Deadly Voyage Page 7

  Third-class women in coats and shawls were escorted forward, some of them carrying children.

  “Any more women?” Lightoller shouted when the boat was about half full.

  “There are no more women!” a voice in the crowd yelled as several men clambered into the boat.

  “Out now, all of you!” ordered Lightoller as he pulled one man out. The others sheepishly followed.

  “Link arms and form a ring!” Lightoller called to the crewmen near him. I walked forward and linked arms with one of them. A moment later my father took my other arm. I looked up at him and he gave me a nod and a small, tense smile. Soon others joined us in the line. An American man came up to us with his wife, who had her arm in a sling. She was allowed through and was helped into the boat. Her husband was told he couldn’t go any farther.

  “Yes, I know,” he said sadly. “I will stay.”

  Another man rushed up with two toddlers in his arms and handed them over to be put into the boat.

  “Mes fils — my little boys,” he said in a strong French accent. “My name is Hoffman.”

  A woman in the boat made room for the two boys beside her. The boat now looked fairly full and no more women were coming forward.

  “Lower away!” Lightoller ordered and the boat creaked down the side.

  “That’s the last boat, boys!” I heard one of the men in the crowd say. “Every man for himself now!”

  My father turned toward me. He was perspiring heavily and his breath was coming in short bursts. I had never seen him look this way before.

  “Jamie, you’re a good swimmer,” he said. “I remember you diving into those waves at St. Andrews — ”

  “Father.” I grabbed his arm. “We’re going to make it. Both of us — ”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Of course we will. But just in case … you need to know … I’ve provided for your mother and you … Arthur will see to things … I love you, my son.” He gripped my shoulder. “Tell your mother I love her, too.”

  His eyes were full of tears. My father was not a man who expressed his emotions easily. He had never, ever spoken to me like this before. I didn’t know what to say. Finally, he recovered and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should head toward the stern,” he said more calmly.

  Suddenly a noise from above made us all look up. Some men were clambering onto the roof of the officers’ cabins behind the bridge. I could see that at least one more collapsible lifeboat had been stored there.

  “We should help!” I said to my father. “That boat could be our last chance! I can get up there if you can boost me.”

  “What a stupid place to put a lifeboat,” he said, but I was already running over toward it.

  I clasped the top of the cabin window frame and tried to clamber upwards, but soon lost my grip and fell back to the deck. I needed to get out of my bulky lifebelt and long overcoat so I began stripping them off.

  “I’ll boost you up, Jamie,” my father said, “but you must wear your lifebelt.”

  I threw my coat to the deck and quickly tied on the lifebelt over my sweater. My father cupped his hands for my foot and then hoisted me onto his shoulders. Through a lighted window I could see into an officer’s cabin, with its single bed and desk. The ship suddenly lurched, causing my father to stagger a little, but I was able to grasp the railing overhead. I pulled myself onto the roof and grabbed onto one of the thick mooring cables that ran from the deck up to the huge funnel above me.

  Officer Lightoller was leaning over one end of the collapsible lifeboat, hacking away at the ropes that held it to the deck. “Out of the way, son!” he called out sharply when I came near. He cut away furiously at the last of the ropes and then looked up at me again. I suddenly wondered if he recognized me as one of the boys he had marched off the forecastle deck a few days ago. It seemed completely unimportant now.

  “We have to somehow shift ’er down to the deck!” Lightoller said, breathing heavily. “See if you can organize some planks.”

  I ran over to the edge of the roof and called down to my father that we needed some boards to help slide the boat downwards. Then I clambered down the sloping roof to the other end of the boat. “It looks awfully small,” I said to a crewman who was standing astride it to balance himself.

  “Bigger with the sides up,” he replied, “Could hold maybe sixty of us — if we can launch it.”

