STRUCK BY AN ICEBERG
“Watchman, what of the night?”--Isaiah 21:11.
MY stateroom was an outside one on Deck C on the starboard quarter,
somewhat abaft amidships. It was No. C, 51. I was enjoying a good
night’s rest when I was aroused by a sudden shock and noise forward on
the starboard side, which I at once concluded was caused by a
collision, with some other ship perhaps. I jumped from my bed, turned
on the electric light, glanced at my watch nearby on the dresser,
which I had changed to agree with ship’s time on the day before and
which now registered twelve o’clock. Correct ship’s time would make it
about 11.45. I opened the door of my cabin, looked out into the
corridor, but could not see or hear anyone--there was no commotion
whatever; but immediately following the collision came a great noise
of escaping steam. I listened intently, but could hear no machinery.
There was no mistaking that something wrong had happened, because of
the ship stopping and the blowing off of steam.
Removing my night clothing I dressed myself hurriedly in
underclothing, shoes and stockings, trousers and a Norfolk coat. I
give these details in order that some idea of the lapse of time may be
formed by an account of what I did during the interval. From my cabin,
through the corridor to the stairway was but a short distance, and I
ascended to the third deck above, that is, to the Boat Deck. I found
here only one young lad, seemingly bent on the same quest as myself.
From the first cabin quarter, forward on the port side, we strained
our eyes to discover what had struck us. From vantage points where the
view was not obstructed by the lifeboats on this deck I sought the
object, but in vain, though I swept the horizon near and far and
discovered nothing.
It was a beautiful night, cloudless, and the stars shining brightly.
The atmosphere was quite cold, but no ice or iceberg was in sight. If
another ship had struck us there was no trace of it, and it did not
yet occur to me that it was an iceberg with which we had collided. Not
satisfied with a partial investigation, I made a complete tour of the
deck, searching every point of the compass with my eyes. Going toward
the stern, I vaulted over the iron gate and fence that divide the
first and second cabin passengers. I disregarded the “not allowed”
notice. I looked about me towards the officers’ quarters in
expectation of being challenged for non-observance of rules. In view
of the collision I had expected to see some of the ship’s officers on
the Boat Deck, but there was no sign of an officer anywhere, and no
one from whom to obtain any information about what had happened.
Making my tour of the Boat Deck, the only other beings I saw were a
middle-aged couple of the second cabin promenading unconcernedly, arm
in arm, forward on the starboard quarter, against the wind, the man in
a gray overcoat and outing cap.
Having gained no satisfaction whatever, I descended to the
glass-enclosed Deck A, port side, and looked over the rail to see
whether the ship was on an even keel, but I still could see nothing
wrong. Entering the companionway, I passed Mr. Ismay with a member of
the crew hurrying up the stairway. He wore a day suit, and, as usual,
was hatless. He seemed too much preoccupied to notice anyone.
Therefore I did not speak to him, but regarded his face very closely,
perchance to learn from his manner how serious the accident might be.
It occurred to me then that he was putting on as brave a face as
possible so as to cause no alarm among the passengers.
At the foot of the stairway were a number of men passengers, and I now
for the first time discovered that others were aroused as well as
myself, among them my friend, Clinch Smith, from whom I first learned
that an iceberg had struck us. He opened his hand and showed me some
ice, flat like my watch, coolly suggesting that I might take it home
for a souvenir. All of us will remember the way he had of cracking a
joke without a smile. While we stood there, the story of the collision
came to us--how someone in the smoking room, when the ship struck,
rushed out to see what it was, and returning, told them that he had a
glimpse of an iceberg towering fifty feet above Deck A, which, if
true, would indicate a height of over one hundred feet. Here, too, I
learned that the mail room was flooded and that the plucky postal
clerks, in two feet of water, were at their posts. They were engaged
in transferring to the upper deck, from the ship’s post-office, the
two hundred bags of registered mail containing four hundred thousand
letters. The names of these men, who all sank with the ship, deserve
to be recorded. They were: John S. Marsh, William L. Gwynn, Oscar S.
Woody, Iago Smith and E. D. Williamson. The first three were
Americans, the others Englishmen, and the families of the former were
provided for by their Government.
And now Clinch Smith and myself noticed a list on the floor of the
companionway. We kept our own counsel about it, not wishing to
frighten anyone or cause any unnecessary alarm, especially among the
ladies, who then appeared upon the scene. We did not consider it our
duty to express our individual opinion upon the serious character of
the accident which now appealed to us with the greatest force. He and
I resolved to stick together in the final emergency, united in the
silent bond of friendship, and lend a helping hand to each other
whenever required. I recall having in my mind’s eye at this moment all
that I had read and heard in days gone by about shipwrecks, and
pictured Smith and myself clinging to an overloaded raft in an open
sea with a scarcity of food and water. We agreed to visit our
respective staterooms and join each other later. All possessions in my
stateroom were hastily packed into three large travelling bags so that
the luggage might be ready in the event of a hasty transfer to another
ship.
