She was off the Spanish coast, homeward bound, and fairly full, just like the Titanic; and further, the proportion of her crew to her passengers, I remember quite well, was very much the same.  The exact number of souls on board I have forgotten.  It might have been nearly three hundred, certainly not more.  The night was moonlit, but hazy, the weather fine with a heavy swell running from the westward, which means that she must have been rolling a great deal, and in that respect the conditions for her were worse than in the case of the Titanic.  Some time either just before or just after midnight, to the best of my recollection, she was run into amidships and at right angles by a large steamer which after the blow backed out, and, herself apparently damaged, remained motionless at some distance.

My recollection is that the Douro remained afloat after the collision for fifteen minutes or thereabouts.  It might have been twenty, but certainly something under the half-hour.  In that time the boats were lowered, all the passengers put into them, and the lot shoved off.  There was no time to do anything more.  All the crew of the Douro went down with her, literally without a murmur.  When she went she plunged bodily down like a stone.  The only members of the ship’s company who survived were the third officer, who was from the first ordered to take charge of the boats, and the seamen told off to man them, two in each.  Nobody else was picked up.  A quartermaster, one of the saved in the way of duty, with whom I talked a month or so afterwards, told me that they pulled up to the spot, but could neither see a head nor hear the faintest cry.

But I have forgotten.  A passenger was drowned.  She was a lady’s maid who, frenzied with terror, refused to leave the ship.  One of the boats waited near by till the chief officer, finding himself absolutely unable to tear the girl away from the rail to which she dung with a frantic grasp, ordered the boat away out of danger.  My quartermaster told me that he spoke over to them in his ordinary voice, and this was the last sound heard before the ship sank.

The rest is silence.  I daresay there was the usual official inquiry, but who cared for it?  That sort of thing speaks for itself with no uncertain voice; though the papers, I remember, gave the event no space to speak of:  no large headlines—­no headlines at all.  You see it was not the fashion at the time.  A seaman-like piece of work, of which one cherishes the old memory at this juncture more than ever before.  She was a ship commanded, manned, equipped—­not a sort of marine Ritz, proclaimed unsinkable and sent adrift with its casual population upon the sea, without enough boats, without enough seamen (but with a Parisian cafe and four hundred of poor devils of waiters) to meet dangers which, let the engineers say what they like, lurk always amongst the waves; sent with a blind trust in mere material, light-heartedly, to a most miserable, most fatuous disaster.