Undeterred, Groves took the headphones and put them on. He was really getting quite good, if the message was simple enough. But he didn’t know too much about the equipment. The
Giving up, he put the phones back on the table, and went below to find livelier company. It was just a little after 12.15 a.m.
3. ‘God Himself Could Not Sink This Ship’
The door to the cooks’ quarters whacked open against the iron cot of assistant baker Charles Burgess. He woke up with a start and stared at second steward George Dodd standing in the doorway. Normally a rotund, jolly man, Dodd looked serious as he called, ‘Get up, lads, we’re sinking!’
Dodd moved forward to the waiters’ quarters, where saloon steward William Moss was trying to rouse the men. Most of them were laughing and joking, when Dodd burst in, shouting, ‘Get every man up! Don’t let a man stay here!’
He moved on with Moss towards the stewards’ quarters. Just outside, smoking-room steward Witter was already getting some disturbing news from carpenter Hutchinson: ‘The bloody mail room is full.’ Moss came up and added, ‘It’s really serious, Jim.’
The wisecracks that greeted the first warnings faded, and the crew tumbled out of their berths. Still half- asleep, baker Burgess pulled on pants, a shirt, no lifebelt. Walter Belford wore his white baker’s coat, pants, didn’t stop to put on his underdrawers. Steward Ray took more time; he wasn’t worried—nevertheless he found himself putting on his shore suit. Steward Witter, already dressed, opened his trunk and filled his pockets with cigarettes… picked up the caul from his first child, which he always carried with him… then joined the crowd of men now swarming out into the working alleyway and up towards the boat stations.
Far forward, away from the uproar, trimmer Samuel Hemming climbed back into his bunk, satisfied that the hissing sound in the forepeak didn’t mean very much. He was just drifting off to sleep when the ship’s joiner leaned in, saying, ‘If I were you, I’d turn out. She’s making water one-two-three, and the racket court is getting filled up.’ An instant later the boatswain appeared: ‘Turn out, you fellows. You haven’t half an hour to live. That is from Mr Andrews. Keep it to yourselves and let no one know.’
Certainly no one knew in the first-class smoking-room. The bridge game was going full blast again. Lieutenant Steffanson was still sipping his hot lemonade, and another hand was being dealt, when a ship’s officer suddenly appeared at the door: ‘Men, get on your lifebelts; there’s trouble ahead.’
In her A deck stateroom, Mrs Washington Dodge lay in bed, waiting for Dr Dodge, Assessor for San Francisco, to dig up some news. The door opened and the doctor came in quietly: ‘Ruth, the accident is rather a serious one; you had better come on deck at once.’
Two decks below, Mrs Lucien Smith—tired of waiting for Mr Smith to finish exploring—had gone back to sleep. Suddenly the lights snapped on, and she saw her husband standing by the bed, smiling down at her. Leisurely he explained, ‘We are in the north and have struck an iceberg. It does not amount to anything but will probably delay us a day getting into New York. However, as a matter of form, the captain has ordered all ladies on deck.’
And so it went. No bells or sirens. No general alarm. But all over the
It was very bewildering to eight-year-old Marshall Drew. When his aunt Mrs James Drew woke him and said she had to take him on deck, he sleepily protested he didn’t want to get up. But Mrs Drew paid no attention.
It was no less bewildering to Major Arthur Peuchen, despite his sightseeing expedition to look at the ice. He heard the news on the grand staircase and could hardly believe it. Completely stunned, he stumbled to his cabin to change from evening dress into something warm.
For many, first word came from their stewards. John Hardy, second-class chief steward, personally roused twenty to twenty-four cabins. Each time he threw the door open wide, shouting, ‘Everybody on deck with lifebelts on, at once!’
In first class it was more polite to knock. These were the days when a steward on a crack liner didn’t have more than eight or nine cabins, and he was like a mother hen to all the passengers he served.
Steward Alfred Crawford was typical. He had spent thirty-one years handling difficult passengers, and now he knew just how to coax old Mr Albert Stewart into a life jacket. Then he stopped and tied the old gentleman’s shoes.
In C-89, steward Andrew Cunningham helped William T. Stead into his lifebelt, while the great editor mildly complained that it was all a lot of nonsense. In B-84, steward Henry Samuel Etches worked like a solicitous tailor, fitting Benjamin Guggenheim for his lifebelt.
‘This will hurt,’ protested the mining and smelting king. Etches finally took the belt off altogether, made some adjustments, put it on again. Next, Guggenheim wanted to go on deck as he was, but Etches was adamant —it was much too cold. Ultimately Guggenheim submitted; Etches pulled a heavy sweater over him and sent him packing off topside.
Some of the passengers were even more difficult. At C-78, Etches found the door locked. When he knocked loudly with both hands, a man inside asked suspiciously, ‘What is it?’ and a woman added, ‘Tell us what the trouble is.’ Etches explained and again tried to get them to open the door. He had no luck, and after a few minutes’ pleading he finally passed on to the next cabin.
In another part of the ship a locked door raised a different problem. It was jammed, and some passengers broke it down to release a man inside. At this point a steward arrived, threatening to have everybody arrested for damaging company property when the
At 12.15 it was hard to know whether to joke or be serious—whether to chop down a door and be a hero, or chop it down and get arrested. No two people seemed to have the same reaction.
Mrs Arthur Ryerson felt there wasn’t a moment to lose. She had long since abandoned the idea of letting Mr Ryerson sleep; now she scurried about trying to keep her family together. There were six to get ready—her husband, three children, governess and maid—and the children seemed so slow. Finally she gave up on her youngest daughter; just threw a fur coat over her nightgown and told her to come on.
There seemed all the time in the world to Mrs Lucien Smith. Slowly and with great care she dressed for whatever the night might bring—a heavy woollen dress, high shoes, two coats and a warm knitted hood. All the while Mr Smith chatted away about landing in New York, taking the train south, never mentioning the iceberg. As they started for the deck, Mrs Smith decided to go back for some jewellery. Here Mr Smith drew the line. He suggested it might be wiser not to bother with ‘trifles’. As a compromise Mrs Smith picked up two favourite rings. Closing the door carefully behind them, the young couple headed up towards the boat deck.
Close behind came the Countess of Rothes and her cousin Gladys Cherry. They had difficulty putting on their lifebelts, and a passing gentleman paused to help them. He topped off the courtesy by handing them some raisins to eat.
The things people took with them showed how they felt. Adolf Dyker handed his wife a small satchel containing two gold watches, two diamond rings, a sapphire necklace and 200 Swedish crowns. Miss Edith Russell carried a musical toy pig (it played the ‘Maxixe’). Stuart Collett, a young theological student travelling second class, took the Bible he promised his brother he’d always carry until they met again. Lawrence Beesley stuffed the pockets of his Norfolk jacket with the books he had been reading in bed. Norman Campbell Chambers pocketed a revolver and compass. Steward Johnson, by now anticipating far more than ‘another Belfast trip’, stuck four oranges under his blouse. Mrs Dickinson Bishop left behind 11,000 dollars in jewellery, then sent her husband back for her muff.
Major Arthur Peuchen looked at the tin box on the table in C-104. Inside were 200,000 dollars in bonds, 100,000 dollars in preferred stock. He thought a good deal about it as he took off his dinner jacket, put on two suits of long underwear and some heavy clothes.
Then he took a last look around the little cabin—the real brass bed… the green mesh net along the wall for valuables at night… the marble washstand… the wicker armchair… the horsehair sofa… the fan in the ceiling… the bells and electrical fixtures that on a liner always look as if they were installed as an afterthought.
