Later
I was just interrupted in my writing, but it was a pleasure, as a deck steward served me a hot mug of broth. I cannot get over how delightful it is to have people bring you things without even being asked. The liquid tastes beefy, and rich, and full of goodness from the marrow. I expect to be quite stout when this voyage is over.
Shortly before noon, Mrs. Carstairs and I went along with the general flow of passengers heading for the upper decks. Florence remained behind, sleeping on Mrs. Carstairs’s canopy bed. Instead of taking a lift this time, we climbed what I heard people calling the Grand Staircase. It was, unquestionably, a very impressive piece of architectural artistry—broad mahogany steps winding upward, with a dome-shaped glass skylight above. A statue of a cherub holding a light aloft graced the middle railing, and a beautifully carved wooden clock with a pair of intricately detailed figures dominated the wall at the top of the landing. The time read 11:50.
The railings up on the Boat Deck were so crowded that we could find no place to stand. We moved down to B Deck, and found a small open space along the Promenade. I felt a shiver of excitement each time the steam whistles blew, trumpeting our departure. The air seemed filled with a sense of tremendous anticipation.
Below us, the quay was also jammed by an enthusiastic crowd of people waving their handkerchiefs or hats, and shouting farewells. In return, our passengers were also waving, and tossing single flowers or even full bouquets over the side. Some splashed into the water, while others were caught by lucky onlookers. I am sure I will never be able to forget that feeling of shared festivity and jubilation.
The Titanic is such a large ship that a group of tugboats have been assembled to tow us away, out into Southampton Water. As we began to move, ever so slightly, a tremendous cheer rose up. There were other boats berthed nearby, and their passengers and crew members were waving at us, too.
Out of nowhere came several sharp cracking sounds. I was afraid part of the ship had broken apart, but then saw a smaller ship break free of its mooring ropes and veer in our direction. It looked as though she might crash right into us! Some of the people by the railing did not even notice, while others gasped. The Titanic did not seem able to turn out of the way in time, but then a wave of water slowed the other ship, and one of the tugboats steered it to safety. An Englishman standing a few feet away from us said, “Well, what can you expect from a ship called the New York?” Mrs. Carstairs was not the only American nearby who did not laugh at this. My fellow Brits, though, were almost uniformly amused.
There was something of a delay as the New York was secured, and I heard people grumble about being thrown off schedule. To me, it seemed a minor mishap and hardly worth complaining about. I was merely relieved that an accident had been averted. Two men behind us were talking seriously about the huge wake a ship like the Titanic created simply by moving her bulk through the water, and how anything in her path would be helpless in the face of that suction.
As she tends to be so nervous, I would have expected Mrs. Carstairs to be extremely upset about our near-miss, but she was chatting casually with the woman on her left and discussing mutual acquaintances — of which they seemed to have many. We were underway now, but other than a slight sense of engines throbbing somewhere far below me, I could barely feel the ship’s motion. Since I had been dreading a constant bobbing and lurching, this smooth and gentle pace came as a relief.
A bugle began trumpeting so close to us that I jumped. It was being played by a man in a crisp blue uniform with brass buttons. All around me, almost everyone began to move away from the railings and head back inside.
“Come along now, Margie-J.,” Mrs. Carstairs said briskly. “Time for our luncheon.”
From this, I gathered that it was routine for the sound of a bugle to announce meals. This was far preferable to the forceful banging on tin pots I had heard so many times during my childhood. It is also routine on board to call the midday meal luncheon and the evening meal dinner.
Margie-J. Do all Americans have a penchant for misbegotten nicknames, or is it just Mrs. Carstairs? A vulgar habit, to my way of thinking. Then I heard another American lady up ahead of us happily greeting someone else by shouting, “Bootsie! How are you?” Bootsie? God save us from the Colonies.
The first-class dining saloon was on D Deck. We waited, in a crush of people, for a lift, and then rode downstairs. There was a large, inviting reception room in front of us, and a small band was playing off to one side. I did not recognize the tune, but it was very cheery. The reception room was filled with wicker chairs surrounded by small round tables, and an array of large, reedy plants had been placed in strategic locations. It struck me as a cozy place to linger.
