The Night Lives On (14 page)

But the falling funnel does lead to one more argument supporting the theory that the
Titanic
was breaking up at the end. There is a great deal of evidence about the first funnel—it barely missed Lightoller, Bride, and the other survivors on Collapsible B. Far less known is the evidence that the other three funnels, too, were collapsing at this harrowing moment. Jack Thayer later recalled that the second funnel “seemed to be lifted off.” Trimmer Patrick Dillon, standing on the poop as it swung slowly up, watched the fourth funnel “cant up and fall aft toward the well deck.” Mrs. Ryerson, sitting in Boat 4, felt that the first two stacks were “leaning.” At the time, the experts labeled such accounts as illusions, but when the
Titanic
was closely examined in 1986, sure enough, all four funnels were missing.

No experts were needed to evaluate what happened next. The sorriest chapter of the night was the failure of the ship’s half-empty lifeboats to heed the cries that rose from the sea. The only excuse is that sheer terror overwhelmed every other instinct.

Take the case of No. 8, one of the portside boats launched by Second Officer Lightoller. After he loaded it with all the women and children he could see, there were still about 30 empty places. The wives began begging Captain Smith, who was standing nearby, to let in some of the husbands to row. But the old Captain backed Lightoller to the hilt—the rule was “Women and children only.” So the boat was lowered and rowed away half-f, with the women still pleading for their men.

Yet after the sinking, many of these very same wives joined the great cry of protest that went up when Seaman Thomas Jones, in charge, proposed to row back and help people struggling in the water. Hardly anyone wanted to go, and finally the three men at the oars flatly refused to row. Miss Gladys Cherry, an English passenger handling the tiller, was one of the few willing to try, and she later wrote Jones a letter describing her anguish:

The dreadful regret I shall always have, and I know you share with me, is that we ought to have gone back to see whom we could pick up. But if you remember, there was only an American lady, my cousin, self, and you who wanted to return. I could not hear the discussion very clearly, as I was at the tiller, but every one forward and the three men refused. But I shall always remember your words, “Ladies, if any of us are saved, remember I wanted to go back. I would rather drown with them than leave them.”

Miss Cherry tended to see the dispute in terms of nationality, proudly pointing out that of the four who wanted to go back, three were English, but that was a little unfair. The most glaring case of the night involved Boat 1—only 12 people in space that could hold 40—and by far the dominant person in that boat was Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon, an Englishman to the core. Yet No. 1 did nothing, prompting Lord Mersey to give Sir Cosmo a mild rebuke in the final report of the British Inquiry.

As the cries in the water died away, Boat 8 resumed rowing toward a light that hovered all night on the northern horizon. It never seemed to get nearer, nor did
it ever seem to go away—a tantalizing lute, always just out of reach. Finally, about 3:30
A.M
., somebody spotted the flash of a rocket far to the southeast followed by the lights of a new ship rapidly approaching. With relief, No. 8 stopped chasing the will-o’-the-wisp to the north, swung around, and headed for this fresh and more promising beacon of hope.

T
HE ROCKETS AND LIGHTS
to the southeast signaled the entrance of a brand-new character on the stage—a man often overlooked in recent accounts of the disaster, yet one who in many ways symbolized the robust virtues of the period.

Captain Arthur H. Rostron, commanding the Cunard Liner
Carpathia
, brought to the job a driving spirit that was woefully lacking in the
Titanic
crewmen who lay on their oars, listening to the cries of the swimmers. Born in 1869, Rostron went to sea at 13, spent ten years in sail, joined Cunard, and then rose steady up the company ladder. Now, at 42, he was an experienced, respected shipmaster, known for his quick decisions and for his ability to transmit his own boundless energy into those serving under him. Not surprisingly, his Cunard shipmates nicknamed him “The Electric Spark.”

His other most notable quality was piety. Rostron did not smoke or drink, never used profanity, and frequently turned to prayer. When he did so, he would lift his uniform cap slightly, and his lips would move in silent supplication.

