Unsinkable: The Full Story of the RMS Titanic (35 page)

The whole straggling fleet of boats . was now converging on the
Carpathia.
It was 4:45 when Boat 13 tied up at the portside gangway, a half hour after that when Boat 7 pulled alongside. There was a tearfully happy reunion when Dr. Washington Dodge, who had been in Boat 13, was brought together with his wife and five-year-old-son by Steward Ray. (Actually, Washington, Jr., in a fit of five-year-old mischievousness, had been trying to keep his mother and father from finding each other. He thought Steward Ray was a spoilsport.)
²⁶

At 6:00 survivors from Boat 3 began to climb aboard the
Carpathia.
Some used the rope ladders, children were hoisted up in mail sacks, and some of the women, not strong enough to negotiate the rope ladders, were lifted aboard in slings. As Elizabeth Shutes found herself swung up into the air, she heard a voice from somewhere on deck call out, “Careful fellows, she’s a lightweight
^!
” When Henry Sleeper Harper stepped into the gangway, accompanied by his wife, his dragoman Hassan Hassah, and his prize Pekinese, one of the first people he saw was an old acquaintance, Louis Ogden. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to meet under such circumstances, Harper walked over to the astonished Ogden and said, “Louis, how do you keep yourself looking so young?” There is no record of Mr. Ogden’s reply.
²⁷

When Collapsible C tied up at 6:30, one of the first people to climb aboard the
Carpathia
was Bruce Ismay, characteristically announcing, “I’m Ismay ... I’m Ismay.” Dr. McGhee approached him with the suggestion that he go down to the Dining Saloon for some hot soup or something to drink.

“No, I don’t want anything at all.”

“Do go and get something,” the doctor urged gently.

“If you will leave me alone, I’ll be much happier here.... No, wait, if you can get me in some room where I can be quiet, I wish you would.”

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

“I would rather not.”

Giving in, the doctor led Ismay to his own cabin, where Ismay would sequester himself until the
Carpathia
reached New York. Though it was later rumored that he was kept sedated the whole time, there’s little evidence to support it. But this self-imposed isolation would indirectly fuel later rumors about Ismay’s conduct before and after the disaster until public opinion would so thoroughly pillory him that he ultimately sought refuge in anonymity. Perhaps he didn’t know it yet, but Bruce Ismay was a ruined man.
²⁸

Fifth Officer Lowe conned Boat 14 alongside the
Carpathia
just before 7:00, with Collapsible D still in tow. While the passengers and crewmen made their way aboard the ship, Lowe stayed behind to stow the sail and ship the mast. The boat was still company property and he was still a company officer, after all.
²⁹

There was a lot of frantic activity on deck (although the
Carpathia’s
passengers and crew were later to remark how quiet the
Titanic’s
survivors seemed) as family members sought one another out, or peered anxiously over the railing as each boat came alongside, looking for familiar faces. Usually the outcome was predictable: the sought-after loved one wouldn’t be in any of the boats and the agonizing reality would set in. But sometimes, as in the case of the Dodges, there would be a happy reunion (young Master Dodge notwithstanding). Billy Carter, who had been in Collapsible C, stood staring down at Boat 4 as it came alongside, spotting his wife and daughter, but searching frantically for his son. Finally he called out, “Where’s my boy?”

Recognizing his father’s voice, ten-year-old William, Jr., lifted the brim of a girl’s hat and looked up, saying, “Here I am, Father.”

Not all the reunions were as happy. When Mrs. Thayer and her son, Jack, saw one another, they rushed into each other’s arms. After a minute though, Mrs. Thayer asked Jack, “Where’s Daddy?” All the young Thayer could say was, “I don’t know.”