The dining saloon itself ran the full width of the ship, and seemed even longer. The room looked as though it could easily serve several hundred people, and yet, the small, elegant tables had, somehow, an intimate feel. The ceilings curved into detailed moldings, and were supported here and there by thin white columns. A plush, patterned carpet covered the floor, and the tall, frosted windows made it seem as though we were anyplace but aboard a ship.
It was not my place to take any initiative, so I sat in the chair Mrs. Carstairs indicated. It had a solid feel, with sturdy oaken arms and legs, and medium-green upholstery. At least two people my size could have fit in the seat, and I felt rather young and small perched on its edge. If I were not careful, I feared that I might slide right off. It was a chair designed to comfort the corpulent, I suspected.
The tablecloths were white, and a small lamp with a dark red shade sat in the middle of the table as a centerpiece. A napkin was folded like a pair of wings atop each plate, and accompanied by a daunting array of glassware and cutlery. Sister Catherine had advised me always to mimic whatever the most mannerly person at the table seemed to be doing, and I can only hope that technique will carry me through.
Our table seated six, and shortly we were joined by a Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, whom Mrs. Carstairs was delighted to see. She introduced me in the briefest possible way, and then they were off in an energetic conversation about the spring fashions, the delight of the Russian ballet, and an endless stream of people I did not know, and places I had never been. Even if I had felt bold enough to participate in the conversation, I would have had nothing to contribute to these topics. The Prescotts were pleasant to me, but expressed great disappointment that Mr. Carstairs had been unable to make the voyage. Mrs. Carstairs concurred, and then they began to speak of Broadway and the West End and other theatrical subjects.
Bangers and mash would have done me nicely, but our luncheon was far more impressive than that, with multiple courses. I elected not to drink any wine, and satisfied myself with water, instead. A cold potato soup, salmon, tiny spring peas, crisp asparagus with tart dressing, roasted meats — a stream of blackjacketed waiters bearing silver platters appeared at our table again and again. I generally prefer the heartier taste of mutton, but my sliced lamb was delicious. For that matter, everything—right down to the fruit tart and array of cheeses and fruits we were offered for dessert—was delicious.
After our meal, I was ready for a bit of a lie-down myself, so I was pleased when Mrs. Carstairs suggested returning to our cabins. In our absence, her flowers had been arranged, and there was even a bouquet of yellow daffodils in my room! Our clothing had also been unpacked, and the luggage stowed away.
“Fairies came to visit, eh?” I said.
Mrs. Carstairs laughed. “Oh, child, it is quite customary.”
An enchanting custom, I should say.
My washstand has been well supplied with thick towels and small scented soaps. After a mite of freshening up, I lay on my bed for a time, marveling once again at how I could scarcely tell that the ship was moving. Even the hum of the engines had begun to seem familiar, and not loud enough to be oppressive.
It was just after three, according to the small clock in my room, when I went to take Florence for a walk, and ultimately ended up h
ere on the Promenade, lounging on a deck chair. Yet another steward even brought me a steamer rug to tuck about my legs so I would not get chilled.
I have been sitting here writing for a while, then pausing to watch people stroll by. A number of children have been playing on the deck, tended by governesses for the most part, as well as the occasional parent. The children have tops, and marbles, and other small toys too numerous to mention. Except for one or two stormy bouts of tears, they all seem to be having a happy afternoon. Part of me would like to go over and join in, but as a hired companion, I do not suppose I am permitted to engage in childish pursuits on this trip. At one point, a ball rolled over in my direction, and I tossed it back to the boy who owned it. Even though he was probably only a year or two younger than I am, he just said, “Thank you, miss,” and raced off to continue his game. I cannot help feeling a bit left out — too old to play with the children, and too young and naive to interact with the adults. In these fancy clothes, I can pass for one of them — but, to me, the differences in our social backgrounds feel too huge to overcome.