Fortunately I put on my long Newmarket overcoat that reached below my
knees, and as I passed from the corridor into the companionway my
worst fears were confirmed. Men and women were slipping on
life-preservers, the stewards assisting in adjusting them. Steward
Cullen insisted upon my returning to my stateroom for mine. I did so
and he fastened one on me while I brought out the other for use by
someone else.
Out on Deck A, port side, towards the stern, many men and women had
already collected. I sought and found the unprotected ladies to whom I
had proffered my services during the voyage when they boarded the ship
at Southampton, Mrs. E. D. Appleton, wife of my St. Paul’s School
friend and schoolmate; Mrs. R. C. Cornell, wife of the well-known New
York Justice, and Mrs. J. Murray Brown, wife of the Boston publisher,
all old friends of my wife. These three sisters were returning home
from a sad mission abroad, where they had laid to rest the remains of
a fourth sister, Lady Victor Drummond, of whose death I had read
accounts in the London papers, and all the sad details connected
therewith were told me by the sisters themselves. That they would have
to pass through a still greater ordeal seemed impossible, and how
little did I know of the responsibility I took upon myself for their
safety! Accompanying them, also unprotected, was their friend, Miss
Edith Evans, to whom they introduced me. Mr. and Mrs. Straus, Colonel
and Mrs. Astor and others well known to me were among those here
congregated on the port side of Deck A, including, besides Clinch
Smith, two of our coterie of after-dinner companions, Hugh Woolner,
son of the English sculptor, whose works are to be seen in Westminster
Abbey, and H. Björnström Steffanson, the young lieutenant of the
Swedish army, who, during the voyage, had told me of his acquaintance
with Mrs. Gracie’s relatives in Sweden.
It was now that the band began to play, and continued while the boats
were being lowered. We considered this a wise provision tending to
allay excitement. I did not recognize any of the tunes, but I know
they were cheerful and were not hymns. If, as has been reported,
“Nearer My God to Thee” was one of the selections, I assuredly should
have noticed it and regarded it as a tactless warning of immediate
death to us all and one likely to create a panic that our special
efforts were directed towards avoiding, and which we accomplished to
the fullest extent. I know of only two survivors whose names are cited
by the newspapers as authority for the statement that this hymn was
one of those played. On the other hand, all whom I have questioned or
corresponded with, including the best qualified, testified
emphatically to the contrary.
Our hopes were buoyed with the information, imparted through the
ship’s officers, that there had been an interchange of wireless
messages with passing ships, one of which was certainly coming to our
rescue. To reassure the ladies of whom I had assumed special charge, I
showed them a bright white light of what I took to be a ship about
five miles off and which I felt sure was coming to our rescue. Colonel
Astor heard me telling this to them and he asked me to show it and I
pointed the light out to him. In so doing we both had now to lean over
the rail of the ship and look close in towards the bow, avoiding a
lifeboat even then made ready with its gunwale lowered to the level of
the floor of the Boat Deck above us and obstructing our view; but
instead of growing brighter the light grew dim and less and less
distinct and passed away altogether. The light, as I have since
learned, with tearful regret for the lost who might have been saved,
belonged to the steamer _Californian_ of the Leyland line, Captain
Stanley Lord, bound from London to Boston. She belonged to the
International Mercantile Marine Company, the owners of the _Titanic_.
This was the ship from which two of the six “ice messages” were sent.
The first one received and acknowledged by the _Titanic_ was one at
7.30 p. m., an intercepted message to another ship. The next was
about 11 p. m., when the Captain of the _Californian_ saw a ship
approaching from the eastward, which he was advised to be the
_Titanic_, and under his orders this message was sent: “We are stopped
and surrounded by ice.” To this the _Titanic’s_ wireless operator
brusquely replied, “Shut up, I am busy. I am working Cape Race.” The
business here referred to was the sending of wireless messages for
passengers on the _Titanic_; and the stronger current of the
_Californian_ eastward interfered therewith. Though the navigation of
the ship and the issues of life and death were at stake, the right of
way was given to communication with Cape Race until within a few
minutes of the _Titanic’s_ collision with the iceberg.
Nearly all this time, until 11.30 p. m., the wireless operator of the
_Californian_ was listening with ’phones on his head, but at 11.30
p. m., while the _Titanic_ was still talking to Cape Race, the former
ship’s operator “put the ’phones down, took off his clothes and turned
in.”
The fate of thousands of lives hung in the balance many times that
ill-omened night, but _the circumstances in connection with the S. S.
Californian_ (Br. Rep. pp. 43-46), furnish the evidence corroborating
that of the American Investigation, viz., that it was not chance, but
the grossest negligence alone which sealed the fate of all the noble
lives, men and women, that were lost.
It appears from the evidence referred to, information in regard to
which we learned after our arrival in New York, that the Captain of
the _Californian_ and his crew were watching our lights from the deck
of their ship, which remained approximately stationary until 5.15
a. m. on the following morning. During this interval it is shown that
they were never distant more than six or seven miles. In fact, at 12
o’clock, the _Californian_ was only four or five miles off at the
point and in the general direction where she was seen by myself and at
least a dozen others, who bore testimony before the American
Committee, from the decks of the _Titanic_. The white rockets which we
sent up, referred to presently, were also plainly seen at the time.
