by Walter Lord
Stone brought him up to date – told him about the strange ship, the rockets, the way the stranger disappeared. He added that around 3.40 he saw still another rocket, this time directly south and clearly not from the same ship that fired the first eight. Dead tired, Stone dropped down the ladder and turned in – from now on it was Stewart’s headache.
At 4.30 Stewart woke up Captain Lord and began to repeat Stone’s story.
‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted the captain, ‘he’s been telling me.’ Lord had never taken off his uniform, so he now went straight to the bridge and began discussing the best way to work out of the ice field and get on to Boston. Stewart broke in and asked if he wasn’t going to check on a ship that was now in sight directly to the south. Lord said, ‘No, I don’t think so; she’s not making any signals now.’
Stewart dropped the matter – he didn’t mention that Stone, on his way below, said he was sure the ship to the south couldn’t be the same one that fired the first eight rockets.
But he must have thought a good deal more about it, because at 5.40 he woke up wireless operator Evans, who recalled his saying, ‘There’s a ship been firing rockets. Will you see if you can find out if anything is the matter?’
Evans fumbled in the half-light of day, found the headphones and tuned in.
Two minutes later Stewart rocketed up the steps to the bridge calling, ‘There’s a ship sunk!’ Then he ran back down to the wireless shack … back up again … then to Captain Lord with the shattering news: ‘The Titanic has hit a berg and sunk!’
Captain Lord did just what a good skipper should do. He immediately started his engines and headed for the Titanic’s last position.
10. ‘Go Away – We Have Just Seen Our Husbands Drown’
‘Oh, Muddie, look at the beautiful North Pole with no Santa Claus on it,’ little Douglas Spedden said to his mother, Mrs Frederick O. Spedden, as boat 3 threaded its way through the loose ice towards the Carpathia.
In fact, the world did look like a picture from a child’s book about the Arctic. The sun was just edging over the horizon, and the ice sparkled in its first long rays. The bergs looked dazzling white, pink, mauve, deep blue, depending on how the rays hit them and how the shadows fell. The sea was now bright blue, and little chunks of ice, some no bigger than a man’s fist, bobbed in the choppy water. Overhead, the eastern sky was gold and blue, promising a lovely day. The shadows of night lingered in the west – Lawrence Beesley remembered watching the Morning Star shine long after the others had faded. Near the horizon a thin, pale crescent moon appeared.
‘A new moon! Turn your money over, boys! That is, if you have any!’ fireman Fred Barrett shouted cheerfully to the crew rowing No. 13. Whoops and yells of relief erupted from all the boats, as the men tried to outrow each other in reaching the Carpathia. Some began singing, ‘Pull for the Shore, Boys’. Some gave organized cheers. Some, however, remained silent – stunned by the sinking or overwhelmed by relief.
‘It’s all right, ladies, do not grieve. We are picked up.’ Lookout Hogg sought to encourage the women staring bleakly ahead in No. 7, but they kept very quiet.
There were no cheers on overturned collapsible B either. Lightoller, Gracie, Bride, Thayer and the others were too busy trying to stay afloat. Stirred by the morning breeze, the waves now washed over the hulk and rocked it back and forth. Every time it rolled, a little more air escaped, and the keel sank still lower into the water. With Lightoller shouting directions, the men still shifted their weight back and forth, but after an hour of this they were dead tired.
The sight of the Carpathia arriving with the dawn – so thrilling to everyone else – now meant little to these men. She had stopped four miles away, and they wondered how they could last until they were spotted. Suddenly, as the light spread over the sea, they saw new hope. About 800 yards off, boats 4, 10, 12 and D were still strung together in a line, just as Fifth Officer Lowe had ordered.
The men on collapsible B shouted, ‘Ship ahoy!’ – but they were too far away to be heard. Then Lightoller fished an officer’s whistle out of his pocket and blew a shrill blast. The sound not only carried but told the crew manning the boats that an officer was calling.