In January 1912 he became Captain of the 13,564-ton
Carpathia
—less than a third the size of the huge
Titanic,
but his most important command to date. On the night of April 14-15, she was three days out of New York on a Mediterranean cruise, and so far there had been little occasion for either prayers or quick decisions.

All that ended at 12:35
A.M.,
when Harold Cottam, the
Carpathia’s
wireless operator, burst into the Captain’s quarters to report that the
Titanic
had struck a berg and urgently needed help. Rostron’s reaction was completely in character. He immediately ordered the
Carpathia
turned around then asked Cottam if he was sure. Nine out of ten captains would have done it the other way around.

The
Titanic
was 58 miles to the northwest; the
Carpathia’s
maximum speed was 14 knots—meaning she could get there in four hours. That time must not be wasted. Calling his department heads to the bridge, Rostron rattled off a stream of orders. Later he wrote them up for the U.S. Senate investigation. Although prepared when he was no longer under pressure, the resulting document gives such a remarkable picture of his quick mind at work—thinking of everything—that it seems worth quoting in full:

English doctor, with assistants, to remain in first-class dining room.

Italian doctor, with assistants, to remain in second-class dining room.

Hungarian doctor, with assistants, to remain in third-class dining room.

Each doctor to have supplies of restoratives, stimulants, and everything to hand for immediate
needs of probable wounded or sick.

Purser, with assistant purser and chief steward, to receive the passengers, etc., at different gangways, controlling our own stewards in assisting
Titanic
passengers to the dining rooms, etc.; also to get Christian and surnames of all survivors as soon as possible to send by wireless.

Inspector, steerage stewards, and master at arms to control our own steerage passengers and keep them out of the third-class dining hall, and also to keep them out of the way and off the deck to prevent confusion.

Chief steward: That all hands would be called and to have coffee, etc., ready to serve out to all our crew.

Have coffee, tea, soup, etc., in each saloon, blankets in saloons, at the gangways, and some for the boats.

To see all rescued cared for and immediate wants attended to.

My cabin and all officers’ cabins to be given up. Smoke rooms, library, etc., dining rooms, would be utilized to accommodate the survivors.

All spare berths in steerage to be utilized for
Titanic’s
passengers, and get all our own steerage passengers grouped together.

Stewards to be placed in each alleyway to reassure our own passengers, should they inquire about noise in getting our boats out, etc, or the working of engines.

To all I strictly enjoined the necessity for order, discipline, and quietness and to avoid all confusion.

Chief and first officers: All the hands to be called; get coffee, etc. Prepare and swing out all boats.

All gangway doors to be opened.

Electric sprays in each gangway and over side.

A block with line rove hooked in each gangway.

A chair sling at each gangway, for getting up sick or wounded.

Boatswains’ chairs. Pilot ladders and canvas ash bags to be at each gangway, the canvas ash bags for children.

Cargo falls with both ends clear; bowlines in the ends, and bights secured along ship’s sides, for boat ropes or to help the people up.

Heaving lines distributed along the ship’s side, and gaskets handy near gangways for lashing people in chairs, etc.

Forward derricks; topped and rigged, and steam on winches; also told off officers for different stations and for certain eventualities.

Ordered company’s rockets to be fired at 2:45
A.M.
and every quarter of an hour after to reassure
Titanic.

As each official saw everything in readiness, he reported to me personally on the bridge that all my orders were carried out, enumerating the same, and that everything was in readiness.

Yet all these measures didn’t cover the biggest problem Rostron had to face—ice. If the
Titanic
had hit a berg, so could the
Carpathia.
He was going full steam into the very same region. What could be done to
minimize the risk to his own ship, to his own passengers and crew?

Reducing speed was out of the question; time was everything. So Rostron took the only course left: he greatly strengthened his lookout. He added a man to the crow’s nest; he put two men on the bow; he stationed a man on each wing of the bridge—all chosen for their keen eyesight. Since he was always on the bridge himself, there were now seven pairs of eyes searching the sea ahead.

