Cold All the Way Through, But Warming

Waiting in the Cold

Watching that grand ship sink was astounding, memorable, and chaotic all at once. As we moved further away we could hardly make out the people on board, they became just fuzzy figures mainly noticeable for their white life belts. The ship was still lit, the water flooding the bow dyed a bright blue by the electric lights. I tried in vain to spot Will, thinking that perhaps he was still on this side, but I couldn't make out anything, just vague dark figures on deck. We stopped rowing far away from the ship, the suction from a vessel of this size going down would swamp us if we were any closer the sailors warned.

Then it seemed to be nothing but waiting, waiting and watching.

Later I would read in the papers all kinds of sentimental details of the ship sinking. The lines supporting a funnel snapping with a sound like a gunshot, the funnel crushing dozens of people as it fell. Panicked women flinging themselves to the stern, thinking it would save them. A massive explosion from down below as the cold sea hit the boilers, sending foaming water and swimmers flying up. A Catholic priest, leading a group in prayer on the stern, a Hail Mary that the crowd echoed. Some would call for him to be sainted after.

I saw all of that, but to me, it seemed simple. She went down by her bow, the stern rising as the water flooded forward. Two funnels fell, the sound of them creaking and falling fierce across the water, and I was thankful we were far enough away I could not see the results. I could see a good number of people, distinguishable only by their lifebelts, running to the stern. We had little light from beyond the ship, the distress rockets only providing some small relief, but after they were gone the darkness seemed all the more smothering. The stern that people thought would be their refuge proved little good.

It began to twist upward, slowly as the bow dipped below the flat water. I could hear the metal groaning in protest as the weight of the stern kept rising, eventually almost all the way out. The lights flickered once, but then were gone in a flash, and the only way to see the ship was to see where the stars weren't. A terrific roar came from the ship, something deep inside twisting and wrenching, which set the people to screaming more. The darkness covered those on the stern, not even the white of the railing visible, and I was grateful. I couldn't see the people on the stern as it rushed downward, a rush of air coming out of the ship unfurling the flag on the stern railing briefly before it simply slid away.

And then we were alone on the water, with the people not in the boats crying out. It was ghastly, a wail that would run down your spine, and I saw some in our boat covering their ears. I would never forget that sound, thousands it seemed, crying out for relief, for rescuers, for help, for someone to come back for God's sake, please, save us. But we could do nothing. One woman in our boat loudly recited the Lord's Prayer, some joining her to try and drown out the noise. I remained silent, taking the oar in front of me and studying the grain closely in an attempt to ignore them. It was lacquered a smooth brown and the grain rain straight down the oar, only weaving slightly as it continued on. But I found myself looking back where the ship had been only moments before, unable to shut the cries out. Thank God we could not see much, only hundreds of white figures and water splashing, we could not see their faces as they cried for us to come back.

I looked up, desperate to find something else to look at. The stars were bright, almost reflected in the still water around the boats, but the moon was dark. No moonlight to be seen, and I stared at the stars begging them to keep my mind from the people crying out. I tried to remember the stories I had heard about the constellations, to try and find them in the sky, but it kept slipping away. All I could think about was the people not far from us, and that we could not go back without possibly losing our own lives. Oh yes, we could row back and bring on as many as we could. But more would come, would drag on the oars and try to climb the sides. We would be swamped, and those we save would still die, along with us. Officer Lowe, near the front of the boat, turned from the sight and ordered us to make for a grouping of lifeboats that was not too far from us. Our rhythm on the oars was pitiful to say the least and our boat moved slowly through the water. Some of the ladies on the boat protested at having to row, that they could not do it, they were unused to such crude labor. I stayed silent, gripping the oar tighter as I rowed.