#Thomas Andrews Shipbuilder

[sectumsempra4enemies]

Februrary 7

Today, 151 years ago in 1873, a very special human being was born in Comber, Northern Ireland. He was kind, intelligent, diligent and a true hero until the bitter end, sacrificing his life for the safety of others. He was an extraordinary shipbuilder, loving husband and father with a promising future ahead of him. His short but meaningful life ended when he was just 39 years old, but today we will remember and celebrate this beautiful man and think of all the wonderful things he has done. The world would be a better place if there were more men like him.

Happy birthday to the one and only:

Thomas Andrews

You are still loved and will never be forgotten.

[austerulous]

Just been to see Titanic in the cinema and it’s just as emotionally devastating all these years later. The elderly couple cuddling in bed as their room floods? The mother tucking in her children and telling them a story of Tír na nÓg? Fucks me up every time. 😭 I’m going to sleep off a headache and hopefully I’ll be around more tomorrow. Mwah. ♡

[h0lygh0stlings]

Quick everyone the mods r asleep ! Post the Thomas Andrews thoughts rn

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 5: Ruby]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.5k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

Scarlet dusk spills over the pine planks of the deck like rising water. Sweet little Madeleine Astor invites you to attend dinner with her party—perhaps there is gossip that you and Daemon have had some sort of a row—but you have other plans. As the rest of the first-class passengers descend the Grand Staircase to the dining room on D-Deck, you make your way eastward towards the stern. You pass shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, who is ambling along with a group of chuckling, pipe-puffing gentlemen including J. Bruce Ismay and Benjamin Guggenheim. Mr. Andrews is mentioning the iceberg warnings that the captain has received from nearby vessels today; the other men are agreeing that Captain Smith is right to not be concerned. On a night as calm and cloudless as this one, surely an iceberg would be spotted by the lookouts with more than enough time to steer the ship to safety.

Aegon is waiting by the steel railing of the stern, stolen black coat, face glowing in fading daylight the color of sunstone, a crystal mined in Oregon. His scuffed brown leather portfolio and a folded easel are tucked under one arm; in his fist is clutched the handle of a small wooden box, which must contain his painting supplies.

“So,” he says, smiling when he sees you’ve accepted his offer, this final kindness before you are torn away from each other when Titanic docks in New York Harbor. “Where should we set up our studio? It can’t be in my cabin. One of my roommates is currently fornicating with a Russian girl. She seems nice. I hope she isn’t burdened with his bastard child.”

“You don’t think we should join them?”

He laughs. “Maybe I’m not ready to share you.”

“You’re not living up to your reputation, prodigal son. I had heard you were an irredeemable miscreant.” Then you turn to leave, and Aegon follows you.

You stop first at the Café Parisien on B-Deck, which is mostly deserted; it’s very cold outside, approaching freezing temperatures as the sun sinks below the bloodied horizon, and the heaters don’t work especially well in the restaurant. You purchase several different sandwiches and a chocolate croissant. No cash exchanges hands, which is good because you don’t ever have any; the stewards there recognize you and will add the charge to your illustrious husband’s bill, to be paid before passengers disembark on either April 16th or 17th, depending on how quickly Titanic arrives at her destination.

Daemon and Rhaenyra will be in the First-Class Dining Saloon for the next several hours, and thereafter will almost certainly steal away into her rooms to commit their incestuous adultery. Rush is eternally prowling nearby in case Daemon finds himself in need of anything: a drink, a gun, a troublesome wife shoved over a railing. Per her nightly tradition, Dagmar has taken Draco to the Verandah Café, which in addition to being a more casual eatery has become a sort of playroom for first-class children. And so in your staterooms, only Fern is present, finishing up some dusting before she journeys down to C-Deck to enjoy dinner in the Maids and Valets Saloon. From above the fireplace, the taxidermied tiger head watches you with eerily still gemstone eyes, a dispassionate witness to your treason.

“Hello, ma’am,” Fern says when you enter. “Can I make you a cup of tea before I go?” Then she sees Aegon walk in behind you with all his equipment, and she blinks, bewildered. “Good evening, sir. Did we meet on the Boat Deck this morning…?”

“We did,” Aegon replies a bit sheepishly. Fern looks at you, seeking an explanation.

“I need a favor,” you tell her.

“Of course, ma’am. Anything.” But Fern’s large dark eyes shift skittishly between you and Aegon.

You give her the paper bag heavy with treats from Café Parisien. “I’ve brought you dinner. I wasn’t sure what kind of sandwich you’d prefer, so there’s ham and Gruyère, tomato and chèvre, and pâté and cornichon. Eat whichever you like, or all three, it doesn’t matter. Oh, and there’s a chocolate croissant as well, nice and flakey and shining with butter. It’s absolutely massive.”

“That’s very kind, ma’am,” Fern says. She’s touched, but she’s still puzzled.

“Fern, I’m asking you to stay here in the sitting room. It doesn’t matter what you do, but don’t fall asleep, and for God’s sake don’t leave to go outside, not even for a moment.”

“Alright,” she agrees cautiously.

“I don’t think they’ll be back for a few hours, but if somebody does walk through that door—Daemon, Dagmar, anyone—all I need you to do is offer to make them tea, as you would on any other night. And offer loudly.” This will alert you to the intruder and give you more than enough time to get Aegon out onto the private deck, from which he can access the hallways of B-Deck and the Grand Staircase.

Fern understands. She nods, studying Aegon thoughtfully. “Yes ma’am.”

“And I didn’t have any visitors.” Your voice is grave; it is not only your reputation at risk. It’s your life.

Fern feigns shock. “Of course not. I haven’t seen a soul.”

You touch a palm to her shoulder, fleeting and gentle. “Thank you, Fern.”

“It’s no trouble at all, ma’am,” she says, and then goes to the small circular table and begins to unwrap one of the sandwiches from Café Parisien.

As soon as you and Aegon are inside your bedroom, you push Daemon’s writing desk in front of the door, precious extra seconds bought in the unlikely event that your husband returns and Fern can’t slow him down. Aegon immediately begins setting up: placing his easel, clipping a piece of fresh linen-like parchment from his portfolio to it, and removing a palette, brushes, and tiny tin tubes of oil paint from his wooden box. He turns off all of the lamps except one, then glances at the unlit white candles on the dresser and the nightstand. Before he can say anything, you take his aluminum lighter from your handbag and light the wicks.

“Can I do anything else to help?” you ask.

“Yeah.” Aegon nods to your spacious walk-in closet, where the door is hanging ajar. It’s nearly as large as his entire third-class cabin. He shrugs off his black wool coat; beneath it he is wearing only a white button-up shirt and dark green corduroy trousers. “Get dressed. Put on something you feel like you look especially good in.”