Sadder still was the plight of an Italian woman, a steerage passenger, who broke down completely in the Third Class Dining Room, weeping hysterically, and shouting out, “Bambino!” over and over again. Soon her baby was found and brought to her, but the crying continued as she held up two fingers to show that a second child was missing. This one was found, too—in the pantry, on the hot press. Someone had put it there so the body would thaw out.
³⁰

By 8:15 all the boats were alongside, except for Boat 12, which was still a quarter mile away, and moving slowly. The breeze was freshening, and with the boat as overloaded as it was—seventy—four people in a boat designed to hold sixty-five-Lightoller wasn’t about to take any chances. Rostron nudged his engines to life and brought the
Carpathia
forward slowly, swinging his bow to starboard a bit to bring the boat into the ship’s lee. As he turned, the wind kicked up a squall and a couple of waves crashed over the boat, covering everyone with spray. Gingerly Lightoller put his tiller over, and Boat 12 slipped into the sheltered waters by the
Carpathia’s
side. At 8:30 she made fast to the ship and Lightoller began unloading his passengers. By 9:00 they were all on board.
³¹

Now that Captain Rostron had all the
Titanic’s
survivors aboard, he had to figure out what to do with them. A quick inventory of the
Carpathia’s
supplies told him that the only alternative was to turn around and go back to New York. The purser’s lists showed that 705 survivors were brought aboard—meaning that 1,502 people had died with the Titanic. Heartsick, the deeply religious Rostron decided that though nothing could be done for those lost, a brief service—a combined memorial and thanksgiving—might go a long way toward helping the survivors sort out their grief. Approaching the Reverend Father Roger Anderson, an Episcopalian minister who was one of the Carpathia’s passengers, Rostron broached the subject. Reverend Anderson thought it an excellent idea and agreed to preside. The service would be held that afternoon in the main lounge.
³²

The
Carpathia’s
passengers did all they could, too, helping the crew wherever they could, finding extra clothes for the survivors, making room in their cabins for some, giving up their spare toiletries and toothbrushes for many. But there were some burdens they could never ease, never share. As Mrs. Ogden was taking a tray of coffee cups over to two women sitting by themselves in a corner of the
Carpathia’s
upper deck, they waved her off, never taking their eyes from the ice-littered sea. “Go away” they said. “We’ve just seen our husbands drown.”
³³

Meanwhile Rostron returned to the bridge, and ordered as many of the Titanic’s boats brought aboard as possible. Six were slung in the
Carpathia’s
davits, seven more were stowed on the foredeck. That was all the Carpathia had room for—they would be returned to the White Star Line when the ship reached New York. The other seven boats, including all the collapsibles, were set adrift. While the boats were being hoisted aboard, the Mount Temple, another vessel that had come rushing to the
Titanic’s
assistance, hove to about six miles away. Rostron quickly appraised the Mount Temple of the situation, and asked her to continue the search for survivors. Then he returned to the chartroom to work out a course for New York.

It was about 9:15, as he was laying out his new course, that Rostron was called back to the bridge. A second ship had appeared, steaming up from the southwest. Rostron wondered where she had come from, since Cottam had assured him that, apart from the Mount Temple, there wouldn’t be any other ships arriving for some time. A brief exchange of flag signals followed, Rostron informing the newcomer that the
Carpathia
had picked up all the survivors and was headed for New York. With that, the little Cunard liner put about and slowly steamed away. The other ship stayed behind for a while, on the off chance that the Carpathia had missed anyone, but soon she too was steaming westward. After all, she was already behind schedule—her captain had a reputation for reliability and he didn’t want to be too late: the
Californian
was due in Boston in three days.
³⁴

—Isaiah 21:11

 

 

 

ON THE NIGHT OF APRIL 14, 1912, ON THE FRINGES OF AN IMMENSE ICE field in the western North Atlantic, the Leyland Line steamship Californian lay dead in the water. Bound for Boston from London, the ship had stopped around 10:30 P.M. Small (6,000 tons), slow (14 knots), and decidedly unglamorous, she was under the command of Capt. Stanley Lord, a fourteen-year veteran of the Leyland Line. He had been the captain of the
Californian
for less than a year and this was his very first encounter with North Atlantic ice.
¹

The Californian had been steaming at 11 knots on a course of S. 89 W true when a few minutes after 10:00 P.M. her third officer, Charles Victor Groves, spotted several white patches in the water dead ahead of the ship; when he mentioned them to Captain Lord, he commented that they were probably porpoises.

