Captain Stanley Lord, skipper of the SS Californian, turned his head towards the bulkhead and pulled the thick bed covers tighter under his chin. But it was to no avail; sleep had escaped. He sat up in bed and checked the time on the ship’s clock. It was 1:15 in the morning on the 15th of April, 1912.
With his First Officer’s words still fresh in his mind, he stared at the speaking tube attached to the bulkhead by his bedside table. It had been five minutes since the man had woken Lord from his sleep and now Lord realised he himself - disoriented by sleep - had not asked the most obvious question. The question now turned like a kaleidoscope in his mind.
If he wanted sleep to return, he needed to know the answer. He reached for the speaking tube but stopped. He cursed in the freezing empty cabin. “Blast it to Hell, man. I’ll have to go back up.”
Fog formed around more curses as he unfolded his covers and reached for his woolen long johns and leather boots. In a few minutes he was dressed and pulling his cap down over his brow. He checked himself in the wardrobe mirror - no need to lower standards even at the dead of night in the middle of the North Atlantic - and pulled open his cabin door.
It was a short walk to the bridge. Icebergs cluttered the ocean around them like frozen boulders on a flat desert of rolling soot. Stars twinkled at their own reflections around the ship. Lord almost stopped to admire the sheer majesty of it but remembered how annoyed he was with Gibson and pressed on.
He ascended the port stairs, flung open the bridge door and found only the helmsman present, dozing at his station. The young man almost hit his head on the ceiling. The Captain spared him a rebuke. After all, they had dropped their sea anchor hours earlier.
“Morning, Jones.”
“Sir.”
“Where are the officers?”
“On the starboard watch, sir.” He pointed.
“Very good. Stay sharp.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Lord brushed passed him and stepped onto on the weather deck. “Gentlemen.”
Gibson and Stone spun in surprise. He spoke over their greetings. “Gibson. I have a simple, solitary question, my man. A point you failed to mention when you woke me just now.”
Even in the starlight, Gibson turned crimson. “Sir, I just thought that…”
“The question is this: These rockets you reported to me…”
‘Yes, sir?”
“How far apart were they?”
Gibson and Stone glanced at each other. “There was a short interval….”
“Blast it, man. How fast?”
Gibson swallowed. “Sir. I’d say they came as fast as they could light them.”
“Where is she now? Can we still see her?”
Stone handed over his binoculars and Lord snatched them from him. Gibson pointed. “Sir, they are directly to our starboard. I estimate about fifteen miles, sir. And the lights look… queer, sir.”
“Queer, you say?” He followed their bearing and found the vessel. Shimmering even in the frozen air, he could see the winking lights from two decks. Not a breath of wind disturbed the three men in the silence that followed. In his mind, he agreed; there was something odd about the line of the keel shimmering in the darkness.
“You realise who that must be, don’t you?” He murmured.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s Smithy.” He lowered the glasses. “It’s Titanic.”
“We’ve not seen a rocket since I called you, sir.”
“Very good.” Lord rubbed the wooden railing with his gloved fingers. Suddenly, a thought, bright as a penny, popped into his head. “Rouse Evans. Get him onto the wireless device.”
Stone jumped to the door. “Right you are, sir.”
Gibson seemed to relax. “So she might be in distress, sir?”
“That’s a possibility. It certainly would explain all the rockets. Any sequence of multiple rockets indicates distress.”
“But White Star ordered a festive trip…”
Lord thought about that for a moment. “Fireworks? Well after midnight? I don't think so, no. Smith knows what he’s about, Gibson. Never mind company orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone opened and closed the bridge door. “Evans is awake now, sir. He’s off to the wireless room. I’ve told him to report to the bridge directly.”
“Very good.”
They stared at the trembling string of distant lights, doubled in the water, for a few moments longer. Lord then led them all back into the warmth of the main bridge.
“She’s unsinkable, sir,” Stone offered.
“Indeed. But they could have something in the food. Or a boiler might have exploded.”
“Maiden voyage, sir.”
“Exactly, Gibson. Anything might have happened. We’ll know soon enough, I suppose.” He pulled the Engine Room speaking tube and blew down it. After a moment, a gruff voice replied. “Engine room, Fyte speaking. What in God’s name do you people want at this time of night?”
“Fyte. This is the Captain speaking.”
"Now, look here, you lot..." There was a pause as the man reconsidered his response. “No duff, sir?”
“No duff, good man. Now listen up. We have possible distress rockets some miles to the starboard. I want you to be ready down there.”
“Shall I wake the Chief, sir?”
“Only if we give the orders to get underway.”
Lord hung up on the acknowledgement. “Gibson, have a few men standing by at the sea anchor.”
“Aye, aye…”
The door burst open and smashed against the bulkhead like a shotgun blast.
Evans, the wireless operator, staggered as he stopped himself by clinging to the door handle. His face was ashen and shining with sweat. “Sir! It’s Titantic! They want immediate assistance!”
Lord snatched the Marconi paper:
WE ARE IN COLLISION WITH BERG. SINKING HEAD DOWN. 41.46 N. 50.14 W. COME SOON AS POSSIBLE.
The shock of the words made Lord crumble the flimsy paper in his fist. The eyes of the room stared at him. With wonder, he said, “She’s going down by the head, he says.”
The room turned as cold as the glassy sea outside. Then Lord’s booming voice shattered the shocked silence. “First Mate: get the sea anchor up! Helmsmen, turn starboard! Stone, get me all possible speed!”
Shouting and furious activity filled the bridge.
Lord grabbed Evans by his lapels. “Message Titanic, Evans. ‘SMITHY, WE’RE ON OUR WAY. FIFTEEN MILES TO YOUR PORT. HANG ON, OM.’”
Evans nodded, his eyes as round as saucers. Lord pushed him out the door.
Stone was the only one not moving. “What in the blazes, Stone? You have your orders, man! Get me all the boilers up at once!”
“But, sir. We’re in an ice-field. Are you sure you want ‘Full Speed’ signalled, sir?”
“Smith has two thousand souls onboard, Stone.”
Stone squirmed. “I know, sir. I know but…”
They had nearly hit an iceberg earlier in the night. Stone was right. Lord nodded to him, thinking it through. But now was not the time for hesitation…
Lord paced for a moment, thinking. He spun and pointed at Stone. “Wake up the entire crew, Stone. I want every available man on deck as lookouts for ice.”
“Yes, sir.” The man paused. “How, sir?”
Amidst the turmoil and urgency around him, Captain Lord at last had found something for he himself to do. He reached out and yanked on the boiler whistle, long and hard.
It’s cry echoed into history.
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