A Night to Remember

by Walter Lord

  Over the water floated cheers and yells of relief. Even nature seemed pleased, as the dreary night gave way to the mauve and coral of a beautiful dawn.

  Not everyone saw it. In half-swamped boat A, Olaus Abelseth tried to kindle the will to live in a half-frozen man lying beside him. As day broke, he took the man’s shoulder and raised him up, so that he was sitting on the floorboards. ‘Look!’ pleaded Abelseth, ‘we can see a ship now; brace up!’

  He took one of the man’s hands and raised it. Then he shook the man’s shoulder. But the man only said, ‘Who are you?’ And a minute later, ‘Let me be … who are you?’

  Abelseth held him up for a while; but it was such a strain, he finally had to use a board as a prop. Half an hour later the sky blazed with thrilling, warm shades of pink and gold, but now it was too late for the man to know.

  9. ‘We’re Going North Like Hell’

  Mrs Anne Crain puzzled over the cheerful smell of coffee brewing as she lay in her cabin on the Cunarder Carpathia, bound from New York to the Mediterranean. It was nearly 1.00 a.m. on the fourth night out, and by now Mrs Crain knew the quiet little liner well enough to feel that any sign of activity after midnight was unusual, let alone coffee brewing.

  Down the corridor Miss Ann Peterson lay awake in her bunk too. She wondered why the lights were turned on all over the ship – normally the poky Carpathia was shut down by now.

  Mr Howard M. Chapin was more worried than puzzled. He lay in the upper berth of his cabin on A deck – his face just a few inches below the boat deck above. Some time after midnight a strange sound suddenly woke him up. It was a man kneeling down on the deck, directly over his head. The day before, he had noticed a lifeboat fall tied to a cleat just about there; now he felt sure the man was unfastening the boat and something was wrong.

  Nearby, Mrs Louis M. Ogden awoke to a cold cabin and a speeding ship. Hearing loud noises overhead, she too decided something must be wrong. She shook her sleeping husband. His diagnosis didn’t reassure her – the noise was the crew breaking out the chocks from the lifeboats overhead. He opened the stateroom door and saw a line of stewards carrying blankets and mattresses. Not very reassuring either.

  Here and there, all over the ship, the light sleepers listened restlessly to muffled commands, tramping feet, creaking davits. Some wondered about the engines – they were pounding so much harder, so much faster than usual. The mattress jiggled wildly … the washstand tumblers rattled loudly in the brackets … the woodwork groaned with the strain. A turn of the tap produced only cold water – a twist on the heater knob brought no results – the engines seemed to be feeding on every ounce of steam.

  Strangest of all was the bitter cold. The Carpathia had left New York on 11 April, bound for Gibraltar, Genoa, Naples, Trieste and Fiume. Her 150 first-class passengers were mostly elderly Americans following the sun in this pre-Florida era; her 575 steerage passengers were mostly Italians and Slavs returning to their sunny Mediterranean. All of them welcomed the balmy breeze of the Gulf Stream that Sunday afternoon. Towards five o’clock it grew so warm that Mr Chapin shifted his deck chair to the shade. Now there was an amazing change – the frigid blast that swept through every crack and seam felt like the Arctic.

  On the bridge, Captain Arthur H. Rostron wondered whether he had overlooked anything. He had been at sea for twenty-seven years – with Cunard for seventeen – but this was only his second year as a Cunard skipper and only his third month on the Carpathia. The Titanic’s call for help was his first real test.

  When the CQD arrived, Rostron had already turned in for the night. Harold Cottam, the Carpathia’s operator, rushed the message to First Officer Dean on the bridge. They both raced down the ladder, through the chart room, and burst into the captain’s cabin. Rostron – a stickler for discipline even when half asleep – wondered what the ship was coming to, with people dashing in in this way. They were meant to knock. But before he could reprimand them, Dean blurted the news.

  Rostron bolted out of bed, ordered the ship turned, and then – after the order was given – double-checked Cottam:

  ‘Are you sure it is the Titanic and requires immediate assistance?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are absolutely certain?’

  ‘Quite certain.’

  ‘All right, tell him we are coming along as fast as we can.’

