by Walter Lord
At 1.10 Stone whistled down the speaking tube to the chart room and told Captain Lord. He called back, ‘Are they company signals?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stone answered, ‘but they appear to me to be white rockets.’
The captain advised him to go on Morsing.
A little later Stone handed his glasses to Gibson, remarking: ‘Have a look at her now. She looks very queer out of the water – her lights look queer.’
Gibson studied the ship carefully. She seemed to be listing. She had, as he called it, ‘a big side out of the water’. And Stone, standing beside him, noticed that her red side light had disappeared.
5. ‘I Believe She’s Gone, Hardy’
The other ships just didn’t seem to understand. At 1.25 the Olympic asked, ‘Are you steering south to meet us?’ Phillips patiently explained, ‘We are putting the women off in the boats.’
Then the Frankfort: ‘Are there any ships around you already?’ Phillips ignored this one. Again the Frankfort, asking for more details. This was too much. He jumped up, almost screaming: ‘The damn fool! He says, “What’s up, old man?”’ Then he angrily tapped back: ‘You fool, stand by and keep out.’
From time to time Captain Smith dropped in – once to warn that the power was fading … again to say she couldn’t last much longer … later to report that the water had reached the engine room. At 1.45, Phillips begged the Carpathia: ‘Come as quickly as possible, old man; engine room filling up to the boilers.’
Meanwhile Bride draped an overcoat over Phillips’ shoulders, then managed to strap a lifebelt on him. The problem of getting him into his boots was more complicated. Phillips asked whether any boats were left – maybe the boots wouldn’t be needed.
Once he turned the set over to Bride, went out to see what was happening. He returned shaking his head: ‘Things look very queer.’
They looked queer indeed. The sea now slopped over the Titanic’s forward well deck … rippled around the cranes, the hatches, the foot of the mast … washed against the base of the white superstructure. The roar of steam had died, the nerve-racking rockets had stopped – but the slant of the deck was steeper and there was an ugly list to port.
About 1.40, Chief Officer Wilde shouted, ‘Everyone on the starboard side to straighten her up!’ Passengers and crew trooped over, and the Titanic swung sluggishly back on even keel. The work on the boats resumed.
As No. 2 prepared to cast off at 1.45, steward Johnson, his pockets bulging with oranges, yelled up to the boat deck for a razor to cut the falls. Seaman McAuliffe dropped one down, calling, ‘Remember me at Southampton and give it back to me!’ McAuliffe was probably the last man on the Titanic so sure of returning to Southampton.
First Officer Murdoch knew better. As he walked along the deck with chief steward Hardy of second class, he sighed, ‘I believe she’s gone, Hardy.’
There was no longer any difficulty persuading people to leave the ship. Paul Maugé, the chef’s assistant, jumped ten feet into a dangling boat. Somebody on a lower deck tried to drag him out, but he squirmed free and was safe.
Third-class passenger Daniel Buckley – safely through the broken gate and on to the boat deck – took no more chances. With several other men he jumped into a boat and huddled there crying. Most of the men were hauled out, but from somewhere he got a woman’s shawl. He said Mrs Astor put it over him. In any case, the disguise worked.
Another young man – no more than a boy – wasn’t as lucky. Fifth Officer Lowe caught him under a seat in No. 14 begging that he wouldn’t take up much room. Lowe drew his gun, but the boy only pleaded harder. Then Lowe changed tactics, told him to be a man, and somehow got him out. By now Mrs Charlotte Collyer and other women in the boat were sobbing, and her eight-year-old daughter Marjory joined the uproar, tugging at Lowe’s arm and crying, ‘Oh, Mr Man, don’t shoot, please don’t shoot the poor man!’
Lowe paused long enough to smile and nod at her reassuringly. The boy was out now, anyhow, lying face down near a coil of rope.
But No. 14’s troubles weren’t over. Another wave of men rushed the boat. Seaman Scarrott beat them back with the tiller. This time Lowe pulled his gun and shouted, ‘If anyone else tries that, this is what he’ll get!’ He fired three times along the side of the ship as the boat dropped down to the sea.
Murdoch barely stopped a rush at No. 15. He yelled at the crowd, ‘Stand back! Stand back! It’s women first!’
All the way forward, there was more trouble at collapsible C, which had been fitted into the davits used by No. 1. A big mob pushed and shoved, trying to climb aboard.
