The Titanic | She's Doomed | 2
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Imagine it's midnight on April 15th, 1912. You're the managing director of the Harlan and Wolfe shipyard, and you're standing on the bridge of the world's largest ship, the RMS Titanic.

You oversaw her design and construction, and this was supposed to be her triumphant maiden voyage. But less than an hour ago, your beautiful ship struck an iceberg in the North Atlantic. Now you're standing beside Captain Edward Smith as the engines slow down and the ship glides to a stop. You can feel the deck already tilting slightly to the right, an ominous sign.

The captain seems calm, but is clearly worried. We've closed the watertight doors between all compartments. Stop the engines. My fourth officer went down below to make sure the damage is contained, but there are reports that water is already coming into the mailroom and onto the squash court. I think you and I should go down and make our own inspection. I agree, but let's take the crew stairway. Avoid alarming any passengers. Good idea. We'll head down to the forward boiler room and then work our way to the engine room.

As you follow the captain down the metal stairs, you run into three coal stokers rushing up from their posts. You keep descending, but then stop in your tracks. Down below the next level, you can see water rushing across the floor, and it's rising. The captain looks to you for answers. Didn't you say this ship could stay afloat even with compartments flooded? She should float with three or four flooded. But if five or six of the forward compartments are taking on water...

you begin to calculate the damage. Well, it looks like three are ruptured already. The bulkheads separating each compartment are 18 feet high, but if those forward compartments continue to flood, it'll weigh down the bow, which will start to sink and take on even more water. The water will then overflow the bulkheads and each compartment will flow into the next. So the fifth flows into the sixth and then the seventh, and so on, sir. Yes, I'm afraid that's a certainty.

You know this ship better than anyone. You once told a reporter it could even split into three parts and would still stay afloat. But now you're facing an unanticipated scenario in which the flooded bow might pull the whole thing under. The gravity of the situation dawns on you just as it does the captain. So we're going down then? I'm afraid so. Captain is quiet for a moment, then nods his head. How much time? Not much. Ninety minutes? An hour? Possibly less. All right,

We'll start uncovering the lifeboats. As you climb up the bridge, your heart is racing. You can barely comprehend that this magnificent ship, one you've devoted yourself to, the ship that you'd convinced everyone was unsinkable, is now doomed.

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Just past midnight on the cold early morning of April 15, 1912, only 20 minutes after striking an iceberg, the Titanic began taking on water in her forward hull. The ship's designer, Thomas Andrews, was shocked to discover that the water was quickly filling the compartments that had been designed to be watertight. After a quick survey, he informed Captain Edward Smith that the ship would sink.

Smith quickly issued orders to start evacuating passengers, starting with women and children. But with only 16 lifeboats and four collapsible boats on board, the Titanic's crew knew that there would be no way for every passenger and crew member to escape. More than half of the 2,200 people aboard would be left behind as the lifeboats rowed away, and the remaining passengers would face stark decisions as the ship began to go down.

This is Episode 2 of our series on the Titanic, She's Doomed. When the Titanic first struck an iceberg at 11.40 p.m. on April 14th, the ship had traveled roughly 2,000 miles west from Ireland and was in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. It still had another 1,200 miles to go to reach New York and was expected to arrive there in three days.

But by midnight, 20 minutes after the ice had scraped violently along the front side of the hull at the waterline, Captain Edward Smith had stopped the ship's engines and it began to founder. At the time, the Titanic was 400 miles south of Newfoundland and 700 miles south and east of Halifax, Nova Scotia. No one was coming to the rescue.

Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the White Star Line that owned the Titanic, jumped out of bed when he felt the iceberg strike. Throwing an overcoat over his pajamas, he rushed to the bridge and asked the captain, Do you think the ship is seriously damaged? And Smith delivered the news, I'm afraid she is.

Smith had initially sent one of his officers below to check for damage, and 15 minutes later that officer reported that he found no damage, but he had not descended to the ship's lowest decks. Smith then called for the ship's carpenter to do more extensive search, and the carpenter reported that the ship was taking on water quickly. Smith and the ship's designer, Thomas Andrews, then descended to examine the flooded decks themselves.

