LIKE A FUNERAL SHIP.
Silently as a funeral ship the Carpathia sped. Passengers and crew lined the upper decks. From portholes peered the faces of scores.
But no cheer such as usually comes at the end of a cruise was heard. The lights shone brilliantly from every port and from the upper decks, but the big vessel moved silently, almost spectral in its appearance.
There was all the speed at the vessel’s command in its approach. Moving in from the open sea, the liner turned its prow up the channel toward the spot where the reflection in the sky showed the presence of the great city.
At full speed she bore northward between the twinkling lights on shore. There were sick on board and their condition did not permit of delay.
To the dismal souls on board, the weather must have seemed peculiarly fitting.
All day the vessel had raced before a half a gale which beat fiercely against her prow as her course was changing northward. The rain fell heavily and was blown in gusts that defied protecting shelter.
Spray flew from the waves and was thrown in showers as high as the top of the huge bulwarks.
Such good headway had the Carpathia made, that she docked fully two hours before it had been expected. All day heavy fog had hung over the lower bay and it was reported that the weather was heavy and thick outside.
Officers of the Cunard and White Star Lines, from their offices on Lower Broadway, informed the anxious hundreds who appealed for information that the boat would not be in until probably one or two o’clock in the morning. Tug skippers, shipping men and the weather-wise made wagers among themselves, over the time the Carpathia would arrive. There were many who predicted confidently that the sorrow-laden liner would not be able to come up the channel before the dawn.