  Rostron then rushed into the chart room and worked out the Carpathia’s new course. As he figured and scribbled, he saw the boatswain’s mate pass by, leading a party to scrub down the decks. Rostron told him to forget the decks and prepare the boats for lowering. The mate gaped. Rostron reassured him: ‘It’s all right; we’re going to another vessel in distress.’

  In a few moments the new course was set – north 52 west. The Carpathia was fifty-eight miles away. At 14 knots she would take four hours to get there. Too long.

  Rostron sent for chief engineer Johnstone, told him to pour it on – call out the off-duty watch … cut off the heat and hot water … pile every ounce of steam into the boilers.

  Next, Rostron sent for First Officer Dean. He told him to knock off all routine work, organize the ship for rescue operations. Specifically, prepare and swing out all boats … . rig electric clusters along the ship’s side … open all gangway doors … hook block and line rope in each gangway … rig chair slings for the sick and injured, canvas and bags for hauling up children at every gangway … drop pilot ladders and side ladders at gangways and along the sides … rig cargo nets to help people up … prepare forward derricks (with steam in the winches) to hoist mail and luggage aboard … and have oil handy to pour down the lavatories on both sides of the ship, in case the sea grew rough.

  Then he called the ship’s surgeon, Dr McGhee: collect all the restoratives and stimulants on the ship … set up first-aid stations in each dining-saloon … put the Hungarian doctor in charge of third class … the Italian doctor in second … McGhee himself in first.

  Now it was Purser Brown’s turn: see that the chief steward, the assistant purser and himself each covered a different gangway – receive the Titanic’s passengers … get their names … channel them to the proper dining-saloon (depending on class) for medical check.

  Finally, another barrage of orders for chief steward Harry Hughes: call out every man … prepare coffee for all hands … have soup, coffee, tea, brandy and whisky ready for survivors … pile blankets at every gangway … convert smoking-room, lounge and library into dormitories for the rescued … group all the Carpathia’s steerage passengers together, use the space saved for the Titanic’s steerage.

  As he gave his orders, Rostron urged them all to keep quiet. The job ahead was tough enough without having the Carpathia’s passengers underfoot. The longer they slept, the better. As an extra precaution, stewards were stationed in every corridor. They were to tell any prowling passengers that the Carpathia wasn’t in trouble, urge them to go back to their cabins.

  Then he sent an inspector, the master-at-arms and a special detail of stewards to keep the steerage passengers under control. After all, no one knew how they’d react to being shuffled about.

  The ship sprang to life. Down in the engine room it seemed as if everyone had found a shovel and was pouring on the coal. The extra watch tumbled out of their bunks and raced to lend a hand. Most didn’t even wait to dress. Faster and faster the old ship knifed ahead – 14 … 14.5 … 15 … 16.5 … 17 knots. No one dreamed the Carpathia could drive so hard.

  In the crew’s quarters a tug at his blanket woke up steward Robert H. Vaughan. A voice told him to get up and dress. It was pitch black, but Vaughan could hear his room-mates already pulling on their clothes. He asked what was up, and the voice said the Carpathia had hit an iceberg.

  Vaughan stumbled to the porthole and looked out. The ship was driving ahead, white waves rolling out from her side. Obviously there was nothing wrong with the Carpathia. Bewildered, he and his mates continued dressi
ng – all the more confused because someone had swiped their only light bulb and they had to get ready in the dark.

  When they reached the deck, an officer put them to work collecting blankets. Then to the first-class dining-saloon … now a beehive of men scurrying about, shifting chairs, resetting tables, moving the liquor from the bar to the buffet. Still Vaughan and his mates couldn’t imagine the reason. Elsewhere word spread that Captain Rostron wanted 3,000 blankets for ‘that many extra people’. But nobody knew why.

  At 1.15 they learned. The stewards were all mustered into the main dining-saloon and chief steward Hughes gave a little speech. He told them about the Titanic … explained their duties … paused … then delivered his ending : ‘Every man to his post and let him do his full duty like a true Englishman. If the situation calls for it, let us add another glorious page to British history.’

  Then the stewards went back to work, most of them now shifting blankets from the bedding lockers to the gangways. These were the men Louis Ogden saw when he first looked out of his cabin. Now he decided to try again. He collared Dr McGhee, who was passing by, but the surgeon only told him, ‘Please stay in your cabin – captain’s orders.’

