I said nothing but felt my face redden. What was losing a little sleep compared to losing your legs?
We ran into Williams again that morning as he limped very deliberately around the deck. His family and Jack’s knew each other, as they were from the same area outside Philadelphia. We talked about the sinking and Norris told us that just after he hit the water, he had come face to face with a British bulldog.
I thought of the beautiful bulldog I’d seen in the kennels. So someone did release the dogs. At least Max hadn’t drowned in his cage.
Norris went on to describe how he had caught sight of what looked like a boat and had swum toward it. It turned out to be a collapsible half full of water. This must have been the other collapsible that had been lashed to the roof of the officer’s quarters, I thought. Norris had had to cling to the side of it for a while before someone hauled him into it.
“We sat in freezing water over our knees for hours,” he said. “When we were finally picked up by another lifeboat, there were only eleven of us still alive. About twenty others had died from the cold.”
We were all silent for a moment. Then Jack and I described how several men had died from exposure and dropped off into the ocean from our overturned boat.
“Harold Bride was on your boat, too, wasn’t he?” asked Norris. I nodded.
“He was in the infirmary with me yesterday,” Norris continued. “His feet were frozen and bandaged. But someone came and said the Carpathia’s operator couldn’t keep up with all the wireless messages, so Bride took a pair of crutches and hobbled off to help him. What a guy!”
“Do you think it’s true that the Titanic received warning messages about icebergs ahead?” asked Jack.
“Bride never told me about that — ” Norris began.
“It’s true! They did!” I exclaimed. “I know they did! I went to the Marconi room on Sunday morning and I heard Bride say ‘another ice message.’ I had to ask my father what an ice message was.”
“Makes you wonder why we were barrelling along at full speed on Sunday night then,” Norris replied. “I think Mr. Ismay will have some explaining to do when we reach New York.”
“I’d heard that Ismay got into one of the last lifeboats,” said Jack, “but I’ve not seen him on board here.”
“Nobody has. He’s holed up in the doctor’s cabin and takes all his meals in there,” said Norris, leaning over to massage his legs. “He’s in complete shock, apparently. Losing his new ship has been too much for him.”
The talk of wireless messages made me wonder if ours had gone through to Arthur in Montreal. They had given us Marconigram forms earlier, and I had taken one to breakfast and filled it out with my mother. Jamie, Rosalie and I safe. No news yet of Father. Mother, was the message she had agreed to send. I think my mother knew in her heart that she was a widow, but part of her still refused to accept it. She had also developed a bad cold and spent most of her time in the cabin she shared with Mrs. Fortune. Rosalie looked in on her frequently, but spent the rest of her time sewing blankets into clothes for the children who had escaped wearing only pyjamas or nightgowns. I had seen a few young children toddling about the ship wearing these makeshift robes.
“I ’ave heard people say the most cruel things,” Rosalie confided to me. “They say of the third-class people, ‘Why did they bother to save so many from steerage?’ As if their lives were worthless!”
I shook my head sadly at this.
People were certainly talking more today, I noticed. And their stories about the sinking were already becoming exaggerated. I’d heard people say that the officers had been forced to shoot people to prevent them from rushing at the boats. Others claimed they were sure that Captain Smith had shot himself as the boat sank. And many people were convinced that the last tune the orchestra had played on the sloping deck was the hymn Nearer My God to Thee.
“I don’t remember any hymns being played,” said Norris.
“Neither do I,” I replied. “Only dance music.”
“It’s not like we were all just standing on the deck, nobly waiting to die, while they played a hymn,” added Jack. “I think most of us were trying to think of ways to survive. I know I was.”
Later that afternoon, Jack and I carried blankets over our arms as we stood in a line, waiting to have a bath. We were planning to rinse out our smelly clothes in the tub and then wrap ourselves in blankets while they dried. Another Carpathia passenger had offered us the use of his cabin for a few hours.
