“Mr. Andrews tells me that he gives her an hour to an hour and a half.”23
Men were still faring far better on the starboard side of the Boat Deck than on the portside, since First Officer Murdoch’s enforcement of “women and children first” was far more lax than Lightoller’s. Of course this meant that a male passenger’s chances of getting off the sinking ship might depend entirely on which side of the Boat Deck he was on. No one objected when two Frenchmen, sculptor Paul Chevré and aviator Pierre Marechal, climbed into Boat 7, or a pair of buyers from Gimbel’s found seats in Boat 5. Dr. Washington Dodge had earlier seen his wife and son safely into Boat 5 when he was spotted by Steward Ray, standing near Boat 13. Ray felt responsible for the family since he had urged the Dodges to sail on the Titanic in the first place, so now he rather unceremoniously propelled Dr. Dodge forward, bundling him into Boat 13, saying, “You’d better get in here,” just before the boat was lowered.
An almost flagrant abuse of Murdoch’s less stringent concept of “women and children first” created one of the most sensational incidents of the night. Up at the forward end of the Boat Deck, at Boat 1, Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon was standing by, along with his wife and secretary, almost as if they were waiting to be formally invited to climb into the lifeboat. Finally Sir Cosmo asked Murdoch, who had just ordered Boat 3 put down, if they could get in Boat 1. Murdoch nodded and said curtly, “Yes, jump in!” (Sir Cosmo, ever the stickler for observing the proprieties, especially where the aristocracy was involved, would later recall Murdoch’s words as, “Oh, certainly do. I’d be very pleased.” Somehow this seems doubtful.)
As the baronet, his wife, and secretary stepped into the boat, two Americans, Abraham Solomon and C. E. Stengel, came rushing up and were told by Murdoch to get in. Solomon managed this nicely, but Stengel, obviously no acrobat, had trouble negotiating the railing. Finally he got over it and simply rolled into the boat. The nimble and surefooted Murdoch laughed hard, exclaiming, “That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all night!”
Looking about, the first officer saw that with Boats 3, 5, and 7 gone, most of the passengers had moved aft. Quickly he told six stokers standing nearby to get in, then put Lookout George Symons in charge, telling him, “Stand off from the ship’s side and return when we call you.” What Murdoch had in mind isn’t clear; certainly he knew that the passengers wouldn’t be returning to the Titanic, and the idea of loading the boats from the gangways had come to naught. Whatever his thinking, Murdoch signaled to the men at the davit cranks and Boat 1—capacity forty persons, occupants twelve—began its descent to the sea below.
It was just then that Greaser Walter Hurst, released from duty in the boiler rooms, had come out onto the forward well deck. He watched Boat 1 coming down the Titanic’s side, and noticing that it was nearly empty he turned to one of his mates and remarked, “If they are sending the boats away they might as well put some people in them.” It was 1:15 A.M.24
CHAPTER 7
Desperate Exodus
... but behold, distress and darkness, the gloom of anguish....
—Isaiah 8:22
BY 1:15 PHILLIPS WAS BEGINNING TO WORRY. WHERE WAS EVERYBODY? IT had been nearly an hour since the Carpathia informed him that she was putting about and “coming hard” but that had been the only good news he’d had so far—and even that had come with a depressing qualification: the Carpathia was fifty-eight miles away and it would be nearly four hours before she arrived. Phillips knew that the Titanic didn’t have four hours left to live. Anxiously he continued tapping away, hoping that some ship—any ship—would be closer and finally answer. (It is easy to imagine Phillips wondering where that damned fool was who had nearly blown his ears off just a couple hours ago.)
