A Night to Remember (17 page)

Lowe was different. As he later explained, few seamen were boatmen and few boatmen were seamen, but he was both. Years spent windjamming along the Gold Coast now paid off as he skillfully tacked back and forth. The bow slammed down on the waves, and the spray glittered in the early-morning sun as No. 14 bowled along at four knots.

By the time he got back, his little fleet had scattered. Boats 4 and 12 were off picking up the men on B, and Nos. 10 and D were heading separately for the
Carpathia.
D looked in bad shape—low in the water and few oars at work. “Well,” said Lowe to himself. “I will go down and pick her up and make sure of her.”

“We have about all we want!” Hugh Woolner shouted as No. 14 sailed up. Lowe tossed over a line and gave them a tow.

Then, about a mile and a half away he spied Collapsible A, completely swamped and making no headway at all. The people in A never did manage to get the sides up, and now the gunwales lay flush with the water. Of some 30 who originally swam to the boat, most had fallen overboard numb with the cold. Only a dozen men and Third Class passenger Mrs. Rosa Abbott were left, standing in freezing water up to their knees.

Lowe arrived just in time … took them all aboard No. 14 … then set sail again for the
Carpathia,
still towing D. Collapsible A was left behind—abandoned and empty, except for the bodies of three men (with life belts covering their faces), R. Norris Williams, Jr.’s fur coat and a ring belonging to Third Class passenger Edward P. Lindell of Helsingborg, Sweden, whom no one remembered seeing all night.

One by one the boats crept up to the
Carpathia.
It was 4:45 when No. 13 made fast, and Lawrence Beesley climbed a rope ladder to the C Deck companionway. He felt overwhelmed with gratitude, relief and joy to feel a solid deck under his feet again. Close behind climbed Dr. Washington Dodge, who remembered to bring along his life belt as a memento.

Mrs. Dodge and five-year-old Washington, Jr., arrived at 5:10 in No. 7. The little boy was hauled up in a mail sack and plopped onto the deck. A steward rushed up with coffee, but Master Dodge announced he would rather have cocoa. The steward promptly dashed off and got some—British liners aren’t famous for their service for nothing.

Then came No. 3 at 6:00. Mr. and Mrs. Speddon climbed aboard immaculately dressed. Close behind came the Henry Sleeper Harpers, dragoman Hamad Hassah, and Pekingese Sun Yat-sen. Mr. Harper soon discovered Mr. Ogden on deck, greeted him with classic detachment: “Louis, how do you keep yourself looking so young?”

Elizabeth Shutes, arriving in the same boat, didn’t try the ladder. She sat in a rope sling, felt herself swept aloft with a mighty jerk. From somewhere above a voice called, “Careful, fellows, she’s a lightweight.”

Bruce Ismay stumbled aboard around 6:30, mumbling, “I’m Ismay … I’m Ismay.” Trembling, he stood near the gangway, his back against a bulkhead. Dr. McGhee gently approached him, “Will you not go into the saloon and get some soup or something to drink?”

“No, I really don’t want anything at all.”

“Do go and get something.”

“If you will leave me alone, I’ll be much happier here,” Ismay blurted, then changed his mind: “If you can get me in some room where I can be quiet, I wish you would.”

“Please,” the doctor softly persisted, “go to the saloon and get something hot.”

“I would rather not.”

Dr. McGhee gave up. He gently led Ismay to his own cabin. During the rest of the trip Ismay never left the room; he never ate anything solid; he never received a visitor (except Jack Thayer, once); he was kept to the end under the influence of opiates. It was the start of a self-imposed exile from active life. Within a year he retired from the White Star Line, purchased a large estate on the west coast of Ireland, remained a virtual recluse till he died in 1937.

Olaus Abelseth reached the deck about 7:00. A hot blanket was thrown over his soaked, shivering shoulders and he was rushed to the dining saloon for brandy and coffee. Mrs. Charlotte Collyer and the others in No. 14 tagged along, while Fifth Officer Lowe remained behind, shipping the mast and stowing the sail. He liked a tidy boat.

And so they came, one boatload after another. As each drew alongside, the survivors already aboard peered down from the Promenade Deck, searching for familiar faces. Billy Carter stood next to the Ogdens, frantically watching for his wife and children. When the rest of the family finally came alongside in No. 4, Mr. Carter leaned far over the rail: “Where’s my son? Where’s my son?”

