April 14, 1912, 11:47 P.M., 7 Minutes after the Collision
The hall was a bustle with activity. Many passengers, some having been aroused from their sleep, or having just returned from their cabins from dinner in the D-Deck Dining Saloon were stopping many of the stewards, inquiring as to why there was a sudden shudder, or why the engines had stopped. One steward, a young, shortly built lad with grey fur and brown eyes, one Andrew Tibons, was walking down the B-Deck corridor when he was stopped by a blonde furred female, clad in a light blue evening dress, stepping out of her cabin, who was actually the wife of one of his friends who was currently serving as the ships Junior Second Officer.
"Shakey," Katelyn Chambers called in a noticeable mid-western American accent upon seeing her husband's friend, her face reading great concern, "why have the engines stopped? I felt a shutter." Putting on a kind smile, the young steward addressed the clearly distressed young lady.
"I shouldn't worry, Miss Kate," he responded with a slight cockney accent, "we've likely thrown a propeller blade. That may have been the shudder you felt." Upon seeing that Kate held her look of concern, Shakey thought he might offer her something that would calm her nerves. "May I bring you anything, a spot of tea, or wine perhaps?" Before Kate could answer, she saw one of the ship's junior officers, Moody if she recalled correctly, escorting a strongly built grey-furred wolf with stunning brown eyes through the corridor toward the forward section of the ship. Kate instantly recognized the concerned face of the ships designer, Thomas Andrews, the Irish-wolf's pace and posture a clear indication that something may be wrong. Turning her attention back to the steward before her, an eager smile still on his face, Kate politely returned the smile.
"No, thank you," she responded, allowing Shakey to resume his rounds down the corridor. Before returning back to her cabin, Kate saw two other females walking toward the front of the ship. Her sister, Lillian Reynolds, wife of Junior Chief Officer Garth Reynolds, her white fur accented splendidly by her violet dinner dress,a black mink stole placed over her shoulders, and Terra Davis-Ramirez, wife of Junior First Officer Samuel Davis, her auburn fur blending perfectly with her crimson red evening gown, which seemed to outline her slightly swollen stomach quite well.
"Lilly, Terra," Kate called as the two finally reached her, "where are you going at this late and hour?"
"To the bow," Lilly responded with an accent similar to Kate's, "we heard that the ship bumped into some ice." Upon hearing this, Kate instantly remembered Mr. Andrew's look of concern as he traversed the corridor. Perhaps the ship had been damaged. As if she was reading her friend's mind, Terra spoke next.
"I heard it was just a light grazing," she explained in a light Hispanic accent, "nothing too serious. But, we heard that some of the ice fell on the deck. We were going to go take a look." A teasing smile then formed on her face as she continued to speak. "Care to join?" After taking a moment to consider the invitation, Kate figured it couldn't hurt."
"Oh," she said with a chuckle, "I suppose." After rushing back into her cabin to grab one of her coats, Kate, Lilly, and Terra proceeded to make their way to the forward most part of the ship, that is the part that was not restricted to crew or steerage. Upon arriving at their destination, the trio looked down on the well-deck to see several steerage passengers playing a game of football (soccer) with large chucks of ice, an obvious clue that a collision had occurred.
"To bad we can't join in," Lilly commented as she watched the jovial immigrants run about, "it looks like fun." While Kate had to agree with her sister, she knew that such interactions with steerage passengers wouldn't shine to well on them, or their father, who was one of the wealthiest railroad tycoons in both America and Canada, and more than likely still enjoying cigars and brandy with friends in the ship's First-Class Smoking Lounge.
"It would be fun, Lilly," Kate conceded, "but remember, we are ladies of grace and etiquette." Rolling her eyes at her friends statement, Terra decided to show her Kate how she felt about her so called "grace and etiquette."
"Oh Kate," she said with a laugh, "forget about your 'principles' for one minute and have some fun for once in our life." With that, Terra, accompanied by an equally enthusiastic Lilly, began to push Kate toward the gate that led down to the well-deck. At first resisting, Kate finally relented as she joined her friends in laughter. But, just as they reached the gate, he flung open, making way for Terra's husband, who appeared to be quite frantic. Terra, taking no notice, smiled at her husband.
"Hello, Mi Amor," she greeted happily, "care to join us for a game?" Upon hearing his wife, Samuel turned to see the beaming faces of Terra and her friends. Unfortunately, he did not have time for this.
"Not now, dear," he said, clearly distressed. As Terra's face fell at being so swiftly rebuffed by her husband, Captain Smith, accompanied by Mr. Andrews, Garth, Humphrey, and a dark brown-furred, blue-eyed wolf that the girls recognized as Chief Officer Henry Wilde, rounded the corner.