You gaze blankly at the closet, then turn back to him. “I don’t think I look good in anything.”

“Well now I’m going to make you watch.” He smirks at you, mischievous, teasing, then drops to his knees to squirt beads of paint onto his stained palette: golden like the lamplight, a rich dark brown like the walnut wood of the bedposts.

“How would you possibly accomplish that?”

“You have a mirror.” He points to it with a paintbrush, the oval-shaped pool of silver standing upright by the bed.

You gape at it, mortified. “No, I couldn’t possibly stare at myself the whole time.”

“Sure you could.” Aegon goes to the mirror and adjusts it until it is filled with your reflection. “Not too bad, right?”

“I suppose,” you murmur, but you have already fled to the closet. As Aegon swirls colors together on his palette, searching for the perfect shades, you sift through your collection of jewel-toned fabrics: lace, cotton, velvet, wool. You think again of the dusk light that turned the decks and waves to rubies, and your eyes catch on a red silk robe: purchased only a month ago, never worn yet, no memories of Daemon or anybody else, a new age like sunset or dawn. You take off your green gown and remove the emeralds from your ears, then don the crimson-colored robe and return to the bedroom to meet Aegon, silk flowing behind you like a riptide, the rustling of your legs beneath the fabric.

Aegon is scrabbling around by the foot of the bed, smoothing out any bumps in the Turkish rug, straightening the white ruffled bed skirt that hangs down to the floor. He peers up at you and freezes, his fretful fingers going still.

You ask tentavively: “Is this okay?”

He chuckles. “Okay is one word for it. Come over here.”

You go to Aegon and he takes your hands, both of them, and draws you down onto the floor where he is. You sit with your legs bent and tucked to the right, as if you’re a mermaid, your tail the color of blood instead of cool rippling depths. Aegon arranges the hem of your robe—he wants your bare feet showing, the silk rumpled in some spots and smooth in others—then retreats and stands back to study you, chewing the corner of his full bottom lip, his hands on his waist.

“Can I take your hair down?”

“Sure,” you say, but when he touches you—even a graze, even a whisper—you have to stop yourself from startling a bit, from reaching out to grab his wrist and keep him close.

“I can paint from memory,” Aegon tells you as he works, perhaps filling the quiet to soothe your nerves. “But it always turns out better if I have the person in front of me.”

“I’ll try to stay still.”

“You can move around if you have to,” he assures you. “I’d rather have you comfortable. I know you’re not a statue.”

“Right.” You smile. “I’m a rock.”

Aegon laughs and places your left hand on the bedpost as if you are clinging to it. “The best rock. Now let’s see you glimmer.” He goes to the mirror and repositions it one final time, angling it downwards slightly so you are in the center of the glass oval. From behind you on the dresser, flickering dots of candlelight glow like stars. You instinctively avert your eyes from your reflection, but Aegon is insistent. Gingerly, he turns your head back towards the mirror before striding over to his easel.

You do not want to watch yourself, so you watch Aegon instead, his doppelganger reversed in the glass. He’s mixing paint on his palette, repeatedly glancing at your robe to make sure he’s made the correct shade of red. He’s absentmindedly tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear. And you cannot stop staring at his hands: the way he holds a paintbrush, the bumps of his knuckles. He is not a man who has ever pillaged or bruised but only created pinpoints of light that gleam through the darkness, music and art and laughter, the gems of human existence. He is far from home, just like you are. His bones are the bars of a prison; you have married into the same one, created new life with it, melded your bloodlines together like forged metal.

Now Aegon is back, his reflection kneeling behind yours, and he begins to reach for your waist before he stops himself. “Is it alright if I…?”

“Of course. However you want me.”

The Aegon that lives in the silver sheen of the mirror settles his hands lightly just below your ribcage. He turns you just barely towards the mirror, only an inch away from where you were before, but he is precise, he is careful. This is the last image he’ll ever capture of you.

The warmth of him against you, his weight, his wonder as he gazes at your reflection with eyes like deep water; your breath catches, and at first he fears he has crossed a line and removes his hands. But your fingers are—slowly, like a suggestion that someone could so easily pretend not to have noticed—pulling up the hem of your silk robe, to just above your ankles, to your calves, to your bent knees. Aegon’s right hand covers yours, and then—as your eyes lock in the mirror—skates up the inside of your thighs as you part them, displacing the vivid red of your robe, revealing yourself in the glass, and so you can see it as he touches you, not like he owns or commands or uses you but like he is here to chisel you free from the perpetual darkness of the mine you’ve been trapped in for millennia.

You gasp in desperate, disbelieving relief, shaking all over, and you move to kiss him; but Aegon catches your face in his other hand and turns you back to the mirror. “No,” he whispers. “Watch.” And then he presses his lips to the apple of your cheek and lingers there for a moment, tasting you, breathing you in like you’re water filling the lungs of a drowning man.

“Aegon…”

“I want you to see how beautiful you are. I want you to see what I’ve been dying to do to you.”

His right hand is still between your legs, his fingers circling, a whirlpool that drags you down like an anchor until you hit the seafloor, an ocean not of pressure and cold but bright, yearning warmth, golden lamplight and flickering candles. You reach back to touch Aegon’s face—the stubble of his short beard, the sand-colored strands of his hair—but still he keeps your gaze fixed on your reflection. Now you are unashamed in a way you haven’t been since before your wedding night five years ago, just about the same time Aegon was leaving home. The proof is indelible, inking itself into your memory like a painter’s signature: you are desired, you are loved.

“Thank you,” you moan, so low it’s almost inaudible. You’re close. You’re very, very close. “Oh my God, Aegon, thank you…”

“Shh.” He kisses the side of your face, his eyes on the mirror, transfixed. “Show me.”

It’s a beam of sunlight refracted and scattered by a ruby; it’s a scalding torrent of blood that crashes through a web of arteries all the way to the heart. And when—still shuddering, still fighting for air—you pull away from Aegon’s grasp, he lets you go without any resistance.

You roll onto the floor and drag him on top of you by his shirt, struggling with trembling fingers to untangle the tie of your robe until Aegon realizes what you’re trying to do and helps you. He opens the blood-red silk and tastes the salt blooming on your belly, your breasts, your throat where your pulse is thudding drunk and maroon in your carotid. It’s better than cider or champagne or beer or nicotine; he is not a poison but a cure. He is unbuttoning his shirt and his trousers, hurried famished need. He is inside of you, and he is kissing you deeply, your palms on his flushed face, your hips moving with his. You steal a glimpse of the silver-moonlight mirror, and there you both are: lost and far from home, shipwrecked on the same island, castaways and wave crests and mirages. In the end, you know you have not disappointed him. His lungs are breathless and his eyes wet, his muscles just as spent and useless as yours. Neither of you are lost anymore. You have found each other here in the gloomy depths.