  From this end of the roof I could look down on the Titanic’s bow. The forecastle and well decks were submerged now, with only the tip of the bow railing still above water. I turned to look toward the stern. It occurred to me that the propellers must be lifting out of the water, and I shivered — from the cold or fear or both. My heart was thumping hard against the wall of my chest. On the slanting deck near the stern, people were buzzing about like insects — hundreds of them. Passengers from the lower decks were still pouring out through the stairway doors. Had they been down below all this time? I peered toward the horizon, hoping that the ship’s light we’d seen earlier was still there. I couldn’t see it.

  Shouts erupted from the starboard side of the roof. Some crewmen had managed to free another collapsible boat that was stowed there. Then my father’s voice came up from the deck below. He and some others were leaning oars against the wall of the officer’s quarters to act as a ramp to the boat deck. I hoped they would be sturdy enough to do the job.

  A man near the stern of our collapsible boat called out, “All right lads, let’s all give ’er a go.”

  I joined the others in pushing the stern end of the lifeboat toward the edge of the roof. Then we ran up to the bow and pushed it as well.

  “Stand clear below!” Lightoller shouted as we nudged the boat to the edge of the roof. Just then the Titanic lurched, causing the lifeboat to slide off the roof and crash down to the deck below. The oars splintered beneath it. I rushed over to make sure my father hadn’t been hurt. I couldn’t see him at first, but then caught sight of him being pulled backwards within a crowd of men who were charging up the sloping deck. He looked up toward me and touched his forehead in a kind of salute. Then he was swallowed up by the crowd.

  With a gurgling roar a huge wave rolled toward me from the bow of the ship. It washed right below the roof where I stood, heading for the crowds retreating up the deck. Some people fell back and were engulfed. I looked for my father but couldn’t see him. The lifeboat we had been trying to launch washed off upside down. Then the ship lurched downwards again.

  She’s going under! I thought. I’ll be sucked down with her!

  I slid down to the forward end of the roof. A wall of greenish water was surging toward me. I thought of the surf crashing onto the beach at St. Andrews. I knew what I had to do — it was my only chance.

  I dived right into the wave.

  The freezing water nearly knocked me out. It was like being pierced by thousands of needles. I felt myself being dragged down so I kicked upward. Gasping, I came to the surface. Ahead stood the foremast with the crow’s nest almost level with me. My first thought was to swim toward it. Then I realized I had to get clear of the ship! At that instant I was violently sucked back and slammed against something hard. I could feel some wire grating and realized I was trapped over an air shaft, with the sea pouring down into it. I prayed the grating would hold.

  If this is the end, I thought, let it be quick. Then a blast of hot air came rushing up the shaft and blew me free. Coughing, spluttering, I bobbed to the surface, gasping for air. I had to get away from the ship! I began paddling away as quickly as I could.

  Ropes, deck chairs and pieces of wood swirled by me. I could just make out the shapes of other swimmers. I ducked as a barrel nearly hit me. Then I heard shouts as the huge forward funnel came crashing down in a blaze of sparks. It caused a wave that pushed me farther away from the sinking ship. I saw the Titanic standing at a slant against the starry sky, with all her lights still shining. Crowds of people were clinging to the stern. Others were falling, tumbling down into the sea.

/>   I pushed aside some debris and swam on.

  My lifebelt kept me afloat, but it was hard to swim with it. I splashed forward, desperate to find a lifeboat or something to clamber onto. My feet and hands were numb. I wanted to rest but I knew I had to keep moving. Then my arm bumped against something hard and I grasped it. This was too big to be debris, I thought. Reaching up, I realized it was an overturned lifeboat. A hand reached down and pulled me up, and I crawled onto the lifeboat’s back.

  “Steady now! One slip and you’ll tip us,” a voice said. I recognized it as Officer Lightoller’s. I could see traces of his breath in the freezing air, and make out the shapes of other men trying to balance along the keel of the overturned boat.

  “Thank you,” I said through chattering teeth. It took me a few minutes to catch my breath. Then I stood up and looked back. The stern of the Titanic was now high in the air. Incredibly, her lights were still glowing. Then they blinked once and went out.

