Walter Lord: A Night to Remember

Soon there was far more disturbing evidence that all was not as it should be. By 11.50—ten minutes after the collision—strange things could be seen and heard in the first six of the Titanic ’s sixteen watertight compartments.

Lamp trimmer Samuel Hemming, lying off duty in his bunk, heard a curious hissing sound coming from the fore-peak, the compartment closest to the bow. He jumped up, went as far forward as he could, and discovered that it was air escaping from the forepeak locker where the anchor chains were stowed. Far below, water was pouring in so fast that air rushed out under tremendous pressure.

In the next compartment aft, containing the firemen’s quarters and cargo hatch No. 1, leading fireman Charles Hendrickson was also roused by a curious sound. But here it was not air—it was water. When he looked down the spiral staircase that led to the passageway connecting the firemen’s quarters with the stokeholds, he saw green sea-water swirling around the foot of the grated, cast-iron steps.

Steerage passenger Carl Johnson had an even more disturbing experience in the third compartment aft. This contained the cheapest passenger accommodation—lowest in the ship and closest to the bow. As Johnson got up to see what was causing a mild commotion outside his cabin, water seeped in under the door and around his feet. He decided to dress, and by the time his clothes were on, the water was over his shoes. With a detached, almost clinical interest, he noticed that it seemed to be of very even depth all over the floor. Nearby, steerage passenger Daniel Buckley was a little slower to react, and when he finally jumped out of his bunk, he splashed into water up to his ankles.

Five postal clerks working in the fourth compartment were much wetter. The Titanic ’s post office took up two deck levels—the mail was stacked, along with first-class luggage, on the orlop deck and was sorted just above on G deck. The two levels were connected by a wide iron companionway, which continued up to F deck and the rest of the ship. Within five minutes water was sloshing around the knees of the postal clerks, as they dragged 200 sacks of registered mail up the companionway to the drier sorting room.

They might have spared themselves the trouble—in another five minutes the water reached the top of the steps and was lapping on to G deck. The clerks now abandoned the mail room altogether, retreating further up the companionway to F deck.

At the top of the stairs they found a married couple peering down at them. Mr and Mrs Norman Campbell Chambers of New York had been attracted by the noise while returning to their cabin after a fruitless trip to the promenade deck. Now, the Chamberses and the postal clerks watched the scene together, joking about the soaked baggage and wondering what might be in the letters they could see floating around the abandoned mail room.

Others joined them briefly from time to time—Fourth Officer Boxhall… assistant second steward Wheat… once even Captain Smith. But at no point could the Chamberses bring themselves to believe that anything they saw was really dangerous.

The fifth watertight compartment from the bow contained boiler room No. 6. This was where fireman Barrett and second engineer Hesketh jumped through the watertight door as it slammed down after the collision. Others didn’t make it and scrambled up the escape ladders that laced their way topside. A few hung on, and after a moment some of the others came down again.

Shouts of ‘Shut the dampers!’ and then ‘Draw the fires!’ came from somewhere. Fireman George Beauchamp worked at fever pitch as the sea flooded in from the bunker door and up through the floor plates. In five minutes it was waist deep—black and slick with grease from the machinery. The air was heavy with steam. Fireman Beauchamp never did see who shouted the welcome words, ‘That will do!’ He was too relieved to care as he scurried up the ladder for the last time.

Just to the stern, second engineer Hesketh, now on the dry side of the watertight door, struggled to get boiler room No. 5 back to normal. The sea still spouted through a two-foot gash near the closed door, but assistant engineers Harvey and Wilson had a pump going, and it was keeping ahead of the water.

For a few moments the stokers stood by, aimlessly watching the engineers rig the pumps; then the engine room phoned to send them to the boat deck. They trooped up the escape ladder, but the bridge ordered them down again, and for a while they milled around the working alleyway on E deck—halfway up, halfway down—caught in the bureaucracy of a huge ship and wondering what to do next.

Meanwhile the lights went out in boiler room No. 5. Engineer Harvey ordered fireman Barrett, who had stayed behind, to go aft to the engine room for lanterns. The connecting doors were all shut; so Barrett had to climb to the top of the escape ladder, cross over, and go down the other side. By the time he retraced his steps, the engineers had the lights on again and the lanterns weren’t needed.

Next, Harvey told Barrett to shut down the boilers—the pressure, built up while the ship was at full steam, now lifted the safety valves and was blowing joints. Barrett scrambled back up the ladder and drafted fifteen or twenty of the stokers wandering around E deck. They all clattered down and began wetting the fires. It was backbreaking work, boxing up the boilers and putting on dampers to stop the steam from rising. Fireman Kemish still remembers it with feeling: ‘We certainly had one hell of a time putting those fires out …’

Clouds of steam gushed through the boiler room as the men sweated away. But gradually order returned. The lights burned bright, the place was clear of water, and, in No. 5 at any rate, everything seemed under control. There was an air of cheerful confidence by the time word spread that the men on the twelve-to-four watch were dragging their beds to the recreation deck because their rooms were flooded. The men on the eight-to-twelve watch paused in their work, thought this was a huge joke, and had a good laugh.

Up on the bridge, Captain Smith tried to piece the picture together. No one was better equipped to do it. After thirty-eight years’ service with White Star, he was more than just senior captain of the line; he was a bearded patriarch, worshipped by crew and passengers alike. They loved everything about him—especially his wonderful combination of firmness and urbanity. It was strikingly evident in the matter of cigars. ‘Cigars,’ says his daughter, ‘were his pleasure. And one was allowed to be in the room only if one was absolutely still, so that the blue cloud over his head never moved.’

Captain Smith was a natural leader, and on reaching the wheelhouse after the crash, he paused only long enough to visit the starboard wing of the bridge to see if the iceberg was still in sight. First Officer Murdoch and Fourth Officer Boxhall trailed along, and for a moment the three officers merely stood peering into the darkness. Boxhall thought he saw a dark shape astern, but he wasn’t sure.

From then on all was business. Captain Smith sent Boxhall on a fast inspection of the ship. In a few minutes he was back: he had been as far forward in the steerage as he could go, and there was no sign of damage. This was the last good news Captain Smith heard that night.

Still worried, Smith now told Boxhall, ‘Go down and find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship.’ Boxhall wasn’t even down the bridge ladder when he bumped into carpenter J. Hutchinson rushing up. As Hutchinson elbowed his way by, he gasped, ‘She’s making water fast!’

Hard on the carpenter’s heels came mail clerk Iago Smith. He too pushed on towards the bridge, blurting out as he passed, ‘The mail hold is filling rapidly!’