THERE WERE TWO THINGS Elizabeth remembered most about that long, fateful night. The first was the sound of terrified cries for help. Those cries echoed in her nightmares, no matter how soundly she slept. The second was the fierce, penetrating cold. For the rest of her life, a sharp, icy wind or a sudden dive in temperature would transport her back to lifeboat number six.
It rested on the flat, black sea while its passengers, shivering and huddled together for comfort, watched the great ship Titanic’s lights blink and then, finally, with the bow completely submerged, go out. Even with the bright, golden lights gone, the ship, hanging nearly perpendicular in the water, its stern aloft as if pointing to the black, star-studded sky above, was still clearly visible to the survivors drifting in the open sea. They continued to watch with wide, disbelieving eyes as the liner, touted as “unsinkable,” sank, taking with it more than one thousand passengers.
It sank quietly, as if unwilling to create any more of a stir than it already had. Or, a dazed Elizabeth had thought, as if it were ashamed to be such a bitter disappointment.
And then it was gone, that most magnificent of all oceangoing vessels, gone forever.
There were so many painful memories of that night, memories that brought her sharply awake in the middle of the night, sweating and terrified. A light being turned on in a dark room reminded her of the way the ship’s lights had stayed on for so long. Hearing certain ragtime melodies brought back an image of the Titanic’s band, gathered at the entrance to the Grand Staircase while the lifeboats were being loaded. A late-night black sky studded with brilliant stars sent her back to the sea again.
But always, throughout her life, it was the icy, penetrating cold Elizabeth remembered most clearly about that long, terrible night.