Hymn to the Sea [Ireland]

[England]

9^th April, 1912

Southampton, England

The light was holding on, stretching the last shift of tenders out into the evening. Their greasy motors still coughed and puttered, provisioning for the morning tide. They bobbed in and out of the long, behemoth shadows and tried not to disappear beneath the high black hulls. The SS New York was in port, and even she looked unsettled and small, England thought. Everything but the newest addition rather did.

The RMS Titanic barely seemed to notice her surroundings, and that was well enough. All eyes and minds were upon her, and the boarding houses filled with the cheerful voices of passengers yet to board. Arthur could hear his own people throughout the waterfront, and plenty of America’s. Ireland’s were raucous and clear, fewer of them; most would board at Queenstown, but they were making enough noise to compensate their numbers. It was a fitting toast, since she’d get no other. Arthur would never think it decent, this celebration without ceremony. It wouldn’t have killed them--either of them--to christen her. But then that would have been civilised.

(He drew the watch out of his pocket, checked it once, and dropped it back in. The evening was beautifully mild, anyway. He was not going to get annoyed.)

The Titanic was a blocky thing, of course. American funded and Irish made, he’d expected nothing less. It seemed to him that her deck spanned broad and a little squat, giving her a lumbering weight beneath all her fine gilt. Size alone could not make for majesty, and she would certainly never take the Mauretania’s Blue Riband.

Loyalty satisfied, Arthur spread his hands on the sea wall to watch as every light aboard slowly switched on, rolling along the new, uncertain wires from bow to stern--lighting up a sea that hadn’t quite known it was dark. The reflection was, for a moment, dazzling, and England suppressed a smile.

Whatever her dubious provenance, the RMS Titanic flew the Blue Ensign and Arthur had considered ignoring her with only half a heart. Why Ireland couldn’t wait for Queenstown, however, was beyond him. He’d almost said no--had, in fact, said no the first three times--and now Ireland had the gall to make him wait.

[ireland]

Titanic. The word called to mind images of massive mountains, huge bodies in outer space, the vast expanses of the Pacific Ocean, and the Titans of old that clashed against Greece's mightiest gods. It was not generally associated with something that could float. Ships needed to be lightweight, graceful, docile in appearance while powerful enough to survive the roughest storm. Unfortunately, many vessels that were put to that particular trial by water did not survive.

But the behemoth that loomed before Murph was about to break all previously conceived notions of both 'titanic' things and ships. The biggest vessel in the world...and the only one made to be unsinkable. The largest ship ever made would set sail tomorrow, make her maiden voyage to New York City, and start a whole new chapter in nautical history. Every blueprint after her would contain the sealing compartments should her hull undergo trauma, the water tight technology that would save thousands of lives should something go wrong. Her size alone begged any wave to topple her, even the rouge walls of water that were sometimes found mid-journey. Yes, this was a milestone in ship building, and Murph couldn't be prouder.

His people had been workhorses for England more often than not in his long history, and this was no exception. This was, however, one of the few times he had been more than happy to help Arthur in his endeavors. Irish hands had riveted that hull together, made sure the bones of the beast were strong and steady, worked for hours doing back-breaking labor to make history. And now here it was. History, sitting right in front of him.

At least, that was what he though. Murph kept turning down side alleys, thinking the huge ship was looming just beyond, but every time he reached the waterfront it turned out the Titanic was still off in the distance. He quickened his pace to a jog after a nearby bell tower chimed the time, realizing that he was a half hour late in meeting Arthur by the docks. He usually wouldn't care if he kept the man waiting, but they were both rather excited about the ship being launched in the morning, and it never hurt to have a good time here and their with the other nation.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Murph found the proper dock. He could see Arthur leaning out over the seawall, admiring the staggering beast of a boat before him, and slowed his stride to a walk. A few moments later and he was leaning next to the man as if he had been there the whole forty minutes.

"Would ye lookit that...I bet ol' Alfred's Statue of Libtery is under water with all the displacement she must be makin'," he joked, watching a tiny tugboat trudge along beside the Titanic's hull.

[England]

And had he been anyone else, Arthur might have entertained the idea of believing those forty minutes (well, perhaps ten), caught up as he was. They were hauling very familiar looking kegs up her side, now, full of nostalgia and trouble. But peace or no peace, there would never be a day that England would stand anywhere near a body of water with Ireland behind him and his guard down. He picked up the sound of approach, keeping his gaze idle and his attention sharp.

