Titanic ’s sister ship. It is, you understand, a confirmed message.’ There was instant silence. The reporters in the room lifted their pencils to their notebooks.
Franklin began to read in a flat, clear voice. ‘“Six-thirty a.m. Carpathia reached Titanic ’s position at daybreak. Found boats and wreckage only. Titanic had foundered about 2.20 a.m. —’ He did not have a chance to finish. Five or six men rushed from the room. That the Titanic had sunk was enough for them. Franklin waited, and then began again. ‘“The Titanic had foundered about 2.20 a.m. in 41 degrees 46 minutes north, 50 degrees 14 minutes west. All her boats accounted for. About 675 souls saved, crew and passengers, latter nearly all women and children. Leyland Line SS Californian remaining and searching position of disaster. Carpathia returning to New York with survivors. Please inform Cunard. Signed, Captain Haddock, Olympic .”’
Franklin looked up. ‘That is the message. I do not have a list of those who have been saved. I am trying to get that just as soon as possible.’ He gave a quick nod to invite questions.
‘Has Mr Astor been saved?’
‘I do not have a list of those who have been saved,’ repeated Franklin.
‘Mr Guggenheim?’
‘I do not have a list —’
‘What of Major Butt? Have you spoken to the President?’
‘I have not spoken to the President.’
‘But what about Mr Ismay?’
‘I have not heard from Mr Ismay.’
The questioning continued. Franklin seemed distant and disconnected. One reporter asked whether he might see the Olympic Marconigram for himself. It was then I noticed that Franklin had not let it go. It was still taut between his hands, perfectly steady.
Franklin refused. It was the only copy he had; he would keep it, but he would read it again if the reporter liked. The reporter, with his pencil poised, said that he would be grateful.
Franklin began to read again but as he did so his voice cracked, then broke. His eyes watered, so that drops fell onto the yellow paper of the Marconigram and spread in little lily pads of blue ink. When he reached the words ‘latter nearly all women and children’, he could not go on. He wept freely and openly, as if some force, suppressed for too long, had finally broken free. Great heaving sobs shook his frame and there was an immensity about him, as if he were crying not just for the many hundreds of people who had died on his ship, but for all America, and all Great Britain.
No one in the room spoke. I watched Franklin’s face, transfixed. I saw something reborn, something washed clean, something breathtakingly honest. In one word, I saw courage: the courage to face the world anew, courage to stare down the truth. ‘The Titanic ,’ he said at last, his sobs subsiding, ‘has gone.’
The remaining reporters, their own eyes wet, straggled away. Byrne whispered to me that it was time for us to leave, too. But before we did I had a question.
‘Mr Franklin,’ I asked, ‘the cablegram you read says the Leyland ship Californian is searching the position of the disaster. Does that mean that there might yet be other survivors?’
Franklin stared at me: such deep blue eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The only survivors are on the Carpathia . This we know.’
‘So the Californian is searching for the dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she bound?’
Franklin looked to Ridgeway, Head of Steamships, standing to his right.
‘Boston,’ said Ridgeway.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Byrne and I left the room, and the IMM offices, and walked out once more into the cold Manhattan evening. I held Byrne by the shoulders and thanked him. When I told him I was going to the train station he was puzzled: why not stay in Manhattan to get the survivors’ stories when they arrived?
‘I will leave the survivors to you,’ I said. ‘I’m going home to the bodies.’ I turned and began my slow walk north along Broadway.
CHAPTER 6
‘To Lord: I am taking the survivors to
Franklin began to read in a flat, clear voice. ‘“Six-thirty a.m. Carpathia reached Titanic ’s position at daybreak. Found boats and wreckage only. Titanic had foundered about 2.20 a.m. —’ He did not have a chance to finish. Five or six men rushed from the room. That the Titanic had sunk was enough for them. Franklin waited, and then began again. ‘“The Titanic had foundered about 2.20 a.m. in 41 degrees 46 minutes north, 50 degrees 14 minutes west. All her boats accounted for. About 675 souls saved, crew and passengers, latter nearly all women and children. Leyland Line SS Californian remaining and searching position of disaster. Carpathia returning to New York with survivors. Please inform Cunard. Signed, Captain Haddock, Olympic .”’
Franklin looked up. ‘That is the message. I do not have a list of those who have been saved. I am trying to get that just as soon as possible.’ He gave a quick nod to invite questions.
‘Has Mr Astor been saved?’
‘I do not have a list of those who have been saved,’ repeated Franklin.
‘Mr Guggenheim?’
‘I do not have a list —’
‘What of Major Butt? Have you spoken to the President?’
‘I have not spoken to the President.’
‘But what about Mr Ismay?’
‘I have not heard from Mr Ismay.’
The questioning continued. Franklin seemed distant and disconnected. One reporter asked whether he might see the Olympic Marconigram for himself. It was then I noticed that Franklin had not let it go. It was still taut between his hands, perfectly steady.
Franklin refused. It was the only copy he had; he would keep it, but he would read it again if the reporter liked. The reporter, with his pencil poised, said that he would be grateful.
Franklin began to read again but as he did so his voice cracked, then broke. His eyes watered, so that drops fell onto the yellow paper of the Marconigram and spread in little lily pads of blue ink. When he reached the words ‘latter nearly all women and children’, he could not go on. He wept freely and openly, as if some force, suppressed for too long, had finally broken free. Great heaving sobs shook his frame and there was an immensity about him, as if he were crying not just for the many hundreds of people who had died on his ship, but for all America, and all Great Britain.
No one in the room spoke. I watched Franklin’s face, transfixed. I saw something reborn, something washed clean, something breathtakingly honest. In one word, I saw courage: the courage to face the world anew, courage to stare down the truth. ‘The Titanic ,’ he said at last, his sobs subsiding, ‘has gone.’
The remaining reporters, their own eyes wet, straggled away. Byrne whispered to me that it was time for us to leave, too. But before we did I had a question.
‘Mr Franklin,’ I asked, ‘the cablegram you read says the Leyland ship Californian is searching the position of the disaster. Does that mean that there might yet be other survivors?’
Franklin stared at me: such deep blue eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The only survivors are on the Carpathia . This we know.’
‘So the Californian is searching for the dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she bound?’
Franklin looked to Ridgeway, Head of Steamships, standing to his right.
‘Boston,’ said Ridgeway.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Byrne and I left the room, and the IMM offices, and walked out once more into the cold Manhattan evening. I held Byrne by the shoulders and thanked him. When I told him I was going to the train station he was puzzled: why not stay in Manhattan to get the survivors’ stories when they arrived?
‘I will leave the survivors to you,’ I said. ‘I’m going home to the bodies.’ I turned and began my slow walk north along Broadway.
CHAPTER 6
‘To Lord: I am taking the survivors to
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