The Other Side of the Night (5 page)

The truth was, as with so many subjects of the journalism of that day, a good deal more mundane. Despite the increasing numbers of central and southern Europeans emigrating to America, the majority of those leaving the Old World for the New were still Anglo-Saxon. Many were Germans, whose Fatherland was undergoing a bewilderingly rapid transformation from an agrarian society to an industrial juggernaut, with all the attendant social dislocations. Many others were Britons, often skilled or semi-skilled workers, sometimes craftsmen, occasionally members of the professions, forced by lack of work in England or Scotland to seek employment in America, as Great Britain began edging toward her slow industrial and economical decline. To these people a ship was transportation, its sole purpose to take them from Liverpool (or Southampton or Cherbourg or Queenstown) to Halifax, Boston, or New York. Passengers like these were not influenced by such luxuries as Grand Staircases, electric elevators, or swimming baths, the baubles dangled before potential First Class passengers to attract their patronage. Their interests lay in clean quarters and decent food. In this respect the Cunard Line served them admirably.

Third Class berthing on a ship like the
Carpathia
was spread out along the lower three decks of the ship, the superstructure being the exclusive preserve of Second Class. The quarters would be divided into sections for single men, single women, married couples, and families. There was a near-Puritanical streak at work in the layout of these sections, peculiar to the morals and morality of the day, which made sure single men and women wouldn’t have cabins anywhere near each other. Single men were usually berthed forward, single women aft, with married couples and families distributed between the two areas. The cabins themselves were spacious, spotless, and if a bit austere, were by all reports comfortable enough. The unmarried men or women would share a room with three to five other passengers of the same sex, while married couples and families had rooms to themselves.

The Third Class galley provided a fare that, while not spectacular, offered good food and plenty of it; in some cases, especially with those from the more impoverished Balkan countries or Irish counties, the steerage passengers ate better aboard ship than they ever had at home. All in all, they received a good deal more than most expected when they paid for their passage, especially when fares could be as low as £7 for a Third Class berth: a clean bed, fresh linens, and soap each morning, and three meals a day.

Her completion delayed by a strike at Swan & Hunter, the
Carpathia
finally passed her sea trials in April 1903, and left Liverpool on her maiden voyage on May 5, stopping first at Queenstown on her way to New York. Cunard created a schedule for the
Carpathia
which put her on the run between either Liverpool and New York, or Liverpool and Boston, during the summer months, while between November and May, she carried immigrants (mainly Italian and Hungarian) from Trieste and Fiume in the Adriatic to America. Though this schedule had been designed first and foremost to serve the immigrant trade, which was Cunard’s bread-and-butter in these years, it wasn’t long before the Mediterranean crossings began to enjoy a vogue among wealthy Americans on holiday. Soon Gibraltar, Genoa, and Naples (and sometimes Messina and Palermo) were added to the itinerary as ports of call.

Inevitably, in an effort to capitalize on this new found popularity for the Mediterranean, Cunard sent the
Carpathia
back to Swan & Hunter in 1905, there to be refitted with entirely new accommodations. Cabins and public rooms for 100 First Class passengers were provided. Second Class accommodation remained at 200, while by converting some of the cargo space and making a minor reduction in cabin sizes, Third Class berthing was increased to 2,250 passengers. While she could still work her passage by carrying cargo, the
Carpathia
was now very much a passenger liner, and in a low-key way, one of Cunard’s most popular.

While there would always be that segment of the traveling public which clamored for the thrill–-and sometimes discomfort–-of a six-day passage on Cunard’s new Blue Ribband speedsters,
Lusitania
and
Mauretania
, there were just as many who enjoyed the leisurely pace of a ten day crossing to Liverpool or fourteen days to Trieste aboard the
Carpathia
. By 1909 she had been placed on the Mediterranean run permanently, only returning to Liverpool at the end of each year for a refit. In January 1912, the
Carpathia
was given a new captain, the man with whom her name would forever be linked, even long after he had gone on to far greater and more glamorous commands.

