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.”
