The Night Lives On

by Walter Lord

  But that came later. Until the Titanic, the public seemed perfectly willing to accept the owners’ arguments. Like air travelers today, a liner’s passengers understood that if the ship went down, they might well go with it. As White Star’s Sanderson put it, “There are certain risks connected with going to sea which it is impossible to eliminate.”

  One man saw through this nonsense—and was in a perfect position to do something about it. The Right Honourable Alexander M. Carlisle was Managing Director of Harland & Wolff in 1909, while the Olympic and Titanic were on the stocks. A big, hulking man, he ran the shipyard with tyrannical discipline, and was accustomed to getting his way. Nor did it hurt that he was the brother-in-law of Lord Pirrie, Harland & Wolff’s Chairman.

  For some time Carlisle had been uneasy about the small number of lifeboats to be carried by the two new giants. There were only 16, which met the 1894 regulations, but seemed too few for the size of the ships. Since the contract with White Star clearly left such matters to Harland & Wolff, he asked the Welin Davit Company in Sweden to design for him new davits that would hold up to 64 boats, although he felt that 48 would be enough.

  Later, much would be made of Carlisle’s unsuccessful efforts to achieve his goal. First intimations came three days after the disaster, when the newspaper Daily Mail carried an interview with him on April 18, 1912. Asked whether he felt the Board of Trade requirement on lifeboats was sufficient, Carlisle replied, “No, I do not think it is sufficient for big ships, and I never did. As ships grew bigger, I was always in favor of increasing the lifeboat accommodation.” He went on to explain that, feeling as he did, he had fitted the Olympic and Titanic with davits that could handle “over 40 boats,” but he didn’t say why the boats themselves were never included.

  The closest he came was a curious observation later in the interview: “If any ships had been fitted with the full number of boats I proposed, it would no doubt have set up an invidious situation with respect to the steamers of all lines now trading in the North Atlantic. It would have drawn attention.” In other words, enough lifeboats on one or two liners might start people worrying about the lack of boats on all the others. This ostrichlike approach was overlooked in the general applause that greeted at least one man in the shipping business who appreciated lifeboats.

  Seventy-one years later Carlisle again became the hero who had fought in vain for more boats. In 1983 a British television documentary, “The Titanic—A Question of Murder,” described how Carlisle “conducted a lengthy campaign to increase by two or even three times the number of lifeboats carried by the great liner.” According to the script, he “argued” and “recommended” in vain, opposed by an intransigent Bruce Ismay, head of the White Star Line.

  Such a dramatic conflict is the stuff that great TV shows are made of, but in real life this clash never happened. Carlisle did indeed think the Titanic should have had more lifeboats—he wanted 48 altogether—but he never told Bruce Ismay so. He merely proposed special davits that could carry additional boats, pointing out that this would save money if the Board of Trade later tightened its regulations. His point was economy, not safety.

  When the British Inquiry asked why he didn’t recommend more boats as well as the special davits, Carlisle replied that there were limits to what he could, with all propriety, propose to White Star. It was not his position to make such an expensive recommendation.

  When asked why Harland & Wolff’s cost-plus contract with White Star didn’t allow the yard to act on its own, Carlisle patiently explained that there were limits here too. True, White Star boasted that the agreement gave the builders free rein to turn out the best-equipped ship regardless of expense, yet it wasn’t quite that simple. Whatever the contract said, there was a tacit understanding that Harland & Wolff mustn’t go too far. If they loaded the Olympic and Titanic with lifeboats, that would leave White Star in an embarrassing position with the rest of its fleet. They might be expected to give those ships enough boats too—and that could get very expensive.

  Feeling unable either to recommend or act on his own, Carlisle merely showed the plans of the ship to Bruce Ismay, leaving Ismay to discover for himself that the Boat Deck provided for 48 boats, if White Star thought that desirable. It was almost like a valentine being slipped under the door by a faint-hearted suitor.

