Spirit of the Titanic (7 page)

“Phew! That was close, hey?”

I wasn't so sure.

As we had passed the iceberg, I'd felt
Titanic
shudder and then I'd heard what sounded to me like a groan. It reminded me of the low, brief sound that escaped my mother's lips when we heard that Da was gone — such a small, insignificant sound. I had no idea that it meant what it did — that she was destroyed forevermore.

Some passengers gathered on deck to inspect the chunks of ice, a few of the men kicking around one particular piece that was almost the size of a soccer ball.

Within a couple of minutes, I spied Captain Smith heading for the bridge and followed him, for the want of something better to do. It was obvious that there had been an event of some kind. Officer Hitchens's forehead was covered in sweat and it looked to me that his extra firm grip on the wheel was the only thing that was keeping him upright. Meanwhile, his commanding officer's face was pale and his breathing forced. Taking in the scene before him the captain seemed only a little bit curious.

“Good evening, gentlemen, has something happened? I thought I felt a slight lurch.”

Officer Murdoch looked relieved to see his boss. “Sir, I think we've hit an iceberg.”

“I see. Well, you better have the carpenter make a quick tour, just in case. Call a halt in the meantime, until we get the all-clear. And perhaps we'd better get hold of Thomas Andrews too — as fast as you can.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

With that, the engines were shut down, rendering
Titanic
lifeless — or so it seemed to me.

* * *

I didn't want to but I felt compelled to do a tour of my own. I could hear a strange sound that I assumed was coming from below. Taking my time, I passed through the different compartments. Not one person looked worried, although a few had noticed that the engines were mute. A woman in first class ventured out into the passageway and hailed a passing steward.

“Is there something wrong? Why ever have we stopped?”

The man was politely dismissive. His shift was over for the night and he was on his way back to his own quarters.

“I shouldn't worry, madam. The ship just hit an iceberg. I'm sure we'll be on our way again in a few minutes. Good night.”

The noise grew louder and louder as I made my way further into
Titanic
's belly.

Down the steps I went to be almost run over, if that were possible, by the five postal workers. Each of them was one step behind the other, all tugging their own colossal bag overflowing with letters and packages. This was strange behaviour indeed, but the reason for it was made clear as soon as I entered the Mail Room. There was water, freezing green sea water spewing in through the wall. It was a terrifying sight. The sheets of metal that had been hammered into place by Charlie and Ed, using the rivets I had fetched and carried at great speed, had proved no match against the iceberg — the biggest, grandest, most powerful ship in the world had just been punctured by a block of frozen water.

And then, without meaning to, I suddenly found myself remembering a conversation that had taken place on the morning of the launch. At the time, of course, I thought it was nonsense, even comical. Ed was showing off his expert knowledge, as usual, pointing at the funnels and declaring, “See how there's four of them, that's one more than any other ship, well, apart from her sister — and that's how you'd recognize her if you saw her again.”

Charlie, in a bid to change the subject, asked Ed about a rumour that was flying about the shipyard. “Have you heard anything about cheap rivets? There's a story going around that we skimped on the rivets, or some of them, at any rate.”

We all stared at Charlie in disbelief, Jack and Ed in complete agreement for once.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Ed sounded as shocked as a vicar who had caught somebody telling rude jokes in church.

Charlie shrugged. “I'm just repeating what I've heard: we ran out of the good rivets by the time we started working on the bow and the story is that cheaper ones were used.”

Ed shook his head and laughed. “Charlie, for heaven's sake! This is Harland & Wolff, not some little amateur workshop, and that's the most important ship ever to be built. Do you really think they would have us using second-rate materials on her?”

* * *

“Hey buddy, we're flooding out down here. Could you give us a hand?”

Several stewards peeked down the stairs.

“Oh, my goodness! What's going on? Where's that water coming from?”

William, the American with the red, curly hair and spectacles, shrugged his round shoulders. “We're not sure. Someone said something about hitting an iceberg.”

He grinned and nodded at Oscar, who was bravely struggling with a heavy load.

“We were celebrating Oscar's birthday when a guy told us that our room was flooding. Never even got to cut the cake; can you believe that?”

