A Night to Remember (15 page)

As he quenched his thirst—this time it was water—he heard a kind of crash, as though something had buckled. The pantry cups and saucers flew about him, the lights glowed red, and overhead he heard the pounding of feet running aft.

He bolted out of the pantry toward the stern end of A Deck, just behind a swarm of people, running the same way and clambering down from the Boat Deck above. He kept out of the crush as much as possible and ran along in the rear of the crowd. He vaulted down the steps to B Deck, then to the well deck. Just as he got there, the
Titanic
gave a sickening twist to port, throwing most of the people into a huge heap along the port rail.

Only Joughin kept his balance. Alert but relaxed, his equilibrium was marvelous, as the stern rose higher and corkscrewed to port. The deck was now listing too steeply to stand on, and Joughin slipped over the starboard rail and stood on the actual side of the ship. He worked his way up the side, still holding on to the rail—but from the outside—until he reached the white-painted steel plates of the poop deck. He now stood on the rounded stern end of the ship, which had swung high in the air some 150 feet above the water.

Joughin casually tightened his life belt. Then he glanced at his watch—it said 2:15. As an afterthought, he took it off and stuck it into his hip pocket. He was beginning to puzzle over his position when he felt the stern beginning to drop under his feet—it was like taking an elevator. As the sea closed over the stern, Joughin stepped off into the water. He didn’t even get his head wet.

He paddled off into the night, little bothered by the freezing water. It was four o’clock when he saw what he thought was wreckage in the first gray light of day. He swam over and discovered it was the upturned Collapsible B.

The keel was crowded and he couldn’t climb on, so he hung around for a while until he spied an old friend from the kitchen—entrée chef John Maynard. Blood proved thicker than water; Maynard held out his hand and Joughin hung on, treading water, still thoroughly insulated.

The others didn’t notice him … partly because they were too numb to care, partly because all eyes now scanned the southeast horizon. It was just after 3:30 when they saw it—a distant flash followed by a far-off boom. In Boat 6, Miss Norton cried, “There’s a flash of lightning!” while Hitchens growled, “It’s a falling star!” In No. 13 a stoker lying in the bottom, almost unconscious from the cold, bolted up, shouting, “That was a cannon!”

Soon a single light appeared from the same direction, then another, then row after row. A big steamer was pounding up, firing rockets to reassure the
Titanic’s
people that help was on the way. In No. 9, deckhand Paddy McGough suddenly thundered, “Let us all pray to God, for there is a ship on the horizon and it’s making for us!”

The men in Boat B let out a yelp of joy and started babbling again. Someone lit a newspaper in No. 3 and waved it wildly, then Mrs. Davidson’s straw hat—it would burn longer. In Mrs. A. S. Jerwan’s boat they dipped handkerchiefs in kerosene and lit them as signals. In No. 13 they twisted a paper torch out of letters. Boxhall burned a last green flare in Boat 2. In No. 8, Mrs. White swung her electric cane as never before.

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.

M
RS.
A
NNE
C
RAIN 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. Sometime 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 mattresses jiggled wildly … the washstand tumblers rattled loudly in their brackets … the woodwork groaned with the strain. A turn of the faucet 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 April 11, 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. Toward 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 27 years—with Cunard for 17—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 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 58 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 … 14½ … 15 … 16½ … 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 roommates 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 dressing—all the more confused because someone had swiped their only lightbulb 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. Ogdeh’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 rumors 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.