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.

HIGH IN THE CROW’S nest of the New White Star Liner Titanic, Lookout Frederick Fleet peered into a dazzling night. It was calm, clear and bitterly cold. There was no moon, but the cloudless sky blazed with stars. The Atlantic was like polished plate glass; people later said they had never seen it so smooth. This was the fifth night of the Titanic’s maiden voyage to New York, and it was already clear that she was not only the largest but also the most glamorous ship in the world.

That was all another world to Frederick Fleet. He was one of six lookouts carried by the Titanic, and the lookouts didn’t worry about passenger problems. They were the “eyes of the ship,” and on this particular night Fleet had been warned to watch especially for icebergs. So far, so good. On duty at 10 o’clock … a few words about the ice problem with Lookout Reginald Lee, who shared the same watch … a few more words about the cold … but mostly just silence, as the two men stared into the darkness.

Woolner squinted into the night. About 150 yards astern he made out a mountain of ice standing black against the starlit sky. Then it vanished into the dark. The excitement, too, soon disappeared. The Titanic seemed as solid as ever, and it was too bitterly cold to stay outside any longer. Slowly the group filed back, Woolner picked up his hand, and the bridge game went on. The last man inside thought, as he slammed the deck door, that the engines were stopping. He was right. Up on the bridge First Officer William M. Murdoch had just pulled the engine-room telegraph handle all the way to “Stop.” Murdoch was in charge of the bridge this watch, and it was his problem, once Fleet phoned the warning. A tense minute had passed since then—orders to Quartermaster Hitchens to turn the wheel hard a-starboard … a yank on the engine-room telegraph for “Full-Speed Astern” … a hard push on the button closing the watertight doors … and finally those 37 seconds of breathless waiting. Now the waiting was over, and it was all so clearly too late.

Clouds of steam gushed through the boiler room as the men sweated away. But gradually order returned. The lights burned bright, the place was clear of water, and, in No. 5 at any rate, everything seemed under control. There was an air of cheerful confidence by the time word spread that the men on the 12-to-4 watch were dragging their beds to the recreation deck because their rooms were flooded. The men on the 8-to-12 watch paused in their work, thought this was a huge joke, and had a good laugh.

Up on the bridge, Captain Smith tried to piece the picture together. No one was better equipped to do it. After 38 years’ service with White Star, he was more than just senior captain of the line; he was a bearded patriarch, worshiped by crew and passengers alike. They loved everything about him—especially his wonderful combination of firmness and urbanity. It was strikingly evident in the matter of cigars. “Cigars,” says his daughter, “were his pleasure. And one was allowed to be in the room only if one was absolutely still, so that the blue cloud over his head never moved.”

Next to arrive was Bruce Ismay. He had pulled a suit over his pajamas, put on his carpet slippers, and climbed to the bridge to find whether anything was happening that the President of the line should know. Captain Smith broke the news about the iceberg. Ismay then asked, “Do you think the ship is seriously damaged?” A pause, and the Captain slowly answered, “I’m afraid she is.” They would know soon enough. A call had been sent for Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland & Wolff Shipyard. As the Titanic’s builder, Andrews was making the maiden voyage to iron out any kinks in the ship. If anybody could figure out the situation, here was the man. He was indeed a remarkable figure. As builder, he of course knew every detail about the Titanic. But there was so much more to him than that. Nothing was too great or too small for his attention. He even seemed able to anticipate how the ship would react to any situation. He understood ships the way some men are supposed to understand horses.

In C-51 a young governess named Elizabeth Shutes sat with her charge, 19-year-old Margaret Graham. Seeing an officer pass the cabin door, Miss Shutes asked him if there was any danger. He cheerfully said no, but then she overheard him further down the hall say, “We can keep the water out for a while.”