I suppose I should have a driving desire to examine the ship from top to bottom, but so far, I would rather adjust gradually to being here. There will be plenty of time for exploration in the days to come.
But now I think Florence could do with stretching her small legs, so I will write more later.
Thursday, 11 April 1912
RMS Titanic
I had every intention of continuing my entry last night, but fell asleep almost before I had a chance to lie down. The sea air can do that, Mrs. Carstairs tells me.
We stopped in Cherbourg, France, last night, and more passengers boarded the ship. The water was not deep enough for us to steam all the way in, so smaller boats brought the passengers out and transferred them aboard. “Tenders,” those boats are called; I am not sure why. I would like now to be able to claim that I have been to France, but sitting quite some distance offshore does not really count, I suppose. I saw the coast, at least.
This morning, we are en route to Queenstown, Ireland. I hope that we dock close enough to be able to see the land of my father’s birth. It would be even better if we were able to disembark, so I could touch the soil of my ancestors, but that seems doubtful.
Robert knocked on my door early this morning, and then brought in tea, scones, marmalade, and a perfect little bunch of grapes. He stayed to talk for a few moments, and I found out that this is his first job as a full-fledged steward, as opposed to being an assistant, and that he was very excited to have been assigned to first class.
“A strange thing happened yesterday,” I told him, indicating the cheerful vase on my bedside table. “Elves came, and brought me a gift.”
“They must have liked your smile, Miss Brady,” he said, with a grin. Then, a bell rang in a stateroom somewhere down the hall, and he had to leave to answer it.
I ate every bite of the food he had brought, yet still had no trouble eating a full breakfast in the dining saloon later. Perhaps the sea air makes one hungry, too? Not that having a large appetite is unusual for me, mind you.
After breakfast, Mrs. Carstairs thought it would be nice to spend an hour or two in the first-class writing room, which is next to the lounge. Queenstown will be our last opportunity to post letters before we arrive in New York. Quite a few other passengers seemed to have the same idea, but we were able to find an empty desk and two chairs without much difficulty. There are lots of postcards and fancy vellum stationery available for the passengers to use. The top of the stationery has the same red flag with the White Star logo that I have seen on so many other items, like menus and matchbooks, on the ship. Next to the logo is printed: ON BOARD R M S “TITANIC.” I am tempted to slip a few sheets into this diary to keep as a souvenir; I wonder if anyone would mind my doing so. I will ask Robert, maybe, later, if it would be all right. I am hoping that he and I will be friends, as I do not feel at all shy talking to him.
I wrote fairly detailed letters about the trip to William and Sister Catherine, and then worked on a simpler note to Nora. She cannot yet read, but I printed neatly in the hope that she might enjoy practicing. Then I wasted several sheets of the stationery trying to draw an accurate picture of the ship for her to hang by her bed. I began to get frustrated at my lack of even minimal artistic competence, and crumpled one of the sheets so loudly that several people in the room looked up. Mrs. Carstairs was mortified by this unexpected attention, which I attempted to divert by looking around as though I, too, were searching for the dastardly crumpling culprit.
A broad-shouldered man with kind, clean-shaven features stopped next to our desk. I had noticed him walking around, seemingly observing everyone for about twenty minutes, and he must have noticed my sketching struggles. He leaned over and examined my discarded drawings before I had time to cover them with my hand. My face felt hot with embarrassment, as they truly were inept.
“Please excuse my disruption,” I said. “I am trying to send a picture to a little girl of whom I am terribly fond.”
He smiled, and said he would be happy to put together a quick diagram for me, if I would like. I thanked him, but explained that to Nora, my having drawn the ship myself would mean more to her than the quality of the rendering.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, in that case, may I suggest that you angle the funnels more? Then just try for very clean lines. Long strokes, instead of attempting so much detail.”
I gave that a try, and my next effort showed some small improvement.
“There you go,” he said. “I think you’ll do very nicely now.”
I thanked him again, and then he said, “Good day, ladies,” and went on his way.
