The Loss of the S.S. Titanic - Lawrence Beesley (e reader books TXT) 📗

to see that first light on the horizon! We

saw it many times as the earth revolved, and some stars rose on the

clear horizon and others sank down to it: there were “lights” on every

quarter. Some we watched and followed until we saw the deception and

grew wiser; some were lights from those of our boats that were

fortunate enough to have lanterns, but these were generally easily

detected, as they rose and fell in the near distance. Once they raised

our hopes, only to sink them to zero again. Near what seemed to be the

horizon on the port quarter we saw two lights close together, and

thought this must be our double light; but as we gazed across the

miles that separated us, the lights slowly drew apart and we realized

that they were two boats’ lanterns at different distances from us, in

line, one behind the other. They were probably the forward port boats

that had to return so many miles next morning across the Titanic’s

graveyard.

 

But notwithstanding these hopes and disappointments, the absence of

lights, food and water (as we thought), and the bitter cold, it would

not be correct to say we were unhappy in those early morning hours:

the cold that settled down on us like a garment that wraps close

around was the only real discomfort, and that we could keep at bay by

not thinking too much about it as well as by vigorous friction and

gentle stamping on the floor (it made too much noise to stamp hard!).

I never heard that any one in boat B had any after effects from the

cold—even the stoker who was so thinly clad came through without

harm. After all, there were many things to be thankful for: so many

that they made insignificant the temporary inconvenience of the cold,

the crowded boat, the darkness and the hundred and one things that in

the ordinary way we might regard as unpleasant. The quiet sea, the

beautiful night (how different from two nights later when flashes of

lightning and peals of thunder broke the sleep of many on board the

Carpathia!), and above all the fact of being in a boat at all when so

many of our fellow-passengers and crew—whose cries no longer moaned

across the water to us—were silent in the water. Gratitude was the

dominant note in our feelings then. But grateful as we were, our

gratitude was soon to be increased a hundred fold. About 3:30 A.M., as

nearly as I can judge, some one in the bow called our attention to a

faint far-away gleam in the southeast. We all turned quickly to look

and there it was certainly: streaming up from behind the horizon like

a distant flash of a warship’s searchlight; then a faint boom like

guns afar off, and the light died away again. The stoker who had lain

all night under the tiller sat up suddenly as if from a dream, the

overcoat hanging from his shoulders. I can see him now, staring out

across the sea, to where the sound had come from, and hear him shout,

“That was a cannon!” But it was not: it was the Carpathia’s rocket,

though we did not know it until later. But we did know now that

something was not far away, racing up to our help and signalling to us

a preliminary message to cheer our hearts until she arrived.

 

With every sense alert, eyes gazing intently at the horizon and ears

open for the least sound, we waited in absolute silence in the quiet

night. And then, creeping over the edge of the sea where the flash had

been, we saw a single light, and presently a second below it, and in a

few minutes they were well above the horizon and they remained in

line! But we had been deceived before, and we waited a little longer

before we allowed ourselves to say we were safe. The lights came up

rapidly: so rapidly it seemed only a few minutes (though it must have

been longer) between first seeing them and finding them well above the

horizon and bearing down rapidly on us. We did not know what sort of a

vessel was coming, but we knew she was coming quickly, and we searched

for paper, rags,—anything that would burn (we were quite prepared to

burn our coats if necessary). A hasty paper torch was twisted out of

letters found in some one’s pocket, lighted, and held aloft by the

stoker standing on the tiller platform. The little light shone in

flickers on the faces of the occupants of the boat, ran in broken

lines for a few yards along the black oily sea (where for the first

time I saw the presence of that awful thing which had caused the whole

terrible disaster—ice—in little chunks the size of one’s fist,

bobbing harmlessly up and down), and spluttered away to blackness

again as the stoker threw the burning remnants of paper overboard. But

had we known it, the danger of being run down was already over, one

reason being that the Carpathia had already seen the lifeboat which

all night long had shown a green light, the first indication the

Carpathia had of our position. But the real reason is to be found in

the Carpathia’s log:—“Went full speed ahead during the night; stopped

at 4 A.M. with an iceberg dead ahead.” It was a good reason.