What they saw shocked them and convinced Andrews that the ship was badly damaged. He told Captain Smith the ship would likely sink in 90 minutes or less, prompting the captain to order his crew to prepare the lifeboats, get passengers out of their cabins, and start handing out life jackets.

At 12.10 a.m., Captain Smith entered the Marconi radio room and handed a slip of paper with the Titanic's position to wireless operator Jack Phillips, directing him to call on other ships for assistance. Phillips began tapping out Morris code for CQD, the International Distress Call, followed by the Titanic's call letters, MGY. His partner in the radio room, Harold Bride, suggested trying the newer emergency code that was being adopted by the shipping community, MGY.

SOS, joking to Phillips, it may be your last chance. So as Phillips tapped out this distress code, the Titanic became one of the first large ships to ever use the new SOS signal. Three ships responded to acknowledge they'd received the Titanic's call for help, but only one of them, the Carpathia, was remotely close by. Phillips messaged the Carpathia directly, Comet once, we've struck a berg.

When Phillips informed Captain Smith that the Carpathia was 58 miles away, Smith turned and walked out of the wireless room. He knew it would take hours for the Carpathia to arrive, and by then, the Titanic would surely be gone. Another ship, the Californian, though, was only 10 miles away, but it did not get the Titanic's call for help.

Earlier in the night, its radio operator had warned the Titanic about icebergs, but Titanic radio operator Jack Phillips was so overwhelmed by messages that he told the Californian to shut up. By the time the Titanic collided with the iceberg, the Californian's radio operator had shut down his equipment for the night. So despite being nearby, the Californian had no idea the Titanic was in need of help.

Meanwhile, on the Titanic, word spread that the ship was in trouble. Nervous passengers began fleeing their rooms, many of them lugging baggage. Down in third class, water had already begun pouring into the rooms of the lower decks. Passengers scrambled to escape through the maze of corridors and stairways. Some spoke little or no English and couldn't understand the hallway signs. Others in third class confronted the horror of finding gates to the upper decks locked.

By 1215, first and second class passengers were gathering near the lifeboats. Crewmen tried to maintain order, calling for women and children to step forward first, but panic was setting in. Wallace Hartley, the head of the ship's orchestra, called on his musicians to grab their instruments and meet outside the first class lounge because he had an idea. Imagine it's 1215 a.m. on April 15th, 1912. You're a violinist and band leader assigned to oversee the Titanic's orchestra.

You'd been hesitant to take the job, not wanting to leave your fiancé back home. But you hoped that working on the maiden voyage of the Titanic would lead to contacts for future work. Just hours earlier, you'd played an after-dinner concert for first-class passengers and took requests. Puccini for Mrs. Candy and a little Dvorak for Mr. Woolner.

But now you're standing with your seven fellow musicians outside the first-class lounge on the A-deck in the bitter cold. You turn to your cello player, a 20-year-old Frenchman named Brie Koo. Well, this isn't how I imagined the evening ending. Me either. I was expecting to be tucked into bed by now.

Well, no one's getting any sleep tonight.

Should we give these people some music? Are you joking? Music at a time like this? Of course at a time like this. Don't you think some music might calm everyone's nerves? I suppose it might. Anyway, the engines have stopped and we're not going anywhere. We might as well play.

The other musicians gather around with their instruments, and you make your case. Now listen, you all heard the officers. They're going to load women and children onto the lifeboats first. That's going to take some time, and the passengers are clearly upset. If we play some upbeat songs, it might make the whole process go more smoothly. The men nod their heads, some less enthusiastically than others. Okay, well let's just set up here, just inside the lounge where we'll be out of the way.

Mr. Bricou, what do you think we should play? Perhaps a waltz? Or no, that might be too slow. How about some ragtime? Perfect. Does everyone know Alexander's Ragtime Band? Yes? Okay. Let's keep it light and cheerful, shall we?

A restless crowd flows in and out of the first-class lounge, some trying to avoid the cold, not paying much attention to your music. You can feel the panic spreading slowly. You can also feel the ship beginning to tilt forward. You and your fellow musicians all adjust their feet to steady themselves.

