‘Did you see it, Mr Boxhall?’
‘I did then, sir!’
It was a quarter before midnight. I despatched Boxhall on a tour of inspection, keeping Moody close by for taking notes. According to Murdoch the lookouts up top had rung the bell and shouted, ice ahead, just after Murdoch saw the thing for himself. He’d shouted hard over to the man on the wheel, then dashed to the telegraph to ring Stop Engines. For a ship that size to respond takes time, and whilst her prow was moving to port she was also moving beam on – sideways – to the berg. Judging the right moment to call hard over the other way – to swing her stern clear of the danger – is a fine, fine art. You need to know your ship to execute such a move successfully. We all knew Olympic but her sister was different. Nevertheless, Murdoch was very nearly successful. As it was, she turned that bit quicker than he anticipated – and ran over a submerged ridge of ice.
She bumped along for several seconds, he said. Yes, I had felt the shudder. The quartermasters described it as a grinding noise. There was a trail of ice on deck from where the berg had dipped under pressure and grazed the upper decks. Despite that, in those first minutes it seemed no more than a narrow shave.
Boxhall hurried back, gasping a little, with his report. ‘The 3rd Class accommodation up forward’s undamaged, sir, and the passengers are safe…’
That was a relief. As the juniors Pitman and Lowe arrived for the change of watch, I sent Boxhall away again to find the ship’s carpenter – the man responsible for taking soundings. A minute later Boxhall was back, expression tense. He’d met the carpenter coming to report the forepeak hatch blown off by air pressure. ‘He says there’s seven feet of water below, and rising, sir…’
If that was bad, hard on his heels came one of the postal clerks, to say the mail hold below the post office was flooding fast. At that, I sent down for a damage report and summoned both Wilde and Tommy Andrews to the bridge.
Chief Engineer Bell reported the forepeak, three forward holds and two boiler rooms flooded. It was bad, but the watertight compartments should contain the damage.
Tommy Andrews, astounded to be told there’d been a collision, looked stunned as he came to the bridge. ‘I was studying the plans,’ he said as we hurried below to inspect the boiler rooms.
I couldn’t see Joe Bell but I heard him and his officers, snapping out orders. Firemen caught by the first flood had escaped just as the watertight doors were closing. Curses reached us, sharp with fear. Shocked and bedraggled, the men were being sent back in to draw out the boiler fires. The problem we’d sailed with had been just one undesirable blaze in a bunker: here were a dozen furnaces to kill; a dozen more after that. It had to be done. If freezing water hit those steel kettles, they would explode, killing us all.
It was a terrifying prospect. From above we could see steam and smoke and flame; the noise and heat were ferocious. Impossible to see the damage, but water was swirling in and rising faster than the pumps could deal with it. Gauging the rapid increase above the keel, Tommy jotted down a few figures, his expression grim.
‘Too many spaces have been broached,’ he said at last, clearing his throat. ‘She’s designed to shut off three – three will hold. Olympic, now – only two compartments broached – she stayed afloat. But this…’
‘Looks like five to me,’ I snapped, eager to hurry him on.
‘Too many.’ Pale and sweating, Lord Pirie’s nephew shook his head. ‘You see, not all the compartments are watertight. Amidships, the bulkheads only go up as far as E Deck, and as the bow sinks lower…’
‘So the water will overflow into other spaces,’ I ground out.
‘Pulling the bow down even further…’
The biggest, most luxurious ship afloat, no expense spared to fit her out. And she had to be unsinkable too. It was a myth. Just a myth. Almost unsinkable in the adverts had become unsinkable in the mind; and the bitter truth was that I had contributed to it. Badly holed in the brush with Hawke, Olympic had stayed afloat. Inadvertently, I’d proved to everyone, from the richest banker to the humblest man reading his daily newspaper, that the White Star liners were the biggest and best, the safest in the world.
Unsinkable, though? No ship is unsinkable: I knew that. But even I had embraced the fantasy.
I wanted to hit Tommy Andrews. Kind, charming, easy-going genius that he was, I could have killed him on the spot. He must have seen it. He quailed under my gaze. Somehow I got the words out. ‘How long have we got?’