  Not surprisingly, Ismay never approved the idea. In fact, he later claimed that he never even saw the plan for the lifeboat arrangements. Since the subject of boats took up only five or ten minutes in each of two all-day conferences, he may have been telling the truth.

  Certainly, Carlisle didn’t push the point. The roaring lion—so accustomed to getting his own way at the shipyard—turned into a pussycat when it came to dealing with the client.

  Yet “Big Alec” still had a chance. If he was reluctant to press his views on a client, he had another opportunity under entirely different circumstances in May 1911. The occasion was a meeting of the Board of Trade’s Merchant Shipping Advisory Committee, called to reconsider the whole question of lifeboats. By now Carlisle had retired from Harland & Wolff, but was added to the Committee because of his special expertise on the subject.

  Behind closed doors, he argued strongly for more boats on the great new liners. Not surprisingly, the Committee—dominated as always by the owners—turned a deaf ear to his advice. Then the unexpected twist: Carlisle not only remained silent at the rebuff, but signed a set of recommendations that actually reduced the number of lifeboats required on a ship like the Titanic.

  “Was that your view?” an incredulous Lord Mersey later asked at the Inquiry.

  “It was not,” replied Carlisle.

  “Why on earth did you sign it?”

  “I don’t know why I did. I am not generally soft.”

  “Well, I should not have thought so,” broke in the Attorney General, apparently trying to ease the strain.

  “But I must say,” continued Carlisle, “I was very soft the day I signed that.”

  So much for the hero. By the time the Titanic sailed, April 10 the following year, Carlisle was no longer directly concerned. He said he didn’t even know how many boats she was carrying.

  Captain Smith knew. At midnight, April 14-15, he was all too well aware that his ship had only 16 wooden boats in the davits—the same number originally planned before Alexander Carlisle played his hesitant role. In addition, there were four “Englehardt collapsibles,” semirafts with wooden bottoms and canvas sides. They were not in davits, but stowed flat on deck, upside down with the sides folded in. If they were ever needed, the idea was to assemble them and fit them into the davits of boats already lowered. This must have been considered a remote possibility, for two of them were stowed on the roof of the officers’ quarters, with no way to get them down to the Boat Deck.

  Now it was up to Captain Smith to make the best of this small fleet, with an untried crew, uninformed passengers, and a ship that had never held a proper boat drill.

  CHAPTER IX

  What Happened to the Goodwins?

  AT MIDNIGHT, APRIL 14-15, the shortage of lifeboats on the Titanic was academic; the question was, who would get to use them. The White Star Line always claimed that the only rule was, “Women and children first”; there was absolutely no distinction, the line insisted, between First, Second, and Third Class passengers.

  Both the American and British investigations agreed, and Mr. W. D. Harbinson, who officially represented Third Class at the British Inquiry, emphatically concurred:

  I wish to say distinctly that no evidence has been given in the course of this case that would substantiate a charge that any attempt was made to keep back the third class passengers. There is not an atom or a tittle of evidence upon which any such allegation could be based….

  Yet there remained those uncomfortable statistics: 53% of First and Second Class passengers saved, but only 25% of Third Class…94% of First and Second Class women and children saved, but only 42% of those in Third Class. In First Class jus
t one child was lost—little Lorraine Allison, whose family decided to stick together—while in Third Class, 52 out of 79 children were lost—about the same percentage as First Class men.

  The White Star Line was full of explanations: the Third Class passengers were more reluctant to leave the ship…They didn’t want to part with their luggage…It was hard to get them up from their quarters. At the British Inquiry one member of the crew after another assured the Court that there was no discrimination whatsoever—but not a single Third Class passenger was called as a witness.

  The Court accepted all of White Star’s explanations, and seemed especially impressed by the point that many of the steerage passengers were foreign and couldn’t understand the crew’s instructions.

  How, then, to explain the loss of the entire Goodwin family—father, mother, and six children? There was no “language barrier” here; they were from London. Nor is there any reason to suppose they were unwilling to leave the ship, or especially reluctant to part with their luggage.

