at Henry, blaming him for refusing to release Bram from his duties. Added to this was fury that my husband, Irving’s father, could be so callous, so indifferent to our ordeal. That yet again, he chose Henry. The hate I’d battled to overcome bubbled to the surface again. I could no longer live with it or the man who aroused it.

When I finally saw his tall figure disembarking from a steamship, I thought at first he too was an apparition. He drew closer and, upon spotting me, broke into a run. I flew down the street, uncaring of the stares and smiles, Irving behind me. Locals cried out in joy, ‘Belle dame! Belle dame!’ All I could think of was Keats’s poem, and thanked God I’d been shown mercy.

We stopped, feet apart, Bram and I, staring at each other, both panting. Irving, sensing something awry, halted behind me.

‘Where have you been?’ I demanded, shattered and fed up. My fury was a shield that forced him to drop his arms. ‘I sent telegrams.’