A Night to Remember

by Walter Lord

IN 1898 A STRUGGLING author named Morgan Robertson concocted a novel about a fabulous Atlantic liner, far larger than any that had ever been built. Robertson loaded his ship with rich and complacent people and then wrecked it one cold April night on an iceberg. This somehow showed the futility of everything, and in fact, the book was called Futility when it appeared that year, published by the firm of M. F. Mansfield. Fourteen years later a British shipping company named the White Star Line built a steamer remarkably like the one in Robertson’s novel. The new liner was 66,000 tons displacement; Robertson’s was 70,000. The real ship was 882.5 feet long; the fictional one was 800 feet. Both vessels were triple screw and could make 24-25 knots. Both could carry about 3,000 people, and both had enough lifeboats for only a fraction of this number. But, then, this didn’t seem to matter because both were labeled “unsinkable.” On April 10, 1912, the real ship left Southampton on her maiden voyage to New York. Her cargo included a priceless copy of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám and a list of passengers collectively worth two hundred fifty million dollars. On her way over she too struck an iceberg and went down on a cold April night. Robertson called his ship the Titan; the White Star Line called its ship the Titanic. This is the story of her last night.

At 12:15 it was hard to know whether to joke or be serious—whether to chop down a door and be a hero, or chop it down and get arrested. No two people seemed to have the same reaction.

The things people took with them showed how they felt. Adolf Dyker handed his wife a small satchel containing two gold watches, two diamond rings, a sapphire necklace, and 200 Swedish crowns. Miss Edith Russell carried a musical toy pig (it played the Maxixe). Stewart Collett, a young theological student traveling Second Class, took the Bible he promised his brother he’d always carry until they met again. Lawrence Beesley stuffed the pockets of his Norfolk jacket with the books he had been reading in bed. Norman Campbell Chambers pocketed a revolver and compass. Steward Johnson, by now anticipating far more than “another Belfast trip,” stuck four oranges under his blouse. Mrs. Dickinson Bishop left behind 11,000 dollars in jewelry, then sent her husband back for her muff.

The clock in the wireless shack said 12:45 A.M. when the Titanic sent the first SOS call in history.

At one point he thought she was trying to signal the Californian with her Morse lamp. He tried to answer with his own lamp, but soon gave up. He decided the stranger’s masthead light was merely flickering. Second Officer Herbert Stone, pacing the Californian’s bridge, also kept his eye on this strange steamer. At 12:45 he saw a sudden flash of white light burst over her. Strange, he thought, that a ship would fire rockets at night.

The Titanic needed help—needed it so badly she was calling on any ship near enough to see. The others on the Boat Deck understood too. There was no more joking or lingering. In fact, there was hardly time to say good-bye. “It’s all right, little girl,” called Dan Marvin to his new bride; “you go and I’ll stay a while.” He blew her a kiss as she entered the boat. “I’ll see you later,” Adolf Dyker smiled as he helped Mrs. Dyker across the gunwale. “Be brave; no matter what happens, be brave,” Dr. W. T. Minahan told Mrs. Minahan as he stepped back with the other men. Mr. Turrell Cavendish said nothing to Mrs. Cavendish. Just a kiss … a long look … another kiss … and he disappeared into the crowd. Mark Fortune took his wife’s valuables, as he and his son Charles saw off Mrs. Fortune and their three daughters. “I’ll take care of them; we’re going in the next boat,” he explained. “Charles, take care of Father,” one of the girls called back to her brother. “Walter, you must come with me,” begged Mrs. Walter D. Douglas. “No,” Mr. Douglas replied, turning away, “I must be a gentleman.”

Some who left everything in their cabins now thought better of it and ventured below to get their valuables. They were in for unpleasant surprises. Celiney Yasbeck found her room was completely under water. Gus Cohen discovered the same thing. Victorine, the Ryersons’ French maid, had an even more disturbing experience. She found her cabin still dry, but as she rummaged about, she heard a key turn and suddenly realized the steward was locking the stateroom door to prevent looting. Her shriek was just in time to keep him from locking her in. Without stretching her luck any further, she dashed back on deck empty-handed.

