“The hull buckled real sudden,” they told him, “like holes being poked all along the side. Water’s pouring in.”
He ran down the last flight of stairs to the tank top, which was really the top of the double bottom. The watertight doors to the sixth compartment were closed here, and as above, there was water pooling on the deck. He could see no other damage here, and he took a few minutes to run the length of the deck he could reach, checking for cracks. It looked clear.
Remembering that Officer Boxhall would perform a cursory examination and report no damage to Captain Smith, Tom abandoned his investigation and raced up to the bridge. As he approached, he heard Bruce Ismay’s voice.
“Perhaps we should restart the engines and head for Halifax. I believe it’s the nearest port.”
Tom moved faster, entering the bridge nearly at a run. “Don’t move this ship!” he shouted. Smith and Ismay turned, startled at his appearance. Ismay’s lips tightened in annoyance, but Tom addressed the Captain. “The hull’s been damaged in the forepeak and at least four compartments. Further investigation is needed to determine the full extent. But sir, you must not start the engines again until we know exactly where we stand. If the bottom is damaged the tank top could rupture.”
This is what happened in the other timeline, according to Sam. Moving the ship forward, even for a few minutes, had greatly increased the flow of water into the ship. It had been the final, fatal mistake.
Ismay spoke before Smith said anything. “Andrews, how soon can we be under way?”
Captain Smith stood straighter, his expression stern and determined.
“Have you seen the damage?” he asked Tom quietly, ignoring Ismay. “You’ve been below?”
“Aye, Sir. I need more time to look it over.”
Smith nodded once, and gestured to Tom to lead the way down. “Let’s go see for ourselves, shall we?” He turned to Murdoch. “Remain at full stop. Send the carpenter down to help sound the ship.”
Tom felt a brief rejoicing. At last! Something has changed! He left the bridge with Smith behind him.
At the first compartment, they climbed the short ladder to the upper hatch, swinging it open. They stared in dismay at the water flowing freely down the bulkhead and pooling on the deck below. It was worse the farther forward they went. The forepeak was completely flooded. Tom estimated the flow rate in each compartment as best he could. They discovered holes in the sixth compartment as well. The water flow was much slower there, moving in a thin, but solid, stream down the wall in three places.
“The post office is flooded,” Tom remarked as they reached the staircase on their way back to the bridge. He spoke quietly as there were a few passengers about, whispering to each other or to stewards. They looked curiously at Smith and Tom, but no one approached.
Smith’s face was tight. “I’ll see if they need help moving the mail. Would you bring the ship’s plans to the bridge? We’ll discuss the damage with the staff in a few minutes.”
They parted and Tom went to his room to retrieve the plans. He paused a moment as he entered. His stateroom was quiet and clean, just as he had left it. Vertigo seized him and made the room spin for a moment. He rubbed his face with his hands.
The entire world had changed. He’d known it was coming, but now that it was here, he felt inadequate and guilty, full of fear. All this time, I’ve never faced the reality of this. It’s all been hypothetical. I never believed it would really happen.
He should have stopped it.
Smith, Lightoller, Chief Officer Wilde, and Bruce Ismay were waiting in the chart room when he arrived. He spread the plans on the table.
Six compartments were flooding. Tom showed them the consequences of their collision, pointing out the sections on the plan. “The watertight doors are all sealed, but these compartments are filling with water. Once the water reaches C Deck, it’ll start flooding into the stair wells.”
Ismay sputtered, but Captain Smith held up a hand to silence him, never taking his eyes off of Tom. “Will she stay afloat?”
“No sir.” Tom thought for a moment that those words would kill him.
“That’s ridiculous! This ship can’t sink.” Ismay moved next to them, sounding angry, but uncertain.
“Without a double hull, the water is filling those compartments. It will reach the top of the bulkheads on C Deck and from there will flood the rest of the ship. We have no way of blocking off the stair wells past that point.” Tom could barely bring himself to look at Ismay, he was so angry.
“What about the pumps?” the Captain asked.
Tom shook his head. “The pumps have a new efficient mechanism developed recently, but they can’t stop it. They buy us time, though. A few hours, maybe.”
He reached for paper and pencil, making a rough calculation. “Conservatively, we can stay afloat for about four hours, maybe five.” Whatever else, they were in better shape than in the other time line, when the ship had sunk in two-and-a-half hours. “We need to get everyone off this ship, quickly, and call for help.”
RMS Carpathia, North Atlantic, 1:30 a.m.
Harold Cottam sighed with relief as he pulled off his dratted boots and pulled down the sheets. This was the last time he ever went to sea as the lone wireless operator. In the future, if he didn’t have a backup, he wouldn’t take the job. He had hoped to turn everything off and be in bed an hour ago, once he received a reply from the liner Parisian. But that reply had required a response, and now he was waiting for a confirmation to that. But that was it. He was going to bed the second the response came through.
Once he was ready for bed, to keep himself awake for the reply, he switched over to the Titanic’s frequency. He’d heard several messages come in for them, but they had not been replying. Eejits, he sniffed disdainfully. They had two wireless operators and still couldn’t keep up!
Ah, they were transmitting, now. Too tired to translate, he leaned on his elbow and listened to the clicks, until something made him sit up. What was that? Had that been a CQD? All Stations Attend: Distressed. He started translating automatically. The Titanic was broadcasting her position. He wrote it down and waited. Nothing else happened and he tapped quickly: Repeat your message. Did you say CQD?
The reply came back in an instant: Yes. Come at once. We have struck a berg Old Man. Going down by head. CQD. CQD. They repeated their coordinates.
“Blimey,” Cottam breathed. Throwing on his boots and jacket, but otherwise not bothering to dress, he grabbed the message and ran to the bridge. He presented his disheveled self to the first officer, who read the message and pulled Cottam with him to the captain’s quarters.
Captain Rostron had just fallen asleep, leaving him groggy and irritated at the interruption, but the message he read woke him instantly. Dressing quickly, he took the others to the chart room to determine distance and course. He sent Cottam back with a message for Titanic: we’ll be there in four hours. Then he immediately began giving orders to turn his ship into a rescue boat.
Dunallon, Monday 15 April 1912, 4:00 a.m.
Neither Sam nor Casey knew when they could expect news. The telegraph office opened at six, but they had no idea when a specific telegram would be sent to someone at Harland & Wolff and from there, to them. They did expect that telegraphed messages were flying through the airwaves from ship to ship as Titanic called for help, and these would be picked up by various news sources. News should be getting out soon.