A Night to Remember (7 page)

“What call are you sending?” Smith asked.

“CQD,” Phillips answered noncommittally.

Bride had a bright idea. While CQD was the traditional distress call, an international convention had just agreed to use instead the letters SOS—they were easy for the rankest amateur to pick up. So Bride suggested, “Send SOS; it’s the new call, and it may be your last chance to send it.”

Phillips laughed at the joke and switched the call. The clock in the wireless shack said 12:45
A.M.
when the
Titanic
sent the first SOS call in history.

None of the ships contacted seemed as promising as the light that winked ten miles off” the
Tìtanic’s
port bow. Through his binoculars Fourth Officer Boxhall saw clearly that it was a steamer. Once, as he tried to get in touch with the Morse lamp, he felt he saw an answer. But he could make nothing of it and finally decided it must be her mast light flickering.

Stronger measures were necessary. As soon as Quartermaster Rowe reached the bridge, Captain Smith asked if he brought the rockets. Rowe produced them, and the Captain ordered, “Fire one, and fire one every five or six minutes.”

At 12:45 a blinding flash seared the night. The first rocket shot up from the starboard side of the bridge. Up … up it soared, far above the lacework of masts and rigging. Then with a distant, muffled report it burst, and a shower of bright white stars floated slowly down toward the sea. In the blue-white light Fifth Officer Lowe remembered catching a glimpse of Bruce Ismay’s startled face.

Ten miles away, Apprentice James Gibson stood on the bridge of the
Californian.
The strange ship that came up from the east had not moved for an hour, and Gibson studied her with interest. With glasses he could make out her side lights and a glare of lights on her afterdeck. At one point he thought she was trying to signal the
Californian
with her Morse lamp. He tried to answer with his own lamp, but soon gave up. He decided the stranger’s masthead light was merely flickering.

Second Officer Herbert Stone, pacing the
Californian’s
bridge, also kept his eye on this strange steamer. At 12:45 he saw a sudden flash of white light burst over her. Strange, he thought, that a ship would fire rockets at night.

S
ECOND CLASS PASSENGER
L
AWRENCE
Beesley considered himself the rankest landlubber, but even he knew what rockets meant. The
Titanic
needed help—needed it so badly she was calling on any ship near enough to see.

The others on the Boat Deck understood too. There was no more joking or lingering. In fact, there was hardly time to say good-bye.

“It’s all right, little girl,” called Dan Marvin to his new bride; “you go and I’ll stay a while.” He blew her a kiss as she entered the boat.

“I’ll see you later,” Adolf Dyker smiled as he helped Mrs. Dyker across the gunwale.

“Be brave; no matter what happens, be brave,” Dr. W. T. Minahan told Mrs. Minahan as he stepped back with the other men.

Mr. Turrell Cavendish said nothing to Mrs. Cavendish. Just a kiss … a long look …  another kiss … and he disappeared into the crowd.

Mark Fortune took his wife’s valuables, as he and his son Charles saw off Mrs. Fortune and their three daughters. “I’ll take care of them; we’re going in the next boat,” he explained. “Charles, take care of Father,” one of the girls called back to her brother.

“Walter, you must come with me,” begged Mrs. Walter D. Douglas.

“No,” Mr. Douglas replied, turning away, “I must be a gentleman.”

“Try and get off with Major Butt and Mr. Moore,” came a final bit of wifely advice. “They are big, strong fellows and will surely make it.”

Some of the wives still refused to go. Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Meyer of New York felt so self-conscious arguing about it in public that they went down to their cabin. There,  they decided to part on account of their baby.

Arthur Ryerson had to lay down the law to Mrs. Ryerson: “You must obey orders. When they say ‘Women and children to the boats,’ you
must
go when your turn comes. I’ll stay here with Jack Thayer. We’ll be all right.”

Alexander T. Compton, Jr., was just as firm when his mother announced she would stay rather than leave him behind: “Don’t be foolish, Mother. You and Sister go in the boat—I’ll look out for myself.”

Mr. and Mrs. Lucien Smith were having the same kind of argument. Seeing Captain Smith standing near with a megaphone, Mrs. Smith had an inspiration. She went up to him, explained she was all alone in the world, and asked if her husband could go along with her. The old Captain ignored her, lifted his megaphone and shouted, “Women and children first!”