You know your men are worried, and you are too, but you're trying not to show it. You're determined not to let your fear overwhelm you. Instead, you focus on what to play next, what will best calm your nerves and those of your passengers, and distract you from the fear that clutches at you. Still, as you concentrate on the notes, in the back of your mind, you can't help wondering if you'll ever see your fiancé again.

During the first 45 minutes after the Titanic struck the iceberg, many passengers remained unsure of what exactly had happened or what they were supposed to do. There were no announcements. No alarm bells rang. Word spread slowly at first. In fact, to some passengers, the comforting sounds of ragtime and waltzes suggested that there was no reason to panic.

But information did spread, often erratically and sometimes erroneously. Some passengers prepared to evacuate, but others remained calm and unhurried, trusting that the ship was safe. Second-class passenger Harvey Collier, a grocer from south of London who was taking his family to Idaho to start a fruit farm, asked an officer what had happened. Harvey then rushed to his room to tell his wife Charlotte, saying, We've struck an iceberg, a big one, but there's no danger. An officer told me so.

But then at 12.25 a.m., Captain Smith issued the official order to start loading women and children into lifeboats. Some crew members took charge of the eight lifeboats on the starboard side, while others went to assist with the eight portside boats. But many passengers still had not accepted the seriousness of the situation, and Second Officer Charles Lightoller had to shout to get people lined up for the first boats. Lightoller later said people were not in a hurry to go down to the sea in a boat.

So it took 20 minutes to coordinate the first lifeboat, number 7, which was finally lowered overboard at 12.45 a.m. The boat carried only 19 passengers, including movie star Dorothy Gibson and two honeymooning couples, despite having a capacity of at least 65 people.

Captain Smith had ordered his crew to load women and children first, and on the starboard side of the ship, some of his crew interpreted that to mean only women and children were allowed on board, which led some lifeboats to parting half-full. On the port side, the officer in charge allowed some male passengers and crew to board, but only after he filled it with available women and children.

and corralling the passengers was not the only difficulty. The evacuation was made more complicated because the crew had limited experience with the new rope and pulley davit winches used to lower the lifeboats. As more boats were loaded, some nearly flipped over, and others were lowered without drainage plugs installed in the floor, allowing water in.

Most of those loaded into the first lifeboats were first- and second-class passengers. Their cabins were closer to the top-level boat deck, and they had easier access to stairways leading them to the boats. But as the first lifeboats were released, more people on deck began to realize how dire the situation was, and a new wave of panic swept among the passengers. In the meantime, many third-class passengers were still far below in the ship's lower decks, searching for a way up and out.

Stewards had finally unlocked some of the stairway gates, but the waters were now rising fast. Many third-class rooms were at the far front or rear of the ship, and by the time the passengers found their way up to the top-level boat deck, most of the lifeboats had left or were already full. By 1.15 a.m., water began washing over the Titanic's sinking bow.

Soon, scuffles broke out over who was allowed onto a lifeboat with crew members shoving back men who tried to join their wives and children. An officer named Lowe fired shots from his revolver to keep the men away. Ida Strauss, wife of the owner of Macy's department store, was about to step into lifeboat number eight, but at the last second stepped back out to stay with her husband Isidore. She said, We have been living together for many years. Where you go, I go.

The couple sat down together in a pair of deck chairs, resigned to their fate. Other couples had to make similar life-and-death decisions, including the Colliers. Charlotte and her daughter Marjorie got into lifeboat number 14 at 1.25 a.m., while her husband Harvey stayed on deck, with the family's life savings still hidden inside his coat. He shouted to his wife, "'Go, Lottie! For God's sake, be brave and go! I'll get a seat in another boat!'

By now, three ships had responded to the Titanic's distress calls, but the nearest ship, the Carpathia, was still 50 miles away. It was steaming toward the sinking Titanic, but would take hours to arrive. In the radio room, Operators Phillips and Bride again messaged all nearby ships, We are sinking fast.

Captain Smith then ordered his crew to shoot rocket flares into the air in hopes of attracting the attention of any other nearby ships. At 1245, the first shot rose into the sky in a burst of white stars. And just 10 miles away, a lookout on the Californian caught a glimpse of the illumination. It was the ship closest to the Titanic, but its radio was still shut off and silent.

