A Night to Remember

4. ‘You Go and I’ll Stay a While’

Second-class passenger Lawrence 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.’

On the fringe of the crowd stood a young Spanish honeymoon couple. Señor Victor de Satode Penasco was just eighteen years old and his bride only seventeen. Neither could understand English. As they watched in bewilderment, the Countess of Rothes spied them and hurried over. A few hurried words in French… then Señor Penasco delivered his bride to the countess’s care and stepped back into the shadows.

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. Their baby Trevor had gone in a boat with the nurse, but Lorraine, their three-year-old daughter, still tugged at her mother’s 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 had 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 jewellery 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. Mrs Straus tightened her grasp on his arm, patted it, smiled up at him, and smiled at the group hovering around them. Then they 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 after 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, nineteen-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 aeroplane 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 lifebelt 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 boat 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.

‘Are you a seaman?’

‘I am a yachtsman.’

‘If you’re sailor enough to get out on that fall, you can go down.’ Major Arthur Godfrey Peuchen—Vice-Commodore of the Royal Canadian Yacht Club—swung himself out on the forward fall and slid down into the boat. He was the only male passenger Lightoller allowed in a boat that night.

Men had it luckier on the starboard side. Murdoch continued to allow them in if there was room. The French aviator Pierre Maréchal and sculptor Paul Chevré climbed into No. 7. A couple of Gimbels buyers reached No. 5. When the time came to lower No. 3, Henry Sleeper Harper not only joined his wife, but he brought along his Pekingese Sun Yat-Sen and an Egyptian dragoman named Hamad Hassah, whom he had picked up in Cairo as a sort of joke.

On the same side, Dr Washington Dodge was standing uncertainly in the shadow of No. 13, when dining-room steward Ray noticed him. Ray asked whether the doctor’s wife and son were off, and Dodge said yes. Ray was relieved, because he took a personal interest in them. He had served the Dodges coming over on the Olympic. In fact, he was why the Dodges were on board… It was no time for philosophy—Ray called out, ‘You had better get in here,’ and he pushed the doctor into the boat.

The scene was almost punctilious at No. 1. Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon, his wife and her secretary Miss Francatelli—whom Lady Duff Gordon liked to call Miss Franks—asked Murdoch if they could enter.

‘Oh, certainly do; I’ll be very pleased,’ Murdoch replied, according to Sir Cosmo. (On the other hand, lookout George Symons, standing near, thought Murdoch merely said, ‘Yes, jump in.’) Then two Americans, Abraham Solomon and C. E. H. Stengel, came up and were invited in too. Stengel had trouble climbing over the rail; finally got on top of it and rolled into the boat. Murdoch, an agile terrier of a man, laughed pleasantly, ‘That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen tonight.’

Nobody else seemed to be around—all the nearby boats were gone and the crowd had moved aft. When the five passengers were safely loaded, Murdoch added six stokers, put lookout Symons in charge and told him, ‘Stand off from the ship’s side and return when we call you.’ Then he waved to the men at the davits, and they lowered No. 1—capacity forty persons—with exactly twelve people.

As the boat creaked down, greaser Walter Hurst watched it from the forward well deck. He remembers observing somewhat caustically, ‘If they are sending the boats away, they might just as well put some people in them.’

Down in third class there were those who didn’t even have the opportunity to miss going in No. 1. A swarm of men and women milled around the foot of the main steerage staircase, all the way aft on E deck. They had been there ever since the stewards got them up. At first there were just women and married couples; but then the men arrived from forward, pouring back along ‘Scotland Road’ with their luggage. Now they were all jammed together—noisy and restless, looking more like inmates than passengers amid the low ceilings, the naked light bulbs, the scrubbed simplicity of the plain white walls.

Third-class steward John Edward Hart struggled to get them into life jackets. He didn’t have much luck—partly because he was also assuring them there was no danger, partly because many of them didn’t understand English anyhow. Interpreter Muller did the best he could with the scores of Finns and Swedes, but it was slow going.

At 12.30 orders came down to send the women and children up to the boat deck. It was hopeless to expect them to find their way alone through the maze of passages normally sealed off from third class; so Hart decided to escort them up in little groups. This took time too, but at last a convoy was organized and started off.

