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It may be noted here that the percentage of men saved in the

second-class is the lowest of any other division—only eight per cent.

 

Many other faces recur to thought, but it is impossible to describe

them all in the space of a short book: of all those in the library

that Sunday afternoon, I can remember only two or three persons who

found their way to the Carpathia. Looking over this room, with his

back to the library shelves, is the library steward, thin, stooping,

sad-faced, and generally with nothing to do but serve out books; but

this afternoon he is busier than I have ever seen him, serving out

baggage declaration-forms for passengers to fill in. Mine is before me

as I write: “Form for nonresidents in the United States. Steamship

Titanic: No. 31444, D,” etc. I had filled it in that afternoon and

slipped it in my pocket-book instead of returning it to the steward.

Before me, too, is a small cardboard square: “White Star Line. R.M.S.

Titanic. 208. This label must be given up when the article is

returned. The property will be deposited in the Purser’s safe. The

Company will not be liable to passengers for the loss of money,

jewels, or ornaments, by theft or otherwise, not so deposited.” The

“property deposited” in my case was money, placed in an envelope,

sealed, with my name written across the flap, and handed to the

purser; the “label” is my receipt. Along with other similar envelopes

it may be still intact in the safe at the bottom of the sea, but in

all probability it is not, as will be seen presently.

 

After dinner, Mr. Carter invited all who wished to the saloon, and

with the assistance at the piano of a gentleman who sat at the

purser’s table opposite me (a young Scotch engineer going out to join

his brother fruit-farming at the foot of the Rockies), he started some

hundred passengers singing hymns. They were asked to choose whichever

hymn they wished, and with so many to choose, it was impossible for

him to do more than have the greatest favourites sung. As he announced

each hymn, it was evident that he was thoroughly versed in their

history: no hymn was sung but that he gave a short sketch of its

author and in some cases a description of the circumstances in which

it was composed. I think all were impressed with his knowledge of

hymns and with his eagerness to tell us all he knew of them. It was

curious to see how many chose hymns dealing with dangers at sea. I

noticed the hushed tone with which all sang the hymn, “For those in

peril on the Sea.”

 

The singing must have gone on until after ten o’clock, when, seeing

the stewards standing about waiting to serve biscuits and coffee

before going off duty, Mr. Carter brought the evening to a close by a

few words of thanks to the purser for the use of the saloon, a short

sketch of the happiness and safety of the voyage hitherto, the great

confidence all felt on board this great liner with her steadiness and

her size, and the happy outlook of landing in a few hours in New York

at the close of a delightful voyage; and all the time he spoke, a few

miles ahead of us lay the “peril on the sea” that was to sink this

same great liner with many of those on board who listened with

gratitude to his simple, heartfelt words. So much for the frailty of

human hopes and for the confidence reposed in material human designs.

 

Think of the shame of it, that a mass of ice of no use to any one or

anything should have the power fatally to injure the beautiful

Titanic! That an insensible block should be able to threaten, even in

the smallest degree, the lives of many good men and women who think

and plan and hope and love—and not only to threaten, but to end their

lives. It is unbearable! Are we never to educate ourselves to foresee

such dangers and to prevent them before they happen? All the evidence

of history shows that laws unknown and unsuspected are being

discovered day by day: as this knowledge accumulates for the use of

man, is it not certain that the ability to see and destroy beforehand

the threat of danger will be one of the privileges the whole world

will utilize? May that day come soon. Until it does, no precaution too

rigorous can be taken, no safety appliance, however costly, must be

omitted from a ship’s equipment.

 

After the meeting had broken up, I talked with the Carters over a cup

of coffee, said good-night to them, and retired to my cabin at about

quarter to eleven. They were good people and this world is much poorer

by their loss.

 

It may be a matter of pleasure to many people to know that their

friends were perhaps among that gathering of people in the saloon, and

that at the last the sound of the hymns still echoed in their ears as

they stood on the deck so quietly and courageously. Who can tell how

much it had to do with the demeanour of some of them and the example

this would set to others?

