“Send to the carpenter and tell him to sound the ship,” was the next order. The message was sent to the carpenter, but the carpenter never came up to report. He was probably the first man on the ship to lose his life.
The captain then looked at the communicator, which shows in what direction the ship is listing. He saw that she carried five degrees list to starboard.
The ship was then rapidly settling forward. All the steam sirens were blowing. By the captain’s orders, given in the next few minutes, the engines were put to work at pumping out the ship, distress signals were sent by the Marconi, and rockets were sent up from the bridge by Quartermaster Rowe. All hands were ordered on deck.
PASSENGERS NOT ALARMED
The blasting shriek of the sirens had not alarmed the great company of the Titanic, because such steam calls are an incident of travel in seas where fogs roll. Many had gone to bed, but the hour, 11.40 P. M., was not too late for the friendly contact of saloons and smoking rooms. It was Sunday night and the ship’s concert had ended, but there were many hundreds up and moving among the gay lights, and many on deck with their eyes strained toward the mysterious west, where home lay. And in one jarring, breath-sweeping moment all of these, asleep or awake, were at the mercy of chance. Few among the more than 2000 aboard could have had a thought of danger. The man who had stood up in the smoking room to say that the Titanic was vulnerable or that in a few minutes two-thirds of her people would be face to face with death, would have been considered a fool or a lunatic. No ship ever sailed the seas that gave her passengers more confidence, more cool security.
Within a few minutes stewards and other members of the crew were sent round to arouse the people. Some utterly refused to get up. The stewards had almost to force the doors of the staterooms to make the somnolent appreciate their peril, and many of them, it is believed, were drowned like rats in a trap.
ASTOR AND WIFE STROLLED ON DECK
Colonel and Mrs. Astor were in their room and saw the ice vision flash by. They had not appreciably felt the gentle shock and supposed that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. They were both dressed and came on deck leisurely. William T. Stead, the London journalist, wandered on deck for a few minutes, stopping to talk to Frank Millet. “What do they say is the trouble?” he asked. “Icebergs,” was the brief reply. “Well,” said Stead, “I guess it is nothing serious. I’m going back to my cabin to read.”
From end to end on the mighty boat officers were rushing about without much noise or confusion, but giving orders sharply. Captain Smith told the third officer to rush downstairs and see whether the water was coming in very fast. “And,” he added, “take some armed guards along to see that the stokers and engineers stay at their posts.”
In two minutes the officer returned. “It looks pretty bad, sir,” he said. “The water is rushing in and filling the bottom. The locks of the water-tight compartments have been sprung by the shock.”