A Night to Remember

inboard, trying to keep as far away from the rail as possible.

Jack Thayer stayed with Milton Long on the starboard side of the boat deck. They studied an empty davit, using it as a yardstick against the sky to gauge how fast she was sinking. They watched the hopeless efforts to clear two collapsibles lashed to the roof of the officers’ quarters. They exchanged messages for each other’s families. Sometimes they were just silent.

Thayer thought of all the good times he had had and of all the future pleasures he would never enjoy. He thought of his father and his mother, of his sisters and brother. He felt far away, as though he were looking on from some distant place. He felt very, very sorry for himself.

Colonel Gracie, standing a little way off, felt curiously breathless. Later he rather stuffily explained it was the feeling when ‘vox faucibus haesit, as frequently happened to the old Trojan hero of our schooldays’. At the time he merely said to himself, ‘Good-bye to all at home.’

In the wireless shack there was no time for either self-pity or vox faucibus haesit. Phillips was still working the set, but the power was very low. Bride stood by, watching people rummage the officers’ quarters and the gym, looking for extra lifebelts.

It was 2.05 when Captain Smith entered the shack for the last time: ‘Men, you have done your full duty. You can do no more. Abandon your cabin. Now it’s every man for himself.’

Phillips looked up for a second, then bent over the set once more. Captain Smith tried again: ‘You look out for yourselves. I release you.’ A pause, then he added softly, ‘That’s the way of it at this kind of time …’

Phillips went on working. Bride began to gather up their papers. Captain Smith returned to the boat deck, walked about speaking informally to men here and there. To fireman James McGann: ‘Well, boys, it’s every man for himself.’ Again, to oiler Alfred White: ‘Well, boys, I guess it’s every man for himself.’ To steward Edward Brown: ‘Well, boys, do your best for the women and children, and look out for yourselves.’ To the men on the roof of the officers’ quarters: ‘You’ve done your duty, boys. Now, every man for himself.’ Then he walked back on the bridge.

Some of the men took the captain at his word and jumped overboard. Night baker Walter Belford leaped as far out as he could, cannon-balled into the water in a sitting position. He still shudders and sucks his breath sharply when he thinks of the stabbing cold. Greaser Fred Scott, just up from boiler room 4, tried to slide down an empty fall, missed and took a belly-flopper into the sea. He was picked up by boat 4, still standing by the ship but trying to row clear of the barrels and deck chairs that were now hurtling down. Steward Cunningham made a hefty leap and also managed to reach No. 4.

But most of the crew stuck to the ship. On top of the officers’ quarters, Lightoller noticed trimmer Hemming at work on one of the tangled collapsibles… yet Hemming should have gone long ago as part of the crew in No. 6.

‘Why haven’t you gone, Hemming?’

‘Oh, plenty of time yet, sir.’

Not far away two young stewards idly watched Lightoller, Hemming and the others at work. In the fading light of the boat deck, their starched white jackets stood out as they leaned against the rail, debating how long the ship could last. Scattered around the boat deck, some fifteen first-class bellboys were equally at ease—they seemed pleased that nobody cared any longer whether they smoked. Nearby, gymnasium instructor T. W. McCawley, a spry little man in white flannels, explained why he wouldn’t wear a life jacket—it kept you afloat but it slowed you down; he felt he could swim clear more quickly without it.

By the forward entrance to the grand staircase, between the first and second funnel, the band—now wearing life jackets on top of their overcoats—scraped lustily away at ragtime.

The passengers were just as calm, although they too had their jumpers. Frederick Hoyt saw his wife into collapsible D, leaped and swam to where he thought the boat might pass. He guessed well. In a few minutes boat D splashed by and hauled him in. For the rest of the night he sat soaked to the skin, rowing hard to keep from freezing.

But for the most part the passengers merely stood waiting or quietly paced the boat deck. New York and Philadelphia society continued to stick together—John B. Thayer, George and Harry Widener, Duane Williams formed a little knot… lesser luminaries like Clinch Smith and Colonel Gracie hovering nearby. Astor remained pretty much alone, and the Strauses sat down on deck chairs.

Jack Thayer and Milton Long debated whether to jump. The davit they were using as a gauge showed the Titanic was going much faster now. Thayer wanted to jump out, catch an empty lifeboat fall, slide down and swim out to the boats he could dimly see 500 or 600 yards away. He was a good swimmer. Long, not nearly as good, argued against it and persuaded Thayer not to try.

Further forward, Colonel Gracie lent his penknife to the men struggling with the collapsibles lashed to the officers’ quarters. They were having a hard time, and Gracie wondered why.

Some of the third-class passengers had now worked their way up to the boat deck, and others were drifting towards the gradually rising stern. The after poop deck, normally third-class space anyhow, was suddenly becoming attractive to all kinds of people.

Olaus Abelseth was one of those who reached the boat deck. Most of the evening he had been all the way aft with his cousin, his brother-in-law and the two Norwegian girls. With other steerage men and women, they aimlessly waited for someone to tell them what to do.

Around 1.30 an officer opened the gate to first class and ordered the women to the boat deck. At 2.00 the men were allowed up too. Many now preferred to stay where they were—this would clearly be the last point above water. But Abelseth, his cousin and brother-in-law went up on the chance there was still a boat left. The last one was pulling away.

So they just stood there, as worried about being in first class as by the circumstances that had brought them there. Abelseth watched the crew trying to free the collapsibles. Once an officer, searching for extra hands, called, ‘Are there any sailors here?’

Abelseth had spent sixteen of his twenty-seven years on the sea and felt he should speak up. But his cousin and brother-in-law pleaded, ‘No, let us just stay here together.’

So they did. They felt rather awkward and said very little. It was even more awkward when Mr and Mrs Straus drew near. ‘Please,’ the old gentleman was saying, ‘get into a lifeboat and be saved.’

‘No, let me stay with you,’ she replied. Abelseth turned and looked the other way.

Within the ship the heavy silence of the deserted rooms had a drama of its own. The crystal chandeliers of the a la carte restaurant hung at a crazy angle, but they still burned brightly, lighting the fawn panels of French walnut and the rose-coloured carpet. A few of the little table lights with their pink silk shades had fallen over, and someone was rummaging in the pantry, perhaps for something to fortify himself.

The Louis Quinze lounge with its big fireplace was silent and empty. The Palm Court was equally deserted —one passer-by found it hard to believe that just four hours ago it was filled with exquisitely dressed ladies and gentlemen, sipping after-dinner coffee, listening to chamber music by the same men who now played gay songs on the boat deck above.

The smoking-room was not completely empty. When a steward looked in at 2.10, he was surprised to see Thomas Andrews standing all alone in the room. Andrews’ lifebelt lay carelessly across the green cloth top of a card table. His arms were folded over his chest; his look was stunned; all his drive and energy were gone. A moment of awed silence, and the steward timidly broke in: ‘Aren’t you going to have a try for it, Mr Andrews?’

There was no answer, not even a trace that he heard. The builder of the Titanic merely stared aft.

Outside on the decks, the crowd still waited; the band still played. A few prayed with the Reverend Thomas R. Byles, a second-class passenger. Others seemed lost in thought.

There was much to think about. For Captain Smith there were the four ice messages he had received during the day—a fifth, which he may not have seen, told exactly where to expect the berg. And there was the thermometer that fell from forty-three degrees at seven o’clock to thirty-two degrees at ten o’clock. And the temperature of the sea, which dropped to thirty-one degrees at 10.30 p.m.

Wireless operator Jack Phillips could ponder over the sixth ice warning—when the Californian broke in at 11.00 p.m. and Phillips told her to shut up. That one never even reached the bridge.