Captain Lord was completely in possession of the knowledge that he was
in proximity to a ship in distress. He could have put himself into
immediate communication with us by wireless had he desired
confirmation of the name of the ship and the disaster which had
befallen it. His indifference is made apparent by his orders to “go on
Morseing,” instead of utilizing the more modern method of the
inventive genius and gentleman, Mr. Marconi, which eventually saved
us all. “The night was clear and the sea was smooth. The ice by which
the _Californian_ was surrounded,” says the British Report, “was loose
ice extending for a distance of not more than two or three miles in
the direction of the _Titanic_.” When she first saw the rockets, the
_Californian_ could have pushed through the ice to the open water
without any serious risk and so have come to the assistance of the
_Titanic_. A discussion of this subject is the most painful of all
others for those who lost their loved ones aboard our ship.
When we realized that the ship whose lights we saw was not coming
towards us, our hopes of rescue were correspondingly depressed, but
the men’s counsel to preserve calmness prevailed; and to reassure the
ladies they repeated the much advertised fiction of “the unsinkable
ship” on the supposed highest qualified authority. It was at this
point that Miss Evans related to me the story that years ago in London
she had been told by a fortune-teller to “beware of water,” and now
“she knew she would be drowned.” My efforts to persuade her to the
contrary were futile. Though she gave voice to her story, she
presented no evidence whatever of fear, and when I saw and conversed
with her an hour later when conditions appeared especially desperate,
and the last lifeboat was supposed to have departed, she was
perfectly calm and did not revert again to the superstitious tale.
[Illustration: MR. AND MRS. ISIDOR STRAUS]
From my own conclusions, and those of others, it appears that about
forty-five minutes had now elapsed since the collision when Captain
Smith’s orders were transmitted to the crew to lower the lifeboats,
loaded with women and children first. The self-abnegation of Mr. and
Mrs. Isidor Straus here shone forth heroically when she promptly and
emphatically exclaimed: “No! I will not be separated from my husband;
as we have lived, so will we die together;” and when he, too, declined
the assistance proffered on my earnest solicitation that, because of
his age and helplessness, exception should be made and he be allowed
to accompany his wife in the boat. “No!” he said, “I do not wish any
distinction in my favor which is not granted to others.” As near as I
can recall them these were the words which they addressed to me. They
expressed themselves as fully prepared to die, and calmly sat down in
steamer chairs on the glass-enclosed Deck A, prepared to meet their
fate. Further entreaties to make them change their decision were of no
avail. Later they moved to the Boat Deck above, accompanying Mrs.
Straus’s maid, who entered a lifeboat.
When the order to load the boats was received I had promptly moved
forward with the ladies in my charge toward the boats then being
lowered from the Boat Deck above to Deck A on the port side of the
ship, where we then were. A tall, slim young Englishman, Sixth Officer
J. P. Moody, whose name I learned later, with other members of the
ship’s crew, barred the progress of us men passengers any nearer to
the boats. All that was left me was then to consign these ladies in my
charge to the protection of the ship’s officer, and I thereby was
relieved of their responsibility and felt sure that they would be
safely loaded in the boats at this point. I remember a steward rolling
a small barrel out of the door of the companionway. “What have you
there?” said I. “Bread for the lifeboats,” was his quick and cheery
reply, as I passed inside the ship for the last time, searching for
two of my table companions, Mrs. Churchill Candee of Washington and
Mr. Edward A. Kent. It was then that I met Wright, the racquet player,
and exchanged the few words on the stairway already related.
Considering it well to have a supply of blankets for use in the open
boats exposed to the cold, I concluded, while passing, to make
another, and my last, descent to my stateroom for this purpose, only
to find it locked, and on asking the reason why was told by some other
steward than Cullen that it was done “to prevent looting.” Advising
him of what was wanted, I went with him to the cabin stewards’
quarters nearby, where extra blankets were stored, and where I
obtained them. I then went the length of the ship inside on this
glass-enclosed Deck A from aft, forwards, looking in every room and
corner for my missing table companions, but no passengers whatever
were to be seen except in the smoking room, and there all alone by
themselves, seated around a table, were four men, three of whom were
personally well known to me, Major Butt, Clarence Moore and Frank
Millet, but the fourth was a stranger, whom I therefore cannot
identify. All four seemed perfectly oblivious of what was going on on
the decks outside. It is impossible to suppose that they did not know
of the collision with an iceberg and that the room they were in had
been deserted by all others, who had hastened away. It occurred to me
at the time that these men desired to show their entire indifference
to the danger and that if I advised them as to how seriously I
regarded it, they would laugh at me. This was the last I ever saw of
any of them, and I know of no one who testifies to seeing them later,
except a lady who mentions having seen Major Butt on the bridge five
minutes before the last boat left the ship.[1] There is no authentic
story of what they did when the water reached this deck, and their
ultimate fate is only a matter of conjecture. That they went down in
the ship on this Deck A, when the steerage passengers (as described
later) blocked the way to the deck above, is my personal belief,
founded on the following facts, to wit: First, that neither I nor
anyone else, so far as I know, ever saw any of them on the Boat Deck,
and second, that the bodies of none of them were ever recovered,
indicating the possibility that all went down inside the ship or the
enclosed deck.
