How to Survive the Titanic Page 16

  Futility had been the title of a little-read novella by Morgan Robertson, published fourteen years before. It told the story of a 45,000-ton ‘floating city’ called the Titan, the largest ship ever built, which left New York in April with 3,000 passengers. Speeding along at 25 knots she met an iceberg in the place where the Titanic would later meet her fate, and because the Titan was believed to be ‘unsinkable’, and carried ‘as few boats as would satisfy the laws’, she went down with most of her passengers still on board.12

  The following day the inquiry reconvened in the sumptuous new Caucus Room of the Senate Office Building, where the McCarthy and Watergate hearings would in time be heard. ‘Washington this time of year’, reported the Daily Telegraph, ‘is crowded with honeymoon couples, and the weather is so mild that the windows of the Senate are open all day long. The scent of spring flowers wafted into the court, and the words of witnesses are punctuated by the sweet notes of birds singing in the leafy trees outside. Ladies in spring dresses sit in court fanning themselves, and at times so crowded is the courtroom that the atmosphere is insufferably close.’

  First to the stand was Philip Franklin, the forty-one-year-old American vice-president of the IMM. The wreck of the Titanic, Franklin said, ‘has demonstrated an entirely new proposition that has to be dealt with — something that nobody had ever thought of before. These steamers were considered tremendous lifeboats in themselves.’ It was, Franklin now believed, ‘impossible to build a non-sinkable ship’. Smith asked Franklin to read aloud every Marconigram he had sent and received in relation to the Titanic, including, to Ismay’s cringing embarrassment, the Yamsi messages. Their contents were duly noted down by the newsmen and reported the next day in papers around the world. The reproduction of the Marconigrams gave the story a sense of synchronicity; readers felt as though they were experiencing the disaster and its aftermath in real time. It was vital, Franklin stressed at length, that Ismay’s messages not be misunderstood. It was not his own welfare he was concerned with when he wanted to return on the Cedric, but that of the crew. ‘Criticism has been seriously made to the effect that those messages were sent entirely with the idea of getting the crew away, and of Mr Ismay’s also getting away on account of what information might come out from the crew. I want to say that that was not in Mr Ismay’s mind. Everybody realises the importance of getting these members of the crew away from the country at the earliest possible moment.’ Franklin spoke about the danger of letting a ship’s crew loose in a city, after which Smith released him. Next to the stand was Joseph Boxhall, the Titanic’s Fourth Officer, who recalled how, contrary to Lightoller’s testimony, only two boats had been lowered during the boat drill in Southampton.

  The New York Times that day carried an interview with Inman Sealby, formally a captain of the White Star Line and now a student of admiralty law at the University of Michigan. Sealby had been dismissed by the company in 1909 when the Republic sank under his command. In the twenty-five years he had worked for the Ismay family, Sealby said, ‘I never saw anything which would have led me for one minute to anticipate anything but the best of conduct in Mr Ismay at all times and under all circumstances. Until the exact circumstances of his escape from the Titanic are placed before me it would be impossible for me to pass an opinion in the matter.’

  That evening Ismay again requested permission to return home, promising that he would be replaced by an army of experts from Great Britain, including personnel from White Star and engineers from Harland & Wolff. Smith again refused. Ismay seemed to be pulling in opposing directions: on the one hand he stressed his willingness to help Smith, and on the other hand he talked of little else but leaving for England.

  The acoustics in the Caucus Room had not been good enough to carry the often quiet voices of the survivors, and so on Tuesday 23 April, the inquiry moved once more, this time to the stern Committee on Territories conference room. During the last four days the proceedings had occupied four different premises, from a gilded hotel to a government office. Senator Smith’s settings were impersonating the drift of the age itself, from frivolity to seriousness. The new room was too small to contain spectators, but around 500 women who had been waiting since 9 a.m. nonetheless poured through the door and were forcibly removed by police officers. This process delayed the hearings by an hour, which allowed time for photographers to get some pictures of Ismay, before being hurled out by Smith.

  Third Officer Pitman described how ‘crowds’ of ‘moaning’ victims froze to death in the water while those in the lifeboats ‘just simply lay there doing nothing’, and Frederick Fleet, the lookout who reported the iceberg, explained how he ‘had no idea of distances or spaces’ and that if the Titanic officers had not mislaid the binoculars he would have seen the iceberg in time. Comic relief came in the testimony of a Canadian first-class passenger, Major Peuchen, who, in the absence of a member of the crew, had volunteered to man a boat. Asked whether the ship went down by the ‘bow or the head’, Peuchen asked: ‘You mean “the head” by the bow, do you not?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Smith.

  ‘It is the same thing,’ remarked Peuchen.

  ‘No,’ said Smith grandly. ‘Not the same thing.’

  Ismay now suggested to Smith that if he was not currently needed to give evidence nor allowed to return to his wife and family, might he go to New York for a few days and get on with some work? While his request was not strictly denied, the committee ‘took no action’. Late that night, the Telegraph’s man in Washington saw Ismay in Willard’s Hotel accompanied by Franklin, three lawyers and the officials of the IMM. ‘Despite his terrific experiences,’ the correspondent reported home, ‘including the scandalous and persistent onslaughts made on him through the editorials and cartoons of the Yellow Press, Ismay bears himself bravely. His eyelids looked red and swollen, as if through lack of sleep, but otherwise the chairman of the White Star Line was just as alert, erect and dapper as when I saw him last in England.’