The staff of the First Class à la carte restaurant were having the hardest time of all. They were neither fish nor fowl. Obviously they weren’t passengers, but technically they weren’t crew either. The restaurant was not run by the White Star Line but by Monsieur Gatti as a concession. Thus, the employees had no status at all. And to make matters worse, they were French and Italian—objects of deep Anglo-Saxon suspicion at a time like this in 1912. From the very start they never had a chance. Steward Johnson remembered seeing them herded together down by their quarters on E Deck aft. Manager Gatti, his Chef and the Chefs Assistant, Paul Maugé, were the only ones who made it to the Boat Deck. They got through because they happened to be in civilian clothes; the crew thought they were passengers.

Chef John Collins couldn’t do much of anything about the wave. He had a baby in his arms. For five minutes he and a deck steward had been trying to help a steerage woman with two children. First they heard there was a boat on the port side. They ran there and heard it was on the starboard side. When they got there, somebody said their best chance was to head for the stern. Bewildered, they were standing undecided—Collins holding one of the babies—when they were all swept overboard by the wave. He never saw the others again, and the child was washed out of his arms.

The night was a magnificent confirmation of “women and children first,” yet somehow the loss rate was higher for Third Class children than First Class men. It was a contrast which would never get by the social consciousness (or news sense) of today’s press.

Nor did Congress care what happened to Third Class. Senator Smith’s Titanic investigation covered everything under the sun, including what an iceberg was made of (“Ice,” explained Fifth Officer Lowe), but the steerage received little attention. Only three of the witnesses were Third Class passengers. Two of these said they were kept from going to the Boat Deck, but the legislators didn’t follow up. Again, the testimony doesn’t suggest any deliberate hush-up—it was just that no one was interested.

Third Officer Pitman in No. 5 also heard the cries. He turned the boat around and shouted, “Now, men, we will pull toward the wreck!” “Appeal to the officer not to go back,” a lady begged Steward Etches as he tugged at his oar. “Why should we all lose our lives in a useless attempt to save others from the ship?” Other women protested too. Pitman was torn by the dilemma. Finally he reversed his orders and told his men to lay on their oars. For the next hour No. 5—40 people in a boat that held 65—heaved gently in the calm Atlantic swell, while its passengers listened to the swimmers 300 yards away.

In boat after boat the story was the same: a timid suggestion, a stronger refusal, nothing done. Of 1,600 people who went down on the Titanic, only 13 were picked up by the 18 boats that hovered nearby. Boat D hauled in Mr. Hoyt because he planned it that way. Boat 4 rescued eight—not because it rowed back but because it was within reach. Only No. 14 returned to the scene. Why the others didn’t is part of the mystery of why trained men in the identical situation should react so differently.

As the cries died away the night became strangely peaceful. The Titanic, the agonizing suspense, was gone. The shock of what had happened, the confusion and excitement ahead, the realization that close friends were lost forever had not yet sunk in. A curiously tranquil feeling came over many of those in the boats.

There was a different kind of trouble in Boat 6. Friction erupted from the moment Major Peuchen slid down the line to fill out the crew. Peuchen, used to giving orders, couldn’t resist trying to take command. Quartermaster Hitchens had other ideas. As they rowed away from the Titanic, Peuchen was pulling an oar and Hitchens was at the tiller, but within ten minutes Peuchen asked Hitchens to let a lady steer and join him in rowing. The Quartermaster answered that he was in charge and Peuchen’s job was to row and keep quiet. Painfully the boat struggled away, with just Peuchen and Lookout Fleet rowing. Under Mrs. Brown’s leadership, most of the women gradually joined in, but Hitchens remained glued to the tiller, shouting at them to row harder or all would be sucked under when the Titanic sank. The women began shouting back, and as the boat splashed along in the dark, the night echoed with bitter repartee. Most of the time No. 6 was heading toward the elusive light on the horizon, and when it became clear they could never reach it, Hitchens announced that all was lost; they had neither water nor food nor compass nor charts; they were hundreds of miles from land and didn’t even know which way they were heading. Major Peuchen had given up by now, but the women tore into him. Mrs. Candee grimly showed him the North Star. Mrs. Brown told him to shut up and row. Mrs. Meyer jeered at his courage. Then they tied up with Boat 16, and Hitchens ordered them to drift. But the women cou...