The Next Day—Caring for the Sick—Meeting of the Survivors—Personal Wireless Messages Given Precedence—Marconi’s Appeal Fruitless—Quartermaster Tells Story.
The writer’s narrative continues:
In the hospital and the public rooms lay, in blankets, several others who had been benumbed by the water. Mrs. Rosa Abbott, who was in the water for hours, was restored during the day. G. Wikeman, the Titanic’s barber, who declared he was blown off the ship by the second of the two explosions after the crash, was treated for bruises. A passenger, who was thoroughly ducked before being picked up, caused much amusement on this ship, soon after the doctors were through with him, by demanding a bath.
Storekeeper Prentice, the last man off the Titanic to reach this ship, was also soon over the effects of his long swim in the icy waters, into which he leaped from the poop deck.
The physicians of the Carpathia were praised, as was Chief Steward Hughes, for work done in making the arrivals comfortable and averting serious illness.
Monday night on the Carpathia was one of rest. The wailing and sobbing of the day were hushed as the widows and orphans slept. Tuesday, save for the crowded condition of the ship, matters took somewhat their normal appearance.
Tuesday afternoon, in the saloon, a meeting of survivors was held and plans for a testimonial to the officers and crew of the Carpathia and the survivors of the Titanic’s crew were discussed. It was decided that relief of the destitute should first be considered, and the chairman of the meeting, Samuel Goldenberg, appointed a committee consisting of I. G. Frauenthal, Mrs. J. J. Brown, William Bushnell and George Stone to raise a fund. The first subscriptions were for $100 each, and the amounts were paid largely in travelers’ checks or personal checks, cash being somewhat scarce among the refugees, who had kept their currency in the purser’s safe.
Resolutions were adopted praising the Titanic’s surviving officers and crew and the officers, crew and passengers of the Carpathia, and declaring that a memorial is needed for “those who in heroic self-sacrifice made possible the rescue of so many others.” One speaker suggested that a memorial fund be raised by popular subscription, mentioning the “World” as a suitable medium. This and other suggestions were left to the committee to develop.
Rain and fog marked the Carpathia’s homeward course, and those who were not seasick when New York was reached were none the less sick of the sea.
Captain Rostrom’s rule that personal messages should take precedence of press messages was not relaxed, even when Tuesday a message from Guglielm Marconi himself asked the reason why press dispatches were not sent. The captain posted Marconi’s message on the bulletin board, and beside it a bulletin stating that no press messages, except a bulletin to the Associated Press, had been sent. The implication was that none would be sent, and the most urgent and respectful appeals failed to change his determination, which, he seemed convinced, was in the best interest of the survivors and their friends.
My wife was my only active helper in a task which ten newspaper men could not have performed completely. Mr. S. V. Silverthorne, of St. Louis, aided greatly by lending me his first cabin passenger list, one of the few in existence.
Robert Hichens, one of the surviving quartermasters of the Titanic, the man who was on duty at the wheel when the ship struck the iceberg, told me the tale of the wreck on the Carpathia Thursday.
Save for the surviving fourth officer, Boxhall, whose lips are sealed, Hichens saw Sunday night’s tragedy at closer range than any man now living.
In the hastily compiled list of surviving members of the crew, the names of Hichens and other quartermasters appear among the able-bodied seamen; but the star and anchor on the left sleeve of each distinguishes them in rank from the A. B.’s.
Hichens has followed the sea fifteen years and has a wife and two children in Southampton. His tale of the wreck, as he told it to me and as he expects to tell it to a Marine Court of Inquiry, is here given:
“I went on watch at eight o’clock Sunday night and stood by the man at the wheel until ten. At ten I took the wheel for two hours.
“On the bridge from ten o’clock on were First Officer Murdock, Fourth Officer Boxhall and Sixth Officer Moody. In the crow’s nest (lookout tower) were Fleet and another man whose name I don’t know.
“Second Officer Lightoller, who was on watch while I stood by, carrying messages and the like, from eight to ten, sent me soon after eight to tell the carpenter to look out for the fresh water supply, as it might be in danger of freezing. The temperature was then 31 degrees. He gave the crow’s nest a strict order to look out for small icebergs.
“Second Officer Lightoller was relieved by First Officer Murdock at ten, and I took the wheel then. At 11.40 three gongs sounded from the crow’s nest, the signal for ‘something right ahead.’
“At the same time one of the men in the nest telephoned to the bridge that there was a large iceberg right ahead. As Officer Murdoch’s hand was on the lever to stop the engines the crash came. He stopped the engines, then immediately by another lever closed the water-tight doors.
“The skipper (Captain Smith) came from the chart room on to the bridge. His first words were ‘Close the emergency doors.’
“‘They’re already closed, sir,’ Mr. Murdock replied.
“‘Send to the carpenter and tell him to sound the ship,’ was the skipper’s next order. The message was sent to the carpenter. The carpenter never came up to report. He was probably the first man on that ship to lose his life.
“The skipper looked at the commutator, which shows in what direction the ship is listing. He saw that she carried five degrees list to the starboard.
“The ship was then rapidly settling forward. All the steam sirens were blowing. By the skipper’s orders, given in the next few minutes, the engines were put to work at pumping out the ship, distress signals were sent by Marconi and rockets were sent up from the bridge by Quartermaster Rowe. All hands were ordered on deck and life belts were sewed to the crew and to every passenger.
“The stewards and other hands helped the sailors in getting the boats out. The order ‘women and children first’ was given and enforced. There was no panic.
“I was at the wheel until 12.25. It was my duty to stay there until relieved. I was not relieved by anyone else, but was simply sent away by Second Officer Lightoller, who told me to take charge of a certain boat and load it with ladies.
“I did so, and there were thirty-two ladies, a sailor and myself in the boat when it was lowered, some time after 1 o’clock—I can’t be sure of the time.
“The Titanic had sixteen lifeboats and two collapsible boats. All of them got away loaded, except that one of the collapsibles did not open properly and was used as a raft. Forty sailors and stewards who were floating in the water, got on this raft, and later had to abandon the raft, and were picked up by the different boats. Some others were floating about on chairs when picked up.
