A Night to Remember

“They were just in time to see the iceberg scraping along the starboard side, a little higher than the Boat Deck. As it slid by, they watched chunks of ice breaking and tumbling off into the water. In another moment it faded into the darkness… […] 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.”

One’s experience of the Titanic disaster varied greatly among those who were on board that night; depending on one’s social position and physical location on the ship at the time of the collision. Information about what was happening wasn’t uniformly shared, and the potential consequences weren’t readily appreciated. This passage illustrates that fact; some who personally saw the enormous mass of ice—considered the most significant threat to a ship that far north—as the Titanic scraped against it reacted primarily with curiosity or boredom.

“Put together, the facts showed a 300-foot gash, with the first five compartments hopelessly flooded. What did this mean? Andrews quietly explained. The Titanic could float with any two of her 16 watertight compartments flooded. She could float with any three of her first five compartments flooded. She could even float with all of her first four compartments gone. But no matter how they sliced it, she could not float with all of her first five compartments full. […] It was a mathematical certainty, pure and simple. There was no way out.”

The incessant repetition of the descriptor “unsinkable” had accompanied Titanic in common parlance and in the press ever since construction of the ship began in 1909; even Shipbuilder, a technical magazine catering to professionals, lauded her watertight compartment system as a failsafe against the possibility of sinking. Thomas Andrews, as shipbuilder, was the only person aboard who truly understood the limitations of an otherwise highly beneficial design feature. Despite the clarity with which he explained the inevitability of Titanic’s fate, he was one of the few people who could rationally process what was happening as the ship went down.

“Evening came, and still the bottomless in-basket, still the petty inferences. Only an hour ago—just when he was at last in good contact with Cape Race—the Californian barged in with some messages about icebergs. She was so close she almost blew his ears off. No wonder he snapped back ‘Shut up, shut up! I am busy; I am working Cape Race!’”

Marconi wireless operators Harold Bride and Jack Phillips were charged with transmitting and transcribing all communication to and from Titanic’s first-class passengers as well as nautical communications between themselves and other vessels. The content of passenger messages was voluminous and frivolous jabber from those embracing the opportunity to indicate that they were aboard the Titanic. Frustrated while trying to keep up with first-class chatter, Philips rashly told the Californian to shut up when she was trying to relay crucial safety information about icebergs in the area. Philips never even bothered to write down what the Californian was trying to convey, so the bridge never learned of the last ice warning they received only an hour before their collision with an iceberg.

“Leisurely he explained, ‘We are in the north and have struck an iceberg. It does not amount to anything but will probably delay us a day getting into New York. However, as a matter of form, the Captain has ordered all ladies on deck.’ And so it went. No bells or sirens. No general alarm. But all over the Titanic, in one way or another, the word was passed.”

First-class stewards, when charged with delicately rousting their first-class charges and directing them to put on their lifebelts, took great care to minimize the urgency of the circumstances, as their training dictated, regardless of what they might have individually known or personally suspected. White Star Line employees, especially first-class stewards, were internationally renowned for the care and dedication with which they ensured that their passengers experienced every comfort and had their every need anticipated. This steward echoed what many initially believed would be the gravest inconvenience to come out of the incident with the iceberg: that at worst passengers would be delayed in arriving in New York.

“At about 12:30 Colonel Gracie bumped into Fred Wright, the Titanic’s squash pro. Remembering he has reserved the court for 7:30 in the morning, Gracie tried a little joke of his own: ‘Hadn’t we better cancel the appointment?’

‘Yes,’ replied Wright. His voice was flat and without enthusiasm, but the wonder is that he played along at all. He knew the water was now up to the squash-court ceiling.”

A kind of jocularity among first-class passengers pervaded the jovial atmosphere created when they were all summoned from their staterooms; many seem to have been attempting to make light of a situation that they found exasperating and inconvenient but that they believed would be sorted out in good time and would later be looked at in hindsight as a kind of lively adventure. The contrast between what Wright had accepted as a result of what he’d seen and Gracie’s naiveté in the moment indicates the inability of many of highly privileged and sheltered first-class passengers on board the Titanic to accept that anything truly terrible could possibly befall them.

