Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Page 28

  PART TEN

  R.M.S. Carpathia

  I

  Savior of the Seas 1912,1918

  “BRIDGE!” WIRELESS OPERATOR HAROLD COTTAM shouted into the speaking tube.

  A few seconds passed before the booming voice of Carpathia’s second in command, Miles Dean, answered.

  “Bridge, go ahead,” Dean said.

  “I have received a CQD,” the operator said.

  “CQD,” Dean boomed, “from what vessel?”

  “Let me adjust the radio,” Cottam said. “Hold one second, please.”

  Straining to hear through the speaking tube, Dean could just make out the faint wavering sounds of the radio. The radio shack was less than a hundred yards aft, but as Dean waited, the source of the noise seemed miles distant. Keeping his ear close to the speaking tube, Dean scanned the water with a pair of binoculars. A full moon was reflecting off the water, which allowed night visibility, and Dean was concerned with ice floes. Twice already tonight, Dean had ordered course corrections, and he wanted to be alert in case another was necessary.

  “Sir,” Cottam said, “I have a complete message now.”

  “Go ahead, then,” Dean said.

  “It’s Titanic, sir,” the operator said slowly.

  “What about her?” Dean said.

  “She’s struck an iceberg, sir,” the operator said, “and reports she’s sinking.”

  “What’s her location?”

  “Latitude 41 degrees, 46 minutes north,” the operator read from his pad, “50 degrees, 41 minutes west.”

  “Stand by,” Dean said.

  Racing over to the chart table, he plotted out the location on a chart.

  “Telegraph Titanic that we are forty-eight miles distant,” Dean said. “Explain that with all the ice floes in the area, we cannot steam at full speed.”

  “How long, sir?” the operator said quickly. “How long should I tell them?”

  “Tell them we’re at most four hours away,” Dean said.

  “Yes, sir,” the operator said.

  Dean turned to the watch officer. “Awake Captain Rostron. Tell him we have received a distress call from Titanic and I’ve set a course north.”

  The man sprinted from the wheelhouse and raced down the deck.

  “Helmsman,” Dean said, “Starboard one-half, increase speed one-quarter.”

  The helmsman repeated the commands while Dean once again scanned the surface of the water with his binoculars.

  “God in heaven,” he muttered to himself, “take us through in safety and speed.”

  As TITANIC FILLED with water, First Operator John George Phillips continued transmitting as long as possible. CQD followed by MGY, the call sign for Titanic.

  “Have you tried the new sign?” Second Operator Harold Bride asked.

  “SOS?” Phillips asked, as the carpet under his feet became soaked.

  “Yes,” Bride said.

  “No,” Phillips said, “but I will now.”

  Phillips began tapping the keys. It was the first SOS ever sent.

  FROM THE DECK of Titanic, seamen began firing rockets into the air.

  After streaking skyward, they exploded in a crescendo of white.

  From a floating palace of heat and light to a dreary place of haze and cold—the shock must have been incredible for the passengers of Titanic.

  In a lifeboat two hundred yards south of Titanic, Molly Brown watched the scene unfold in horror. The lights on the great liner remained burning as she groaned and creaked while the thousands of gallons of water filled her breached hull. From a distance, it seemed like a horrible joke, only the screams of the dying intruding.

  Then, all at once, Titanic’s giant stern rose in the air as if to wave good-bye.

  She slipped below the surface with one final burp.

  TEN MILES AND a thousand lives from Titanic, the vessel Californian was dead in the water. Just to be safe, her captain was awaiting the light of dawn to try to pick her way through the ice field. Californian was an awkward six-thousand-ton vessel owned by the Leyland Lines and was designed more for cargo than passengers. Though she had cabin space for forty-seven passengers, tonight she carried none. Her route for this journey was London to Boston, but at this instant she was surrounded by an ice field that allowed for no safe movement.

  Second Officer Harold Stone waited for morning in the bridge. He watched the ship in the distance through binoculars. Whatever vessel it was had also stopped. Stone did not know Titanic had struck an iceberg. Californian’s wireless operator had shut the set off for the night before the distress call had been sent, so those on watch just assumed the ship on the horizon was waiting for first light to continue on.