 

With our torch burnt and in darkness again we saw the headlights stop,

and realized that the rescuer had hove to. A sigh of relief went up

when we thought no hurried scramble had to be made to get out of her

way, with a chance of just being missed by her, and having to meet the

wash of her screws as she tore by us. We waited and she slowly swung

round and revealed herself to us as a large steamer with all her

portholes alight. I think the way those lights came slowly into view

was one of the most wonderful things we shall ever see. It meant

deliverance at once: that was the amazing thing to us all. We had

thought of the afternoon as our time of rescue, and here only a few

hours after the Titanic sank, before it was yet light, we were to be

taken aboard. It seemed almost too good to be true, and I think

everyone’s eyes filled with tears, men’s as well as women’s, as they

saw again the rows of lights one above the other shining kindly to

them across the water, and “Thank God!” was murmured in heartfelt

tones round the boat. The boat swung round and the crew began their

long row to the steamer; the captain called for a song and led off

with “Pull for the shore, boys.” The crew took it up quaveringly and

the passengers joined in, but I think one verse was all they sang. It

was too early yet, gratitude was too deep and sudden in its

overwhelming intensity, for us to sing very steadily. Presently,

finding the song had not gone very well, we tried a cheer, and that

went better. It was more easy to relieve our feelings with a noise,

and time and tune were not necessary ingredients in a cheer.

 

In the midst of our thankfulness for deliverance, one name was

mentioned with the deepest feeling of gratitude: that of Marconi. I

wish that he had been there to hear the chorus of gratitude that went

out to him for the wonderful invention that spared us many hours, and

perhaps many days, of wandering about the sea in hunger and storm and

cold. Perhaps our gratitude was sufficiently intense and vivid to

“Marconi” some of it to him that night.

 

All around we saw boats making for the Carpathia and heard their

shouts and cheers. Our crew rowed hard in friendly rivalry with other

boats to be among the first home, but we must have been eighth or

ninth at the side. We had a heavy load aboard, and had to row round a

huge iceberg on the way.

 

And then, as if to make everything complete for our happiness, came

the dawn. First a beautiful, quiet shimmer away in the east, then a

soft golden glow that crept up stealthily from behind the skyline as

if it were trying not to be noticed as it stole over the sea and

spread itself quietly in every direction—so quietly, as if to make us

believe it had been there all the time and we had not observed it.

Then the sky turned faintly pink and in the distance the thinnest,

fleeciest clouds stretched in thin bands across the horizon and close

down to it, becoming every moment more and more pink. And next the

stars died, slowly,—save one which remained long after the others

just above the horizon; and near by, with the crescent turned to the

north, and the lower horn just touching the horizon, the thinnest,

palest of moons.

 

And with the dawn came a faint breeze from the west, the first breath

of wind we had felt since the Titanic stopped her engines.

Anticipating a few hours,—as the day drew on to 8 A.M., the time the

last boats came up,—this breeze increased to a fresh wind which

whipped up the sea, so that the last boat laden with people had an

anxious time in the choppy waves before they reached the Carpathia. An

officer remarked that one of the boats could not have stayed afloat

another hour: the wind had held off just long enough.

 

The captain shouted along our boat to the crew, as they strained at

the oars,—two pulling and an extra one facing them and pushing to try

to keep pace with the other boats,—“A new moon! Turn your money over,

boys! That is, if you have any!” We laughed at him for the quaint

superstition at such a time, and it was good to laugh again, but he

showed his disbelief in another superstition when he added, “Well, I

shall never say again that 13 is an unlucky number. Boat 13 is the

best friend we ever had.”

 

If there had been among us—and it is almost certain that there were,

so fast does superstition cling—those who feared events connected

with the number thirteen, I am certain they agreed with him, and never

again will they attach any importance to such a foolish belief.

Perhaps the belief itself will receive a shock when it is remembered

that boat 13 of the Titanic brought away a full load from the sinking

vessel, carried them in such comfort all night that they had not even

a drop of water on them, and landed them safely at the Carpathia’s

side, where they climbed aboard without a single mishap. It almost

tempts one to be the thirteenth at table, or to choose a house

numbered 13 fearless of any croaking about flying in the face of what

is humorously called “Providence.”

 

Looking towards the Carpathia in the faint light, we saw what seemed

to be two large fully rigged sailing ships near the horizon, with all

sails set, standing up near her, and we decided that they must be

fishing vessels off the Banks of Newfoundland which had seen the

Carpathia stop and were waiting to see if she wanted help of any kind.

But in a few minutes more the light shone on them and they stood

revealed as huge icebergs, peaked in a way that readily suggested a

ship. When the sun rose higher, it turned them pink, and sinister as

they looked towering like rugged white peaks of rock out of the sea,

and terrible as was the disaster one of them had caused, there was an

awful beauty about them which could not be overlooked. Later,