Almost immediately, Aegon forces himself off of you and crawls towards his easel, at last staggering to his feet. He grabs his palette and a brush and begins working with frenetic strokes, his damp hair falling in his face, his brow knit with concentration. You don’t have to ask what he’s doing. He’s trying to paint you before the memory begins to fade. He works in thin layers, just enough to cover the white of the parchment. His visions are soft and fragile like dreams, things that can be blown away and forgotten. From where you’re still lying on the floor, you gaze up at Aegon as he paints.

Is it possible that I’m in love with him? Is it possible that after this voyage I’ll never see him again?

You have no sense of how much time has passed when he finally looks over at you and says: “I think it’s done.”

You stand and wander across the bedroom, your red robe still open and hanging loosely from you like flayed skin. On the paper you find two faces instead of one, you in a golden haze of ecstasy no one else can see the cause of, Aegon whispering as your fingertips reach back for him.

He has written in black in the bottom right corner of the painting: Petra and Picasso.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon doesn’t want to move it yet. The oil paint needs hours to dry, and he’s worried that if he takes it outside while it’s still wet, the wind screaming down from the Arctic might be cold enough to make the paint freeze and chip away, and the momentary lust-red magic he’s captured will be gone. So with the new painting still clipped to it, you hide Aegon’s folded easel, the leather portfolio, and the wooden box of supplies under your bed, concealed by the white ruffled bed skirt. You both take turns cleaning up in the bathroom—someone always listening for the noise of an unwelcome interloper—and Aegon shimmies back into his clothes while you change into a blue dress, velvet for warmth, pale like ice.

“Where can we go?” you ask Aegon as you put on a coat, heavy white wool. I don’t want to say goodbye to you yet.

He must feel the same way. He pushes Daemon’s writing desk back to its original place, unblocking the door. Then Aegon offers his hand and you take it.

You walk together into the sitting room. Fern looks up from where she’s perched on the sofa and sewing closed a rip in the sleeve of one of Dagmar’s charcoal-colored dresses, her eye wide.

“Thank you, Fern,” you say, calm and drowsy. “That will be all for tonight.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“How can I repay you?” You don’t have your own money, your own land; even the jewels in your collection belong to Daemon. You’d give them all up if they could buy your freedom. You’d let them sink into the dark cold North Atlantic Ocean, emeralds and rubies and sapphires. Randomly, you think of Daemon’s gemstone-studded dagger, the hilt glinting with gold.

Fern replies: “Never send me away to live with people who don’t bring me chocolate croissants.”

You dash to the sofa and hug her; Fern is stunned but accepts your embrace, warily patting your back as if the bones beneath might be porcelain or glass. Then you clasp Aegon’s hand again and vanish with him into the hallway.

Most of the men are still at dinner or have moved to the First-Class Smoking Room, the women are still gossiping and sipping their champagne, and so you and Aegon slip through the heated corridors like sharks in warm currents. He leads you towards the stern, to the section of the ship reserved for his chosen people, then down to F-Deck and the Third-Class Dining Saloon. They are just beginning to move the tables out of the way for dancing. You find a quiet corner of the room and take off your coats, then Aegon disappears for a moment and returns with a tray: two plates full of corned beef, cabbage, carrots, and potatoes, two bowls of plum pudding, two cups of tea, a dark bitter pint of Guinness for you. You can feel your face light up when you see Irish food.

“You’re lucky you weren’t down here for breakfast,” Aegon tells you. “We had fried tripe and onions.”

“Oh, awful,” you say, laughing. You take a bite of corned beef and close your eyes, thinking of Saint Patrick’s Day with your family each year, always a cold wet day in March, green hills and grey mist. When you open your eyes, Aegon is smiling.

“A little taste of Ireland.” Now he is wistful. Across the room, the musicians Aegon sometimes plays with have climbed on top of a table and are performing My Wild Irish Rose as couples whirl around the floor. “I’ll miss it. I love the music and the people. Perhaps one in particular.”

“What are you going to do when you get home?”

“I’m going to tell Aemond he has to teach me how to be a duke,” Aegon says casually as he eats. “I can’t really give it up, unfortunately. The title belongs to the Crown, not my family. It can be taken away any time the king decides he wants to. And he’s a strict one, George V. He’s humorless, he’s harsh. If I refuse my inheritance, I can’t just pass it along to Aemond, not unless the king agrees. But the way I am…my failings, my lack of restraint…it makes my bloodline look like bad stock, doesn’t it? Especially with all that eugenics bullshit floating around. I don’t want my mother and siblings to lose everything because of me. My mother has spent her entire life miserable, I figure she should have something to show for it.”

The Hightower branch of the family are phantoms to you. You know them only from newspaper articles and erratic gossip and sneering remarks muttered by your husband. You take a swig of your Guinness, and for the first time in as long as you can remember you don’t feel like you want to have another. You don’t want to take the jagged edges off this moment, hidden below deck with Aegon for what is almost certainly the last time. You don’t want to forget anything about him. “What’s Aemond like?”

“Superior to me in every way,” Aegon says. “Disciplined. Clever. Very tall.”

“I myself favor short, delinquent artists. Those tall clever dragons are nothing but trouble.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “I’m not a real artist.”

“Sure you are. You’re Picasso.”

He’s watching you with murky blue eyes, dazed and marveling. “What are you going to do when you’re back in Ireland?”

It’s a fantasy, a folktale. I’ll never see Ireland again. “I’m going to help take care of my father. He’s…he’s not well, and he hasn’t been for a long time. His memory is failing. I want to make his last years as painless as possible. I want to spent time with my mother again, I want to go on walks and sit in the garden and read books and paint our ugly little pictures. We used to play this game where we’d each paint an animal and then have the other guess what it is. It once took her twelve tries before she realized my grey blob was supposed to be a basking shark. I saw one washed up on the shore when I was little.”

Aegon is smiling. “I could teach you how to paint.”

“Yes,” you say softly, knowing it will never happen.

“You could teach me what it’s like to have nice parents.”

“They’d adore that. They always wanted more children.” You are distracted, gazing into your Guinness, flecks of foam like constellations in a night sky. “I want to make sure Draco grows up to be a good man. I want him to be kind and gentle.” You look to Aegon, the thought suddenly leaping into your mind like a cat onto a windowsill. “Like you.”

Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like me? No, Petra. You don’t want that. I was a demon.”

“And yet you turned out fine in the end.”

“I turned out weak,” he says, abruptly severe. He drags his fingers through his disheveled hair, staring forlornly at the white wall behind you. “I wanted to help you but I can’t. I followed you from Galway to Cork, to the first-class decks, to your staterooms, and now…now when we dock in New York you’re going to get dragged off to wherever Daemon wants you to be and…and there’s just nothing I can do about it.”

