Spirit of the Titanic (14 page)

Charles was quite drunk but seemed as calm and collected as ever, even as he filled the silence with small talk. Once again I pretended he was talking to me. I imagined us to be walking together, in full conversation, as if we had known each other for years. It helped to take my mind off my own confusing thoughts.

“I never saw this coming, that's for sure. This was the very deck I explored, that day, before any passenger came on board. All this beautiful work, too beautiful to last.”

Suddenly there was the sound of frantic shouting outside. Peering together through the windows of the promenade, we were equally shocked to see people already in the water.

“Surely it's too soon for that to be necessary?” Charles wondered aloud to himself.

We could just about make out heads and flailing arms, the sight of which made the baker shiver. He only noticed now that the ship was sagging in a field of icebergs.

“Why, it must be freezing down there.”

There was a pitiful howl of “Help, Help, I can't swim” that made the baker gasp. He had to do something, but what? Waving at the half-submerged passengers he shouted out the rather useless “Hang on!” and looked around for something, anything, he could make use of.

Deck chairs were stacked throughout, ready to be dotted around the deck the following morning. Dashing over, he grabbed three at a go and began pushing them through the small windows, which wasn't easy. He worked fast, only stopping when there were no more to throw. Meanwhile the shouts from below in the freezing water had stopped.

It was a sobering experience. Charles shivered slightly and sighed. “So, this is it, then. Well, we'll see about that. Hey, George?”

Setting his shoulders back, his stride became deliberate as he continued on his way.

“J
ack, watch out!” I heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the Marconi office and got there just in time to find a man, whose sooty skin identified him as a greaser, trying to take Jack's lifejacket.

Grateful to have a reason to release his pent-up anxiety, Harold roared, “Hey! Put that back, you thieving bastard! Jack! Jack!”

For the first time since the crash, Jack turned his back on the machine and the two telegraphists tackled the man, grabbing the jacket from him and knocking him down. It was Jack who swung the fist that caught the thief squarely in the mouth. The greaser swooned under the impact and hit the water with a splash. The boys looked at one another, breathing heavily from the unexpected exertion. I don't think either of them had ever been in a fight before.

Jack grabbed a pencil and paper. “Right, get his name, so I can report him.”

I was aghast. Surely they knew there wasn't any time for this.

Harold shook the unconscious man and asked breathlessly, “You don't think we've killed him, do you?”

“Don't be daft. Look at his chest; he's still breathing.”

He wasn't dead, I knew that much, but he was definitely out for the count. Even the lapping of the water around his ears didn't wake him up. Harold bent down to try to lift him, but then the lights flickered for maybe two long seconds. Power was on the way out. So, instead, he thrust the precious lifejacket into his friend's arms.

“Please put this on right now. I mean it!”

Jack was finally obedient. Then, just as they gathered themselves to make a final decision regarding their sleeping visitor, they heard the sea. How peculiar that the sight of it in their office didn't hold quite the same terror as hearing it. Jack snapped to attention, eager for action after being trapped in his chair for so long. “It must be on the bridge. Come on, let's clear out.”

Harold nodded and stepped over the figure on the floor, saying, “He's probably better sleeping through it.”

Therefore, they left the injured man behind because there was no time to lose — absolutely no time at all.

* * *

There was one more person I wanted to find before I went back outside. I made my way back to the first-class smoking room and found Arthur looking for something behind the bar.

“Aha! There you are. Thank goodness for that.”

It was his wallet. How ironic that his wages should be the last thing he would think off, unlike the rich women in first class who summoned their jewels before doing anything else.

As he shoved the wallet into his pocket, he was surprised to find he wasn't alone. There was a lone figure in front of the great fireplace. Arthur's surprise was even greater when he saw it was Mr. Thomas Andrews, the very man I was looking for.

There was something very final about the way he was standing perfectly still and staring blindly at the painting over the mantlepiece. His lifejacket was sitting uselessly on a table beside him. Arthur recognized the stance of a man who had made up his mind to do nothing more. The waiter knew it was probably pointless to ask, maybe even rude to interrupt a man's thoughts at a time like this, but, on the other hand, he couldn't just walk away from him. So, he cleared his throat politely and in vain, since Mr. Andrews seemed completely unaware that he wasn't alone. It was as if he was in a trance. Arthur was, thus, obliged to call out to him in his most respectful tone. “Mr. Andrews? Sir? Aren't you even going to try?”