‘An hour,’ he whispered. ‘Two at most.’
~~~
The ship is your best hope: I could hear Joe saying it. Somehow, we must keep afloat. Get every pump working. Joe Bell was already onto it.
There had to be other ships in the vicinity. I left Andrews and hastened up to the Marconi room. Spoke to Bride – half-dressed for some reason – said we’d struck an iceberg and to get ready to send out calls for assistance. It was then that I saw the message form lying on the desk. I picked it up. It was timed at 9:40, from SS Mesaba to Titanic and all eastbound ships:
‘ICE REPORT. IN LAT 42°N TO 41°25΄N LONG 49°W TO 50°30΄W SAW MUCH HEAVY PACK ICE AND GREAT NUMBER LARGE ICEBERGS ALSO FIELD ICE WEATHER GOOD CLEAR.’
What? ‘What’s this doing here? I was on the bridge! Why wasn’t this given to me?’
Terrified by the look on my face, Bride stammered an answer, something about it not being addressed to the Master.
‘Was Phillips on watch? Where is he now?’
‘Just about to turn in, sir.’
‘Well, get him out! We need you both!’
Too bloody busy sending passengers’ telegrams! I thought furiously, heading for the wheelhouse. If I’d seen that, we could have changed course! No good – can’t dwell on that now. 12:05 by the bridge clock. Bruce Ismay looking in from the Boat Deck, white-faced, shivering, an overcoat over his pyjamas, wanting to know what was going on. I spoke to my Chief Officer first.
‘Get the boats uncovered and ready.’
‘How serious is it?’ Bruce repeated as Wilde hastened away. ‘Can’t the pumps handle it?’
I shook my head. ‘Losing battle, I’m afraid. Find some warm clothes, sir – it could be a long night.’
McElroy and Latimer were standing by. ‘Get all the passengers up and out, gentlemen – lifebelts, warm clothes, no baggage. Any questions, it’s just a precaution…’
With a deafening roar, steam began venting from the boiler relief pipes. As my officers hastened away, I made a note of our position from the chart and strode back to the wireless room. ‘Send the call for assistance.’
‘What call shall we send?’
‘The regulation call for help – just that!’ I handed him the ship’s position, then realized, as I hastened away, that we were some hours ahead of that calculation. What to do? Recalculate? It wouldn’t matter for a while – we just needed to advertise our need for assistance.
On a sudden flood of emotion, I remembered Lucinda. Was she awake, did she know what was happening? Probably not. Fear chilled me. I must get word to her. I looked for my steward, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Turning my back on the roar of the steam I hurried down to C Deck. By the main staircase, I met a large group of people milling about, many of whom had been with me at the party earlier. They were all in various states of undress and complaining about the noise, not one carrying a life belt. I spotted George Widener and John Jacob Astor, advising them to dress in warm clothes, with their lifebelts, and to make sure everyone else did the same.
Along the alleyway several doors stood open. I passed a steward and asked how the muster was going.
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Good man.’
Lucinda’s cabin was empty. Damn. She could be anywhere.
On the service stairs I met Billy O’Loughlin. ‘I’ve just seen Tommy Andrews,’ he said in a rush, then stopped abruptly as he saw my face. His doctor’s gaze stripped prevarication bare. ‘It’s true, then?’
‘Yes, Billy, I’m afraid it is.’ He was an experienced hand, there was no need to tell him to go quietly, or refrain from spelling things out to passengers. I leaned in. ‘Do what you can. We’ve got an hour – hour and a half at most.’
Briefly, he touched my arm. ‘I understand.’
Raising my voice above the din outside, I added lightly, ‘At least the steam vents have roused everybody!’
‘And they’ll soon be on deck demanding to know the reason why!’
Back to the bridge. Looking forward I could see the nose was down and she was starting to list a little. I found Boxhall by the boats. The roar from the steam vents meant I had to get close to his ear to speak.
‘Calculate our present position,’ I said, urging him towards the chartroom. ‘I’ll be on deck.’