“They felt Lowe’s outburst was the most dramatic thing that could happen tonight. A Fifth Officer doesn’t insult the President of the line and get away with it. When they reached New York, there would be a day of reckoning. And nearly everyone still expected to reach New York. At worst, they would all be transferred to other ships.”

Bruce Ismay had been making a nuisance of himself ever since the Titanic set sail from Southampton. When Ismay interfered with the management of the lifeboats to such a detrimental degree that Officer Lowe felt he was infringing on the crew’s efficiency, he lashed out at Ismay, humbling him. At this hour of the night, the idea that everyone would inevitably arrive in New York wasn’t unique to the first-class passengers aboard; the crew who reacted to the way Lowe spoke to Ismay were still functioning on the assumption that professional consequences might constitute the most severe possible impacts of the night. This is evidence that the adherence to status and social structure was so highly ingrained in all members of Edwardian society that the crew members recalled placing such emphasis on an exchange amid the critical sequence of events.

“The night crackled with signals. Ships out of direct contact got the word from those within range…The news spread in ever-widening circles. Cape Race heard it directly and relayed it inland. On the roof of Wanamaker’s department store in New York, a young wireless operator named David Sarnoff caught a faint signal and also passed it on. The whole world was snapping to agonized attention.”

The persistent, willful ignorance of the Californian, the vessel closest to the Titanic as she began to sink, was ironic in contrast to how far the word of Titanic’s sinking in progress began spreading across the ocean. It illustrates the limitations of the era despite the dramatic increase in technological advances that had characterized the previous decades. Wireless could carry word to New York that the Titanic was in trouble, but no ship nearby could reach her quickly enough; Titanic had been outfitted with state-of-the-art watertight compartments but couldn’t control for the unpredictable circumstances unique to an incident that targeted a specific part of the ship and rendered it ineffectual.

“It was just as well, for the slant in the deck was steeper, and even the carefree were growing uneasy. Some who had left everything in their cabins now thought better of it and ventured below to get their valuables. They were in for unpleasant surprises. […] Time was clearly running out. Thomas Andrews walked from boat to boat, urging the women to hurry. ‘Ladies, you must get in at once. There is not a moment to lose. You cannot pick and choose your boat. Don’t hesitate. Get in, get in!’ Andrews had good reason to be exasperated.”

Lightoller and Murdoch decided to lower the Titanic’s lifeboats with fewer people aboard than their capacity allowed; many women, in particular, were reluctant to leave the safety of the boat deck or to part with the men they cared for. The idea of the Titanic as an unsinkable ship only began to erode once the ship started tilting in the water as it was drawn down by the weight of the sea flooding into her bow—and by then it was too late to reconsider just how essential and valuable space aboard the lifeboats would become and how much time had been wasted by indecision and obstinance.

“Most of the boats were now gone. One by one they rowed slowly away from the Titanic, oars bumping and splashing in the glass-smooth sea. […] In every boat all eyes were glued on the Titanic. Her tall masts, the four big funnels stood out sharp and black in the clear blue night. The bright promenade decks, the long rows of portholes all blazed with light. From the boats they could see the people lining the rails; they could hear the ragtime in the still night air. It seemed impossible that anything could be wrong with this great ship; yet there they were out on the sea, and there she was, well, down at the head. Brilliantly lit from stem to stern, she looked like a sagging birthday cake.”

The women, most of them first-class passengers, and the few men allowed into the majority of the lifeboats had only the crew members who had descended into the water with them on board to represent the White Star Line. Unless in the rare case that they were told or overheard otherwise, many of them still imagined that the ship would remain mostly afloat in the water awaiting the arrival of another ship to which all passengers would be transferred. The crew members in the lifeboats were given no instructions or news of ships traveling to their location, so they were forced to wait and watch while the increasingly dire situation unfolded in front of them.

“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.’”