  CAPTAIN ROSTRON BURST into the wheelhouse, still buttoning the top few buttons on his starched white shirt.

  “Captain on the bridge,” Dean shouted.

  “How far away do you place us?” Rostron said without preamble.

  “Forty-six miles and just under four hours, sir,” Rostron said quickly.

  “Watch?” Rostron shouted.

  A seaman stood next to the window with a pair of binoculars trained on the sea.

  “Sir, I have bergs to both sides,” the seaman answered. “Seems like a field ahead.”

  Rostron turned to Dean. “What speed have you ordered?”

  “Three-quarters ahead, sir,” Dean noted.

  “Roger,” Rostron said. “Sound the alarm to awake the crew, Mr. Dean, then alert the galley to start as much soup and other hot liquids as they possibly can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dean said.

  “Then place two sailors on the bow and one in the crow’s nest as lookouts.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dean said.

  Rostron turned to another brass speaking tube. “Engine room.”

  “This is Engineer Sullivan,” a sleepy sounding voice answered.

  “Sullivan,” Rostron shouted, “Titanic has struck an iceberg forty-five miles distant and we’ve been called to help with the rescue.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sullivan said quickly.

  “I’m going to need every ounce of steam you can give me, Sullivan,” Rostron said. “The crew is being wakened now.”

  “I understand, sir,” Sullivan said. “You can count on us.”

  “Full steam ahead, then, Mr. Sullivan,” Rostron said.

  “Full steam ahead,” Sullivan answered.

  Carpathia’s top speed was rated at fourteen knots.

  Within a quarter hour, Sullivan had her flying through the water at just over seventeen.

  Carpathia was a buzz of activity. She was flying across the water like a winning thoroughbred. From her stack, a thick stream of smoke and ash trailed off the stern. At 560 feet in length, with a breadth of 64 feet 3 inches, she could not be called a nimble ship. Still, Rostron was steering her through the ice fields as if she were a pleasure yacht. With a gross tonnage of 13,555 tons, Carpathia threw a large wake as she raced north. To the front, her bow parted the icy water like a razor through a hair. Twice already Captain Rostron had felt his keel scrape across underwater ice as his command had come close to icebergs. Even with that, he refused to back off the pace.

  “Signal from the bow lookout,” the helmsman shouted, “ice to port.”

  “Starboard an eight,” Rostron ordered.

  SHIP’S ENGINEER PATRICK Sullivan wiped his forehead with a rag, then stared again at the wall of gauges. Sullivan loved Carpathia and her inner workings, loved the feeling of power that was now surging through her hull. Built by C. S. Swan & Hunter with engineering by Wallsend Slipway Company for the Cunard Line, Carpathia featured a stack that rose a full 130 feet above the bottom of the vessel, and for Sullivan this was a blessing. The immense height of the stack created a great draft for the fires that supplied her power, and at this exact instant the fires were raging.

  Sullivan stared aft, where teams of firemen were singing a ditty while shoveling ton after ton of coal into the fireboxes. At each of the seven sc
otch boilers, a pair of men with loaded shovels would approach the open doors and heave their fuel into the flames. After stepping to the side to refill their shovels at a bunker port, another pair with loaded shovels would step forward and fling their contents into the inferno, only to be followed by another pair of men. There were three pairs of shovelers per boiler, forty-two men in all. The chanting men were stripped to the waist, covered with sweat and coal dust and constantly in motion.

  COLD AND FEAR. A stabbing cold from frozen water and frigid air. A palpable fear from witnessing death. The screams of the dying surrounded the few lifeboats that had been launched. To mark Titanic’s grave, the sea was littered with chunks of cork, floating deck chairs, and lifeless bodies bound in life belts. High overhead, a hoar frost framed the moon. Down at sea level, puffs of steam from the lungs of the survivors marked the presence of those who were lucky.

  ON CARPATHIA, CAPTAIN Rostron never wavered, never faltered.

