Unsinkable: The Full Story of the RMS Titanic (19 page)

Down on E Deck another locked door, new and stiff, had jammed, trapping a man inside the cabin. Several passengers had tried to force the lock without success. In desperation Norris Williams, the tennis pro, broke down the door, freeing the trapped passenger. No sooner had he done so than a steward appeared, who promptly announced that everyone there would be charged with damaging company property as soon as the Titanic reached New York.
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The steward was quite serious, and at 12:15 A.M. such a threat didn’t seem like a laughing matter. Captain Smith’s orders still seemed to be hardly more than a precautionary measure, typical of such an experienced old seadog. Fewer than a half dozen people on board knew for certain how badly damaged the Titanic was. Her lights were still bright, her cabins were warm, and except to a few shrewd observers like Major Peuchen or William Sloper, her decks still seemed level.

There were some passengers who were taking no chances, at least as far as their valuables were concerned. In the C Deck foyer Purser McElroy was busy removing the contents of the ship’s safes, while a clutch of passengers clamored for their jewels, cash, and other valuables. One such young man, Adolf Dyker, handed his wife a small satchel containing 200 Swedish
kroner,
a sapphire necklace, two gold watches, and two diamond rings. He then escorted her to the Boat Deck. All the while McElroy was urging the passengers to hurry and get to the boats. It remains uncertain whether McElroy knew the ship was sinking yet, but given all the years that he and Captain Smith had served together, coupled with the urgency of his warnings, it’s quite likely that he did.
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In steerage, the Third Class stewards were just as busy spreading the word as their First and Second Class counterparts, but here the form differed somewhat. Usually the door to a cabin would be rather unceremoniously thrown open, the lights flicked on, and with a bellow the steward would announce: “Everybody up! Get your lifebelts on and get everybody on deck!” Most of the steerage passengers who were berthed forward were already up, having been awakened by the crash of the collision. In some places sea water had already started creeping in, as Daniel Buckley, Carl Johnson, and others had discovered; and soon a steady stream of single men and married couples, often with their luggage in hand, headed aft down the long straight corridor that ran nearly the whole length of E Deck, nicknamed “Scotland Road” by the crew, making for the Third Class areas in the stern.

Once there, most of them settled in the Third Class Smoking Room or the General Room, while a few hardy souls ventured out onto the after well deck. Those who had made for the forward well deck, single men for the most part, found the same Arctic seascape that had confronted Seaman Clench and Fireman Thompson. Literally tons of ice in chunks of all sizes and descriptions were strewn across the deck. It wasn’t very long before the Third Class men, especially the Irish, began the impromptu soccer matches that Major Peuchen and Charles Hays found so entertaining.

In the stern, the noise caused by the newcomers from the bow had already awakened many of the women and families quartered there. Soon everyone was roused as the stewards moved from cabin to cabin. The problem now was that the steerage passengers were awake, but what were they to do and where were they to go?

Steward John Hart had been making certain that all the forward Third Class cabins were empty, and now as he was making his way down “Scotland Road” to the stern he noticed that one of the doors on E Deck that led to the Second Class staircase had been left standing open-normally it was closed and locked. What struck Hart as unusual was that every one of the Third Class passengers who had come down that passageway had passed by it without so much as a glance, none of them realizing that the staircase led to the upper decks and eventually to the lifeboats It was clear to Hart that if any of the Third Class passengers were going to reach the Boat Deck, they would have to be guided there. Hart called Interpreter Muller over to him and immediately the two men began to get the steerage passengers organized.
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On the Boat Deck sat the sixteen lifeboats, eight to a side, numbered fore to aft, even numbers to port, odd numbers to starboard. Under Boats 1 and 2 sat Collapsibles C and D respectively, while Collapsibles A and B were lashed upside down atop the officers quarters, abreast of the forward funnel. Ordinarily the Boat Deck served as the open air promenade for First and Second Classes, the forward two-thirds of the deck being reserved for First, the rest for Second, so now small groups of First and Second Class passengers began gathering in their respective deck areas. The Third Class passengers were still gathering in the after well decks at the end of the superstructure, waiting for instructions. Small knots of crewmen began to swarm over each boat, removing canvas covers, discarding the masts and spars, clearing the lines, and fitting cranks to the davits. A dozen of the ship’s bakers appeared, trailing behind Chief Baker Charles Joughin, each carrying four loaves of bread, which were quickly distributed among the boats. Others checked the kegs of water or tossed in lanterns or tins of biscuit.

The passengers stood quietly by as one by one the boats were swung out and lowered until they were level with the Boat Deck, or in some cases with the Promenade Deck below. First Officer Murdoch and Third Officer Pitman were both pleasantly surprised by how easily the davits worked, with little of the sticking and jamming that characterized older designs. The boats would certainly handle much easier when it became necessary to lower away.
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Still, no order had been given to begin putting the passengers into the boats, so the passengers and crew continued to mill about on the upper decks. Few were dressed properly for the night air. Robert Daniel, a Philadelphia banker, wore only woolen pajamas; Mrs. John Hogeboom had a fur coat over her nightgown; Second Officer Lightoller wore a greatcoat and a sweater over his pajamas; Mrs. Turrell Cavendish wore a wrap and her husband’s overcoat; Steward Ray had on his shore suit; Bruce Ismay was clad in his dressing gown and slippers; Mrs. Washington Dodge’s high-button shoes flopped open with every step she took because she hadn’t bothered to take the time to button them.