The lookout on the Californian assumed that he was just seeing the flickering lights from the deck of the Titanic and did not raise any alarm. So with no immediate sign of rescue, passengers on the Titanic would have to find a way off the ship themselves if they were to have any chance of survival.

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By 2 a.m. on April 15, 1912, the bow of the Titanic was underwater, and her stern was rising upwards. Seawater washed over the front third of the damaged ship, and one by one the remaining lifeboats dropped into the sea. Number 6 hit the water at 12.55 a.m., number 3 at 1 a.m., numbers 1 and 8 ten minutes later. But tragically, instead of carrying 65 to 70 people, many of the lifeboats were loaded half-full or less.

Lifeboat No. 1 carried only a dozen people. Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the White Star Line, raced around shouting at crew and officers, lower away, lower away. But some crew members didn't know who he was and ordered him to stay out of their way. But as the Titanic's bow continued to sink lower and its lifeboats dispersed, the SS Carpathia was racing to the scene.

The Carpathia's wireless operator, Harold Cottam, had received the Titanic's first distress messages and had let the Titanic's radio operators know that his ship was on the way. By around 1.30 a.m., Cottam picked up two urgent messages from the Titanic, We are sinking fast, and women and children in boats.

Cottam had rushed to wake the Carpathia's captain, Arthur Rostron, who now pushed his ship to its top speed of 17 knots. Rostron also ordered his crew to prepare food, blankets, and medical supplies. And at 1.45 a.m. in the Carpathia's radio room, Cottam picked up one final message from the Titanic. Come quick, our engine room is flooded up to the boilers. Cottam responded, but he received no reply.

Captain Rostrum desperately hoped they'd reach the Titanic by dawn.

The last of the Titanic's wooden lifeboats, No. 4, was lowered at 1.50 a.m., two hours after the ship struck the iceberg. Millionaire John Jacob Astard put his pregnant wife Madeline into the boat, then asked Officer Lightoller if he could join her, especially since the boat had only 40 people. Lightoller refused, so Astard gave his gloves to his wife, said goodbye, and walked off to join the other men staying behind.

Captain Smith urged the boats already lowered into the water to return to pick up more passengers, at one point yelling through a megaphone, come alongside. But the lifeboats moved quickly away from the ship, fearful of getting sucked under by a whirlpool or being overwhelmed by too many passengers. One by one, they all rowed away.

By now, the remaining passengers were frantic, and the ship was tilting heavily forward with the rear starting to rise above the water. The remaining third-class passengers who'd finally escaped from the lower decks reached the boat deck to find all the lifeboats gone. The last hope for many was getting into one of the four collapsible lifeboats. These boats had cork bottoms and heavy canvas sides, but in the confusion of the moment, they were difficult to assemble.

At 2 a.m., as collapsible lifeboat C was finally ready and dangling over the railing by ropes, White Star director Bruce Ismay concluded there was room for one more and climbed aboard, squeezing in beside third-class passengers. Collapsible lifeboat D was lowered next, and as it descended, two men made a desperate leap from the railing and crash-landed inside the boat.

Meanwhile, the Titanic continued to sink rapidly, and as the remaining two collapsible boats were being assembled and loaded with passengers, water was flooding the upper decks. Before it could be completely assembled, collapsible A was deluged by water, followed by collapsible B, which was washed off the deck and flipped upside down. Both boats were now more like rafts, but some swimmers at least managed to climb aboard.

Captain Smith had been hurrying among passengers and crew, issuing orders and helping load people into the lifeboats. He had instructed officers to fire more rockets, which flared every few minutes into the night sky. He checked in now and then with Phillips and Bride in the wireless room, and at just past 2 a.m. he told them, "'You can do no more. Now it's every man for himself.'"

Phillips sent one last distress message at 2.17 a.m. before joining fellow radioman Bride on the deck. At some point, Captain Smith was seen standing alone in the wheelhouse. Other survivors later reported seeing him swimming in the water and encouraging people to board the lifeboats. No one was quite sure how he met his fate. The orchestra had by now moved to an outside deck. No one had told them to stop playing, so as people fled, music continued to fill the air.

