As night faded, and the golden glow of approaching dawn could be seen across the horizon, Sunday seemed like any other day aboard the Titanic. It will be interesting, perhaps, to give the day's events in some detail, as to appreciate the general attitude of passengers to their surroundings, just before the collision. Service was held in the saloon by the purser in the morning, and going on deck after lunch, we found such change in temperature, that not many cared to remain to face the bitter wind, an artificial wind, created mainly by the ship's rapid motion through the chilly atmosphere. I should judge there was no wind blowing at the time, for I had noticed about the same force of wind approaching Queenstown, to find that it died away as soon as we stopped, only to rise again as we steamed away from the harbour.
Returning to the library, I stopped for a moment to read again the day's run and observe our position on the chart; the Rev. Mr. Carter, a clergyman of the Church of England, was similarly engaged, and we renewed a conversation we had enjoyed for some days; it had commenced with a discussion of the relative merits of religion, or rather, the steady decline of the church. Mr. Carter made preparations during the afternoon by asking all he knew, and many he did not, to come to the saloon at 8.30 P.M. Most would not come and he knew this. He argued that the ship had setup a 3 hour social function during his church service. How could they do that? Do they not have respect for the church? I inquired of him what social function they had so unjustly scheduled during his service. A projected screen, moving picture show, the good Rev. replied. I'd seen nickelodeons before, but not a moving picture show. I felt slightly hypocritical. I had to admit the idea of watching a story, in place of attending service did strike my fancy. I did not of course admit this to the Rev. I felt a slight ache of guilt, but pushed it aside. The Rev. went on to say that this picture show was sure to impact his service because of the nature of this novelty. As I was leaving, I glanced through the clear windows, and saw the double Marquee sign. One of the features was called "The Lighthouse keeper", starring Mary Pickford, and the second one was D.W. Griffith's, "The Poseidon Adventure". I can only speculate that both were likely to be seafaring plots.
Then I think of the people I saw that day; they had no idea of the world we would end up in, in merely a few short hours. Secrets were unfolding as we obliviously enjoyed ourselves. I can only attest to what I saw with my own eyes. In the same corridor are a man and his wife with two children, and one of them he is carrying; they are all young and happy. He is dressed always in a grey knickerbocker suit, with a camera slung over his shoulder. I have not seen any of them since that afternoon.
Close beside me, so near that I cannot avoid hearing scraps of their conversation, are two American ladies, both dressed in white, young, and probably friends. Yet one has been to India and is returning by way of England, the other is a school-teacher in America a graceful girl with a distinguished air. Engaged in conversation with them is a gentleman whom I subsequently identified from a photograph as a well-known resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Genial, polished, and with a courtly air towards the two ladies, whom he has known but a few hours; from time to time as they talk, a child acquaintance breaks in on their conversation and insists on their taking notice of a large doll clasped in her arms. I have seennone of this group since then…
In the opposite corner are the young American kinematograph photographer and his young wife, evidently French, very fond of playing patience, which she is doing now, while he sits back in his chair, watching the game, and interposing from time to time with suggestions. I did not see them again. In the middle of the room are two Catholic priests, one quietly reading, either English or Irish, the other, dark, bearded, with broad-brimmed hat, talking earnestly to a friend in German and evidently explaining some verse in the open Bible before him. Near them a young fire engineer on his way to Mexico, and of the same religion as the rest of the group. None of them were saved. It may be noted here that the percentage of men saved in the second class is the lowest of any other division; only eight per cent.