The ship's designer merely waved one limp hand at the older man without taking his eyes off the painting. Arthur, who was very fond of Mr. Andrews, always finding him to be polite and extremely pleasant to serve, raised his own hand in turn and saluted the engineer, adding a hearty, “Good luck, sir,” before walking outside without a backward glance.

About a second after Arthur left the room, Mr. Andrews looked around. Had someone been there or had he just imagined it? It was 2:15 a.m., barely enough time to think about everything. The lights flickered a couple of times, reminding him of the engine room and all the fellows who had cheerfully refused to leave their post.

I have killed them all. I designed her and her flaws and all I have to offer, by way of penance, is myself.

Of course there were many more than Mr. Andrews involved in the creation of
Titanic
, but he was prepared to accept the entire blame because that was the type of man he was. Perhaps he even felt responsible for the very existence of icebergs in that part of the world, especially at this time of the year. Arthur couldn't have known all this. He couldn't have understood that Mr. Andrews would not be making a go of it while brave men, like his team of engineers and even the little orchestra, had chosen to stay put.

His thoughts filled the room, rebounding off the panelled walls, the chandeliers, and the very glasses that Jim and Mr. Stead had used.

I am not brave; I have no choice. How could I arrive home knowing that so many had to stay behind because of a hole opened up by ice in a ship that I designed? God help me, but my life seems a pitiful penance for such a wanton mess of this scale.

He allowed no room in his broken heart for his beloved wife and baby daughter. That must be the genuine part of his sacrifice, preventing himself from ever seeing them again. They would be alright for money, which was more than could be said for the families of
Titanic
's crew. There now, he would make himself responsible for the hundreds of relatives, bereft of their breadwinners.

Why had this to happen? Had it been wrong of him and his colleagues to attempt such an incredible thing, a ship that was indestructible, no matter what Mother Nature threw at her? Did they make God angry by trying to imitate his perfection? A story he had learned as a schoolboy came floating back to him. It was a famous story from Ancient Greece about a man who made himself and his son a pair of waxen wings so that they could escape their captivity. The wings work beautifully; the two of them fly off, free at last, exhilarated by the fact that they are soaring like birds. Icarus, for that is the man's name, pushes himself to climb higher and higher and starts to believe that he might actually be able to meet with the gods in the Heavens. His pride leads him to make a fatal error when his outrageous ambition makes him fly too near the sun. Not too surprisingly, the wax wings melt and he falls to his death, with the gods' blessing. The moral of the story is that no mere mortal should ever think he's on an equal setting with the gods.

But surely God wants us to make use of the gifts he has given us. After all, if it weren't for boats, we would never get to see and appreciate the rest of the earth. Boats give us freedom, and surely God means us to experience that. The world is a fine, big planet. How dreadful it would be to waste it and remain in ignorance about other countries and peoples across the water.

I went to his side, wishing that I could comfort him. But even if he could have heard me, I was only a boy. His grief was much too big for me.

The painting over the fireplace was a rather cheerful one. It was no wonder that he preferred to dwell on it instead of going outside into the bitter cold. Norman Wilkinson was the painter's name and his picture was entitled “Plymouth Harbour.” He must love boats as much as Mr. Andrews because there were no less than ten of them, if not more, in his splendid painting. They were all different sizes though none nearly as big as
Titanic
.

There was a wonderful flow to the scene; everything seemed in perfect harmony with everything else. It was all as it should be: blue sky, pretty blue sea, green grass, boats in shipshape, not a tear from an iceberg in sight, and fishermen relaxing in the morning sun — the complete opposite of what was happening right now. Nothing bad would ever happen to anyone in the picture. The same couldn't be said for those still on
Titanic
.

As I stared at the picture, it went blurry and was replaced by a completely different one. I was looking at Mr. Andrews sitting in a carriage, talking with his wife. He must be remembering it. They seemed to be coming home from a party. She was all dressed up but looked sleepy as she leaned her head against his arm.

“And what did you men talk about after dinner?”

“You wouldn't believe it if I told you.”

“Oh, Thomas, now you must tell me. You can't leave me wondering. I won't sleep.”

Mr. Andrews laughed and patted his wife on the head. “All right, but you're to promise not to be frightened by it.”

His wife moved away from him and exclaimed, “My dear, you're frightening me now. How can I promise something about which I know nothing?”

“Don't be alarmed, Helen. It's just that some fellow told us that an American businessman, whose name I've forgotten, has cancelled his ticket for
Titanic
because he dreamed he saw the ship disappear into the sea. It's the strangest thing I've ever heard.”