“Every boat, so far as I saw, was full when it was lowered, and every boat that set out reached the Carpathia. The green light on one of the boats helped to keep us together, but there were other lights. One was an electric flashlight that a gentleman had carried in his pocket.
“Our boat was 400 yards away when the ship went down. The suction nearby must have been terrific, but we were only rocked somewhat.
“I have told only what I know, and what I shall tell any marine court that may examine me.”
G. Whiteman, of Palmyra, N. J., the Titanic’s barber, was lowering boats on deck A, after the collision, and declares the officers on the bridge, one of them Second Officer Murdock, promptly worked the electrical apparatus for closing the water-tight compartments. He believes the machinery was in some way so damaged by the crash that the front compartments failed to close tightly, although the rear ones were secure.
Whiteman’s manner of escape was unique. He was blown off the deck by the second of the two explosions of the boilers, and was in the water more than two hours before he was picked up by a raft.
“The explosions,” Whiteman said, “were caused by the rushing in of the icy water on the boilers. A bundle of deck chairs, roped together, was blown off the deck with me, and struck my back, injuring my spine, but it served as a temporary raft.
“The crew and passengers had faith in the bulkhead system to save the ship, and we were lowering a Benthon collapsible boat, all confident the ship would get through, when she took a terrific dip forward and the water rushed up and swept over the deck and into the engine rooms.
“The bow went clean down, and I caught the pile of chairs as I was washed up against the rail. Then came the explosions and blew me fifteen feet.
“After the water had filled the forward compartments the ones at the stern could not save her. They did delay the ship’s going down. If it wasn’t for the compartments hardly any one could have got away.
“The water was too cold for me to swim and I was hardly more than one hundred feet away when the ship went down. The suction was not what one would expect and only rocked the water around me. I was picked up after two hours. I have done with the sea.”
Whiteman was one of those who heard the ship’s string band playing “Nearer, My God, to Thee” a few moments before she went down.
R. Norris Williams, a Philadelphia youth on his way home from England to take the Harvard entrance examinations, was one of the few saloon passengers at the rail excluded by the women-first order from the boats who was saved. His father, Duane Williams, was lost.
“There is much, and yet there is little, to tell of my experience,” said young Williams. “My father and I had about given up our hope for life and were standing together, resolved to jump together and keep together if we could, so long as either of us lived. I had on my fur coat.
“The forward end, where we stood, was sinking rapidly, and before we could jump together the water washed my father over. Then, with the explosions, the ship seemed to break in two, and the forward end bounded up again for an instant. I leaped, but with dozens in the water between us my father was lost to me.
“I swam and drifted nearly two hours before I was pulled aboard the raft or collapsible boat which served for a time as a raft. Later, with the abandonment of the raft, I was taken aboard a boat.”
Frederic K. Seward, who sat next to W. T. Stead at the Titanic’s saloon table, told of the veteran English journalist’s plans for his American visit. His immediate purpose was to aid in the New York campaign of the Men and Religion Forward Movement.
“Mr. Stead talked much of spiritualism, thought transference and the occult,” said Seward. “He told a story of a mummy case in the British Museum which, he said, had had amazing adventures, but which punished with great calamities any person who wrote its story. He told of one person after another who, he said, had come to grief after writing the story, and added that, although he knew it, he would never write it. He did not say whether ill-luck attached to the mere telling of it.”
Stead also told, Seward said, of a strange adventure of a young woman with an admirer in an English railroad coach, which was known to him as it happened, and which he afterward repeated to the young woman, amazing her by repeating everything correctly save for one small detail.
Had Harold Cotton, Marconi operator on the Carpathia, gone to bed Sunday night at his usual time, the Carpathia would have known nothing of the Titanic’s plight, and the lifeboats, without food or water, might have been the scenes of even greater tragedy than the great death ship itself.
The Carpathia, an easy going Mediterranean ship, has only one Marconi man, and when Cotton had not the receiver on his head the ship was out of communication with the world.
Cotton, an Englishman of twenty-one years, told me the morning after the wreck how he came to receive the Titanic’s C Q D.
“I was relaying a message to the Titanic Sunday night, shortly after 11 o’clock by my time,” he said, “and told Phillips, the Titanic’s Marconi man, that I had been doing quite a bit of work for him, and that if he had nothing else for me I would quit and turn in for the night. Just as I was about to take the receiver off my head came ‘C Q D.’ This was followed with ‘We’ve hit something. Come at once.’
“I called a sailor and sent word to an officer, and a few minutes later the Captain turned the Carpathia, at eighteen knots, in the direction of the Titanic, which was sixty miles or more from us.
“Before I could tell the Titanic we were coming, came their ‘S O S,’ and the operator added ‘I’m afraid we’re gone.’ I told him we were coming, and he went on sending out signals in every direction.”
An assistant Marconi man from the Titanic, not on duty at the time of the wreck, was among the survivors and assisted Cotton in his work after Wednesday, having been laid up the two previous days by the shock of the chill he suffered in the water and by injuries to his legs.
He denied a report, generally circulated on this ship, that Jack Binns, of Republic fame, was on the Titanic. He said Phillips, the Titanic’s chief operator, was lost.
Mrs. Edward S. Robert, whose husband, a leading St. Louis attorney, died last December during her absence in England, and her daughter, Miss Georgette Madill, have been in close seclusion on the Carpathia since their rescue from the Titanic. They are accompanied by Mrs. Robert’s maid.
S. V. Silverthorne, buyer for Nugent’s, was one of three or four saloon passengers on the Titanic who saw the deadly iceberg just after the collision.
“I was in the smoking room reading near a bridge whist game at one of the tables,” he said, “when the crash came. I said, ‘We’ve hit something,’ and went out on the starboard side to look. None of us was alarmed. It occurred to me that we might have bumped a whale, or at most, ran down some small craft.