A small boy in the boat lifted a girl’s big hat and called, “Here I am, Father.” Legend has it that John Jacob Astor himself placed the hat on the 10-year-old’s head, saying in answer to objections, “Now he’s a girl and he can go.”

Washington Dodge was another man who had an agonizing wait for his family—thanks largely to a mischievous streak in five-year-old Washington, Jr. Dr. Dodge didn’t see his wife and son come aboard—nor did Mrs. Dodge see her husband on deck, but young Washington did. And he decided it would be great fun to keep it to himself. So he didn’t tell his mother and effectively hid from his father. Finally, the Dodges’ ever-faithful Dining Saloon Steward Ray spoiled everything by bringing about a reunion.

The crowds along the rail grew steadily as the
Carpathia
’s own passengers poured from their cabins. Some of them learned in curious ways. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Marshall were awakened by the steward knocking on their stateroom door.

“What is it?” called Mr. Marshall.

“Your niece wants to see you, sir,” came the answer.

Mr. Marshall was nonplussed. All three of his nieces were, he knew, making the
Titanic
’s maiden voyage. They even sent him a wireless last night. How could one of them be on board the
Carpathia
? The steward explained. Minutes later the Marshalls were holding a family reunion with Mrs. E. D. Appleton (the other nieces arrived later), and their daughter Evelyn dashed on deck to see the sight.

A strange sight it was. The endless plain of packed ice to the north and west—the big bergs and smaller growlers that floated like scouts in advance of the main floe—gave the sea a curiously busy look. The boats that rowed in from all directions seemed incredibly out of place here in mid-Atlantic.

And the people that straggled from them couldn’t have looked more peculiar—Miss Sue Eva Rule noticed one woman wearing only a Turkish towel around her waist and a magnificent fur evening cape over her shoulders. The costumes were a grab bag of lace-trimmed evening dresses … kimonos … fur coats … plain woolen shawls … pajamas … rubber boots … white satin slippers. But it was still an age of formality—a surprising number of the women wore hats and the men snap-brim tweed caps.

Strangest of all was the silence. Hardly a word was spoken. Everyone noticed it; everyone had a different explanation. The Reverend P. M. A. Hoques, a passenger on the
Carpathia
, thought people were too horror-stricken to speak. Captain Rostron thought everybody was just too busy. Lawrence Beesley felt they were neither too stunned nor too busy—they were simply in the presence of something too big to grasp.

Occasionally there was a minor commotion. Miss Peterson noticed a little girl named Emily sitting on the Promenade Deck, sobbing, “Oh, Mama, Mama, I’m sick. Oh, Mama, Mama!”

While No. 3 was unloading its passengers, a woman clad only in nightgown and kimono suddenly sat up in the bottom of the boat. Pointing at another lady being hoisted up in a boatswain’s chair, she cried: “Look at that horrible woman! Horrible! She stepped on my stomach. Horrible creature!”

And in the Third Class dining saloon an Italian woman went completely to pieces—sobbing, screaming, banging her fists on the table. Over and over and over she cried,
“Bambino!”
An Italian steward coaxed out the information that both her babies were missing. One was soon located, but she held up two fingers and the hysterics started again. Finally the other was found too—in the pantry on the hot press, where it had been left to thaw out.

By 8:15 all the boats were in except No. 12. It barely moved, still several hundred yards away. The breeze grew stiff, and the sea grew rougher. The crowded gunwales were almost level with the waves—nearly 75 people were jammed in. The crowd at the
Carpathia
’s rail watched breathlessly as Lightoller nursed it along.

Inside the boat the people huddled … trying to keep dry, praying they might make it. At a time like this a man notices little trivial things. As Colonel Gracie worked in vain to revive a lifeless body lying beside him, he wondered why the person wore long, gray woolen stockings.

Now 8:20, and they were only 200 yards off. Rostron, trying to help, turned the
Carpathia
’s bow to within 100 yards. As Lightoller struggled to cross the bow and get in her lee, a sudden squall whipped up the sea. First one wave, then another crashed into the boat. A third just missed. Next instant he was there—safe in the shelter of the big ship.