The Titanic's back end and its giant propellers rose out of the water as the nose sank further. And at 2.30 a.m., more than 1,500 people were still on board. But with no lifeboats left, they were now faced with a terrifying decision.

Imagine it's just past 2 in the morning on April 15th, 1912, and the Titanic is going down. You're a 17-year-old passenger who was traveling with your mother and father in first class. You were relieved to see your mother in line to board one of the lifeboats, but you got separated from your father and now have no idea where he is.

So you're standing nervously on the boat deck beside a new friend you'd only met hours earlier during an after-dinner coffee. Now though, it seems like you've known each other far longer. "What should we do, Milton? We don't have much time." "I don't know. Let's wait a bit longer. Maybe we'll stay afloat." Strangely, until now, it hadn't really seemed like disaster was unfolding. People were laughing. Music filled the air.

But it's clear the situation has become dire. Emergency rockets soar into the air, music's gone, and so are the lifeboats. All around you, passengers are in a panic. One man toting a bottle of Gordon's gin lurches past, nearly toppling you. You realize you must act if you have any chance of staying alive. "I think we need to jump, Milton, before we get knocked into the water. If we jump, we'll get sucked under. Well, if we stay here, we'll eventually get pulled under, or worse.

I think we should jump as far out as we can and then swim for one of the lifeboats. Well, I told you I can't swim too well. Let's just wait. Help might be coming. No, there's no time left to wait. We have to go. Come up here. Come with me. You help your friend climb onto the railing. He's shaking with fear. Okay, stay with me, will you? We'll stick together, but we're going to need to jump. Okay, but listen, if I don't make it, can you get a message to my family? Tell them I love them? Of course, but we're going to make it.

You go first and I'll be right behind you. Your friend jumps, but not far enough. He slides down along the hull and lands in the water, very close to the ship. You push off the top rail and jump as far as you can. When you hit the frigid water, it feels like a thousand small knives are stabbing you. You kick to the surface and suck in some air. Milton! Milton, where are you? But you don't see your friend anywhere.

You start swimming away from the sinking ship, thankful for your life jacket and your heavy sweater. Even so, you feel your body beginning to go numb. Suddenly though, you feel something grabbing at you, and you feel yourself getting pulled up into a boat. Just as you're heaved aboard, one of the Titanic's four steam funnels topples in an explosion of sparks and fire. You twist in a panic to look back at the ship, trying in vain to spot Milton. There's no sign.

By 2.30 a.m., it had been clear to everyone that the ship was going down. Passengers confronted that grim reality in different ways. Some put on extra clothes over their life jackets, threw deck chairs and doors overboard for flotation, then jumped into the ice-cold water. Among the passengers to leap from the sinking ship were Jack Thayer and Milton Long, who'd met earlier that night and stuck together until the last moment.

The two debated how and when to jump overboard. Thayer wanted to jump into the water, but Long was not a good swimmer and begged him to wait. But when a large wave washed over the deck, Thayer jumped as far as he could, got sucked below the surface, and emerged 40 feet from the hole. He was helped into collapsible lifeboat B by wireless operator Harold Bride and survived. Thayer's mother had made it into a lifeboat, but his father did not.

Meanwhile, Milton Long did not jump far enough and ended up sliding down the side of the ship's hull. He was never seen again. But many chose not to jump, staying on the Titanic and remaining serenely calm, seemingly resigned to death. A few continued to play bridge and sip tea or brandy in the smoking room. Others stood around awaiting orders from the remaining crew.

Tennis player Norris Williams and his father, Charles, went to the gym to ride exercise bikes to stay warm. Journalist William T. Stead sat in a leather chair reading a book and then retired back to his room. John Jacob Astor, who had gathered with other men on the top deck looking at the lifeboats, summed up the attitude of many when he said, We are safer here than in that little boat.

Thomas Andrews, the ship's designer, was last seen standing in the first-class smoking room. A steward asked, Aren't you going to try for it, Mr. Andrews? But Andrews just stood there, silently staring, arms folded across his chest, his life jacket laying on a card table. Based on subsequent testimony from survivors, there were different recollections as to when Wallace Hartley's orchestra stopped playing and what their final song had been.