  Frederick Goodwin was no ordinary, uneducated emigrant. He was a 40-year-old electrical engineer who lived with his wife, Augusta, and their six children in a small but neat row house in Fulham. As the family grew, Mr. Goodwin began looking around for new opportunities. His brother Thomas had already left the old country and settled in Niagara Falls, New York; so when Thomas wrote of an opening at the big power station there, Frederick jumped at the chance.

  He got rid of the house in Fulham, paused briefly at Marcham, and booked passage for himself and family on one of the more modest steamers operating out of Southampton. These were the days before new employers paid relocation costs, and since the Goodwins had little in the way of savings, they would be traveling Third Class.

  Then came the lucky break. Due to the coal strike, their sailing was canceled, and they were transferred to the new, glamorous Titanic. They were still in Third Class, but on the Titanic that was as good as First Class on most of the older, smaller liners. The Goodwins probably occupied two of the four-berth cabins at the very stern of the ship, which White Star reserved for single women and families traveling together. Single men were quartered in the bow, but during the day all Third Class passengers mingled on deck and in the various public rooms. They could go anywhere they liked, as long as they didn’t cross the various barriers and gates that barred access to Second and First Class space.

  On White Star ships, Third Class was encouraged to retire by 10 P.M., and the Goodwins were undoubtedly in bed when that faint, grinding jar shook the Titanic at 11:40 on the night of April 14. Whether they were awakened by the jar no one knows, but they were certainly up shortly after midnight, when the Third Class bedroom stewards went through the long white corridors, banging on doors and telling everybody to put on their life belts.

  Pouring into the hallways, the passengers tended to congregate at the foot of the main Third Class stairway on E Deck. Here they waited for instructions from above, while the bedroom stewards adjusted the life belt straps and assured them that there was no need to worry. It’s easy to imagine the Goodwins, nervous but faintly amused by the odd sight of each other in their bulky life belts: Frederick, with arms folded as in the family photograph…Augusta, with her old-fashioned upswept hairdo…Lillie, 16, her dark hair hanging casually over her shoulders…Charles, 14, alert, erect, every inch the oldest brother…then William, Jessie, Harold, and Sydney, all under 12, good soldiers but uncomprehending.

  Word gradually spread that the Titanic had hit an iceberg, but the first truly alarming development came when the single men, driven from the bow by the rising water, swarmed aft and joined the crowd milling around the stairs. Many of these men carried satchels and bundles, sopping wet from the seawater that had swirled into their quarters.

  And so the crowd waited—restless, complaining, but certainly not rebellious. Their only clue to the condition of the ship was the definite forward tilt of the linoleum beneath their feet. The lights still burned brightly, and buried as they were on E Deck, they couldn’t see that the Titanic’s lifeboats were now dropping to the sea and rowing off into the night.

  Shortly before 1 A.M., the long-awaited instructions came: “Pass the women and children up to the Boat Deck.” The order was by no means easy to carry out. Here and there, wives refused to leave their husbands, children clung to their fathers, and some of the women still refused to believe there was any serious danger. A few even went back to their bunks.

  Somehow Steward John E. Hart managed to collect a group of 30, and leading the way, he escorted them up the stairway to C Deck, across the open well deck, by the Second Class library, and into First Class space. Then on forward to the C Deck foyer, and finally up the grand staircase to the Boat Deck. The route seems to have been set in advance, for all the barriers were down, and here and there other stewards were posted to nudge them along.

  It was now 1:10, and Boat 8 was about to leave. Hart handed over his charges to the men at the falls and headed back to steerage for another group.

  By the time he reached the Third Class stairs again, matters had taken an ugly turn. The male passengers were now demanding to go up to the Boat Deck too, and it was all the stewards could do to hold them back. Finally, another convoy was organized, and Hart again set out. This time he had about 25 in tow and reached the Boat Deck around 1:35. As far as he could see, there were no boats left except No. 15, still in the davits but ready to be lowered.

