A Night to Remember (12 page)

Then there were the people Colonel Gracie, Lightoller and others saw surging up from below, just before the end. Until this moment Gracie was sure the women were all off—they were so hard to find when the last boats were loading. Now, he was appalled to see dozens of them suddenly appear. The statistics suggest who they were—the
Titanic
’s casualty list included four of 143 First Class women (three by choice) ...15 of 93 Second Class women … and 81 of 179 Third Class women.

Not to mention the children. Except for Lorraine Allison, all 29 First and Second Class children were saved, but only 23 out of 76 steerage children.

Neither the chance to be chivalrous nor the fruits of chivalry seemed to go with a Third Class passage.

It was better, but not perfect, in Second Class. Lawrence Beesley remembered an officer stopping two ladies as they started through the gate to First Class. “May we pass to the boats?” they asked.

“No, madam; your boats are down on your own deck.”

In fairness to the White Star Line, these distinctions grew not so much from set policy as from no policy at all. At some points the crew barred the way to the Boat Deck; at others they opened the gates but didn’t tell anyone; at a few points there were well-meaning efforts to guide the steerage up. But generally Third Class was left to shift for itself. A few of the more enterprising met the challenge, but most milled helplessly about their quarters—ignored, neglected, forgotten.

If the White Star Line was indifferent, so was everybody else. No one seemed to care about Third Class—neither the press, the official Inquiries, nor even the Third Class passengers themselves.

In covering the
Titanic,
few reporters bothered to ask the Third Class passengers anything. The
New York Times
was justly proud of the way it handled the disaster. Yet the famous issue covering the
Carpathia
’s arrival in New York contained only two interviews with Third Class passengers. This apparently was par for the course—of 43 survivor accounts in the
New York Herald,
two again were steerage experiences.

Certainly their experiences weren’t as good copy as Lady Cosmo Duff Gordon (one New York newspaper had her saying, “The last voice I heard was a man shouting, ‘My God, my God!’ ”). But there was indeed a story. The night was a magnificent confirmation of “women and children first,” yet somehow the loss rate was higher for Third Class children than First Class men. It was a contrast which would never get by the social consciousness (or news sense) of today’s press.

Nor did Congress care what happened to Third Class. Senator Smith’s
Titanic
investigation covered everything under the sun, including what an iceberg was made of (“Ice,” explained Fifth Officer Lowe), but the steerage received little attention. Only three of the witnesses were Third Class passengers. Two of these said they were kept from going to the Boat Deck, but the legislators didn’t follow up. Again, the testimony doesn’t suggest any deliberate hush-up—it was just that no one was interested.

The British Court of Enquiry was even more cavalier. Mr. W. D. Harbinson, who officially represented the Third Class interests, said he could find no trace of discrimination, and Lord Mersey’s report gave a clean bill of health—yet not a single Third Class passenger testified, and the only surviving steward stationed in steerage freely conceded that the men were kept below decks as late as 1:15
A.M.

Even the Third Class passengers weren’t bothered. They expected class distinction as part of the game. Olaus Abelseth, at least, regarded access to the Boat Deck as a privilege that went with First and Second Class passage … even when the ship was sinking. He was satisfied as long as they let him stay above decks.

A new age was dawning, and never since that night have Third Class passengers been so philosophical.

At the opposite extreme, it was also the last time the special position of First Class was accepted without question. When the White Star Liner
Republic
went down in 1908, Captain Sealby told the passengers entering the lifeboats, “Remember! Women and children go first; then the First Cabin, then the others!” There was no such rule on the
Titanic,
but the concept still existed in the public mind, and at first the press tended to forestall any criticism over what a First Class were attended by 23 handmaids, eight valets, and assorted nurses and governesses—entirely apart from hundreds of stewards and stewardesses. These personal servants had their own lounge on C Deck, so that no one need suffer the embarrassment of striking up a conversation with some handsome stranger, only to find he was Henry Sleeper Harper’s dragoman.

