A Night to Remember

With the boats all gone, a curious calm came over the Titanic. The excitement and confusion were over, and the hundreds left behind stood quietly on the upper decks. They seemed to cluster inboard, trying to keep as far away from the rail as possible.

Jack Thayer stayed with Milton Long on the starboard side of the boat deck. They studied an empty davit, using it as a yardstick against the sky to gauge how fast she was sinking. They watched the hopeless efforts to clear two collapsibles lashed to the roof of the officers’ quarters. They exchanged messages for each other’s families. Sometimes they were just silent.

Thayer thought of all the good times he had had and of all the future pleasures he would never enjoy. He thought of his father and his mother, of his sisters and brother. He felt far away, as though he were looking on from some distant place. He felt very, very sorry for himself.

Colonel Gracie, standing a little way off, felt curiously breathless. Later he rather stuffily explained it was the feeling when ‘vox faucibus haesit, as frequently happened to the old Trojan hero of our schooldays’. At the time he merely said to himself, ‘Good-bye to all at home.’

In the wireless shack there was no time for either self-pity or vox faucibus haesit. Phillips was still working the set, but the power was very low. Bride stood by, watching people rummage the officers’ quarters and the gym, looking for extra lifebelts.

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 …’

Phillips went on working. Bride began to gather up their papers. Captain Smith returned to the boat deck, walked about speaking informally to men here and there. To fireman James McGann: ‘Well, boys, it’s every man for himself.’ Again, to oiler Alfred White: ‘Well, boys, I guess it’s every man for himself.’ To steward Edward Brown: ‘Well, boys, do your best for the women and children, and look out for yourselves.’ To the men on the roof of the officers’ quarters: ‘You’ve done your duty, boys. Now, every man for himself.’ Then he walked back on the bridge.

Some of the men took the captain at his word and jumped overboard. Night baker Walter Belford leaped as far out as he could, cannon-balled into the water in a sitting position. He still shudders and sucks his breath sharply when he thinks of the stabbing cold. Greaser Fred Scott, just up from boiler room 4, tried to slide down an empty fall, missed and took a belly-flopper into the sea. He was picked up by boat 4, still standing by the ship but trying to row clear of the barrels and deck chairs that were now hurtling down. Steward Cunningham made a hefty leap and also managed to reach No. 4.

But most of the crew stuck to the ship. On top of the officers’ quarters, Lightoller noticed trimmer Hemming at work on one of the tangled collapsibles … yet Hemming should have gone long ago as part of the crew in No. 6.

‘Why haven’t you gone, Hemming?’

‘Oh, plenty of time yet, sir.’

Not far away two young stewards idly watched Lightoller, Hemming and the others at work. In the fading light of the boat deck, their starched white jackets stood out as they leaned against the rail, debating how long the ship could last. Scattered around the boat deck, some fifteen first-class bellboys were equally at ease – they seemed pleased that nobody cared any longer whether they smoked. Nearby, gymnasium instructor T. W. McCawley, a spry little man in white flannels, explained why he wouldn’t wear a life jacket – it kept you afloat but it slowed you down; he felt he could swim clear more quickly without it.

By the forward entrance to the grand staircase, between the first and second funnel, the band – now wearing life jackets on top of their overcoats – scraped lustily away at ragtime.

The passengers were just as calm, although they too had their jumpers. Frederick Hoyt saw his wife into collapsible D, leaped and swam to where he thought the boat might pass. He guessed well. In a few minutes boat D splashed by and hauled him in. For the rest of the night he sat soaked to the skin, rowing hard to keep from freezing.

But for the most part the passengers merely stood waiting or quietly paced the boat deck. New York and Philadelphia society continued to stick together – John B. Thayer, George and Harry Widener, Duane Williams formed a little knot … lesser luminaries like Clinch Smith and Colonel Gracie hovering nearby. Astor remained pretty much alone, and the Strauses sat down on deck chairs.