"Well, Mr. Davis?" Captain Smith inquired as the Junior First Officer opened the gate to lead the group down into the stairwell, quickly explaining the situation as he did so.
"From what me and Mr. Hutchinson have seen, Boiler Room 6 is flooded eight feet above the plate, but the mail hold is worse," Samuel began, completely ignoring the trio of women nearby, their eyes widening at what he was saying, "She's all buckled in at the forward holds."
"Can we shore up?" Garth asked in a thick Scottish accent, his teal eyes wide with concern as Samuel led them to a hatch that would lead them deep into the bowels of the ship.
"Not unless the pumps get ahead," Samuel answered as the group descended down a spiral staircase.
"Have you seen the damage in the mail hold?" Mr. Andrews inquired with a thick Irish accent.
"No, it's already underwater," Samuel answered as the group entered a spacious compartment, the walls lined with smile sorting shelves, each holding envelopes; the mail sorting room. Looking around, Samuel saw the form of a wolf partway down a stairwell that led into the main storage compartment for the mail. This was the ships carpenter, John Hutchinson, but everyone on the ship just called him Hutch. Upon noticing the group that had entered the sorting room, Hutch stepped back, smoothing back his slicked back, neck length hair as his yellow eyes conveyed nothing but dread.
"It's bad, sir," the Irish-born Hutch conveyed to the Captain as the older wolf and Mr. Andrews descended the stairs into the mail, only stopping three quarters of the way before their feet stepped into freezing Atlantic water, with the level rising by the second. And if the situation in Boiler Room 6 was any indication, Mr. Andrew's fears were coming to fruition.
Titanic's Bridge, Chart Room, Seven Minutes Later
"This is most unfortunate Captain!" called the brown-furred J. Bruce Ismay, President of the White Star Line as he and several of the ship's officer's followed Smith, Andrews, and Hutch into the ship's chart room. Unfurling one of the blue prints he had brought with him, one that showed the plans for the Titanic's sixteen watertight compartments, each departed by bulkheads represented by bold white lines, Andrews began to rapidly summarize the damage report, all while pointing out the positions on the blueprints.
"Water," he began, "fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes. In the fore peak, all three holds, and in Boiler Room Six."
"That's right sir," Hutch breathlessly conformed. At this point, Ismay's patience was waning. They had a schedule to keep.
"When can we get underway, DAMMIT!" he all but shouted. It was at this point, Samuel had lost his patience with the overbearing company president.
"THAT'S FIVE COMPARTMENTS, MISTER ISMAY!" he actually shouted, startling everyone in the room before he softly, but firmly continued. "Mr. Andrews had told me that the ship can stay afloat with the first FOUR compartments breached. But not five."
"Mr. Davis is right," Mr. Andrews confirmed, not giving Mr. Ismay a chance to chastise Samuel, before turning back to the blueprints before him. "As she goes down by the head, the water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads at E-deck, from one to the next, back and back, there is no stopping it." Smith did not like the sound of this.
"the pumps," he frantically suggested, "if we just opened them..."
"The pumps will buy you time," Mr. Andrews interrupted, the painful truth evident, not only in his now quivering voice, but his eyes as well, "but minutes only. From this moment, no matter what we do...Titanic will founder." With those three words, a heavy silence fell over the room, many of the occupants having gone wide-eyed and slack-jawed at what they had just heard.
"But this ship can't sink," Ismay argued incredulously, only to be harshly countered Mr. Andrews.
"She's made of iron sir," he responded with a hard glare, which was enough to cause the reality of the situation to sink into Mr. Ismay. "And she will. It's all mathematical certainty." A certainty, and one that smith could not deny. After taking a moment to come out the shock that had overtaken him, Smith needed an answer to some very crucial questions.
"How much time?" Taking a few moments to calculate the rate of flooding, Mr. Andrews came to a sorrowful conclusion.
"An hour," he responded solemnly, "two at the most."
"And how many aboard, Mr. Chambers?" From just a few short minutes before, Humphrey had been dreading being asked that question. One he wish he did not know the answer to. As Junior Second Officer, part of his responsibilities was maintaining the ship's passenger manifest, one that listed every passenger and crewmen by name. Unfortunately, he also knew the number of lifeboats aboard. Swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat, Humphrey answered.
"Two Thousand, Two Hundred souls aboard sir," he conveyed in a sorrowful English accent. After a few moments, Captain Smith turned, staring a now terror-stricken Ismay in the eye.
"I do believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."
Time is now of the essence! Find out what happens next on The Unthinkable! Until then, take care, stay healthy, and as always, HAPPY READING!