“OH, MUDDIE, LOOK AT the beautiful North Pole with no Santa Claus on it,” little Douglas Speddon said to his mother, Mrs. Frederick O. Speddon, as Boat 3 threaded its way through the loose ice toward the Carpathia. In fact, the world did look like a picture from a child’s book about the Arctic. The sun was just edging over the horizon, and the ice sparkled in its first long rays. The bergs looked dazzling white, pink, mauve, deep blue, depending on how the rays hit them and how the shadows fell. The sea was now bright blue, and little chunks of ice, some no bigger than a man’s fist, bobbed in the choppy water. Overhead, the eastern sky was gold and blue, promising a lovely day. The shadows of night lingered in the west—Lawrence Beesley remembered watching the Morning Star shine long after the others had faded. Near the horizon a thin, pale crescent moon appeared. “A new moon! Turn your money over, boys! That is, if you have any!” Fireman Fred Barrett shouted cheerfully to the crew rowing No.
