A Night to Remember

On the bridge of the Californian, Second Officer Stone and apprentice Gibson counted the rockets—five by 12.55. Gibson tried his Morse lamp again, and at one o’clock lifted his glasses for another look. He was just in time to see a sixth rocket.

At 1.10 Stone whistled down the speaking tube to the chart room and told Captain Lord. He called back, ‘Are they company signals?’

‘I don’t know,’ Stone answered, ‘but they appear to me to be white rockets.’

The captain advised him to go on Morsing.

A little later Stone handed his glasses to Gibson, remarking: ‘Have a look at her now. She looks very queer out of the water—her lights look queer.’

Gibson studied the ship carefully. She seemed to be listing. She had, as he called it, ‘a big side out of the water’. And Stone, standing beside him, noticed that her red side light had disappeared.

5. ‘I Believe She’s Gone, Hardy’

The other ships just didn’t seem to understand. At 1.25 the Olympic asked, ‘Are you steering south to meet us?’ Phillips patiently explained, ‘We are putting the women off in the boats.’

Then the Frankfort: ‘Are there any ships around you already?’ Phillips ignored this one. Again the Frankfort, asking for more details. This was too much. He jumped up, almost screaming: ‘The damn fool! He says, “What’s up, old man?”’ Then he angrily tapped back: ‘You fool, stand by and keep out.’

From time to time Captain Smith dropped in—once to warn that the power was fading… again to say she couldn’t last much longer… later to report that the water had reached the engine room. At 1.45, Phillips begged the Carpathia: ‘Come as quickly as possible, old man; engine room filling up to the boilers.’

Meanwhile Bride draped an overcoat over Phillips’ shoulders, then managed to strap a lifebelt on him. The problem of getting him into his boots was more complicated. Phillips asked whether any boats were left—maybe the boots wouldn’t be needed.

Once he turned the set over to Bride, went out to see what was happening. He returned shaking his head: ‘Things look very queer.’

They looked queer indeed. The sea now slopped over the Titanic’s forward well deck… rippled around the cranes, the hatches, the foot of the mast… washed against the base of the white superstructure. The roar of steam had died, the nerve-racking rockets had stopped—but the slant of the deck was steeper and there was an ugly list to port.

About 1.40, Chief Officer Wilde shouted, ‘Everyone on the starboard side to straighten her up!’ Passengers and crew trooped over, and the Titanic swung sluggishly back on even keel. The work on the boats resumed.

As No. 2 prepared to cast off at 1.45, steward Johnson, his pockets bulging with oranges, yelled up to the boat deck for a razor to cut the falls. Seaman McAuliffe dropped one down, calling, ‘Remember me at Southampton and give it back to me!’ McAuliffe was probably the last man on the Titanic so sure of returning to Southampton.

First Officer Murdoch knew better. As he walked along the deck with chief steward Hardy of second class, he sighed, ‘I believe she’s gone, Hardy.’

There was no longer any difficulty persuading people to leave the ship. Paul Mauge, the chef’s assistant, jumped ten feet into a dangling boat. Somebody on a lower deck tried to drag him out, but he squirmed free and was safe.

Third-class passenger Daniel Buckley—safely through the broken gate and on to the boat deck—took no more chances. With several other men he jumped into a boat and huddled there crying. Most of the men were hauled out, but from somewhere he got a woman’s shawl. He said Mrs Astor put it over him. In any case, the disguise worked.

Another young man—no more than a boy—wasn’t as lucky. Fifth Officer Lowe caught him under a seat in No. 14 begging that he wouldn’t take up much room. Lowe drew his gun, but the boy only pleaded harder. Then Lowe changed tactics, told him to be a man, and somehow got him out. By now Mrs Charlotte Collyer and other women in the boat were sobbing, and her eight-year-old daughter Marjory joined the uproar, tugging at Lowe’s arm and crying, ‘Oh, Mr Man, don’t shoot, please don’t shoot the poor man!’

Lowe paused long enough to smile and nod at her reassuringly. The boy was out now, anyhow, lying face down near a coil of rope.

But No. 14’s troubles weren’t over. Another wave of men rushed the boat. Seaman Scarrott beat them back with the tiller. This time Lowe pulled his gun and shouted, ‘If anyone else tries that, this is what he’ll get!’ He fired three times along the side of the ship as the boat dropped down to the sea.

Murdoch barely stopped a rush at No. 15. He yelled at the crowd, ‘Stand back! Stand back! It’s women first!’

All the way forward, there was more trouble at collapsible C, which had been fitted into the davits used by No. 1. A big mob pushed and shoved, trying to climb aboard.

Two men dropped in. Purser Herbert McElroy fired twice into the air. Murdoch shouted, ‘Get out of this! Clear out of this!’ Hugh Woolner and Bjornstrom Steffanson—attracted by the pistol flashes—rushed over to help. Yanking the culprits by arms, legs, anything, they cleared the boat. The loading continued.

Jack Thayer stood off to one side with Milton Long, a young shipboard acquaintance from Springfield, Massachusetts. They had met for the first time this evening over after-dinner coffee. Following the crash, Long— who was travelling alone—attached himself to the Thayer family, but he and Jack lost the older Thayers in the crowd on A deck. Now they were alone, debating what to do, supposing the rest of the family was already off in the boats. They finally decided to stay clear of boat C. With all the uproar, it seemed bound to tip over.

But they were wrong. Things gradually straightened out, and finally boat C was ready for lowering. Chief Officer Wilde shouted to know who was in command. Hearing him, Captain Smith turned to Quartermaster Rowe —still fiddling with the Morse lamp—and told him to take charge. Rowe jumped in and got ready to lower.

Close by, President Bruce Ismay stood, helping to get the boat ready for lowering. He was calmer now than in those early moments when Lowe had bawled him out—in fact he seemed every inch an accepted member of the Titanic’s crew.

This was a frequent role for Ismay, but by no means his only one. Sometimes he preferred the role of passenger. So far during the voyage he had shifted back and forth several times.

At Queenstown he was a sort of super-captain. He told chief engineer Bell the speed he wanted for various stages of the voyage. He also set the New York arrival time at Wednesday morning, instead of Tuesday night. He didn’t consult Captain Smith on this.

Later, at sea, Ismay was mostly a passenger, enjoying the fine cuisine of the a la carte restaurant… shuffleboard… bridge… tea and scones in his deck chair on the port side of A deck.

This Sunday he was enough of a member of the crew to see the ice message that arrived from another ship. In the bright, sunny Palm Court—just as the bugler sounded lunch—Captain Smith gave him a warning from the Baltic. During the afternoon Ismay (who liked to remind people who he was) fished it out of his pocket and waved it at Mrs Ryerson and Mrs Thayer. In the smoking-room before dinner, while the twilight still glowed through the amber-stained windows, Captain Smith sought and got the message back. Then Ismay walked down to the restaurant, immaculate in his dinner jacket, very much a first-class passenger.

After the crash he went back to being in the crew—up with the captain on the bridge… consulting with chief engineer Bell… and now, despite the tongue-lashing from Fifth Officer Lowe, shouted orders about the boats.

Then came another switch. At the very last moment he suddenly climbed into boat C. Down it dropped, with forty-two people including Bruce Ismay—just another passenger.

Most of the passengers were different. William T. Stead, independent as ever, sat reading alone in the first-class smoking-room. To fireman Kemish, passing by, he looked as though he planned to stay there whatever