No Moon

by Irene N. Watts

  A voice calls out, “Get us off.”

  “Aye, aye, sir, Officer Lightoller,” one of our crewmen answers hoarsely. He cuts us loose from the other boats and rows towards the capsized collapsible. We shift, trying to make room for survivors. As many as twenty or thirty are helped aboard.

  One of the officers says, “This was the last of the four collapsibles to leave the Titanic. It capsized as it hit the surface. We are mostly crew and officers. We’ve been kneeling or standing for hours, knee-deep in water. One of my men is trapped beneath the boat–his legs are badly damaged, broken I’m afraid. We could not have lasted much longer. Thank God we sighted you!”

  Our boat sinks lower in the water with the weight of the extra passengers. We were overloaded before, but now we are crammed together so close that some women must stand. No one complains.

  A stoker is pulled aboard. His face is covered in soot, and his thin shirt is torn to shreds. He trembles so violently with cold, I hear his teeth chatter. Someone winds a muffler around his neck. A woman tears her blanket in half and folds up one part as a pillow for the man with broken legs. I take off my coat to cover one of the shivering sailors. Someone in another boat might do the same for Patrick.

  Officer Lightoller is the last to jump into our boat. He points to the man with broken legs: “It is thanks to this chap, we are saved. Look there, coming towards us, braving the icebergs, is a ship answering his SOS. Remember this man’s name, Harold Bride, our radio operator. He would not leave his post until Captain Smith ordered us to abandon ship! Hang on, man,” Officer Lightoller says. “You’ll soon be safe!”

  We cheer. A ship, coming to help us!

  Miss Portia whispers to me, her lips blue with cold, “I made a wish on the moon, Gardy, and it came true!”

  Nothing has ever looked as beautiful to me–this ship, with only one black funnel; this ship, not even half as big as the Titanic, but braving the dangerous seas to rescue us. Another cheer goes up as the first of the lifeboats draws to the shelter of the ship’s side. Ladders are lowered for the first boatload to climb aboard. Soon it will be our turn.

  The wind has risen, and water begins to swell and ripple into waves strong enough to wash over the sides of our boat. We were full when we started out, but now, with our second load of survivors, we must number over seventy!

  Officer Lightoller does his best to move our lifeboat closer to the ship, but we sit so low in the water that we make no progress at all. Every wave that advances us a few yards also pushes us out again. Each time, it seems, we are carried further away from safety. Have we come so far only to perish now?

  We wait and hope. Watch canvas bags being lowered over the side for the children, eager hands lifting survivors onto the deck. It is light enough now for me to read the name painted on the ship’s side. She is named Carpathia.

  We are the last boat to come in, all of us too cold and wet to speak. My mind is numb, and I no longer hope nor despair. One great swell of water threatens to swamp our lifeboat, then, mercifully, heaves us close enough to reach the ladders and safety.

  The children are helped into the canvas bags. Harry Bride, the wounded radio operator, is hoisted on board, looking pitifully white and still. After all that he has done and suffered, he will surely survive.

  16

  Carpathia

  It is my turn. Ropes are passed around my waist, and I climb halfway up the rungs of the ladder. I look down, stop, and realize I cannot go even one step more. Every bone and muscle in my body refuses to obey this final task. I lean my forehead against my arm and close my eyes. The children are safely on board; that is all that matters.

  “You are almost here. Look up, girl, you can do it!” Of course I can, I have come this far. Get a hold of yourself, Louisa Gardener. Others are waiting behind you.

  I raise my head to see a sailor’s face smile encouragement from above. Painfully, I pull myself up the remaining rungs towards him. Strong arms lift me the last few feet, and the rope around my waist is removed. Someone wraps a dry blanket around my shoulders and I clutch it. I had forgotten what it feels like to be warm.

  Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra greet me as if we had been parted for days! They cling to my legs. Lady Milton and Hart are here, too. Hart and I hug each other, forgetful of place. Lady Milton comes towards us, and Hart steps back, an arm around each of the girls. Lady Milton takes my cold hands in hers.