It was a long trip—up the broad stairs to the third-class lounge on C deck… across the open well deck… by the second-class library and into first-class quarters. Then down the long corridor by the surgeon’s office, the private saloon for the maids and valets of first-class passengers, finally up the grand stairway to the boat deck.

Hart led his group to boat No. 8, but even then the job wasn’t over. As fast as he got them in, they would jump out and go inside where it was warm.

It was after one o’clock when Hart got back to E deck to organize another trip. It was no easier. Many women still refused to go. On the other hand, some of the men now insisted on going. But that was out of the question, according to the orders he had.

Finally he was off again on the same long trek. It was 1.20 by the time he reached the boat deck and led the group to No. 15. No time to go back for more. Murdoch ordered him into the boat and off he went with his second batch at about 1.30.

There was no hard-and-fast policy. One way or another, many of the steerage passengers avoided the cul-de-sac on E deck and got topside. There they stood waiting, nobody to guide or help them. A few of the barriers that marked off their quarters were down. Those who came across these openings wandered into other parts of the ship. Some eventually found their way to the boat deck.

But most of the barriers were not down, and the steerage passengers who sensed danger and aimed for the boats were strictly on their own resources.

Like a stream of ants, a thin line of them curled their way up a crane in the after well deck, crawled along the boom to the first-class quarters, then over the railing and on up to the boat deck.

Some slipped under a rope that had been stretched across the after well deck, penning them even further to the stern than the regular barrier. But once through, it was fairly easy to get to the second-class stairway and on up to the boats.

Others somehow reached the second-class promenade space on B deck, then couldn’t find their way any further. In desperation they turned to an emergency ladder meant for the crew’s use. This ladder was near the brightly lit windows of the first-class à la carte restaurant, and as Anna Sjoblom prepared to climb up with another girl, they looked in. They marvelled at the tables beautifully set with silver and china for the following day. The other girl had an impulse to kick the window out and go inside, but Anna persuaded her that the company might make them pay for the damage.

Many of the steerage men climbed another emergency ladder from the forward well deck, and then up the regular first-class companionway to the boats.

Others beat on the barriers, demanding to be let through. As third-class passenger Daniel Buckley climbed some steps leading to a gate to first class, the man ahead of him was chucked down by a seaman standing guard. Furious, the passenger jumped to his feet and raced up the steps again. The seaman took one look, locked the gate and fled. The passenger smashed the lock and dashed through, howling what he would do if he caught the sailor. With the gate down, Buckley and dozens of others swarmed into first class. At another barrier a seaman held back Kathy Gilnagh, Kate Mullins and Kate Murphy. (On the Titanic all Irish girls seemed to be named Katherine.) Suddenly steerage passenger Jim Farrell, a strapping Irishman from the girls’ home country, barged up. ‘Great God, man!’ he roared. ‘Open the gate and let the girls through!’ It was a superb demonstration of sheer voice-power. To the girls’ astonishment the sailor meekly complied.

Even then, Kathy Gilnagh’s troubles weren’t over. She took a wrong turn… lost her friends… found herself alone on the second-class promenade, with no idea how to reach the boats. The deck was deserted, except for a single man leaning against the rail, staring moodily into the night. He let her stand on his shoulders, and she managed to climb to the next deck up. When she finally reached the boat deck, No. 16 was just starting down. A man warned her off—there was no more room.

‘But I want to go with my sister!’ Kathy cried. She had no sister, but it seemed a good way to move the man. And it worked. ‘All right, get in,’ he sighed, and she slipped into the boat as it dropped to the sea—another third-class passenger safely away.

But for every steerage passenger who found an escape, hundreds milled aimlessly around the forward well deck… the after poop deck… or the foot of the E deck staircase. Some stayed in their cabins—that’s where Mary Agatha Glynn and four discouraged room-mates were found by young Martin Gallagher. He quickly escorted them to boat 13 and stepped back on the deck again. Others turned to prayer. When steerage passenger Gus Cohen passed the third-class dining-saloon about an hour after the crash, he saw quite a number gathered there, many with rosaries in their hands.