The stewards remained on the stairs but duly accepted a bag each. Like me they couldn't take their eyes off the water. One of them whistled softly. “That's coming in fast.”

Neither Oscar nor his mates paid him any heed, so intent were they on emptying the wooden cubbyholes, shoving letters of all shapes and sizes into the bags. One of the Englishmen made it look like it actually hurt him to lump items meant for opposite destinations into the same bag. He glanced at William as he bunched together post for completely different districts in America. The American understood his reluctance but said, “Forget about sorting, John. Our priority is to keep them dry. We'll sort them later.”

I
had to find
Titanic's
designer, Mr. Andrews. He knew the ship better than anyone else. After all, what could I know about these things? I was just a child. Maybe it was perfectly natural to have water flowing in at some point. And, anyway, nobody else looked as scared as I felt.

Mr. Andrews met me on his way from the bridge. His face was expressionless, but he was walking much faster than he usually did. Just the sight of him calmed me and I was sure that whatever the problem was he would fix it. As he made his way downwards, everything seemed wonderfully normal. Gentlemen sat in the common rooms enjoying their cigarettes; couples lingered in corners enjoying private tête-à-têtes; and housekeeping staff flashed tired smiles of recognition as they finished up for the day. It was so very peaceful until, that is, he reached the engine room.

“Sir! Sir, she's letting in fast.”

It was as if we stepped into another world, where panic was the order of the day. Fortunately there were no passengers around to eavesdrop. In Boiler Room 4 the men were pumping out the sea water and they seemed to be winning this particular battle too. However, I felt utter panic at the sight of so much water. Even Mr. Andrews stopped sharply, his eyes wide in surprise. It was completely unexpected. Stokers, greasers, engineers, thoroughly drenched from head to toe, flew by to their various stations. Amongst the crowd was the Guarantee Group. Just like Officer Hitchens, Roderick Chisholm looked relieved to see his boss but also very worried.

“It's bad, sir. There's maybe 10 feet of water in the first few compartments, where she took the side off herself. I'm not sure if it's a clean gash or the outer metal plates have buckled.”

Thomas nodded and asked, “How many compartments?”

Roderick paused long enough for his boss's eyes to meet his before saying, “Five in all, so far — at least.”

They approached another staircase, but there was no need to descend it fully. The corridor below was already running with water. Some letters were floating around; the ink on the envelopes had run, making it impossible to read the names and addresses. Thomas noticed something else shimmering in the water. Roderick followed his gaze and leaned down further down the steps. “Someone's spectacles.”

Instinctively I went to hold Mr. Andrew's hand, but, of course, I couldn't. The ship groaned as the three of us stood there. Or, I could almost swear it did. What was happening?

Mr. Andrews's face was filled with a sudden anguish. “My God! All this time I've been worrying over the size of rooms while the bulkheads, the partition walls, are too short.”

I didn't understand what he was talking about, but Roderick, who was studying his boss's face, understood immediately: “As each compartment fills up to the brim with water, it's spilling over the dividing wall into the next one.”

“Like dominoes,” whispered Thomas.

The two men looked at one another while I could only hang by in bewilderment. What were they saying? A brief nod passed between them and Thomas turned away, saying, “Alright, then, I'd better go and tell Captain Smith.”

Roderick called after him: “I'll be in the engine room if you need me.”

I went with Mr. Andrews. His face remained expressionless, but I saw a tiny bead of sweat slide down his cheek. At least, I think that's what it was. The atmosphere around him felt heavy and I could sense his clamping down on an urge to run. All I could do was remain as close to him as I could. The walk back to the bridge seemed to take much longer than usual.

Captain Smith and Officer Murdoch met him at the door, and he beckoned them to step outside. For just a second the captain looked shocked, but Thomas pretended not to notice. He took a deep breath and kept his voice low: “I'm afraid she's sinking. Five compartments are flooded. Two would have been fine; three would have given us much more time. Five, however, is utterly impossible.”

Neither of his listeners made any visible reaction, the captain merely asking, “How much time do we have?”

“One hour, maybe two at the most.”

I don't know if I screamed. I think I might've opened my mouth but I wasn't sure if anything came out.