The bulkhead between the fifth and sixth compartments went only as high as E Deck. If the first five compartments were flooded, the bow would sink so low that water in the fifth compartment must overflow into the sixth. When this was full, it would overflow into the seventh, and so on. It was a mathematical certainty, pure and simple. There was no way out. But it was still a shock. After all, the Titanic was considered unsinkable. And not just in the travel brochures. The highly technical magazine Shipbuilder described her compartment system in a special edition in 1911, pointing out, “The Captain may, by simply moving an electric switch, instantly close the doors throughout and make the vessel practically unsinkable.” Now all the switches were pulled, and Andrews said it made no difference.

It was hard to face, and especially hard for Captain Smith. Over 59 years old, he was retiring after this trip. Might even have done it sooner, but he traditionally took the White Star ships on their maiden voyages. Only six years before, when he brought over the brand-new Adriatic, he remarked: “I cannot imagine any condition which would cause a ship to founder. I cannot conceive of any vital disaster happening to this vessel. Modern shipbuilding has gone beyond that.” Now he stood on the bridge of a liner twice as big—twice as safe—and the builder told him it couldn’t float.

Some of the passengers were even more difficult. At C-78, Etches found the door locked. When he knocked loudly with both hands, a man inside asked suspiciously, “What is it?” and a woman added, “Tell us what the trouble is.” Etches explained and again tried to get them to open the door. He had no luck, and after a few minutes’ pleading he finally passed on to the next cabin. In another part of the ship a locked door raised a different problem. It was jammed, and some passengers broke it down to release a man inside. At this point a steward arrived, threatening to have everybody arrested for damaging company property when the Titanic reached New York. 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.

All the boats together could carry 1,178 people. On this Sunday night there were 2,207 people on board the Titanic. This mathematical discrepancy was known by none of the passengers and few of the crew, but most of them wouldn’t have cared anyhow. The Titanic was unsinkable. Everybody said so. When Mrs. Albert Caldwell was watching the deck hands carry up luggage at Southampton, she asked one of them, “Is this ship really nonsinkable?” “Yes, lady,” he answered. “God himself could not sink this ship.”

Everything had been done to give the Titanic the best band on the Atlantic. The White Star Line even raided the Cunarder Mauretania for Bandmaster Hartley. Pianist Theodore Brailey and cellist Roger Bricoux were easily wooed from the Carpathia. “Well, steward,” they happily told Robert Vaughan who served them on the little Cunarder, “we will soon be on a decent ship with decent grub.” Bass violist Fred Clark had never shipped before, but he was well known on the Scotch concert circuit, and the line bought him away too. First violinist Jock Hume hadn’t yet played in any concerts, but his fiddle had a gay note the passengers seemed to love. And so it went—eight fine musicians who knew just what to do. Tonight the beat was fast, the music loud and cheerful.

As the men went up, Shepherd still lay in the pump room; Barrett and Harvey kept working with the valves. Another 15 minutes and both men were beginning to cheer up—the room was still dry, the rhythm of the pumps was fast and smooth. Suddenly the sea came roaring through the space between the boilers at the forward end of the room. The whole bulkhead between Nos. 5 and 6 collapsed. Harvey shouted to Barrett to make for the escape ladder. Barrett scrambled up, the foam surging around his feet. Harvey himself turned toward the pump room where Shepherd lay. He was still heading there when he disappeared under the torrent of rising water.

Bride had a bright idea. While CQD was the traditional distress call, an international convention had just agreed to use instead the letters SOS—they were easy for the rankest amateur to pick up. So Bride suggested, “Send SOS; it’s the new call, and it may be your last chance to send it.” Phillips laughed at the joke and switched the call. The clock in the wireless shack said 12:45 A.M. when the Titanic sent the first SOS call in history.

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.