At 8:30 No. 12—the last boat to arrive—made fast and began to unload. Colonel Gracie felt like falling down on his knees and kissing the deck as he stepped into the gangway. Harold Bride felt a pair of strong hands reach out to him; then he passed out. Jack Thayer saw his mother waiting and rushed to her arms. Mrs. Thayer stammered, “Where’s Daddy?”

“I don’t know, Mother,” he answered quietly.

Meanwhile Rostron wondered where to take his 705 unexpected guests. Halifax was nearest, but there was ice along the way, and he thought the
Titanic
’s passengers had seen enough. The Azores were best for the
Carpathia
’s schedule, but he didn’t have the linen and provisions to last that far. New York was best for the survivors but most costly to the Cunard Line. He dropped down to the Surgeon’s cabin where Dr. McGhee was examining Bruce Ismay. The man was shattered—anything Rostron wanted was all right with him. So Rostron decided on New York.

Then the
Olympic
broke in: Why not transfer the
Titanic
’s survivors to her? Rostron thought this was an appalling idea—he couldn’t see subjecting these people to another transfer at sea. Besides, the
Olympic
was the
Titanic
’s sister ship and the sight alone would be like a hideous ghost. To be on the safe side, he trotted back to Dr. McGhee’s cabin, checked again with Ismay. The White Star President shuddered at the thought.

So New York it was, and the sooner the better. By now the
Californian
was standing by, Captain Lord uneasily examining the
Carpathia
’s house flag flying at half-mast. Rostron arranged for her to search the scene while he made for New York. Then he hauled aboard as many of the
Titanic
’s lifeboats as possible—six on the forward deck, seven in the
Carpathia
’s own davits. The rest were set adrift.

Before heading back, Rostron couldn’t resist one last look around. He was a thorough man; he didn’t want to overlook the smallest chance. Let the
Californian
go through the motions, but if there was any real hope of picking anybody else up, Rostron wanted the
Carpathia
to do it.

As he cruised, it occurred to him that a brief service might be appropriate. He dropped down and asked if Ismay had any objections. It was always the same—anything Rostron wanted was all right with him.

So Rostron sent for the Reverend Father Anderson, an Episcopal clergyman aboard, and the people from the
Titanic
and
Carpathia
assembled together in the main lounge. There they gave thanks for the living and paid their respects to the lost.

While they murmured their prayers, the
Carpathia
steamed slowly over the
Titanic
’s grave. There were few traces of the great ship—patches of reddish-yellow cork … some steamer chairs … several white pilasters … cushions … rugs … life belts … the abandoned boats … just one body.

At 8:50 Rostron was satisfied. There couldn’t possibly be another human being alive. He rang “full speed ahead” and turned his ship for New York.

Already the city was wildly excited. When the first word arrived at 1:20
A.M.,
nobody knew what to think. The AP flash was certainly cryptic—just a message from Cape Race that at 10:25 local time the
Titanic
called CQD, reported striking an iceberg, and asked for help immediately. Then another message that the liner was down at the head and putting the women off in boats. Then silence.

The news was in time for the first morning editions—but barely. No leeway for double-checking; only time to decide how to handle it. The story seemed fantastic. Yet there it was. The editors nibbled gingerly; the
Herald’s
headline was typical:

THE NEW TITANIC STRIKES ICEBERG AND CALLS FOR AID

VESSELS RUSH TO HER SIDE

Only the
Times
went out on a limb. The long silence after the first few messages convinced Managing Editor Carr Van Anda that she was gone. So he took a flyer—early editions reported the
Titanic
sinking and the women off in lifeboats; the last edition said she had sunk.

By 8:00
A.M.
newsmen were storming the White Star Line offices at 9 Broadway; Vice President Philip A. S. Franklin made light of the reports: even if the
Titanic
had hit ice, she could float indefinitely. “We place absolute confidence in the
Titanic.
We believe that the boat is unsinkable.”

But at the same time he was frantically wiring Captain Smith: “Anxiously await information and probable disposition of passengers.”

By mid-morning friends and relatives of the
Titanic
’s passengers were pouring in: Mrs. Benjamin Guggenheim and her brother De Witt Seligman … Mrs. Astor’s father W. H. Force … J. P. Morgan, Jr. … hundreds of people nobody recognized. Rich and poor, they all got the same reassuring smiles—no need to worry … the
Titanic
was unsinkable; well, anyhow, she could float two or three days … certainly there were enough boats for everybody.