The staff of the first-class à la carte restaurant were having the hardest time of all. They were neither fish nor fowl. Obviously they weren’t passengers, but technically they weren’t crew either. The restaurant was not run by the White Star but by Monsieur Gatti as a concession.

Thus, the employees had no status at all. And to make matters worse, they were French and Italian—objects of deep Anglo-Saxon suspicion at a time like this in 1912.

From the very start they never had a chance. Steward Johnson remembered seeing them herded together down by their quarters on E deck aft. Manager Gatti, his chef and the chef’s assistant, Paul Maugé, were the only ones who made it to the boat deck. They got through because they happened to be in civilian clothes; the crew thought they were passengers.

Down in the engine room no one even thought of getting away. Men struggled desperately to keep the steam up… the lights lit… the pumps going. Chief engineer Bell had all the watertight doors raised aft of boiler room No. 4—when the water reached here they could be lowered again; meanwhile it would be easier to move around.

Greaser Fred Scott worked to free a shipmate trapped in the after tunnel behind one of the doors. Greaser Thomas Ranger turned off the last of the forty-five ventilating fans—they used too much electricity. Trimmer Thomas Patrick Dillon helped to drag long sections of pipe from the aft compartments, to get more volume out of the suction pump in boiler room No. 4.

Here, trimmer George Cavell was busy drawing the fires. This meant even less power, but there must be no explosion when the sea reached No. 4. It was about 1.20 and the job was almost done when he noticed the water seeping up through the metal floor plates. Cavell worked faster. When it reached his knees, he had had enough. He was almost at the top of the escape ladder when he began to feel he had quit on his mates. Down again, only to find they were gone too. His conscience clear, he climbed back up, this time for good.

Most of the boats were now gone. One by one they rowed slowly away from the Titanic, oars bumping and splashing in the glass-smooth sea.

‘I never had an oar in my hand before, but I think I can row,’ a steward told Mrs J. Stuart White, as No. 8 set out.

In every boat all eyes were glued on the Titanic. Her tall masts, the four big funnels stood out sharp and black in the clear blue night. The bright promenade decks, the long rows of portholes all blazed with light. From the boats they could see the people lining the rails; they could hear the ragtime in the still night air. It seemed impossible that anything could be wrong with this great ship; yet there they were out on the sea, and there she was, well down at the head. Brilliantly lit from stem to stern, she looked like a sagging birthday cake.

Clumsily the boats moved further away. Those told to stand by now lay on their oars. Others, told to make for the steamer whose lights shone in the distance, began their painful journey.

The steamer seemed agonizingly near. So near that Captain Smith told the people in boat 8 to go over, land its passengers, and come back for more. About the same time he asked Quartermaster Rowe at the rocket gun if he could Morse. Rowe replied he could a little, and the captain said, ‘Call that ship up and when she replies, tell her, “We are the Titanic sinking; please have all your boats ready.”’

Boxhall had already tried to reach her, but Rowe was more than eager to try his own luck; so in between rocket firing he called her again and again. Still no answer. Then Rowe told Captain Smith he thought he saw another light on the starboard quarter. The old skipper squinted through his glasses, courteously told Rowe that it was a planet. But he liked the eagerness of his young quartermaster, and he lent Rowe the glasses to see for himself.

Meanwhile Boxhall continued firing rockets. Sooner or later, somehow they would wake up the stranger.

On the bridge of the Californian, Second Officer Stone and apprentice Gibson counted the rockets—five by 12.55. Gibson tried his Morse lamp again, and at one o’clock lifted his glasses for another look. He was just in time to see a sixth rocket.

At 1.10 Stone whistled down the speaking tube to the chart room and told Captain Lord. He called back, ‘Are they company signals?’

‘I don’t know,’ Stone answered, ‘but they appear to me to be white rockets.’

The captain advised him to go on Morsing.

A little later Stone handed his glasses to Gibson, remarking: ‘Have a look at her now. She looks very queer out of the water—her lights look queer.’

Gibson studied the ship carefully. She seemed to be listing. She had, as he called it, ‘a big side out of the water’. And Stone, standing beside him, noticed that her red side light had disappeared.