The Loss of the S.S. Titanic - Lawrence Beesley (e reader books TXT) 📗

for the

destitute among the steerage passengers, to present a loving cup to

Captain Rostron and medals to the officers and crew of the Carpathia,

and to divide any surplus among the crew of the Titanic. The work of

this committee is not yet (June 1st) at an end, but all the

resolutions except the last one have been acted upon, and that is now

receiving the attention of the committee. The presentations to the

captain and crew were made the day the Carpathia returned to New York

from her Mediterranean trip, and it is a pleasure to all the survivors

to know that the United States Senate has recognized the service

rendered to humanity by the Carpathia and has voted Captain Rostron a

gold medal commemorative of the rescue. On the afternoon of Tuesday, I

visited the steerage in company with a fellow-passenger, to take

down the names of all who were saved. We grouped them into

nationalities,—English Irish, and Swedish mostly,—and learnt from

them their names and homes, the amount of money they possessed, and

whether they had friends in America. The Irish girls almost

universally had no money rescued from the wreck, and were going to

friends in New York or places near, while the Swedish passengers,

among whom were a considerable number of men, had saved the greater

part of their money and in addition had railway tickets through to

their destinations inland. The saving of their money marked a curious

racial difference, for which I can offer no explanation: no doubt the

Irish girls never had very much but they must have had the necessary

amount fixed by the immigration laws. There were some pitiful cases of

women with children and the husband lost; some with one or two

children saved and the others lost; in one case, a whole family was

missing, and only a friend left to tell of them. Among the Irish group

was one girl of really remarkable beauty, black hair and deep violet

eyes with long lashes, and perfectly shaped features, and quite young,

not more than eighteen or twenty; I think she lost no relatives on the

Titanic.

 

The following letter to the London “Times” is reproduced here to show

something of what our feeling was on board the Carpathia towards the

loss of the Titanic. It was written soon after we had the definite

information on the Wednesday that ice warnings had been sent to the

Titanic, and when we all felt that something must be done to awaken

public opinion to safeguard ocean travel in the future. We were not

aware, of course, how much the outside world knew, and it seemed well

to do something to inform the English public of what had happened at

as early an opportunity as possible. I have not had occasion to change

any of the opinions expressed in this letter.

 

SIR:—

 

As one of few surviving Englishmen from the steamship Titanic, which

sank in mid-Atlantic on Monday morning last, I am asking you to lay

before your readers a few facts concerning the disaster, in the hope

that something may be done in the near future to ensure the safety of

that portion of the travelling public who use the Atlantic highway for

business or pleasure.

 

I wish to dissociate myself entirely from any report that would seek

to fix the responsibility on any person or persons or body of people,

and by simply calling attention to matters of fact the authenticity of

which is, I think, beyond question and can be established in any Court

of Inquiry, to allow your readers to draw their own conclusions as to

the responsibility for the collision.

 

First, that it was known to those in charge of the Titanic that we

were in the iceberg region; that the atmospheric and temperature

conditions suggested the near presence of icebergs; that a wireless

message was received from a ship ahead of us warning us that they had

been seen in the locality of which latitude and longitude were given.

 

Second, that at the time of the collision the Titanic was running at a

high rate of speed.

 

Third, that the accommodation for saving passengers and crew was

totally inadequate, being sufficient only for a total of about 950.

This gave, with the highest possible complement of 3400, a less than

one in three chance of being saved in the case of accident.

 

Fourth, that the number landed in the Carpathia, approximately 700, is

a high percentage of the possible 950, and bears excellent testimony

to the courage, resource, and devotion to duty of the officers and

crew of the vessel; many instances of their nobility and personal

self-sacrifice are within our possession, and we know that they did

all they could do with the means at their disposal.

 

Fifth, that the practice of running mail and passenger vessels through

fog and iceberg regions at a high speed is a common one; they are

timed to run almost as an express train is run, and they cannot,

therefore, slow down more than a few knots in time of possible danger.

 

I have neither knowledge nor experience to say what remedies I

consider should be applied; but, perhaps, the following suggestions

may serve as a help:—

 

First, that no vessel should be allowed to leave a British port

without sufficient boat and other accommodation to allow each

passenger and member of the crew a seat; and that at the time of

booking this fact should be pointed out to a passenger, and the number

of the seat in the particular boat allotted to him then.

 

Second, that as soon as is practicable after sailing each passenger

should go through boat drill in company with the crew assigned to his

boat.

 

Third, that each passenger boat engaged in the Transatlantic service

should be instructed to slow down to a few knots when in the iceberg

region, and should be fitted with an efficient searchlight.