An enduring myth is that the band played Nearer, My God, to Thee as water began washing over their feet. But other survivors said the last song they remember hearing was the hymn Autumn. One second-class passenger later said, Many brave things were done that night, but none were more brave than those done by men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly lower and lower into the sea.

But the long-lasting strains of music were nothing compared to the horrific roar of the ship breaking apart. One of the massive steam funnels toppled and crushed a number of people on deck and in the water. John Jacob Astor is believed to be among them.

And inside the ship, everything came loose and crashed as the Titanic's stern tilted skyward. The sea exploded through shattered windows and rushed down through the decks. The lights in the ballrooms, dining rooms, passenger berths, and along the deck railings had stayed on all this time, but now began to flicker. The ship was nearly perpendicular, her propellers nearly 50 feet out of the water. Passengers in the lifeboats shivered in the frigid air.

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Jack Thayer, who leapt from the Titanic's deck as it sank into the ocean, later described the ship's final moments as a long, continuous, wailing chant.

with the ship's bow submerged in the sea and her stern high up in the air. Pressure built until the ship broke in half, sometime around 2.20 or 2.30 a.m. The rear half then slammed back downward, and moments later the bow and stern both slid beneath the surface, disappearing into a cauldron of frothing seawater.

Ten miles away, a few crewmen on the Californian stood on their deck and watched the lights flicker out, still unaware that the iceberg-stricken Titanic was doomed and sinking. They had seen the rocket flares but remained unaware the ship was in trouble. But as the Titanic began sinking, the Californian tried to communicate via Morse code with a powerful lamp but got no response. When the crew saw the lights go out, they assumed the Titanic had simply sailed away.

Meanwhile, only the Titanic's lifeboats remained afloat. Survivors huddled beneath blankets. Parents tried to calm their children, and some passengers discovered beakers of water and tins of biscuits that were stowed on board. At least three dogs were pulled from the waters into boats. They had been released from their kennels by an unknown passenger.

The ocean temperature was a frigid 28 degrees. After 20 minutes of floating in their life jackets, hundreds of passengers stranded in the water succumbed to hypothermia and died. The ship's baker, who had drunk a few glasses of whiskey before sliding into the water, managed to survive for two hours before finally being pulled aboard a lifeboat number 12. But by 3 a.m., all cries from those in the water had gone quiet.

Two of the collapsible boats had been damaged, and one was still flipped upside down. Soaked and freezing survivors clutched onto the overturned hull, and many of them could be heard praying.

In lifeboat number 14, Officer Harold Lowe moved passengers to other partially filled boats, then returned to attempt to rescue others. Lowe pulled four people from the water, one of whom later died, but found no other survivors. Lifeboat number four picked up five men, but two soon died.

But even those safe in the lifeboats were struggling to stay warm. Scuffles broke out among passengers over what to do next. Their situation was precarious. They were surrounded by freezing waters and icebergs, fearful of capsizing or being capsized by anyone still in the water trying to climb aboard. And none of them had any idea whether any ships were coming to help. Most assumed they could be adrift for many hours if not days. The sound of weeping filled the night air.

Many of the survivors knew their loved ones were gone. Imagine it's just past 3 a.m. on April 15th, 1912. You're a socialite and philanthropist from Leadville, Colorado, and you're bundled up and shivering in the North Atlantic Ocean, huddling with others in lifeboat number six. You had been traveling with your friends the Astors and visiting your daughter in Paris when you learned your grandson back in Colorado was sick, so you'd rush to catch the first ship back to America, the same ship you just watched sink.

Knowing there might be survivors still in the water, you urge your fellow passengers to row back and search. Come on, everyone. We have plenty of room. We're not even half full. We could fit two dozen more people in this boat. But the others aren't sure they want to take the chance. They're afraid desperate survivors might capsize the lifeboat. One of the ship's officers, Quartermaster Robert Hitchens, is especially resistant. Oh,

Oh, it's too late, ma'am. If we go back now, all we'll find are stiffs. It's our lives now, not theirs. But we have to try. I saw hundreds of people trying to swim for it. And they've all surely died of hyperthermia by now. It's no use. You can't possibly know that. Look, even if any of them are still alive, they could rush our boat and tip us over. Then we'd all be dead. We also run the risk of getting pulled under by the suction of the ship. Oh, nonsense. The ship is gone. You're just afraid. Ladies, help me row.