Two men dropped in. Purser Herbert McElroy fired twice into the air. Murdoch shouted, ‘Get out of this! Clear out of this!’ Hugh Woolner and Bjornstrom Steffanson – attracted by the pistol flashes – rushed over to help. Yanking the culprits by arms, legs, anything, they cleared the boat. The loading continued.
Jack Thayer stood off to one side with Milton Long, a young shipboard acquaintance from Springfield, Massachusetts. They had met for the first time this evening over after-dinner coffee. Following the crash, Long – who was travelling alone – attached himself to the Thayer family, but he and Jack lost the older Thayers in the crowd on A deck. Now they were alone, debating what to do, supposing the rest of the family was already off in the boats. They finally decided to stay clear of boat C. With all the uproar, it seemed bound to tip over.
But they were wrong. Things gradually straightened out, and finally boat C was ready for lowering. Chief Officer Wilde shouted to know who was in command. Hearing him, Captain Smith turned to Quartermaster Rowe – still fiddling with the Morse lamp – and told him to take charge. Rowe jumped in and got ready to lower.
Close by, President Bruce Ismay stood, helping to get the boat ready for lowering. He was calmer now than in those early moments when Lowe had bawled him out – in fact he seemed every inch an accepted member of the Titanic’s crew.
This was a frequent role for Ismay, but by no means his only one. Sometimes he preferred the role of passenger. So far during the voyage he had shifted back and forth several times.
At Queenstown he was a sort of super-captain. He told chief engineer Bell the speed he wanted for various stages of the voyage. He also set the New York arrival time at Wednesday morning, instead of Tuesday night. He didn’t consult Captain Smith on this.
Later, at sea, Ismay was mostly a passenger, enjoying the fine cuisine of the à la carte restaurant … shuffleboard … bridge … tea and scones in his deck chair on the port side of A deck.
This Sunday he was enough of a member of the crew to see the ice message that arrived from another ship. In the bright, sunny Palm Court – just as the bugler sounded lunch – Captain Smith gave him a warning from the Baltic. During the afternoon Ismay (who liked to remind people who he was) fished it out of his pocket and waved it at Mrs Ryerson and Mrs Thayer. In the smoking-room before dinner, while the twilight still glowed through the amber-stained windows, Captain Smith sought and got the message back. Then Ismay walked down to the restaurant, immaculate in his dinner jacket, very much a first-class passenger.
After the crash he went back to being in the crew – up with the captain on the bridge … consulting with chief engineer Bell … and now, despite the tongue-lashing from Fifth Officer Lowe, shouted orders about the boats.
Then came another switch. At the very last moment he suddenly climbed into boat C. Down it dropped, with forty-two people including Bruce Ismay – just another passenger.
Most of the passengers were different. William T. Stead, independent as ever, sat reading alone in the first-class smoking-room. To fireman Kemish, passing by, he looked as though he planned to stay there whatever happened.
Reverend Robert J. Bateman of Jacksonville stood outside, watching his sister-in-law Mrs Ada Balls enter a boat. ‘If I don’t meet you again in this world,’ he called, ‘I will in the next.’ Then as the boat jerked
down, he took off his necktie and tossed it to her as a keepsake.
George Widener and John B. Thayer leaned against the boat deck rail, quietly talking things over. Contrary to young Jack’s guess, his father wasn’t safe in a boat and, in fact, didn’t have any idea of entering one. A little way off, Archie Butt, Clarence Moore, Arthur Ryerson and Walter Douglas stood silently together. Major Butt was very quiet, had no pistol, took no active part, despite the stories later told that he practically took charge.
Further aft, Jay Yates – described as a gambler hoping to make a maiden-voyage killing – stood alone and friendless. To a woman entering a boat, he handed a page torn from his appointment book. Signed with one of his aliases, the note read, ‘If saved, inform my sister Mrs F. J. Adams of Findlay, Ohio. Lost. J. H. Rogers.’
Benjamin Guggenheim had a more detailed message: ‘If anything should happen to me, tell my wife I’ve done my best in doing my duty.’
Actually Guggenheim almost outdid himself. Gone was the sweater that steward Etches made him wear. Also his lifebelt. Instead he and his secretary now stood resplendent in evening clothes. ‘We’ve dressed in our best,’ he explained, ‘and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.’
