A Night to Remember

Then the stewards went back to work, most of them now shifting blankets from the bedding lockers to the gangways. These were the men Louis Ogden saw when he first looked out of his cabin. Now he decided to try again. He collared Dr McGhee, who was passing by, but the surgeon only told him, ‘Please stay in your cabin – captain’s orders.’

‘Yes, but what is the matter?’

‘An accident, but not to our ship. Stay inside.’

Mr Ogden reported back to his wife. For some reason he was sure the Carpathia was on fire and the ship was speeding for help. He began dressing, slipped out on deck, found a quartermaster he knew. This time he got a straight answer: ‘There has been an accident to the Titanic.’

‘You’ll have to give me something better than that!’ said Ogden, almost triumphantly. ‘The Titanic is on the northern route and we are on the southern.’

‘We’re going north like hell. Get back in your room.’

Mr Ogden again reported back to Mrs Ogden, who asked, ‘Do you believe it?’

‘No. Get up and put on your warmest clothes.’ There was no doubt in Mr Ogden’s mind now: the Titanic was unsinkable; so the surgeon must be covering up. His story confirmed their worst fears – the Carpathia was in danger. They must escape. Somehow they managed to sneak out on deck.

Others made it too; and they compared notes together, furtive little groups hiding from their own crew. Gradually they realized the Carpathia wasn’t in danger. But despite rumours about the Titanic, nobody was sure why they were on this wild dash through the night. And of course they couldn’t ask or they’d be sent below again. So they just stood there, huddling in the shadows, all eyes straining into the darkness, not even knowing what they were looking for.

In fact, nobody on the Carpathia now knew what to look for. In the wireless shack over the second-class smoking-room, Harold Cottam could no longer rouse the Titanic. But his set was so miserable – the range was only 150 miles at best – that he wasn’t sure what had happened. Perhaps the Titanic was still sending, but her signals were now too weak to catch.

On the other hand, the news so far had been all bad. At 1.06, Cottam heard her tell the Olympic, ‘Get your boats ready; going down fast at the head’ … at 1.10, ‘Sinking head down’ … at 1.35, ‘Engine room getting flooded.’

Once the Titanic asked Cottam how long he would take to arrive. ‘Say about four hours,’ instructed Rostron – he didn’t yet realize what the Carpathia could do.

Then at 1.50 came a final plea, ‘Come as quickly as possible, old man; the engine room is filling up to the boilers.’ After that, silence.

Now it was after 2.00, and Cottam still hunched tensely over the set. Once Miss Peterson peeked in at him, noticed that, despite the biting cold, Cottam was still in his shirtsleeves. He had just started to undress when the first CQD arrived, and he hadn’t yet got around to putting on his coat again.

Up on the bridge, Rostron was wondering too. He had organized his men, done everything he could think of, and now came the hardest part of all – waiting. Near him stood Second Officer James Bisset, up forward with extra lookouts. All strained for any sign of ice, any sign of the Titanic. But so far there was nothing – just the glassy sea, the blazing stars, the sharp, clear, empty horizon.

At 2.35 Dr McGhee climbed the ladder to the bridge, told Rostron that everything was ready below. As he talked, Rostron suddenly saw the glow of a green flare on the horizon, about half a point off the port bow.

‘There’s his light!’ he shouted. ‘He must be still afloat!’ It certainly looked that way. The flare was clearly a long way off. To see it at all, it must be high out of the water. It was only 2.40, and they were already in sight – perhaps the Carpathia would be in time after all.

Then at 2.45 Second Officer Bisset sighted a tiny shaft of light glistening two points off the port bow. It was the first iceberg – revealed by, of all things, the mirrored light of a star.

Then another berg, then another. Twisting and turning, the Carpathia now dodged icebergs on all sides, never slackening speed. On they surged, as the men breathlessly watched for the next berg and from time to time spotted more green flares in the distance.

Now that everything was ready, the stewards had a little free time. Robert Vaughan and his mates went to the afterdeck. Like boxers warming up for a fight, they danced about and playfully rough-housed to keep warm. Once a huge iceberg passed close to starboard, and a man cried, ‘Hey fellows! Look at the polar bear scratching himself with a chunk of ice!’

A weak joke perhaps, but the men roared with laughter as the Carpathia lunged on.