  He kept his command running at full speed through a field of ice floes that could spell the same doom for him that Titanic had met. On April 11, Carpathia had left New York bound for Gibraltar, Genoa, Trieste, and Fiume. She carried a total of 725 passengers in first and second class. The passengers were seeking warmth and sun, so it came as a surprise when the few that began awaking that night did so from the chill. As soon as Carpathia had turned north, the temperature began falling. It was cold—bitterly cold.

  TEN MILES FROM Titanic’s last position, Second Officer Stone had watched the rockets light the night sky. He alerted Captain Lord, who was sleeping on the couch in the chart room. Lord inquired as to whether the rockets had all been white. After receiving a yes from Stone, Lord had gone back to sleep.

  Then the lights of the liner had sunk lower in the water, as if she were steaming away.

  The time was 2:45 A.M.

  At 4 A.M., Stone was relieved by Chief Officer Frederick Stewart. He related the strange events to Stewart, then went belowdecks to sleep.

  SMOKE TRAILING FROM her towering stack and rockets blasting from her decks, Carpathia arrived at the reported coordinates at 4 A.M. Captain Rostron expected to see the Titanic still afloat.

  After ordering the engines stopped, he ordered the lookouts to scan the surrounding area.

  There was nothing.

  Eight hundred and eighty-two feet of the finest ship yet constructed had vanished.

  To the north, Rostron could see an unbroken line of ice. At the spot where Carpathia was stopped, the sea was littered with chunks of ice and several large bergs. Minute by minute, the sky began to lighten. The flickering stars overhead began to disappear as the coming light fought the darkness. Slowly, the scene came into focus.

  At that instant, a green flare streaked skyward.

  “Starboard a quarter,” Rostron ordered.

  Carefully maneuvering through the chunks of ice, Carpathia pulled abreast of a lifeboat.

  Mrs. Walter Douglas in Lifeboat 2 was hysterical. “Titanic has gone down with all hands,” she screamed up at those on the deck of Carpathia.

  As deckhands secured Lifeboat 2 and began to unload the passengers, Rostron scanned the sea in the growing light. He could make out lifeboats on all sides now, along with the flotsam from a ship now dead.

  A thick fur coat rolled on the light waves. A swamped steamer trunk was just barely above water. Wooden deck chairs, planks, and empty life vests. To add to the chaotic scene were chunks of ice and a pair of nearby bergs, which towered nearly two hundred feet over Carpathia’s highest point. Seat cushions and ornate rugs floated past. Hundreds of sheets of paper formed a floating parquet of a story never to be read. A case of champagne, another filled with tins of snails. Bottles and casks and wooden slats ripped from Titanic on her plunge to the depths.

  A Bible, a hatbox, several pair of shoes. A single body dead for hours.

  “Get the survivors off the boats and into the salon,” Rostron ordered.

  One by one, the lifeboats rowed closer.

  THE NAGGING DOUBTS that had plagued Chief Officer Stewart finally proved too much.

  At 5:40 A.M., he woke the Californian’s wireless operator, Cyril Evans, and related what Stone had told him. Evans struggled to awake, then warmed up his wireless set and adjusted the dial. Seconds later, he heard the news.

  “Titanic has sunk,” he shouted to Stewart.

  Stewart immediately raced back to the bridge with the news and woke Captain Lord.

  Within minutes, Lord began to steer a course for Titanic’s last position.

  THE SUN wAs above the horizon, and the temperature had warmed some.

  Carpathia was a blur of activity, as more lifeboats arrived and the passengers were off-loaded. The passengers stumbled onto the deck in a daze. Most were dressed in a haphazard fashion—some in formal attire, others in everything from silk kimonos to velvet smoking jackets. Most were wearing hats, as was the fashion: the men in fedoras and bowlers with a sprinkling of tall top hats and a few snap-brim tweed caps; the women in a variety of headgear, from Russian fur caps to formal black boaters. The survivors’ shoes were a study in contrasts as well-an eclectic collection from silk opera slippers to rubber boots to polished black evening shoes to high-heeled pumps.

  All the passengers were wet, and all were cold.