At this point Mr. Smith broke in: “Never mind, Captain, about that; I’ll see she gets in the boat.” Turning to his wife, he spoke very slowly: “I never expected to ask you to obey, but this is one time you must. It is only a matter of form to have women and children first. The ship is thoroughly equipped and everyone on her will be saved.”

Mrs. Smith asked him if he was being completely truthful. Mr. Smith gave a firm, decisive, “Yes.” So they kissed good-bye, and as the boat dropped to the sea, he called from the deck, “Keep your hands in your pockets; it is very cold weather.”

Sometimes it took more than gentle deception. Mrs. Emil Taussig was clinging to her husband when No. 8 started down with her daughter. Mrs. Taussig turned and cried, “Ruth!” The brief distraction proved enough: two men tore her from Mr. Taussig and dropped her into the lowering boat.

A seaman yanked Mrs. Charlotte Collyer by the arm, another by her waist, and they dragged her from her husband Harvey. As she kicked to get free, she heard him call, “Go, Lottie! For God’s sake, be brave and go! I’ll get a seat in another boat!”

When Celiney Yasbeck saw she had to go alone, she began yelling and crying to rejoin Mr. Yasbeck, but the boat dropped to the sea while she tried in vain to get out.

No amount of persuasion or force could move Mrs. Hudson J. Allison of Montreal. A little apart from the rest, she huddled close to Mr. Allison, while their small daughter Lorraine tugged at her skirt.

Mrs. Isidor Straus also refused to go: “I’ve always stayed with my husband; so why should I leave him now?”

They had indeed come a long way together: the ashes of the Confederacy … the small china business in Philadelphia … building Macy’s into a national institution … Congress … and now the happy twilight that crowned successful life—advisory boards, charities, hobbies, travel. This winter they had been to Cap Martin, and the
Titanic
’s maiden voyage seemed a pleasant way to finish the trip.

Tonight the Strauses came on deck with the others, and at first Mrs. Straus seemed uncertain what to do. At one point she handed some small jewelry to her maid Ellen Bird, then took it back again. Later she crossed the Boat Deck and almost entered No. 8—then turned around and rejoined Mr. Straus. Now her mind was made up: “We have been living together for many years. Where you go, I go.”

Archibald Gracie, Hugh Woolner, other friends tried in vain to make her go. Then Woolner turned to Mr. Straus: “I’m sure nobody would object to an old gentleman like you getting in …”

“I will not go before the other men,” he said, and that was that. Then he and Mrs. Straus sat down together on a pair of deck chairs.

But most of the women entered the boats—wives escorted by their husbands, single ladies by the men who had volunteered to look out for them. This was the era when gentlemen formally offered their services to “unprotected ladies” at the start of an Atlantic voyage. Tonight the courtesy came in handy.

Mrs. William T. Graham, 19-year-old Margaret, and her governess Miss Shutes were helped into Boat 8 by Howard Case, London manager of Vacuum Oil, and young Washington Augustus Roebling, the steel heir who was striking out on his own as manager of the Mercer Automobile Works in Trenton, New Jersey. As No. 8 dropped to the sea, Mrs. Graham watched Case, leaning against the rail, light a cigarette and wave good-bye.

Mrs. E. D. Appleton, Mrs. R. C. Cornell, Mrs. J. Murray Brown and Miss Edith Evans, returning from a family funeral in Britain, were under Colonel Gracie’s wing, but somehow in the crowd he lost them, and it wasn’t until much later that he found them again.

Perhaps the Colonel was distracted by his simultaneous efforts to look after Mrs. Churchill Candee, his table companion in the dining saloon. Mrs. Candee was returning from Paris to see her son, who had suffered the novelty of an airplane accident, and she must have been attractive indeed. Just about everybody wanted to protect her.

When Edward A. Kent, another table companion, found her after the crash, she gave him an ivory miniature of her mother for safekeeping. Then Hugh Woolner and Bjornstrom Steffanson arrived and helped her into Boat 6. Woolner waved good-bye, assuring her that they would help her on board again when the
Titanic
“steadied herself.” A little later Gracie and Clinch Smith dashed up, also in search of Mrs. Candee, but Woolner told them, perhaps a little smugly, that she had been cared for and was safely away.