 

Yours faithfully,

 

LAWRENCE BEESLEY.

 

It seemed well, too, while on the Carpathia to prepare as accurate an

account as possible of the disaster and to have this ready for the

press, in order to calm public opinion and to forestall the incorrect

and hysterical accounts which some American reporters are in the habit

of preparing on occasions of this kind. The first impression is often

the most permanent, and in a disaster of this magnitude, where exact

and accurate information is so necessary, preparation of a report was

essential. It was written in odd corners of the deck and saloon of the

Carpathia, and fell, it seemed very happily, into the hands of the one

reporter who could best deal with it, the Associated Press. I

understand it was the first report that came through and had a good

deal of the effect intended.

 

The Carpathia returned to New York in almost every kind of climatic

conditions: icebergs, ice-fields and bitter cold to commence with;

brilliant warm sun, thunder and lightning in the middle of one night

(and so closely did the peal follow the flash that women in the saloon

leaped up in alarm saying rockets were being sent up again); cold

winds most of the time; fogs every morning and during a good part of

one day, with the foghorn blowing constantly; rain; choppy sea with

the spray blowing overboard and coming in through the saloon windows;

we said we had almost everything but hot weather and stormy seas. So

that when we were told that Nantucket Lightship had been sighted on

Thursday morning from the bridge, a great sigh of relief went round to

think New York and land would be reached before next morning.

 

There is no doubt that a good many felt the waiting period of those

four days very trying: the ship crowded far beyond its limits of

comfort, the want of necessities of clothing and toilet, and above all

the anticipation of meeting with relatives on the pier, with, in many

cases, the knowledge that other friends were left behind and would not

return home again. A few looked forward to meeting on the pier their

friends to whom they had said au revoir on the Titanic’s deck, brought

there by a faster boat, they said, or at any rate to hear that they

were following behind us in another boat: a very few, indeed, for the

thought of the icy water and the many hours’ immersion seemed to weigh

against such a possibility; but we encouraged them to hope the

Californian and the Birma had picked some up; stranger things have

happened, and we had all been through strange experiences. But in the

midst of this rather tense feeling, one fact stands out as

remarkable—no one was ill. Captain Rostron testified that on Tuesday

the doctor reported a clean bill of health, except for frost-bites and

shaken nerves. There were none of the illnesses supposed to follow

from exposure for hours in the cold night—and, it must be remembered,

a considerable number swam about for some time when the Titanic sank,

and then either sat for hours in their wet things or lay flat on an

upturned boat with the sea water washing partly over them until they

were taken off in a lifeboat; no scenes of women weeping and brooding

over their losses hour by hour until they were driven mad with

grief—yet all this has been reported to the press by people on board

the Carpathia. These women met their sorrow with the sublimest

courage, came on deck and talked with their fellow-men and women face

to face, and in the midst of their loss did not forget to rejoice with

those who had joined their friends on the Carpathia’s deck or come

with them in a boat. There was no need for those ashore to call the

Carpathia a “death-ship,” or to send coroners and coffins to the pier

to meet her: her passengers were generally in good health and they did

not pretend they were not.

 

Presently land came in sight, and very good it was to see it again: it

was eight days since we left Southampton, but the time seemed to have

“stretched out to the crack of doom,” and to have become eight weeks

instead. So many dramatic incidents had been crowded into the last few

days that the first four peaceful, uneventful days, marked by nothing

that seared the memory, had faded almost out of recollection. It

needed an effort to return to Southampton, Cherbourg and Queenstown,

as though returning to some event of last year. I think we all

realized that time may be measured more by events than by seconds and

minutes: what the astronomer would call “2.20 A.M. April 15th, 1912,”

the survivors called “the sinking of the Titanic”; the “hours” that

followed were designated “being adrift in an open sea,” and “4.30

A.M.” was “being rescued by the Carpathia.” The clock was a mental

one, and the hours, minutes and seconds marked deeply on its face were

emotions, strong and silent.

 

Surrounded by tugs of every kind, from which (as well as from every

available building near the river) magnesium bombs were shot off by

photographers, while reporters shouted for news of the disaster and

photographs of passengers, the Carpathia drew slowly to her station at

the Cunard pier, the gangways were pushed across, and we set foot at

last on American soil, very thankful, grateful people.

 

The mental and physical condition of the rescued as they came ashore

has, here again, been greatly exaggerated—one description says we

were “half-fainting, half-hysterical, bordering on hallucination, only

now beginning to realize the horror.” It is unfortunate such pictures

should be presented to the world. There were some painful scenes of

meeting between relatives of those who were lost, but once again women

showed their self-control