“Right away, sir.”
The next to stop in was Chief Officer Wilde with Third Officer Pittman. Captain Smith could tell immediately by the tousled look of their clothing that something had happened.
“We were attacked, sir. By those awful things,” said Pittman. “But we managed to escape without nary a scratch.”
“It’s out of control,” Wilde added. “And I regret to say there is nothing we can do to stop it.”
“We may have bigger problems, Henry.”
“Indeed, I know we’ve struck ice,” said Wilde. “Air is escaping from the forepeak tank, and water has begun flooding in. Hemming confirmed this.”
Smith sighed. “Would you say the damage is serious?”
“I’m afraid it’s more than serious, Captain.”
Smith checked the compass to see if the ship had begun listing. He had checked it shortly after Boxhall first went down to inspect for damage, and found no significant change in level. This time he wasn’t so fortunate.
“Dear God,” he muttered. “Already five degrees to starboard. Two degrees down by the head. Pittman, summon Andrews.”
Smith and Wilde entered the navigating room connected to the wheelhouse.
“What’s wrong?” said Smith.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t want to say anything with Pittman here. But I see the way you’re holding your hand.”
Wilde leaned into a corner and hung his head.
“Be honest with me, Henry,” said Smith. “What happened down there?”
“It’s absolute chaos,” Wilde finally said, looking up to meet eyes with the captain. “Worse than you can imagine. So many injured in so little time I—I can’t explain it. I wish I could.”
“And...?”
Wilde pulled up his left coat sleeve. “I was bitten...by one of them.”
Seeing the faint red of blood on the CO’s hand caused Smith’s heart to sink.
“I kept it quiet from Pittman, at first hoping it didn’t puncture the skin. When I found a moment to myself, I confirmed that indeed it had. What does this mean? Am I infected?”
Before Smith could answer, Thomas Andrews came into the navigating room with an armful of charts and blueprints, Pittman behind him.
“He was already on his way, sir,” said Pittman.
“Good, thank you. If you could take watch of the bridge for now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thomas Andrews laid out a large side view blueprint of the Titanic’s deck plans on the chart table, and then began discussing different possible scenarios in which the ship could stay afloat. In a matter of minutes, all such hopeful thought would be struck down by the stark reality of truth.
April 15, 1912
SMITH
Fourth Officer Boxhall returned from below with a litany of bad news.
As the carpenter had said, the mail room was full of water and had risen to within a foot or two of the top of the stairs. The forward cargo holds were also flooded, and boiler room number six had already filled to a depth of over fourteen feet.
“As of right now, water has begun to spill over into the fifth boiler room,” said Boxhall. “Crewmen are working to pump it out.”
“It will do little good,” said Andrews.
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Smith.
“She was only designed to stay afloat with the first four compartments flooded, but not five,” Andrews said, indicating the forepeak and three cargo holds on the blueprint. “As the bow sinks, the water will spill over each bulkhead one after another until—”
“Until what?” said Bruce Ismay. He came into the navigating room wearing a large coat over his pajamas. “What are you saying, Thomas? The Titanic cannot sink.”
“But she can,” said Andrews. “And, regrettably, I’m certain that she will.”
Ismay bit his lip and relaxed his posture.
“How long do we have?” asked Smith.
Andrews studied the blueprints, doing the mathematical calculations in his head, and then said, “Maybe an hour. Two, if we’re lucky.”
“It appears you’re going to get your headlines after all, Mr. Ismay,” said Smith. Then he ordered Boxhall to calculate the ship’s exact position so they could send out a distress call.
Ismay and Andrews sulked away in silence.
Alone again with Wilde, Smith picked back up on their prior conversation.
“How are you feeling?”
“I believe I have a fever,” Wilde replied.
Smith studied the chief officer. “I can’t say for certain. But if you were bitten, then you are most likely infected. How is your hand?”
Wilde pulled up the left sleeve again. His hand had turned purple and swollen considerably. “I suppose it doesn’t much matter now, does it? If we’re all going to die, that is.”
“Perhaps, though I intend to spare as many as possible. I’d appreciate it if you would go to your quarters and remain there. For the sake of others. I hope you understand.”
“Whatever I can do to help, in these, my final moments.”
“Thank you, Henry. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Moments after Wilde left, Murdoch and Lowe entered the wheelhouse. Smith explained the grim fate of the ship, while Murdoch caught him up on the spread of the infection.
“The best we can hope for is that someone is nearby and responds to our call,” said Smith. “For now, begin preparing the lifeboats for loading. And please protect yourselves. Where are Lightoller and Moody?”
“We split off. Have they not returned?”
“No, they have not.”
Murdoch shrugged. “Well, I’m sure they’ll come around soon, sir.”
Ten minutes later, Captain Smith entered the wireless room with the Titanic’s estimated position in hand. He handed the coordinates to Harold Bride.
“Send the distress call.”
Bride slipped the piece of paper in front of Jack Phillips, who was wearing the wireless set.
“What call should I send?” asked Phillips.
“The regulation international call for help. That’s all.”
Smith left the wireless room and walked along the boat deck, inspecting the officers as they readied the lifeboats. Murdoch was on the starboard side uncovering lifeboat number seven.
“Where is Wilde?”
“He had something to tend to,” Smith replied.
“Should we swing out the boats?”
“Yes, go ahead. Then begin loading, women and children first. I take it you’re still armed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. See to it that no infected make their way on to the lifeboats. I’ll tell the others the same.”
ANDREWS
From the moment he realized the ship would founder, Thomas Andrews, by his own calculations, had at best a couple of hours left on this earth. How he was going to die was still to be determined, but he had decided right away that he would not take a seat on one of the lifeboats, even if the chance were offered to him.
He knew the math better than anyone.
There were over twenty two hundred passengers on board and only twenty lifeboats. The fourteen standard lifeboats could carry roughly seventy passengers each. The two emergency cutters and four collapsible boats could hold around forty-five. Assuming the loading of the boats went smoothly (which didn’t seem promising since Captain Smith had cancelled the lifeboat drill), a little over half of the passengers might survive.
And at least a thousand would perish.
Of course, the infection also played a part in trimming the numbers. After multiple attempts, the virus had proved impossible to contain, and in a short time had spread to nearly all areas of the ship. How many lives had it already claimed, and how many more would succumb to the unthinkable illness before the sea put its cold stamp on it for good?