Captain Lord knew better: one look was all he needed before he strode to the bridge telegraph and rang for the engines put FULL SPEED ASTERN. The white patches were ice—growlers and small bergs that were the fringe of a huge field of ice ahead. Before long the ship was surrounded by chunks of floating ice. Prudence was Lord’s watchword, and as the
Californian
came to a stop, he decided that he would rather deal with the problem of negotiating a passage through the ice in daylight. After all, his ship was a far cry from the crack Atlantic liners like the
Lusitania,
the
Mauretania,
the big German speedsters, or the White Star’s new sisters, the Olympic and the Titanic. They all had precise schedules to maintain: nobody would take much notice if the
Californian
were half a day late. She would stay put for the night.

At 11:00 P.M. Captain Lord went below to the chartroom, intending to pass the night stretched out on the settee there. He left specific instructions with Groves to be called if anything was sighted, although any disturbance seemed unlikely. “Absolute peace and quietness prevailed,” Groves later recalled, “save for brief snatches of ‘Annie Laurie’ from an Irish voice which floated up from a stokehold ventilator.” The ship drifted quietly on the current, her bows slowly swinging round until she was pointed almost due east. The sea was amazingly calm and the visibility was exceptional, with the stars standing out in the night sky with diamond-like intensity.

About a quarter past eleven Groves noticed the glare of a ship steaming up over the horizon from the east. Ablaze with lights from bow to stern, the newcomer rapidly came abeam of the motionless Californian, passing along her starboard side some ten to twelve miles away. Groves could soon see that she was a large passenger liner, with brightly lit decks piled one on top the other. Around 11:30 he went down to the chartroom, knocked on the door, and told Captain Lord about the newcomer. Lord suggested that Groves try to contact her by Morse lamp, which he did, but gave up after a few moments when he received no reply.

About 11:40 Groves saw the big liner suddenly seem to stop and put out most of her lights. This didn’t seem unusual to Groves, who was an old hand of the Far East trade: it was a custom for ships on the Pacific runs to dim their lights around midnight to encourage the passengers to get to bed. He had no way of knowing at that moment that the stranger’s lights had gone out because she had made a sudden, sharp turn to port.

Captain Lord too had been watching the new arrival from the port in the chartroom, but unlike Groves, who standing one deck higher and had a much clearer view of the other vessel, Lord didn’t believe the ship was much larger than his own
Californian.
He had stepped over to the wireless office at 11:15 and asked his wireless operator, Cyril Evans, if he knew of any other ships nearby. When Evans replied, “Only the
Titanic,”
Lord told him to warn her that the Californian had stopped and was surrounded by ice. Now, just a few minutes after the stranger had made that sharp turn, he was back on the bridge, peering intently at the distant ship through his glasses. He remarked to Groves, “That doesn’t look like a passenger steamer.”

“It is, sir,” Groves replied. “When she stopped she put most of her lights out—I suppose they have been put out for the night.” Carefully Groves ventured his opinion that he thought her to be not more than ten miles off. Lord gave a noncommittal grunt, then announced he was returning to the chartroom, where he was to be informed if any other ships were spotted, the other ship changed bearing, or anything else unusual occurred.
²

Meanwhile, as soon as the captain had left, Evans slipped on his headphones, adjusted his set, and began tapping out to Jack Phillips on the Titanic, “Say old man, we are surrounded by ice and stopped.” Evans hadn’t bothered to ask Phillips for permission to break into the
Titanic’s
traffic or even properly identify himself, but just barged right in, so it was little wonder that Phillips tapped back furiously, “Shut up! Shut up! You are jamming me! I am working Cape Race!”