What Might Have Happened That Cold April Evening . . .
14 April 1912, approximately 2340 hours . . .
"Is there someone there?!"
"Yes! What did you see?!"
"Iceberg, right . . . OH, MY GOD! We're right on top of it!"
Hearing that outburst from one of the lookouts, James Moody blinked as he gazed out the forward bridge windows, and then he gaped as something even blacker than the dark night ahead of Titanic. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he spun over to yell at the current chief of the watch, William Murdoch, "ICEBURG! RIGHT AHEAD!"
Hearing that, Murdoch turned, and then on seeing the massive mountain-shape now right in his ship's path, screamed back, "HARD A'STARBOARD! FULL ASTERN ALL ENGINES! SECURE THE WATERTIGHT DOORS!"
As the boatswain's mate on the ship's telegraphs rang the engines to go from full ahead to full astern, the helmsman spung his wheel hard clockwise to get the giant ship away from what it was bearing down on . . .
But it was too late.
Steaming at 21 knots, the 52,000 ton liner slammed almost head on with the iceburg, the majority of the impact hitting her stem below the waterline, destroying the peak tank and the chain locker and storage rooms right above it. As the liner violently shook from the powerful impact, the lower part of the first watertight bulkhead gave way under the force, thus allowing the Number 2 cargo hold to be instantly flooded by the disintegrating bulkhead and sides. The force of the water crushing against the second bulkhead made it soon gave way, thus sending jet torrents pouring through dozens of holes into the Number 3 cargo hold.
By then, the majority of the impact force had bled off the ship's hull as her forward motion finally came to a stop. Everywhere, people were knocked over and out of their bunks by the sheer power of the impact, though fortunately, a gasping Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee were gaping at the barely-lit mass of frozen water that their ship's bow had just slammed into.
"Didn't have any damn binoculars . . . " Lee muttered . . .
* * *
15 April, 0010 hours . . .
"So we can still float?"
Edward Smith nodded. "Yes. We've got people shoring up the third bulkhead right now. We've got people going through the cabins on the lower decks closer to where the damage occured to make sure the steerage passengers there're alright. Other personnel are checking the other passengers to make sure there weren't any serious wounds when people got thrown about like that."
Hearing that, Bruce Ismay could only shake his head, his mind racing as the many bits of information he had received over the last half-hour played out inside his mind. Thomas Andrews -- along with Chief Carpenter John Hutchinson and several other of the officers and deck crew -- were busy down below looking at the extent of the damage to the forward sections of Titanic, but given the lack of visible light, it would have to wait until well past dawn before a full analysis of the exterior damage could be done. Fortunately, there had been no fatalities given the violence of the collision . . .
. . . but what could have been.
"I'm back."
Smith and Ismay turned as Andrews walked into the captain's cabin. "How bad is it?" the 62 year old Royal Naval Reserve officer asked as the managing director of Harland and Wolff took a seat at the chair beside the desk where the ship's plans had been laid out.
The native of Comber took a deep breath. "It could have been a lot worse," he began.
"How worse?" Ismay asked.
"Well, if the lookouts had spotted the damned 'berg a little sooner and Mister Murdoch was able to get the wheel turned over, we might have ended up with a situation where this so-called 'unsinkable' ship would have sunk!" Andrews said.
The managing director of White Star turned very pale. "What . . .?"
Andrews gazed at him. "If the ship had turned enough to try to get around the iceberg, Mister Ismay, the chances were there that the sides of the ship could have been pried open by some unseen part of the damned thing just right below the water level." He turned to point to the side elevation of the Titanic on the drawings spread out over the table. "As you know, she can stay afloat with the first four compartments flooded. But if the ship had hit a glancing blow, there could have been damage all the way from the bows right to the boiler rooms." His finger traced a line all the way back to the large space under the first funnel. "And if that happened, it would have probably taken . . . " He paused as he did a quick mental calculation. " . . . one to two hours."
