Unsinkable: The Full Story of the RMS Titanic (24 page)

The stokers and trimmers in Boiler Room 4 worked frantically to draw the fires in the five huge double-ended boilers. Back and forth they dragged their rakes and slicer bars as they pulled the burning coals from the fireboxes. Soon the embers were falling, hissing, into ankle deep water as the sea began to seep through the floor plates, but the men toiled on: there would be no explosions when the cold sea water reached the boilers. The rising water was past Trimmer George Cavell’s knees when he decided he’d had enough and headed for one of the escape ladders. But halfway up, a nagging feeling that he was leaving everybody else behind caused him to stop and go back down. But by then Chief Engineer Bell was satisfied that the fires were sufficiently drawn, and had ordered Boiler Room 4 evacuated, so when Cavell returned, he found it empty. Satisfied that he hadn’t run out on his mates, Cavell headed for the upper decks.
²⁰

Lightoller loaded Steward Hart’s first group into Boat 8 as quickly as he could, then looked around for other women. Mrs. Stuart White noticed Captain Smith ordering a pair of stewards into the boat to act as oarsmen, and Dr. Alice Leader would later recall that they didn’t seem to know their places in the boat. Just before Lightoller was to give the order to lower away, Mr. and Mrs. Straus walked by, and Mrs. Straus stopped and began to climb into the boat. At the last second she changed her mind, turning to her husband saying, “We have been living together for many years; where you go, I go.” Colonel Gracie and Hugh Woolner overheard her, and tried to get her to change her mind, but she was adamant. Finally Woolner turned to Mr. Straus and said, “I’m sure no one would object to an old gentleman like yourself getting in.”

“I will not go before the other men,” Straus replied firmly, and for husband and wife the issue was settled. Mrs. Straus turned to her maid and helped the young woman into Boat 8, giving the girl her fur coat, saying, “Here, take this. I won’t be needing it.” The old couple stepped away from the boat and settled into a pair of nearby deck chairs to await the end together. Feeling vaguely embarrassed at having overheard all this, Lightoller gave the order to lower away at 1:10, then started aft.
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Just as Boat 8 had slipped its falls and was pulling away, Chief Officer Wilde tapped Lightoller on the shoulder and asked, “Where are the firearms?” Somewhat taken aback, Lightoller said, “Come with me.” Wilde followed as Lightoller led him to the arms locker, where Captain Smith and First Officer Murdoch were already waiting. Opening the locker, Lightoller passed out a half-dozen revolvers and some ammunition to Wilde, who then distributed them to the other officers. Just as Lightoller was about to return to the boats, Wilde shoved one of the revolvers and a half-dozen shells into Lightoller’s hands with the remark, “Here, you might need this.” The second officer nodded a bemused acknowledgement and hurried back out to the Boat Deck.
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Captain Smith returned to the bridge where Fourth Officer Boxhall and Quartermaster Rowe were firing off the rockets. When Captain Smith handed Boxhall a revolver, the young officer looked at his captain in frank disbelief—he still hadn’t accepted the fact that the Titanic was sinking. “Captain, is it really serious?” he asked.

“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.
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—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.
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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!”
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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.”
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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.
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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.”

“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.