Neither the captain nor his officer moved a muscle. Thomas peered down the length of the ship. From where he stood he could see some of ship's 16 lifeboats, more than any other ship had ever carried.

Almost to himself he nodded as he quietly declared, “Of course, there aren't enough.”

The captain looked from the boats back to the designer and demanded, “What are the numbers?”

Mr. Andrews seemed a little dazed. “These are Roderick Chisholm's boats — my chief draftsman — his own design. Very fine boats indeed.”

The two officers glanced at one another. Officer Murdoch cleared his throat and said a little too loudly, “Sir!” Mr. Andrews suddenly came to and continued, “They were tested in Belfast and can take up to 70 men in each. So, that's 1,120 seats all told. H … How many are on board?”

Captain Smith's reply was immediate. “Including staff and crew, a little over 2,000.”

There was silence. Mr. Andrews looked to
Titanic
's captain, wanting, no doubt, to hear his solution; Officer Murdoch stared out into the darkness, also waiting for his captain to say something. In that moment, I understood how lonely it could be for a ship's captain, a prime minister, a president, or even a king.

“Well then,” said the captain slowly, “I'd better have the Marconi boys summon all available ships to our rescue.”

Without waiting to hear his companions' reactions, he headed off, tugging the peak of his hat over his eyes.

Mr. Andrews watched him go, while Officer Murdoch called after him, “Sir, should I have the crew informed, along with the passengers, and the lifeboats made ready?”

“Yes, yes … yes.”

* * *

I raced ahead of the captain to the Marconi office, wanting to warn the two telegraphists but at a loss as to how to do that. As I entered the room, Jack appeared from the alcove, his hair sticking up at odd angles and his shirt creased from his collar to his belt. He must have been asleep. Harold was tapping out a message but stopped to ask his friend why he was awake. Jack answered with a question of his own: “Why have the engines stopped?”

Harold removed the headphones and listened. “Oh my goodness. You're right. I'm such a dolt. I never noticed a thing.”

Before they could pursue the matter further, the door opened and in walked Captain Smith, the last person they expected to see. Normally they brought his messages to him in the bridge room; he sent his messages via his officers. The two operators stood to attention to receive him. Captain Smith didn't bother with any trivial conversation.

“Good evening, gentlemen. We have a serious situation here. Fact is, the ship has struck an iceberg and we have to evacuate. I need you to alert every other ship you can find and ask them to come to our aid immediately.”

It was incredible. This glorious ship, the biggest in the whole wide world, the one that was “practically unsinkable”; it didn't make any sense no matter how many times I heard it. She was only two short days into her very
first
voyage ever — and now she was sinking, in the middle of nowhere? So, she was never going to reach America, after all that work from all those men who had prepared her for a lifetime of service? Nobody else would ever get to see her. No! This wasn't right. What had it all been for? It didn't make any sense.

Wait a minute.

Was it a foreboding that I had felt all day long? Did I somehow know this was going to happen? Was that why I was here, to die all over again with
Titanic
by my side? Just like Captain Smith, I found myself turning to the telegraphists, desperate for them to solve the appalling dilemma.
Titanic
needed help; people had to come and help us. There was no other way.

Harold, baffled by the unexpected instruction, let out an inappropriate “We've what?” but the captain was already on his way back to the bridge. Jack was the first to react and raced to the desk, gently pushing Harold aside. Grabbing the headphones, he started tapping, almost before he sat down, the special emergency code that signalled a ship in distress.

CMD. THIS IS TITANIC. WE HAVE STRUCK ICEBERG

SINKING FAST

COME TO OUR ASSISTANCE

Harold stood beside him, gripping the desk, his face a picture of pure bewilderment, as he muttered mostly to himself: “Surely not? She's unsinkable. This can't be. An evacuation, an actual evacuation?”

Jack, preparing to send his message a second time, snapped at his friend. “When was the last time Captain Smith paid us a personal visit?”

“Oh my God, you're right. I'll go outside and see what the situation is.”