Jack Thayer looked very stylish in a green tweed suit and vest, but there was more than style to his choice of clothes. Underneath he wore a mohair vest and over it all he had thrown his overcoat—like Major Peuchen, he had already experienced the cold firsthand. The major himself, when he had gone back to his cabin after his encounter with the steward in the A Deck Foyer, carefully donned two sets of long woolen underwear, as well as several layers of warm clothing. As he dressed he occasionally glanced at a tin box sitting on a table beside his bed. In it were $200,000 in bonds and $100,000 in preferred stock. Finished changing, he took a last look around the room, then firmly closed the door behind him. Seconds later he was back. Quickly he picked up three oranges and a good luck pin, then left for good. The tin box was still on the table.
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The odd assortment of belongings that people did take with them said much about how serious they believed the situation to be. Mrs. Bishop, apparently convinced that she would be returning left behind $11,000 worth of jewelry in her cabin, but insisted that her husband return for her muff Harvey Collyer was so certain that he would be back, he left his watch on his pillow; his wife had casually tied her hair back with a ribbon and wrapped a steamer blanket around their daughter Marjory. By contrast, Norman Chambers was anything but optimistic: he put a revolver in one pocket and a compass in the other. Two Second Class passengers brought books: Lawrence Beesley crammed the pockets of his dressing gown, which he was carrying over his shoulder, with the novels he had been reading before the collision; and Stewart Collett, a theology student, took the Bible he had promised his brother he would always carry. Edith Russell, who had been looking out of her cabin porthole at the time of the collision and had watched the iceberg glide by, apparently only feet away, almost forgot her musical pig, the good-luck mascot given to her by her mother, and later had to rush back to her cabin for it at the last minute. The casual air displayed by most of the passengers simply reflected not only their ignorance of the peril the ship was in, but also their unwillingness even to entertain the idea that the Titanic could be in danger.

It was an exchange between Marguerite Frolicher and her steward that seemed to epitomize the general attitude of the passengers. Bumping into Miss Frolicher in a corridor on C Deck, the steward recalled her teasing him a few days earlier when he’d put a lifebelt in her cabin. Why bother, she had asked, if the ship was unsinkable? It was purely a formality, had been his reply; she would never need it. Now almost defensively, he smiled and told her, “Don’t be scared, it’s all right.”

“I’m not scared,” the nineteen-year-old Swiss girl replied, “I’m just sea-sick.”
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But the lifebelts were the one constant in this procession, and they didn’t escape the perceptive eye of Mrs. Helen Candee: “On every man and every woman’s body was tied the sinister emblem of death at sea, and each walked with his life-clutching pack to await the coming horrors. It was a fancy-dress ball in Dante’s Hell.”
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Kate Buss, the young Englishwoman from Sittingbourne who was traveling to America to join her fiance Samuel Willis in San Diego, shared her Second Class cabin on E Deck with two other unmarried young women. She had been sitting up reading a newspaper when the collision occurred, but, like so many others, it was only when the
Titanic’s
engines stopped that she noticed anything amiss. Putting on her dressing gown and slippers, she stepped out into the corridor and soon encountered one of her dinner companions, a physician by the name of Ernest Morawick. Dr. Morawick announced that he was off to find out what was happening, so Miss Buss promised to wait for him to return. While she was standing in the hallway a group of musicians hurryied by, clutching their instruments. This unusual sight so roused Kate’s curiosity that, forgetting Dr. Morawick, she knocked on the door of Marion Wright’s cabin, and the two of them together made their way to the Boat Deck.

Once there, the two young women were joined by Douglas Norman, the soft-spoken young Scot who had accompanied Marion on the piano at the hymn-sing earlier that evening. Norman explained to them that the ship had struck an iceberg, which made sense out of all the activity on the Boat Deck. After standing at the after end of the deck for several minutes, shivering in the bitter cold, Norman suggested that they go below and put on some warmer clothing, an idea Kate and Marion quickly endorsed.
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Down in Third Class, Steward John Hart and a dozen crewman had begun to mobilize the steerage passengers. Spreading out as quickly as they could, they told everyone to get their lifebelts on and go up on deck. They helped where they could, adjusting lifebelts, and rousing sleepy children. Shortly they were relieved by several stewardesses, and Hart and his men then set about closing the watertight doors on F Deck, sealing off the forward compartments. (The watertight doors Murdoch had closed automatically from the bridge when the ship struck the iceberg were only the ones on the lower decks—the boiler rooms, engine rooms, and machinery spaces—while the doors on E, F, and G Decks had to be closed manually.)

It was just then that a twenty-six-year-old Norwegian fisherman named Olaus Abelseth, coming from his berth in the bow, reached the Third Class General Room. Heading for a South Dakota homestead he had never seen, Abelseth had been given charge of the daughter of an old family friend for the duration of the voyage. The girl was barely sixteen, and as the minutes passed Abelseth’s concern grew, for the growing crowd made the task of finding her increasingly difficult. At last they spotted each other, and in the company of Abelseth’s brother-in-law and cousin, set out for the after well deck.
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The tension on the Boat Deck began building slowly as the passengers continued to wait for further instructions. A few tried to make light of the situation: bumping into Fred Wright, the
Titanic’s
squash pro, Colonel Gracie recalled that he had a game scheduled for 7:30 A.M. the next morning and asked, “Hadn’t we better cancel that appointment?”

“Yes, we’d better,” replied Wright lamely. Of course, he already knew that the squash court was under water by now, and the colonel didn’t. Mrs. Vera Dick would always remember the remark a stranger made as he helped her fasten her lifebelt: “Here, try this on—it’s the latest thing! Everybody’s wearing them.” Colonel Gracie’s friend Clinch Smith, refusing to stray from character no matter how dire the straits, remarked to a young girl carrying a Pomeranian puppy, “Well, I suppose we ought to put a life preserver on the little doggie, too.”
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