The Other Side of the Night (10 page)

It was half past eleven o’clock on the night of April 14, 1912, on the North Atlantic, about three hundred miles southeast of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The brand new White Star liner
Titanic
, the largest and most luxurious passenger vessel in the world, was gliding smoothly through the water on her maiden voyage, bound for New York. On the bridge, First Officer William Murdoch had the watch, and he was quietly confident that the remaining two-and-a-half hours before his relief would be quite uneventful.

Even should something unusual arise, Murdoch was a man well-equipped to handle the unexpected. A short, wiry man with a pleasantly plain face and a ready smile that heralded boundless good humor, Murdoch was a Scot from Dalbeattie in Galloway, raised in a seafaring family. Like the
Titanic
’s Second Officer, C.H. Lightoller, he had done his apprenticeship in sail, earned all his certificates, then joined the White Star Line, serving first in the Australian trade, then moving to the passenger liners of the North Atlantic. He had served on an impressive succession of distinguished ships: the
Arabic
, the
Adriatic
(under Captain Smith, now the captain of the
Titanic
), then the
Oceanic
. Most recently he had been Captain Smith’s First Officer for two months on the
Titanic
’s sister ship,
Olympic
. Murdoch was a conscientious officer, and as he had amply demonstrated over the years, was an excellent seaman, with nearly faultless judgement and iron nerves. Captain Smith was certain to be glad Murdoch was on board.

Captain Smith, of course, was Captain Edward J. Smith, the commodore of the White Star Line. Solidly built, slightly above medium height, he was handsome in a patriarchal sort of way. His neatly trimmed white beard, coupled with his clear eyes, gave him a somewhat stern countenance, an impression that could be immediately dispelled by his gentle speaking voice and urbane manners. Respectfully and affectionately known as “E.J.” by passengers and crew alike, he was a natural leader, radiating a reassuring combination of authority, confidence, and good humor.

Captain Smith had, like most of his officers and most skippers on the North Atlantic, gone to sea as an apprentice at the age of twelve, signing on as a cabin boy on a square-rigged ship. After getting his certificates he signed on with the White Star Line at the age of twenty-seven, and his career had been an uninterrupted series of successes ever since. The captain of a passenger vessel on the North Atlantic run was expected to mingle socially with the First Class passengers, and Smith’s dignified manner and warm personality made him instantly popular on White Star ships. Some passengers thought so much of him that they booked crossings only on ships he commanded. White Star rewarded him for generating such a loyal following by giving him command of most of their new ships, so that a maiden voyage with Captain Smith in command became something of a tradition for the line.

He was also much admired among professional circles for his seamanship. “It was an education,” Second Officer Herbert Lightoller would later recall, “to see him con his own ship up the intricate channels entering New York at full speed. One particularly bad corner, known as the Southwest Spit, used to make us fairly flush with pride as he swung her round, judging his distances to a nicety; she was heeling over to the helm with only a matter of feet to spare between each end of the ship and the banks.” Despite such spectacular ship handling, Smith’s career was remarkable for its near-total absence of any accidents or incidents—in contrast to, say, that of Second Officer Lightoller, who had already been shipwrecked twice. In 1907 after Smith brought the brand new
Adriatic
to New York on her maiden voyage, he granted a request by New York papers for an interview. When asked about his career at sea, he responded:

At the same time Smith was asked about the safety of the ships he commanded. He gave his answer with absolute assurance: “I cannot imagine any condition which would cause a ship to founder. I cannot conceive of any vital disaster happening to this vessel. Modern shipbuilding has gone beyond that.”

It was just twenty minutes before midnight when Lookout Frederick Fleet, perched high in the crow’s nest on the
Titanic
’s foremast with Frederick Lee, thought he saw something straight ahead. The object appeared quite small at first, but grew rapidly in size, and Fleet hesitated for only a few seconds to make sure of the object’s identity before reaching up for the pull of the large bronze bell above his head. He gave three rings, the signal for “object ahead,” then quickly grabbed the telephone in the box on the mast behind him. After a few anxious seconds, someone on the bridge answered. “What is it?” the voice in the earpiece asked.