“My goodness, that was Mr. Andrews!” Mrs. Carstairs said in an awed voice, once he was gone.
“A nice fellow,” I agreed, drawing intently.
“He designed the ship,” she said.
Startled, I stopped drawing. “Then I guess he would have done quite an accurate illustration,” I said finally.
Mrs. Carstairs shook her head, seeming exasperated. “You are a most curious child, M. J.”
M. J. “I thank you, Mrs. Upstairs,” I said.
“A very difficult child,” she said, sounding much more exasperated.
I nodded, sadly, and we both returned to our letters.
Later
I am in my stateroom now, getting ready for bed. Once our letters were completed this morning, we went up to the Boat Deck to watch for Ireland. Mrs. Carstairs did not see the urgency of this, but elected to humour me and come along. The sky was bright blue, and nearly cloudless; the sea, flowing in smooth, dark swells. There was an invigorating breeze, and I took several deep breaths of the wintry air.
Mrs. Carstairs looked uneasy. “Where is your coat, I ask you?”
I assured her that I was quite warm, with my sweater thrown over my shoulders. It is not a fashionable garment, so I knew she would prefer that I not put it all the way on.
How jarring it was to look in every direction, and see nothing but the ocean. Given the implications of that, too much thought would have made me apprehensive, so I decided it would be far better to praise this phenomenon.
“‘Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,/Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea,’” I said.
“Browning again?” Mrs. Carstairs asked, after a pause.
I had only meant to be jovial, not put her in an uncomfortable position. “Keats,” I said, after a pause of my own.
She nodded heartily. “But of course.”
From now on, I think I will refrain from spontaneous quotations.
The wind was increasing, and more and more people on the deck were retreating to the warmth of the Promenade or one of the public rooms. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Carstairs decided that she, too, would prefer to go back inside. I promised to join her when the bugler announced luncheon. We were going to try the Café Parisien this time, instead of the dining saloon.
As she left, I observ
ed that I was cold, so I gave up and shrugged into my sweater, watching the horizon intently the entire time. If Ireland appeared, I did not want to miss anything. Then I saw grey shapes rising up out of nowhere. Hills? Mountains? As we drew closer, the land grew more distinct. There were steep, stark cliffs, grey and barren, with extraordinary green pastures and hills behind them. The land was both rocky and lush, and I fell in love with it at once. It lacked the civility and dignity of the English countryside, but somehow had a wild, bewitching charm. An intoxicating charm. So much green! How could potatoes ever have dreamed of refusing to thrive in fields like that? It seemed a crime against nature, as well as humanity.
Once again, we did not enter the harbour; but, rather, tenders crowded with new passengers rode out to meet us. Realizing that I was looking at Cork, where my father had been born, brought tears to my eyes. How I would have loved to have him standing here next to me, at this very moment. Mummy never got a chance to see Ireland, either, and I know she would be staring as eagerly as I was.
There were other boats following the tenders, with people inside clamoring to come aboard. I asked a bundled-up woman reading in a deck chair what they were, and she said that the boats contained merchants hoping to come aboard and make a quick profit. A few actually were allowed to set up shop while we were anchored, and I heard later that they were displaying the most beautiful lace, along with china and linen.
It was with deep regret that I went inside for luncheon, and I barely noticed my food, so eager was I to return to the Boat Deck and admire Ireland. Two shrill middle-aged sisters were seated at our table, and they told us, at giggling length, about the horrifying thing they had seen while they were out on the deck. A demonlike face had appeared to them, peeking out of the aft funnel, and laughing, as one of them put it, like “Beelzebub himself!” Mr. Prescott, who was also at our table with his wife, assured them that it had certainly been a member of the crew doing maintenance work. The sisters remained convinced that there must be a more sinister explanation. This was altogether too eccentric for me, and I asked to be excused, so that I could go back outside. Mrs. Carstairs agreed reluctantly, but urged me to stay away from the funnel in question, just in case.
Voyage on the Great Titanic Page 5