[1] See page --.
I next find myself forward on the port side, part of the time on the
Boat Deck, and part on the deck below it, called Deck A, where I
rejoined Clinch Smith, who reported that Mrs. Candee had departed on
one of the boats. We remained together until the ship went down. I was
on the Boat Deck when I saw and heard the first rocket, and then
successive ones sent up at intervals thereafter. These were followed
by the Morse red and blue lights, which were signalled near by us on
the deck where we were; but we looked in vain for any response. These
signals of distress indicated to every one of us that the ship’s
fate was sealed, and that she might sink before the lifeboats could be
lowered.
[Illustration: FIRST-CLASS SMOKING ROOM]
And now I am on Deck A again, where I helped in the loading of two
boats lowered from the deck above. There were twenty boats in all on
the ship: 14 wooden lifeboats, each thirty feet long by nine feet one
inch broad, constructed to carry sixty-five persons each; 2 wooden
cutters, emergency boats, twenty-five feet two inches long by seven
feet two inches broad, constructed to carry forty persons each; and 4
Engelhardt “surf-boats” with canvas collapsible sides extending above
the gunwales, twenty-five feet five inches long by eight feet broad,
constructed to carry forty-seven persons each. The lifeboats were
ranged along the ship’s rail, or its prolongation forward and aft on
the Boat Deck, the odd numbered on the starboard and the even numbered
on the port side. Two of the Engelhardt boats were on the Boat Deck
forward beneath the Emergency boats suspended on davits above. The
other Engelhardt boats were on the roof of the officers’ house forward
of the first funnel. They are designated respectively by the letters,
A. B. C. D.; A and C on the starboard, B and D on the port sides. They
have a rounded bottom like a canoe. The name “collapsible boat”
generally applied has given rise to mistaken impressions in regard to
them, because of the adjustable canvas sides above-mentioned.
At this quarter I was no longer held back from approaching near the
boats, but my assistance and work as one of the crew in the loading of
boats and getting them away as quickly as possible were accepted, for
there was now no time to spare. The Second Officer, Lightoller, was in
command on the port side forward, where I was. One of his feet was
planted in the lifeboat, and the other on the rail of Deck A, while
we, through the wood frames of the lowered glass windows on this deck,
passed women, children, and babies in rapid succession without any
confusion whatsoever. Among this number was Mrs. Astor, whom I lifted
over the four-feet high rail of the ship through the frame. Her
husband held her left arm as we carefully passed her to Lightoller,
who seated her in the boat. A dialogue now ensued between Colonel
Astor and the officer, every word of which I listened to with intense
interest. Astor was close to me in the adjoining window-frame, to the
left of mine. Leaning out over the rail he asked permission of
Lightoller to enter the boat to protect his wife, which, in view of
her delicate condition, seems to have been a reasonable request, but
the officer, intent upon his duty, and obeying orders, and not
knowing the millionaire from the rest of us, replied: “No, sir, no men
are allowed in these boats until women are loaded first.” Colonel
Astor did not demur, but bore the refusal bravely and resignedly,
simply asking the number of the boat to help find his wife later in
case he also was rescued. “Number 4,” was Lightoller’s reply. Nothing
more was said. Colonel Astor moved away from this point and I never
saw him again. I do not for a moment believe the report that he
attempted to enter, or did enter, a boat and it is evident that if any
such thought occurred to him at all it must have been at this present
time and in this boat with his wife. Second Officer Lightoller
recalled the incident perfectly when I reminded him of it. It was only
through me that Colonel Astor’s identity was established in his mind.
“I assumed,” said he, “that I was asked to give the number of the
lifeboat as the passenger intended, for some unknown cause, to make
complaint about me.” From the fact that I never saw Colonel Astor on
the Boat Deck later, and also because his body, when found, was
crushed (according to the statement of one who saw it at Halifax, Mr.
Harry K. White, of Boston, Mr. Edward A. Kent’s brother-in-law, my
schoolmate and friend from boyhood), I am of the opinion that he met
his fate on the ship when the boilers tore through it, as described
later.
One of the incidents I recall when loading the boats at this point
was my seeing a young woman clinging tightly to a baby in her arms as
she approached near the ship’s high rail, but unwilling even for a
moment to allow anyone else to hold the little one while assisting her
to board the lifeboat. As she drew back sorrowfully to the outer edge
of the crowd on the deck, I followed and persuaded her to accompany me
to the rail again, promising if she would entrust the baby to me I
would see that the officer passed it to her after she got aboard. I
remember her trepidation as she acceded to my suggestion and the happy
expression of relief when the mother was safely seated with the baby
restored to her. “Where is my baby?” was her anxious wail. “I have
your baby,” I cried, as it was tenderly handed along. I remember this
incident well because of my feeling at the time, when I had the babe
in my care; though the interval was short, I wondered how I should
manage with it in my arms if the lifeboats got away and I should be
plunged into the water with it as the ship sank.
