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Captain Smith half ran to the door of the radio shack. Bride, partly dressed, eyes dulled with sleep, was standing behind Phillips, waiting.
“Send the call for assistance.”
The blue spark danced: “CQD—CQD—CQD—CQ——”
Miles away Marconi men heard. Cape Race heard it, and the steamships La Provence and Mt. Temple.
The sea was surging into the Titanic’s hold. At 12:20 the water burst into the seamen’s quarters through a collapsed fore-and-aft wooden bulkhead. Pumps strained in the engine rooms—men and machinery making a futile fight against the sea. Steadily the water rose.
The boats were swung out—slowly, for the deckhands were late in reaching their stations; there had been no boat drill, and many of the crew did not know to what boats they were assigned. Orders were shouted; the safety valves had lifted, and steam was blowing off in a great rushing roar. In the chart house Fourth Officer Boxhall bent above a chart, working rapidly with pencil and dividers.
14
12:25 A.M. Boxhall’s position is sent out to a fleet of vessels: “Come at once; we have struck a berg.”
To the Cunarder Carpathia (Arthur Henry Rostron, Master, New York to Liverpool, fifty-eight miles away): “It’s a CQD, old man. Position 41–46N.; 50–14 W.”
The blue spark dancing: “Sinking; cannot hear for noise of steam.”
12:30 A.M. The word is passed: “Women and children in the boats.” Stewards finish waking their passengers below; life preservers are tied on; some men smile at the precaution. “The Titanic is unsinkable.” The Mt. Temple starts for the Titanic; the Carpathia, with a double watch in her stokeholds, radios, “Coming hard.” The CQD changes the course of many ships—but not of one; the operator of the Californian, nearby, has just put down his earphones and turned in.
The CQD flashes over land and sea from Cape Race to New York; newspaper city rooms leap to life and presses whir.
15
On the Titanic, water creeps over the bulkhead between Nos. 5 and 6 firerooms. She is going down by the head; the engineers—fighting a losing battle—are forced back foot by foot by the rising water. Down the promenade deck, Happy Jock Hume, the bandsman, runs with his instrument.
12:45 A.M. Murdoch, in charge on the starboard side, eyes tragic, but calm and cool, orders boat No. 7 lowered. The women hang back; they want no boat ride on an ice-strewn sea; the Titanic is unsinkable. The men encourage them, explain that this is just a precautionary measure: “We’ll see you again at breakfast.” There is little confusion; passengers stream slowly to the boat deck. In the steerage the immigrants chatter excitedly.
A sudden sharp hiss—a streaked flare against the night; Boxhall sends a rocket toward the sky. It explodes, and a parachute of white stars lights up the icy sea. “God! Rockets!” The band plays ragtime.
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No. 8 is lowered, and No. 5. Ismay, still in dressing gown, calls for women and children, handles lines, stumbles in the way of an officer, is told to “get the hell out of here.” Third Officer Pitman takes charge of No. 5; as he swings into the boat, Murdoch grasps his hand. “Goodbye and good luck, old man.”
No. 6 goes over the side. There are only twenty-eight people in a lifeboat with a capacity of sixty-five.
A light stabs from the bridge; Boxhall is calling in Morse flashes, again and again, to a strange ship stopped in the ice jam five to ten miles away. Another rocket drops its shower of sparks above the ice-strewn sea and the dying ship.
1:00 A.M. Slowly the water creeps higher; the fore ports of the Titanic are dipping into the sea. Rope squeaks through blocks; lifeboats drop jerkily seaward. Through the shouting on the decks comes the sound of the band playing ragtime.
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The “Millionaires’ Special” leaves the ship—boat No. 1, with a capacity of forty people, carries only Sir Cosmo and Lady Duff Gordon and ten others. Aft, the frightened immigrants mill and jostle and rush for a boat. An officer’s fist flies out; three shots are fired in the air, and the panic is quelled . . . . Four Chinese sneak unseen into a boat and hide in the bottom.
1:20 A.M. Water is coming into No. 4 boiler room. Stokers slice and shovel as water laps about their ankles—steam for the dynamos, steam for the dancing spark! As the water rises, great ash hoes rake the flaming coals from the furnaces. Safety valves pop; the stokers retreat aft, and the watertight doors clang shut behind them.
The rockets fling their splendor toward the stars. The boats are more heavily loaded now, for the passengers know the Titanic is sinking. Women cling and sob. The great screws aft are rising clear of the sea. Half-filled boats are ordered to come alongside the cargo ports and take on more passengers, but the ports are never opened—and the boats are never filled. Others pull for the steamer’s light miles away but never reach it; the lights disappear; the unknown ship steams off.
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The water rises and the band plays ragtime.
1:30 A.M. Lightoller is getting the port boats off; Murdoch, the starboard. As one boat is lowered into the sea, a boat officer fires his gun along the ship’s side to stop a rush from the lower decks. A woman tries to take her Great Dane into a boat with her; she is refused and steps out of the boat to die with her dog. Millet’s “little smile which played on his lips all through the voyage” plays no more; his lips are grim, but he waves goodbye and brings wraps for the women.
Benjamin Guggenheim, in evening clothes, smiles and says, “We’ve dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.”
1:40 A.M. Boat 14 is clear, and then 13, 16, 15, and C. The lights still shine, but the Baltic hears the blue spark say, “Engine room getting flooded.”
The Olympia signals, “Am lighting up all possible boilers as fast as can.”