"To sink?" Smith asked.
A nod. "Yes."
Silence fell over the room, and then Ismay found himself sinking onto the captain's bed as a dark and horrible realisation of what might have happened sank in. "Oh, my God . . . "
"We were really lucky," Smith noted.
"That we were," Andrews affirmed with a nod.
Ismay blinked as he considered that, and then he sighed. "Can we still make New York?" he wondered.
A shake of the head. "I wouldn't risk it at all," Andrews stated. "My option would be to get this ship into the nearest safe harbour we can find. And we go there slow," he emphasised. "Much that I am confident that the ship can make it to a safe port . . . "
"Halifax," Smith immediately offered; said location was only six hundred miles to the west-northwest of where they were now.
Andrews nodded. " . . . we can't risk making the damage worse if we push her too hard. Right now, Mister Hutchinson is making sure everything is sound before we go anywhere. Fortunately for us, the ship was able to float away from that iceberg; I shudder to think of what might have happened if we were permanently wedged on the damned thing!"
"Agreed."
Ismay sighed. "Where is Olympic at this time?"
Smith turned to gaze at the most recent message the ship's Marconi wireless staff, Harold Bride and Jack Phillips, had just passed to him minutes before. "She's right now over five hundred miles away from us. Nearest ship to us is the Cunard Line Carpathia; she's about sixty miles away from us, bound for Fiume. Captain Rostron is prepared to divert to help us in case we need it." A shake of the head. "We're still trying to raise whoever it is that's close to us off to the north. We think it might be the Californian, but we can't raise her either by wireless or Morse lamp."
A nod. "Then we'll have to try to get to Halifax," Ismay said.
Smith nodded. "Alright."
* * *
Approximately ten miles to the north, 0014 hours . . .
"She's stopped."
"Has been for over a half-hour," Third Officer C.V. Groves mused as he gazed at the small bundle of lights in the darkness south of Californian. "Can the lookouts see if she's been trying to signal us?"
"Aye, sir, I'll get them to look," one of the junior able seamen said. "You want me to get Mister Evans up, sir?"
The older man hummed. "Do it. Have him get that set going and see if we can get some indication of who that might be."
"Heard it was the Titanic, sir."
"Well, let's confirm it."
"Aye, sir."
With that, he headed into the pilotage to get to one of the voice pipes. Whistling down it, Groves called out, "Bridge to Captain!"
A moment later, a groggy voice called back, "Captain."
"Sorry to wake you up, sir, but the vessel to the south of us has been stopped for the last half-hour. I'm getting Mister Evans up to get the wireless going to see if we can find out what's happening."
"Any idea why she stopped?" Stanley Lord called back.
A chuckle. "Probably the same reason we are, sir."
"Alright, I'm coming up."
"Aye, sir."
* * *
Back aboard Titanic, 0043 hours . . .
"Captain?"
Smith looked over, and then he held out his hand. "Here."
Jack Philips smiled as he handed the sheet over. Scanning the information there, the elderly captain grinned. "Excellent."
"Response message, sir?" the younger man asked.
"My compliments to Captain Lord and please inform him that we have the flooding under control and I don't personally consider the risk to the ship grave enough to consider evacuation at this time," Smith stated as Philips jotted down the information on a notepad he had brought with him. "Advise him that at first light, I will try to navigate up towards him, then make my way to Halifax. I will not risk a voyage to either Boston or New York as they're just too far away from here. If he wishes to remain close to us until we're safely closer to Nova Scotia, he can."
"Very good, sir." Philips then sighed. "I had to apologise to the poor man over there."
"How so?"
"Well, sir, Mister Evans -- he's Californian's wireless operator -- was trying to warn us of the ice that stopped her earlier today, but I rather was quite rude to him when I was trying to get all the messages out to Cape Race."