“You’ve helped me,” you insist. “But now you’re too far away.”

Aegon comes over to your side of the table and drapes an arm across the back of your chair, and you lean into him, and together you watch the couples dancing to cheerful Irish music. Below your feet the engines are humming, and outside the waves are crashing against the hull of the ship, and up on B-Deck Daemon is probably crawling like a spider into Rhaenyra’s bed, and Laenor is consorting with his new Parisien companions, and Dagmar is reading some Scandinavian story to Draco before he falls asleep, and husbands are dulling their worries with brandy and cigars, and wives are distracting themselves with gossip about other women’s lives.

You don’t want to leave, not even as the passengers here in the Third-Class Dining Saloon begin to clear out and those left are so drunk they can hardly keep themselves upright, stumbling into tables and chairs and howling uproariously. Aegon doesn’t want to leave either. Now his arms have circled around your waist, and he’s nuzzling at your throat and the curve of your jaw, and you’re trying not to notice the weight of your black opal engagement ring on your left hand so you can forget the life you’ll have to go back to tomorrow.

I want him again, you think hazily. Where can we go? Where on earth can we go?

There is a sudden jolt, a deafening grinding sound, a tremor that shakes through the steel latticework of the ship. The few remaining dancers shout and cling to their partners. Pints of beer are knocked from tables and spill across the floor. Plates clatter and lightweight wooden chairs slide away.

“What the fuck was that?” a drunk man slurs, but then he and his friends begin to laugh about it, pounding on each other’s backs. You turn to Aegon. He’s not laughing. His eyes are large and darting around.

“Aegon, the ship is fine, right?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, but he’s standing and passing you your white wool coat. “Come on. Let’s go up to a higher deck to see what’s happened.”

You picture the lifeboats that you have strolled past so many times, not nearly enough space for all the passengers, only the lucky half, the richest half. “The ship can’t sink, can it? That’s what everyone’s been telling me since we boarded, and I didn’t believe them because of course any ship can sink, but…Aegon…”

“It’s probably just a problem with one of the boilers or a propeller or something,” he says as he pulls on his black coat, stolen just like the way he’s stolen you tonight. But he doesn’t walk to the hallway and up the nearest staircase; he damn near sprints, dragging you along with him.

Outside the night sky is black and full of stars, bitterly cold, no wind. You emerge near the bow of the ship, and third-class passengers are kicking around chunks of ice as if they are playing Gaelic football. Aegon spins around, searching for the source of the ice.

“Ehi, amico! Did you see it?” an Italian man calls to Aegon. Aegon trots over to join him. You look down at the pine planks under your shoes. Is the ship listing towards the starboard side, or is that your imagination?

“No, what happened?” Aegon is asking the Italian. You can hear voices from the other decks, less alarmed than curious, people rattled awake, stewards helping to retrieve items that have rolled away.

“Iceberg, a huge one! We just went right past it! Pieces broke off and fell everywhere. We don’t have nothing like this in Napoli!”

“An iceberg?” Aegon echoes, stunned. He goes to the railing and leans over to squint out into the blackness. “Did we hit it?”

“We bumped it a little, I think,” the Italian says, unconcerned. Then he returns to the game, kicking a block of ice when it glides over to him.

“Look,” you say to Aegon when he returns to you, pointing skyward. Up in the crow’s nest, you can just barely hear the lookouts shouting back and forth. You cannot decipher their words, but they sound agitated. They sound afraid.

“Hit an iceberg,” Aegon murmurs, trying to make sense of it. “But that’s not serious, right? No one’s running for the lifeboats, no one’s talking about leaks or anything—”

“Aegon, does the ship seem like it’s listing to you?”

He peers down at the deck, shifts his weight from foot to foot. He doesn’t have to answer. When he looks up at you again, his blue eyes are panic-stricken.

“I have to find the shipbuilder Mr. Andrews,” you say. “He’ll have investigated, he’ll know how bad the damage is.”

“I’m going with you.”

I don’t know where my jailers are: Daemon, Dagmar, Rush, Rhaenyra. “You shouldn’t be in my section of the ship.”

“If something really is wrong, they’ll be the first people to know,” Aegon says. That’s cruel, but it’s true. First-class lives are worth more than his.

You fly up the steps to A-Deck, where on the Promenade Deck men in black suits are chuckling about the ruckus as they puff on pipes and cigars, and women in beaded evening gowns are pressing their soft pampered hands to their chests as they recall the shock of the earthquake-like shudder that rattled Titanic. Stewards are flitting around fetching tea and pillows. No one is talking about lifeboats or sinking, which you take to be a good sign; but you can’t find Thomas Andrews.

When you and Aegon have at last circled back to the bow of the ship, you spot a group of men walking swiftly into the glass box of the bridge. They are speaking in low voices, their hands moving in frenetic gestures. Thomas Andrews is there, you are relieved to see. J. Bruce Ismay and Captain Smith are among those with him.

“Mr. Andrews!” you cry, and he stops and turns. He is carrying an armful of rolled-up engineering drawings.

“Lady Targaryen,” he says numbly, then seems to lurch out of a trance and hurries to you, standing closer than would be considered proper. In his state, he has not noticed Aegon, lurking a few paces behind you and listening intently. “Your family, Daemon and the others…you must wake them.”

“I saw the ice on the deck by the bow, did the ship—?”

“We hit it,” Mr. Andrews tells you, hushed so others will not hear and become hysterical. “An iceberg. Scraped along the side, caused the iron plates to buckle below the waterline. I’ve seen the forward cargo holds and they’re…” He blinks, astonished, as if this is a nightmare he might still wake up from.

This can’t be happening. This ship was supposed to be unsinkable. That’s what everybody told me, that I was insane to fear the journey. “But…but what about the watertight bulkheads?” He had spoken so confidently of them at dinner just a few nights ago.

“I didn’t built them high enough, and seawater is spilling over the tops. The first five compartments are already flooded, too many for Titanic to stay afloat.”

“The ship will sink?” you whisper, terrified. Aegon moves closer, a palm on the small of your back.

“Yes,” Mr. Andrews says.

“When?”

“Perhaps an hour or two.”

“An hour?!”

“Carpathia has answered our distress call, but she’s four hours away.”

You stare at him. “And the ocean…it’s freezing.” Anyone left adrift in it will die.

“Get to a lifeboat, Lady Targaryen,” Mr. Andrews says. “Don’t wait. I’m doing everything I can.” He rejoins the other men and goes with them into the bridge. Behind the glass walls, J. Bruce Ismay begins to yell something at Captain Smith.

“Hey, hey, listen,” Aegon is telling you, but you can’t seem to focus on him. His voice sounds like it is coming from very far away, another coast, another lifetime.

“There aren’t enough lifeboats,” you say, flat with shock.