Arthur Henry Rostron was born in Astley Bridge, near Bolton, Lancashire, to James and Nancy Rostron in 1869. Educated at the Bolton School from 1882 to 1883, and then at the Astley Bridge High School, the young Rostron decided that he wanted to pursue a career at sea, and so joined the cadet school HMS
Conway
, in Liverpool, at the age of thirteen. After two years of training there, he was apprenticed to a Liverpool shipping firm bearing the imposing name of the Waverley Line of Messrs. Williamson, Milligan, and Co. Sailing first on an iron-hulled clipper ship,
Cedric the Saxon
, Rostron spent the next six years at sea, sailing to all parts of the world including the Americas, India, and Australia, gaining invaluable experience in practical seamanship while he studied for his various Mates’ examinations. By 1887 he was serving as Second Mate aboard the barque
Red Gauntlet
. Rostron would later remember that while he was aboard her he had his closest brush with death at sea, when the
Red Gauntlet
toppled over on her beam ends (literally lying on her side) during a storm off the south coast of New Zealand; the ship managed to recover and Rostron lived.

In December 1894, at the relatively young age of twenty-five, he reached a major milestone in his professional career when he passed the examination for his Extra Master’s certificate. He promptly joined the Cunard Line in January 1895 and was given a position as fourth officer on the ocean liner RMS
Umbria
. Possession of both a Master’s and an Extra Master’s certificate was crucial to the ambitions of any young man aspiring to the command of a ship in the British Merchant Marine. These certificates were first issued by the Board of Trade in 1845, and were made compulsory for all captains and watch-standing officers after 1850.

A Master’s certificate—“ticket” was the popular parlance—meant that the holder was fully qualified to stand watches and make decisions about the speed, safety, and navigation of a ship without having to consult with and obtain the approval of a senior officer. Earning a Master’s ticket not only required several years of experience at sea, it also meant sitting for a grueling Board of Trade examination in which the applicant would be tested on his knowledge of shiphandling, lading, navigation, and safety at sea. An applicant had to be 21 years of age to be eligible to sit for the examination, and if he passed, his ticket would be endorsed for either sail or steam.

The written examination was daunting. The candidate would be expected to determine latitude by the altitude of the Polar star at any time; determine latitude by the meridian altitude of the moon; find the magnetic bearing of any fixed object when at sea or at anchor; to construct deviation curves; explain the effect of a ship’s iron or steel hull on the compasses, as well as correct for it; show a practical knowledge of the use of charts in navigation, including course corrections required by currents; and how to use and correct depth soundings. If the candidate was sitting for a sailing master’s examination, he would be required to demonstrate his knowledge of making and taking in sail, whether in moderate and stormy weather. All applicants would have to show that they were familiar with the rules of the road at sea for both steamers and sailing vessels, including their regulation lights and fog and sound signals; and be able to describe the signals of distress, the signals to be made by ships wanting a pilot, and the liabilities and penalties incurred by the misuse of these signals. In particular he would have to show that he understood the use of rockets if his ship was in distress.

An oral examination would follow, where the candidate would be expected to show that he had a thorough and practical knowledge of an incredible range of subjects, beginning with the law as it applied to hiring, discharging, and managing a crew; the law regarding load-line marks, as well as how to complete the appropriate reports in respect to lading; and the entries to be made in the ship’s official log. Other questions would cover how to prevent and check an outbreak of scurvy on board ship; invoices, bills of lading, dealing with Lloyd’s of London agents; the prevailing winds and currents of any part of the globe, as well as the trade routes and tides. Finally, he would have to be prepared to answer any other relevant questions which the Examiner might ask.

While all of this may seem a bit tedious, or even mundane, nothing could better demonstrate the bewildering range of responsibilities which a ship’s master faced on each and every sailing. The examination for an Extra Master’s ticket was even more demanding, as it would cover both steamships
and
sailing vessels, regardless of what the applicant’s previous experience might be. But possession of an Extra Master’s certificate literally was a “ticket” for an ambitious merchant marine officer, for it was an unchallengeable endorsement of competence, and as such allowed its holder to grasp the rungs of the ladder of promotion which could lead to one day being given command of one of the most famous vessels in the world.