  Suddenly I heard what sounded like explosions. In the darkness, sparks began shooting up from the middle of the ship. Then she broke in two. The forward part of the Titanic slid under the black water and the severed stern settled back. Then it, too, slowly filled with water. Screams came from those clinging to it as it sank. Soon all I could see was the sky filled with a mass of stars. All around me were howling voices.

  “Father!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Father!” But the wailing din drowned out my call. After a while the noise died down a little, so I shouted once again, but there was no reply.

  “Jamie?” a voice near me called out.

  I leaned toward it. “Jack!” I answered. “Jack Thayer?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” he replied in a low voice.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said with a shiver. “But so cold.”

  I thought back to our dinner in the dining saloon — could it really have been only a few hours ago? Both of us listening to Milton Long in the Palm Room as he told us of his adventures in Alaska. It seemed unbelievable that everything in that huge room now lay at the bottom of the ocean.

  From the stern end of the boat I heard splashing sounds. Some of the men were trying to paddle with pieces of wood they had picked up, and one or two had oars. Some swimmers were coming near, desperate to get onto our boat, but there were cries of, “No, no, one more would sink us!”

  I felt incredibly lucky to have been allowed on board.

  I watched one man swim up beside us, only to be told how overloaded we were. “That’s all right boys, keep cool,” he replied calmly. As he swam off, he called back, “Good luck, boys. God bless you.”

  The awful sound of wailing voices continued. As we got farther away it became an eerie, high-pitched drone that went on and on and then slowly began to die down.

  I suddenly thought of my father. “I hope my father got pulled into a boat,” I said to Jack.

  “Mine too,” he replied. “And Milton. We were together by the rail. He jumped first. But he told me he couldn’t swim very well.”

  Before long the last of the wailing voices stopped. Soon all was quiet on the calm sea.

  From the stern of our boat, a voice asked, “Don’t you think we ought to pray?”

  There was a murmur of agreement. Then, in a deep, clear voice came the words, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name … ”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ON AN OVERTURNED BOAT

  April 15, 1912, 3:00 a.m.

  “Boat ahoy!” we shouted in unison. “Boat ahoy!”

  We waited, but in return there was only silence. A few men kept on yelling hoarsely, until they grew tired and stopped. It was intensely cold. My hair was stuck to my forehead. My legs felt rubbery from standing and I longed to sit down. But any sudden movement could capsize our overturned boat. With every motion, the air was leaking from underneath it and we were slowly sinking lower in the water.

  “How many are we?” asked Officer Lightoller. From farther back there came only mumbles and a few groans. Lightoller repeated the question in a commanding voice but no one responded.

  “We will obey what the officer orders!” a crewman with a Cockney accent suddenly shouted from the stern. Lightoller then asked that all men present say “aye,” one after the other. We did so and he counted twenty-eight ayes. Twenty-eight men on the back of this one small boat, I thought. Could it hold us all up until rescue arrived? And would rescue arrive?

  “Harold Bride, the Marconi fellow, is back ’ere,” another voice answered. “Maybe he knows what boats are near us.”

  “What ships answered the distress call, Bride?” Lightoller shouted.

  “The Baltic and the Olympic,” said an exhausted voice, which I recognized as that of the younger wireless operator. “But the Carpathia was the nearest. Said she was coming fast.”

  This gave us all some hope.

  Then we saw some green flares on the horizon. Were these from a rescue ship or just from one of the lifeboats? The men with boards and oars tried to paddle us in the direction of the flares, but they stopped when the lights disappeared. There were also many shooting stars in the sky, which looked like white rockets. Through chattering teeth we tried to talk to help take our minds off the cold.

  “Maybe we’ll have a hot breakfast on the Carpathia,” I said to Jack.

  “I’d be happy with a warm blanket,” he replied.

  Someone wondered what had happened to the ship that we had all clearly seen while the Titanic was sinking.

  “That ship could only have been five miles away!” one man said.

  “Must’ve been a sailing ship,” said another. “A steamer would’ve come over to help us.”

  After an hour or so I noticed the sky beginning to lighten. At the same time a breeze began to stir up some small waves that rocked our precarious craft even more.