Guggenheim’s decision to approach his impending death with courage and gallantry—and this accompanying statement, which crystalized his philosophy in the moment—was publicized throughout the world in the aftermath of the sinking and was replicated in many film and television interpretations of the Titanic disaster, upheld as the epitome of gentlemanly conduct and valor and a testament to how to behave with dignity in a time of crisis. His actions aligned perfectly with the publicly held standards and expectations associated with his position in society as someone with values to uphold and an example to set. As evidence of the substandard actions of many of his peers emerged, he became the barometer by which they were measured and by which so many were found wanting.

“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.”

A realization settled over those left aboard when all the lifeboats had been lowered or floated off into the water. Many passengers had been frantic, especially those who had been kept below and not given a chance to access a boat until the lifeboats were all nearly gone, to try to secure a place in one of the lifeboats before they were lowered into the sea—but without any tangible hope of rescue to compete for, many appear to be in various states of shock or disbelief, unable to process what was happening or determine how to act as they, left behind, watched the Titanic slipping lower and lower into the sea.

“There was much to think about. For Captain Smith there were the five ice messages received during the day—the last told exactly where to expect the berg. And there was the thermometer that fell from 43 degrees at seven o’clock to 31 degrees at 10:30 pm. Wireless Operator Jack Philips could ponder over the sixth ice warning—when the Californian broke in at 11:00 pm and Philips told her to shut up. That one never even reached the bridge.”

One can only speculate about the state of mind those of who perished on the Titanic, Smitha and Philips included. However, speculation is a difficult exercise for anyone who has not been in the same predicament, particularly for those removed from the historical setting in which the disaster took place. Lord speculates, however, that Smith and Philips likely felt a significant sense of responsibility for what happened. The ship’s log has never been recovered; traditional seafaring protocol at the time indicated that the log should be given to the highest-ranking officer who was last to depart the ship and that the log should be protected against the elements so that in the event of an abandonment the actions of a captain can be analyzed by those in positions of authority. That Smith never entrusted the log to one of his officers may have been an oversight, though his many decades of experience at sea suggest that there may have been components of his command of the Titanic, especially his failure to heed the ice warnings they received, that he didn’t wish to see become part of his posthumous legacy.

“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. The muffled thuds and tinkle of breaking glass grew louder. A steady roar thundered across the water as everything movable broke loose.”

Those in the lifeboats perhaps imagined that the figures they could see struggling to stay upright against the force of gravity might be their loved ones, or wondered how cold the water was as they saw their fellow passengers thrashing in the waves. The fact that the lights of the Titanic stayed on for so long, thanks to the efforts of the electricians, may have given some a false sense of security. The Titanic was a massive ship at 883 feet long, 92 feet wide, and 46,000 tons. She stood 60 feet above the waves, with a total height of approximately 17 stories. The incongruity of such an enormous structure of such significant prowess and strength crumbling apart, losing control of her autonomy, would likely have been as unfathomable to the onlookers as the possibility that so many wouldn’t survive the night.

“Out in the boats, they could hardly believe their eyes. For over two hours they had watched, hoping against hope, as the Titanic sank lower and lower. When the water reached her red and green running lights, they knew the end was near…but nobody dreamed it would be like this—the unearthly din, the black hull hanging at 90 degrees, the Christmas card backdrop of brilliant stars. […] Two minutes passed, the noise finally stopped, and the Titanic settled back slightly at the stern. As she glided down, she seemed to pick up speed. When the sea closed over the flagstaff on her stern, she was moving fast enough to cause a slight gulp.”

Before scientist-explorers discovered the wreckage of the Titanic in 1985, and in advance of later developments in technology, particularly in the realm of modeling and simulation, historians and members of the public had to rely on the eyewitness accounts of those aboard the Titanic and watching from the lifeboats to make sense of the ship’s final moments. Most of the lifeboats had moved off to some distance, and from there the scene could be appreciated in all its terrifying reality. The physics associated with how the Titanic sank, particularly with respect to the fracturing of her hull, have been a source of fascination and debate since 1912. Myriad theories have emerged, but Lord’s depiction, as demonstrated in this passage, remains a relatively faithful representation, especially considering the little data available to him. 

