This was one phase of that first half-hour. Up on the high bridge,
isolated from all the indoor life of the passengers, there was another
phase. The watches had been relieved at ten o'clock, when the ship had
settled down for the quietest and least eventful period of the whole
twenty-four hours. The First Officer, Mr. Murdoch, was in command of the
bridge, and with him was Mr. Boxhall, the Fourth Officer, and the usual
look-out staff. The moon had set, and the night was very cold, clear and
starry, except where here and there a slight haze hung on the surface of
the water. Captain Smith, to whom the night of the sea was like day, and
to whom all the invisible tracks and roads of the Atlantic were as
familiar as Fleet Street is to a _Daily Telegraph_ reporter, had been in
the chart room behind the bridge to plot out the course for the night,
and afterwards had gone to his room to lie down. Two pairs of sharp eyes
were peering forward from the crow's nest, another pair from the nose of
the ship on the fo'c'stle head, and at least three pairs from the bridge
itself, all staring into the dim night, quartering with busy glances the
area of the black sea in front of them where the foremast and its wire
shrouds and stays were swinging almost imperceptibly across the starry
sky.
At twenty minutes to twelve the silence of the night was broken by three
sharp strokes on the gong sounding from the crow's nest--a signal for
something right ahead; while almost simultaneously came a voice through
the telephone from the look-out announcing the presence of ice. There
was a kind of haze in front of the ship the colour of the sea, but
nothing could be distinguished from the bridge. Mr. Murdoch's hand was
on the telegraph immediately, and his voice rapped out the order to the
quartermaster to starboard the helm. The wheel spun round, the answering
click came up from the startled engine-room; but before anything else
could happen there was a slight shock, and a splintering sound from the
bows of the ship as she crashed into yielding ice. That was followed by
a rubbing, jarring, grinding sensation along her starboard bilge, and a
peak of dark-coloured ice glided past close alongside.
As the engines stopped in obedience to the telegraph Mr. Murdoch turned
the switches that closed the water-tight doors. Captain Smith came
running out of the chart room. "What is it?" he asked. "We have struck
ice, Sir." "Close the water-tight doors." "It is already done, Sir."
Then the Captain took command. He at once sent a message to the
carpenter to sound the ship and come and report; the quartermaster went
away with the message, and set the carpenter to work. Captain Smith now
gave a glance at the commutator, a dial which shows to what extent the
ship is off the perpendicular, and noticed that she carried a 5° list to
starboard. Coolly following a routine as exact as that which he would
have observed had he been conning the ship into dock, he gave a number
of orders in rapid succession, after first consulting with the Chief
Engineer. Then, having given instructions that the whole of the
available engine-power was to be turned to pumping the ship, he hurried
aft along the boat-deck to the Marconi room. Phillips was sitting at his
key, toiling through routine business; Bride, who had just got up to
relieve him, was sleepily making preparations to take his place. The
Captain put his head in at the door.
"We have struck an iceberg," he said, "and I am having an inspection
made to tell what it has done for us. Better get ready to send out a
call for assistance, but don't send it until I tell you."
He hurried away again; in a few minutes he put his head in at the door
again; "Send that call for assistance," he said.
"What call shall I send?" asked Phillips.
"The regulation international call for help, just that," said the
Captain, and was gone again.
But in five minutes he came back into the wireless room, this time
apparently not in such a hurry. "What call are you sending?" he asked;
and when Phillips told him "C.Q.D.," the highly technical and efficient
Bride suggested, laughingly, that he should send "S.O.S.," the new
international call for assistance which has superseded the C.Q.D. "It is
the new call," said Bride, "and it may be your last chance to send it!"
And they all three laughed, and then for a moment chatted about what had
happened, while Phillips tapped out the three longs, three shorts, and
three longs which instantaneously sent a message of appeal flashing out
far and wide into the dark night. The Captain, who did not seem
seriously worried or concerned, told them that the ship had been struck
amidships or a little aft of that.
Whatever may have been happening down below, everything up here was
quiet and matter-of-fact. It was a disaster, of course, but everything
was working well, everything had been done; the electric switches for
operating the bulkhead doors had been used promptly, and had worked
beautifully; the powerful wireless plant was talking to the ocean, and
in a few hours there would be some other ship alongside of them. It was
rough luck, to be sure; they had not thought they would so soon have a
chance of proving that the _Titanic_ was unsinkable.