Many other faces recur to thought, but it is impossible to describe them all in the space of a short book; of all those in the library that Sunday afternoon, I can remember only two or three persons who found their way to the Carpathia. Looking over this room, with his back to the library shelves, is the library steward, thin, stooping, sad-faced, and generally with nothing to do but serve out books; but this afternoon he is busier than I have ever seen him, serving out baggage declaration-forms for passengers to fill in. Mine is before me as I write: "Form for nonresidents in the United States; Steamship Titanic: No. 31444, D," etc. I had filled it in that afternoon and slipped it in my pocket-book instead of returning it to the steward. Before me, too, is a small cardboard square: "White Star Line. R.M.S. Titanic. 208. This label must be given up when the article is returned, the property will be deposited in the Purser's safe. The company will not be liable to passengers for the loss of money, jewels, or ornaments, by theft or otherwise, not so deposited." The property deposited in my case was money, placed in an envelope, sealed, with my name written across the flap, and handed to the purser; the "label" is my receipt. Along with other similar envelopes, it may be still intact in the safe at the bottom of the sea, but in all probability it is not, as will be seen presently.
After lunch, Mr. Conklin invited all who wished to the saloon, and with the assistance at the piano of a gentleman who sat at the table opposite me (a young Scotch engineer going out to join his brother fruit-farming at the foot of the Rockies), he started some hundred passengers singing hymns. They were asked to choose whichever hymn they wished, and with so many to choose, it was impossible for him to do more than have the greatest favourites sung. As he announced each hymn, it was evident that he was thoroughly versed in their history; no hymn was sung in which he did not give a short sketch of its author, and in some cases a description of the circumstances in which it was composed. I think all were impressed with his knowledge of hymns and with his eagerness to tell us all he knew of them. It was curious to see how many chose hymns to deal with dangers at sea. I noticed the hushed tone with which all sang the hymn, "For those in peril on the Sea." The great confidence all felt on board this great liner, with her steadiness and her size, and the happy outlook of landing, in a few hours, in New York, at the close of a delightful voyage.
Now we must go back to the ill child, young Miss Conklin. With the Conklin's being of upper-class, the husband Erik, a German businessman, owned a rope and cable company; some of the very cable and rope used in the manufacturing of Titanic herself. The family employed a young maidservant, by the name of Katherine Marie. It was Katherine Marie who stood vigil at Erica's bedside keeping the doctors up to date with news of the child's condition.
It was about 8 pm that night, as I recall, mostly because of coincidence or happenstance, or an omen, I had checked my watch. We noticed the maidservant of the ill child approaching. Katherine made her way up, to deliver the latest news. She said the child was delirious and not acting herself. She related how Erika grew quite silent, that the child had breathed a deep sigh, and that she feared the worst. Several minutes had passed and she swore the child had stopped breathing. She even pulled the linen over the dearone’s head, prayed for the safe passage of the child, and was about to call for her mother and alert the preacher, when suddenly, a deep guttural gasp came out of the child; she was breathing! Her prayers were heard and answered, it seemed. It was a miracle. The child pulled through. The jubilant cheers of all who were in attendance could be heard from ships port to stern. It was at this time that Mrs. Anna Conklin, Erika's mother, ran to see the child and rejoice in her well-being. She too had stood vigil with her daughter, and was only on deck for all but 10 minutes to clear her head, when Katherine had appeared, with the delightful news of Erica's recovery.
I pulled up a chair for the maid and noticed the book she had in hand. “ What is that there that you are reading?” "Futilityor wreck of the Titan,” she said, “It was
penned by Morgan Robertson.” I inquired of her the nature of the tale, curious as to what this young maid was reading. “It's a book of fiction about a fallen Navy Lieutenant aboard a ship called the Titan, the largest craft afloat. It strikes an iceberg and goes down with 2500 people aboard. I'm at the half chapter now and it's really is quite an adventure,” she gushed.” I'd say so,” I replied.
Then Katherine began coughing as she motioned for her water. I noticed the bright scarlet scratch across her hand. “What happened to your hand?” I thought perhaps she had caught it on a rail. She mentioned that the salt air was causing her to have a dry cough and that Miss Conklin had scraped her with her nails in a delusional fit brought about from the fever. I found it rather odd, but Katherineshook her head and said, “It’s okay, she's not herself. I'll wet my hand before going to bed,” and departed for her cabin.