“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 an ‘unsinkable ship.’”

Amid the bewilderment, anger, and sorrow that accompanied the loss arose a desire not only to make sense of what happened but also to better prepare and defend against factors that had been considered insignificant and irrelevant to a ship considered the pinnacle of architectural and engineering supremacy over the natural world. The Titanic’s legacy consists largely of the catalyst she became for humility, safety, diligence, and the return to a greater respect for the ocean and the natural elements that previous generations of seafarers once held.

“But along with the prejudices, some nobler instincts also were lost. Men would go on being brave, but never again would they be brave in quite the same way. These men on the Titanic had a touch—there was something about Ben Guggenheim changing to evening dress…about Howard Case flicking his cigarette as he waved to Mrs. Graham…or even about Colonel Gracie panting along the docks, gallantly if ineffectually searching for Mrs. Candee. Today nobody could carry off these little gestures of chivalry, but they did that night.”

The sinking of the Titanic signaled the end of the gilded age, shattering the illusion that advancing technology and engineering guaranteed safety. However, in the last moments before the ship sank the behavior of some still managed to highlight the best of humanity. In the face of horrifying circumstances, these individuals upheld the noble demeanor associated with men of honor—particularly those in the social spotlight—who were expected to set a good example. These men far exceeded that expectation by calmly remaining aboard a sinking ship and trying to ensure that their loved ones would be saved. Behind any perceived pretense, true substance shone.

“Overriding everything else, the Titanic also marked the end of a general feeling of confidence. […] The Titanic woke them up. Never again would they be quite so sure of themselves. In technology, especially, the disaster was a terrible blow. Here was the ‘unsinkable ship,’—perhaps man’s greatest engineering achievement—going down the first time it sailed. […] The unending sequence of disillusionment that has followed can’t be blamed on the Titanic, but she was the first jar.”

The arrogance and optimism with which the public accepted the Titanic’s infallibility in advance of her maiden voyage were dashed when the news broke that the Titanic had gone down after only four days at sea. The demise of the Titanic gave Edwardians their first tangible, visceral reason to question the reliability and excellence of technological advancements they were convinced would inexorably continue to enhance their quality of life. (The first airplane flight was undertaken by the Wright brothers in 1903, and Henry Ford’s Model T, the first mass produced, affordable automobile, became available in 1908.) The disaster heralded a change in perspective, cause to remember that human fallibility had the potential to permeate everything humans created, and a reminder of nature’s potential to humble human beings.

“Slowly the night passed. Toward dawn a slight breeze sprang up. The air seemed more frigid. The sea grew choppy. Bitter-cold waves splashed over the feet, the shins, the knees of the men on Boat B. The spray stabbed their bodies and blinded their eyes. One man, then another, then another, rolled off the stern and disappeared from sight. The rest fell silent, completely absorbed in the battle to stay alive. The sea was silent too. NO one saw a trace of life in the waves that ripped the smooth Atlantic as the first light of dawn streaked the sky.”

For some, the fight to stay alive after the Titanic sank was a battle they waged with every second and every ounce of their remaining strength. Boat B, upside down, required each man aboard to carefully balance himself, remaining vigilant and present lest he be thrown back into the ocean he braved to reach this makeshift life raft. Elsewhere, many of those passengers settled into the other lifeboats, while cold and afraid, found time to bicker and complain about personal grievances and preferences. This sharp contrast exemplifies the degree to which the experiences of the disaster differed, not only in the sense that a passenger’s perception of the events, their emotional state, and their social position shaped their behaviors and attitudes, but in the degree to which each person had to exercise will and determination to survive.

“It was just after 3:30 when they saw it—a distant flash followed by a far-off boom. […] Soon a single light appeared from the same direction, then another, then row after row. A big steamer was pounding up, firing rockets to reassure the Titanic’s people that help was on the way. […] Over the water floated cheers and yells of relief. Even nature seemed pleased, as the dreary night gave way to the mauve and coral of a beautiful dawn.”