According to Lightoller’s testimony before the Senate Committee he put
twenty to twenty-five women, with two seamen to row, in the first boat
and thirty, with two seamen, in the second.
Our labors in loading the boats were now shifted to the Boat Deck
above, where Clinch Smith and I, with others, followed Lightoller and
the crew. On this deck some difficulty was experienced in getting the
boats ready to lower. Several causes may have contributed to this,
viz., lack of drill and insufficient number of seamen for such
emergency, or because of the new tackle not working smoothly. We had
the hardest time with the Engelhardt boat, lifting and pushing it
towards and over the rail. My shoulders and the whole weight of my
body were used in assisting the crew at this work. Lightoller’s
testimony tells us that as the situation grew more serious he began to
take chances and in loading the third boat he filled it up as full as
he dared to, with about thirty-five persons. By this time he was short
of seamen, and in the fourth boat he put the first man passenger. “Are
you a sailor?” Lightoller asked, and received the reply from the
gentleman addressed that he was “a yachtsman.” Lightoller told him if
he was “sailor enough to get out over the bulwarks to the lifeboat, to
go ahead.” This passenger was Major Arthur Peuchen, of Toronto, who
acquitted himself as a brave man should. My energies were so
concentrated upon this work of loading the boats at this quarter that
lapse of time, sense of sight and sense of hearing recorded no
impressions during this interval until the last boat was loaded; but
there is one fact of which I am positive, and that is that every man,
woman, officer and member of the crew did their full duty without a
sign of fear or confusion. Lightoller’s strong and steady voice rang
out his orders in clear firm tones, inspiring confidence and
obedience. There was not one woman who shed tears or gave any sign of
fear or distress. There was not a man at this quarter of the ship who
indicated a desire to get into the boats and escape with the women.
There was not a member of the crew who shirked, or left his post. The
coolness, courage, and sense of duty that I here witnessed made me
thankful to God and proud of my Anglo-Saxon race that gave this
perfect and superb exhibition of self-control at this hour of severest
trial. “The boat’s deck was only ten feet from the water when I
lowered the sixth boat,” testified Lightoller, “and when we lowered
the first, the distance to the water was seventy feet.” We had now
loaded all the women who were in sight at that quarter of the ship,
and I ran along the deck with Clinch Smith on the port side some
distance aft shouting, “Are there any more women?” “Are there any more
women?” On my return there was a very palpable list to port as if the
ship was about to topple over. The deck was on a corresponding slant.
“All passengers to the starboard side,” was Lightoller’s loud
command, heard by all of us. Here I thought the final crisis had come,
with the boats all gone, and when we were to be precipitated into the
sea.
Prayerful thoughts now began to rise in me that my life might be
preserved and I be restored to my loved ones at home. I weighed myself
in the balance, doubtful whether I was thus deserving of God’s mercy
and protection. I questioned myself as to the performance of my
religious duties according to the instructions of my earliest
Preceptor, the Rev. Henry A. Coit, whose St. Paul’s School at Concord,
N. H., I had attended. My West Point training in the matter of
recognition of constituted authority and maintenance of composure
stood me in good stead.
My friend, Clinch Smith, urged immediate obedience to Lightoller’s
orders, and, with other men passengers, we crossed over to the
starboard quarter of the ship, forward on the same Boat Deck where, as
I afterwards learned, the officer in command was First Officer
Murdoch, who had also done noble work, and was soon thereafter to lose
his life. Though the deck here was not so noticeably aslant as on the
port side, the conditions appeared fully as desperate. All the
lifeboats had been lowered and had departed. There was somewhat of a
crowd congregated along the rail. The light was sufficient for me to
recognize distinctly many of those with whom I was well acquainted.
Here, pale and determined, was Mr. John B. Thayer, Second
Vice-President of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Mr. George D.
Widener. They were looking over the ship’s gunwale, talking earnestly
as if debating what to do. Next to them it pained me to discover Mrs.
J. M. Brown and Miss Evans, the two ladies whom more than an hour
previous I had, as related, consigned to the care of Sixth Officer
Moody on Deck A, where he, as previously described, blocked my purpose
of accompanying these ladies and personally assisting them into the
boat. They showed no signs of perturbation whatever as they conversed
quietly with me. Mrs. Brown quickly related how they became separated,
in the crowd, from her sisters, Mrs. Appleton and Mrs. Cornell. Alas!
that they had not remained on the same port side of the ship, or moved
forward on Deck A, or the Boat Deck! Instead, they had wandered in
some unexplained way to the very furthest point diagonally from where
they were at first. At the time of introduction I had not caught Miss
Evans’ name, and when we were here together at this critical moment I
thought it important to ask, and she gave me her name. Meantime the
crew were working on the roof of the officers’ quarters to cut loose
one of the Engelhardt boats. All this took place more quickly than it
takes to write it.