Smith chuckled. "Well, put an extra note for me to both Mister Evans and Captain Lord, thanking them for their willingness to keep an eye out for things. Inform them I intend to move at dawn. Then put out a second message to Captain Rostron on Carpathia. Repeat what I want sent to Captain Lord and inform him that if he wishes to remain to assist, he's welcome to, but I don't believe the damage will be made worse if we head to Halifax."
A nod. "Very good, sir."
* * *
The first class dining room, 0110 hours . . .
"So the damage isn't too bad?" John Jacob Astor IV asked.
"Fortunately for us, no, sir," the steward replied. All the passengers had been asked to get up and report to their various dining halls to get a full update on what had happened. "Since the night was so dark and there were next to no stars in the sky, it was a miracle that the lookouts were able to spot the blasted thing at all. Now, the captain plans to remain here until dawn so that we can get a clear indication of what's around us before we head off. We're going to Halifax . . . "
People instantly gasped. "Why there?!" Benjamin Guggenheim demanded.
"Because it's the closest port to us that can handle a ship this size, sir," the steward replied. "The captain feels that, even if the damage wasn't enough to really threaten the ship, we need to take it easy and get you all ashore as quickly and safely as possible. We realise this is horrendously inconvenient . . . "
"Damn straight it is!" Isidor Straus stated.
"Now, that's enough, dear!"
Eyes locked on Straus' wife Ida. "The captain's primary task here is to make sure we all get ashore safely," the wife of the owner of Macy's stated as she gave her husband a knowing look. "If he feels that the iceberg hurt the ship bad enough to not risk a direct voyage to New York, that is his decision to make. He's worried about us, remember!"
"It is the man's job," Madelaine Astor stated.
"But the ship's damned unsinkable!" George Widener exclaimed.
"That's not true, sir."
Heads spun around as a weary-looking Irishman walked into the dining room. "Thomas!" Molly Brown called out. "How bad is it?"
"Fortunately, not as bad as it could have been," Thomas Andrews said before he gazed on the director of the Philadelphia Traction Company. "And to answer your question, sir, the ship's made of iron! Put enough holes into her and she can sink just like any other ship!"
The other passengers blinked. "But everyone said . . .!" Widener protested.
"Sir, The Shipbuilder and Marine Engine Builder put out that ridiculous 'unsinkable' assertion back last year when they put out their special issue on this class of ship," Andrews stated. "Neither my shipyard, the White Star Line or the International Mercantile Marine Company have ever put any credence into any claims of total invulnerability." A sigh. "And as I said when I came in, it could have been a lot worse, so let's give thanks to God for His Grace towards us and be grateful that we don't have to risk freezing in the cold ocean before someone could come rescue us."
"Amen to that," Brown noted.
The others in the room were quick to nod to the shipbuilder's words; as they had got to know Thomas Andrews over the last few days, they had come to realise that the director of Harland and Wolff was a fundamentaly honest man when it came to matters pertaining to the great ship they now stood on. "So how soon will we get underway?" Astor then asked.
"We'll wait until dawn, Colonel," Andrews answered. "We're in contact with the Californian, who is about ten miles to the north of us. They got stopped by the ice, too; they actually tried to report to us about a massive ice field ahead of them, one of the 'bergs . . . "
"Being the one we hit," Brown noted.
"Aye. So when we can finally see, we'll get through this and head straight for Halifax."
"Can we send messages out?" Arthur Peuchen asked.
"Not yet," Andrews stated. "We sent a message to Cape Race to relay to New York about what happened. We need to make arrangements for all of you to be picked up in Halifax, which should be easy to do. When the captain's sure there's no need to make emergency messages out to people, you'll be allowed to contact your relatives."
Everyone there nodded . . .
* * *
The Californian, 0740 hours . . .
"Oh, my God . . . "
"That is one bloodly lucky ship."
Gazing at the clearly wounded Titanic through his binoculars, Stanley Lord could only nod. "That she is . . . "
To be continued . . .?