It's the early hours of April 15th, 1912.

The Cunard liner RMS Carpathia is steaming through the night, full speed ahead.

Ever since the ship's wireless operator Harold Cottom received Titanic's distress call at 1225 that morning,

Carpathia has been in crisis mode. Captain Arthur Rustron has ordered every last drop of steam to the engines.

He's doing his best to cross the 50-odd miles, separating them from Titanic in record time.

The decks of the ship are shaking as the engines are pushed to their limit.

Unlike Titanic, Carpathia is a modest single-funneled workhorse.

Her top speed, officially at least, is 14 knots, compared to Titanic's

23. But right now, Rostron is squeezing 17 knots out of her. Blazing through the darkness,

he knows he's taking the lives of his passengers in his hands. More than once Carpathia has had to dodge an approaching iceberg.

A deeply religious man, Rostran will later write that the hand of God must be on the helm that night,

as his ship zigzags around the bergs.

By 3.30 a.m. Carpathia is approaching Titanic's last recorded position.

On board, everything is in readiness.

Blankets have been laid out in public rooms. Tea, coffee and hot soup are all on hand, not to mention copious quantities of brandy.

The crew have even sourced some heavy-duty restraints in case any of Titanic's survivors have lost their minds.

Up in the crow's nest, the lookouts are keeping a sharp

watch, scanning the horizon for Titanic's four giant funnels. But all they can see, far away in the

distance, is a little green light. It's too low in the water to be a liner, let alone the biggest

ship in the world. Rostron orders Carpathia to slow down as they approach. He sounds the ship's

whistle to alert those in the water that they're coming.

At 4 a.m., as the first rays of daylight begin to break through the night, Carpathia's

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