  ‘Yes, but what is the matter?’

  ‘An accident, but not to our ship. Stay inside.’

  Mr Ogden reported back to his wife. For some reason he was sure the Carpathia was on fire and the ship was speeding for help. He began dressing, slipped out on deck, found a quartermaster he knew. This time he got a straight answer: ‘There has been an accident to the Titanic.’

  ‘You’ll have to give me something better than that!’ said Ogden, almost triumphantly. ‘The Titanic is on the northern route and we are on the southern.’

  ‘We’re going north like hell. Get back in your room.’

  Mr Ogden again reported back to Mrs Ogden, who asked, ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘No. Get up and put on your warmest clothes.’ There was no doubt in Mr Ogden’s mind now: the Titanic was unsinkable; so the surgeon must be covering up. His story confirmed their worst fears – the Carpathia was in danger. They must escape. Somehow they managed to sneak out on deck.

  Others made it too; and they compared notes together, furtive little groups hiding from their own crew. Gradually they realized the Carpathia wasn’t in danger. But despite rumours about the Titanic, nobody was sure why they were on this wild dash through the night. And of course they couldn’t ask or they’d be sent below again. So they just stood there, huddling in the shadows, all eyes straining into the darkness, not even knowing what they were looking for.

  In fact, nobody on the Carpathia now knew what to look for. In the wireless shack over the second-class smoking-room, Harold Cottam could no longer rouse the Titanic. But his set was so miserable – the range was only 150 miles at best – that he wasn’t sure what had happened. Perhaps the Titanic was still sending, but her signals were now too weak to catch.

  On the other hand, the news so far had been all bad. At 1.06, Cottam heard her tell the Olympic, ‘Get your boats ready; going down fast at the head’ … at 1.10, ‘Sinking head down’ … at 1.35, ‘Engine room getting flooded.’

  Once the Titanic asked Cottam how long he would take to arrive. ‘Say about four hours,’ instructed Rostron – he didn’t yet realize what the Carpathia could do.

  Then at 1.50 came a final plea, ‘Come as quickly as possible, old man; the engine room is filling up to the boilers.’ After that, silence.

  Now it was after 2.00, and Cottam still hunched tensely over the set. Once Miss Peterson peeked in at him, noticed that, despite the biting cold, Cottam was still in his shirtsleeves. He had just started to undress when the first CQD arrived, and he hadn’t yet got around to putting on his coat again.

  Up on the bridge, Rostron was wondering too. He had organized his men, done everything he could think of, and now came the hardest part of all – waiting. Near him stood Second Officer James Bisset, up forward with extra lookouts. All strained for any sign of ice, any sign of the Titanic. But so far there was nothing – just the glassy sea, the blazing stars, the sharp, clear, empty horizon.

  At 2.35 Dr McGhee climbed the ladder to the bridge, told Rostron that everything was ready below. As he talked, Rostron suddenly saw the glow of a green flare on the horizon, about half a point off the port bow.

  ‘There’s his light!’ he shouted. ‘He must be still afloat!’ It certainly looked that way. The flare was clearly a long way off. To see it at all, it must be high out of the water. It was only 2.40, and they were already in sight – perhaps the Carpathia would be in time after all.

  Then at 2.45 Second Officer Bisset sighted a tiny shaft of light glistening two points off the port bow. It was the first iceberg – revealed by, of all things, the mirrored light of a star.

  Then another berg, then another. Twisting and turning, the Carpathia now dodged icebergs on all sides, never slackening speed. On they surged, as the men breathlessly watched for the next berg and from time to time spotted more green flares in the distance.

  Now that everything was ready, the stewards had a little free time. Robert Vaughan and his mates went to the afterdeck. Like boxers warming up for a fight, they danced about and playfully rough-housed to keep warm. Once a huge iceberg passed close to starboard, and a man cried, ‘Hey fellows! Look at the polar bear scratching himself with a chunk of ice!’

  A weak joke perhaps, but the men roared with laughter as the Carpathia lunged on.

