A Night to Remember (3 page)

John Jacob Astor seemed equally unperturbed. Returning to his suite after going up to investigate, he explained to Mrs. Astor that the ship had struck ice, but it didn’t look serious. He was very calm and Mrs. Astor wasn’t a bit alarmed.

“What do they say is the trouble?” asked William T. Stead, a leading British spiritualist, reformer, evangelist and editor, all rolled into one. A professional individualist, he seemed almost to have planned his arrival on deck later than the others.

“Icebergs,” briefly explained Frank Millet, the distinguished American painter.

“Well,” Stead shrugged, “I guess it’s nothing serious; I’m going back to my cabin to read.”

Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson Bishop of Dowagiac, Michigan, had the same reaction. When a deck steward assured them, “We have only struck a little piece of ice and passed it,” the Bishops returned to their stateroom and undressed again. Mr. Bishop picked up a book and started to read, but soon he was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Mr. Albert A. Stewart, an ebullient old gentleman who had a large interest in the Barnum & Bailey Circus: “Come on out and amuse yourself!”

Others had the same idea. First Class passenger Peter Daly heard one young lady tell another, “Oh, come and let’s see the berg—we have never seen one before!”

And in the Second Class smoking room somebody facetiously asked whether he could get some ice from the berg for his highball.

He could indeed. When the
Titanic
brushed by, several tons of ice crumbled off the berg and landed on the starboard well deck just opposite the foremast. This was Third Class recreation space, and the ice was soon discovered by steerage passengers coming up to investigate. From her cabin window on B Deck, Mrs. Natalie Wick watched them playfully throwing chunks at each other.

The ice soon became quite a tourist attraction. Major Arthur Godfrey Peuchen, a middle-aged manufacturing chemist from Toronto, used the opportunity to descend on a more distinguished compatriot, Charles M. Hays, President of the Grand Trunk Railroad. “Mr. Hays!” he cried. “Have you seen the ice?”

When Mr. Hays said he hadn’t, Peuchen followed through—“If you care to see it, I will take you up on deck and show it to you.” And so they went all the way forward on A Deck and looked down at the mild horseplay below.

Possession of the ice didn’t remain a Third Class monopoly for long. As Colonel Gracie stood in the A Deck foyer, he was tapped on the shoulder by Clinch Smith, a New York society figure whose experiences already included sitting at Stanford White’s table the night White was shot by Harry K. Thaw. “Would you like,” asked Smith, “a souvenir to take back to New York?” And he opened his hand to show a small piece of ice, flat like a pocket watch.

The same collector’s instinct gripped others. Able Seaman John Poingdestre picked up a sliver and showed it around the crew’s mess room. A steerage passenger presented Fourth Officer Boxhall with a chunk about the size of a small basin. As Greaser Walter Hurst lay half-awake, his father-in-law—who shared the same quarters—came in and tossed a lump of ice into Hurst’s bunk. A man entered the stewards’ quarters, displaying a piece about as big as a teacup, and told Steward F. Dent Ray, “There are tons of ice forward!”

“Ah, well,” Ray yawned, “that will not hurt.” And he prepared to go back to sleep.

A little more curious, First Class Steward Henry Samuel Etches—off duty at the time of the crash—walked forward along the alleyway on E Deck to investigate, and ran into a Third Class passenger walking the other way. Before Etches could say anything, the passenger—as though confronting Etches with irrefutable evidence about something in dispute—threw a block of ice to the deck and shouted, “Will you believe it
now
?”

Soon there was far more disturbing evidence that all was not as it should be. By 11:50—ten minutes after the collision—strange things could be seen and heard in the first six of the
Titanic
’s 16 watertight compartments.

Lamp Trimmer Samuel Hemming, lying off duty in his bunk, heard a curious hissing sound coming from the forepeak, the compartment closest to the bow. He jumped up, went as far forward as he could, and discovered that it was air escaping from the forepeak locker where the anchor chains were stowed. Far below, water was pouring in so fast that the air rushed out under tremendous pressure.

In the next compartment aft, containing the firemen’s quarters and cargo hatch No. 1, Leading Fireman Charles Hendrickson was also aroused by a curious sound. But here it was not air—it was water. When he looked down the spiral staircase that led to the passageway connecting the firemen’s quarters with the stokeholds, he saw green seawater swirling around the foot of the grated, cast-iron steps.