In No. 12, seaman Frederick Clinch quickly looked up … thought he saw about twenty men in the distance standing on, of all things, a ship’s funnel. In No. 4, trimmer Samuel Hemming looked over too; and in the early morning light it seemed to him some men were standing on a slab of ice. Little matter, the two boats at once cast off and headed over. It was slow rowing, and as they crept within hailing distance, Lightoller urged them on: ‘Come over and take us off!’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ somebody called back, and finally the two boats arrived. They were barely in time. By now collapsible B was so delicately balanced that the wash from No. 4 almost swept everybody off. It took all Quartermaster Perkis’s skill to manoeuvre the boat safely alongside. On B, Lightoller cautioned the men not to scramble. Even so, the boat gave a sickening roll as each man leaned forward to jump.
One by one they made it. Jack Thayer was so preoccupied with getting safely into No. 12 that he didn’t notice his mother right alongside in No. 4. And Mrs Thayer was so numbed by cold and misery that she didn’t notice her son. When Colonel Gracie’s turn came, he crawled hands first into No. 12, preferring pinched fingers to the risk of a jump. Baker Joughin, still treading water, didn’t worry at all. He simply let go Maynard’s hand and paddled over to No. 4, where they pulled him in, still thoroughly insulated by his whisky.
Lightoller was last to leave the overturned collapsible. When all the others were transferred, he lifted a lifeless body into No. 12, jumped in himself, and took charge of the boat. It was just about 6.30 when he finally shoved off from the empty keel and began rowing towards the Carpathia.
Meanwhile Fifth Officer Lowe gave up his search for swimmers among the wreckage. In an hour’s hard work No. 14 picked up only four men, and he knew he was too late to find any more. No man could last longer in the ice-cold water. Now day was breaking and rescue was at hand, Lowe decided to head back for the boats he had left tied together and shepherd them in to the Carpathia.
‘Hoist a sail forward,’ he ordered seaman F. O. Evans as the breeze quickened. In every other boat the crew regarded the mast as an extra encumbrance and the sail as just something that got in the way. In some cases they dumped out this equipment before leaving the Titanic; in others it stayed in, and the men cursed as they stumbled over useless spars in the dark. They didn’t know how to sail anyhow.
Lowe was different. As he later explained, few seamen were boatmen and few boatmen were seamen, but he was both. Years spent windjamming along the Gold Coast now paid off as he skilfully tacked back and forth. The bow slammed down on the waves, and the spray glittered in the early morning sun as No. 14 bowled along at four knots.
By the time he got back, his little fleet had scattered. Boats 4 and 12 were off picking up the men on B, and Nos. 10 and D were heading separately for the Carpathia. D looked in bad shape – low in the water and few oars at work. ‘Well,’ said Lowe to himself, ‘I will go down and pick her up and make sure of her.’
‘We have about all we want!’ Hugh Woolner shouted as No. 14 sailed up. Lowe tossed over a line and gave them a tow.
Then, about a mile and a half away, he spied collapsible A, completely swamped and making no headway at all. The people in A never did manage to get the sides up, and now the gunwales lay flush with the water. Of some thirty who originally swam to the boat, most had fallen overboard, numb with the cold. Only a dozen men and third-class passenger Mrs Rosa Abbott were left, standing in freezing water up to their knees.
Lowe arrived just in time … took them all aboard No. 14 … then set sail again for the Carpathia, still towing D. Collapsible A was left behind – abandoned and empty, except for the bodies of three men (with lifebelts covering their faces), R. Norris Williams Jr’s fur coat and a ring belonging
to third-class passenger Edvard P. Lindell of Helsingborg, Sweden, whom no one remembered seeing all night.
One by one the boats crept up to the Carpathia. It was 4.45 when No. 13 made fast, and Lawrence Beesley climbed a rope ladder to the C deck companionway. He felt overwhelmed with gratitude, relief and joy to feel a solid deck under his feet again. Close behind climbed Dr Washington Dodge, who remembered to bring along his lifebelt as a memento.
Mrs Dodge and five-year-old Washington Jr arrived at 5.10 in No. 7. The little boy was hauled up in a mail sack and plopped on to the deck. A steward rushed up with coffee, but Master Dodge announced he would rather have cocoa. The steward promptly dashed off and got some – British liners aren’t famous for their service for nothing.
Then came No. 3 at 6.00. Mr and Mrs Spedden climbed aboard immaculately dressed. Close behind came the Henry Sleeper Harpers, dragoman Hamad Hassah, and Pekingese Sun Yat-Sen. Mr Harper soon discovered Mr Ogden on deck, greeting him with classic detachment: ‘Louis, how do you keep yourself looking so young?’
