Page 56 of The Missing Pages

What I remember was the sheer cold that night as I stepped onto the deck and the sight of a few fragments of broken ice scattered across parts of the wooden surface.

The temperature had dropped significantly during the evening, so many of the first-class male passengers were wearing heavy coats over their robes and slippers.

They had left their wives inside their staterooms, where it was still comfortable and warm.

I locked eyes with my father, who was deep in conversation with John Thayer.

“Harry,” he said. “I knocked on your cabin and you weren’t there.”

“Do you know what’s happened?” I deflected the conversation toward the more pressing concerns.

“John, here, says he heard from Mr. Andrews that we hit an iceberg.”

Like my father and Mr. Thayer, this news did not particularly concern me. We had been told the ship was “unsinkable.” It had sixteen watertight compartments to keep it afloat if the hull became compromised.

Still, I wanted to get back to Ada to tell her the news and assure her that there was no need for alarm.

The small group of us began to grow larger with every passing minute, and I was trying to find a pause in the conversation to excuse myself.

Then, only minutes later, just a little after midnight, the stewards began telling everyone to go get fully dressed and put on our life jackets, which were in our rooms.

“We’ll need to inform your mother,” Father said, shaking his head.

I was not thinking of my mother at all. I was thinking only of Ada.

I followed Father down the staircase and toward our rooms, calculating how long it would take to then get to Ada’s berth. I told myself it would only be a few minutes more.

“Get dressed quickly, Eleanor,” my father barked as he entered the room. “Put on your life jacket and take your warmest coat.”

I saw him pull down from the wardrobe two canvas vests with cork blocks sewn inside. He handed one to her.

I did not hear the rest of their conversation, as I hurriedly entered my own room and grabbed my life jacket and coat as well.

I dipped my head into their stateroom, only to see my mother fastening her pearls around her neck.

“Leave everything else,” my father insisted.

“Listen to him,” I said. “I will meet you both on deck.”

“Where are you going, Harry?” I heard my mother’s voice reach a feverish pitch. Fear permeated her every word.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” I said. And then I rushed down the hall.

The corridors were already crowded with passengers.

Faces still puffy from sleep. Women with scared eyes, holding the hands of their children.

Men like me, still wearing their black dinner jackets.

It looked like a herd of tired revelers who were caught between an evening soiree and sleep, none of us prepared for disembarking onto lifeboats in the middle of the cold Atlantic Ocean.

As I pushed in the opposite direction of everyone, a steward stopped me and reminded me to put on the life vest I was carrying in my arms.

“Won’t help much sir, unless you put it on,” he said.

After I hastily slid my arms through it and tied the cord around my waist, he told me I was heading in the wrong direction. “Sir, please go that way.” He pointed to where all the others were walking. “We’re trying to make sure everyone goes to the top deck.”

I didn’t listen to him. I pulled away and accelerated my pace. I was nearly running by the time I reached Ada’s cabin.

I knocked. I rapped. But no one answered. I called out her name. I drummed on the door again, this time harder.

“Sir.” Another steward passing stopped me. “All of the cabins have been evacuated. Please follow everyone to the deck. They’ve already begun preparing the lifeboats.”

Panic flooded through me as I realized that Ada and I had now become separated. I could not let her think I had forgotten her, even for one moment.

I walked as briskly as I could toward the grand staircase. I darted toward every female I saw who shared her auburn hair, her height, her narrow build, hoping it was her.

As I climbed the stairs, pushing past the gridlock of passengers, I finally spotted her.

“Ada!” I hollered over the crowds.

My heart was racing as I lunged toward her. My hand reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Ada,” I exhaled again, nearly collapsing over her in relief. “Thank God.”

The woman turned around, but her face was not Ada’s. Her eyes were not the slate-blue shade of Ada’s. I cannot remember their color. But to this day, I remember their fear.

It was now nearly twelve thirty, and the crew had already started preparing the lifeboats and shooting emergency flares into the night sky.

I did not know it at the time, but history would record that First Officer Murdoch had launched the second lifeboat from the starboard, albeit only half full and carrying several male passengers.

Yet all I can remember is seeing throngs of first-class passengers crowding the smoking lounge and the rotunda outside the dining room, as the string quartet played on, serenading the guests.

The ladies in their fine dresses and their husbands enjoying a convivial cigar, all of them wary about being sent out into the lifeboats where they’d be forced to endure frigid temperatures without knowing if or when another boat would rescue them.

I entered the first-class lounge and scanned the faces there, hoping maybe Ada was staying warm inside with the others.

But beneath the still canopied light of the chandeliers, I could not find her anywhere.

I went from one crowded area of the ship to another. I continued my search for Ada, but still to no avail.

“Harry!” A hand reached out to touch me. It was Lucile Carter. “Your parents have been looking for you. Your mother is frantic.”

Lucile, wearing a fur coat over her nightgown and clutching a bag of valuables, was walking in the direction of the B deck. Mr. Carter was a few paces behind her.

“I’ll find them soon,” I promised.

I knew my parents were together. Ada, however, was all alone. I would not rest until I knew she was safe.