On April 18, 1912, the Carpathia docked at Pier 54 at Little West 12th Street in New York. Rain drizzled in the air and the sky was gray and cloudy. Photographers and people lined the dock to get a glimpse of the survivors; many had waited hours in the downpour just to hear news of the Titanic's survivors. Relatives of the Titanic’s passengers waited for news of who had survived and who hadn't. Thirty-five ambulances lined up on the pier. Accompanying them were seventy interns and surgeons from the staffs of the hospitals and more than one hundred twenty-five nurses. About each gangplank a portable fence had been put in place, marking off some fifty feet of the pier. Next to the fence, crowding slowly against it, were anxious men and women, their gazes straining for a glimpse of the first from the ship, their eyes open wide, drawing their breath in spasmodic, quivering gasps, their very bodies shaking with excitement, excitement which only the suspense itself was keeping in subjection. These were the husbands, wives, children, parents, friends, and family of those who had sailed upon the Titanic on her maiden voyage. Several minutes passed, and then, out of the first class gangway, tunneled by somber awning, streamed the first survivors. Newspaper reporters and customs officials questioned them as they disembarked, demanding their names and questioning them about other survivors. The two hundred and more steerage passengers did not leave the ship until eleven o’clock PM. They were in sad condition. Among them, a woman with long auburn disheveled hair, was wearing a black overcoat which seemed to belong to a male. She disembarked, her face somber. Her eyes did not once lift from the ground. She seemed to be alone. Flashes from the photographer's cameras illuminated her deathly pale face and she squinted. Her body visibly shook, terribly. She stopped, perplexed, almost ready to drop with terror and exhaustion, and was caught by a customs official.
“A survivor?” he questioned rapidly, and after a nod of her head answered him, he demanded, “Your name?”
“D-Dawson,” she managed. “Rose Dawson.”
The answer given, he began leading her toward the section of the pier where friends and relatives were waiting. She squinted around at the large crowd. She had never seen so many people, perhaps thousands. All was silent. When she stepped from the gangplank, all was silent on the pier. She staggered, rather than walked. A low wailing sound arose from the crowd.
“Dorothy! Dorothy!” cried a man from the crowd. Suddenly, a young lady flew past her and almost dived into the crowd. The man broke through the double line of customs inspectors as if they were just a line of toy soldiers; he caught the woman to his breast.
The rain beat down heavier and there was a flash of lightning in the distance. Stumbling out into the New York City streets, Rose Dawson staggered through the throngs. She could hear the shrieks and cries of survivors being reunited with loved ones, but not once did she turn to look back. She felt almost in a trance as she continued to walk, to struggle against the cold New York evening. But in all honesty, where was she staggering to? She was a young woman, out alone in a city at almost midnight. No thoughts filled her mind. Her shaking body, already numbed with cold, felt nothing. She might as well have been dead. She felt nothing. Her body was just an empty shell of her former self. Halting, she squinted her eyes and felt pain. Was there a tear rolling down her face, although she felt no emotion? Weakly, she raised her head and gazed at the stars above. She felt heavy and as though she weighed so much more than she did. With that, she tumbled to the ground, her body lying unconscious on the cold, hard ground. Rain continued to fall and the now roaring wind sent her hair flying about.