There were a few couples too. The Allisons stood smiling on the promenade deck, Mrs Allison grasping little Lorraine with one hand, her husband with the other. The Strauses leaned against the boat deck rail, their arms about each other’s waist. A young Western couple waited nearby; when Lightoller asked the girl if he could put her in a boat, she told him cheerfully, ‘Not on your life. We started together and, if need be, we’ll finish together.’
Archibald Gracie, Clinch Smith, a dozen other first-class men worked with the crew, loading the last boats. As they helped Miss Constance Willard of Duluth, Minnesota, they smiled and told her to be brave. She noticed great beads of sweat stood out on their foreheads.
Lightoller was sweating too. He peeled off his greatcoat. Even in sweater and pyjamas, he was wringing wet from hard work. He looked so odd on this bitter-cold night that assistant surgeon Simpson, always a wag, called out, ‘Hello, Lights, are you warm?’
The assistant surgeon was with old Dr O’Loughlin, Purser McElroy and Assistant Purser Barker. Lightoller joined them for a moment. They all shook hands and said, ‘Good-bye.’
No time for more. A glance down the emergency stairway told Lightoller the water was now on C deck … rising fast. But the lights were still bright … the music still ragtime … the beat still lively.
Only two more boats. One of them, No. 4, had been a headache all night. Over an hour ago Lightoller lowered it to A deck, planning to fill it from there, but the windows were all closed. Then someone noticed the Titanic’s sounding spar stuck out directly below the boat. Seaman Sam Parks and storekeeper Jack Foley went down to chop it away, but they had trouble finding an axe. Time was wasting. Lightoller hurried on to the other boats – he’d load this one later.
Meanwhile the passengers waiting to go in No. 4 cooled their heels. And they were very prominent heels. The Astors, Wideners, Thayers, Carters and Ryersons were sticking pretty much together. When Lightoller first ordered the boat loaded, wives, children, maids and nurses went down to the promenade deck to get in as a group. When they found they couldn’t, they just stayed put.
Eventually most of the husbands turned up, and for over an hour the cream of New York and Philadelphia society just waited around while the windows were opened and the sounding spar chopped away. Once they were ordered back up to the boat deck, but then second steward Dodd sent them right down again. Exasperated, Mrs Thayer exclaimed, ‘Just tell us where to go and we will follow! You ordered us up here and now you’re sending us back!’
It was 1.45 when Lightoller returned. Now he stood – one foot in No. 4, the other on an open window sill. Somebody put deck chairs against the rail to serve as steps. The men stood by to pass the women and children through the windows.
John Jacob Astor helped Mrs Astor across the frame, then asked if he could join her. She was, as he put it, ‘in a delicate condition’.
‘No, sir,’ Lightoller replied. ‘No men are allowed in these boats until the women are loaded first.’
Astor asked which boat it was, and Lightoller said, ‘Number 4.’ Colonel Gracie was sure Astor merely wanted to locate his wife later. Lightoller was sure he planned to make a complaint.
Then came the Ryersons’ turn. Arthur Ryerson noticed their French maid Victorine had no lifebelt. Quickly he stripped off his own and buckled it on her. When Mrs Ryerson led her son Jack to the window, Lightoller called out, ‘That boy can’t go!’
Mr Ryerson indignantly stepped forward: ‘Of course that boy goes with his mother – he is only thirteen.’ So they let him pass, Lightoller grumbling, ‘No more boys.’
At 1.55, No. 4 dropped to the sea – just 15 feet below. Mrs Ryerson was shocked to see how far the ship had sunk. She watched the water pour in the big square ports on C deck, sweep around the period furniture of the de luxe suites. Then she looked up at the promenade deck. Mr Ryerson was still standing by the rail with Mr Widener, looking down at the boat. They seemed very quiet.
Only one boat was left. Collapsible D had now been fitted into the davits used by No. 2 and was ready for loading. There was no time to spare. The lights were beginning to glow red. Chinaware was breaking somewhere below. Jack Thayer saw a man lurch by with a full bottle of Gordon’s gin. He put it to his mouth and drained it. ‘If I ever get out of this,’ Thayer said to himself, ‘there is one man I’ll never see again.’ (Actually, he was one of the first survivors Thayer met.)