“I went back in the smoking room with the others. One of the bridge players had not left the smoking room at all and was waiting impatiently for the others to come back and resume the game. They returned and took up their hands and we were all about to settle down, when an officer ordered us on deck and told us to get into the boats, there not being enough women on deck to fill the first ones. We didn’t like the idea of leaving the ship then, but did as we were told. Had we been in our rooms we would have had to stand aside, as other men did then.”
Two orphan French boys, about two and four years old respectively, whose sur-name is believed to be Hoffman and who called each other Louis and Lolo, will be cared for by Miss Margaret Hays, of 304 W. 83d st., New York, while efforts will be made to find their relatives, to whom their father was thought to have been taking them. The elder boy has been ill with a fever for three days, the excitement, exposure and probably grief over the loss of his father having told on the little fellow. The other, too young to realize what has befallen him, played around the saloon or sat contentedly in the lap of one of his new made but devoted friends among the passengers.
The father, who is in the list of second cabin passengers as “Mr. Hoffman,” is said to have told fellow-passengers on the Titanic the children’s mother died recently.
Mrs. Sylvia Caldwell, of Bangkok, Siam, is happy in having her husband and little son. Since she was the last woman to embark, her husband was able to come with her.
Mrs. Esther Hart, whose husband was lost, was coming, with their daughter Eva, to visit Mr. Hart’s sister in New York, then to go on to Winnipeg to make their home. They had sold the property at Ilford, Essex, England. All their money was lost when Mr. Hart went down with the Titanic.
Mrs. Lucy Ridsdale, of London, had said good-by to England and had started for Marietta, O., to make her home with her sisters. She was saved with the few clothes she wore. She had written letters telling of a “safe arrival and pleasant voyage” and had them ready to mail. They went down with the ship.
Suffering in the Lifeboats—Statement by Ismay—Would not Desert Husband—Thirty on Raft in Icy Water—Colonel Astor a Hero—Joked Over Collision—Officer Saves Many Lives.
But another account, compiled from various sources among the survivors gives somewhat varying angles and supplies quite a few missing details.
At the risk of a few slight repetitions it is given:
Of the great facts that stand out from the chaotic accounts of the tragedy, these are the most salient:
The death list was increased rather than decreased. Six persons died after being rescued.
The list of prominent persons lost stood as at first reported.
Practically every woman and child, with the exception of those women who refused to leave their husbands, were saved. Among these last was Mrs. Isidor Straus.
The survivors in the lifeboats saw the lights on the stricken vessel glimmer to the last, heard her band playing and saw the doomed hundreds on her deck and heard their groans and cries when the vessel sank.
Accounts vary as to the extent of the disorder on board.
Not only was the Titanic tearing through the April night to her doom with every ounce of steam crowded on, but she was under orders from the general officers of the line to make all the speed of which she was capable.
This was the statement made by J. H. Moody, a quartermaster of the vessel and helmsman on the night of the disaster. He said the ship was making 21 knots an hour, and the officers were striving to live up to the orders to smash the records.
“It was close to midnight,” said Moody, “and I was on the bridge with the second officer, who was in command. Suddenly he shouted ‘Port your helm!’ I did so, but it was too late. We struck the submerged portion of the berg.”
“Of the many accounts given by the passengers most of them agreed that the shock when the Titanic struck the iceberg, although ripping her great sides like a giant can opener, did not greatly jar the entire vessel, for the blow was a glancing one along her side. The accounts also agree substantially that when the passengers were taken off on the lifeboats there was no serious panic and that many wished ‘to remain on board the Titanic, believing her to be unsinkable.’”
The most distressing stories are those giving the experiences of the passengers in lifeboats. These tell not only of their own suffering, but give the harrowing details of how they saw the great hulk of the Titanic stand on end, stern uppermost for many minutes before plunging to the bottom. As this spectacle was witnessed by the groups of survivors in the boats, they plainly saw many of those whom they had just left behind leaping from the decks into the water.
J. Bruce Ismay, president of the International Mercantile Marine, owners of the White Star Line, who was among the seventy odd men saved; P. A. S. Franklin, vice president of the White Star Line, and United States Senator William Alden Smith, chairman of the Senate Investigating Committee, held a conference aboard the Carpathia soon after the passengers had come ashore.
After nearly an hour, Senator Smith came out of the cabin and said he had no authority to subpena witnesses at this time, but would begin an investigation into the cause of the loss of the Titanic at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel the next day. He announced that Mr. Ismay had consented to appear at the hearing, and that Mr. Franklin and the four surviving officers of the Titanic would appear for examination by the Senate committee. He said the course the investigation would follow would be determined after the preliminary hearing.
Senator Smith was questioned as to the speed the Titanic was proceeding at when she crashed into the iceberg. He said he had asked Mr. Ismay, but declined to say what Mr. Ismay’s reply was.
Bruce Ismay, chairman of the International Mercantile Marine, gave out the following prepared statement on the pier:
CHART OF THE NORTH ATLANTIC, SHOWING WHERE THE GREAT LINER “TITANIC” WENT DOWN.
“In the presence and under the shadows of a catastrophe so overwhelming my feelings are too deep for expression in words, and I can only say that the White Star Line officers and employes will do everything humanly possible to alleviate the suffering and sorrow of the relatives and friends of those who perished. The Titanic was the last word in shipbuilding. Every regulation prescribed by the British Board of Trade had been strictly complied with. The master, officers and crew were the most experienced and skillful in the British service.
“I am informed that a committee of the United States Senate has been appointed to investigate the circumstances of the accident. I heartily welcome the most complete and exhaustive inquiry, and any aid that I can render is at the service of the public and of the Governments of both the United States and Great Britain. Under these circumstances I must defer making any further statement at this hour.”
Mr. Ismay said informally before giving out his statement that he left the ship in one of the last boats, one of the collapsible boats on the port side. This statement, however, as will later appear, is scathingly denounced by several survivors as untrue.
“I do not know the speed at which the Titanic was going,” said Mr. Ismay in reply to a question. “She hit the iceberg a glancing blow.”