Or take the survivors’ arrival in New York. Mrs. Astor was met by two automobiles, carrying two doctors, a trained nurse, a secretary and Vincent Astor. Mrs. George Widener was met not by automobile but by a special train—consisting of a private Pullman, another car for ballast, and a locomotive. Mrs. Charles Hays was met by a special train too, including two private cars and two coaches.

It was a reception in keeping with people who could afford as much as 4,350 dollars—and these were 1912 dollars—for a deluxe suite. A suite like this had even a private promenade deck, which figured out at something like 40 dollars a front foot for six days.

This kind of life, of course, wasn’t open to everybody—in fact it would take Harold Bride, who made 20 dollars a month, 18 years to earn enough to cross in style—so those who enjoyed it gradually became part of a remarkably tightly knit little group, which also seemed to vanish with the
Titanic.

There was a wonderful intimacy about this little world of the Edwardian rich. There was no flicker of surprise when they bumped into each other, whether at the Pyramids (a great favorite), the Cowes Regatta, or the springs at Baden-Baden. They seemed to get the same ideas at the same time, and one of these ideas was to make the maiden voyage of the largest ship in the world.

So the
Titanic’s
trip was more like a reunion than an ocean passage. It fascinated Mrs. Henry B. Harris, wife of the theatrical producer, who certainly wasn’t part of this world. Twenty years later she still recalled with awe, “There was a spirit of camaraderie unlike any I had experienced on previous trips. No one consulted the passenger Class passenger might do. When the news broke that Ismay was saved, the
New York Sun
hastened to announce, “Ismay behaved with exceptional gallantry … no one knows how Mr. Ismay himself got into a boat; it is assumed he wished to make a presentation of the case to his company.”

Never again would First Class have it so good. In fact, almost immediately the pendulum swung the other way. Within days Ismay was pilloried; within a year a prominent survivor divorced her husband merely because, according to gossip, he happened to be saved. One of the more trying legacies left by those on the
Titanic
has been a new standard of conduct for measuring the behavior of prominent people under stress.

It was easier in the old days … for the
Titanic
was also the last stand of wealth and society in the center of public affection. In 1912 there were no movie, radio or television stars; sports figures were still beyond the pale; and café society was completely unknown. The public depended on socially prominent people for all the vicarious glamour that enriches drab lives.

This preoccupation was fully appreciated by the press. When the
Titanic
sailed, the
New York Times
listed the prominent passengers on the front page. After she sank, the
New York American
broke the news on April 16 with a lead devoted almost entirely to John Jacob Astor; at the end it mentioned that 1,800 others were also lost.

In the same mood, the April 18
New York Sun
covered the insurance angle of the disaster. Most of the story concerned Mrs. Widener’s pearls.

Never again did established wealth occupy people’s minds so thoroughly. On the other hand, never again was wealth so spectacular. John Jacob Astor thought nothing of shelling out 800 dollars for a lace jacket some dealer displayed on deck when the
Titanic
stopped briefly at Queenstown. To the Ryersons there was nothing unusual about traveling with 16 trunks. The 190 families in First list, to judge from the air of good fellowship that prevailed among the cabin passengers. They met on deck as one big party.”

This group knew the crew almost as well as each other. It was the custom to cross with certain captains rather than on particular ships, and Captain Smith had a personal following which made him invaluable to the White Star Line. The Captain repaid the patronage with little favors and privileges which kept them coming. On the last night John Jacob Astor got the bad news direct from Captain Smith before the general alarm, and others learned too.

But the other end of the bargain was to respect the privilege. Nobody took advantage of the Captain’s confidence—hardly a man in the group was saved.

The stewards and waiters were on equally close terms with the group. They had often looked after the same passengers. They knew just what they wanted and how they liked things done. Every evening Steward Cunningham would enter A-36 and lay out Thomas Andrews’ dress clothes just the way Mr. Andrews liked. Then at 6:45 Cunningham would enter and help Andrews dress. It happened all over the ship.