By nine o'clock the group had quieted down. I had not realized how exhausted the day’s events had made me, so I stood up and headed towards my beautiful room. I took my shoes of slowly and dressed in my nightwear. I fell dead asleep. In the still of the night, as I laid in my bed, I heard my door open. I rubbed my eyes and looked into the doorway, as I sat at the edge of my bed and saw a dark silhouette. You could barely make out the shape. I thought I surely must still be asleep. I heard the silhouette let out a growl. I asked who was there and they did not answer, but my voice seemed to make this shape take notice of me. The growl sounded like dog, but had a shrill quality. It is at this point I realized it was not sleep, that I was not dreaming, that I was awake, this was real, and an intruder was in my room. The hair stood on the back of my neck and my pulse rate rose instantly. The swaying motion of the ship gave me a nauseous feeling, as I tried to focus through the darkness, and lock in on the silhouette. It was getting closer. I tried my best now to be still and quiet; in the preservation of one's life, you have but a split second to decide on fight or flight. My mind imagined, had a dog wandered in my room? I have seen dogs all trip long and I suppose it's possible that one’s rabid? Was it going to try to attack me? How does this happen? How do I go from sleeping in my luxurious room, to being an animal’s prey? As a small child, I remember seeing a pack of wild dogs devour a pig. I remember the pig squealing and shrieking as the dogs attacked, and right in the middle of the feast, a dog sensed me, and looked right at me. The dogs drool was mixed with blood, accompanied by deep thirsty growls and I stared into those blank eyes for one second, before I turned and ran back to my home, not telling my mother what I saw, but the memory haunting most of my childhood nightmares. All these thoughts happened in but an instance. The dark mass screamed and ran towards me. I jumped to my feet and ran away from it. I raced toward a sitting room adjacent to my bed, the predator behind me. Sharp piercing pain impacted my right shin bone. I fell forward and rolled onto my back. I had tripped over a small marble table. I looked up and the dark object took focus in the windows light. This creature was not rabid dog; it was Katherine Marie and she had blood pouring from her mouth. I knew in an instant it was not her blood.
I'd seen this look before on the faces of predators. She jumped toward me, but I sprung to my feet and launched myself into the sitting area. She closed in and attempted to bite me as I closed the door on her hand. She didn't scream in pain, she screamed in rage and longing, and was that disappointment I could sense in her growl? As I slammed the door shut, I heard her hand bones snap and crack in the door jam, but I pushed harder and her hand fell away as the door made the click that could only mean that it was securely closed. She pounded and scratched at the door as I held the door handle tight. She continued to ceaselessly pound at the door.
As the room grew quiet, I tried to make sense of what just happened. My leg throbbed and pulsated with my heartbeat. I'd gashed a silver dollar sized hole in my shin. I listened very quietly at the door, slowly leaning towards it and pressing my ear against the door. The pounding started again and I sighed as I looked for anything to protect myself. I grabbed a small iron poker, sitting next to the fire place, the only weapon readily available and in sight. She was running full force against the door and I feared the door would break at any moment. As I heard her brace back for another go, I opened the door and swung hitting her in the side of the neck. She went down and was knocked out cold. I looked at her in shock. She was dead silent; her eyes were closed. I knew better then to get any closer, and waited a moment for the confirmation of the end of the attack. I was beginning to finally relax my grip on the poker, my heart rate decreasing slowly, when her eyelids snapped open and she pounced to her feet such a way, with the flowing motion I'd never seen any creature do before. Before my very eyes, in a matter of seconds, she was standing before me growling and then charged in my direction. I took a defensive fencing stance, and executed an attack, running the poker straight through her right eye socket. It went clean through the other side of her head. She dropped; no creature could survive such a devastating injury.
As I was gathering my thoughts, I opened my door and shouted for help. As I gathered my whereabouts, I realized I was standing in the middle of an Armageddon. All about me litter was strewn and people were running about; some were in fearful retreat, running frantically, and some, I realized, were like Katherine…frenzied predators.