Mr. Ismay, after his interview with Senator Smith, said that he was desirous of sailing on the Carpathia the next afternoon. The Carpathia was scheduled to sail at 4 o’clock. Mr. Ismay assured the Senators, however, that he would make a complete statement of the catastrophe, and that if he could not finish in time for the sailing he would change his plans.
Mr. Ismay then went to his apartments at the Ritz-Carlton.
The arrival of the Carpathia brought a vast multitude of people to the Cunard docks. They filled the vast pier sheds, and, overflowing for blocks, crowded the nearby streets in a dense throng. Through it all the rain fell steadily, adding a funeral aspect to the scene. The landing of the survivors was attended with little excitement, the crowd standing in awe-like silence as the groups from the ship passed along. The docking actually began shortly after nine o’clock and the debarking of passengers was so quickly disposed of by the waiving of the usual formality that practically everything had been concluded by 10.30 o’clock. The crowds remained about the pier long after this, however, to get a glimpse of the rescuing steamer and to hear the harrowing stories which had been brought back by the ship.
Colonel Archibald Gracie, U. S. A., the last man saved, went down with the vessel, but was picked up. He was met by his daughter, who had arrived from Washington, and his son-in-law, Paul H. Fabricius. Colonel Gracie told a remarkable story of personal hardship and denied emphatically the reports that there had been any panic on board. He praised in the highest terms the behavior of both the passengers and crew and paid a high tribute to the heroism of the women passengers.
Contrary to the general expectation, there was no jarring impact when the vessel struck, according to the army officer. He was in his berth when the vessel smashed into the submerged portion of the berg and was aroused by the jar. He looked at his watch, he said and found it was just midnight. The ship sank with him at 2.22 A. M. for his watch stopped at that hour.
“Mrs. Isidor Straus,” he said, “went to her death because she would not desert her husband. Although he pleaded with her to take her place in the boat, she steadfastly refused, and when the ship settled at the head the two were engulfed by the wave that swept her.”
Colonel Gracie told of how he was driven to the topmost deck when the ship settled and was the sole survivor after the wave that swept her just before her final plunge.
“I jumped with the wave,” said he, “just as I have often jumped with the breakers at the seashore. By great good fortune I managed to grasp the brass railing on the deck above, and I hung on by might and main. When the ship plunged down I was forced to let go and I was swirled around and around for what seemed to be an interminable time. Eventually I came to the surface, to find the sea a mass of tangled wreckage.
“Luckily I was unhurt and, casting about, managed to seize a wooden grating floating nearby. When I had recovered my breath I discovered a larger canvas and cork lifecraft which had floated up. A man, whose name I did not learn, was struggling toward it from some wreckage to which he had clung. I cast off and helped him to get on to the raft and we then began the work of rescuing those who had jumped into the sea and were floundering in the water.
“When dawn broke there were thirty of us on the raft, standing knee deep in the icy water and afraid to move lest the cranky craft be overturned. Several unfortunately, benumbed and half dead, besought us to save them and one or two made an effort to reach us.
“The hours that elapsed before we were picked up by the Carpathia were the longest and most terrible that I ever spent. Practically without any sensation of feeling, because of the icy water, we were almost dropping from fatigue. We were afraid to turn around to look to see whether we were seen by passing craft, and when some one who was facing astern passed the word that something that looked like a steamer was coming up one of the men became hysterical under the strain. The rest of us, too, were nearing the breaking point.”
Colonel Gracie denied with emphasis that any men were fired upon, and declared that only once was a revolver discharged.
“This was for the purpose of intimidating some steerage passengers,” he said, “who had tumbled into a boat before it was prepared for launching. This shot was fired in the air, and when the foreigners were told that the next would be directed at them they promptly returned to the deck. There was no confusion and no panic.”
“Before I retired,” said Colonel Gracie, “I had a long chat with Charles H. Hays, president of the Grand Trunk Railroad. One of the last things Mr. Hays said was this: ‘The White Star, the Cunard and the Hamburg-American lines are devoting their attention and ingenuity in vieing with the other to attain the supremacy in luxurious ships and in making speed records. The time will soon come when this will be checked by some appalling disaster.’ Poor fellow, a few hours later he was dead.”
“The conduct of Colonel Jacob Astor was deserving of the highest praise,” Colonel Gracie declared. “The millionaire New Yorker,” he said, “devoted all his energies to saving his young bride, nee Miss Force, of New York, who was in delicate health.
“Colonel Astor helped us in our efforts to get her in the boat,” said Colonel Gracie. “I lifted her into the boat, and as she took her place Colonel Astor requested permission of the officer to go with her for her own protection.
“‘No, sir,’ replied the officer, ‘not a man shall go on a boat until the women are all off.’ Colonel Astor then inquired the number of the boat, which was being lowered away, and turned to the work of clearing the other boats and in reassuring the frightened and nervous women.
“By this time the ship began to list frightfully to port. This became so dangerous that the second officer ordered every one to rush to starboard. This we did, and we found the crew trying to get a boat off in that quarter. Here I saw that last of John B. Thayer and George B. Widener, of Philadelphia.”
Colonel Gracie said that, despite the warnings of icebergs, no slowing down of speed was ordered by the commander of the Titanic. There were other warnings, too, he said. “In the 24 hours’ run ending the 14th,” he said, “the ship’s run was 546 miles, and we were told that the next 24 hours would see even a better record posted.
“No diminution of speed was indicated in the run and the engines kept up their steady running. When Sunday evening came we all noticed the increased cold, which gave plain warning that the ship was in close proximity to icebergs or icefields. The officers, I am credibly informed, had been advised by wireless from other ships of the presence of icebergs and dangerous floes in that vicinity. The sea was as smooth as glass, and the weather clear so that it seems that there was no occasion for fear.”
“When the vessel struck,” he continued, “the passengers were so little alarmed that they joked over the matter. The few that appeared on deck early had taken their time to dress properly and there was not the slightest indication of panic. Some of the fragments of ice had fallen on the deck and these were picked up and passed around by some of the facetious ones, who offered them as mementos of the occasion.