Elizabeth Shutes, arriving in the same boat, didn’t try the ladder. She sat in a rope sling, felt herself swept aloft with a mighty jerk. From somewhere above a voice called, ‘Careful, fellows, she’s a lightweight.’
Bruce Ismay stumbled aboard around 6.30, mumbling ‘I’m Ismay … I’m Ismay.’ Trembling, he stood near the gangway, his back against a bulkhead. Dr McGhee gently approached him: ‘Will you not go into the saloon and get some soup or something to drink?’
‘No, I really don’t want anything at all.’
‘Do go and get something.’
‘If you will leave me alone, I’ll be much happier here,’ Ismay blurted, then changed his mind: ‘If you can get me in some room where I can be quiet, I wish you would.’
‘Please,’ the doctor softly persisted, ‘go to the saloon and get something hot.’
‘I would rather not.’
Dr McGhee gave up. He gently led Ismay to his own cabin. During the rest of the trip Ismay never left the room; he never ate anything solid; he never received a visitor (except Jack Thayer, once); he was kept to the end under the influence of opiates. It was the start of a self-imposed exile from active life. Within a year he retired from the White Star Line, purchased a large estate on the west coast of Ireland and remained a virtual recluse till he died in 1937.
Olaus Abelseth reached the deck about 7.00. A hot blanket was thrown over his soaked, shivering shoulders and he was rushed to the dining-saloon for brandy and coffee. Mrs Charlotte Collyer and the others in No. 14 tagged along, while Fifth Officer Lowe remained behind, unshipping the mast and stowing the sail. He liked a tidy boat.
And so they came, one boatload after another. As each drew alongside, the survivors already aboard peered down from the promenade deck, searching for familiar faces. Billy Carter stood next to the Ogdens, frantically watching for his wife and children. When the rest of the family finally came alongside in No. 4, Mr Carter leaned far over the rail: ‘Where’s my son? Where’s my son?’
A small boy in the boat lifted a girl’s big hat and called ‘Here I am, Father.’ Legend has it that John Jacob Astor himself placed the hat on the ten-year-old’s head, saying in answer to objections, ‘Now he’s a girl and he can go.’
Washington Dodge was another man who had an agonizing wait for his family – thanks largely to a mischievous streak in five-year-old Washington Jr. Dr Dodge didn’t see his wife and son come aboard – nor did Mrs Dodge see her husband on deck, but young Washington did. And he decided it would be great fun to keep it to himself. So he didn’t tell his mother and effectively hid from his father. Finally, the Dodges’ ever-faithful dining-saloon steward Ray spoiled everything by bringing about a reunion.
The crowds along the rail grew steadily as the Carpathia’s own passengers poured from their cabins. Some of them learned in curious ways. Mr and Mrs Charles Marshall were awakened by the steward knocking on their stateroom door.
‘What is it?’ called Mr Marshall.
‘Your niece wants to see you, sir,’ came the answer.
Mr Marshall was nonplussed. All three of his nieces were, he knew, making the Titanic’s maiden voyage. They even sent him a wireless last night. How could one of them be on board the Carpathia? The steward explained. Minutes later the Marshalls were holding a family reunion with Mrs E. D. Appleton (the other nieces arrived later), and their daughter Evelyn dashed on deck to see the sight.
A strange sight it was. The endless plain of packed ice to the north and west – the big bergs and smaller growlers that floated like scouts in advance of the main floe – gave the sea a curiously busy look. The boats that rowed in from all directions seemed incredibly out of place here in mid-Atlantic.
And the people that straggled from them couldn’t have looked more peculiar – Miss Sue Eva Rule noticed one woman wearing only a Turkish towel around her waist and a magnificent fur evening cape over her shoulders. The costumes were a rag-bag of lace-trimmed evening dresses … kimonos … fur coats … plain woollen shawls … pyjamas … rubber boots … white satin slippers. But it was still an age of formality – a surprising number of the women wore hats and the men snap-brim tweed caps.