  The passengers on Carpathia raided their trunks for dry clothes that were passed out by the crew. The kitchen kept vats of soup, coffee, and cocoa filled, along with large silver platters piled with sandwiches of ham, turkey, and roast beef, but few of the survivors could muster an appetite.

  The shock, cold, and horror they had witnessed rendered many mute, their senses numb.

  At 8:30 A.M., Lifeboat 12, the last still afloat, was secured and the survivors unloaded. Harold Bride, the brave wireless operator from Titanic, had stayed on his station until the last possible instant, radioing the distress calls to sea. Ordered into a lifeboat, he had survived the ordeal.

  Crewmen from Carpathia pulled him from the last lifeboat as much dead as alive. As soon as he reached the deck, Bride collapsed. The surgeon on Carpathia would need to administer stimulants to revive him enough to tell his story.

  Captain Rostron had the 705 survivors safely on board—now what would he do with them? The Olympic, Titanic’s sister ship, was drawing nearer. She radioed Carpathia and offered to take survivors on board.

  “Absolutely not,” Rostron told Second Officer Dean. “Can you imagine the shock to the survivors if they saw a near mirror image of their sunken vessel come alongside and ask them to come aboard? These people have suffered enough.”

  “What, then, Captain?” Dean asked.

  “New York,” Rostron said quietly. “We turn around and take them home.”

  “Very good, sir,” Dean said.

  “But first have the clergy aboard come to the bridge,” Rostron said.

  THE SUN WAS burning brightly over the scene of the disaster at 8:50 A.M.

  After a brief multidenominational ceremony to honor the dead, there was nothing more Carpathia could do. Captain Rostron ordered a course set for New York City.

  At full steam, Carpathia was four days away.

  A CROWD NUMBERING ten thousand milled around the Battery in New York City as Carpathia steamed past the Statue of Liberty, carrying the Titanic survivors. Captain Rostron had no way of knowing how much the story of the sinking of the great liner had captivated the public’s attention.

  “Look at the crowds,” Rostron said to Dean, who stood alongside him on the bridge.

  “That’s the last thing the survivors need,” Dean said quietly. Rostron nodded. The last few days had given him an opportunity to observe some of the survivors firsthand. Most were still suffering from a deep shock. Captain Rostron had noted two distinct feelings. The first was surprise. Surprise at how quickly they had been thrown from a floating palace into a freezing hell. The second was grief, tinged with remorse. Grief that others had died; remorse that they had somehow survived.

 
; “I want you to take charge of boarding at quarantine,” Rostron said to Dean, “and keep the reporters from boarding.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dean said.

  Rostron knew this was but a stopgap. Once Carpathia was moored along the White Star Pier on the East River and the survivors had disembarked, there was nothing he would be able to do to protect them from the hordes. Still, he wanted to give them as much time as possible to collect their thoughts.

  UNSINKABLE MOLLY BROWN had fared better than most. Her hardscrabble existence in the mining camps of Colorado had given her an inner strength on which she could call in times of trouble. Even so, as Carpathia left quarantine and steamed up the East River, surrounded by tugboats and pleasure craft, she realized she was party to an event that defined an era. The great industrial age of which she was a part had shown its rotting underbelly. The ship that “God himself could not sink” lay far below the frigid waters of the North Atlantic, and people would no longer place their faith blindly in the creations of man.

  Spitting into the water alongside, she turned to a crewman nearby.

  “From this day forward,” she said, “I shall always be defined by what happened.”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Brown?” the crewman asked.

  “Whatever I do in the future will pale,” Brown said, “and when I die, the first sentence they write will be that I was a survivor of Titanic.”

  “You and the others,” the crewman agreed.

  “I wonder why I lived when others died?” Brown said.

  “I think,” the crewman said quietly, “that that is a question only God can answer.”

  AT 8:37, CARPATHIA began unloading the Titanic’s lifeboats so she could moor. At 9:35 Thursday evening, she was finally tied fast, and the journey was at an end. Captain Rostron had done all he could. He and the entire crew of Carpathia had performed their jobs with honor.