Up on the bridge Captain Smith seethed with a frustration similar to Phillips’s as he continued to stare at the light on the horizon, so tantalizingly close. Smith, Fourth Officer Boxhall, and Quartermaster Rowe all agreed that it was a ship: while the three men watched as the rockets were being fired, she had slowly swung around, as if drifting on the current until both her green (starboard) and red (port) sidelights showed, indicating that she was bow on to the Titanic. For a moment Boxhall thought this meant she was steaming toward the stricken liner, but it soon became disappointingly clear that this wasn’t the case. Yet even if that ship couldn’t hear the tremendous bangs of the Titanic’s rockets bursting surely she must be able to see the rockets themselves. Why didn’t she respond? Boxhall finally gave up on trying to reach her by Morse lamp, but Rowe was eager to try so Captain Smith gave him permission. Once he thought he saw a reply, but after studying the stranger through the captain’s glasses he decided it was only her masthead light flickering. Discouraged, Rowe went back to firing off the rest of his rockets.1
In the wireless shack the strain was starting to show on Phillips. It didn’t seem possible to the other ships that the “unsinkable” Titanic could be in mortal danger, and in vain Phillips was trying to make them understand. When at 1:25 the Olympic asked, “Are you steering south to meet us?” Phillips tapped back in exasperation, “We are putting the women off in the boats,” feeling that should make the situation clear enough to anyone. The Frankfort broke in with “Are there any ships around you already?” Then, a few seconds later: “The Frankfort wishes to know what is the matter? We are ten hours away.”
Phillips jumped up, tearing the head phones from his ears, shouting, “The damn fool! He says, ‘What’s up, old man?’!” Furiously he tapped back, “You are jamming my equipment! Stand by and keep out!”2
Every few minutes Captain Smith would drop by to see if Phillips was having any success raising any ship closer than the Carpathia—clearly that motionless ship on the horizon was on his mind—and provide Phillips with further information. It was a quarter past one when Smith informed Phillips that the power was beginning to fade, maybe ten minutes later when he told him the water was reaching the engine rooms. At 1:45 A.M. Phillips again called the Carpathia, this time telling her, “Come as quickly as possible, old man; engine room filling up to the boilers.”3
Just a few minutes past midnight on the small Cunard liner Carpathia, the wireless operator, Harold Thomas Cottam, had just handed some wireless messages to First Officer Dean on the bridge and was returning to his wireless cabin. Once there he remembered some traffic he’d been listening to earlier that night, including some messages for the new White Star liner Titanic. He thought he would remind Phillips, whom he knew professionally, about those waiting messages. It took a few minutes for the set to warm up, then he politely tapped out a call to the Titanic, quickly receiving a curt “Go ahead.”
“Good morning, old man [GM OM]. Do you know there are messages for you at Cape Race?”
What Cottam heard next made his blood run cold. Instead of the expected jaunty reply came the dreaded “CQD-CQD-SOS-SOSCQD-MGY Come at once. We have struck a berg. It’s a CQD, old man [CQD OM]. Position 41.46 N, 50.14 W”
Stunned, Cottam did nothing for a moment, then asked Phillips if he should tell his captain. The reply was immediate: “Yes, quick.” Cottam raced to the bridge and breathlessly told First Officer Dean. Dean didn’t hesitate—he bolted down the ladder, through the chartroom and into the captain’s cabin, Cottam hard on his heels.4
For Capt. Arthur H. Rostron, such indecorous behavior was a bit much; people were expected to at least knock before barging in on the captain, especially when he was asleep. But the reprimand died on his lips when a clearly anxious Dean told him about the Titanic. Rostron swung his legs out of bed and then seemed lost in thought for a few seconds as he digested the news.
“Mr. Dean, turn the ship around—steer northwest, I’ll work out the course for you in a minute.” As Dean sped back to the bridge, Rostron turned his attention to Cottam. “Are you sure it’s the Titanic and she requires immediate assistance?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You are absolutely certain?”
“Quite certain, sir.”
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“All right, tell him we are coming along as fast as we can.” Cottam left and Rostron began dressing, his mind racing.
Forty-three years old, Rostron had spent the last thirty of them at sea, the first ten in sail. He had joined Cunard in 1892 and had risen steadily, if unspectacularly, up the company ladder. (Cunard captains are never expected to be spectacular. The conscientiousness and circumspection of Cunard skippers was—and still is—legendary.) He was an experienced mariner, known and respected throughout Cunard as “the Electric Spark” for his decisiveness and boundless, infectious energy. He was also noted for his piety; he neither smoked nor drank, was never heard to use profanity, and in a day and age when recourse to the Almighty was not regarded as quaint or a sign of weakmindedness, was known to turn to prayer for guidance.