It was just as well, for the slant in the deck was steeper, and even the carefree were growing uneasy. Some who left everything in their cabins now thought better of it and ventured below to get their valuables. They were in for unpleasant surprises. Celiney Yasbeck found her room was completely under water. Gus Cohen discovered the same thing. Victorine, the Ryersons’ French maid, had an even more disturbing experience. She found her cabin still dry, but as she rummaged about, she heard a key turn and suddenly realized the steward was locking the stateroom door to prevent looting. Her shriek was just in time to keep him from locking her in. Without stretching her luck any further, she dashed back on deck empty-handed.

Time was clearly running out. Thomas Andrews walked from boat to boat, urging the women to hurry: “Ladies, you
must
get in at once. There is not a moment to lose. You cannot pick and choose your boat. Don’t hesitate. Get in, get in!”

Andrews had good reason to be exasperated. Women were never more unpredictable. One girl waiting to climb into No. 8 suddenly cried out, “I’ve forgotten Jack’s photograph and must get it.” Everybody protested, but she darted below. In a moment she reappeared with the picture and was rushed into the boat.

It was all so urgent—and yet so calm—that Second Officer Lightoller felt he was wasting time when Chief Officer Wilde asked him to help find the firearms. Quickly he led the Captain, Wilde, and First Officer Murdoch to the locker where they were kept. Wilde shoved one of the guns into Lightoller’s hand, remarking, “You may need it.” Lightoller stuck it in his pocket and hurried back to the boat.

One after another they now dropped rapidly into the sea: No. 6 at 12:55 … No. 3 at 1:00 … No. 8 at 1:10. Watching them go, First Class passenger William Carter advised Harry Widener to try for a boat. Widener shook his head: “I think I’ll stick to the big ship, Billy, and take a chance.”

Some of the crew weren’t as optimistic. When Assistant Second Steward Wheat noticed Chief Steward Latimer wearing his life belt over his greatcoat, he urged the Chief to put it under the coat—this made swimming easier.

On the bridge, as Fourth Officer Boxhall and Quartermaster Rowe fired off more rockets, Boxhall still couldn’t believe what was happening. “Captain,” he asked, “is it
really
serious?”

“Mr. Andrews tells me,” Smith answered quietly, “that he gives her from an hour to an hour and a half.”

Lightoller had a more tangible yardstick—the steep narrow emergency staircase that ran from the Boat Deck all the way down to E Deck. The water was slowly crawling up the stairs, and from time to time Lightoller walked over to the entrance and checked the number of steps it had climbed. He could see very easily, for the lights still gleamed under the pale green water.

His gauge showed time was flying. The pace grew faster—and sloppier. A pretty French girl stumbled and fell as she tried to climb into No. 9. An older woman in a black dress missed No. 10 entirely. She fell between the bow and the side of the ship. But as the crowd gasped, someone miraculously caught her ankle. Others hauled her into the Promenade Deck below, and she climbed back to the Boat Deck for another try. This time she made it.

Some of them lost their nerve. An old lady made a big fuss at No. 9, finally shook off everybody, and ran away from the boat altogether. A hysterical woman thrashed about helplessly, trying to climb into No. 11. Steward Witter stood on the rail to help her, but she lost her footing anyway, and they tumbled into the boat together. A large fat woman stood crying near No. 13: “Don’t put me in the boat. I don’t want to go into the boat! I have never been in an open boat in my life!”

Steward Ray brushed aside her protests—”You’ve got to go, and you may as well keep quiet.”

A plan to fill some of the boats from the lower gangways went completely haywire. The doors that were to be used were never opened. The boats that were to stand by rowed off. The people who were to go were left stranded. When the Caldwells and several others went all the way down to a closed gangway on C Deck, somebody who didn’t know about the plan locked the door behind them. Later some men on the deck above discovered the group and lowered a ladder for them to crawl back up.

A shortage of trained seamen made the confusion worse. Some of the best men had been used to man the early boats. Other old hands were off on special jobs—rounding up lanterns, opening the A Deck windows, helping fire the rockets. Six seamen were lost when they went down to open one of the lower gangways; they never came back … probably trapped far below. Now Lightoller was rationing the hands he had left—only two crewmen to a lifeboat.

No. 6 was halfway down when a woman called up to the Boat Deck, “We’ve only one seaman in the boat!”

“Any seamen there?” Lightoller asked the people on deck.

“If you like, I will go,” called a voice from the crowd.