Harold Bride had managed to get off the Titanic and swim to collapsible boat B, informing those around him that the Carpathia was on her way, but the overwhelming majority of people sitting in the Titanic’s lifeboats after she disappeared beneath the glassy surface of the sea had no idea when or whether they could expect to be rescued. The pessimism that some asserted clashed with the hope that others clung to, escalating the rising tensions in the 30-foot boats. Many thought they’d starve or freeze to death before they could be rescued or that they were so small and possibly drifting so far that they’d never be found. The appearance of the Carpathia’s flares on the horizon likely meant relief for some and devastation for others who realized they’d be going home without precious family members.

“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.”

The heroism attributed to the Carpathia’s Captain Arthur Rostron stems from every action he took from the moment he received the Titanic’s distress call, but his lack of hesitation, especially given the conditions of the sea, rank highly among them in Lord’s view. The Carpathia was a smaller vessel, without the sophisticated technological safeguards attributed to the Titanic, so its racing through iceberg-infested waters at speeds unprecedented for a 550-foot steamship with only one funnel was an extremely dangerous undertaking. While some passengers in the lifeboats, the majority of them first-class women and men, argued against rowing toward those writhing in the water, freezing to death, lest they try to climb aboard the boat and risk capsizing it, or create uncomfortable crowding, Captain Rostron risked his own ship, passengers, and crew, darting among icebergs in their path, to rescue the Titanic’s survivors as quickly as possible.

“It was half-day now, and the people on deck could make out other lifeboats on all sides. They were scattered over a four-mile area, and in the gray light of dawn they were hard to distinguish from scores of small icebergs that covered the sea. Mixed with the small bergs were three or four towering monsters, 150 to 200 feet high. To the north and west, about five miles away, stretched a flat, unbroken field of ice as far as the eye could see. The floe was studded here and there with other big bergs that rose against the horizon. The sight was so astonishing, so incredible, that those who had slept through everything until now couldn’t grasp it at all.”

The perspective from the deck of the Carpathia illuminates the complete scope of the aftermath of the Titanic’s wreckage for the first time in the text. The sheer extent of the ice in the Titanic’s path, as observed by the passengers of the Carpathia, illustrates just how treacherous the waters of the Atlantic were on the night of April 14 and puts the arrangement of the lifeboats in context. The lifeboats seemed almost insignificant among the dominating, bobbing configurations of ice around them, and perhaps it occurred to these passengers how fortunate they were to have avoided a similar fate.

“While they murmured their prayers, the Carpathia steamed slowly over Titanic’s grave. There were few traces of the great ship—patches of reddish-yellow cork…some steamer chairs…several white pilasters…cushions…rugs…life belts…the abandoned boats…just one body. At 8:50 Rostron was satisfied. There couldn’t possibly be another human being alive. He rang ‘full speed ahead’ and turned his ship for New York.”

Of the millions of components that once made up the 46,000-ton Titanic, only debris remained floating on top of the water. Bruce Ismay was asked to where the Carpathia should proceed, but he absolved himself of responsibility and told Captain Rostron to decide. Rostron was offered the opportunity to transfer passengers to the Olympic but immediately refused and decided to proceed directly for New York, where the Titanic’s passengers had initially expected to disembark. He decided that he couldn’t depart without pausing to reflect on the tremendous loss of life that had occurred a few hours earlier.

“The Carpathia’s arrival made it 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 home 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.”

Walter Lord acknowledges that many of the “facts” that became part of Titanic lore were either largely exaggerated or outright fabricated, which he attributes to a multitude of origins and motives, from those directly connected to the incident to members of the press who were aggressively trying to outsell their competitors. Lord interviewed dozens of survivors of the disaster and integrated their eyewitness accounts into his text, and he diligently points out inconsistencies in some of the retellings while presenting what he was told. He doesn’t delve into detail about the effects and impacts of trauma but notes that circumstances of severe duress and loss of life often shape the way one forms recollections.