In the five minutes Harold was gone, Jack sent the call for help over and over again. He worried that the operators on the other ships might have finished up for the night, switched off their machines, and gone to bed. Praying that someone would answer him, he barely looked up at Harold's return. The latter's bewilderment had been replaced with a grave certainty: “The passengers are being told to put on their lifejackets and make their way on deck where the lifeboats are being launched. Women and children first.”

He stopped to read what Jack was furiously writing. It was a message from the
Carpathia
:

WE ARE 58 MILES AWAY FROM YOUR POSITION AND ARE COMING HARD

Jack wrote down the particulars,
Carpathia
's exact location, along with his educated guess that it would take them approximately four hours to reach them. Harold was mightily relieved.

“Phew, thank goodness for that. Well done, old boy.”

Without another word, he snatched up the note and shot out the door.

I stayed with Jack, who was tapping out his relief and gratitude to
Carpathia
's operator. Of course I knew more than the two boys did, but perhaps there had been fresh news that I wasn't aware of. Only a few minutes passed before Harold returned, looking pale and winded. I had hoped that I would be proved wrong; the truth was just too ridiculous. Naturally Jack was mystified. “What happened? Did you speak to the captain? What did he say?”

Running his hand through his hair, Harold faced his colleague. “Yes, I saw him. I didn't even have to knock on the door; it was like he was waiting for one of us to appear. ‘Sir,' I said, ‘it's the
Carpathia
. She's on her way, at full speed.' I half thought he was going to hug me as he took your note.”

Jack was impatient. “Yes, okay. Then what?”

Harold shook his head. “He read the message and started shouting at me, as if I was to blame.”

“What do you mean? To blame for what?”

Harold continued, “He shouted and shouted, ‘NO! NO! This won't do at all. Four hours is too late.
She'll be gone by then
.'”

Jack put his head in his hands.

“Oh God, Jack, are you crying? Don't worry. There must be other ships out there that aren't so far away.”

Harold patted his colleague awkwardly on the shoulder.

“No, no, it's not that.”

Unable to look at Harold, Jack kept his hands over his face. “Just before 8:00 p.m. I was working like blazes, trying to get out as many messages as possible. You know, with the backlog.”

Harold's agreement was solid. “Of course, there was a ton of stuff to send.”

“Yes, well, while I was in the middle of sending a detailed message about someone's new car, or something, I was blasted out of it by that youngster on the MV
Mesaba
. I swear he doesn't have a clue about what he's doing. He started going on about large numbers of icebergs and giving me the coordinates, but since his message didn't begin with “MSG” I didn't think it was an official report for the captain. I thought he was just looking for a chat. So, I told him that I was too busy and to keep out.”

Harold pulled his friend's hands down. “Come on, now. We've had, how many — five or six ice warnings over the 48 hours? This afternoon, when I brought another one to the bridge, Captain Smith told his man to shift our course by a few degrees. All those warnings had the MSG code and therefore we brought them to Captain Smith's attention immediately. That little twit knows the regulations just as well as the rest of us. And you know well that had he used the proper code you would have stopped what you were doing and taken it to the captain, allowing nothing to get in your way.”

Jack shrugged half-heartedly and said, “Yes, I would've — of course I would've.”

“Okay, then. Let's see if we can find someone else as well as the
Carpathia
.”

Watching his friend straighten the headphones over his ears, Harold reminded him of something else. “Don't forget, mate, if you hadn't insisted that we fixed the transmitter, we'd be in a right mess now.”

He received a watery smile in return before Jack put his head down and redoubled his efforts to find help.

Unfortunately it was too late for the five postal workers. For some reason I could see them clearly from the Marconi office. I was startled by the image of them floating about, bumping up gently against one another, looking as if they were only asleep. They must have ignored the rising water level to continue rescuing the post and then were suddenly overwhelmed. What a horrible birthday for poor Oscar — to drown on a ship. Nobody knew they were dead, only me. No doubt their families and friends were fast asleep, snug in their belief that they would see them again.

Of course my own father's body was never found, after that storm, when the sea took him and never gave him back. My mother was disinclined to believe he was gone and waited patiently for him to come through the front door, leaving it on the latch for him, day and night. When the vicar appeared on our doorstep, instead of Da, a few days later, to discuss funeral arrangements, she had the dog chase him up the street.