Collection 3: "A Night to Remember" by Walter Lord

This was the fifth night of the Titanic's maiden voyage to New York, and it was already clear that she was not only the largest but also the most glamorous ship in the world.

Just the night, the stars, the biting cold, the wind that whistled through the rigging as the Titanic raced across the calm, black sea at 22½ knots.

“What did you see?” asked a calm voice at the other end.
“Iceberg right ahead,” replied Fleet.
“Thank you,” acknowledged the voice with curiously detached courtesy.

Then, miraculously, the bow began to swing to port.

At the last second the stem shot into the clear, and the ice glided swiftly by along the starboard side.

As he paced the deck, he noticed what he and his mates called “Whiskers ’round the Light”—tiny splinters of ice in the air, fine as dust, that gave off myriads of bright colors whenever caught in the glow of the deck lights.

They were dining-saloon stewards, indulging in the time-honored pastime of all stewards off duty—they were gossiping about their passengers.

Then, as they sat there talking, a faint grinding jar seemed to come from somewhere deep inside the ship. It was not much, but enough to break the conversation and rattle the silver that was set for breakfast next morning.

He recognized the kind of shudder a ship gives when she drops a propeller blade, and he knew this sort of mishap meant a trip back to the Harland & Wolff shipyard at Belfast—with plenty of free time to enjoy the hospitality of the port.

In the galley just to the stern, Chief Night Baker Walter Belford was making rolls for the following day.

In the galley just to the stern, Chief Night Baker Walter Belford was making rolls for the following day.

Mrs. Walter B. Stephenson recalled the first ominous jolt when she was in the San Francisco earthquake—then decided this wasn’t that bad.

Mrs. E. D. Appleton felt hardly any shock at all, but she noticed an unpleasant ripping sound...like someone tearing a long, long strip of calico.

Mr. Harder hopped out of bed and ran to the porthole. As he looked through the glass, he saw a wall of ice glide by.

Around one table sat Archie Butt, President Taft’s military aide; Clarence Moore, the traveling Master of Hounds; Harry Widener, son of the Philadelphia streetcar magnate; and William Carter, another Main Liner.

Not far off, Lucien P. Smith (still another Philadelphian) struggled gamely through the linguistic problems of a bridge game with three Frenchmen.

In an instant the smoking-room steward and Mr. Silverthorne were on their feet...through the aft door...past the Palm Court...and out onto the deck.

The sea cascaded in, swirling about the pipes and valves, and the two men leaped through the door as it slammed down behind them.

Then came that thud...the grinding, tearing sound...the telegraphs ringing wildly...the watertight doors crashing down. Most of the men couldn’t imagine what it was—the story spread that the Titanic had gone aground just off the Banks of Newfoundland.

At about 11:10 Groves noticed the lights of another ship, racing up from the east on the starboard side. As the newcomer rapidly overhauled the motionless Californian, a blaze of deck lights showed she was a large passenger liner.