You pick up an oar and turn to the others, hoping to rally them. Listen, if we all pitch in, we can row back there. You slot your oar into an oar lock and begin rowing, but then the officer grabs the boat's tiller and turns the rudder, aiming the boat away from any survivors. You find his pessimism infuriating. We have to go back! Madam, I am the senior officer of this boat, and I refuse to go back to count corpses. You're a coward!

"At least let the women row a bit so they can stay warm." "Absolutely not. We should just drift with the current. We're all doomed anyway." You move toward the rear, planning to take the tiller back from the blubbering officer.

But suddenly, up ahead, you see what the others see. Lights of an approaching ship. Look, there's someone coming to the rescue. Let's row toward that ship. No, the ship's probably here just to retrieve dead bodies. I insist that we stay where we are. It's safer. And I insist that we throw you overboard. Who's with me?

A few shivering passengers raise their hands tentatively, and you glare victoriously at the officer. You nod to another woman and move to take the oars as the officer finally relents. The situation is desperate, but you refuse to give up hope. The Carpathia followed flares sent up by survivors in the lifeboats, and steering carefully through the ice field, arrived at the site of the sunken Titanic around 3.30 a.m. on April 15th.

Captain Arthur Rostron had ordered his crew to be ready with hot drinks and blankets and have doctors standing by and extra beds made up. Starting at around 4 a.m., the Carpathia's crew began pulling Titanic survivors aboard. The final lifeboat, number 12, was overcrowded with 75 people, having pulled some from the collapsible boats. It was the last lifeboat reached by the Carpathia at 8.30 a.m. No other survivors were found thereafter.

One of those rescued was socialite Margaret Brown from Leadville, Colorado, who had insisted on returning for survivors, despite angry resistance from one of the Titanic's officers. Ultimately, about 700 people who had been on board the Titanic were rescued, while more than double that were lost. 75% of the women and children survived, but only 20% of the men.

Thirteen of the Titanic's lifeboats were hoisted up onto the Carpathia, which was carrying 743 of its own passengers. One of the Titanic's collapsible boats was set adrift with three bodies inside. A brief memorial service was held for those who did not survive before the Carpathia began steaming back to New York.

Titanic wireless operator Harold Bride, though suffering from frostbite after spending hours on the overturned collapsible B, agreed to help in the Carpathia's radio room to send messages on behalf of the survivors. Bride's partner, Jack Phillips, had not survived. As the sun began to rise, surviving passengers could see they were surrounded by hundreds of icebergs sparkling in the dawn, some looming 200 feet above the water.

Then, unexpectedly, another ship arrived on the scene. It was the Californian, whose crew had finally learned about the Titanic sinking once they turned their wireless receiver back on. The Californian searched the area for about an hour, but found only wreckage and no survivors. Its captain, Stanley Lord, would later be criticized for not responding to the Titanic's rocket flares the previous night.

It would take three more days for the Carpathia to complete the slow, mournful journey to New York. Survivors of the Titanic would arrive at their final destination nursing wounds and horrible heartache. But for some, especially the crew, what awaited them was more than shock and disbelief. Suspicion and blame would be cast as public officials, newspapers, and the general public sought to make sense of the disaster and to find out who was responsible for the tragedy.

From Wondery, this is episode two of our series on the Titanic from American History Tellers. In the next episode, as desperate families reunite with survivors of the Titanic and mourn the loss of others, officials begin to question the decisions of the Titanic's captain and crew. Members of Congress launch an investigation, seeking to uncover the causes and determine who is to blame.

If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

If you'd like to learn more about the sinking of the Titanic, we recommend A Night to Remember, the classic account of the final hours of the Titanic by Walter Lord, and The Ship of Dreams, The Sinking of the Titanic and the End of the Edwardian Era by Gareth Russell.

American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Neil Thompson. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozanski. Our production coordinator is Desi Blaylock. Managing producer, Matt Gant. Senior managing producer, Ryan Moore. Senior producer, Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Marsha Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery.

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