  She was firing rockets now. One every fifteen minutes, with Cunard Roman candles in between. Word spread below that they were in sight. In the main dining-saloon the stewards took up their posts. In the engine room, the stokers shovelled harder than ever. At the gangways and boat stations the men stood ready. Everyone was wild with excitement, and the Carpathia herself trembled all over. A sailor later remarked, ‘The old boat was as excited as any of us.’

  But Rostron’s heart was sinking. By 3.35 they were drawing near the Titanic’s position, and still no sign of her. He decided the green flare couldn’t have been so high after all. It was just the sparkling-clear night that let him see it from so far off. At 3.50 he put the engines on ‘stand by’ – they were almost at the spot. At 4.00 he stopped the ship – they were there.

  Just then another green flare blazed up. It was directly ahead, low in the water. The flickering light showed the outline of a lifeboat perhaps 300 yards away. Rostron started up his engines, began to manoeuvre the Carpathia to starboard so as to pick up the lifeboat on his port side, which was leeward. An instant later he spotted a huge iceberg directly ahead and had to swing the other way to keep from hitting it.

  The lifeboat was now to windward, and as he edged towards it, a breeze sprang up and the sea grew choppy. A voice from the dark hailed him, ‘We have only one seaman and can’t work very well.’

  ‘All right,’ Rostron shouted back, and he gently nudged the Carpathia closer, until the voice called again, ‘Stop your engines!’

  It was Fourth Officer Boxhall in boat 2. Sitting beside him, Mrs Walter Douglas of Minneapolis was near hysterics. ‘The Titanic,’ she cried, ‘has gone down with everyone on board.’

  Boxhall told her to ‘shut up’, and his sharpness cut her off instantly. She quickly pulled herself together and afterwards always agreed the rebuke was justified.

  On the Carpathia no one heard her anyhow. All eyes were glued on the lifeboat bobbing towards the gangway. Mrs Ogden noticed the White Star emblem painted on its side, the lifebelts that made everybody look dressed in white. Mrs Crain wondered about the pale, strained faces looking up at the decks. The only sound was a wailing baby somewhere in the boat.

  Lines were dropped, and now the boat was fast. A moment’s hesitation, then at 4.10 Miss Elizabeth Allen climbed slowly up the swinging ladder and tumbled into the arms of Purser Brown. He asked her where the Titanic was, and she replied it had gone down.

  Up on the b
ridge Rostron knew without asking – yet he felt he had to go through with the formalities. He sent for Boxhall, and as the Fourth Officer stood shivering before him, he put it to him: ‘The Titanic has gone down?’

  ‘Yes’ – Boxhall’s voice broke as he said it – ‘she went down at about 2.30.’

  It was half-day now, and the people on deck could make out other lifeboats on all sides. They were scattered over a four-mile area, and in the grey light of dawn they were hard to distinguish from scores of small icebergs that covered the sea. Mixed with the small bergs were three or four towering monsters, 150 to 200 feet high. To the north and west, about five miles away, stretched a flat, unbroken field of ice as far as the eye could see. The floe was studded here and there with other big bergs that rose against the horizon. ‘When I saw the ice I had steamed through during the night,’ Rostron later told a friend, ‘I shuddered and could only think that some other hand than mine was on that helm during the night.’

  The sight was so astonishing, so incredible, that those who had slept through everything until now couldn’t grasp it at all. Mrs Wallace Bradford of San Francisco looked out of her porthole and blinked in disbelief – half a mile away loomed a huge, jagged peak like a rock offshore. It was not white, and she wondered, ‘How in the world can we be near a rock when we are four days out from New York in a southerly direction and in mid-ocean?’

  Miss Sue Eva Rule of St Louis was equally puzzled. When she first saw one of the lifeboats splashing through the early dawn, it looked like the gondola of an airship, and the huge grey mound behind it looked like a frame. She was sure they were picking up the crew of a fallen dirigible.

  Another bewildered passenger hunted up his stewardess in the corridor. But she stopped him before he said a word. Pointing to some women tottering into the main dining-saloon she sobbed, ‘From the Titanic. She’s at the bottom of the ocean.’

  Ten miles away, with the coming of dawn, life was beginning to stir again on the Californian. At 4.00 Chief Officer George Frederick Stewart climbed to the bridge and relieved Second Officer Stone.