“I know. I remember what you told Fern when I saw you up on the Boat Deck.”

You race for the steps that lead down to B-Deck where your staterooms are. “I have to find Draco—”

“Wait, wait, listen to me.” Aegon’s hand reaches out and grasps yours, not imprisoning you but imploring you, begging you to hear him. “Half the people on this ship are going to die.”

“Yes,” you agree, the horror of it quivering in your voice. In the frigid night air your words turn to fog like the mist that clings to the Cliffs of Moher, like ghosts captured in the corners of photographs.

“And most of the bodies will never be recovered, and there will be no way of knowing for sure what happened to them, and the crime scene will be at the bottom of the ocean.”

Crime scene? Crime scene??? “Aegon, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t you get it? Petra, this is your way out. I’ll help you. We’ll do this together.”

Draco. I have to get Draco into a lifeboat. “Aegon, I don’t understand, do what?”

His eyes are gleaming; the grin that splits across his face reveals teeth like pearls. “We’re going to kill your husband.”

[trekkitkat]

Thomas Andrews family home, Ardara, still exists and it makes me ridiculously happy.

You don't get that often enough with history. A place that was just peaceful, where people lived lives of love and joy. And it's still there, over a hundred years later.

When of a Saturday evening he opened the door, so the servants at Ardara used to say, they like all the rest waiting expectantly for his coming, it was as though a wind from the sea swept into the house. All was astir. His presence filled the place. Soon you would hear his father’s greeting, “Well, my big son, how are you?” and thereafter, for one more week’s end, it was in Ardara as though the schoolboy was home for a holiday. You would hear Tom’s voice and laugh through the house and his step on the stairs; you would see him, gloved and veiled, out working among his bees, scampering on the lawn with the children, or playing with the dog, or telling many a good story to the family circle. Everyone loved him, everyone. (Excerpt from Thomas Andrews-Shipbuilder)

[the-rmstitanic]

"Throughout that long ordeal Tom inspired everyone who saw him, workmen, foremen, managers, and those in higher authority, as much by the force of his personal character as by his qualities of industry. Without doubt here was one destined to success. He was thorough to the smallest detail. He mastered everything with the ease of one in love with his task."

THOMAS ANDREWS SHIPBUILDER By Shan F. Bullock

Happy birthday Tommie !

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

15 Inventors Who Were Killed By Their Own Inventions

Marie Curie -  Marie Curie, popularly known as Madame Curie, invented the process to isolate radium after co-discovering the radioactive elements radium and polonium. She died of aplastic anemia as a result of prolonged exposure to ionizing radiation emanating from her research materials. The dangers of radiation were not well understood at the time.

William Nelson - a General Electric employee, invented a new way to motorize bicycles. He then fell off his prototype bike during a test run and died.

William Bullock - he invented the web rotary printing press. Several years after its invention, his foot was crushed during the installation of the new machine in Philadelphia. The crushed foot developed gangrene and Bullock died during the amputation.

Horace Lawson Hunley - he was a marine engineer and was the inventor of the first war submarine. During a routine test, Hunley, along with a 7-member crew, sunk to death in a previously damaged submarine H. L. Hunley (named after Hunley’s death) on October 15, 1963. 

Francis Edgar Stanley - Francis crashed into a woodpile while driving a Stanley Steamer. It was a steam engine-based car developed by Stanley Motor Carriage Company, founded by Francis E. Stanley and his twin Freelan O. Stanley. 

Thomas Andrews - he was an Irish businessman and shipbuilder. As the naval architect in charge of the plans for the ocean liner RMS Titanic, he was travelling on board that vessel during her maiden voyage when the ship hit an iceberg on 14 April 1912. He perished along with more than 1,500 others. His body was never recovered.

Thomas Midgley Jr. - he was an American engineer and chemist who contracted polio at age 51, leaving him severely disabled. He devised an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys to help others lift him from the bed. He was accidentally entangled in the ropes of the device and died of strangulation at the age of 55.

Alexander Bogdanov - he was a Russian physician and philosopher who was one of the first people to experiment with blood transfusion. He died when he used the blood of malaria and TB victim on himself.

Michael Dacre -  died after testing his flying taxi device designed to permit fast, affordable travel between regional cities.

Max Valier - invented liquid-fuelled rocket engines as a member of the 1920s German rocket society. On May 17, 1930, an alcohol-fuelled engine exploded on his test bench in Berlin that killed him instantly.

Mike Hughes - was killed when the parachute failed to deploy during a crash landing while piloting his homemade steam-powered rocket.

Harry K. Daghlian Jr. and Louis Slotin -  The two physicists were running experiments on plutonium for The Manhattan Project, and both died due to lethal doses of radiation a year apart (1945 and 1946, respectively).

Karel Soucek -  The professional stuntman developed a shock-absorbent barrel in which he would go over the Niagara Falls. He did so successfully, but when performing a similar stunt in the Astrodome, the barrel was released too early and Soucek plummeted 180 feet, hitting the rim of the water tank designed to cushion the blow.

Hammad al-Jawhari - he was a prominent scholar in early 11th century Iraq and he was also sort of an inventor, who was particularly obsessed with flight. He strapped on a pair of wooden wings with feathers stuck on them and tried to impress the local Imam. He jumped off from the roof of a mosque and consequently died.

Jean-Francoise Pilatre de Rozier -  Rozier was a French teacher who taught chemistry and physics. He was also a pioneer of aviation, having made the first manned free balloon flight in 1783. He died when his balloon crashed near Wimereux in the Pas-de-Calais during an attempt to fly across the English Channel. Pilâtre de Rozier was the first known fatalities in an air crash when his Roziere balloon crashed on June 15, 1785.

[charitysplace]

Master Shipbuilder: The Legacy of Thomas Andrews

The gale rocks the scaffolding beneath you. The sweat on your hands causes you to lose your grip on the iron rail. You came up to straighten the boards. Your heart pounds. One foot forward at a time. You can do this. TITANIC needs you. Her iron hull rises beside you. The next brutal gust rocks the narrow platform so much, you cannot take another step. Stranded eighty feet above the ground, you…

[dailyunsolvedmysteries-movedd]

15 Inventors Who Were Killed By Their Own Inventions

Marie Curie -  Marie Curie, popularly known as Madame Curie, invented the process to isolate radium after co-discovering the radioactive elements radium and polonium. She died of aplastic anemia as a result of prolonged exposure to ionizing radiation emanating from her research materials. The dangers of radiation were not well understood at the time.

William Nelson - a General Electric employee, invented a new way to motorize bicycles. He then fell off his prototype bike during a test run and died.

William Bullock - he invented the web rotary printing press. Several years after its invention, his foot was crushed during the installation of the new machine in Philadelphia. The crushed foot developed gangrene and Bullock died during the amputation.