Meantime, I will describe what was going on at the quarter where I
left Lightoller loading the last boat on the port side. The
information was obtained personally from him, in answer to my careful
questioning during the next few days on board the _Carpathia_, when I
made notes thereof, which were confirmed again the next week in
Washington, where we were both summoned before the Senate
Investigating Committee. “Men from the steerage,” he said, “rushed the
boat.” “Rush” is the word he used, meaning they got in without his
permission. He drew his pistol and ordered them out, threatening to
shoot if they attempted to enter the boat again. I presume it was in
consequence of this incident that the crew established the line which
I encountered, presently referred to, which blocked the men passengers
from approaching the last boat loaded on the port side forward, where
we had been, and the last one that was safely loaded from the ship.
During this very short interval I was on the starboard side, as
described, next to the rail, with Mrs. Brown and Miss Evans, when I
heard a member of the crew, coming from the quarter where the last
boat was loaded, say that there was room for more ladies in it. I
immediately seized each lady by the arm, and, with Miss Evans on my
right and Mrs. Brown on my left, hurried, with three other ladies
following us, toward the port side; but I had not proceeded half-way,
and near amidship, when I was stopped by the aforesaid line of the
crew barring my progress, and one of the officers told me that only
the women could pass.
The story of what now happened to Mrs. Brown and Miss Evans after they
left me must be told by Mrs. Brown, as related to me by herself when I
rejoined her next on board the _Carpathia_. Miss Evans led the way,
she said, as they neared the rail where what proved to be the last
lifeboat was being loaded, but in a spirit of most heroic
self-sacrifice Miss Evans insisted upon Mrs. Brown’s taking precedence
in being assisted aboard the boat. “You go first,” she said. “You are
married and have children.” But when Miss Evans attempted to follow
after, she was unable to do so for some unknown cause. The women in
the boat were not able, it would appear, to pull Miss Evans in. It was
necessary for her first to clear the four feet high ship’s gunwale,
and no man or member of the crew was at this particular point to lift
her over. I have questioned Mr. Lightoller several times about this,
but he has not been able to give any satisfactory explanation and
cannot understand it, for when he gave orders to lower away, there was
no woman in sight. I have further questioned him as to whether there
was an interval between the ship’s rail and the lifeboat he was
loading, but he says, “No,” for until the very last boat he stood, as
has already been described, with one foot planted on the ship’s
gunwale and the other in the lifeboat. I had thought that the list of
the ship might have caused too much of an interval for him to have
done this. Perhaps what I have read in a letter of Mrs. Brown may
furnish some reason why Miss Evans’ efforts to board the lifeboat, in
which there was plenty of room for her, were unavailing. “Never mind,”
she is said to have called out, “I will go on a later boat.” She then
ran away and was not seen again; but there was no later boat, and it
would seem that after a momentary impulse, being disappointed and
being unable to get into the boat, she went aft on the port side, and
no one saw her again. Neither the second officer nor I saw any women
on the deck during the interval thereafter of fifteen or twenty
minutes before the great ship sank.
An inspection of the American and British Reports shows that all women
and children of the first cabin were saved except five. Out of the one
hundred and fifty these were the five lost: (1) Miss Evans; (2) Mrs.
Straus; (3) Mrs. H. J. Allison, of Montreal; (4) her daughter, Miss
Allison, and (5) Miss A. E. Isham, of New York. The first two have
already been accounted for. Mrs. Allison and Miss Allison could have
been saved had they not chosen to remain on the ship. They refused to
enter the lifeboat unless Mr. Allison was allowed to go with them.
This statement was made in my presence by Mrs. H. A. Cassebeer, of New
York, who related it to Mrs. Allison’s brother, Mr. G. F. Johnston,
and myself. Those of us who survived among the first cabin passengers
will remember this beautiful Mrs. Allison, and will be glad to know of
the heroic mould in which she was cast, as exemplified by her fate,
which was similar to that of another, Mrs. Straus, who has been
memorialized the world over. The fifth lady lost was Miss A. E. Isham,
and she is the only one of whom no survivor, so far as I can learn, is
able to give any information whatever as to where she was or what she
did on that fateful Sunday night. Her relatives, learning that her
stateroom, No. C, 49, adjoined mine, wrote me in the hope that I might
be able to furnish some information to their sorrowing hearts about
her last hours on the shipwrecked _Titanic_. It was with much regret
that I replied that I had not seen my neighbor at any time, and, not
having the pleasure of her acquaintance, identification was
impossible. I was, however, glad to be able to assure her family of
one point, viz., that she did not meet with the horrible fate which
they feared, in being locked in her stateroom and drowned. I had
revisited my stateroom twice after being aroused by the collision, and
am sure that she was fully warned of what had happened, and after she
left her stateroom it was locked behind her, as was mine.