More folk were appearing, beginning to be quite a crowd, most with hands over their ears. Busy with the boats, the deck crew were using the steam winches to lift them from their cradles. Lightoller came up, shouting above the noise that the port side was ready, and should the boats be swung out? I said yes, swing them out, just as the beardless youth arrived from the Marconi room, all agog. He said the steamer Frankfurt had replied to the emergency call.
‘And? Her position?’
At his blank look I clasped my hands behind my back. ‘FIND OUT,’ I mouthed, remaining just long enough to be sure he understood.
To the bridge wing, another look at the nose – yes, she was down a bit further. Across to the port side, along the boat deck, and then – thank heavens! – the steam vents ceased their roar. Into the ringing silence men’s voices sounded hollow, not quite real, while the women’s were high-pitched, excited, anxious. And then the first notes of a well-known jig came floating across the deck. I looked round and saw members of the ship’s orchestra, clad in hats and coats and mufflers, standing in a ring, playing a jolly, rollicking tune.
How to distract and sweeten a crowd! Mr Hartley would know, if anyone did, that a good tune can put a smile on the most miserable face. Momentarily, he even put a smile on mine.
I had to find Wilde, have a word about the boats. He was on the port side, looking grim as he supervised the sailors, but then he generally did. I thought about his four motherless children at home, and remembered Eleanor asking me not to take him this trip.
‘Keep things steady,’ I said, indicating what I meant by a look. ‘Just a precaution – all right?’
Wilde nodded, mouth set, frown still in place.
There were not enough boats. There might have been. Everyone knew the original number for the Olympic class was three times the number we carried. But stacked boats made the upper deck look bulky, Bruce said. He was reluctant to clutter up the boat deck, where ‘people like to promenade…’
What we had were 16 lifeboats, plus four Englehardt boats with canvas sides.
We’ll add more when we have to, he said. I remember him saying it.
But who am I to cast stones? Avoid panic: that was my chief concern. All of us who’d been at sea longer than a dog-watch remembered the tragedy of the liner La Bourgogne. She’d gone down in 40 minutes, in fog, after colliding with an iron-hulled sailing ship. Panicking, the passengers had erupted with knives and guns, the ships’ officers powerless to intervene. They’d gone down with at least 500 other souls, and of the 165 who escaped, only one woman survived.
At least we had wireless, and with any luck some nearby steamer would get to us quickly. I looked up at the wires strung out above the Marconi room and prayed for an answer.
As Boxhall came out of the chart room brandishing a slip of paper with his current estimate, young Bride dashed up with a message form giving Frankfurt’s position. I compared the two, did a swift calculation and knew the steamer could not help. She was about 150 miles away.
‘Keep sending,’ I said tersely, handing over Boxhall’s fresh calculation, ‘using this new position.’
Where were they all? The times we’d crossed the Grand Banks with ships barely a mile apart. That generally was the danger.
I looked along the port side to check how things were progressing. Close by, Boat 4 was swung out and almost ready to load. A group of women with young children were standing by, watching, their faces taut with apprehension. And no wonder. The drop from Boat Deck to water was something like 70 feet – like looking down at the street from the top of a seven-storey building.
‘Get them down to A Deck,’ I called out to Lightoller, ‘it’ll be easier to board from there.’
I saw the women go down the steps and moved on. A minute later one of the male passengers dashed back and bellowed that the forward end of A Deck was glassed in. I had forgotten! On Olympic it was open. Damn me! Damn Bruce! I strode back to Lightoller, told him to get those women back, load them from here.
Boxhall called to me, binoculars in hand. ‘Sir! I can see lights!’
Hope blazed as I took the glasses from him. Just a point or two to starboard I found them: what looked like two masthead lights showing just above the horizon. The ship could be seven or eight miles away, but if we could see her lights, then the man on watch should be able to see ours.
‘Should I fire the rockets, sir?’
‘Yes, do that.’
The Boat Deck was thronged with people. Needing a clear space Boxhall moved them back to a safe distance while he fired the first rocket. It went off with an almighty roar and burst overhead with a great trail of white stars.