Finally, one last measure, even more important than the lookout. As Second Officer James Bisset peered into the night from the starboard wing of the bridge, he suddenly became aware of Rostron standing nearby. In his familiar way, the Captain had raised his cap a couple of inches above his head, and his lips were moving in silent prayer.

At 2:45
A.M.
Bisset spotted the first berg—about a mile ahead—revealed by, of all things, the reflected light of a star. The
Carpathia
steered around it and raced on. In the next hour and a quarter she dodged five more bergs, all sighted first by the bridge, suggesting that the crow’s nest was not the best place to be when searching for ice at night.

At 4
A.M.
the
Carpathia
reached the
Titanic’s
position, and Rostron cut his engines. He had made his run in 3½ hours—30 minutes better than his original estimate. For some time he had been watching an occasional green light ahead that would flare up briefly, then fade into the dark again. At first he thought it might be the
Titanic
herself, but now as the
Carpathia
glided to a stop, he saw it again, close and low in the water. It was a Lifeboat.

Rostron eased the
Carpathia
toward the boat, trying to pick it up on his port side, which was to leeward; but as he turned he suddenly saw one more iceberg directly ahead and only 400 yards off. It forced him to turn back and take the boat instead on his starboard side. It was the only thing he did all night that didn’t work out exactly as he planned.

The boat was No. 2, Fourth Officer Boxhall in charge. He had brought along the green flares with the hope that they might be useful in keeping the
Titanic’s
boats together and perhaps serve as a marker for some approaching rescue ship. Now that rescue ship was here, and Boxhall was quickly escorted to the bridge, where he confirmed what Rostron, with sinking heart, already sensed—the
Titanic
had sunk.

By this time day was breaking, revealing the
Titanic’s
whole fleet of lifeboats scattered over a four-mile area. More than that, dawn also revealed a fantastic setting. Two or three miles to the west lay an enormous ice field, running generally northeast to southwest, as far as the eye could see. Here and there it was studded with individual bergs, some 200 feet high. To the east and south lay other bergs, scattered haphazardly along the course the
Carpathia
had just completed.

Even with a sharp lookout few of these bergs had been sighted, and it seemed incredible that the ship had missed them all. Years later, Rostron told his friend, Captain Barr of the Cunarder
Caronia
, “When day broke, I saw the ice I had steamed through during the night, I shuddered, and could only think that some other Hand than mine was on that helm during the night.”

Then he was “The Electric Spark” again. For the next four hours Rostron methodically picked up the
Titanic’s
boats one by one. The survivors came aboard by ladder, chair slings, canvas ash bags, and cargo falls with bowlines carefully knotted at the ends. All depended on how agile the person was.

As they came aboard, the survivors were processed in almost assembly-line fashion. First, names and class were taken by a purser stationed at each gangway…next, they were handed to the doctors for a quick medical check…then on down the line for brandy, coffee, breakfast, blankets, and a bunk. The
Carpathia’s
own First Class passengers gave up their cabins to those who seemed in the greatest need; the ship’s public rooms were turned into dormitories for the rest. Not surprisingly, Mrs. Astor, Mrs. Widener, and Mrs. Thayer—Rostron’s three most prominent guests—were assigned to his own quarters.

By 8:30
A.M.
the last boat had been gathered in. The Leyland Liner
Californian
was alongside now, and Rostron asked her to search the area for anyone he might have missed. Then he turned the
Carpathia
for New York.

But before leaving the scene, Rostron added one last characteristic touch. As the
Carpathia
passed over the grave of the
Titanic
, rescuers and rescued alike assembled in the First Class dining saloon for a brief service in memory of those who were lost and in thanksgiving for those who were saved.

By the time the
Carpathia
reached New York on the evening of April 18, the city was frantic with anxiety. It was abundantly clear that a dreadful disaster had happened—some 1,500 lives lost—but no one knew much beyond that. The rescue ship’s primitive wireless had a range of only 250 miles, and her lone operator, Harold
Cottam, was exhausted. With Harold Bride’s help, he managed to tap out a list of those saved, but not much else. Incoming queries were simply ignored, even a message from President Taft inquiring about his military aide, Archie Butt.