Horace Lawson Hunley - he was a marine engineer and was the inventor of the first war submarine. During a routine test, Hunley, along with a 7-member crew, sunk to death in a previously damaged submarine H. L. Hunley (named after Hunley’s death) on October 15, 1963. 

Francis Edgar Stanley - Francis crashed into a woodpile while driving a Stanley Steamer. It was a steam engine-based car developed by Stanley Motor Carriage Company, founded by Francis E. Stanley and his twin Freelan O. Stanley. 

Thomas Andrews - he was an Irish businessman and shipbuilder. As the naval architect in charge of the plans for the ocean liner RMS Titanic, he was travelling on board that vessel during her maiden voyage when the ship hit an iceberg on 14 April 1912. He perished along with more than 1,500 others. His body was never recovered.

Thomas Midgley Jr. - he was an American engineer and chemist who contracted polio at age 51, leaving him severely disabled. He devised an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys to help others lift him from the bed. He was accidentally entangled in the ropes of the device and died of strangulation at the age of 55.

Alexander Bogdanov - he was a Russian physician and philosopher who was one of the first people to experiment with blood transfusion. He died when he used the blood of malaria and TB victim on himself.

Michael Dacre -  died after testing his flying taxi device designed to permit fast, affordable travel between regional cities.

Max Valier - invented liquid-fuelled rocket engines as a member of the 1920s German rocket society. On May 17, 1930, an alcohol-fuelled engine exploded on his test bench in Berlin that killed him instantly.

Mike Hughes - was killed when the parachute failed to deploy during a crash landing while piloting his homemade steam-powered rocket.

Harry K. Daghlian Jr. and Louis Slotin -  The two physicists were running experiments on plutonium for The Manhattan Project, and both died due to lethal doses of radiation a year apart (1945 and 1946, respectively).

Karel Soucek -  The professional stuntman developed a shock-absorbent barrel in which he would go over the Niagara Falls. He did so successfully, but when performing a similar stunt in the Astrodome, the barrel was released too early and Soucek plummeted 180 feet, hitting the rim of the water tank designed to cushion the blow.

Hammad al-Jawhari - he was a prominent scholar in early 11th century Iraq and he was also sort of an inventor, who was particularly obsessed with flight. He strapped on a pair of wooden wings with feathers stuck on them and tried to impress the local Imam. He jumped off from the roof of a mosque and consequently died.

Jean-Francoise Pilatre de Rozier -  Rozier was a French teacher who taught chemistry and physics. He was also a pioneer of aviation, having made the first manned free balloon flight in 1783. He died when his balloon crashed near Wimereux in the Pas-de-Calais during an attempt to fly across the English Channel. Pilâtre de Rozier was the first known fatalities in an air crash when his Roziere balloon crashed on June 15, 1785.

[titanicc0]

RMS Titanic was a British ocean liner that sank on 15 April 1912 after striking an iceberg on the ship's maiden voyage from Southampton, England to New York City, United States. Titanic, operated by the White Star Line, was carrying passengers and mail. Of the estimated 2,224 passengers and crew aboard, approximately 1,500 died, making the incident the deadliest sinking of a single ship at the time.[a] Titanic carried some of the wealthiest people in the world, as well as hundreds of emigrants from the British Isles, Scandinavia, and elsewhere in Europe who were seeking a new life in the United States and Canada. The disaster drew public attention, spurred major changes in maritime safety regulations, and inspired a lasting legacy in popular culture.

Titanic departing Southampton on 10 April 1912

MapWikimedia | © OpenStreetMap

Titanic shipwreck is here now.

History

United Kingdom

Name

RMS Titanic

Owner

White Star Line

Operator

White Star Line

Port of registry

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Liverpool, England

Route

Southampton to New York City

Ordered

17 September 1908

Builder

Harland and Wolff, Belfast

Cost

£1.5 million (£150 million in 2019)

Yard number

401

Way number

400

Laid down

31 March 1909

Launched

31 May 1911

Completed

2 April 1912

Maiden voyage

10 April 1912

In service

1912

Out of service

15 April 1912

Identification

UK official number 131428[1]

Code letters HVMP[2]

Wireless call sign MGY

Fate

Struck an iceberg at 11:40 pm (ship's time) 14 April 1912 on her maiden voyage and sank 2 h 40 min later on 15 April 1912; 112 years ago

Status

Wreck

General characteristics

Class and type

Olympic-class ocean liner

Tonnage

46,329 GRT, 21,831 NRT

Displacement

52,310 tons

Length

882 ft 9 in (269.1 m) overall

Beam

92 ft 6 in (28.2 m)

Height

175 ft (53.3 m) (keel to top of funnels)

Draught

34 ft 7 in (10.5 m)

Depth

64 ft 6 in (19.7 m)

Decks

9 (A–G)

Installed power

24 double-ended and five single-ended boilers feeding two reciprocating steam engines for the wing propellers, and a low-pressure turbine for the centre propeller;[3] output: 46,000 HP

Propulsion

Two three-blade wing propellers and one centre propeller

Speed

Service: 21 kn (39 km/h; 24 mph). Max: 23 kn (43 km/h; 26 mph)

Capacity

Passengers: 2,453, crew: 874. Total: 3,327 (or 3,547 according to other sources)

Notes

Lifeboats: 20 (sufficient for 1,178 people)

RMS Titanic was the largest ship afloat upon entering service and the second of three Olympic-class ocean liners built for the White Star Line. The ship was built by the Harland and Wolff shipbuilding company in Belfast. Thomas Andrews Jr., the chief naval architect of the shipyard, died in the disaster. Titanic was under the command of Captain Edward John Smith, who went down with the ship.

The first-class accommodation was designed to be the pinnacle of comfort and luxury. It included a gymnasium, swimming pool, smoking rooms, fine restaurants and cafes, a Victorian-style Turkish bath, and hundreds of opulent cabins. A high-powered radiotelegraph transmitter was available to send passenger "marconigrams" and for the ship's operational use. Titanic had advanced safety features, such as watertight compartments and remotely activated watertight doors, which contributed to the ship's reputation as "unsinkable".

Titanic was equipped with 16 lifeboat davits, each capable of lowering three lifeboats, for a total of 48 boats. Despite this capacity of 48, the ship was only equipped with a total of 20 lifeboats. Fourteen were regular lifeboats, two were cutter lifeboats, and four were collapsible and proved difficult to launch while the ship was sinking. Together, the 20 lifeboats could hold 1,178 people—about half the number of passengers on board, and one-third of the number of passengers the ship could have carried at full capacity (a number consistent with the maritime safety regulations of the era). The British Board of Trade's regulations required 14 lifeboats for a ship 10,000 tonnes. Titanic carried six more than required, allowing 338 extra people room in lifeboats. When the ship sank, the lifeboats that had been lowered were only filled up to an average of 60%.