[Illustration: BEDROOM OF PARLOR SUITE]
[Illustration: SUITE BEDROOM]
The simple statement of fact that all of the first cabin women were
sent off in the lifeboats and saved, except five--three of whom met
heroic death through choice and two by some mischance--is in itself
the most sublime tribute that could be paid to the self-sacrifice and
the gallantry of the first cabin men, including all the grand heroes
who sank with the ship and those of us who survived their fate. All
authentic testimony of both first and second cabin passengers is also
in evidence that the Captain’s order for women and children to be
loaded first met with the unanimous approval of us all, and in every
instance was carried out both in letter and in spirit. In Second
Officer Lightoller’s testimony before the Senate Committee, when asked
whether the Captain’s order was a rule of the sea, he answered that it
was “the rule of human nature.” There is no doubt in my mind that the
men at that quarter where we were would have adopted the same rule
spontaneously whether ordered by the Captain, or not. Speaking from my
own personal observation, which by comparison with that of the second
officer I find in accord with his, all six boat loads, including the
last, departed with women and children only, with not a man passenger
except Major Peuchen, whose services were enlisted to replace the lack
of crew. I may say further that with the single exception of Colonel
Astor’s plea for the protection of his wife, in delicate condition,
there was not one who made a move or a suggestion to enter a boat.
While the light was dim on the decks it was always sufficient for me
to recognize anyone with whom I was acquainted, and I am happy in
being able to record the names of those I know beyond any doubt
whatever, as with me in these last terrible scenes when Lightoller’s
boats were being lowered and after the last lifeboat had left the
ship. The names of these were: James Clinch Smith, Colonel John Jacob
Astor, Mr. John B. Thayer and Mr. George D. Widener. So far as I know,
and my research has been exhaustive, I am the sole surviving passenger
who was with or assisted Lightoller in the loading of the last boats.
When I first saw and realized that every lifeboat had left the ship,
the sensation felt was not an agreeable one. No thought of fear
entered my head, but I experienced a feeling which others may recall
when holding the breath in the face of some frightful emergency and
when “vox faucibus hæsit,” as frequently happened to the old Trojan
hero of our school days. This was the nearest approach to fear, if it
can be so characterized, that is discernible in an analysis of my
actions or feelings while in the midst of the many dangers which beset
me during that night of terror. Though still worse and seemingly many
hopeless conditions soon prevailed, and unexpected ones, too, when I
felt that “any moment might be my last,” I had no time to contemplate
danger when there was continuous need of quick thought, action and
composure withal. Had I become rattled for a moment, or in the
slightest degree been undecided during the several emergencies
presently cited, I am certain that I never should have lived to tell
the tale of my miraculous escape. For it is eminently fitting, in
gratitude to my Maker, that I should make the acknowledgment that I
know of no recorded instance of Providential deliverance more directly
attributable to cause and effect, illustrating the efficacy of prayer
and how “God helps those who help themselves.” I should have only
courted the fate of many hundreds of others had I supinely made no
effort to supplement my prayers with all the strength and power which
He has granted to me. While I said to myself, “Good-bye to all at
home,” I hoped and prayed for escape. My mind was nerved to do the
duty of the moment, and my muscles seemed to be hardened in
preparation for any struggle that might come. When I learned that
there was still another boat, the Engelhardt, on the roof of the
officers’ quarters, I felt encouraged with the thought that here was a
chance of getting away before the ship sank; but what was one boat
among so many eager to board her?
During my short absence in conducting the ladies to a position of
safety, Mr. Thayer and Mr. Widener had disappeared, but I know not
whither. Mr. Widener’s son, Harry, was probably with them, but Mr.
Thayer supposed that his young son, Jack, had left the ship in the
same boat with his mother. Messrs. Thayer and Widener must have gone
toward the stern during the short interval of my absence. No one at
this point had jumped into the sea. If there had been any, both Clinch
Smith and I would have known it. After the water struck the bridge
forward there were many who rushed aft, climbed over the rail and
jumped, but I never saw one of them.
I was now working with the crew at the davits on the starboard side
forward, adjusting them, ready for lowering the Engelhardt boat from
the roof of the officers’ house to the Boat Deck below. Some one of
the crew on the roof, where it was, sang out, “Has any passenger a
knife?” I took mine out of my pocket and tossed it to him, saying,
“Here is a small penknife, if that will do any good.” It appeared to
me then that there was more trouble than there ought to have been in
removing the canvas cover and cutting the boat loose, and that some
means should have been available for doing this without any delay.
Meantime, four or five long oars were placed aslant against the walls
of the officers’ house to break the fall of the boat, which was pushed
from the roof and slipped with a crash down on the Boat Deck, smashing
several of the oars. Clinch Smith and I scurried out of the way and
stood leaning with our backs against the rail, watching this procedure
and feeling anxious lest the boat might have been stove in, or
otherwise injured so as to cause her to leak in the water. The account
of the junior Marconi operator, Harold S. Bride, supplements mine. “I
saw a collapsible boat,” he said, “near a funnel, and went over to it.