Mr. and Mrs. Lucien Smith were having the same kind of argument. Seeing Captain Smith standing near with a megaphone, Mrs. Smith had an inspiration. She went up to him, explained she was all alone in the world, and asked if her husband could go along with her. The old Captain ignored her, lifted his megaphone and shouted, “Women and children first!”

then turned around and rejoined Mr. Straus. Now her mind was made up: “We have been living together for many years. Where you go, I go.” Archibald Gracie, Hugh Woolner, other friends tried in vain to make her go. Then Woolner turned to Mr. Straus: “I’m sure nobody would object to an old gentleman like you getting in …” “I will not go before the other men,” he said, and that was that. Then he and Mrs. Straus sat down together on a pair of deck chairs.

It was just as well, for the slant in the deck was steeper, and even the carefree were growing uneasy. 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.

“If you’re sailor enough to get out on that fall, you can go down.” Major Arthur Godfrey Peuchen—vice commodore of the Royal Canadian Yacht Club—swung himself out on the forward fall and slid down into the boat. He was the only male passenger Lightoller allowed in a boat that night. Men had it luckier on the starboard side. Murdoch continued to allow them in if there was room. The French aviator Pierre Maréchal and sculptor Paul Chevré climbed into No. 7. A couple of Gimbel’s buyers reached No. 5. When the time came to lower No. 3, Henry Sleeper Harper not only joined his wife, but he brought along his Pekingese Sun Yat-sen and an Egyptian dragoman named Hamad Hassah, whom he had picked up in Cairo as a sort of joke.

It was after one o’clock when Hart got back to E Deck to organize another trip. It was no easier. Many women still refused to go. On the other hand, some of the men now insisted on going. But that was out of the question, according to the orders he had.

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.

First Officer Murdoch knew better. As he walked along the deck with Chief Steward Hardy of Second Class, he sighed, “I believe she’s gone, Hardy.” There was no longer any difficulty persuading people to leave the ship. Paul Maugé, the Chef’s Assistant, jumped 10 feet into a dangling boat. Somebody on a lower deck tried to drag him out, but he squirmed free and was safe. Third Class passenger Daniel Buckley—safely through the broken gate and onto the Boat Deck—took no more chances. With several other men he jumped into a boat and huddled there crying. Most of the men were hauled out, but somewhere he got a woman’s shawl. He said Mrs. Astor put it over him. In any case, the disguise worked.

Another young man—no more than a boy—wasn’t as lucky. Fifth Officer Lowe caught him under a seat in No. 14, begging that he wouldn’t take up much room. Lowe drew his gun, but the boy only pleaded harder. Then Lowe changed tactics, told him to be a man, and somehow got him out. By now Mrs. Charlotte Collyer and other women in the boat were sobbing, and her eight-year-old daughter Marjory joined the uproar, tugging at Lowe’s arm and crying, “Oh, Mr. Man, don’t shoot, please don’t shoot the poor man!”

Reverend Robert J. Bateman of Jacksonville stood outside, watching his sister-in-law Mrs. Ada Balls enter a boat. “If I don’t meet you again in this world,” he called, “I will in the next.” Then as the boat jerked down, he took off his necktie and tossed it to her as a keepsake.

Benjamin Guggenheim had a more detailed message: “If anything should happen to me, tell my wife I’ve done my best in doing my duty.” Actually Guggenheim almost outdid himself. Gone was the sweater that Steward Etches made him wear. Also his life belt. Instead he and his valet now stood resplendent in evening clothes. “We’ve dressed in our best,” he explained, “and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.”

“Let’s make a jump for it!” cried Woolner. “There’s plenty of room in her bow!” Steffanson hurled himself out at the boat, landing head over heels up front. The next second Woolner followed, falling half in, half out. In another instant Collapsible D hit the water and cast off. As it pulled away, Seaman William Lucas called up to Miss Evans still standing on deck, “There’s another boat going to be put down for you.”

It was 2:05 when Captain Smith entered the shack for the last time: “Men, you have done your full duty. You can do no more. Abandon your cabin. Now it’s every man for himself.” Phillips looked up for a second, then bent over the set once more. Captain Smith tried again, “You look out for yourselves. I release you.” A pause, then he added softly, “That’s the way of it at this kind of time ...”