In the years after Rostron joined Cunard, he rose steadily, if unspectacularly, up the company ladder. This was not a reflection on Rostron’s abilities, for Cunard captains were expected to be conscientious and circumspect—but never spectacular. It was with as much truth as wit that Mark Twain had once summed up Cunard’s attitude when he observed, “The Cunard people would not take Noah as first mate until they had worked him through the lower grades and tried him for ten years or such matter…. It takes them about ten or fifteen years to manufacture a captain; but when they have him manufactured to suit at last they have full confidence in him. The only order they give a captain is this, brief and to the point: ‘Your ship is loaded, take her; speed is nothing; follow your own road, deliver her safe, bring her back safe—safety is all that is required.” Arthur Rostron’s career demonstrated the truth of Twain’s remarks; in fact, it would eventually demonstrate the wisdom of Cunard’s methods.

He served on various vessels, including
Campania
,
Etruria
,
Ivernia
,
Pannonia
,
Saxonia
,
Servia
, and
Ultonia,
the only break in his service coming in 1905 when, as an officer of the Royal Naval Reserve, Rostron was obliged to temporarily serve in the British Navy during the Russo-Japanese War. He worked his way up the ranks until September 1907, when he was named as First Officer of the shiny new
Lusitania
, then the largest and, it was hoped, fastest ship yet to be built. He held this post all through her sea-trials, which were the most extensive ever conducted for a passenger liner up to that time. It was with some surprise then that he received the news, the day before the
Lusitania
departed Liverpool on her maiden voyage, that he was being taken off her bridge; but the surprise was a pleasant one, for Rostron was informed that he was being given his first command, the cargo ship
Brescia
. Then in quick succession, he commanded the
Ivernia
,
Pavonia
,
Pannonia,
and
Saxonia.

There is a temptation among some maritime historians to anticipate events and overplay the regard in which Arthur Rostron was held within Cunard before April 1912. What is unquestionable, however, is that he was a conscientious officer who was respected by his peers and crews alike. He was known throughout the company as “the Electric Spark” for his decisiveness and boundless, infectious energy. He was also noted for his piety; he neither smoked nor drank, was never heard to use profanity, and in a day and age when recourse to the Almighty was not regarded as quaint or a sign of weak-mindedness, was known to turn to prayer for guidance.

He took command of the
Carpathia
on January 18, 1912, and took her to New York for the first time a week later. For the next four months the
Carpathia
plied her regular service between New York and Fiume. While on her westbound crossings the
Carpathia
would usually be heavy with immigrants in Third Class but relatively few passengers in First or Second Class, while on her eastbound passages she was usually carrying Americans on holiday, calling at the ports of Europe or visiting the Mediterranean, so that much of Third Class would be sitting empty. Consequently it was hardly surprising when, on April 11, 1912, the
Carpathia
pulled away from Cunard’s Pier 54, into the Hudson River and out of New York harbor with 125 First Class passengers aboard, 65 in Second Class, and 550 Third Class passengers rattling about in a space designed for four times that number.

Captain Rostron was once heard to comment that all Cunard ships had three sides—port, starboard, and social, and that the captain must be the master of all of them. The years of the Edwardian Era were when ships’ captains came to the fore: while their social standing had been rising for decades, they were now approaching the pinnacle of their power and fame. A popular captain who gained a reputation for being a good host, an entertaining storyteller, and a discerning social arbiter quickly attracted a loyal coterie of passengers, almost invariably wealthy and socially prominent, who would follow him from ship to ship, or if he preferred to stay with one vessel, as did many Cunard captains, they would travel exclusively on that ship. Both for the money they spent and the attention they attracted, these recurring entourages were worth their weight in gold to Cunard.