His wife shivered suddenly. “Oh my, that is peculiar. Maybe you should stay at home, just this once, and get someone else to go in your place?”

“Now, Helen, why on earth would you be worried? Do you not trust your husband?”

His wife was rattled by his reaction. “Of course I trust you! What a thing to say. And what has my trusting you got to do with anything?”

“Well, if you trust me and my abilities as a designer, then you must know that there is nothing to worry about. You've seen her in the shipyard; you've remarked on her size and apparent strength. So, how could you possibly think that anything could happen to me? She is the finest work I've ever done.”

Slightly irritated by her husband talking about
Titanic
as if she were a far superior woman to the one he was married to, Mrs. Andrews, nevertheless, was contrite and apologized for her words. “Oh dear, I see what you mean. I'm sorry, Thomas. Of course you are right. She,
Titanic
, is as splendid as her designer.”

They kissed and made up on the spot.

The laughing couple disappeared, leaving behind the dull reflection of the strained face of Mr. Andrews as he gazed upon Mr. Wilkinson's clear, blue water. He wouldn't even permit himself the comfort of sitting down to wait. No, he didn't deserve that much. It was only proper and decent that he remain on his feet to face what was coming.

For just a second, just before I took my leave of him, he saw me too, in the painting. I was sure of it. In response to whatever he glanced in my expression, he whispered three words, “I'm so sorry.”

I shook my head, but it was too late: he closed his eyes in shame, and I had to go.

H
ow much time was left? I went outside, where I was relieved to find the band still playing together. Plenty of people hovered near them without realizing it. I felt that if someone had suddenly landed in their midst — like me — and asked them if they were enjoying the music, the accidental listeners might have looked bewildered as they responded, “What music?”

Wallace had never heard his grandfather's violin sing so sweetly. It was as if the wise, old instrument understood that this was its final performance. He was determined to keep a firm hold of it, no matter what happened. It would take a lot more than water to separate him from such a faithful friend. When he saw the sea begin to swirl its way around the deck, sneaking in and around the wooden legs of the deck chairs, he knew it was time. He took the opportunity to say a few words:

“My dear friends, it has been my privilege to work with you. I wish to thank you all for your talent, your friendship, and your constant support and co-operation with this impromptu concert of ours. Now, with your approval, I'd like to suggest an appropriate melody, one that had been a favourite of mine since childhood.”

They all smiled in ready agreement, content to play whatever he asked of them. Not one thought of walking away. Music would save them, or, at least, the most important part of them. Such was their trust in Wallace that each one of them preferred to stand next to him — as the sound of the sea grew louder — than on any other part of the ship. Wallace positioned his violin into the curve of his neck and strummed the opening notes of that exquisite hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee.” Theodore, missing his piano, sang out the words:

There let the way appear steps unto Heaven

All that thou sendest me, in mercy given;

Angels to beckon me, nearer my God to Thee

Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.

He knew how much Wallace loved this hymn, because the bandmaster had told him that this was the hymn he wanted played at his funeral. He sang it now with pride, glad he could do this for his friend. The hymn had also been a favourite of my mother's. I hoped someone had sung it at her funeral.

One family was definitely listening to the orchestra. They swayed almost, keeping time with the violinist, allowing the music to wash away their fears and their not-too-serious sins. From Sweden, mother, father and their five children, they were preparing to follow through on a decision made earlier. I understood what they planned to do and moved over to be with them. Before Wallace led the band into the next verse, the family formed a closed circle, shutting out all other distractions as they held and kissed one another goodbye. Few people took any notice of them as most were caught up in their own looming dilemma. When they felt ready, the parents and children walked to the front of the ship, whereupon they formed a chain by holding hands and then they walked together, side by side, into the ocean. I watched them drown, envying them their absolute love for one another.

The brave Swedes weren't the only ones to take to the water while
Titanic
still lingered. As she nosed down, inch by inch, people who were trapped in the lower decks, with no time to reach the crowd above, found themselves washed overboard or simply took the plunge because, really, that seemed to be their only option.

In another corner a priest prayed with a group of passengers. His listeners seemed to take strength from his steady voice: “Our Father Who Art in Heaven …” Those who didn't care for the priest formed their own groups, to say their particular brand of prayers.

Water lapped freely over the front of the ship. This terrifying sight divided the crowd of passengers and crew. The question was whether to stay at the front or else try to leave the water behind by charging to the stern, the back of the ship. Accordingly, some stayed where they were; others began to edge back, reluctantly, all still hoping that this wasn't the end.