The Louis Quinze lounge with its big fireplace was silent and empty. The Palm Court was equally deserted—one passerby found it hard to believe that just four hours ago it was filled with exquisitely dressed ladies and gentlemen, sipping after-dinner coffee, listening to chamber music by the same men who now played gay songs on the Boat Deck above.

The smoking room was not completely empty. When a steward looked in at 2:10, he was surprised to see Thomas Andrews standing all alone in the room. Andrews’ life belt lay carelessly across the green cloth top of a card table. His arms were folded over his chest; his look was stunned; all his drive and energy were gone. A moment of awed silence, and the steward timidly broke in: “Aren’t you going to have a try for it, Mr. Andrews?” There was no answer, not even a trace that he heard. The builder of the Titanic merely stared aft. On the mahogany-paneled wall facing him hung a large painting called The Approach of the New World.

George Q. Clifford of Boston had the rueful satisfaction of remembering that he took out 50,000 dollars’ extra life insurance just before the trip.

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.

Nor did anyone really know what happened to Captain Smith. People later said he shot himself, but there’s not a shred of evidence. Just before the end Steward Edward Brown saw him walk onto the bridge, still holding his megaphone. A minute later Trimmer Hemming wandered on the bridge and found it empty. After the Titanic sank, Fireman Harry Senior saw him in the water holding a child. Pieced together, this picture, far more than suicide, fits the kind of fighter who once said: “In a way, a certain amount of wonder never leaves me, especially as I observe from the bridge a vessel plunging up and down in the trough of the sea, fighting her way through and over great waves. A man never outgrows that.” Seen and unseen, the great and the unknown tumbled together in a writhing heap as the bow plunged deeper and the stern rose higher. The strains of “Autumn” were buried in a jumble of falling musicians and instruments. The lights went out, flashed on again, went out for good. A single kerosene lantern flickered high in the after mast.

AS THE SEA CLOSED over the Titanic, Lady Cosmo Duff Gordon in Boat 1 remarked to her secretary Miss Francatelli, “There is your beautiful nightdress gone.” A lot more than Miss Francatelli’s nightgown vanished that April night. Even more than the largest liner in the world, her cargo, and the lives of 1,502 people. Never again would men fling a ship into an ice field, heedless of warnings, putting their whole trust in a few thousand tons of steel and rivets. From then on Atlantic liners took ice messages seriously, steered clear, or slowed down. Nobody believed in the “unsinkable ship.” Nor would icebergs any longer prowl the seas untended. After the Titanic sank, the American and British governments established the International Ice Patrol, and today Coast Guard cutters shepherd errant icebergs that drift toward the steamer lanes. The winter lane itself was shifted further south, as an extra precaution.

It was also the last time a liner put to sea without enough lifeboats. The 46,328-ton Titanic sailed under hopelessly outdated safety regulations. An absurd formula determined lifeboat requirements: all British vessels over 10,000 tons must carry 16 lifeboats with a capacity of 5,500 cubic feet, plus enough rafts and floats for 75 percent of the capacity of the lifeboats.

Then there were the people Colonel Gracie, Lightoller and others saw surging up from below, just before the end. Until this moment Gracie was sure the women were all off—they were so hard to find when the last boats were loading. Now, he was appalled to see dozens of them suddenly appear. The statistics suggest who they were—the Titanic’s casualty list included four of 143 First Class women (three by choice) ... 15 of 93 Second Class women … and 81 of 179 Third Class women. Not to mention the children. Except for Lorraine Allison, all 29 First and Second Class children were saved, but only 23 out of 76 steerage children.

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.

Never again would First Class have it so good. In fact, almost immediately the pendulum swung the other way. Within days Ismay was pilloried; within a year a prominent survivor divorced her husband merely because, according to gossip, he happened to be saved. One of the more trying legacies left by those on the Titanic has been a new standard of conduct for measuring the behavior of prominent people under stress.