“People seem as certain about the Titanic sinking in one piece as they do about the last hymn,” Jack mentioned as we sat on a bunk in our blankets. “Yet we both saw her break apart.”
“And heard it, too!” I added.
“And I sure wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard someone say that they had a strange feeling about the ship,” Jack continued.
“I know! Can you believe it?” I replied, launching into an imitation of a woman I’d heard with a Cockney accent. “‘Oi just knew there was somethin’ wrong wiv’ that ship the moment I set foot in ’er. Oi just knew it!’”
Jack laughed so hard he had to bury his head in a pillow. Every time he looked up, I’d say, “Oi just knew it!” and that would set him off again. I laughed too, realizing that I had barely even smiled in the last two days.
“We can hear you lads hooting all the way down the corridor,” said the passenger whose cabin we were using, as he entered the room. Both Jack and I mumbled apologies. “Oh well,” the man said. “It helps relieve the tension, I suppose.”
“Sorry,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “We just can’t believe all the crazy stories people are making up about what happened.”
“I guess it’s just human nature to exaggerate,” replied the passenger. He introduced himself as Lewis Skidmore and told us that he was from Brooklyn, New York, where he was an art teacher. He and his wife were on their honeymoon.
“Some honeymoon!” said Jack.
Lewis replied that their European trip being interrupted was a small thing compared to the tragedy we had just been through. He wanted to hear about our experiences on board the Titanic, so while our clothes dried we described what had happened to us.
“You’re quite sure that she broke apart while sinking?” Lewis asked at one point.
“Yes, quite certain,” replied Jack. “We’ve spoken to others who saw the same thing. Those who say it sank in one piece weren’t as close as we were.”
Lewis pulled out his sketchbook and began to make drawings as Jack and I gave him a step-by-step description of the sinking. He said he would work up these sketches and show them to us tomorrow. By the time we had finished, our clothes had mostly dried, so we thanked him for the use of his room, got dressed and headed for the line outside the dining saloon. I think the food supplies on board must have been getting a little stretched, since for Tuesday dinner there was only soup, some cold sliced meats and macaroni.
That night as Jack and I lay on the floor of the smoking room, we were awakened by a deafening clap of thunder. Norris fell off the table where he was sleeping. One or two others thought we had hit something and ran out on deck to make sure there hadn’t been another collision with an iceberg.
The rain that followed the thunderstorm lasted all of Wednesday. A thick fog rolled in during the morning and the mournful honk of the ship’s foghorn only added to the glum mood on board. I tried walking on deck with Norris after breakfast, but the driving rain forced us back inside. The public rooms were very crowded and people were beginning to squabble with each other. Some of the women were now feeling very anxious about what awaited them after our arrival in New York. It was beginning to sink in that their husbands were gone and their lives were changed forever.
Around four on Wednesday afternoon I decided to get some fresh air out on the deck. I’d been feeling very cooped up in the smoking room even though I’d managed to borrow a good book to read. There weren’t many people on deck due to the cold and the fog, but I immediately
spotted Johnnie standing beside a lifeboat davit.
“Johnnie,” I said, walking up behind him. “I’m so glad to see you!”
He turned, looking a little startled. “Oh, hullo,” he replied very coolly.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I have to go,” he said, trying to push past me.
“Stop, wait! Talk to me,” I said, catching him by the arm as he tried to wriggle past me. “I know you’re feeling sad. I am too. But I thought we were friends.”
“That was then,” he replied. “Now you’re a hero and I’m the boy who dressed like a girl to get off the Titanic.”
“Oh, Johnnie, I’m no hero. I’m just lucky. And so are you,” I said, holding him by the arm. “We have our lives, Johnnie! Just think how horrible it would be for your mother to have lost two sons and her husband.” As he tried to get away from me I put both hands on his shoulders. “And you didn’t dress like a girl — that’s idiotic.”
“I see. So now I’m an idiot as well as a coward,” he snapped, pushing my hands away and brushing past me.