“Iceberg right ahead!”

On the bridge, Sixth Officer Moody, who had taken Fleet’s report, instantly relayed it to First Officer Murdoch, who reacted swiftly. “Hard a-starboard!” he snapped to the quartermaster who stood at the ship’s wheel. Murdoch then rang for full speed astern on both engines. Up in the crow’s nest it looked as if the ship would never turn in time, but at the last second the prow swung left, apparently missing the ice. Even so, it looked awfully close, and it seemed to Fleet that he could hear a distant, metallic ripping sound. On the bridge a faint trembling could be felt as the berg passed. Murdoch pulled the switch that closed the watertight doors to the boiler rooms and engine room, then stepped out onto the starboard bridge wing and watched the berg pass by the liner’s hull. It was so close he felt he could almost reach out and touch it.

In his cabin, feeling that faint trembling, Captain Smith immediately knew that his ship had struck something, and was on the bridge just seconds after the impact. Imperturbable but with a serious air, he asked, “Mr. Murdoch, what was that?”

“An iceberg, Captain. I ordered hard-a-starboard and rang for full speed astern. I was going to hard-a-port around it, but it was just too close.”

“Close the watertight doors.”

“Already closed, Captain.”

“All stop.”

“Aye, Captain.” Murdoch turned to the engine room telegraph and rang down for the engines to stop. Just then, Fourth Officer Joseph Boxhall came up to the bridge, and together with Smith and Murdoch, stepped out onto the starboard bridge wing, where for several seconds they peered vainly into the night trying to spot the iceberg. Stepping back inside, Smith sent Boxhall on a quick inspection of the ship. After just a few minutes Boxhall returned, saying he could find no damage below decks. His report didn’t satisfy Captain Smith, who told Boxhall, “Go and find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship.” As Boxhall ran down the bridge ladder, the carpenter, Jim Hutchinson, pushed past him on his way up to the bridge, blurting out, “She’s making water fast!”

Right behind Hutchinson came one of the ship’s postal clerks, Iago Smith, calling out, “The mail hold is filling rapidly!”

Boxhall worked his way down to the mail hold and for a minute or two watched the other four mail clerks, standing in water that was already almost knee deep, snatching letters from sorting racks and stuffing them into canvas bags, while around them floated other bags of mail, already full. Boxhall rushed back to the bridge to report what he had seen.

Chief Officer Wilde appeared and asked Captain Smith if it was serious. After hearing Boxhall’s report, Smith turned to Wilde and said, “Certainly. It is more than serious.” Smith asked for Thomas Andrews, the
Titanic
’s builder who was making the ship’s maiden voyage to help iron out any kinks in the new liner’s operations, to be brought to the bridge. He then turned and checked the commutator, a device showing if a ship is listing to port or starboard, or down by the bow or stern. At that moment the commutator showed the
Titanic
listing five degrees to starboard and two degrees down by the head. Smith stared at it for some seconds, then softly muttered, “Oh, my God!”

Moments after Andrews arrived on the bridge, he and Captain Smith were making their own inspection of the damage. They found flooding in the forward cargo holds, the mail room awash, the squash court floor covered with water, and water flooding into boiler rooms 5 and 6. Once back on the bridge, Andrews explained the situation: the collision with the iceberg had left the first six of the
Titanic
’s sixteen watertight compartments opened to the sea. It was simply impossible for the ship to remain afloat with that many of her compartments flooded. Andrews gave the ship less than two hours to live.

But that was not the worst of it. That night the
Titanic
was carrying 2,207 passengers and crew, yet because of hopelessly outdated Board of Trade regulations, there were lifeboats for only 1,178 f them. If no other ship could reach her in time, Andrews’ news was a death sentence for half the people on board the ship.