A fellow passenger, an Irishman named William Michael, whom I'd talked to daily, was standing before me. He was wandering about with his mouth slack open. I called out to him and as he turned toward my direction, I saw he was missing his right arm, all the way up to his shoulder. In his left hand, he held the severed arm, swinging it like a cricket bat. He walked closer to me and smashed an illuminated sconce with the limb. I stood frozen in my tracks. He looked me in the eye and growled. I took a step back as a person ran past me, in the opposite direction. This distracted William Michael who turned around in pursuit of the passerby.
I made my way through the corridor and down the hallway; madness was all around me. I knew I had to get to the captain. I rushed up the stairwell, and was thrown back down by force. A thunderous large crash followed by intense grinding noise. I looked up and ice chunks rained down upon me. A lamp struck me and as I felt the impact connect to me, I was dazed and slightly lost consciousness. An officer ran right over me. As he continued up the stairway, I started to follow. “You there,” I shouted, “what on earth has happened? “We struck an iceberg, please make your way to alifeboat,” he said. What is going on? How could this be? I witnessed several men standing behind the officer. Bang! Bang! Bang! Gunfire... The three men dropped, another officer standing behind them.
“ Why did you do that!?Why did you just execute those men?” I pleaded for some sanity, any kind of explanation forthe horrible events occurring before my very eyes. “I had to put them down. They had turned,” he said, “they were getting ready to attack you both. There are two things going on here sir. First, there is some sort of sickness, and second, in the distraction trying to contain the sickness, we ran afoul and struck an iceberg.
More gunshots were heard below my feet, coming from the second level. Bright flares went up in the night sky, meaning that someone had made the call and that this ship was going down. I ran to the Captain's deck and saw that Mr. Bruce Ismay was standing by. He and Captain Smith were shouting loudly about this plague of sickness, speculating that a bite or scratch from the sick, cause you to become infected. They argued briefly about a failed attempt of third class quarantine. Ismay said they'd attempted to keep it contained in the steerage, orders were sent out to lock the gates. Ismay ordered that sick or known infected be placed below. The issue at hand was, why they also locked healthy people below, and why was it only third class was quarantined? Neither of them seemed to know.
Captain Smith and Ismay continued their squabble. I stood there frozen, unsure of what action to take, when a standing deckhand started convulsing and screamed like a wild animal. He jumped in the air and ripped wide open the neck of Officer Henry Wilde. Blood sprayed from Wilde's now exposed carot
id artery. Wilde was literally being eaten alive before our eyes. The deckhand's head gnashed back and forth. Mr. Ismay step toward them, quickly pulled a revolver from his waist, placed it against the deckhand's forehead, and fired his weapon.
Wilde dropped instantly to the floor. He was grabbing him neck, trying to speak but couldn’t; he was drowning in his own blood. Captain Smith applied pressure and attempted to keep the flow contained, but the officer was pale and bleeding out. Everyone was covered in the blood flowing from his wound and the floor surface was sickly, shining, glimmering in the blood, and very slick. Captain Smith held him and I could tell that the Captain had father like admiration for this man. A click was heard and before Captain Smith could say a word in protest, Ismay fired a round in Wilde's temple, killing him instantly. Captain Smith was enraged, and shouted, “what are you doing, man?!” “Destroying the brain,” Ismay declared, “It appears to do well with putting these things down.” The Captain was stunned. “We have a ship and profits to think about. Let the dead care for their own,” Ismay said.
The iceberg! In the panic, I had forgotten about the ship sinking. Think of the shame of it, that a mass of ice, of no use to anyone or anything, should have the power to fatally injure the beautiful Titanic! That an insensible block should be able to threaten, even in the smallest degree, the lives of many good men and women who think and plan and hope and love; not only to threaten, but to end their lives. It is unbearable! Are we never to educate ourselves to foresee such dangers and to prevent them before they happen? All the evidence of history shows that laws unknown and unsuspected, are being discovered day by day; as this knowledge accumulates for the use of man, is it not certain that the ability to see and destroy beforehand, the threat of danger, will be one of the privileges the whole world will utilize? May that day come soon, but until it does, no precaution too rigorous can be taken, no safety appliance, however costly, must be omitted from a ship's equipment.
Stephen A. Dymarcik II Page 3