I wasn't a prophet, so I hoped, too, that complete disaster would be averted.

All things considered, the atmosphere on deck was calm and reflective. Here and there men shook hands with one another, making promises to contact, if they lived, the relatives of their companions should they not.

“Won't you please take down my mother's address and I'll take yours? We can use the back of my business card. Do you have a pencil?”

The lights still glowed in the windows that were above water and, thanks to this, there was still some belief that all was not lost. Yet, here the water began, with determination, to flood the deck, sending the crowd, in their hundreds, to jog toward the stern. In and amongst the passengers were the staff and crew. I think that they were the most shocked of all; such was their belief that “their”
Titanic
was unsinkable. Oh, Charlie, Ed, Jack: I'm glad you aren't here to see this.

Meanwhile the band maintained their position between the first and second funnel, continuing to serenade all who were left. I spied Captain Smith all alone in the bridge, twisting and turning the wheel absent-mindedly. He had a clear view of the bow of his ship kneeling further and further into the cold sea.

Second Officer Lightoller and his remaining men were still pulling on the ropes, in a desperate bid to release the last collapsible boat, the canvas inferior of the hardy lifeboat. The two telegraphists made their way over to him to see if they could be of any help.

I watched Charles Joughin, Chief Baker, pat the pocket that contained his cigarette case. Deep in thought, he turned his back on the approaching water, to survey the scene in front of him. It was a bit of climb now to the back of the ship, where he could see the crowd packed together. I could hear him wondering whether to join them or not. He decided against it because it seemed like a pointless exercise. The alcohol in his blood wouldn't allow him to entertain any silly ideas. It was better to face the inevitable instead of putting it off for just a few minutes more. Therefore, he slowly faced the ocean; indeed, he was already standing in it.

“Well, George, I guess we should be brave and put our trust in the Heavens above that it all works out. What do you think, lad?”

Without waiting for a reply, he blessed himself, waved at the musicians, who were starting to falter, and walked unsteadily to the front of
Titanic
and then off into the sea, in search of one of those deck chairs he had had the good sense to heave overboard.

* * *

I watched one woman tell her children, two boys and a girl, to wait for her as she crossed over to an officer and tapped him meekly on the arm.

“Excuse me, sir. My husband isn't here and I wanted to ask a man what would be best.”

The officer followed her gesture to her anxious children. “What do you mean?”

She took a moment to find the right words. “I need to know what to tell them.”

A father himself, the officer guessed her dilemma. “You are asking me if you should tell them that they might be about to die?”

She nodded tearfully. “Or should I say nothing? Give no warning? I don't know what to do. The girl is only seven and the boys aren't much older.”

The officer looked past her to the anxious faces of the sons and daughter.

“I'm sorry, madam. I don't know. I'm trying to picture my little kiddies standing over there but I can't imagine what I'd do.”

Crushed by his response, the mother bowed her head and turned away to rejoin her children.

“Wait a minute.”

The officer couldn't let her just walk away.

“Would you like if I stayed with you and the children? No matter what happens? I'll do my best for you all. I mean, I can only promise you what I'd promise my own family at a time like this.”

For an answer, she hugged him quickly and they walked back to the children together, to talk about great big ships and great big icebergs.

* * *

Captain Smith readied himself for the violence that he knew was coming. As the ship began to topple, the water crashed through the window of the bridge room. Just seconds before he was met by the ocean, he straightened his collar, puffing out his broad chest, and stood to attention. Unimpressed by the stripes on his jacket, the ocean knocked him clean off his feet and dragged him back out through the window to spit him into the wide, open sea.

The destruction had begun, at last.

Wallace Hartley and his musicians were finally silenced when a large wave that was completely unexpected rolled over the whole length of the ship, thanks to the sudden push downwards of
Titanic
's bow. The little orchestra were brutally dispersed in all directions. None of them was wearing a lifejacket; there had simply been no time. As Wallace was swallowed whole by the water, he thought, for just a moment, he was being stabbed by a thousand knives, such was the ferocity of the icy temperature. The only good thing about this was that he had no idea he had let go of his grandfather's violin. In his mind, he was still playing his favourite hymn as his eyes closed and his fingers began to freeze. It was shocking how fast they died.

I understood now that I would see everything and that I was powerless to stop it.