And when the
Titanic
was going down, it was with genuine affection that Steward Etches made Mr. Guggenheim wear his sweater … that Steward Crawford laced Mr. Stewart’s shoes … that Second Steward Dodd tipped off John B. Thayer that his wife was still on board, long after Thayer thought she had left. In the same spirit of devotion, Dining Room Steward Ray pushed Washington Dodge into Boat 13—he had persuaded the Dodges to take the
Titanic
and now he felt he had to see them through.

The group repaid this loyalty with an intimacy and affection they gave few of their less-known fellow passengers. In the
Titanic
’s last hours men like Ben Guggenheim and Martin Rothschild seemed to see more of their stewards than the other passengers.

The
Titanic
somehow lowered the curtain on this way of living. It never was the same again. First the war, then the income tax, made sure of that.

With this lost world went some of its prejudices—especially a firm and loudly voiced opinion of the superiority of Anglo-Saxon courage. To the survivors all stowaways in the lifeboats were “Chinese” or “Japanese”; all who jumped from the deck were “Armenians,” and “Frenchmen,” or “Italians.”

“There were various men passengers,” declared Steward Crowe at the U.S. Inquiry, “probably Italians, or some foreign nationality other than English or American, who attempted to rush the boats.” Steward Crowe, of course, never heard the culprits speak and had no way of knowing who they were. At the Inquiry things finally grew so bad that the Italian Ambassador demanded and got an apology from Fifth Officer Lowe for using “Italian” as a sort of synonym for “coward.”

In contrast, Anglo-Saxon blood could do no wrong. When Bride described the stoker’s attack on Phillips, some newspapers made the stoker a Negro for better effect. And in a story headlined, “Desirable Immigrants Lost,” the
New York Sun
pointed out that, along with the others, 78 Finns were lost who might do the country some good.

But along with the prejudices, some nobler instincts also were lost. Men would go on being brave, but never again would they be brave in quite the same way. These men on the
Titanic
had a touch—there was something about Ben Guggenheim changing to evening dress … about Howard Case flicking his cigarette as he waved to Mrs. Graham … or even about Colonel Gracie panting along the decks, gallantly if ineffectually searching for Mrs. Candee. Today nobody could carry off these little gestures of chivalry, but they did that night.

An air of
noblesse oblige
has vanished too. During the agonizing days of uncertainty in New York, the Astors, the Guggenheims and others like them were not content to sit by their phones or to send friends and retainers to the White Star Line offices. They went themselves. Not because it was the best way to get information, but because they felt they ought to be there in person.

Today families are as loyal as ever, but the phone would probably do. Few would insist on going themselves and braving the bedlam of the steamship office. Yet the others didn’t hesitate a minute. True, Vincent Astor did get better information than the rest—and some even spoke to General Manager Franklin himself—but the point is that these people didn’t merely keep in touch—they were
there.

Overriding everything else, the
Titanic
also marked the end of a general feeling of confidence. Until then men felt they had found the answer to a steady, orderly, civilized life. For 100 years the Western world had been at peace. For 100 years technology had steadily improved. For 100 years the benefits of peace and industry seemed to be filtering satisfactorily through society. In retrospect, there may seem less grounds for confidence, but at the time most articulate people felt life was all right.

The
Titanic
woke them up. Never again would they be quite so sure of themselves. In technology especially, the disaster was a terrible blow. Here was the “unsinkable ship”—perhaps man’s greatest engineering achievement—going down the first time it sailed.

But it went beyond that. If this supreme achievement was so terribly fragile, what about everything else? If wealth meant so little on this cold April night, did it mean so much the rest of the year? Scores of ministers preached that the
Titanic
was a heaven-sent lesson to awaken people from their complacency, to punish them for top-heavy faith in material progress. If it was a lesson, it worked—people have never been sure of anything since.

The unending sequence of disillusionment that has followed can’t be blamed on the
Titanic,
but she was the first jar. Before the
Titanic,
all was quiet. Afterward all was tumult. That is why, to anybody who lived at the time, the
Titanic
more than any other single event marks the end of the old days, and the beginning of a new, uneasy era.