Marlene Dotterer - Shipbuilder

As the pumps began to lose their battle with the seawater, which relentlessly filled the bulkheads, the ship leaned more and more to starboard, making it harder and more dangerous to lower the boats on that side. Tom went below to see what was happening, stopping in waist-deep water at D Deck. He rested his head against the cold metal of the ladder, his body heavy with despair and fatigue. He felt the ship’s pain, heard her groans and creaks as she fought against the pressure of water where no water had a right to be.

A yell of anguish escaped him as he clung to the ladder. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I knew the danger and I built you anyway. I wanted you to live. I’m so sorry…” He hugged the ladder, trying to give her his strength. She would need all the spirit he had been able to build into her to accomplish her task.

I’m trying, he heard the ship tell him, I hurt all over, but I’m trying. I’ll float as long as I can. With a deep breath, he accepted her sacrifice, vowing to help her as much as possible. He went up and over to amidships, then back down to check on the engineers.

Engineering wasn’t flooded yet, but they were working in a couple of feet of water, laboring to keep the machines running and the lights on. He gave the chief engineer a quick report of conditions topside and in the bulkheads. Tom did not need to ask the question he most wanted an answer to.

“We’ll work as long as you need us to, Mr. Andrews,” Joseph Bell told him. “Just give us a shout when everyone is off, and we’ll head to a boat.”

Tom nodded in thanks, took a moment to clap an encouraging hand on Billy Parr’s shoulder—he was more proud than he could say of his guarantee group—and headed topside.

On the starboard boat deck, Mr. Murdoch continued to load people into a boat, but he paused to confer with Tom as he came over, dripping wet and shivering, from his excursion below.

“Finish the boats you’ve started, but it’s getting too dangerous to keep working from this side,” Tom suggested in a low voice. “We should start sending the others to port. Those boats will have to do.”

Murdoch nodded, touching Tom lightly on the shoulder in reassurance. “We only have about twenty-two hundred souls, Mr. Andrews. We won’t need all the boats, as it is.”

There was a sudden lurch as the ship dropped an abrupt few inches toward the bow. Tom instinctively grabbed a rope, watching in horror as a wave washed several feet up the deck, sweeping people off their feet. Some went overboard and he cried out in futile protest. But the real horror was much closer.

He heard Murdoch shout, “Christ!” and turned to the lifeboat, which had begun to rock in great arcs, passengers screaming in terror. Murdoch was shouting orders to the seamen working at the swinging ropes. Tom quickly tried to take the passengers in hand, hoping to calm them. Several stood up, or made as if to jump back to Titanic , and over Tom’s frantic shouts, a few determined fools began to push their way through the crowd on the boat. There was not even time to think: the boat tipped precariously, and three people on the edge fell out. Even over all the noise, Tom heard the crack of a woman’s head against the ship’s railing as all three fell into the water.

Complete chaos engulfed the passengers as every person in the boat attempted to jump out. A few made it, grabbing the railing and hanging on. But most didn’t make it, as the boat turned almost completely over, spilling its cargo into the cold darkness below.

Murdoch was weeping in great gasps as the survivors were helped back on board and he turned to Tom, grasping handfuls of Tom’s life-belt in his fists. “What was that?” he screamed, his face contorted. “Why did the ship fall like that?”

Dear God, the coal fire. The weakened bulkhead. Tom stared at Murdoch, silent with grief and guilt. But Murdoch didn’t seem to want an answer, anyway. He let go of Tom as suddenly as he’d grabbed him and straightened solemnly, his face stern and calm. “Mr. Andrews, take the remaining passengers portside and help them into boats. We can do no more on this side.”

Too numb to think or respond, Tom just nodded and turned to the cowed group of passengers crying and shaking as they leaned against the wall. He gestured toward the door. “All of you, we’ll go portside. It’s safer to use the boats over there.”

He moved them inside. The quickest way was down one level and over through the writing room, and as he guided the shocked group through the ship, he told everyone he saw, “Go portside. Starboard boats cannot be used. Go portside.”

How many people are left? Tom thought in despair, as his crowd of frightened passengers joined the throng still waiting portside. A quick glance at his watch told him it was three o’clock. An hour and ten minutes longer than they had lived before. But still an hour before Carpathia arrived. Would they make it?

At 3:30, an excited murmur spread through the crowd on deck, and out to the evacuees in lifeboats. People were pointing off into the darkness and for a short time, all activity ceased as everyone turned at the shout, “It’s Carpathia !” As they watched, the indiscriminate flickers of light far in the distance turned into larger, brighter, steadier lights. Final certainty came when the far away ship sent up a rocket and a full cheer went up from every person on deck, and in the boats at sea.

On Carpathia , the cheer reached them faintly, but there was no mistaking what it was. Captain Rostron exchanged a grin with his chief officer and went to have a word with the wireless operator.

Harold Cottam had been nearly non-stop on the wireless with Titanic and other rescue ships. He had to be exhausted, but Rostron needed further information. “It’s still dark and we don’t want to run over any lifeboats. Find out where the boats are in relation to Titanic . Tell them to make sure the boats stay on the other side of the ship from us. We’re slowing down, but we should reach them in about fifteen minutes. We’ll approach from the south and stop just west of the ship. We’ll start loading from the boats as soon as we stop.”

Cottam nodded, writing furiously, but Rostron’s hand on his shoulder made him look up. “You all right, kid? Need anything?”

A rueful grin tugged at Cottom’s mouth. “Coffee, sir. And maybe a big piece of chocolate cake.”

Laughing, Rostron tipped his hat and promised to send it right down. He did, too.

Dunallon, 9:00 a.m.

They all came to Dunallon: Tom’s parents, brothers, sister-in-law, all the children, and a few extra servants who came along to help the Dunallon staff. The usually boisterous crowd was quiet, gathered in the garden shade, watching children play. Talk was subdued: even the younger children seemed to catch the mood.

Casey held her mother-in-law’s hand as if it were a personal lifeline. Her face was nearly bloodless as she stared at something only she could see. Sam stayed near her, partly afraid she would say something that would require some damage control, but mostly concerned for her well-being. He was truly afraid, if the news was bad, that she would simply die.

The day crawled by. People moved in and out of the house as the weather warmed up, but Casey stayed among her flowers, and Mrs. Andrews stayed with her. Tom’s brothers took shifts at the telegraph office, unwilling to wait for news to filter down to them through the shipyard. Around eleven, James came in to say a telegraph had been received from Carpathia , stating they had reached the Titanic and were in the midst of rescue. The Baltic , Olympic , and Virginian were on their way, as well. The original message had been sent from Carpathia to New York about three hours ago. There were no details, but with word that the ship still floated, a little color returned to Casey’s face. She and Sam exchanged a glance. In their past, the ship was gone by the time the Carpathia arrived. Something they had done was working.