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Frederick Ives, shovelling coal in boiler room six, heard the creaking groan as the massive wall of ice scraped the length of the Titanic’s side. The massive rivets holding the hull plates together popped like champagne corks as the sheer pressure of the ice buckled the metal. He looked up in time to see the double skinned wall above his head ripped asunder. He didn’t even have time to flinch as the mighty wall of water cascaded in. It plucked him from his feet and carried him tumbling and somersaulting in its icy wave, until barely a second later it slammed him mercilessly into a bulkhead, the force of the water crushing the life from his broken body in an instant.
Frederick was the first victim of the ship’s collision with the iceberg, but the rest of the crew working in boiler room six swiftly joined him. Those who survived the initial surge of water did not have time to escape through one of the bulkhead doors such was the force of the water and the speed at which the room flooded.
Death savagely squashed Frederick’s soul from his body before the young stoker even understood his time was up. Others were not so lucky. Harry Blackman, working on the far side of the room, was denied a quick and painless death. Instead, he suffered the horrifying experience of drowning. He frantically fought against the tumultuous torrents of churning seawater, only to find the doors to the adjoining compartments shut. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he inhaled. Water rushed into his lungs, its coldness shocking his respiratory system, causing him to choke. He frantically clawed at the darkness knowing death was just a heartbeat away. Panicked spasms racked Harry’s body until finally, his suffering was over, his lifeless body floating silently in the darkness, suspended for eternity in an icy tomb.
Back on the bridge, unaware of the damage caused below the waterline, Murdoch issued well-drilled orders. “Full stop. Close bulkhead doors!” Then after a brief hesitation added, “Belay that. Bulkhead doors to remain open.”
He repeated the order for the benefit of the helmsman. If they were to sink the unsinkable Titanic they would need to allow the seawater free access to as many compartments as it could flood. He offered up a silent prayer for the men down in engineering who would drown as a result of his order. It was an order he would have to live with for the rest of his mercifully short life. He thought it fitting he would be joining those brave men before the night was out.
As he prayed, Murdoch watched as the massive wall of ice, towering a hundred feet from the water, continued to slide slowly, almost majestically past the ship. Large chunks of ice, dislodged by the collision, rained down on the ship’s deck and crashed into the ship’s superstructure like massive cannonballs.
“Report please, Mr. Murdoch?” Captain Smith’s commanding figure arrived on the bridge.
“We struck an iceberg, starboard side. Engines stopped. Bulkhead doors remaining open, sir,” Murdoch replied without the slightest hint of alarm in his voice.
“Damage?” Smith asked, staring through the windows at the bows, expecting to see the damage for himself, but darkness enveloped the forward half of the vessel.
“Unknown at present, sir. Suggest we sound the ship.” Murdoch’s thoughts immediately turned to assembling an inspection party to ascertain the damage caused to the hull by the collision, but the captain’s reply stopped him.
“No, Mr. Murdoch, that won’t be necessary. We’ve lost too many good men to this damned plague to send any more to their deaths. Let’s concentrate on assembling the survivors on deck and launching the lifeboats. With luck, she will sink before the night is out.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Murdoch picked up the phone connecting him to the helm. “Steady as she goes, quartermaster. Preparing to launch lifeboats.”
He listened for the reply then replaced the receiver with slow deliberation. As an officer, he knew his responsibilities were to the passengers; the old and chivalrous adage of women and children first would mean there would be no place in the lifeboats for him. Stoically, he accepted the simple truth that he had undoubtedly seen his last sunrise.