Over the next half an hour, as Boxhall and a quartermaster fired more rockets, we made out the port and starboard lights of what was probably a four-masted steamer coming directly towards us. Either without wireless or not keeping a watch. Praying hard, with every nerve stretched taut for a reply that must surely come in the next moment, I could barely tear my eyes away. Between rockets, convinced the steamer would come speeding to our aid, I ordered Boxhall to use the Morse lamp, to signal we were sinking. We strained our eyes through the binoculars, but gradually, despairingly, we were losing the green, and with the red port-hand light towards us, I knew he was turning. Please God, not sailing past, but preparing to come to our aid.
So close – how could the man on watch not see us? Did he think it was the 4th of July? November 5th? Or the Chief Cook’s bloody birthday?
No success with the wireless. Phillips was sending constantly, but responses were coming from too far away. Each time Bride came to me with a name and a position, my heart leapt and fell again as I worked out the distances. The closest seemed to be Mount Temple, about 70 miles to the south west. The Cunard liner Carpathia was a similar distance to the south east. Even Baltic, over 700 miles to the north-east had turned and was making towards us. As for Olympic, she was in touch with both of us. Old Codfish was making all speed in our direction, but he was still some 500 miles to the west.
My old commands. It choked me to think of them.
32
On the port side, all the boats were made ready. None were away yet, but women and children were being given absolute precedence. I thought of Mel, my dear, brave little tomboy. She was going to have to be brave indeed.
Anxious for Lucinda, my eyes scoured the milling crowd for a glimpse of her. Crossing to starboard, I saw two boats were already away, while Boat 1 – the small boat, the one kept permanently ready to launch – was already going down with only a handful aboard. I noticed Sir Cosmo and Lady Duff Gordon ensconced like aristocrats in a tumbrel, together with servants and a few men. Was Murdoch expecting the crew to fill the rest of the seats with people from below?
The deck had a definite tilt, so I climbed a few rungs of the ladder outside my quarters, trying to grasp what was happening further along. Isolated in pools of light, groups appeared like actors on a stage – hard to be sure what was going on. Tension and confusion but surprisingly little panic – until I spotted Adelaide Burgoyne. With her companion at her elbow, she jerked away, fear written in every gesture. My heart sank. Even if I’d fought my way through to her, I knew
she wouldn’t brave that 70 foot drop. She’d cling to the safety of what she knew.
While one of the men tried to coerce her, others clambered into a boat under Pitman’s direction. Then there was a bit of a kerfuffle. Bruce Ismay was trying to tell Pitman and Lowe to hurry, whereupon Lowe – a Welshman with a temper – spun round and told Bruce to shut up. That quelled him.
When I looked again for Adelaide, she was nowhere to be seen.
On the port side I found young Moody working with the Bo’sun’s Mate. But they were lowering with what looked like only a half-load. The old regulations! When I remonstrated, Moody said they were afraid the boats wouldn’t take the strain on a long drop like that. They’d load the rest from A Deck or the cargo doors below.
‘That’s no good – the cargo doors must be under by now. I don’t know what’s happening on A Deck, but these new boats are supposed to bear a full load! Sixty-five, isn’t it?’
He nodded, but didn’t look convinced. ‘Just get them in,’ I said. ‘And tell the seaman in charge to aim for those lights over there – unload his passengers and then come back. If you see Mr Lightoller, tell him.’
As stars erupted from yet another of Boxhall’s rockets, I saw Mrs Straus being urged into the next boat, but she was another one refusing to go. Not that she seemed afraid. She wrapped her fur coat around her maid, pushed her towards the boat with the Countess of Rothes, and retired to a deck-chair with her husband.
Walking the length of the ship in the course of that dreadful hour, I saw many more like Mrs Straus. Especially the women in 3rd Class. Hanging back, choosing to stay with their menfolk or refusing to go without them. Less from fear, it seemed to me, than loyalty.
To starboard, McElroy was helping women and children – those who were willing – into the boats. Making my way through groups of people, I kept searching for Lucinda, finding it hard to see clearly beyond a radius of a few yards.
The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic Page 32