In January 1912 he was given command of the Carpathia, a 14-knot, 13,564-ton liner that plodded along the Atlantic track between New York and the Mediterranean. This cold April morning she was three days out of New York, carrying approximately 800 passengers in three classes, on what had been up to now an uneventful crossing. In all of Rostron’s years at sea, he had never been called upon to carry out a rescue. This was to be his first real test.
As he straightened his tie and set his cap square on his head, Rostron settled the last few details in his mind. Striding out into the chartroom he began working out the details of the Carpathia’s new course. After a few minutes he made a quick trip up to the bridge to give the helmsman the new course—North 52 West—then called down to the engine room to order Full Speed Ahead. At the Carpathia’s top speed of fourteen knots she would cover the distance between herself and the Titanic in four hours, which was not good enough for Rostron. Now he swung into action.
Returning to the chartroom he called for Chief Engineer Johnstone. Speed, he told Johnstone, he wanted more speed than the old Carpathia had ever mustered. Call out the off-duty watch to the engine room, get every available stoker roused to feed the furnaces. Cut off the heat and hot water to passenger and crew accommodations, put every ounce of steam the boilers made into the engines.
Next he spoke to First Officer Dean and gave him a list of things to be done: all routine work knocked off; the ship prepared for a rescue operation; swing out the ship’s boats; have clusters of electric lights rigged along the ship’s sides; all gangway doors to be opened, with block and tackle slung at each gangway; slings ready for hoisting injured aboard and canvas bags for lifting small children; ladders prepared for dropping at each gangway, along with cargo nets; forward derricks to be rigged and topped, with steam in the winches, for bringing luggage and cargo aboard; oil bags readied in the lavatories to pour on rough seas if needed.
Dean set to immediately and Rostron turned to the ship’s surgeon, Dr. McGhee: the three surgeons aboard to be assigned to specific stations—McGhee himself in First Class, the Italian doctor in Second, and the Hungarian doctor in Third. All three were to be supplied with stimulants and restoratives and first aid stations to be set up in each dining saloon.
To Purser Brown: see that the chief steward, the assistant purser, and the purser himself each covered a different gangway to receive the Titanic’s passengers and crew; get their names and classes and see to it that each one went to the correct dining saloon for a medical check.
Chief Steward Henry Hughes received an additional set of instructions: every crewman was to be called out; coffee was to be available for all hands. Also, soup, coffee, tea, brandy, and whiskey should ready for those rescued; the smoking room, lounge, and library were to be converted into dormitories for survivors. All the Carpathia’s steerage passengers were to be grouped together; the extra space would be given over to the Titanic’s steerage passengers.
Finally Rostron urged everyone to keep quiet: the last thing they needed was the Carpathia’s passengers lurking about while there was work to be done. To help keep the passengers where they belonged, stewards were stationed along every corridor to shepherd the curious back into their cabins. An inspector, a master-at-arms, and several stewards were sent down to keep the steerage passengers in order—no one was sure how they would react to being herded about in the wee hours of the morning.5
His instructions issued, Rostron quickly reviewed everything he had ordered, trying to think of what he had overlooked. There didn’t seem to be anything, so he quickly strode to the bridge and began posting extra lookouts. He was determined that the Carpathia was not about to meet the same fate as the ship she was rushing to aid. Rostron had an extra man posted in the crow’s nest, two lookouts in the bow, extra hands posted on both bridge wings, and Second Officer James Bisset, who had especially keen eyesight, posted on the starboard bridge wing.
Now having done all he could do, Rostron faced the toughest task—waiting. But there was one last detail Rostron did not overlook. Second Officer Bisset noticed it first; then so did the others on the bridge—the captain standing toward the back of the bridge holding his cap an inch or two off his head, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer.6
Down in the boiler room the extra hands were put to work shoveling coal into the furnaces of the boilers. First the safety valves were closed off, then the engineers began to systematically shut off steam to the rest of the ship, ducting it instead into the reciprocating engines. Up, down, up, down, up, down, the pistons pounded, as the chief engineer watched the revolutions steadily increasing. Faster and faster the ship drove ahead—14 knots ... 14½ ... 15 ... 16 ... 16½ ... 17 knots. The old Carpathia had never gone so fast.