It had started with a spurt of green water, just a long, thin, persistent spurt that represented the strength and the sheer determination of Mother Nature, to thread
Titanic
as if she were a great big darning needle. The Atlantic Ocean pushed its way beneath closed doors and over the too-short walls of the watertight compartments. It trickled up stairways and poured over furniture, the most beautiful, lavish furniture that had ever been sent out to sea. Not content with polished tables, sparkling crystal glasses, and dainty chairs, it poured over those men who, knowing no better, had chosen to stay put in order to rescue letters, coal, tools and one another.

The ocean saw no difference between a dinner plate and the elderly man who sat alone in the pantry, sipping quietly from a bottle of the cook's brandy. Both were smashed up against the wall without any discrimination. The hard-working staff of Monsieur Gatti, including his ten cousins, heard the roar of the tons of water long before it burst through the door: upon them, over them and then rushed on, uprooting beds, wardrobes, and potted plants by their thousands.

Mr. Andrews,
Titanic
's popular designer, was flung into the cheerful picture above the mantlepiece. There was nothing personal in this; it was all perfectly natural. The brave postmen missed out on the destruction and, perhaps, that is exactly what they would have wanted. Nothing could stop the water; it ran freely, seeking out every crevice, every nook, every cubbyhole, and every passenger who had chosen to wait it out in their cabin.

Those marvellous engineers, the boys and the men of the Guarantee Group, fought to the bitter end. And it was a majestic battle, much like the ones fought by the fearless warriors of Ancient Greeks against the marauding, barbaric Persians, with the engineers pitching themselves against the Atlantic, in the fight to maintain electrical power. Fuses blew out all over the engine room; wires sizzled as the Atlantic proved far superior in strength, deck by deck. Still, they fought on for the remaining passengers and crew. Keeping the lights on was a matter of life and death for those 34 battle-worn heroes. When the lights began to go out, window by window, it meant the end of those brave, exhausted soldiers, who were finally overcome.

Meanwhile Second Officer Charles Lightoller prayed as hard as he could. He watched in horror as that devastating wave slapped up everything in sight. Screaming at his men to grab something to hold on to, he clung to the side of the collapsible that stubbornly refused to budge. The two telegraphists were caught off balance and I only saw Harold put up a fight. Had he not caught hold of the corner of the roof over the officers' quarters, he would surely have been lost, just like his friend and colleague, Jack Phillips.

Who knows, maybe Jack had never planned to return safely to his family and friends, back home in England. His guilt over that last ice warning had overwhelmed him when he finally had to face the aftermath of the collision. It was the same overwhelming guilt that I saw in Thomas Andrews, Captain Smith, and Frederick Fleet, who, at least, was safe. Over the previous two hours, Jack had worked in a sort of rage, determined to find help in time. His office, his desk, his chair, and, of course, his radio had served as a cocoon, shielding him from what was happening outside.

When he knocked out that poor unfortunate who had tried to steal his lifejacket, he could no longer ignore the noise of calamity and the sea water which chilled his toes. But, when he followed Harold outside, he wasn't prepared for what he would see. There were too many people to even begin to guess at their number. Tears welled up when he spotted individuals in the crowd, a girl of maybe 14 years, a seven-year-old boy, stranded toddlers, and little babies swaddled in blankets. Just before that wave hit, Jack spotted two babies lying on the ground beside one another, having been left to their fate. Their mothers, most likely, didn't want to watch them die. The wave took them in one gulp.

Harold didn't hear his friend's cry of anguish.

“No! No! How can this be?”

Jack did his best to hold on to the collapsible, but the water was far too aggressive and much too strong for a man who was exhausted and broken. He had fought and fought, never giving in to the belief that all was lost, that nobody was near enough to help. The ocean was greedily consuming the ship's heroes one by one. Officer Lightoller and I were the only ones who saw Jack go under and neither of us could tell Harold that he was wasting his precious breath, calling out for his brave friend.

Dear God, I don't want to die. Make this boat come free; it's our only hope.

I heard Officer Lightoller's prayer as if he had screamed it at the top of his voice. He needed a miracle; just a small one and he would do the rest. And it seemed that his prayer was heard because that same wave that sent so many spilling into the water to a certain death also wrenched the little boat free, at long last. That was the good news. The bad news was that the force of the wave tipped the boat upside down as it floated off
Titanic
. Lightoller, an immensely practical man, who never looked for perfection from anyone, including God, saw only that his prayer had been answered as best as it could be under the atrocious circumstances. The sea, having reached the roof he was now standing on, allowed him to do just as the baker had done.