CHAPTER III

THE COLLISION AND EMBARKATION IN LIFEBOATS

 

I had been fortunate enough to secure a two-berth cabin to myself,—D

56,—quite close to the saloon and most convenient in every way for

getting about the ship; and on a big ship like the Titanic it was

quite a consideration to be on D deck, only three decks below the top

or boatdeck. Below D again were cabins on E and F decks, and to walk

from a cabin on F up to the top deck, climbing five flights of stairs

on the way, was certainly a considerable task for those not able to

take much exercise. The Titanic management has been criticised, among

other things, for supplying the boat with lifts: it has been said they

were an expensive luxury and the room they took up might have been

utilized in some way for more lifesaving appliances. Whatever else

may have been superfluous, lifts certainly were not: old ladies, for

example, in cabins on F deck, would hardly have got to the top deck

during the whole voyage had they not been able to ring for the

lift-boy. Perhaps nothing gave one a greater impression of the size of

the ship than to take the lift from the top and drop slowly down past

the different floors, discharging and taking in passengers just as in

a large hotel. I wonder where the lift-boy was that night. I would

have been glad to find him in our boat, or on the Carpathia when we

took count of the saved. He was quite young,—not more than sixteen, I

think,—a bright-eyed, handsome boy, with a love for the sea and the

games on deck and the view over the ocean—and he did not get any of

them. One day, as he put me out of his lift and saw through the

vestibule windows a game of deck quoits in progress, he said, in a

wistful tone, “My! I wish I could go out there sometimes!” I wished he

could, too, and made a jesting offer to take charge of his lift for an

hour while he went out to watch the game; but he smilingly shook his

head and dropped down in answer to an imperative ring from below. I

think he was not on duty with his lift after the collision, but if he

were, he would smile at his passengers all the time as he took them up

to the boats waiting to leave the sinking ship.

 

After undressing and climbing into the top berth, I read from about

quarter-past eleven to the time we struck, about quarter to twelve.

During this time I noticed particularly the increased vibration of the

ship, and I assumed that we were going at a higher speed than at any

other time since we sailed from Queenstown. Now I am aware that this

is an important point, and bears strongly on the question of

responsibility for the effects of the collision; but the impression of

increased vibration is fixed in my memory so strongly that it seems

important to record it. Two things led me to this conclusion—first,

that as I sat on the sofa undressing, with bare feet on the floor, the

jar of the vibration came up from the engines below very noticeably;

and second, that as I sat up in the berth reading, the spring mattress

supporting me was vibrating more rapidly than usual: this cradle-like

motion was always noticeable as one lay in bed, but that night there

was certainly a marked increase in the motion. Referring to the plan,

[Footnote: See Figure 2, page 116.] it will be seen that the vibration

must have come almost directly up from below, when it is mentioned

that the saloon was immediately above the engines as shown in the

plan, and my cabin next to the saloon. From these two data, on the

assumption that greater vibration is an indication of higher

speed,—and I suppose it must be,—then I am sure we were going faster

that night at the time we struck the iceberg than we had done before,

i.e., during the hours I was awake and able to take note of anything.

 

And then, as I read in the quietness of the night, broken only by the

muffled sound that came to me through the ventilators of stewards

talking and moving along the corridors, when nearly all the passengers

were in their cabins, some asleep in bed, others undressing, and

others only just down from the smoking-room and still discussing many

things, there came what seemed to me nothing more than an extra heave

of the engines and a more than usually obvious dancing motion of the

mattress on which I sat. Nothing more than that—no sound of a crash

or of anything else: no sense of shock, no jar that felt like one

heavy body meeting another. And presently the same thing repeated with

about the same intensity. The thought came to me that they must have

still further increased the speed. And all this time the Titanic was

being cut open by the iceberg and water was pouring in her side, and

yet no evidence that would indicate such a disaster had been presented

to us. It fills me with astonishment now to think of it. Consider the

question of list alone. Here was this enormous vessel running

starboard-side on to an iceberg, and a passenger sitting quietly in

bed, reading, felt no motion or list to the opposite or port side, and

this must have been felt had it been more than the usual roll of the

ship—never very much in the calm weather we had all the way. Again,

my bunk was fixed to the wall on the starboard side, and any list to

port would have tended to fling me out on the floor: I am sure I

should have noted it had there been any. And yet the explanation is

simple enough: the Titanic struck the berg with a force of impact of

over a million foot-tons; her plates were less than an inch thick, and

they must have been cut through as a knife cuts paper: there would be

no need to list; it would have been better if she had listed and

thrown us out on the floor, for it would have been an indication that

our plates were strong enough to offer, at any rate, some resistance

to the blow, and we might all have been safe to-day.

 

And so, with no thought

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