“On the port side a glance over the side failed to show any evidence of damage and the vessel seemed to be on an even keel. James Clinch Smith and I, however, soon found the vessel was listing heavily. A few minutes later the officers ordered men and women to don life preservers.”
E. Z. Taylor, of Philadelphia, one of the survivors, jumped into the sea just three minutes before the boat sank. He told a graphic story as he came from the Carpathia.
“I was eating when the boat struck the iceberg,” he said. “There was an awful shock that made the boat tremble from stem to stern. I did not realize for some time what had happened. No one seemed to know the extent of the accident. We were told that an iceberg had been struck by the ship. I felt the boat rise, and it seemed to me that she was riding over the ice.
“I ran out on the deck and then I could see ice. It was a veritable sea of ice and the boat was rocking over it. I should say that parts of the iceberg were eighty feet high, but it had been broken into sections, probably by our ship.
“I jumped into the ocean and was picked up by one of the boats. I never expected to see land again. I waited on board the boat until the lights went out. It seemed to me that the discipline on board was wonderful.”
A young English woman who requested that her name be omitted told a thrilling story of her experience in one of the collapsible boats which had been manned by eight of the crew from the Titanic. The boat was in command of the fifth officer, H. Lowe, whose actions she described as saving the lives of many people. Before the lifeboat was launched he passed along the port deck of the steamer, commanding the people not to jump in the boats, and otherwise restraining them from swamping the craft. When the collapsible was launched Officer Lowe succeeded in putting up a mast and a small sail. He collected other boats together; in some cases the boats were short of adequate crews, and he directed an exchange by which each was adequately manned. He threw lines connecting the boats together, two by two, and all thus moved together. Later on he went back to the wreck with the crew of one of the boats and succeeded in picking up some of those who had jumped overboard and were swimming about. On his way back to the Carpathia he passed one of the collapsible boats, which was on the point of sinking with thirty passengers aboard, most of them in scant night-clothing. They were rescued just in the nick of time.”
Among the first passengers off the Carpathia was Mrs. Paul Schabert, of Derby, Conn. She said that she had a stateroom on the port side and had sailed with her brother Phillip. Mrs. Schabert declared that her brother was saved because she refused to leave him.
“It was a terrible experience,” Mrs. Schabert added. “I was awakened by the shock of the collision and went out on deck. There was very little excitement and persons were coming from their rooms asking what had happened. Suddenly from the bridge came the cry ‘ladies first.’ This was the first inkling we had that the ship was in danger. I went back to my stateroom and dressed and then as I returned to the deck I heard the horrifying order that women must leave their husbands and brothers. I refused to leave my brother, and finally he was shoved into the boat with me.
“Mrs. Isidor Straus, who had a stateroom near me, and with whom I have frequently talked, declared that under no circumstances would she leave Mr. Straus. As we pushed away from the Titanic the ship started to go down and as she disappeared beneath the water Mr. and Mrs. Straus were standing arm in arm.”
Mrs. D. W. Marvin, who was on a honeymoon trip with her husband, was almost prostrated when she reached the deck and learned that her husband had not been picked up by some other boat.
“My God, don’t ask me too much,” she said. “Tell me, have you any news from Dan? He grabbed me in his arms and knocked down men to get me into the boat. As I was put in the boat he cried. ‘It’s all right, little girl; you go and I will stay awhile, I’ll put on a life preserver and jump off and follow your boat.’ As our boat shoved off he threw a kiss at me and that is the last I saw of him.”
Edward Beane, of Glasgow, Scotland, who, with his wife, occupied a stateroom in the second cabin, declared that fifteen minutes after the Titanic hit the iceberg there was an explosion in the engine room, which was followed in a few minutes by a second explosion.
“The stern of the boat floated for nearly an hour after the bow was submerged,” said Mr. Beane, “and then went down. I heard a report that two steerage passengers were shot by the officers when they started to crowd in the boats, but later this was denied.”
Max Frolicher-Stehli, who, with his wife and his daughter Margaret, was on the way to this city to visit a brother, said:
“My wife and two women entered one of the first boats lowered. Twelve men, including myself, were standing near and as there were no other women passengers waiting we were ordered to get in. The sea was calm. We were rowed by four seamen, one of whom was in charge.
“The order maintained on the Titanic was what I would call remarkable. There was very little pushing and in most cases it was the women who caused the commotion by insisting that their husbands go with them into the lifeboats. As a rule the men were very orderly. It was not until we had left the ship that many of the women showed fright. From that time on, however, they filled the air with shrieks.”
The following statement issued by a committee of the surviving passengers was given the press on the arrival of the Carpathia.
“We, the undersigned surviving passengers from the S. S. Titanic, in order to forestall any sensational or exaggerated statements, deem it our duty to give the press a statement of facts which have come to our knowledge and which we believe to be true.
“On Sunday, April 14, 1912, at about 11.40 P. M., on a cold, starlight night, in a smooth sea and with no moon, the ship struck an iceberg which had been reported to the bridge by the lookouts, but not early enough to avoid collision. Steps were taken to ascertain the damage and save passengers and ship. Orders were given to put on life belts and the boats were lowered. The ship sank at about 2.20 A. M. Monday and the usual distress signals were sent out by wireless and rockets fired at intervals from the ship. Fortunately the wireless message was received by the Cunard’s S. S. Carpathia, at about 12 o’clock, and she arrived on the scene of the disaster at about 4 A. M. Monday.
“The officers and crew of the S. S. Carpathia had been preparing all night for the rescue and comfort of the survivors, and the last mentioned were received on board with the most touching care and kindness, every attention being given to all, irrespective of class. The passengers, officers and crew gave up gladly their staterooms, clothing and comforts for our benefit, all honor to them.