Steerage passenger Carl Johnson had an even more disturbing experience in the third compartment aft. This contained the cheapest passenger accommodations—lowest in the ship and closest to the bow. As Johnson got up to see what was causing a mild commotion outside his cabin, water seeped in under the door and around his feet. He decided to dress, and by the time his clothes were on, the water was over his shoes. With a detached, almost clinical interest, he noticed that it seemed to be of very even depth all over the floor. Nearby, steerage passenger Daniel Buckley was a little slower to react, and when he finally jumped out of his bunk, he splashed into water up to his ankles.

Five postal clerks working in the fourth compartment were much wetter. The
Titanic
’s post office took up two deck levels—the mail was stacked, along with First Class luggage, on the Orlop Deck and was sorted just above on G Deck. The two levels were connected by a wide iron companionway, which continued up to F Deck and the rest of the ship. Within five minutes water was sloshing around the knees of the postal clerks, as they dragged 200 sacks of registered mail up the companionway to the drier sorting room.

They might have spared themselves the trouble—in another five minutes the water reached the top of the steps and was lapping onto G Deck. The clerks now abandoned the mail room altogether, retreating further up the companionway to F Deck.

At the top of the stairs they found a married couple peering down at them. Mr. and Mrs. Norman Campbell Chambers of New York had been attracted by the noise, while returning to their cabin after a fruitless trip to the Promenade Deck. Now, the Chamberses and the postal clerks watched the scene together, joking about the soaked baggage and wondering what might be in the letters they could see floating around the abandoned mail room.

Others joined them briefly from time to time—Fourth Officer Boxhall … Assistant Second Steward Wheat … once even Captain Smith. But at no point could the Chamberses bring themselves to believe that anything they saw was really dangerous.

The fifth watertight compartment from the bow contained boiler room No. 6. This was where Fireman Barrett and Assistant Second Engineer Hesketh jumped through the watertight door just as it slammed down after the collision. Others didn’t make it and scrambled up the escape ladders that laced their way topside. A few hung on, and after a moment some of the others came down again.

Shouts of “Shut the dampers!” and then “Draw the fires!” came from somewhere. Fireman George Beauchamp worked at fever pitch as the sea flooded in from the bunker door and up through the floor plates. In five minutes it was waist deep—black and slick with grease from the machinery. The air was heavy with steam. Fireman Beauchamp never did see who shouted the welcome words, “That will do!” He was too relieved to care as he scurried up the ladder for the last time.

Just to the stern, Assistant Second Engineer Hesketh, now on the dry side of the watertight door, struggled to get boiler room No. 5 back to normal. The sea still spouted through a two-foot gash near the closed door, but Assistant Engineers Harvey and Wilson had a pump going, and it was keeping ahead of the water.

For a few moments the stokers stood by, aimlessly watching the engineers rig the pumps; then the engine room phoned to send them to the Boat Deck. They trooped up the escape ladder, but the bridge ordered them down again, and for a while they milled around the working alleyway on E Deck—halfway up, halfway down—caught in the bureaucracy of a huge ship and wondering what to do next.

Meanwhile the lights went out in boiler room No. 5. Engineer Harvey ordered Fireman Barrett, who had stayed behind, to go aft to the engine room for lanterns. The connecting doors were all shut; so Barrett had to climb to the top of the escape ladder, cross over, and go down the other side. By the time he retraced his steps, the engineers had the lights on again and the lanterns weren’t needed.

Next, Harvey told Barrett to shut down the boilers—the pressure, built up while the ship was at full steam, now lifted the safety valves and was blowing joints. Barrett scrambled back up the ladder and drafted 15 or 20 of the stokers wandering around E Deck. They all clattered down and began wetting the fires. It was backbreaking work, boxing up the boilers and putting on dampers to stop the steam from rising. Fireman Kemish still remembers it with feeling: “We certainly had one hell of a time putting those fires out …”

Clouds of steam gushed through the boiler room as the men sweated away. But gradually order returned. The lights burned bright, the place was clear of water, and, in No. 5 at any rate, everything seemed under control. There was an air of cheerful confidence by the time word spread that the men on the 12-to-4 watch were dragging their beds to the recreation deck because their rooms were flooded. The men on the 8-to-12 watch paused in their work, thought this was a huge joke, and had a good laugh.

