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

drive these engines she had 29 enormous

boilers and 159 furnaces. Three elliptical funnels, 24 feet 6 inches

in the widest diameter, took away smoke and water gases; the fourth

one was a dummy for ventilation.

 

She was fitted with 16 lifeboats 30 feet long, swung on davits of the

Welin double-acting type. These davits are specially designed for

dealing with two, and, where necessary, three, sets of lifeboats,—i.e.,

48 altogether; more than enough to have saved every soul on board

on the night of the collision. She was divided into 16 compartments by

15 transverse watertight bulkheads reaching from the double bottom

to the upper deck in the forward end and to the saloon deck in the

after end (Fig. 2), in both cases well above the water line.

Communication between the engine rooms and boiler rooms was

through watertight doors, which could all be closed instantly from the

captain’s bridge: a single switch, controlling powerful electro-magnets,

operated them. They could also be closed by hand with a lever,

and in case the floor below them was flooded by accident, a

float underneath the flooring shut them automatically. These

compartments were so designed that if the two largest were flooded

with water—a most unlikely contingency in the ordinary way—the ship

would still be quite safe. Of course, more than two were flooded the

night of the collision, but exactly how many is not yet thoroughly

established.

 

Her crew had a complement of 860, made up of 475 stewards, cooks,

etc., 320 engineers, and 65 engaged in her navigation. The machinery

and equipment of the Titanic was the finest obtainable and represented

the last word in marine construction. All her structure was of steel,

of a weight, size, and thickness greater than that of any ship yet

known: the girders, beams, bulkheads, and floors all of exceptional

strength. It would hardly seem necessary to mention this, were it not

that there is an impression among a portion of the general public that

the provision of Turkish baths, gymnasiums, and other so-called

luxuries involved a sacrifice of some more essential things, the

absence of which was responsible for the loss of so many lives. But

this is quite an erroneous impression. All these things were an

additional provision for the comfort and convenience of passengers,

and there is no more reason why they should not be provided on these

ships than in a large hotel. There were places on the Titanic’s deck

where more boats and rafts could have been stored without sacrificing

these things. The fault lay in not providing them, not in designing

the ship without places to put them. On whom the responsibility must

rest for their not being provided is another matter and must be left

until later.

 

When arranging a tour round the United States, I had decided to cross

in the Titanic for several reasons—one, that it was rather a novelty

to be on board the largest ship yet launched, and another that friends

who had crossed in the Olympic described her as a most comfortable

boat in a seaway, and it was reported that the Titanic had been still

further improved in this respect by having a thousand tons more built

in to steady her. I went on board at Southampton at 10 A.M. Wednesday,

April 10, after staying the night in the town. It is pathetic to

recall that as I sat that morning in the breakfast room of an hotel,

from the windows of which could be seen the four huge funnels of the

Titanic towering over the roofs of the various shipping offices

opposite, and the procession of stokers and stewards wending their way

to the ship, there sat behind me three of the Titanic’s passengers

discussing the coming voyage and estimating, among other things, the

probabilities of an accident at sea to the ship. As I rose from

breakfast, I glanced at the group and recognized them later on board,

but they were not among the number who answered to the roll-call on

the Carpathia on the following Monday morning.

 

Between the time of going on board and sailing, I inspected, in the

company of two friends who had come from Exeter to see me off, the

various decks, dining-saloons and libraries; and so extensive were

they that it is no exaggeration to say that it was quite easy to lose

one’s way on such a ship. We wandered casually into the gymnasium on

the boatdeck, and were engaged in bicycle exercise when the instructor

came in with two photographers and insisted on our remaining there

while his friends—as we thought at the time—made a record for him of

his apparatus in use. It was only later that we discovered that they

were the photographers of one of the illustrated London papers. More

passengers came in, and the instructor ran here and there, looking the

very picture of robust, rosy-cheeked health and “fitness” in his white

flannels, placing one passenger on the electric “horse,” another on

the “camel,” while the laughing group of onlookers watched the

inexperienced riders vigorously shaken up and down as he controlled

the little motor which made the machines imitate so realistically

horse and camel exercise.

 

It is related that on the night of the disaster, right up to the time

of the Titanic’s sinking, while the band grouped outside the gymnasium

doors played with such supreme courage in face of the water which rose

foot by foot before their eyes, the instructor was on duty inside,

with passengers on the bicycles and the rowing-machines, still

assisting and encouraging to the last. Along with the bandsmen it is

fitting that his name, which I do not think has yet been put on

record—it is McCawley—should have a place in the honourable list of

those who did their duty faithfully to the ship and the line they

served.