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Within minutes, the visibility was down to nothing, and the ships lost sight of each other.

But even then, there was no reason for concern. There was plenty of water between them, and there were procedures for fog. The two ships resorted to sounding their horns.

Captain Kendall ordered the engines of the Empress stopped and her whistle blown three short blasts, signifying that this had been done.

After exchanging further whistle blasts with Storstad, Captain Kendall lifted his binoculars, searching the fog for any sign of the other ship. Then, to his surprise and horror, he saw her masthead and side lights just a hundred feet away.

The other ship was approaching at high speed, bearing down on the Empress. It was moments away, seconds away, from smashing into the middle of his ship.

He shouted to his helmsman, ordering full speed ahead in the hopes of possibly minimizing the impact of what was now inevitable. But it was too late.

The Storstad struck the Empress of Ireland amidships.

After the tragedy of the Titanic two years earlier, passenger ship safety had been upgraded.

The Empress of Ireland had been retrofitted with watertight compartments, the doors between them to be closed in the event of an accident.

As well, each passenger was given a life jacket with written instructions on how to wear it.

There were more than enough lifeboats for all the passengers and crew.

What no one could have envisioned, or been prepared for, was the angle of the collision. Or the speed. Both combined to create a long tear down the side of the Empress.

The Storstad plowed so far into the passenger liner that people asleep in their beds were immediately crushed.

Water, tons per second, flooded through the gash. Through open portholes. Into cabins. Down passageways. Into the engine room. It flooded in before the watertight compartments could be sealed.

Regaining his feet on the bridge, Captain Kendall grabbed a megaphone and shouted at the Storstad to remain where it was, in hopes the bow of the ship could plug the hole and buy them time. But the two ships were moving apart at such a speed, it wasn’t possible. After tearing a long gash in the passenger ship below the waterline, the Storstad swung away and disappeared into the fog.

The Captain of the coal ship, asleep until he felt the collision, threw on clothes and ran to the bridge.

His wife, who was traveling with him, followed him on deck and calmly said, “I suppose we are sinking.”

“I believe so,” said Captain Anderson. Then he took charge.

It quickly became apparent that the Storstad was not going down. But it was far from clear what had happened.

All his first mate could tell his Captain was that a large vessel had suddenly appeared out of the fog and rammed into them, then just as suddenly disappeared.

So ridiculous was this claim, the Captain would have thought his first mate had been drinking, were it not for the force of the collision and the obvious damage to his ship.

While crew members assessed that damage, the officers wondered why the other ship hadn’t contacted them. Hadn’t blown its horn in maritime code, asking if they could come to the assistance of the Storstad.

Minutes later, the fog slowly lifted.

Raising their binoculars again, the officers expected to see the other ship’s lights. But there was nothing. Just a calm ocean and bright stars in the night sky.

Where could it have gone so quickly?

No one spoke. There was just the lapping of water against their own hull.

And then, out of the darkness, a noise reached them. It sounded like the shriek of seabirds. But surely not at two a.m. It took those on the Storstad’s deck a moment to understand what they were hearing.

It was Mrs. Anderson, the Captain’s wife, who first grasped what that sound, traveling over the calm waters, was.

Those were screams. Hundreds of people crying out at once. For help.

And with the cries came the horrifying answer to the Captain’s question. What had happened.