[i-love-books-because-reasons]

"Retracing Their Footsteps: Thomas Andrews (SHIPBUILDER)"

[novaxmuses]

“   So you want to go to a real party? ”

[ANASTASIA to HENRIETTA]

If it was one thing Henrietta Andrews DIDN'T do it was attend parties. Perhaps a well mannered Dinner service or a Birthday Party for a friend. She had to keep up her image because she was a direct mirror of her father and his reputation. She had alot on her shoulders and alot to uphold when it came her last name. Of course her 'sister' of sorts was the bad influence, always dragging her to TRUE parties. The first class idea of a party was never Anastasia's idea of a real party. The last part Anastasia dragged her to she didn't remember due to the sheer amount of beer she consumed during those few fateful hours. Her eyes widened at those words as she puts her pencil down. Henri always wanted to follow in her fathers footsteps, becoming a shipbuilder and designer in her own right. Her interests were more interior design, which Thomas integrated some of her idea's into their newest ship which they were currently on. She was doing her trials and oftentimes the crew liked to get a bit rowdy in the crew quarters after hours.

"Ani do ya no' remember wha' happened last time?" she asks indignantly, her Irish accent lacing her words with a force.

"I canno' find myself down there 'gain. Da nearly took M'head off when he found out." She picked her pencil back up as if she was done with the conversation at hand.

@historiavn

[newsinsider]

Titanic was a British passenger and mail carrying ocean liner

RMS Titanic was a British passenger and mail carrying ocean liner, operated by the White Star Line, that sank in the North Atlantic Ocean on 15 April 1912 as a result of striking an iceberg during her maiden voyage from Southampton, England, to New York City, United States. Of the estimated 2,224 passengers and crew aboard, about 1,500 died, making it the deadliest sinking of a single ship up to that time. The disaster drew public attention, spurred major changes in maritime safety regulations, and inspired many artistic works. RMS Titanic was the largest ship afloat at the time she entered service and the second of three Olympic-class ocean liners built for the White Star Line. She was built by the Harland and Wolff shipbuilding company in Belfast. Thomas Andrews Jr., the chief naval architect of the shipyard, died in the disaster. Titanic was under the command of Captain Edward John Smith, who went down with the ship. The ocean liner carried some of the wealthiest people in the world, as well as hundreds of emigrants from the British Isles, Scandinavia, and elsewhere throughout Europe, who were seeking a new life in the United States and Canada.

The first-class accommodation was designed to be the pinnacle of comfort and luxury, with a gymnasium, swimming pool, smoking rooms, high-class restaurants and cafes, a Turkish bath, and hundreds of opulent cabins. A high-powered radiotelegraph transmitter was available for sending passenger "marconigrams" and for the ship's operational use. Titanic had advanced safety features, such as watertight compartments and remotely activated watertight doors, contributing to its reputation as "unsinkable". Titanic was equipped with 16 lifeboat davits, each capable of lowering three lifeboats, for a total of 48 boats. Despite this capacity of 48, the ship was only equipped with a total of 20 lifeboats. Fourteen were regular lifeboats, two were cutter lifeboats, and four were collapsible and proved difficult to launch while she was sinking. Together, the 20 lifeboats could hold 1,178 people—about half the number of passengers on board, and one-third of the number of passengers the ship could have carried at full capacity (a number consistent with the maritime safety regulations of the era). The British Board of Trade's regulations required 14 lifeboats for a ship 10,000 tonnes. Titanic carried six more than required, allowing 338 extra people room in lifeboats. When the ship sank, the lifeboats that had been lowered were only filled up to an average of 60%.

Source : Wikipedia

[starlene]

Titanic: the Artifact Exhibition thoughts:

Let me start by saying that I have some... let's say, ethical qualms about the whole artifact exhibition thing. Obviously, they're not severe enough to prevent me from seeing the touring exhibition (and to be clear, I have seen different iterations of it in four different countries now.) But even so – I just don't think it's super cool that these historical artifacts are owned by a company who thinks Las Vegas is a proper permanent home for them. There is something very sideshow-esque about the whole thing. While it's cool that some of the artifacts tour the world for many people to see, if I got to decide, their permanent home would be in a well-established museum in a location that figures in the story of the RMS Titanic somehow. But I don't get to decide that, so whatever, I guess!

Mostly, the exhibition is both respectful and informative, but there are some little problems. The most notable one is that they haven't updated all their info plaques and their audio guide, so there are issues like two plaques right next to each other having contradictory info (say, how much the tickets cost in today's money.)

I also don't think it's, hmm, super great how you walk by the names of everybody that died – straight into a souvenir shop stand of teddy bears dressed as captains. I mean, sure, they need to make their money somehow, and I did buy a bunch of postcards and stuff myself... but apart from a handful of replica newspapers, cups and such, the shop really has the most tasteless selection of Titanic merch known to man. The only things missing are the "Titanic Swim Team 1912" shirts and the ice cube trays.

To make it clear: I'm not saying you're a horrible person if you wear a Titanic Swim Team tee or whatever (tbh, I would buy a Vasa Swim Team 1628 one in a heartbeat myself) – these days, the sinking of the Titanic is a part of popular culture just as much as it's a historical event, so it's just natural there are joke-y products around. I just think the contrast of a memorial wall for the actual victims and the captain teddies is rather gruesome.

Also, speaking of Titanic in popular culture and the public consciousness, I don't think it's super great how the exhibition strengthens certain Titanic myths that don't really have much truth to them, or are less black-and-white than the usual story goes.

They make a big deal of the Titanic (and the Titanic alone) being "unsinkable", to the point of lifting Captain Smith's "modern shipbuilding" quote¹ out of context, which of course makes guests assume he said that about the Titanic specifically. They also claim Captain Smith was about to retire after the Titanic's maiden voyage, though there isn't really any evidence to prove that. And of course, they keep mentioning how the Titanic was the largest ship ever built – which is technically true, sure, but I think it's worth mentioning that in practice, she and the Olympic were twin sisters.

I even spotted a new piece of nonsense in the exhibition that I've never heard before: they claim that Thomas Andrews was not supposed to be on the maiden voyage at all, but he had to travel in place of Lord Pirrie when he fell ill. I believe Thomas Andrews was always meant to lead the guarantee group, like he had done on previous maiden voyages, and I have never heard anything to the contrary before. But what do I know?

Props to the exhibition for not demonising J. Bruce Ismay, though! On the contrary, they mention he helped passengers board the lifeboats before leaving on the last lifeboat to be properly launched.

