Thousands "posted at their bidding"; the complexion
of the market altered hue when they nodded; they bought
what they wanted, and for one of the humblest fishing smacks
or a dory they could have given the price that was paid to
build and launch the ship that has become the most imposing
mausoleum that ever housed the bones of men since the
Pyramids rose from the desert sands.

But these men stood aside--one can see them!--and gave
place not merely to the delicate and the refined, but to the
scared Czech woman from the steerage, with her baby at her
breast; the Croatian with a toddler by her side, coming
through the very gate of Death and out of the mouth of Hell
to the imagined Eden of America.

To many of those who went it was harder to go than to
stay there on the vessel gaping with its mortal wounds and
ready to go down. It meant that tossing on the waters they
must wait in suspense, hour after hour even after the lights of
the ship were engulfed in appalling darkness, hoping against
hope for the miracle of a rescue dearer to them than their
own lives.

It was the tradition of Anglo-Saxon heroism that was fulfilled
in the frozen seas during the black hours of Sunday
night. The heroism was that of the women who went, as well
as of the men who remained!