There were any number of things he could have said when Ireland finally appeared alongside him, foremost among them ”You’re late.” Secondly, “One can only hope.” Humour invited humour, but the laugh would have been at him, not with him. What he said instead was simply, “Patrick.” Arthur would greet him, albeit coolly, since Ireland had apparently left his manners wherever he’d left his watch (if he owned one; if it wasn’t long sold).

Then, since he might as well get it over with, Arthur stood back from the seawall. He’d opted for gloves even in the relative warmth, which were easier to dust the grit from. “She’s certainly satisfactory. I commend you on the miracle."


[[It’s short and I apologise. I am about to go and drown my UEFA sorrows, and posting before I am utterly insensible xx.]]

[ireland]

Murph winced slightly as Arthur addressed him by his first name. There were few things that grated on his nerves and, while Patrick was a decent enough name, he really hated being referred to as anything other than 'Murph'. Arthur knew this, of course, and probably got great joy out of the little jab.

"'Murph', Art'ur, 'Murph'. Ye know Ah don't like bein' called Paddy, Patrick, 'r any of t'e other t'ings ye can get from it." He shook his head to force the rant out of his mind, this neither the time nor the place. They were standing before the most beautiful union of British brilliance and Irish hard work, after all. This was a time for setting aside their many differences and having a drink for the good fortune of the ship.

"Satisfact'ry? Ah'd give 'er a wee bit more'n that," Murph said with a chuckle. "She's t'e finest ship to e'er touch the ocean. Unsinkable! T'e largest vessel known to mankind. That should at least get a 'brilliant' outta ye. Maybe even with a 'bloody' in front."

He grinned as he pushed himself away from the sea wall as well, brushing his hands over his front where he had leaned against the dirty brick. He wasn't sure if they were going to board her or just look at her, but he figured he'd leave it up to Arthur to decide.

[England]

He’d have to be forgiven for watching the phenomenon. Arthur turned away, so the twist to his mouth didn’t ruin his appearance of studious irritation. The Titanic was indeed a unique spectacle, but so was the sight of Ireland mastering his temper. In fact, that was perhaps the definition of a miracle.

"Satisfact'ry? Ah'd give 'er a wee bit more'n that. She's t'e finest ship to e'er touch the ocean. Unsinkable! T'e largest vessel known to mankind. That should at least get a 'brilliant' outta ye. Maybe even with a 'bloody' in front."

Ireland was smiling fit to crack his freckles, and Arthur wasn’t going to be infected by it. His heart had neither started to pick up, nor was he feeling anything other than put upon. He rolled his eyes so that was perfectly clear.

“You’ll get neither if we’re too late to see it,” he warned, with just a touch too little disdain. There was no point admitting to Ireland that he’d already left nothing to chance. Taking one of the tenders would have been convenient, but what was the point of being the world’s foremost maritime power if he couldn’t alleviate a ship of her long boat every now and then?

Behind him, somewhere up the street, the volume of singing got suddenly louder with the splinter and crack of someone’s poor window, and that more than decided it. There was something about Ireland’s proximity (not him, of course, never him) that inebriated the very air for a half-mile radius. In ten minutes every pub in Southampton with an Irishman in it (which was to say, every pub in Southampton) would be in a fine raucous, in fine spirits, and probably head first in the casket.

For once, England could honestly say he didn’t envy them.

Ireland would follow or he wouldn't, but England had already started off down the cobbled path leading to the quay. Lights were being lit behind the foggy windows above, the comfortable diffusion of old gas lamps strung out along the promenade beginning their slow flickering into life. The new-fangled electricity starting to creep through London had yet to reach beyond it, though it had made a daring leap onto the ocean today. Arthur could remember this town since Clausentum, its Roman ships a distant blur in his memory. The old fort walls had long since been supplanted by the Norman, by his own wars and centuries, but he thought he saw a stone or ten lying innocently in the quay defences that still carried the handprint of a time before him.

The Titanic was swiftly starting to loom over them rather than under them, and as the jolly boat bobbed into view Arthur surreptitiously avoided Ireland’s eye.