Twelve men were trying to boost it down to the Boat Deck. They were
having an awful time. It was the last boat left. I looked at it
longingly a few minutes; then I gave a hand and over she went.”
About this time I recall that an officer on the roof of the house
called down to the crew at this quarter, “Are there any seamen down
there among you?” “Aye, aye, sir,” was the response, and quite a
number left the Boat Deck to assist in what I supposed to have been
the cutting loose of the other Engelhardt boat up there on the roof.
Again I heard an inquiry for another knife. I thought I recognized the
voice of the second officer working up there with the crew. Lightoller
has told me, and has written me as well, that “boat A on the starboard
side did not leave the ship,”[2] while “B was thrown down to the Boat
Deck,” and was the one on which he and I eventually climbed. The crew
had thrown the Engelhardt boat to the deck, but I did not understand
why they were so long about launching it, unless they were waiting to
cut the other one loose and launch them both at the same time. Two
young men of the crew, nice looking, dressed in white, one tall and
the other smaller, were coolly debating as to whether the compartments
would hold the ship afloat. They were standing with their backs to the
rail looking on at the rest of the crew, and I recall asking one of
them why he did not assist.
[2] With the evidence on the subject presented later he
recognizes that Boat A floated away and was afterwards utilized.
At this time there were other passengers around, but Clinch Smith was
the only one associated with me here to the last. It was about this
time, fifteen minutes after the launching of the last lifeboat on the
port side, that I heard a noise that spread consternation among us
all. This was no less than the water striking the bridge and gurgling
up the hatchway forward. It seemed momentarily as if it would reach
the Boat Deck. It appeared as if it would take the crew a long time to
turn the Engelhardt boat right side up and lift it over the rail, and
there were so many ready to board her that she would have been
swamped. Probably taking these points into consideration, Clinch Smith
made the proposition that we should leave and go toward the stern,
still on the starboard side, so he started and I followed immediately
after him. We had taken but a few steps in the direction indicated
when there arose before us from the decks below, a mass of humanity
several lines deep, covering the Boat Deck, facing us, and completely
blocking our passage toward the stern.
There were women in the crowd, as well as men, and they seemed to be
steerage passengers who had just come up from the decks below.
Instantly, when they saw us and the water on the deck chasing us from
behind, they turned in the opposite direction towards the stern. This
brought them at that point plumb against the iron fence and railing
which divide the first and second cabin passengers. Even among these
people there was no hysterical cry, or evidence of panic, but oh, the
agony of it! Clinch Smith and I instantly saw that we could make no
progress ahead, and with the water following us behind over the deck,
we were in a desperate place. I can never forget the exact point on
the ship where he and I were located, viz., at the opening of the
angle made by the walls of the officers’ house and only a short
distance abaft the _Titanic’s_ forward “expansion joint.” Clinch Smith
was immediately on my left, nearer the apex of the angle, and our
backs were turned toward the ship’s rail and the sea. Looking up
toward the roof of the officers’ house I saw a man to the right of me
and above lying on his stomach on the roof, with his legs dangling
over. Clinch Smith jumped to reach this roof, and I promptly followed.
The efforts of both of us failed. I was loaded down with heavy
long-skirted overcoat and Norfolk coat beneath, with clumsy
life-preserver over all, which made my jump fall short. As I came
down, the water struck my right side. I crouched down into it
preparatory to jumping with it, and rose as if on the crest of a wave
on the seashore. This expedient brought the attainment of the
object I had in view. I was able to reach the roof and the iron
railing that is along the edge of it, and pulled myself over on top of
the officers’ house on my stomach near the base of the second funnel.
The feat which I instinctively accomplished was the simple one,
familiar to all bathers in the surf at the seashore. I had no time to
advise Clinch Smith to adopt it. To my utter dismay, a hasty glance to
my left and right showed that he had not followed my example, and that
the wave, if I may call it such, which had mounted me to the roof, had
completely covered him, as well as all people on both sides of me,
including the man I had first seen athwart the roof.
[Illustration: JAMES CLINCH SMITH]
I was thus parted forever from my friend, Clinch Smith, with whom I
had agreed to remain to the last struggle. I felt almost a pang of
responsibility for our separation; but he was not in sight and there
was no chance of rendering assistance. His ultimate fate is a matter
of conjecture. Hemmed in by the mass of people toward the stern, and
cornered in the locality previously described, it seems certain that
as the ship keeled over and sank, his body was caught in the angle or
in the coils of rope and other appurtenances on the deck and borne
down to the depths below. There could not be a braver man than James
Clinch Smith. He was the embodiment of coolness and courage during
the whole period of the disaster. While in constant touch and
communication with him at the various points on the ship when we were
together on this tragic night, he never showed the slightest sign of
fear, but manifested the same quiet imperturbable manner so well known
to all of his friends, who join with his family in mourning his loss.
His conduct should be an inspiration to us all, and an appropriate
epitaph to his memory taken from the words of Christ would be:
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for
his friend.”