“On the boat at the time of the collision was: First class, 330; second class, 320; third class, 750; total, 1400; officers and crew, 940; total, 2340. Of the foregoing about the following were rescued by S. S. Carpathia:
“First class, 210; second class, 125; third class, 200; officers, 4; seamen, 39; stewards, 96; firemen, 71; total, 210 of the crew. The net total of 745 saved was about 80 per cent. of the maximum capacity of the lifeboats.
“We feel it our duty to call the attention of the public to what we consider the inadequate supply of life-saving appliances provided for on modern passenger steamships, and recommend that immediate steps be taken to compel passenger steamers to carry sufficient boats to accommodate the maximum number of people carried on board.
“The following facts were observed and should be considered in this connection: The insufficiency of lifeboats, rafts, etc.; lack of trained seamen to man same (stokers, stewards, etc., are not efficient boat handlers); not enough officers to carry out emergency orders on the bridge and superintend the launching and control of lifeboats; absence of searchlights.
“The board of trade rules allow for entirely too many people in each boat to permit the same to be properly handled. On the Titanic the boat deck was about 75 feet above water, and consequently the passengers were required to embark before lowering boats, thus endangering the operation and preventing the taking on of the maximum number the boats would hold. Boats at all times to be properly equipped with provisions, water, lamps, compasses, lights, etc. Life-saving boat drills should be more frequent and thoroughly carried out; and officers should be armed at boat drills. Greater reduction in speed in fog and ice, as damage if collision actually occurs is liable to be less.
“In conclusion, we suggest that an international conference be called to recommend the passage of identical laws providing for the safety of all at sea, and we urge the United States Government to take the initiative as soon as possible.”
The statement was signed by Samuel Goldenberg, chairman, and a committee of passengers.
Tardy Answer to Telephone Call—Lookout’s Signals Not Answered—Ship Could Have Been Saved—Three Fatal Minutes—Ismay Accused—Women Help With Oars—Ship Broken in Two—Band Played Till Last.
The trifle of a telephone call hardly answered sent the Titanic to the bottom of the Atlantic, occasioned the greatest marine disaster in history and shocked all civilized nations.
This, at least, is the tale told by sailors of the ill-starred Titanic, brawny seamen who only lived to tell it because it happened in the line of their duty to help man the boats into which some of the Titanic’s passengers were loaded.
But the telephone call that went unanswered for probably two or three minutes, none can tell the exact time, was sent by the lookout stationed forward to the first officer of the watch on the bridge of the great liner on the maiden voyage.
The lookout saw a towering “blue berg” looming up in the sea path of the Titanic, the latest and proudest product of marine architecture, and called the bridge on the ship’s telephone.
When after the passing of those two or three fateful minutes an officer on the bridge of the Titanic lifted the telephone receiver from its hook to answer the lookout it was too late. The speeding liner, cleaving a calm sea under a star-studded sky, had reached the floating mountain of ice, which the theoretically “unsinkable” ship struck a crashing, if glancing, blow with her starboard bow.
Had the officer on the bridge, who was William T. Murdock, according to the account of the tragedy given by two of the Titanic’s seamen, known how imperative was that call from the lookout man, whose name was given as Fleet, the man at the wheel of the world’s newest and greatest transatlantic liner might have swerved the great ship sufficiently to avoid the berg altogether or at the worst would have probably struck the mass of ice with her stern and at much reduced speed.
For obvious reasons the identity of the sailormen who described the foundering of the Titanic cannot be divulged. As for the officer, who was alleged to have been a laggard in answering the lookout’s telephone call, harsh criticism may be omitted.
Murdock, if the tale of the Titanic sailor be true, expiated his negligence, if negligence it was, by shooting himself within sight of all alleged victims huddled in lifeboats or struggling in the icy seas.
The revolver which the sailors say snuffed out Murdock’s life was not the only weapon that rang out above the shrieks of the drowning. Officers of the Titanic, upon whom devolved the duty of seeing that the “unwritten law” of the sea—“women and children first”—was enforced, were, according to the recital of the members of the great liner’s crew, forced to shoot frenzied male passengers, who, impelled by the fear of death, attempted to get into the lifeboats swinging from their davits.
The sailors’ account of the terrific impact of the Titanic against the berg that crossed the path was as follows:
“It was 11.40 P. M. Sunday, April 14. Struck an iceberg. The berg was very dark and about 250 feet in height.
“The Titanic struck the berg a glancing blow on the starboard bow. The ship, which was traveling between twenty and twenty-three knots an hour, crashed into the berg at a point about forty feet back of the stem.
“The Titanic’s bottom was torn away to about fore bridge. The tear was fully fifty feet in length and was below the water line.”
Regarding the state of the sea and the character of the night the sailors declared:
“It was a perfect night, clear and starlight. The sea was smooth. The temperature had dropped to freezing Sunday morning. We knew or believed that the cold was due to the nearness of bergs, but we had not even run against cake ice up to the time the ice mountain loomed up. The Titanic raced through a calm sea in which there was no ice into the berg which sank her.”
Continuing, their joint account the two men of the Titanic’s crew further said:
“The first officer of the watch was Murdock. He was on the bridge. Captain Smith may have been near at hand, but he was not visible to us who were about to wash down the decks. Hitchens, quartermaster, was at the wheel. Fleet was the outlook.”
It is characteristic of sailors that they make no effort to learn the baptismal names of a ship’s officers.
“Fleet reported the berg, but the telephone was not answered on the bridge at once. A few minutes afterwards the telephone call was answered, but it was too late.
“The ship had struck. Murdock, after the ship struck the berg, gave orders to put helm to starboard, afterwards he ordered the helm hard to port and the ship struck the berg again.
“Afterwards Murdock gave an order for the carpenter to sound the wells to learn how much water the ship was taking in. The carpenter came up and told Murdock the Titanic had seven feet of water in her in less than seven minutes.”
Keeping on with their narrative the sailors, whose nerves had not been broken by their experiences declared:
“Then Captain Smith, who had put in an appearance, gave orders to get the boats ready.
“There was less than ten minutes between the time the Titanic first struck the berg and the second crash, both of which brought big pieces of ice showering down on the ship.