  “Thank you, Gardener, for my daughters’ lives.” Her hands drop to her sides. “This was the last boat. My husband…was he, is he, in the boat with you?” she asks.

  I wish with all my heart that I could reply differently. “No, ma’am. I am sorry, but we saw him only before we left.”

  “Mama, Mama, Papa gave me a letter to give to Roger. Don’t cry, Mama, you can have it!” Miss Portia hands the damp boarding pass to her mother.

  “Thank you, my darling. What a good girl you are to keep it safe. We will give it to Roger when we come home.” She turns away. Her whispered “He has gone, Hart!” breaks my heart.

  An officer hurries us downstairs, where we are given dry clothes and broth or coffee to drink. A steward tells Lady Milton a cabin has been made available for her and the children. The doctor will come to see her presently. Hart and I follow, carrying clothing donated by the Carpathia’s passengers. Everything possible seems to have been prepared for us.

  I remove the children’s damp things and hang them on hooks to dry. The girls fall asleep instantly, in the second bunk. A tap on the door and a steward informs us that a service of thanks is to be held in the main lounge for the Titanic’s survivors, followed by one of prayer for those who perished.

  Lady Milton insists on attending. Hart goes with her, and I stay behind to watch over the children. I do not believe that our crowded lifeboat could have lasted much longer if the Carpathia had not arrived when she did. I sit and listen to the children breathe. Now and again, one of them sobs in her sleep.

  I murmur, “We are all safe now,” hoping it is true.

  When Lady Milton returns, she can barely speak. “Captain Rostron says he has not found any survivors, other than the 705 he was able to rescue. He has circled the area several times where the Titanic sank. More than 1,500 people are gone. I am a widow, on a ship of widows.” Lady Milton is white as a ghost and looks as if she is about to faint. She refuses to sit, though Hart offers her a chair.

  “Please, Gardener, repeat every word my husband said to you,” Lady Milton asks.

  “Yes, ma’am. Miss Portia and I were about to climb down into the lifeboat behind Miss Alexandra when Miss Portia cried, ‘Papa.’ Somehow, Lord Milton must have persuaded the officer to let him through to find us. He grasped Miss Portia’s hand for an instant, gave her the boarding pass for safekeeping, and told me to look after the children, your ladyship. ‘I promised my wife,’ he said. Then he disappeared back into the crowd.”

  Miss Portia sits up in the bunk. “Papa said, ‘God bless you both, my darlings’ and asked me to give the card to Roger. Will Papa come back soon?”

  Lady Milton goes to her daughter, touches her cheek, and crumples down beside the sleeping Miss Alexandra. I tiptoe out of the cabin.

  The corridors are full of passengers looking for family members and friends. I scan their faces, hoping to see a familiar one. Suddenly I am confronted by Roberts, holding the baby boy in her arms. I almost believe she has come looking for me!

  At that moment, Hart appears. “Well, I never, if it isn’t Roberts. So you made it safely. But where is your other little charge?”

  “I am going to make a new life in Canada, and I’m asking you two to hold your tongues. I was not able to save Loraine. Her parents would not let her leave without them. Before I could persuade them, an officer bundled me into a boat with Trevor. They stayed behind.

  “I’m leaving England for good! I never took anything that was not rightly mine to take, and you can’t prove otherwise. I’ll thank you to keep out of my way and to mind your own bus
iness.” She pushes past us, leaving us both too shocked to speak for several minutes.

  Eventually Hart says, “We’ll never find the truth out about that one, or what really happened at the end on the Titanic. The baby’s relatives will undoubtedly take care of him when the Carpathia reaches New York. There is nothing we can do, Gardener. At least Miss Loraine was with her parents at the end!” Hart straightens her shoulders, as if determined to banish any more sad thoughts.

  “And now, we had better find out where everything is. It will be time for lunch soon–goodness knows how and where they’ll feed us all! Her ladyship needs every bit of her strength. She has the new baby to consider now!”

  All I can think of is that poor little girl and her family and if Roberts spoke the truth. There are so many missing from the Titanic. What happened to Tim, the glass-washer? Does he have a mother or wife waiting for him? Mrs. Landers is safe–I saw her earlier. But did Patrick escape the boiler room?