  “Form up into a column!” Lightoller shouted.

  The boat shook as some of the men crouching in the stern stood up. Lightoller organized us into a double line standing along the keel facing forward, holding on to each other by the shoulders. Jack and I were near the bow just behind Lightoller. All of us followed his orders each time he called, “Lean to the left! … Stand upright! … Lean right!” as we tried to counteract the waves. The movement made me feel a little warmer, even though our feet were only inches above the water.

  As dawn began to lighten the sky, I saw Venus, the morning star, still shining after all the others had vanished. On the horizon a faint crescent moon appeared.

  Then came a splash. One man had slipped overboard. Several of us made to reach for him, but Lightoller shouted, “Stop! No one move!”

  “He’s dead!” someone shouted. We all knew there was no point in risking our own lives to retrieve a corpse.

  The ominous splashes would happen twice more. Each time it was horrible. Each time I caught myself feeling relieved, knowing that it lightened the load on our boat. I later felt ashamed, and sorry for the men who had died from the cold and exposure. Suddenly there was a shout from the stern. “There’s a steamer coming up behind us!”

  “Stand steady!” commanded Lightoller. “I will be the one to look astern!”

  We all stood still while Lightoller turned to look, but he did not confirm the good news. Soon, however, we could see lights in the distance that were unmistakeably the mast lights of a steamer. Behind her were large white shapes that some of us thought might be sailing ships. One man suggested they could be fishing boats from the Grand Banks off Newfoundland. But as the sun rose we saw that they were icebergs, towering and majestic. A double-peaked one had to be at least two hundred feet high. Could one of those be the iceberg that sank us? I wondered. As the sky turned pink, these mountains of ice began to glow in mauve and coral colours.

  With the dawn came a stronger breeze that sent waves washing over our boat. Each one rocked the boat and let more air escape from underneath it. The hull became even more slippery and I clasped Jack’s shoul
ders tightly, knowing that one slip would mean certain death.

  The lights of the steamer soon disappeared. New fears suddenly sprang into my exhausted brain. Would our boat sink under us before we could be rescued? Would the steamer miss us altogether? Maybe it would run right over us!

  When the sun came up fully we could see the steamer about four or five miles away. Some of the Titanic’s lifeboats were rowing toward her. But could we last long enough for her to get to us? Our feet were now soaked and freezing from the waves washing over them.

  “Boat off the starboard bow!” called one of the crewmen near the stern.

  I kept my body steady but turned my head. Four of the Titanic’s lifeboats were tied together in a line about 800 yards away.

  “Boat ahoy!” we yelled at the top of our lungs. “Boat ahoy!”

  The lifeboats didn’t seem to hear us, so Lightoller fished an officer’s whistle out of his pocket and blew a shrill blast. We watched as two of the boats untied from the others and began to inch toward us.

  “Come over and take us off!” shouted Lightoller when they came within hailing distance.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” came the reply. The two boats slowly began to draw near. We were so low in the water that the wash as one of the boats came alongside almost tipped us over.

  “Steady now, men,” Lightoller ordered. “No scrambling or you’ll sink us!” He began unloading our boat one man at a time.

  Yet each time someone leaned forward to jump into the lifeboat, our boat swayed sickeningly. Jack and I were among the last to go. When my turn finally came I jumped and landed on the floor of the lifeboat near the bow. A woman threw a steamer rug over me. A crewman passed me a flask of whisky and I took a slug. It burned all the way down but helped warm me up. I realized it was the first time I’d ever drunk alcohol.

  One man who was in the water paddled over to the lifeboat and was pulled on board. “That’s Joughin, the baker,” a crewman said. “He’s got enough liquor in ’im to keep ’imself good and warm.”

  Lightoller was the last man to leave the overturned boat. But first he lifted a body that was lying along the keel and pushed it into the lifeboat. An American passenger who had been with us during the night tried rubbing the lifeless man’s face and wrists, but soon realized he was dead. Lightoller then scrambled aboard the lifeboat near me, and quickly made his way to the stern to take control of the tiller.