“Orders came to the crew to stand by the boats. The boats were got out. There were twenty-two boats all told.”
At this juncture the sailors described without apparent prejudice or bitterness how J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of the Board of Directors of the White Star Line, was the first to leave the Titanic.
“Ismay,” the sailors asserted, “with his two daughters and a millionaire, Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon, and the latter’s family, got into the first accident or emergency boats, which are about twenty-eight feet long, and were always ready for lowering under the bridge. The boat in which Ismay and Sir Cosmo left was manned by seven seamen. There were seventeen persons in the boat.
“This boat pulled away from the ship a half hour before any of the lifeboats were put into the water.
“There were thirteen first-class passengers and five sailors in the emergency boat. Both boats were away from the ship within ten or fifteen minutes of the ship’s crashing into the berg.”
Asked to explain how it was possible for two boats to be put over the ship’s side into the water without being subjected to a rush on the part of the great ship’s passengers, the Titanic seamen said: “Ismay and those who left in the two emergency boats occupied cabins de luxe. The two boats were swinging from davits ready for lowering. We have no idea who notified Mr. Ismay and his friends to make ready to leave the ship, but we do know that the boats in which they were got away first.”
The sailors’ seemingly unvarnished tale then went on as follows:
“It was perhaps a half hour before the first of the lifeboats was ready for lowering. Not a man was allowed in one of the lifeboats so far as we could see, only women and children. The boats were all thirty-six feet long and carried about sixty passengers. There were about thirty-five or forty passengers to a boat when they were lowered, but two sailors went in each boat. Besides the sixteen lifeboats and the two emergency boats, four collapsible boats, each with a carrying capacity of forty passengers, were put over the sides of the Titanic, every boat on the ship was put into the water.
“One of the collapsible boats filled with water. The women and children in the boat were mostly third-class passengers. The boat turned keel and nearly two score persons clung to it. Many of these were rescued by the lifeboats.”
The spokesman for the sailors here asserted: “We want to make it plain that the officers and crew of the Titanic did their duty. Not a male passenger got into the lifeboats. During the early excitement men tried to force their way into the boats, but the officers shot them down with revolvers. I saw probably a half dozen men shot down as the lifeboat to which I was assigned was being filled. The men shot were left to die and sink on the upper deck of the Titanic.”
The Titanic’s sailors described how frail women, steeled by a desperate emergency, seized oars and labored with the seamen to get the lifeboats at a safe distance from the great liner, sinking deep and deeper under the weight of water.
“There were ten oars to each lifeboat,” the sailors said. “The women seized the sweeps and helped us to get the boats clear of the ship. We got away about 100 yards from the ship and waited to see what would happen. The liner was sinking fast, but the lights continued to shine through the black night.
“The end came at 2.30 on Monday morning. The lights on the ship did not go out until ten minutes before the liner sank. The inrushing seas reaching the after fires produced an explosion, which sundered the big liner. The forward half of the Titanic dived gently down. The after part of the ship stood on end and then disappeared.
“The force of the explosion blew, it seemed to us watching from the lifeboats, scores of passengers and sailors into the air.”
That there were stout hearts on the Titanic, even in the last moments of an unprecedented catastrophe, that refused to quail was proven by the rough seamen’s further testimony.
“The band on the promenade deck,” they declared, “played ‘Abide With Me’ and ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save,’ and other hymns as the ship sank.”
The Titanic sank at 2.30, almost at the spot where she collided with the mountain of ice.
It was an hour later when the Carpathia was sighted by the thinly-clad occupants of the lifeboats and it was 4.30 before the first of the Titanic’s passengers set foot on the deck of the Cunarder. It was 8 o’clock on Monday morning, April 15, before the last of the half-clad suffering passengers of the Titanic were taken aboard the Carpathia, a not difficult feat, as the sea continued smooth.
The Carpathia’s run from the Newfoundland banks to New York was uneventful except for the burial at sea of five persons. Four of the five, according to the sailors, were consigned to the deep at about 4 P. M. on Monday, April 15. One of the four was a sailor, one a fireman and two male passengers of the third class.
The alleged negligence of Murdock, the first officer of the watch, who is blamed, as stated above, by some of the sailors for the wreck in not responding immediately to a telephone call from the lookout giving warning of the iceberg ahead, is doubted by a naval man who has had a long experience on transatlantic liners.
“I cannot help doubting, in fact, absolutely disbelieving, that an officer of the watch could be negligent in either responding to a call from the crow’s-nest or even failing to discover anything in the course of his vessel as soon as the lookout. Especially considering the fact that the vessel had been warned of ice several times.
“The position of the senior officer of the watch is on the windward side of the bridge. He does not depend on the lookout, that man is only a check upon him. Usually any object in the course of the vessel is discovered by both at the same time. The lookout’s signal was not a telephone call when I was on the seas, but a horn blast. Three blasts, object dead ahead; one blast, object on port bow; two blasts, object on starboard bow.
“That Murdock did not see the berg as soon as his lookout, seems improbable; that he did not see it immediately after his lookout, seems impossible; that he did not answer any signal from the lookout immediately is impossible, unless he was dead. Murdock knew his responsibility, and he wasn’t shirking. He wouldn’t have been on the watch, or on the Titanic, if he ever shirked.
“Could a vessel the size of the Titanic change its course sufficiently to avoid the berg within three minutes supposed to have elapsed during which Murdock didn’t answer his lookout’s call? It could. I never sailed a vessel the size of the Titanic, but I unhesitatingly say that the Titanic’s course could be changed in considerably less than a mile. Why, by putting the wheel hard-a-port and stopping the engines on that side the vessel could be turned so quickly that it would list fifteen degrees in swinging around. I have steered a transatlantic liner in and out among fishing smacks and they are easier to hit than an iceberg.”
Two other seafaring men of long experience, who have many nights sat in the crow’s-nest of a liner and watched the course, were asked how far an iceberg the size of the one that the Titanic struck could be seen on a clear night without a moon, a condition on which all of the survivors seem to agree was present the night the Titanic was sunk.
