As the days passed the passengers seemed to enjoy them more and more, and formed those acquaintances such as one does on an ocean crossing. Each evening, in the smoking room, the pool for the following day’s run was auctioned, and that always makes for informality and companionship.
Thursday evening the usual concert was given and much enjoyed.
Friday morning early there was some fog, but I arose at eight as usual and had my sea bath. As the horn was blowing and the weather was thick, I returned to my berth for a few hours’ extra snooze. I instructed the steward that if he didn’t hear from me by 12 o’clock he was to call me, as that would give me ample time to get ready for lunch at one.
At noon he came and told me that we had picked up Cape Clear and had put the clock one hour and forty minutes ahead to Greenwich time. I got up and dressed, and was on deck at about ten minutes to one for a short stroll before lunch. It was a beautiful day then, light wind, a smooth sea, and bright sunshine. I thought to myself that if a German submarine really meant business, she would have to wait weeks for a more ideal chance than the present weather conditions. With a flat, unbroken sea, such as that around us, the periscope of a submarine could certainly carry a long distance. On the port side was the good old Irish Coast, and it seemed to me that we were going up the old beaten track that ocean liners have taken for the last fifty years. I was surprised that we were following it, but I was more than surprised at the slow speed we were making. There was no use of one asking questions of the officers, for we all knew they were told to discreetly hold their tongues.
I went down to lunch at one o’clock and finished shortly before two.
The portholes along both sides of the dining saloon were open. I had special reason to notice this, as my seat was directly under an electric fan, and several times on the voyage when the portholes were open and the fan going the draught was so strong that I had been obliged to request the steward to shut off the fan. This was the case this noon.
My table companion was Lothrop Withington. We had a jolly time together and made plans for seeing each other in London, as his rooms were near our London office. Poor chap, I wish I had seen him after we were struck, that I might have given him a helping hand.
After luncheon I left the saloon, went to my stateroom and then up on deck and joined the Hubbards on the port side. Immediately after the explosion the ship took a sharp list to the starboard and a decided pitch by the head. You could feel the two separate motions very distinctly. It seemed as if she were going down at once, but then she stopped suddenly as if the sea had met the water-tight bulkheads and she seemed to right herself and even raise her bow a little. This gave me a feeling of security, and I at first thought she would stay afloat. As soon as the ship found herself I looked over the rail and made a mental note as to how far she had rolled out.
From the moment we were struck no sense of fear or doubt entered my mind but that I could perfectly well save myself. If she did sink I could step into the water, and I was confident that I could paddle round for several hours until I was rescued. My experience had been such that a few hours more or less in the water made no difference to me, and I didn’t care particularly whether it was a swim in the Irish Sea or Hull Bay.
I spoke to the Hubbards, but when they showed no inclination to go to their cabin to get their life jackets I tapped Mr. Hubbard on the shoulder to emphasize the following remark, “If you don’t care to come, stay here and I will get them for you.” It did not take me many minutes to go to my cabin, get several life jackets, which I strung on my arm, take my small leather case which contained my business papers, and return to the spot where I had left the Hubbards. I wish with all my heart that they had waited until I came back. If only they had...! But I must not write about the “ifs” of this catastrophe. They would in themselves make a book larger than the account of the disaster itself.