Up on the bridge, Captain Smith tried to piece the picture together. No one was better equipped to do it. After 38 years’ service with White Star, he was more than just senior captain of the line; he was a bearded patriarch, worshiped by crew and passengers alike. They loved everything about him—especially his wonderful combination of firmness and urbanity. It was strikingly evident in the matter of cigars. “Cigars,” says his daughter, “were his pleasure. And one was allowed to be in the room only if one was absolutely still, so that the blue cloud over his head never moved.”

Captain Smith was a natural leader, and on reaching the wheelhouse after the crash, he paused only long enough to visit the starboard wing of the bridge to see if the iceberg was still in sight. First Officer Murdoch and Fourth Officer Boxhall trailed along, and for a moment the three officers merely stood peering into the darkness. Boxhall thought he saw a dark shape far astern, but he wasn’t sure.

From then on all was business. Captain Smith sent Boxhall on a fast inspection of the ship. In a few minutes he was back: he had been as far forward in the steerage as he could go, and there was no sign of damage. This was the last good news Captain Smith heard that night.

Still worried, Smith now told Boxhall, “Go down and find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship.” Boxhall wasn’t even down the bridge ladder when he bumped into Carpenter J. Hutchinson rushing up. As Hutchinson elbowed his way by, he gasped, “She’s making water fast!”

Hard on the carpenter’s heels came mail clerk Iago Smith. He too pushed on toward the bridge, blurting as he passed, “The mail hold is filling rapidly!”

Next to arrive was Bruce Ismay. He had pulled a suit over his pajamas, put on his carpet slippers, and climbed to the bridge to find whether anything was happening that the President of the line should know. Captain Smith broke the news about the iceberg. Ismay then asked, “Do you think the ship is seriously damaged?” A pause, and the Captain slowly answered, “I’m afraid she is.”

They would know soon enough. A call had been sent for Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland & Wolff Shipyard. As the
Titanic
’s builder, Andrews was making the maiden voyage to iron out any kinks in the ship. If anybody could figure out the situation, here was the man.

He was indeed a remarkable figure. As builder, he of course knew every detail about the
Titanic.
But there was so much more to him than that. Nothing was too great or too small for his attention. He even seemed able to anticipate how the ship would react to any situation. He understood ships the way some men are supposed to understand horses.

And he understood equally well the people who run ships. They all came to Andrews with their problems. One night it might be First Officer Murdoch, worried because he had been superseded by Chief Officer Wilde. The next night it might be a couple of quarreling stewardesses who looked to Andrews as a sort of Supreme Court. This very evening Chief Baker Charles Joughin made him a special loaf of bread.

So far, Andrews’ trip had been what might be expected. All day long he roamed the ship, taking volumes of notes. At 6:45 every evening he dressed for dinner, dining usually with old Dr. O’Loughlin, the ship’s surgeon, who also had a way with the stewardesses. And then back to his stateroom A-36, piled high with plans and charts and blueprints. There he would assemble his notes and work out his recommendations.

Tonight the problems were typical—trouble with the restaurant galley hot press … the coloring of the pebble dashing on the private promenade decks was too dark … too many screws on all the stateroom hat hooks. There was also the plan to change part of the writing room into two more staterooms. The writing room had originally been planned partly as a place where the ladies could retire after dinner. But this was the twentieth century, and the ladies just wouldn’t retire. Clearly, a smaller room would do.

Completely absorbed, Andrews scarcely noticed the jar and stirred from his blueprints only when he got Captain Smith’s message that he was needed on the bridge.

In a few minutes Andrews and the Captain were making their own tour—down the crew’s stairway to attract less attention … along the labyrinth of corridors far below … by the water surging into the mail room … past the squash court, where the sea now lapped against the foul line on the backboard.

Threading their way back to the bridge, they passed through the A Deck foyer, still thronged with passengers standing around. Everybody studied the two men’s faces for some sign of good news or bad; nobody could detect any clue.