Strangest of all was the silence. Hardly a word was spoken. Everyone noticed it; everyone had a different explanation. The Reverend P. M. A. Hoques, a passenger on the Carpathia, thought people were too horror-stricken to speak. Captain Rostron thought everybody was just too busy. Lawrence Beesley felt they were neither too stunned nor too busy – they were simply in the presence of something too big to grasp.
Occasionally there was a minor commotion. Miss Peterson noticed a little girl named Emily sitting on the promenade deck, sobbing, ‘Oh, Mama, Mama, I’m sick. Oh, Mama, Mama!’
While No. 3 was unloading its passengers, a woman clad only in a nightgown and kimono suddenly sat up in the bottom of the boat. Pointing at another lady being hoisted up in a boatswain’s chair, she cried: ‘Look at that horrible woman! Horrible! She stepped on my stomach. Horrible creature!’
And in the third-class dining-saloon an Italian woman went completely to pieces – sobbing, screaming, banging her fists on the table. Over and over and over she cried, ‘Bambino!’ An Italian steward coaxed out the information that both her babies were missing. One was soon located, but she held up two fingers and the hysterics started again. Finally the other was found too – in the pantry on the hot press, where it had been left to thaw out.
By 8.15 all the boats were in except No. 12. It barely moved, still several hundred yards away. The breeze grew stiff, and the sea grew rougher. The crowded gunwales were almost level with the waves – nearly seventy-five people were jammed in. The crowd at the Carpathia’s rail watched breathlessly as Lightoller nursed it along.
He was nearly frozen – his uniform soaked and stiff. Around his shoulders he wore a cape with a monk’s hood, donated by Mrs Elizabeth Mellenger. At his feet, Mrs Mellenger’s thirteen-year-old daughter Madeleine gazed up in admiration. She has cherished that cape and hood ever since.
The people in the boat huddled tightly together … trying to keep dry, praying they might make it. At a time like this a man notices little trivial things. As Colonel Gracie worked in vain to revive a lifeless body lying beside him, he wondered why the person wore long, grey woollen stockings.
Now 8.20, and they were only 200 yards off. Rostron, trying to help, turned the Carpathia’s bow to within 100 yards. As Lightoller struggled to cross the bow and get in her lee, a sudden squall whipped up the sea. First one wave, then another crashed into the boat. A third just missed. Next instant he was there – safe in the shelter of the big ship.
At 8.30, No. 12 – the last boat to arrive – made fast and began to unload. Colonel Gracie felt like falling down on his knees and kissing the deck as he stepped into the gangway. Harold Bride felt a pair of strong hands reach out to him; then he passed out. Jack Thayer saw his mother waitin
g and rushed to her arms. Mrs Thayer stammered, ‘Where’s Daddy?’
‘I don’t know, Mother,’ he answered quietly.
Meanwhile Rostron wondered where to take his 705 unexpected guests. Halifax was nearest, but there was ice along the way, and he thought the Titanic’s passengers had seen enough. The Azores were best for the Carpathia’s schedule, but he didn’t have the linen and provisions to last that far. New York was best for the survivors but most costly to the Cunard Line. He dropped down to the surgeon’s cabin where Dr McGhee was examining Bruce Ismay. The man was shattered – anything Rostron wanted was all right with him. So Rostron decided on New York.
Then the Olympic broke in: Why not transfer the Titanic’s survivors to her? Rostron thought this was an appalling idea – he couldn’t see subjecting these people to another transfer at sea. Besides, the Olympic was the Titanic’s sister ship and the sight alone would be like a hideous ghost. To be on the safe side, he trotted back to Dr McGhee’s cabin, checked again with Ismay. The White Star president shuddered at the thought.
So New York it was, and the sooner the better. By now the Californian was standing by, and Rostron arranged for her to search the scene while he made for port with the survivors. Then he hauled aboard as many of the Titanic’s lifeboats as possible – six on the forward deck, seven in the Carpathia’s own davits. The rest were set adrift.
Before heading back, Rostron couldn’t resist one last look around. He was a thorough man; he didn’t want to overlook the smallest chance. Let the Californian go through the motions, but if there was any real hope of picking anybody else up, Rostron wanted the Carpathia to do it.
As he cruised, it occurred to him that a brief service might be appropriate. He dropped down and asked if Ismay had any objection. It was always the same – anything Rostron wanted to do was all right with him.