Adventures of a Sea Hunter_ In Search of Famous Shipwrecks - James P. Delgado [32]
Forward of the windlass rests the broken base of the ship’s mast, and we follow the steep angle of the fallen mast up into the gloom. An open oval hatch in the mast marks the location of the crow’s nest. We shine a light in, and see the rungs of the ladder that the lookouts once climbed to reach this perch. I think of the opening act of the drama that started here at 11:40 on that long-ago evening—“Iceberg, right ahead!” Then we pass over the folded arms of the cargo cranes and stop, hovering, over the bridge deck.
The ship’s bridge is gone, either smashed by a falling funnel or swept away by the sea as Titanic sank. Captain Smith was last seen here, and I think of the scene in the film where he locks himself in and gazes in horror as the cold green sea presses against the windows, with just the creaking of the dying ship to keep him company before the glass shatters and the sea engulfs the bridge. Now, all that remains is the brass telemotor, or steering gear, the wooden sill of the bridge’s bulkheads, and a tangle of electrical wires from the lights and controls. Five brass memorial plaques and a bundle of plastic red roses and ferns, placed here by other expeditions, are a powerful reminder that for a number of people, this ship is a gravesite.
There are other, equally affecting reminders of the tragedy. Lifeboat davits stand at the edges of the boat deck, their empty falls a silent indictment of too few boats and boats lowered in haste only half full. Proceeding along the port-side boat deck, we come to a davit lying over the deck. Up until now, I have been intently observing, shooting photos and focusing on the physical reality of the wreck. But I realize this is not just any davit. This is the davit for lifeboat No. 8. What happened at this exact spot on the deck is one of the great and haunting stories of that night. Isidor and Ida Straus, with their maid, came to this boat. Mrs. Straus and the maid climbed in, but Mr. Straus could not, of course, given the rule of “women and children first.”
The boat was not full, and there were no other women or children to load, but rules were rules. There was also a powerful social convention that would have branded Straus a coward had he climbed into that boat. But Mrs. Straus believed that their place was together. They had been married for more than fifty years, and so, filled with love, Mrs. Straus climbed out of that lifeboat and walked away with her husband, presumably back to their cabin to wait for the end together. In the James Cameron film, they are lying dressed in their coats, on their bed, holding each other and weeping as the cold sea pours in. As we drift over that davit, what happened to the Strauses ceases to be a story. It is real, as real as the deck and that fallen davit from the boat that they did not take to safety.
I have tears in my eyes as we pass over the davit. Some people think archeology is all about science, while others argue that it is about humanity. I tend to agree with the humanists, for though science does play in a role in what we do, we should never lose sight of the fact that the focus of our work is people. The power of Mrs. Straus’s sacrifice is a reminder of that, and as I cry, I notice I am not alone. The wreck of Titanic, down here in the darkness and silence, preserves a sense of immediacy and a link to tragedy, both large scale and individual, that you do not often experience.
We then rise, passing over the gaping doorways and windows of the officers’ quarters. Glass in the panes brightly reflects our lights. Ahead is the