9
TITANIC BRIDGE.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1912. 12:40 P.M.
Taking a moment away from his crew on the bridge, Captain Edward J. Smith crossed callused hands over his broad chest and exhaled. Titanic wasn’t even an hour into her maiden voyage, and already she nearly had suffered a collision. He had hoped for a less dramatic onset to the journey.
It wasn’t that he believed everything always went according to plan. Quite the opposite. His experience facing the unexpected was what made him such an effective sea captain. Since Titanic’s maiden voyage would also be Smith’s last, he was even more on guard than usual.
All had looked well as Titanic prepared for launch. It glided out of the Southampton berth easy as you please and out toward sea. Cheering onlookers ran along the docks, chasing Titanic. Two additional ships moored in the harbor, New York and Oceanic, were full of passengers who had paid a fine price, not to sail, but for a deckside view of the world’s largest liner as it embarked for the first time.
The trouble began as Titanic passed the two smaller ships. Even at a slow launch speed, Titanic’s massive triple-screw propellers created a mighty churn. The wake created by its twenty-six-thousand-ton hull was so powerful that the sturdy ropes tethering New York and Oceanic to the docks strained tight. Then, New York’s ropes snapped loudly enough to be mistaken for shotguns firing, and the ship was slowly sucked toward the side of Titanic.
Smith had experienced a similar calamitous scenario only seven months prior. That time, a small warship got caught in the wake of Smith’s Olympic. The smaller vessel was dragged into the liner, ripping a serious wound in the larger boat’s side. Smith wasn’t blamed—the docks and harbors simply couldn’t accommodate the new breed of giant liners. “Too big to handle!” proclaimed the naysayers.
Smith believed otherwise. With New York dangerously close to ramming Titanic, he stood tall in his ceremonial dress whites and calmly ordered Titanic’s port propeller into high gear. The ensuing wash pushed the smaller boat away, and Titanic came to a virtual halt, avoiding impact by a matter of feet.
There was a fair amount of whooping and back-slapping among the men in the wheelhouse, but Smith put a stop to it. “Back to your posts,” he commanded. “Celebrate on your leave. There’s still work to be done.”
In the Café Parisien, a luxury saloon for Titanic’s first-class passengers, chatter filled the air. To be sure, between the cheering crowds and the band’s merry playing, most of the travelers had no inkling there had been any danger. Yet several prominent passengers witnessed the near-miss, and J. Bruce Ismay, chairman and managing director of the White Star Line, felt his ears burn at the whispers:
Is she safe?
Off to a poor start, I’d say!
Bad omen!
Ismay knew it was a habit of the rich to find fault. His marriage to a society girl ensured he never forgot. Quibbling over the color of the cabin walls and the quality of the cutlery—all to be expected. But was it too much to ask that Smith get Titanic out of harbor without incident?
George Dunton Widener, a solidly built man with rimless, nose-pinch spectacles and a waxed moustache, slapped a beefy hand on Ismay’s shoulder. Ismay was a taller man than most, but Widener, a board member of the Philadelphia bank that controlled White Star Line, could still make him feel like a boy.
“Quite well, as you can see,” replied Ismay. “Why, we’ll be in Cherbourg before you can whistle ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’”
“Very good,” laughed Widener, lighting a cigar and blowing smoke into the lounge’s ornate fixtures. “We have seven and a half million reasons to wish for a successful voyage, you and me.”
Ismay managed a humorless smile. He knew full well the cost of building Titanic and how much White Star’s fleet was mortgaged to pay for her. He wasn’t about to give Widener the satisfaction of seeing him perspire.
“To celebrate our successful launch,” Ismay announced with a grand wave of his hand, “our best champagne for everyone!”
The stewards set corks flying into the air, and Ismay let the applause of Titanic’s wealthy wash away his distress. Perhaps the worst was over. That was the best way to look at it. Ismay wasn’t going to let anything tarnish the glory of his triumph.