“Not you, Johnnie, the people who say such things are idiots,” I called after him. “In a month or two, everybody will have forgotten about the Titanic anyway!”
But he was already well down the deck and headed for the door to the dining saloon. My heart was racing and my head pounding. Back in the smoking room, I spent almost an hour trying to calm myself down. Finally, I decided that I would write Johnnie a letter when I got home to Montreal.
He’ll feel differently by then, I thought.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK
Thursday, April 18, 1912, 8:30 a.m.
“We passed the Nantucket lightship early this morning,” Major Peuchen announced at breakfast. “I’m told we shall be in New York harbour by this evening.”
At his mention of New York I couldn’t help but feel a tremor of excitement run up my spine. I’d always wanted to see New York! Although the Carpathia had felt like a safe cocoon since our rescue, I was tired of the hard floor in the crowded smoking room. And I was more than ready to get into some fresh clothes and sleep in a real bed once again. When I looked across the table at my mother, however, I saw a look of worry on her face.
“I’m sure we can find a hotel for tonight,” I said, patting her shoulder.
She simply nodded and I realized that she was hoping against hope that my father would be waiting for us on the pier. I suddenly felt guilty for my excitement about New York. I also realized that it was now up to me to care for my mother. She had mostly recovered from her cold, but still seemed very frail — as if she had become an old woman since Sunday night.
“I’m planning to stay at the Waldorf,” said the Major. “We can all go there in the same taxi, if you’d like.”
“That’s very kind,” said my mother in a quiet voice.
The Waldorf-Astoria! I remembered Johnnie telling me that Mr. Astor was the owner of that famous hotel. It seemed strange that he would never see it again. I’d heard that his young widow, Madeleine Astor, was sharing the captain’s cabin with Jack’s mother. I thought back to how Mr. Astor’s dog had spooked Sykes, leading to our mad scramble on the forecastle deck. Could that have been only a week ago? What kids we had been then, I thought to myself. Part of me felt that I could never be that carefree boy ever again.
As I stared at the scrambled eggs on my plate, it occurred to me that this would be our last breakfast on the Carpathia. And today, for a change, there was fruit, and ham and muffins on the menu. I guessed that the ship’s galley had been scrimping earlier, for fear their supplies might run out.
I glanced around the room in search of Johnnie, but couldn’t see him at any of the tables. I did spy a Pekingese dog that had survived, sitting with the American couple who owned him. There were two other lapdogs, I’d heard, that had also been carried into lifeboats.
“Imagine saving a dog when people were drowning!” was just one of the disapproving comments I’d overheard about this.
Some of the women who had lost their husbands seemed resentful of the men who had survived. “How did you get off the Titanic?” was a question I’d been asked more than once. No wonder Johnnie felt so defensive about it. Major Peuchen, too, had experienced this resentment, so much so that he had asked Officer Lightoller to write a letter for him, describing how he had ordered the Major into a lifeboat.
People were also talking about an English lord and lady named Duff Gordon, who, it was said, had escaped in “their own private lifeboat” with only three other passengers and seven crewmen in a boat that could have held forty. The survivors from this lifeboat had all posed for a photograph on the deck of the Carpathia. One of them had apparently called out “Smile!” as the photo was being snapped, which had drawn indignant remarks from people nearby.
The rain and fog continued all morning, so I retreated to the smoking room with my book. In the afternoon I took a walk on deck with Norris, whose legs seemed to be getting better each day. He talked about going to Harvard in the fall and getting back into shape so he could compete for the Davis Cup.
Our foghorn had been keeping up its mournful blasts all day and, at one point, I thought I heard another foghorn answering it from onshore. I listened quietly and then heard it again.
“That’s probably coming from the Fire Island lighthouse,” said Norris, “just off Long Island. I’ve been to the beach near there. We’ll be home in a few hours, I think.”
“Maybe you will,” I replied. “We’ve got another day’s travel to get home to Montreal. But I’ll have to buy some new clothes in New York, first,” I said, pulling on my salt-stained sweater.
