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

SOME IMPRESSIONS

No one can pass through an event like the wreck of the Titanic without

recording mentally many impressions, deep and vivid, of what has been

seen and felt. In so far as such impressions are of benefit to mankind

they should not be allowed to pass unnoticed, and this chapter is an

attempt to picture how people thought and felt from the time they

first heard of the disaster to the landing in New York, when there was

opportunity to judge of events somewhat from a distance. While it is

to some extent a personal record, the mental impressions of other

survivors have been compared and found to be in many cases closely in

agreement. Naturally it is very imperfect, and pretends to be no more

than a sketch of the way people act under the influence of strong

emotions produced by imminent danger.

In the first place, the principal fact that stands out is the almost

entire absence of any expressions of fear or alarm on the part of

passengers, and the conformity to the normal on the part of almost

everyone. I think it is no exaggeration to say that those who read of

the disaster quietly at home, and pictured to themselves the scene as

the Titanic was sinking, had more of the sense of horror than those

who stood on the deck and watched her go down inch by inch. The fact

is that the sense of fear came to the passengers very slowly—a result

of the absence of any signs of danger and the peaceful night—and as

it became evident gradually that there was serious damage to the ship,

the fear that came with the knowledge was largely destroyed as it

came. There was no sudden overwhelming sense of danger that passed

through thought so quickly that it was difficult to catch up and

grapple with it—no need for the warning to “be not afraid of sudden

fear,” such as might have been present had we collided head-on with a

crash and a shock that flung everyone out of his bunk to the floor.

Everyone had time to give each condition of danger attention as it

came along, and the result of their judgment was as if they had said:

“Well, here is this thing to be faced, and we must see it through as

quietly as we can.” Quietness and self-control were undoubtedly the

two qualities most expressed. There were times when danger loomed more

nearly and there was temporarily some excitement,—for example when

the first rocket went up,—but after the first realization of what it

meant, the crowd took hold of the situation and soon gained the same

quiet control that was evident at first. As the sense of fear ebbed

and flowed, it was so obviously a thing within one’s own power to

control, that, quite unconsciously realizing the absolute necessity of

keeping cool, every one for his own safety put away the thought of

danger as far as was possible. Then, too, the curious sense of the

whole thing being a dream was very prominent: that all were looking on

at the scene from a near-by vantage point in a position of perfect

safety, and that those who walked the decks or tied one another’s

lifebelts on were the actors in a scene of which we were but

spectators: that the dream would end soon and we should wake up to

find the scene had vanished. Many people have had a similar experience

in times of danger, but it was very noticeable standing on the

Titanic’s deck. I remember observing it particularly while tying on a

lifebelt for a man on the deck. It is fortunate that it should be so:

to be able to survey such a scene dispassionately is a wonderful aid

inn the destruction of the fear that go with it. One thing that helped

considerably to establish this orderly condition of affairs was the

quietness of the surroundings. It may seem weariness to refer again to

this, but I am convinced it had much to do with keeping everyone calm.

The ship was motionless; there was not a breath of wind; the sky was

clear; the sea like a mill-pond—the general “atmosphere” was

peaceful, and all on board responded unconsciously to it. But what

controlled the situation principally was the quality of obedience and

respect for authority which is a dominant characteristic of the

Teutonic race. Passengers did as they were told by the officers in

charge: women went to the decks below, men remained where they were

told and waited in silence for the next order, knowing instinctively

that this was the only way to bring about the best result for all on

board. The officers, in their turn, carried out the work assigned to

them by their superior officers as quickly and orderly as

circumstances permitted, the senior ones being in control of the

manning, filling and lowering of the lifeboats, while the junior

officers were lowered in individual boats to take command of the fleet

adrift on the sea. Similarly, the engineers below, the band, the

gymnasium instructor, were all performing their tasks as they came

along: orderly, quietly, without question or stopping to consider what

was their chance of safety. This correlation on the part of

passengers, officers and crew was simply obedience to duty, and it was

innate rather than the product of reasoned judgment.

I hope it will not seem to detract in any way from the heroism of

those who faced the last plunge of the Titanic so courageously when

all the boats had gone,—if it does, it is the difficulty of

expressing an idea in adequate words,—to say that their quiet heroism

was largely unconscious, temperamental, not a definite choice between

two ways of acting. All that was visible on deck before the boats left

tended to this conclusion and the testimony of those who went down

with the ship and were afterwards rescued is of the same kind.

Certainly it seems to express much more general nobility of character

in a race of people—consisting of different nationalities—to find

heroism an unconscious quality of the race than to have it arising as

an effort of will, to have to bring it out consciously.

It is unfortunate that some sections of the press should seek to

chronicle mainly the individual acts of heroism: the collective

behaviour of a crowd is of so much more importance to the world and so

much more a test—if a test be wanted—of how a race of people

behaves. The attempt to record the acts of individuals leads

apparently to such false reports as that of Major Butt holding at bay

with a revolver a crowd of passengers and shooting them down as they

tried to rush the boats, or of Captain Smith shouting, “Be British,”

through a megaphone, and subsequently committing suicide along with

First Officer Murdock. It is only a morbid sense of things that would

describe such incidents as heroic. Everyone knows that Major Butt was

a brave man, but his record of heroism would not be enhanced if he, a

trained army officer, were compelled under orders from the captain to

shoot down unarmed passengers. It might in other conditions have been

necessary, but it would not be heroic. Similarly there could be

nothing heroic in Captain