Titanic

{Chapter Thirty-Three}

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 Smith and Andrews came down the steps to the Mail Sorting Room, and found the clerks scrambling to pull mail from the racks. They were furiously hauling wet sacks from the hold below.

Andrews climbed partway down the stairs to the hold, which was almost full of water. Mail floated everywhere. The lights were still on below the surface, casting an eerie glow. The Renault was visible under the water, the brass glinting cheerfully. He looked down as the water covered his shoe and scrambled back up the stairs.

. . . . .

Andrews unrolled a big drawing of the ship across the chartroom table. It was a side elevation, showing all of the watertight bulkheads. His hands were shaking. Murdoch and Ismay hovered behind Andrews and the Captain.

"When can we go underway, dammit?" Ismay asked impatiently.

Smith glared at him and turned his attention to Andrews' drawing. The builder pointed to it for emphasis as he talked.

"Water...fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes...in the forepeak...in all three holds...and in boiler room six."

"That's right," Smith agreed.

"Five compartments. She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached, but not five. Not five. As she goes down by the head, water will spill over the bulkheads...at E Deck...from one to the next...back and back. There's no stopping it."

"The pumps--" Captain Smith was grasping for any hope.

"The pumps buy you time...but minutes only. From this moment, no matter what we do, Titanic will founder."

"But this ship can't sink!" Ismay was flabbergasted.

"She's made of iron, sir. I assure you, she can. And she will. It is a mathematical certainty." Andrews knew the truth.

Smith looked like he had been gut-punched. "How much time?"

Andrews took precious moments to analyze the data consuming his swirling mind. "An hour. Two at most," was his answer.

Ismay reeled as his dream turned into his worst nightmare.

"And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?" Smith asked.

"Two-thousand, two-hundred souls aboard, sir."

There was a pause. Smith turned to face his employer.

"Well, I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

. . . . .

Andrews was striding along the boat deck as seamen and officers scurried to uncover the boats. Steam was venting from pipes on the funnels overhead, and the din was horrendous. Speech was difficult, adding to the crew's level of disorganization.

Andrews saw some men fumbling with the mechanism of one of the Wellin davits and yelled to them over the roar of the steam. "Turn to the right! Pull the falls taut before you unchock. Have you never had a boat drill?"

"No, sir! Not with these new davits, sir."

He looked around, disgusted, as the crew fumbled with davits, and the tackle for the falls...the ropes which were used to lower the boats. A few passengers were coming out on deck, hesitant in the noise and bitter cold.

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Why do people have to be so stupid, sometimes?

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