“Yes,” said Norris with a smile, “it’s not like we have anything to pack up before we get off.”
The Carpathia gave us one final supper and I sat once again with my mother and Major Peuchen. We were told that first-class passengers would be the first to disembark, and that the White Star Line would provide cars at the pier to take us to our destinations. We agreed to find Rosalie and then meet the Major on deck before disembarking together. My mother was wearing the same dress she had put on before leaving the Titanic on Sunday night. But she was luckier than many other women, who were still wearing nightgowns under their coats.
As we came closer to New York harbour in the early evening, a thunderstorm erupted, bringing down sheets of rain. I stood on an enclosed deck, hoping for my first look at the Statue of Liberty. But I only caught a few glimpses of it, illuminated by flashes of lightning. Other bursts of white light kept erupting from all the tugs and small boats that were crowding around us, from the magnesium flares that press photographers were using. The boats were also packed with reporters shouting at us through megaphones.
“Have you seen Mr. Ismay?” was one question that was yelled across the water.
“Is Mrs. Astor on board?” was another.
I looked at a few of the passengers standing by me near the railing and we all rolled our eyes. Clearly the Titanic’s sinking was bigger news than we had ever dreamed. Norris said that a reporter had even clambered onboard from the boat that had brought out the harbour pilot and that Captain Rostron was keeping an eye on him on the bridge. As the Carpathia passed by the southern tip of Manhattan, we peered through the darkness and saw thousands of people standing silently in the rain in Battery Park.
“Good heavens, what are all those people doing there?” someone asked.
“I think they’re waiting for us,” came the reply.
As we slowly approached the shore, the Carpathia went right past the pier marked Cunard Line and headed for another long terminal building that had White Star Line painted on it. We thought we were going to dock there, but instead we saw the Titanic’s lifeboats being lowered over the side. Four of them were loaded onto the deck of a tugboat and seven others were put in the water to be towed behind it. It seemed pathetic that these few boats were all that was left to deliver to the White Star Line. If o
nly we had dodged that iceberg, I thought, horns would be blaring and all the fireboats would be shooting up geysers to salute the Titanic’s maiden arrival in New York.
Soon the engines started up again and slowly we moved back toward the Cunard pier for landing. The tugs gently brought the Carpathia in beside the dock and we heard the sounds of the two gangways being lowered. I met my mother and Rosalie by the forward gangway at just after nine p.m. and we looked around for Major Peuchen. He soon arrived with a woman who was carrying a baby. I didn’t know who she was, but assumed that the Major must have offered to help her ashore.
The scene on the dock was almost unbelievable. Wooden barriers had been set up beside the gangways, creating two paths through the crowd into the Cunard terminal. Mother took one look at all the people waiting below and turned away. I gave her my hand and she clasped it tightly. The first passengers began to walk down the gangway, some of them wearing dressing gowns or wrapped in blankets. We heard names being shouted out by the crowd and saw a few people being greeted with joyful hugs. At the top of the gangway, I turned and looked at the Major. He nodded back. Rosalie went first and I escorted my mother behind her. When we reached the dock we were surrounded by a sea of faces illuminated by white lights. Suddenly Arthur was standing in front of us.
“Arthur!” my mother called out. “Have you any news of Father?”
He simply lowered his eyes and shook his head. I heard my mother stifle a low cry and felt her crumple beside me. Arthur quickly grabbed her and put his arm around her waist. She rested her head on his shoulder for a minute and then walked beside him into the terminal. I looked behind me for Major Peuchen but saw that he was off to one side talking to reporters.
“Carelessness, gross carelessness!” I heard him say, and thought to myself that the reporters had found their man.
When I stepped inside the terminal, Arthur turned to me and asked for the landing cards we’d been given on the Carpathia. I pulled them out of my pocket and he quickly took them and gave them to the customs official. I told Arthur that we were going to the Waldorf-Astoria and that the White Star Line would cover our expenses.
Deadly Voyage Page 9
