A shudder went through
Murdoch had stoically and dejectedly waited for just this news from Fleet: “Iceberg, sir, dead ahead! A mountain of it come outta nowhere! Thought it night sky, but there’re no stars in it!”
Ransom, Thomas, and Declan had all made their way up to the forecastle and boat deck after having had no luck in locating the monster. Old Farley rested his aching peg leg on a bench, Varmint curled at his one foot, exhausted. Lightoller, too, sensing something terribly wrong had rushed to the boat deck as well, just in time to see the mountain of ice coming at them.
He saw and heard Fleet shouting to Lightoller, “Dead ahead, sir! Ice!”
“And so it begins sadly enough,” muttered Lightoller. “It appears your final solution is to be our only course, Constable.”
In the pilot house, Murdoch hesitated, wanting to follow Captain Smith’s orders, wanting to do his duty but second guessing his captain and himself, but then he grew determined to do exactly as his captain had ordered.
He rammed the engine room telegraph handle to full stop, knowing that at their present speed or 21knots, they could not stop before hitting the iceberg. Staring across at Quartermaster Hitchens at the wheel, he ordered, “Hard-a-starboard, now, Mr. Hitchens! Now!”
Hitchens needed no second telling as he’d already assessed the problem and had ripped the wheel to starboard. Murdoch then ordered, “Full-throttle astern, Hitchens! Astern, full-throttle!”
But it was already too late.
The iceberg was already atop them, towering over the port side like a curious colossus. The hard to starboard order kept them from hitting the berg head on just as Captain Smith had ordered, allowing the wall of ice and the spur beneath the waves to claw at the massive port side bow, just as planned, allowing the iceberg to grind away at her, wrenching open a gash, badly wounding
A small avalanche of snow and chunks of ice rained down over Ransom and the men with him. Ice rained down and pounded the well deck, creating a sound like a death rattle that reverberated about the ship.
No one aboard knew the extent of the damage, but Chief Engineer William Bell down below knew it was not good as he searched from inside to assess the damage. He was soon shaken to learn that below the waterline a bulging, knobby protrusion indicated buckling and a loss of rivets, a tear—in fact a great gash.
Then it began, a ripping metal sound, and Bell helplessly watched as the wall he stared at broke open; on and on, the water continued into compartment after compartment, until it touched on six in total extending from the ship’s nose. His mind screamed within his skull to run to the nearest stairwell and to climb and climb until he was at the topmost decks, and he did.
Reports of damage raced through wires to the bridge, and Captain Smith was awakened by Wilde on orders from Murdoch. Ismay and Andrews immediately showed up at the well deck and soon rushed to the bridge and conferred with the officers and Captain Smith.
Ransom watched from afar as Smith and Andrews began rushing for the lift, boarded, and went down to inspect the damage first hand.
“You okay, Declan?” Ransom asked on seeing the look on the young man’s face.
“Okay? Gawd blind me, no! This thing’s beat us, Alastair… beat us well and truly.”
“Not at its damnable egg sacs go down with the ship—”
“Along with the rest of us,” moaned Thomas.
Alastair stood with legs firmly apart, “Men, Captain Smith will order Lightoller and Murdoch to tell any crewmen manning lifeboats to remain close to the ship so as to not disturb the passengers any more than already stirred up. When this monster sinks, and it will, it will draw a shaft of tons of water in its wake that will ram it to the bottom and take anything and everything within twenty or thirty feet down with it.”
“You’re right of course. Perhaps then we will’ve won, as long as this thing has no chance of survival.”
Thomas squeezed the back of his neck. “Time for victory drinks, I should think. A lot of good spirits and bonded whiskey is going to be lost tonight.”
“Now you’re talking.” Ransom pointed the way. “We’ve done all we can, my friends.”
A small group of passengers were laughing and having a snowball fight on the well deck where pack ice had rained down from the towering iceberg. At the same time, below in the First Class Saloon, the band played a haunting melody, a love-gone-wrong song. A crooner could be heard, but they could only make out the mournful tune and not the words.
“Knowing what we know,” said Declan, “that sounds like a dirge.”
“I saw a card game going on in the First Class Smoking Room,” said Ransom. “Think I’d like to bet a fortune.” He laughed loudly, drawing attention. “Hell, perhaps I’ll put up every cent in the purser’s safe, eh-what?”
“Safe bet, eh?” joked Thomas.
Together they bid Farley and Varmint a good night, and Farley waved them off as he yawned, while Varmint made a high-pitched whine, ears straight up as if he wanted to go with Thomas and Declan, despite the company they kept.
“Do you think the authorities aboard would concern themselves with a dog in the Grand Saloon?” Alastair asked, seeing that the dog had followed them.
“Not sure, but Varmint has good taste in friends,” replied Declan bending at the knee to pet the canine.
“Well then, come along, Varmint.”
Down below in the ship, Captain Smith stood beside the saddest man on Earth other than himself—Thomas Andrews, the ship’s architect—a man who had loved
The two men stood on the companionway and stared down at the flooding in the mail room, watching mailbags floating past. Brave young clerks remained on duty, despite water over their knees, desperately fighting to salvage the two hundred bags of registered mail—some four hundred thousand individual pieces. The postal clerks had already dragged the bags up two decks as the rising water pursued them. Soon they and their precious cargo, would be floating on F-Deck.
“Come along, Mr. Andrews,” Smith said to the architect—a man half his age. “Nothing we can do here.”
“I can’t believe it, Captain… how? How could you let… how could this happen?”
“I suspect it’s time to fill you in… completely, but for now, I’m needed above to oversee what needs be done. We need to get to the Marconi Room, get the boys there to send out distress signals, determine if there are any other ships nearby… and the lifeboats—we must get the life boats launched.” He didn’t tell Andrews he would use the old method of sending out a distress call rather than the new code given them—SOS.
“My god, there’re not enough lifeboats for this… never was!”
“A fact I know only too well. We must get women and children off first.”
“Yes… yes, of course.”
By now Andrews understood that the ship was going down. But he was hardly alone in this assessment.
Declan Irvin was taking it harder by far than the others, as they lounged at the bar in the Grand Saloon. They had taken the Grand Staircase down and into the saloon dining area, nodded at Wallace Hartley and his band, found the bartender, and began partaking of spirits, even pouring Irish ale into a bowl for Varmint. This done, Declan proposed a toast with his wine glass held high. Thomas and Ransom had whiskey. They all raised glasses to the sound of Varmint lapping up his red ale.
“To the R.M.S.