Anyway!! I think I have been negative enough here. I may have a lot of nitpicks, but even so, as a whole, I think the exhibition is a good introduction to the story of the Titanic, and it's interesting and touching to nerds like me, too. I like the interactive parts such as the changing soundscapes. I feel the sound design has gotten better since the last time I saw the exhibition, I especially enjoyed the soundscape near the 3rd class cabin reproduction that demostrated how you could hear the engines all the time in those cabins. The touch the iceberg thing is good and very sobering too, it really helps you to understand how hypothermia was only a matter of minutes on a night as cold as April 15th, 1912.

And of course, there are the artifacts themselves! I assume they keep most of the flashier ones in Vegas, but there were some good ones. My favourite was a golden chain with three lucky charms: a clover, a star, and a lucky pig. The lucky pig obviously didn't make it, but I do wish its owner did. I also liked the Extra Moist Cherry Toothpaste jar just because that sounds so silly. There were reproductions of that in the souvenir shop, but I couldn't justify buying one – maybe I would have if it came with some of that moist paste, but nope!

ETA: Something I found interesting was that pretty much every single artifact that was a part of the ship's decor, from dishes to lamp holders, was stamped with the White Star Line logo, even the fancy first class tableware. Was that all about boosting their brand recognition, or were they that worried about things being stolen? Or did they want to show off that everything was custom-made just for them, no off-the-shelf items from any generic manufacturer? Maybe it was a little bit of each?

I also think it's interesting to think about the weird journey the artifacts have made. Someone put them in their luggage to cross the Atlantic, they sunk along with the ship and spent about 80 years in the darkness... and then someone else came along with an underwater robot that has little hands and picked them up. The people who originally owned them could never have imagined the journey their everyday items would go on – or, if they briefly saw a vision of their trousers ending up in a glass case in a Swedish mall with some Finnish nerd staring at them, they probably thought they're just about to lose their mind.

All in all, Titanic: the Artifact Exhibition in Täby, Sweden, was a thought-provoking experience for me in many ways. I'm glad I got the chance to go.

¹ "I cannot imagine any condition which would cause a ship to founder. I cannot conceive of any vital disaster happening to this vessel. Modern shipbuilding has gone beyond that." (Said by Smith after the RMS Adriatic's maiden voyage in 1907)

[sandyhookhistory]

Good afternoon, folks. We have a historic birthday to honor. We would like to recognize the 150th Birthday of Mr. Thomas Andrews, Jr., who was born on (Friday) February 7th, 1873. You may not know who he is, but you're quite familiar with him: he was the designer of the RMS Titanic. Thomas was born in the town of Comber, County Down, in Northern Ireland, to a very prominent family. He was 16 years old when he began his rendezvous with destiny, taking an apprenticeship with the shipbuilding firm of Harland & Wolff in Belfast. He worked his way through nearly every department in the company, becoming a manager in 1901, and joining the Royal Institution of Naval Architects that same year. By 1907, he was head of the drafting department (for you young folks in the crowd, that's a room of men bent over large tables, crafting ship designs from their heads and putting them on paper... by hand!). He married in 1908, and a daughter was born in 1910. His major achievement, of course, was Titanic, and her sisters Olympic and Britanic. As part of a group of builders who would accompany the ships on maiden voyages to make improvements or small adjustments, Andrews sailed on Titanic on April 10th, 1912. In a week's time, his ship was due to make a tumultuous grand arrival off Sandy Hook and New York Harbor. ...Barely 5 days later, his creation was at the bottom of the Atlantic, and he and some 1,500 people were dead. He was 39. His selfless actions during the sinking add to the legend of her loss, and it is reported that he did all he could to get people off the ship as she foundered. I can not possibly imagine the mental and emotional weight that man carried in those final hours. I'm not here to pass judgment 111 years later - in my humble opinion, Titanic's loss was more the result of an era that seethed with great hubris than a design flaw that only revealed itself at a horrifying time. It wasn't the possibility of her sinking, it was the arrogance that it COULDN'T sink that led to the disaster. But...Hindsight is 20/20. Thomas Andrews did all that he could, then stayed and died with his ship. And it is for those actions that we remember him today. (at Fort Hancock, New Jersey) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoYMAmJgM7p/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[holidayhunteraust]

A Spiritual Sanctuary: All Saints Anglican Church Bodalla #tourismaustralia

Situated atop a hill on the outskirts of the charming town of Bodalla in rural New South Wales, stands a historic church that is considered one of the most splendidly apportioned in the area. From the tower of this church, visitors can enjoy breathtaking views of the coastal hinterland. This church holds a fascinating history, deeply intertwined with the Mort family.

T.S. Mort, born in Bolton, Lancashire, England in 1816, made his way to Australia in 1837. A true pioneer in Australian dairying, Mort established the Bodalla Estate, ventured into engineering and shipbuilding in Balmain, and played a significant role in the wool industry and other enterprises. In his final years, he dedicated himself to developing a process for freezing and exporting Australian meat to meet the demands of England. Tragically, he passed away on May 9, 1878, due to an illness he contracted while caring for one of his workers. He was laid to rest in the cemetery of the beloved Bodalla Estate.

The church was designed by the renowned architect Edmund T. Blackett, known for his work on the cathedrals of St. Andrews in Sydney and St. Saviours in Goulburn. The construction was overseen by builder Joseph Zeigler of Moruya, with the granite used in the building sourced from the Estate itself. The intricate hand-wrought iron hinges and straps on the entrance door, as well as the stone font inside, were all designed by E.T. Blackett. A parclose screen separates the extension from the original part of the Nave, ensuring a cozy setting for smaller congregations.

The foundation stone of this magnificent church was laid on March 18, 1880, by Thomas Mort's widow, Marianne, his second wife. The church stands as a testament to the rich history and legacy of the Mort family in the Bodalla community.

 The woodwork throughout the church is crafted from oak, giving it a timeless and elegant appearance. Imported from England, the stained-glass windows, Chancel tiles, unique marble mosaic reredos, and pipe organ add to the grandeur of the space.

Adorning the Chancel arch are the final words of Thomas Mort: "THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING IN HIS BEAUTY." Beyond this arch, the stunning stained-glass windows depicting the Transfiguration illuminate the Sanctuary. These windows were generously gifted by the people of Bodalla in honour of T.S. Mort and his wife, Theresa Shepheard.

The exquisite hand-embroidered furnishings within the church were meticulously crafted by Mort's daughters. The festal altar frontal was created from Theresa Mort's wedding dress, with her wedding ring even incorporated into the stem of the silver gilt chalice. The oak light standards in the Chancel were fashioned from trees grown on Ernest Mort's property in Surrey, serving as a touching memorial to their youngest son, the Reverend Ernest Mort.

The construction of the church cost £13,000, a significant investment that reflects the dedication and commitment of the Mort family. Numerous tablets line the walls, commemorating both the Mort family members and past worshippers who have contributed to the rich history of the church.