At 12:05 a.m., after issuing orders to uncover the boats and muster the passengers, Captain Smith left the bridge and walked back to the wireless shack. Inside, Senior Wireless Operator John Phillips and Junior Operator Harold Bride were completely unaware that anything had happened. Phillips was exhausted, having spent most of the day repairing a broken transmitter; once that job was done, he had been faced with a huge backlog of messages and was still desperately trying to get caught up. Mindful of Phillip’s fatigue, even though he wasn’t scheduled to come on duty until 2 a.m., Bride had offered to relieve Phillips at midnight to allow the senior operator to get some extra rest. Bride had just finished dressing when Captain Smith walked into the cabin.

“We’ve struck an iceberg,” the captain announced without preamble. “You’d better get ready to send out a call for assistance, but don’t send it until I tell you.” By this time Bride had taken Phillips’ place at the transmitter, and Phillips was behind the green curtain that separated their bunks from the wireless room itself. After hearing Captain Smith’s announcement, Phillips began getting dressed again.

Smith then returned to the chartroom, and once again asked for Fourth Officer Boxhall. At age 30, Boxhall had been with the White Star Line for five years. He came from a seafaring family, and indeed there must have been something nautical in his genes, for he had already acquired a reputation as being an outstanding navigator. Captain Smith had so much confidence in his skill that he routinely assigned Boxhall the responsibility of keeping the ship’s charts up-to-date, including any position, weather, or ice reports the
Titanic
might receive. Now he asked Boxhall to work out the
Titanic
’s current position.

There was no time for the complicated procedure of taking star sights, so Boxhall worked out the
Titanic
’s position through a process known as “dead reckoning.” Actually the term is something of a misnomer, for the “dead” comes from a verbal shorthand for “deductive”—the ship’s position would be “deduced” by starting with the last sun sighting taken that day (around 7:30 p.m.), then using the ship’s speed to determine how far she had traveled along her given course since that time. Boxhall worked swiftly but competently; though his position would eventually be shown to be in error, that would be due to factors unknown to him at the time.

First, he based his speed calculations on the known performance of the
Titanic
’s sister ship, the
Olympic
. With her main engines making 72 turns per minute, as the
Titanic
’s had been at the moment of the collision, the
Olympic
made a speed of 22 knots. But the
Titanic
, with her propellors (“screws” the British called them) set to a different pitch than those of her sister, was slightly slower than the
Olympic
, and 72 r.p.m. on the main engines translated to a little over 21 knots. Boxhall also wasn’t aware that the bridge clock hadn’t been set back twenty minutes at the 10 o’clock change of watch, a customary adjustment done to compensate for the ship’s westward travel. These factors, plus the presence of a northwest-to-southeast current of which Boxhall was unaware, meant that the
Titanic
had traveled about fourteen miles less than he estimated. When he finally handed his completed position to Captain Smith—41.46’ N, 50.14’ W—the latitude was essentially correct but the longitude actually placed the
Titanic
to the west of where she actually was.

A few moments later Smith was back in the wireless office telling Phillips simply, “Send the call for assistance!” Phillips asked if he should send the regulation call, and Smith said, “Yes, at once!” Then he handed Phillips a slip of paper with the
Titanic
’s position on it.

Phillips and Bride switched places again, and Phillips put the headphones over his ears. At 12:15 a.m. he began tapping out the letters “CQD”—the international signal for distress: “CQ—All Stations” “D—Distress”—followed by “MGY,” the
Titanic
’s call letters, and the position “41.46 N, 50.14 W.”

“CQD…CQD…MGY…41.46 N, 50.14 W…CQD…MGY….”

It was a few minutes past midnight on the
Carpathia
when her wireless operator, Harold Cottam, left the bridge and returned to his wireless office, having just handed several routine wireless messages to First Officer Horace Dean. Once there he remembered some traffic he’d been listening to earlier that night, including a number of messages for the new White Star liner
Titanic
. He thought he would remind Jack Phillips, the new ship’s senior operator 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.”