  Not a moment to lose. He bundled his people into the boat and made a lightning assessment: the Titanic was finished…no time to go back for one more group. With a nod from the officer standing by the davits, Hart too jumped into the boat.

  In all, he had brought up some 55 women and children—nearly half the total number saved—but the Goodwins weren’t among them. Possibly the family refused to be parted. Possibly they remained below, waiting in vain for one more party to be escorted topside. Possibly they tired of the long wait, struck off on their own, but never made it to the Boat Deck until too late.

  It’s difficult even to speculate, not because of any set policy to hold back Third Class, but because there was no policy at all. Some gates were open; some were closed. Some passengers were assisted; others were stopped; others were left to shift for themselves.

  Berk Pickard, a 32-year-old leather worker from London, found a door to Second Class wide open, easily made his way to an early boat. Kathy Gilnagh, a 15-year-old colleen had no such luck. When she and two friends tried to pass through the gate to Second Class from the after well deck, they found it closed and guarded. It took some powerful persuasion by Jim Farrell, a strapping lad from Kathy’s home county, to persuade the guard to open it long enough for the girls to slip through.

  All the way forward, Daniel Buckley, another young Irishman, joined a group trying to force their way up the ladder leading from the well deck to First Class. Here, too, the gate was closed and guarded, and after a brief scuffle, the seaman on duty locked it as well. Undaunted, the leader of Buckley’s group stormed up the ladder again and smashed the gate open—lock and all—as the seaman fled.

  Olaus Abelseth and four friends, all from Norway, waited for what seemed an eternity in the after well deck. The barriers leading to Second Class were closed, and they whiled away the time watching the more agile steerage passengers climb up a crane, crawl out on the boom, and drop safely into First Class, the ultimate goal of everyone. At last an officer opened the barrier and called for the women and children to go to the Boat Deck. A little later he called for “Everybody.” Abelseth and the rest of the men surged up, only to find that all the boats were gone.

  And so it went: no set policy, but incident piled on incident, all combining to make a mockery of Mr. Harbinson’s assurances that there was “not an atom or a tittle of evidence” to substantiate a charge that any attempt was made to keep back the Third Class passengers. Even Steward Hart’s testimony, heavily relied on by the White Star Line, showed clearly that the men in steerage were held ba
ck and that the women had what amounted to an hour’s handicap in the race for the boats.

  Oddly enough, while the Third Class passengers were having such a hard time, many of the lifeboats were leaving the Titanic only half-filled. Considering that at best there was room for only half those on board the ship, it seems incredible that the space available—good for 1,178 people—was occupied by only 705. There was room for another 473—far more than enough for all the women and children lost. Why wasn’t it used?

  At the bottom of the trouble was the lack of organization that characterized the whole night. The Titanic had never held a boat drill, and few of the crew had any experience in handling the davits. They had boat assignments, but these had only been posted the day after leaving Queenstown. Few had bothered to look up their stations. The manning of the boats was hopelessly haphazard: No. 6 had a crew of only two; No. 3 had 15.

  The passengers had no boat assignments at all. They simply milled around the decks waiting for someone to tell them what to do, but there were no clear lines of authority. Later it was said that First Officer Murdoch was in charge on the starboard side, Second Officer Lightoller on the port. But Lightoller never got aft of the first four boats, nor had anything to do with the first boat, No. 2. The junior officers didn’t seem to have any assignments, and nobody even remembered to wake up Fifth-Officer Lowe. Finally aroused by some unusual noise on the Boat Deck, he looked out and saw passengers standing around in life belts.

  There was no consistency in loading the boats. To Lightoller, “Women and children first” meant women and children only, even if that meant not filling a boat. Murdoch, on the other hand, put in men when there were no women. On the Titanic, a man’s life could depend on which side of the Boat Deck he happened to step out on.