  “You look as if you have seen a ghost,” Hart says, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, Gardener. Won’t we all be seeing ghosts after this!”

  After supper, Hart and I go in search of a place to sleep. Many of those on the Carpathia have given up their cabins, but passengers from both ships lie on tables, on the floor of the public rooms, on mattresses, or on deck chairs. Women passengers are cutting down skirts, coats, and blankets to clothe some of the children and those with nothing to wear.

  Hart and I are given two blankets each and find a corner of the lounge to lie down. Neither of us can settle–there is so much we have not had time to talk about. I prop myself on my elbow, trying to get comfortable on the floor. I’m not ready to close my eyes yet. “Where were you, Hart? We looked and looked for you on deck.”

  “I went back to the cabin to get my life jacket, and you’d gone. Then we went up to search for you. The officer on the port side told Lord and Lady Milton that all first-class ladies, children, and maids were to go down to A deck, that lifeboat 4 was being lowered there for us. It would be a shorter distance to climb into from the A deck windows. Captain’s orders, he said. Lady Milton told the officer to send you down to us and described you. Well, nothing went the way it was supposed to after that!

  “We found the windows were locked, and a sailor had to be sent to look for the key. Then the officer discovered a sounding bar, which measures the depth of the water, sticking out beneath the lifeboat. It had to be chopped away. While we waited, the officer went up to the boat deck to help lower other boats.

  “Lady Milton was frantic about the children. I tried to get back up to look for you and was sent down. Finally Lord Milton insisted he be permitted to look for his daughters! When he returned, he said he had seen all three of you climb safely into a lifeboat, and that calmed her ladyship. It was hours before the sounding bar was chopped away and the windows unlocked. We were helped through. Deck chairs were placed end to end, like steps, for us to clamber down into the boat. It was women and children only. Two boys would have been turned away, with the other men, but their fathers swore they had not yet turned thirteen.

  “Lady Milton refused to leave without her husband! He begged her to think of Master Roger and the girls and the new baby. He promised that he and Colonel Astor would assist each other. And so I helped Lady Milton down into the lifeboat.

  “I feel sorry for young Lady Astor–all she has left of the colonel are the gloves he threw to her before we set off. She was very brave. Do you know she expects her first child in a few weeks?

  “And we had waited so long that we were one of the last boats to leave the ship!” Hart’s cheeks are flushed with indignation. And the worst of it is, there would have been room for some of the gentlemen! I hear Lord and Lady Duff Gordon, who left in one of the earliest boats, were two of only twelve passengers and crew–all those seats left empty! There will not be many ladies ordering new gowns from Madame Lucile’s! Yes, that’s who Lady Duff Gordon is–the owner of Madame Lucile’s–and to think Lady Milton orders some of her gowns from her salon! I heard someone say that her husband persuaded the crew not to row back for survivors, he was so afraid of being swamped! Wicked and selfish, I call it.”

  “It may not be true, Hart. When I first came on deck with the girls, many of the ladies refused to enter the lifeboats, thinking it was safer to stay on board. At first, I thought the same thing. And I am sure I saw Lady Milton speaking to that lady this evening,” I say.

  “That’s because her ladyship will not turn her back on a friend,” Hart says. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Gardener: Someone will have to answer for what happened on the Titanic. All those families left without fathers, husbands, sons, and daughters…babies drowned! I’ll never forget the cries of those people sliding or jumping from the deck, disappearing like ants down a hole.” Hart blinks away tears.

  “I know. Later that night, when I came out of the gymnasium where I had taken the children to warm up, I saw that only a few boats remained. Men were held back by the crew, and there were long lines of women and children. You could see that not everyone would get a place on the lifeboats, Hart. I kept thinking, over and over, don’t let it happen again, don’t let me lose another one! I had to make sure the girls were safe. Why build a fine boat like the Titanic and not make room for enough lifeboats?” I ask her.