The deck crew was soon roused by First Officer Dean and put to work collecting extra blankets, shifting furniture in the dining saloons, and rigging the extra equipment ordered by Captain Rostron. It all seemed utterly bewildering to the crew since no explanation had been given for this flurry of activity, but Dean felt explanations could wait.
Chief Steward Hughes thought his men could do a better job if they had an idea of what was happening, so at 1:15 A.M. he gathered all his stewards in the main dining saloon. Quickly, quietly, he told about the Titanic, explained how the rescue was up to the Carpathia, then pausing dramatically and eyeing each man directly, solemnly intoned: “Every man to his post and let him do his duty like a true Englishman. If the situation calls for it, let us add another glorious page to British history.” The stewards immediately set to work, determined that when they arrived at the Titanic’s side, they would be ready for anything.7
Phillips was still bent over the wireless key, mechanically tapping out his call and hoping that by some miracle a closer ship would suddenly respond. Even if the Frankfort, the Olympic, or any of the other ships didn’t realize it—though thankfully Cottam on the Carpathia seemed to understand how serious the situation was—Phillips knew that the ship was doomed.
The news was spreading. Ships within range of the Titanic passed the word on to other ships that weren’t, and the station at Cape Race was able to pick up Phillips’s signals directly. Soon the operator there relayed the Titanic’s messages inland, where they were picked up by the wireless station atop the New York Times Building in New York City. In Philadelphia, Wannamaker’s department store had recently installed a wireless office, capitalizing on the public’s interest in the new technology. The office had actually been set up in one of the store’s front windows, and this was where a young wireless operator named David Sarnoff caught the signals from Cape Race. He in turn quickly passed the word on to other stations farther inland; slowly the New World was awakening to the unfolding tragedy in the North Atlantic.8
The Titanic had slowly begun listing to port, and now there was a yawning gap nearly three feet wide between the deck and the sides of the lifeboats on the port side of the ship. A young French woman tried to jump across into Boat 10 but missed. Desperately she clutched at the gunnels of the lifeboat while her feet caught the railing of the deck below. She was quickly pulled back aboard, and she tried again, this time successfully. Meanwhile children were being rushed into Boat 10,
Seaman Evans later recalled that some were just “chucked in,” one baby being caught by a woman passenger who snatched at the child’s dressing gown. Shortly Boat 10 was ready to be lowered, and as the boat began its descent, a man rushed to the rail. To Fifth Officer Lowe, who tried to stop him, he looked like a “crazed Italian”—although to Lowe, anyone who tried to rush a lifeboat was either a “Dago” or an “Italian.” In this case Lowe couldn’t stop the man, who jumped into the boat just as it was dropping below the level of the deck.
Lowe crossed to the opposite side of the ship, where a knot of Second and Third Class women passengers were waiting on A Deck to get into Boat 11, and immediately began helping the women get aboard. Edith Russell came rushing up, clutching her toy pig, which she had wrapped in a blanket. A steward took her pig, and thinking it was a baby, tossed it to one of the women in the boat, then helped Edith climb over the rail and into the boat.9
Mrs. Allen Becker had just put her two youngest children into the boat when it suddenly began to lurch downward. “Please let me go with my children !” she cried. She was quickly rushed up and into the boat. At the last second she realized that her eldest daughter Ruth was still waiting on the deck. Mrs. Becker called out to the girl, “Get into the next boat!” as Boat 11 descended. As the boat reached the water, someone up on deck called down, “Is there a seaman in the boat?” When there was no reply, Seaman Brice slid down the after fall and cast off from the ship.10
Kate Buss couldn’t bear to watch as the boats were being lowered: it was such an emotionally wrenching sight to her that she deliberately averted her eyes from the boats. Standing on the starboard side of the Boat Deck, once again joined by Marion Wright and Douglas Norman, Kate pondered her chances of being rescued along with her friends. Shortly the trio was joined by another shipboard acquaintance, Dr. Alfred Pain. When the cry came up from Boat 9 of “Any more ladies there?” the two men hustled Marion and Kate forward to the waiting boat. Miss Wright stepped across and into the boat without a word, and as Miss Buss was climbing aboard, she noticed a number of men already seated in the boat. She beckoned to Norman and Pain to follow, but crewmen barred the two men from joining her, and the boat was quickly lowered.
Unsinkable: The Full Story of the RMS Titanic Page 18