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Captain Rostron burst into the wheelhouse, still buttoning the top few buttons on his starched white shirt.
“Captain on the bridge,” Dean shouted.
“How far away do you place us?” Rostron said without preamble.
“Forty-six miles and just under four hours, sir,” Rostron said quickly.
“Watch?” Rostron shouted.
A seaman stood next to the window with a pair of binoculars trained on the sea.
“Sir, I have bergs to both sides,” the seaman answered. “Seems like a field ahead.”
Rostron turned to Dean. “What speed have you ordered?”
“Three-quarters ahead, sir,” Dean noted.
“Roger,” Rostron said. “Sound the alarm to awake the crew, Mr. Dean, then alert the galley to start as much soup and other hot liquids as they possibly can.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said.
“Then place two sailors on the bow and one in the crow’s nest as lookouts.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said.
Rostron turned to another brass speaking tube. “Engine room.”
“This is Engineer Sullivan,” a sleepy sounding voice answered.
“Sullivan,” Rostron shouted, “Titanic has struck an iceberg forty-five miles distant and we’ve been called to help with the rescue.”
“Yes, sir,” Sullivan said quickly.
“I’m going to need every ounce of steam you can give me, Sullivan,” Rostron said. “The crew is being wakened now.”
“I understand, sir,” Sullivan said. “You can count on us.”
“Full steam ahead, then, Mr. Sullivan,” Rostron said.
“Full steam ahead,” Sullivan answered.
Carpathia’s top speed was rated at fourteen knots.
Within a quarter hour, Sullivan had her flying through the water at just over seventeen.
Carpathia was a buzz of activity. She was flying across the water like a wi
“Signal from the bow lookout,” the helmsman shouted, “ice to port.”
“Starboard an eight,” Rostron ordered.
Ship’s engineer Patrick Sullivan wiped his forehead with a rag, then stared again at the wall of gauges. Sullivan loved Carpathia and her i
Sullivan stared aft, where teams of firemen were singing a ditty while shoveling ton after ton of coal into the fireboxes. At each of the seven scotch boilers, a pair of men with loaded shovels would approach the open doors and heave their fuel into the flames. After stepping to the side to refill their shovels at a bunker port, another pair with loaded shovels would step forward and fling their contents into the inferno, only to be followed by another pair of men. There were three pairs of shovelers per boiler, forty-two men in all. The chanting men were stripped to the waist, covered with sweat and coal dust and constantly in motion.
Cold and fear. A stabbing cold from frozen water and frigid air. A palpable fear from witnessing death. The screams of the dying surrounded the few lifeboats that had been launched. To mark Titanic’s grave, the sea was littered with chunks of cork, floating deck chairs, and lifeless bodies bound in life belts. High overhead, a hoar frost framed the moon. Down at sea level, puffs of steam from the lungs of the survivors marked the presence of those who were lucky.
On Carpathia, Captain Rostron never wavered, never faltered.
He kept his command ru
Ten miles from Titanic’s last position, Second Officer Stone had watched the rockets light the night sky. He alerted Captain Lord, who was sleeping on the couch in the chart room. Lord inquired as to whether the rockets had all been white. After receiving a yes from Stone, Lord had gone back to sleep.
Then the lights of the liner had sunk lower in the water, as if she were steaming away.
The time was 2:45 A.M.
At 4 A.M., Stone was relieved by Chief Officer Frederick Stewart. He related the strange events to Stewart, then went belowdecks to sleep.
Smoke trailing from her towering stack and rockets blasting from her decks, Carpathia arrived at the reported coordinates at 4 A.M. Captain Rostron expected to see the Titanic still afloat.
After ordering the engines stopped, he ordered the lookouts to scan the surrounding area.
There was nothing.
Eight hundred and eighty-two feet of the finest ship yet constructed had vanished.
To the north, Rostron could see an unbroken line of ice. At the spot where Carpathia was stopped, the sea was littered with chunks of ice and several large bergs. Minute by minute, the sky began to lighten. The flickering stars overhead began to disappear as the coming light fought the darkness. Slowly, the scene came into focus.
At that instant, a green flare streaked skyward.
“Starboard a quarter,” Rostron ordered.
Carefully maneuvering through the chunks of ice, Carpathia pulled abreast of a lifeboat.
Mrs. Walter Douglas in Lifeboat 2 was hysterical. “Titanic has gone down with all hands,” she screamed up at those on the deck of Carpathia.
As deckhands secured Lifeboat 2 and began to unload the passengers, Rostron sca
A thick fur coat rolled on the light waves. A swamped steamer trunk was just barely above water. Wooden deck chairs, planks, and empty life vests. To add to the chaotic scene were chunks of ice and a pair of nearby bergs, which towered nearly two hundred feet over Carpathia’s highest point. Seat cushions and ornate rugs floated past. Hundreds of sheets of paper formed a floating parquet of a story never to be read. A case of champagne, another filled with tins of snails. Bottles and casks and wooden slats ripped from Titanic on her plunge to the depths.
A Bible, a hatbox, several pair of shoes. A single body dead for hours.
“Get the survivors off the boats and into the salon,” Rostron ordered.
One by one, the lifeboats rowed closer.
The nagging doubts that had plagued Chief Officer Stewart finally proved too much.
At 5:40 A.M., he woke the Californian’s wireless operator, Cyril Evans, and related what Stone had told him. Evans struggled to awake, then warmed up his wireless set and adjusted the dial. Seconds later, he heard the news.