  “That’s no big secret, Gardener. The White Star Line wanted more room for first-class passengers to promenade. It’s always been like that–the rich come first!”

  Hart stretches out her hand to me. “Tell me, Louisa…well, that’s your name, isn’t it? What did you mean by another one?”

  I take her hand. We are friends now. “When I was four, maybe five, Mother told my sister Kathleen and me that we were to watch over our little brother. It was our first time to play at the seaside. I made shell patterns in the sand. Kath and I forgot about Johnny…he slipped away and drowned. I’ve been frightened of the terrible power of the ocean, of water, ever since!”

  “Do you know what you are, Louisa Gardener? A real heroine, that’s what, and I am proud to be your friend. Now go to sleep, it’s over.” But it isn’t over.…

  The storm begins in the early hours of the morning and rages on and on. Thunder, lightning, wind, and fog. We can scarcely keep our balance. Each time the foghorn blows her warning dirge, I think of those who are not with us anymore.

  At roll call, we listen, horrified, to the absence of name after name. Will Mother and Father believe I have drowned, too? And Kathleen’s Patrick–I shall have to tell her!

  Hart says, “Lady Milton has cabled home and asked Mr. Briggs to let your family know you are safe.”

  For the remainder of the voyage, the weather is too fierce for us to go out on deck. I am at my wit’s end keeping Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra occupied. The worst has happened and may happen again, but my fears are buried at the bottom of the sea. Only a great sadness remains to haunt me.

  On Wednesday morning, April 18th, the Carpathia sails into New York harbor. In spite of the cold and rain, passengers gather on deck in their borrowed clothes, anxious to be on dry land once again.

  Crowds, hushed, under their umbrellas, are gathered to greet us as we step onto the gangway. The family is immediately ushered into a waiting area, where friends and relatives wait for news. Lady Milton falls into her sister’s arms, whose husband, Lord Fenton, bends down to embrace the girls.

  “Where is Papa?” Miss Alexandra asks.

  Lord and Lady Fenton lead us away from the cries of joy and despair all around us and into a waiting automobile. Hart nudges my elbow, pointing to where Roberts, holding baby Trevor, is posing for newspaper photographers. No doubt she has told them how she “saved” the baby. Loraine’s name and those of her parents are not on the list of survivors.

  Three days after we reach New York, Lord Milton’s body and that of Colonel Astor are found by the Mackay-Bennett. The ship was sent out from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, to recover bodies from the Titanic.

  Ea
rly in May, we sail home on the Adriatic. Hart says she thought she glimpsed Mr. Ismay, managing director of the White Star Line, come on board. If she did, we never saw him. He must have stayed in his cabin for the entire voyage. Ashamed to face us, no doubt! His manservant was not on the list of survivors….

  London, England

  1912

  17

  Home

  It is good to be back again at Chesham Place, even under such sad circumstances. Mrs. Ransom distributes black armbands, as Lady Milton does not wish the staff to be in full mourning.

  Hart and I are given new uniforms, sewn by Mrs. Wilson. Lady Fenton has provided us with day and afternoon wear, bought ready-made from one of New York’s department stores. Mrs. Wilson does not approve of them. “They’ll not last a month!” she says.

  Mr. Briggs hands us envelopes, in addition to our month’s wages. “Lady Milton wishes you to replace any personal items lost in the sinking,” he says. It is kind of her to think of us in her grief. I find five new one-pound notes in mine, which amounts to six months’ extra wages. I’ll give Kathleen two pounds to replace her spring coat, an extra pound for Mother, and save the rest.

  I have been given Saturday afternoon to go home. Mrs. Ransom says that I may return half an hour later than usual. It’s hard to wait even one more day to see my family again! I warn Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra ahead of time. They are afraid to let me out of their sight since the disaster. I explain that I have not seen my parents and brothers and sisters for almost a month.

  “I promise I will look in on you when I come home, but you must promise to be good girls and go straight to sleep,” I tell them.

  Nanny Mackintosh is quick to interrupt me: “Since when does one give explanations to children of one’s presence or absence, Gardener? Is this some new method of child-rearing that you have acquired in America?”