  At nine o’clock on the morning of Wednesday 24 April, while the throngs of onlookers gathered like pigeons around the Congressional buildings and cinematograph wheels prepared to whirl, Ismay knocked on Smith’s door and demanded to be put on the stand at once so that he could then sail to England. Smith impatiently dismissed him and opened the proceedings an hour and a half later with an announcement: ‘From the beginning until now there has been a voluntary, gratuitous, meddlesome attempt upon the part of certain persons to influence the course of the committee and to shape its procedures. The committee will not tolerate any further attempt on the part of anyone to shape its course. We will proceed in our own way, completing the official record.’ The newsmen pricked up their ears: who could the Senator be referring to? Meanwhile, the White Star offices in England and New York were receiving reports that the crew of the Olympic, currently in Southampton and waiting to sail on the same route as the Titanic, had mutinied. Immediately on landing, Ismay, advised by Franklin, had ordered the IMM to provide their ships with lifeboats to accommodate all passengers and crew; but where were these hundreds of surplus boats to come from? In the few days between his command and the Olympic’s sailing, the White Star Line had only been able to get hold of what the Olympic’s crew described as forty ‘rotten and unseaworthy’ collapsibles.

  First to appear that day was twenty-nine-year-old Fifth Officer, Harold Lowe. Smith invited him to tell the story of his life, beginning with the time, aged fourteen, when he ran away to sea. ‘It is a pretty long story,’ Lowe laughed, and the audience craned their necks. ‘Here at last,’ reported the Telegraph, ‘came a unique opportunity of hearing at first hand what promised to be a thrilling tale of romance and reality of sea life. Mr Lowe was, however, disappointing.’ He described how he had spent seven years on schooners, then switched to sail, and finally earned his certificates on steamers. Lowe ‘missed the chance of a lifetime’, said the Telegraph, in reducing a ‘thrilling tale’ to a few facts, but the Titanic’s Fifth Officer was one of the few British
men who did emerge from his testimony a hero. He was celebrated in England for providing the best moment of the week so far: when Smith asked him of what an iceberg was composed, Lowe replied that it was composed of ‘ice’. In America he was celebrated for ‘cursing out’ Ismay, who had been ‘interfering’ with his duties. ‘Lower away! Lower away! Lower away! Lower away!’ Ismay shouted as Lowe was releasing one of the lifeboats on the starboard side. Lowe refused to repeat what he said in response to Ismay, whom he had not recognised. Ismay himself now interjected, and turned to Lowe. ‘Give us what you said.’ He then turned to Smith, ‘I have no objection to his giving it. It was not very parliamentary.’ If the Senator was concerned that the language might be offensive, Ismay suggested that ‘it be put on a piece of paper’ so that he could decide for himself. Lowe wrote it down and Smith read aloud: ‘If you get the hell out of that I might be able to do something.’ How did Ismay respond to Lowe’s insubordination, Smith wondered? He just walked to the next boat, said Lowe, ‘on his own hook, getting things ready there, to the best of his ability’. Concerned that he might have blown his future with the White Star Line, Lowe conceded that Ismay was clearly ‘anxious to get the people away and also to help me’. The following day various US papers suggested that towns called Ismay in Texas and Montana should change their names, perhaps to Astor but preferably to Lowe, in honour of the officer who had told Ismay to ‘go to hell’.

  Smith now recalled Lightoller, who made a statement taking full responsibility for the ‘Yamsi’ messages sent on the Carpathia. Lightoller described Ismay as having been entirely passive in the doctor’s cabin, as deferring to the authority of the Second Officer: ‘On having a conversation with Mr Ismay he also mentioned about the Cedric and asked me my opinion about it, and I frankly stated that it was the best thing in the world to do if we could catch the Cedric. Later on he remarked that owing to weather conditions it was very doubtful if we would catch the Cedric. I said, “Yes, it is doubtful. It will be a great pity if she sails without us.” “Do you think it will be advisable to hold her up?” I said, “Most undoubtedly; the best thing in the world to hold her up.”’ Lightoller then described how ‘a telegram was dispatched asking them to hold the Cedric until we got in, to which we received the reply that it was not advisable to hold the Cedric’. Ismay ‘asked what I thought about it. I said, “I think we ought to hold her, and you ought to telegraph and insist on their holding her and preventing the crew getting around in New York.” We discussed the pros and cons and deemed it advisable to keep the crew together as much as we could, so we could get home, and we might then be able to choose our important witnesses and let the remainder go to sea and earn money for themselves. So I believe the other telegram was sent.’

