Rosalind the Unsinkable

By Kala West

Charlie Forrester was in a hurry.

Such a hurry, in fact, that he failed to notice the tuba case lurking in the middle of the narrow corridor and promptly tripped over it.

The big man bit back a howl as he fell to the ground, clutching his shin, people swarming around—no—over him and up the stairs to the ship’s main deck. Dazed, he stared at the object he’d stumbled on.

It did not take long for him to be trampled to death by the other passengers.

The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead.

However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache. 

He stormed up the stairwell, puffing his way toward the shouts still ringing above. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the pounding to the head he’d

received, but as he emerged, he could have sworn the deck seemed to be at an angle.

Moments later, that was confirmed when a crate slid over and hit him directly on his hurt shin. 

“Bloody, stinking thing!” He kicked it and proceeded to hop around, holding his foot and scowling as he took in the grim sight before him.

The long row of lifeboats previously fixed to the rail was no longer there; the waves were crawling with the lifeboats. But there, just visible over the side of the ship, one more was being lowered into the water. Charlie limped towards it, scanning for a vacancy. He blinked as he beheld the little rowboat’s contents. Then, he rubbed his eyes.

At that point, Charlie decided he must still be dreaming and spun in a circle three times. As he turned the third circle, smiling confidently, for he knew his hallucinations would resolve themselves, he thought to himself how very clever he had been to recognize his muddled brain’s tricks as fiction.

But, when he came to a standstill, the spectacle remained. 

His grin fell, turning into a gawk at the very real tuba occupying the very last seat.

He shut his mouth and waved to the thin man worriedly twiddling his thumbs beside the instrument. “Oy, you there!” The fellow did not seem to notice as Charlie gestured to him. “You, with the tuba!” The fellow looked up at last, surprised.

“Oh. Hello. Have you come with her case?” the man asked.

“Who—what?” 

“Her case. Rosalind’s case.” He motioned toward the tuba. 

For a moment, Charlie stood, stunned. "No. No, I haven’t got your tuba’s bloody case!” 

The man’s mouth thinned into a distressed line. “Oh, well. I was practicing with Rosalind, you see, and I was in such a rush to get her to safety that I seem to have dropped her case somewhere along the way while I was trying to put her back in—” 

“You call your tuba Rosalin—wait a damn second!” Charlie gaped. “You! Why, it was your case I tripped over! You’re the whole flaming reason I’m late in the first place!” 

The man’s face brightened, his hands fluttering excitedly as he spoke. “Oh, you’ve seen her case? Thank the heavens, you’ve found it! Would you mind fetching it for—” 

“Would I mind? Would I mind? Now, listen here, what I mind is that this is the last goddamn lifeboat, and that great big thing is taking up the last goddamn spot!” Charlie could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

The man cringed and turned his attention toward his instrument, brushing off some imaginary speck of dust from its surface. “Oh, what ever can I do?” His

voice was almost featherlike, seeming to skitter from one word to the next like some small animal. “Her case, her lovely home, it’s gone! Oh, dear, dear Rosalind. Forgive me.” The curiously curled moustache perched upon his upper lip quivered as he paused solemnly.

Charlie glared at his reflection in the brightly polished tuba, painfully aware of the rapidly increasing distance between him and the lifeboat as it was lowered into the waves. “That’s all right and good, fella, but—” 

The man turned hastily to Charlie, collecting himself. “My sincerest apologies, sir, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Nelson. William Nelson."

“Alright, Will, I’m Charlie, but this—” 

William continued, an absent smile forming on his lips, seeming not to have heard Charlie. “And this is Rosalind, my tuba. I should have introduced her first,  of course.” 

Charlie could no longer contain himself. “Just throw the thing overboard, you bloody fool!”

William’s large eyes widened; he had the audacity to look wounded as Charlie seethed.

“This ship is nearly done for, I’m about to go down with it, and your tuba is the only thing keeping me from jumping into that boat and saving my own  backside! I’ll tell you, when we get to shore, I’ll pay for the whole damned  instrument. By the lord, I’ll pay for thirty if you want, you numbskull!”

The lifeboat was out of reach now, or Charlie would’ve pitched the tuba over the side himself. He could barely hear William’s reply over the cacophony of bending metal far below.

“I’m terribly sorry, Charles, I do apologize, but Rosalind does not know how to swim.

Unfortunately, I cannot expose her to the ocean, lest she may…” As the din drowned out the remainder of his sentence, a distant expression crept over the  man’s face, and he seemed to forget Charlie was there as he puttered on.

“Put it on your lap, dammit.” Charlie was fuming.

Nelson appeared vaguely distressed to see that Charlie was continuing to address him. “What? Oh, no, I would never deny Rosalind the basic dignity of  having her own seat. No, it simply would not do.” William’s gaze began to  wander back to his tuba, and Charlie knew the conversation was approaching a  dead end.

Think, you idiot, think!

“This is absurd! This is madness! This is—” Charlie took a breath. Then another. “The tu—Rosalind looks cold.”

Panic filled William’s eyes and he began taking off his jacket to put around the instrument. Before he could do so, Charlie said, “No, no, you must cradle her. In your lap.” He cursed the stupidity of his words but forged onward, knowing this was his final chance at survival. “It is the only thing to do, really. A lady mustn’t be kept at arm’s distance, or she may feel… underappreciated.”

“Oh.” At that moment, William Nelson looked so miserable that Charlie almost wished he could take the words back; they seemed to have struck too close to home. As the reedy man scrambled to do exactly as advised, he moaned “Forgive me, Rosalind, for I have been a cruel friend indeed! How can I ever make my neglect up to you, allowing you to feel so lowly and uncared for…” Charlie stared in wonderment as the seat was cleared and Nelson’s soft cooing began to emerge from beneath the tuba’s great mass. 

The ship let out a deafening groan as the lifeboat neared the water. Without any further hesitation, Charlie flung himself over the rail, and down he sailed into that final seat.

Of the seven hundred and six survivors of the sinking of the R.M.S. Titanic, the tuba was one.

About the Author...

Kala West is a junior at Evanston Township High School. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, playing the violin, and spending time with her dogs.

About the Artist...

Qilin Pote is a Draw and Paint major in 12th grade at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They specialize in paintings and mixed media works that show a slice of life from the stories of things around them.