Page 73 of The Missing Pages
It was just after 1 a.m., and while the first four lifeboats had departed from the starboard side, we were directed toward the port side of the ship, where we were told the next batch of boats would be launched.
Father kept one of his hands in Mother’s and the other one firmly gripped on my shoulder. He had no intention of allowing us to become separated again.
The boat continued to make the most horrible sounds. Beneath our feet everything seemed to be vibrating like an earthquake.
Mr. Andrews caught sight of us and waved us over.
“The lifeboats are filling up quickly, so do not waste any time. Please get Mrs. Widener on one as soon as possible!” he urged us. “Go toward lifeboat 4,” he instructed, raising his voice as loud as he could above the din. He pointed where the wooden craft was still hanging from ropes.
The deck, which had been a refuge of calm this morning, with couples strolling hand in hand and children playing, was now overtaken by desperate passengers crowding the other lifeboats that were being prepared to leave, many of them already full and about to be swung out. The dedicated White Star musicians had moved their playing outside, trying to offer some solace.
“This way!” Edwin, my father’s valet, took charge and somehow found us a path through the crowd.
Ada was nowhere in sight and I began to pray that she had done the prudent thing, that she’d already boarded one of the several boats now being lowered into the sea.
As we finally got closer to lifeboat 4, we saw Jay Astor in a fur-lined coat, his head bent in intense conversation withSecond Officer Lightoller, who was in charge of getting the women and children onto the craft.
“My wife… She’s in an extremely delicate condition,” Astor whispered discreetly, insinuating that his bride, Madeline, was pregnant. “She is fragile and so clearly frightened. Will you make an exception and allow me to accompany her?”
Lightoller gave him a hard stare.
“Only women and children, sir.”
Astor didn’t press his request. When he saw us approaching, he nodded to Father and made space for Mother to join Madeline in the queue.
But instead of walking toward the line, Mother’s pace began to slow down, her steps began to halt. At one point it felt like she was treading backward.
“Nellie,” my father said. His voice was patient despite the chaos surrounding us. “One step in front of the other,” he reminded her. When we finally managed to guide her toward the lifeboat, he took her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “Darling, never forget how brave you are.”
At that moment, my mother lifted her gaze away from Father’s and looked toward me. Despair burned from her eyes. Did she say “Not without my child!” Or did one of the other women in our perimeter, also a mother, hurl those words into the air? I cannot tell you who cried them out first, but I know that every woman on board who had a son or daughter with them was thinking the same thing, even if they didn’t shout it aloud.
As the women waited to board, Marian Thayer was gripping the hand of her teenaged son, Jack. Another friend of my parents from Philadelphia, Emily Ryerson, stood with her two young daughters and her son, John, just thirteen years old. John had been denied boarding the lifeboat with his mother and sisters.
“Women and children only,” Lightoller reminded the women. He ordered John to remain on deck and not follow his mother.
“Are you out of your mind, officer?” his father, Arthur, bellowed. “My son is justthirteenyears old. He is not a man! He is a child!”
Again, Lightoller refused. “He is not a child, sir! These are children!” He pointed to a young mother being ushered into the boat with an infant in one arm and a toddler in the other. Amalie, mother’s maid, was helping another young mother with her fussing baby.
“This boat is not leaving unless you take the boy,” Mr. Ryerson barked, more now as an order to Lightoller than a request. “Now!”
The officer finally relented and allowed Emily Ryerson and all three of her children to board.
Mrs. Thayer looked at her husband. Their son, Jack, who was only seventeen years old was hardly a grown man.
“The boat still has room!” A woman yelled out from one of the seats on the lifeboat. She pointed to Jack, who stepped back to be with his father. Then to me.
“Harry…” My mother’s voice broke.
She did not plead for me to board, after all, at twenty-seven, I was undeniably a man. But she uttered my name with such love and such anguish, it still haunts me now just remembering it.
Father and I helped guide my mother toward the edge, where another steward helped lift her inside, then Amalie followed.
Mother turned back and looked at me one last time.
At that moment, I wanted to give her something that would help ease her pain. I wanted to give her hope.
“Mother, I’ll get the next lifeboat,” I promised her. “I have to go back to my cabin for a book…”
