A Night to Remember

mother, Mrs Frederick O. Spedden, as boat 3 threaded its way through the loose ice towards the Carpathia.

In fact, the world did look like a picture from a child’s book about the Arctic. The sun was just edging over the horizon, and the ice sparkled in its first long rays. The bergs looked dazzling white, pink, mauve, deep blue, depending on how the rays hit them and how the shadows fell. The sea was now bright blue, and little chunks of ice, some no bigger than a man’s fist, bobbed in the choppy water. Overhead, the eastern sky was gold and blue, promising a lovely day. The shadows of night lingered in the west—Lawrence Beesley remembered watching the Morning Star shine long after the others had faded. Near the horizon a thin, pale crescent moon appeared.

‘A new moon! Turn your money over, boys! That is, if you have any!’ fireman Fred Barrett shouted cheerfully to the crew rowing No. 13. Whoops and yells of relief erupted from all the boats, as the men tried to outrow each other in reaching the Carpathia. Some began singing, ‘Pull for the Shore, Boys’. Some gave organized cheers. Some, however, remained silent—stunned by the sinking or overwhelmed by relief.

‘It’s all right, ladies, do not grieve. We are picked up.’ Lookout Hogg sought to encourage the women staring bleakly ahead in No. 7, but they kept very quiet.

There were no cheers on overturned collapsible B either. Lightoller, Gracie, Bride, Thayer and the others were too busy trying to stay afloat. Stirred by the morning breeze, the waves now washed over the hulk and rocked it back and forth. Every time it rolled, a little more air escaped, and the keel sank still lower into the water. With Lightoller shouting directions, the men still shifted their weight back and forth, but after an hour of this they were dead tired.

The sight of the Carpathia arriving with the dawn—so thrilling to everyone else— now meant little to these men. She had stopped four miles away, and they wondered how they could last until they were spotted. Suddenly, as the light spread over the sea, they saw new hope. About 800 yards off, boats 4, 10, 12 and D were still strung together in a line, just as Fifth Officer Lowe had ordered.

The men on collapsible B shouted, ‘Ship ahoy!’—but they were too far away to be heard. Then Lightoller fished an officer’s whistle out of his pocket and blew a shrill blast. The sound not only carried but told the crew manning the boats that an officer was calling.

In No. 12, seaman Frederick Clinch quickly looked up… thought he saw about twenty men in the distance standing on, of all things, a ship’s funnel. In No. 4, trimmer Samuel Hemming looked over too; and in the early morning light it seemed to him some men were standing on a slab of ice. Little matter, the two boats at once cast off and headed over. It was slow rowing, and as they crept within hailing distance, Lightoller urged them on: ‘Come over and take us off!’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ somebody called back, and finally the two boats arrived. They were barely in time. By now collapsible B was so delicately balanced that the wash from No. 4 almost swept everybody off. It took all Quartermaster Perkis’s skill to manoeuvre the boat safely alongside. On B, Lightoller cautioned the men not to scramble. Even so, the boat gave a sickening roll as each man leaned forward to jump.

One by one they made it. Jack Thayer was so preoccupied with getting safely into No. 12 that he didn’t notice his mother right alongside in No. 4. And Mrs Thayer was so numbed by cold and misery that she didn’t notice her son. When Colonel Gracie’s turn came, he crawled hands first into No. 12, preferring pinched fingers to the risk of a jump. Baker Joughin, still treading water, didn’t worry at all. He simply let go Maynard’s hand and paddled over to No. 4, where they pulled him in, still thoroughly insulated by his whisky.

Lightoller was last to leave the overturned collapsible. When all the others were transferred, he lifted a lifeless body into No. 12, jumped in himself, and took charge of the boat. It was just about 6.30 when he finally shoved off from the empty keel and began rowing towards the Carpathia.

Meanwhile Fifth Officer Lowe gave up his search for swimmers among the wreckage. In an hour’s hard work No. 14 picked up only four men, and he knew he was too late to find any more. No man could last longer in the ice-cold water. Now day was breaking and rescue was at hand, Lowe decided to head back for the boats he had left tied together and shepherd them in to the Carpathia.

‘Hoist a sail forward,’ he ordered seaman F. O. Evans as the breeze quickened. In every other boat the crew regarded the mast as an extra encumbrance and the sail as just something that got in the way. In some cases they dumped out this equipment before leaving the Titanic; in others it stayed in, and the men cursed as they stumbled over useless spars in the dark. They didn’t know how to sail anyhow.

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 skilfully 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 thirty 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 lifebelts covering their faces), R. Norris Williams Jr’s fur coat and a ring belonging to third-class passenger Edvard 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 lifebelt 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 on to 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 Spedden 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, greeting 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 and 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