One of these men said at least one mile, the other at least two miles. So the fact remains that Murdock was supposed to be on the bridge keeping a strict lookout and not depending on the crow’s-nest; that he could have seen the iceberg when it was at least a mile from the vessel, and that the Titanic could have been easily turned sufficiently in her course to avoid the berg within a mile.
The surviving passengers are unanimous that the “unbelievable” happened. The voyage had been pleasant and uneventful, except for the fact that it was being made on the largest and most magnificent vessel that ever sailed and for the keen interest which the passengers took in the daily bulletins of the speed.
The Titanic had been making good time and all accounts agree that on the night of the disaster she was apparently going at her usual rate—of from 21 to 25 knots an hour.
J. H. Moody, the quartermaster, who was at the helm, said that the ship was making twenty-one and that the officers were under orders at the time to keep up speed in the hope of making a record passage.
These orders were being carried out in face of knowledge that the steamer was in the vicinity of great icebergs sweeping down from the north. That very afternoon, according to the record of the hyrographic officer, the Titanic had relayed to shore a wireless warning from the steamer Amerika that an unusual field of pack ice and bergs menaced navigation off the Banks.
But it was a “clear and starlight night,” as all the survivors described the weather, and the great ship sped through the quiet seas with officers confident that even though an iceberg should be seen the vessel could be controlled in ample time, and the passengers rested in full confidence that their temporary quarters in the largest and most magnificent vessel ever constructed were as safe as their own homes.
This confidence is emphasized in the tales of nearly all the survivors that when the crash came there was almost no excitement. Many who felt anxious enough to go on deck to inquire what had happened were little perturbed when they learned that the ship had “only struck an iceberg.” It appeared to be a glancing blow and at first there was no indication of a serious accident.
A group of men at cards in the smoking room sent one of their number to look out of the window, and when he came back with the announcement that the boat had grazed an iceberg, the party went on with the game. It was never finished.
The stoppage of the engines was noticed more than the collision, the effect being, as one survivor put it, like the stopping of a loud ticking clock.
The over-confident passengers were not brought to the slightest realization that the collision might mean serious danger until the call ran through the ship, “All passengers on deck with life-belts on.”
Captain Smith, it is said, was not on the bridge when the collision occurred, but when hurriedly summoned by his first officer, he took charge of what seemed a hopeless situation in a manner which the passengers praise as calm, resolute and efficient to the highest degree.
One of the most stirring narratives of action and description of scenes that followed the collision was told by L. Beasley, a Cambridge University man, who was one of the surviving second cabin passengers.
“The steamer lay just as if she were awaiting the order to go on again, when some trifling matter had been adjusted,” he said. “But in a few minutes we saw the covers lifted from the boats, and the crews allotted to them standing by ready to lower them to the water.
“Presently we heard the order, ‘All men stand back and all ladies retire to the next deck below’—the smoking room deck or ‘B’ deck. The men stood away and remained in absolute silence, leaning against the end railing or pacing slowly up and down.
“The boats were swung out and lowered from A deck. When they were to the level of B deck, where all the ladies were collected, the ladies got in quietly with the exception of some, who refused to leave their husbands. In some cases they were torn from them and pushed into the boats.
“All this time there was no trace of any disorder; no panic or rush for the boats, and no scenes of women sobbing hysterically. Everyone seemed to realize so slowly that there was imminent danger. When it was realized that we would be presently in the sea with nothing but our life-belts to support us until we were picked up by passing steamers, it was extraordinary how calm everyone was and how complete the self-control.
“One by one the boats were filled with women and children.
“Presently we heard the order, ‘All men stand back,’ and all lowered and rowed away into the night. Presently the word went around among the men, ‘The men are to be put in boats on the starboard side.’ I was on the port side and most of the men walked across the deck to see if this was so. Presently I heard the call, ‘Any more ladies?’
“Looking over the side of the ship I saw boat No. 13 swinging level with B deck, half full of women. I saw no more come, and one of the crew said then: ‘You’d better jump.’ I dropped in and fell in the bottom as they cried ‘lower away.’”
Beasely said that the lifeboat was nearly two miles away from the Titanic less than two hours later, when they made out that the great liner was sinking.
Other survivors who were nearer to the sinking liner told of hearing the strains of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” played as the liner sank, and some of those in the lifeboats blended their voices in the melody. Suddenly there was a mighty roar and the ship, already half submerged, was seen to buckle and apparently break in two by the force of an explosion caused when the water reached the hot boilers.
The bow sank first and for fully five minutes the stern was poised almost vertically in the air, when suddenly it plunged out of sight.
With the last hope gone of seeing their loved ones alive, many women in the lifeboats seemed to be indifferent whether they were saved or not. They were nearly 1000 miles from land and had no knowledge that a ship of succor was speeding to them. Without provisions or water, there seemed little hope of surviving long in the bitter cold.
There were sixteen boats in the forlorn procession which entered upon the terrible hours of suspense.
The confidence that the big ship, on which they had started across the sea, was sure to bring them safely here was now turned to utter helplessness. But the shock of learning that their lives were in peril was hardly greater than the relief when, at dawn, a large steamer’s stacks were seen on the horizon, and eager eyes soon made out that the vessel was making for the scene.
The rescue ship proved to be the Carpathia, which had received the Titanic’s distress signals by wireless.
By 7 o’clock in the morning all the Titanic’s sixteen boats had been picked up and their chilled and hungry occupants welcomed over the Carpathia’s side. The Carpathia’s passengers, who were bound for a Mediterranean cruise, showed every consideration for the stricken, and many gave up their cabins that the shipwrecked might be made comfortable.
The rescued were in all conditions of dress and undress, and the women on the Carpathia vied with one another in supplying missing garments.
On the four days’ cruise back to New York many, who had realized that their experiences would be waited by an anxious world, put their narratives to paper while their nerves were still at a tension from the excitement of the disaster they had barely escaped.