When the Titanic sailed, the New York Times listed the prominent passengers on the front page. After she sank, the New York American broke the news on April 16 with a lead devoted almost entirely to John Jacob Astor; at the end it mentioned that 1,800 others were also lost.

By the time Steward Thomas Whiteley arrived, Collapsible B wallowed under the weight of 30 men. As he tried to climb aboard, someone swatted him with an oar, but he made it anyhow. Fireman Harry Senior was beaten off by an oar, but he swam around to the other side and finally persuaded them to let him on too.

In No. 1, Fireman Charles Hendrickson sang out, “It’s up to us to go back and pick up anyone in the water.” Nobody answered. Lookout George Symons, in charge of the boat, made no move. Then, when the suggestion came again, Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon announced he didn’t think they should try; it would be dangerous; the boat would be swamped. With that, the subject was dropped. No. 1—12 people in a boat made for 40—rowed on aimlessly in the dark. 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.

In Boat 4, Miss Jean Gertrude Hippach also watched the shooting stars—she had never seen so many. She recalled a legend that every time there’s a shooting star, somebody dies.

They talked a surprising amount. Assistant Cook John Maynard told how Captain Smith swam alongside the boat just before the Titanic took her last plunge. They pulled him on, but he slipped off again. Later Fireman Harry Senior claimed the Captain let go on purpose, saying, “I will follow the ship!” It may have been true, but Hurst is sure the Captain never reached the boat. Besides, Senior was one of the last to arrive—probably too late to have seen the Captain himself.

At first that was all he would say, but bit by bit the reporters chipped out admissions. At 8:00 the Olympic’s message “neglected to say that all the crew had been saved.” At 8:15: “Probably a number of lives had been lost.” At 8:45: “We very much fear there has been a great loss of life.” By 9:00 he couldn’t keep up the front any longer: it was a “horrible loss of life” … they could replace the ship but “never the human lives.”

The Carpathia’s arrival made clear who survived, but it didn’t unravel what had happened. The survivors added their own myths and fables to the fiction conjured up on shore. For some the heartbreaking trip back was too much. Others were simply carried away by the excitement. The more expansive found themselves making a good story even better. The more laconic had their experiences improved by reporters. Some were too shocked, some too ashamed.

But legends are part of great events, and if they help keep alive the memory of gallant self-sacrifice, they serve their purpose.

What troubled people especially was not just the tragedy—or even its needlessness—but the element of fate in it all. If the Titanic had heeded any of the six ice messages on Sunday … if ice conditions had been normal … if the night had been rough or moonlit … if she had seen the berg 15 seconds sooner—or 15 seconds later … if she had hit the ice any other way … if her watertight bulkheads had been one deck higher … if she had carried enough boats … if the Californian had only come. Had any one of these “ifs” turned out right, every life might have been saved. But they all went against her—a classic Greek tragedy.

The Carpathia’s passengers pitched in gallantly—digging out extra toothbrushes, lending clothes, sewing smocks for the children out of steamer blankets brought along in the lifeboats. A Macy’s wine buyer bound for Portugal became a sort of guardian angel for the three rescued Gimbel’s buyers. Mrs. Louis Ogden took cups of coffee to two women in gay coats and scarfs sitting alone in a corner. “Go away,” they said, “we have just seen our husbands drown.”

“They can make them bigger and faster, but it was the care and effort that went into her. She was a beautiful, wonderful ship.” Burgess’ reflections are typical. The Titanic has cast a spell on all who built and sailed her. So much so that, as the years go by, she grows ever more fabulous. Many survivors now insist she was “twice as big as the Olympic”—actually they were sister ships, with the Titanic just 1,004 tons larger. Others recall golf courses, regulation tennis courts, a herd of dairy cows, and other little touches that exceeded even the White Star Line’s penchant for luxury.