  ‘I may say,’ Lightoller continued, ‘that at that time Mr Ismay did not seem to me to be in a mental condition to finally decide anything. I tried my utmost to rouse Mr Ismay, for he was obsessed with the idea, and kept repeating, that he ought to have gone down with the ship because he found that women had gone down. I told him there was no such reason; I told him a very great deal; I tried to get that idea out of his head, but he was taken with it; and I know the doctor tried, too; but we had difficulty in arousing Mr Ismay, purely owing to that wholly and solely, that women had gone down in the boat and he had not. You can call the doctor of the Carpathia and he will verify that statement.’ It was ‘naturally human nature’, Lightoller said, to try ‘to get the men back to their wives and families as soon as possible. Their income stops, you know, from the time the wreck occurs, legally.’

  But why, wondered Smith, had Lightoller not made this statement earlier?

  ‘Because,’ Lightoller replied, ‘the controversy in regard to the telegram had not been brought up then, or brought to my knowledge; I mean all this [news]paper talk there has been about this telegram.’

  And that is the reason, suggested Smith, ‘that you were prompted to make this disclosure?’

  Lightoller replied that he was making the disclosure because he was ‘principally responsible for the telegram being sent’.

  ‘And you sent it?’ inquired Smith.

  ‘I did not,’ replied Lightoller.

  ‘You delivered it to the wireless?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Did you write it out?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Did you speak to the operator about it?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it since?’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘But you wish to be understood as saying that you urged Mr Ismay to send it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did you know at that time,’ asked Smith, ‘that an inquiry had been ordered by the Senate?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said an apparently appalled Lightoller, ‘or we should never have dreamed of sending the telegram. Our whole and sole idea was to keep the crew together for the inquiry, presumably at home. We naturally did not want any witnesses to get astray.’ In his memoirs, however, Lightoller later wrote: ‘Everyone’s hope, so far as the crew were concerned, was that we might arrive in New York in time to catch the Cedric back to Liverpool and so escape the inquisition that would otherwise be awaiting us. Our luck was distinctly out. We were served with warrants, immediately on arrival.’13

  Smith then returned to the question of whether the various ice reports had been taken notice of and Lightoller was as uncommunicative on the subject as he had been five days earlier. ‘Did you see’, asked Smith, ‘in the chart room of the Titanic any memoranda in the rack advising that you were in the vicinity of ice?’ Lightoller did not ‘remember seeing anything’.

  ‘Did you see a telegram from the Amerika?’

  Lightoller did not ‘remember seeing any’.

  ‘Did you see a telegram from the CalifornianV

  Lightoller did not ‘remember seeing any’.

  ‘Did you see any such memoranda?’

  Lightoller did ‘not remember seeing any such memorandum’.

  ‘Was such a notation made on the chart?’

  Lightoller did ‘not remember seeing any myself, because I did not look’.

  When asked if ‘no one called your attention to any telegram or wireless from any ship warning you of ice?’ he replied ‘Yes’, and fleshed out the story he had told before. ‘I do not know what the telegram was. The commander came out when I was relieved for lunch, I think it was. It may have been earlier; I do not remember what time it was. I remember the commander coming out to me some time that day and showing me a telegram, and this had reference to the position of ice.’

  ‘A warning to you,’ Smith asked, ‘of its proximity?’

  ‘No warning,’ said Lightoller, ‘but giving the position — a mere bald statement of fact.’ A mere bald statement of fact: it was the best description of an iceberg the inquiry had yet heard.[3]

  Lightoller worked out that the ship would be at the position stated at around 11 p.m. and informed First Officer Murdoch. Since, asked Senator Fletcher, they knew they would be passing an iceberg that night, would it not be a sensible precaution to slow down? ‘It depends altogether on conditions,’ shrugged Lightoller, ‘and it finally rests with the commander’s judgment.’

  Senator Smith digested this. Senator Fletcher then asked a vital question: following the collision, ‘What was done then with reference to the ship; was her speed lessened then?’

  Lightoller claimed not to know whether the ship stopped after the collision or continued on its course. ‘I was below; I do not know anything about that.’

  ‘You could not tell that?’ asked Fletcher, surprised that an officer could not tell the difference between a still and a moving ship.

  ‘I could not tell you officially,’ said Lightoller. ‘I know I came out on deck and noticed that her speed was lessened; yes.’

  But, pressed Fletcher, ‘Was she not actually stopped entirely from go
ing forward?’

  ‘No,’ Lightoller replied, ‘she was not. That is why I said, in my previous testimony, that the ship was apparently going slowly, and I saw the First Officer and the Captain on the bridge, and I judged that there was nothing further to do.’

  Lightoller then made a second statement defending Ismay. He had heard from a ‘reliable’ witness that Ismay had been ‘practically thrown’ into the lifeboat by Chief Officer Wilde (who was now dead). ‘Wilde was a pretty big, powerful chap, and he was a man that would not argue very long. Mr Ismay was right there… and Mr Wilde, who was near him, simply bundled him into the boat.’ Ismay, at six foot four inches, was a pretty big powerful chap too and Senator Smith noted that Lightoller had not remembered this incident in his previous testimony. Lightoller replied that while he had unfortunately forgotten the source of the story, he believed it to be true; Ismay, on the other hand, said that it was not true, that the decision to board a lifeboat had been his alone.