Lightoller took no chances. Most of the passengers had moved aft, but still – one boat … forty-seven seats … 1,600 people. He had the crew lock arms in a wide ring around boat D. Only the women could come through.
Two baby boys were brought by their father to the edge of the ring, handed through and placed in the boat. The father stepped back into the crowd. He called himself ‘Mr Hoffman’ and told people he was taking the boys to visit relatives in America. His name really was Navatril and he was kidnapping the children from his estranged wife.
Henry B. Harris, the theatrical producer, escorted Mrs Harris to the ring, was told he couldn’t go any further. He sighed: ‘Yes, I know. I will stay.’
Colonel Gracie rushed up with Mrs John Murray Brown and Miss Edith Evans, two of the five ‘unprotected ladies’ to whom he had offered his services on the trip. He was stopped by the line but saw the women through. They reached boat D just as it was starting down the falls. Miss Evans turned to Mrs Brown: ‘You go first. You have children waiting at home.’
Quickly she helped Mrs Brown over the rail. Then someone yelled to lower away, and at 2.05 collapsible D – the last boat of all – started down towards the sea – without Edith Evans.
Directly below, Hugh Woolner and Bjornstrom Steffanson were standing alone by the rail. It had been a hard night – helping Mrs Candee … trying to save the Strauses … dragging those cowards out of boat C. Now they were on A deck trying to find someone else to help, but the deck was absolutely deserted. The lights had a reddish glow.
‘This is getting rather a tight corner,’ Woolner remarked, ‘let’s go through the door at the end.’ They walked forward to the open end of the promenade deck. As they came out, the sea poured on to the deck, over their evening pumps and up to their knees. They hopped on to the railing. Nine feet away they saw boat D sliding down the side of the ship. It was now or never.
‘Let’s make a jump for it!’ cried Woolner. ‘There’s plenty of room in her bow!’ Steffanson hurled himself out at the boat, landing head over heels up front. The next second Woolner followed, falling half in, half out. In another instant collapsible D hit the water and cast off. As it pulled away, seaman William Lucas called up to Miss Evans still standing on deck. ‘There’s another boat going to be put down for you.’
6. ‘That’s the Way of It a
t This Kind of Time’
With the boats all gone, a curious calm came over the Titanic. The excitement and confusion were over, and the hundreds left behind stood quietly on the upper decks. They seemed to cluster inboard, trying to keep as far away from the rail as possible.
Jack Thayer stayed with Milton Long on the starboard side of the boat deck. They studied an empty davit, using it as a yardstick against the sky to gauge how fast she was sinking. They watched the hopeless efforts to clear two collapsibles lashed to the roof of the officers’ quarters. They exchanged messages for each other’s families. Sometimes they were just silent.
Thayer thought of all the good times he had had and of all the future pleasures he would never enjoy. He thought of his father and his mother, of his sisters and brother. He felt far away, as though he were looking on from some distant place. He felt very, very sorry for himself.
Colonel Gracie, standing a little way off, felt curiously breathless. Later he rather stuffily explained it was the feeling when ‘vox faucibus haesit, as frequently happened to the old Trojan hero of our schooldays’. At the time he merely said to himself, ‘Good-bye to all at home.’
In the wireless shack there was no time for either self-pity or vox faucibus haesit. Phillips was still working the set, but the power was very low. Bride stood by, watching people rummage the officers’ quarters and the gym, looking for extra lifebelts.
It was 2.05 when Captain Smith entered the shack for the last time: ‘Men, you have done your full duty. You can do no more. Abandon your cabin. Now it’s every man for himself.’
Phillips looked up for a second, then bent over the set once more. Captain Smith tried again: ‘You look out for yourselves. I release you.’ A pause, then he added softly, ‘That’s the way of it at this kind of time …’
Phillips went on working. Bride began to gather up their papers. Captain Smith returned to the boat deck, walked about speaking informally to men here and there. To fireman James McGann: ‘Well, boys, it’s every man for himself.’ Again, to oiler Alfred White: ‘Well, boys, I guess it’s every man for himself.’ To steward Edward Brown: ‘Well, boys, do your best for the women and children, and look out for yourselves.’ To the men on the roof of the officers’ quarters: ‘You’ve done your duty, boys. Now, every man for himself.’ Then he walked back on the bridge.
