After forcibly pointing out the provisions that should be made for the protection of life, Captain Roden wrote in conclusion:
“If the men controlling passenger ships, from the ocean liner down to the excursion barge, were equally disposed to equip their vessels with the best safety appliances as they are to devise and adopt implements of comfort and luxury, the advantage to themselves as well as to their patrons would be plainly apparent.”
Lewis Nixon, the eminent naval architect and designer of the battleship Oregon, contributed a very interesting comment. He said in part:
“Here was a vessel presumed, and I think rightly so, to be the perfection of the naval architect’s art, yet sunk in a few hours by an accident common to North Atlantic navigation.
“An unsinkable ship is possible, but it would be of little use except for flotation. It may be said that vessels cannot be built to withstand such an accident.
“We might very greatly subdivide the forward compartments, where much space is lost at best, making the forward end, while amply strong for navigation purposes, of such construction that it would collapse and take up some of the energy of impact; then tie this to very much stronger sections farther aft. Many such plans will be proposed by those who do not realize the momentum of a great vessel which will snap great cables like ribbons, when the motion of the vessel is not perceptible to the eye.
“The proper plan is to avoid the accident, and if an accident is unavoidable to minimize the loss of life and property.”
The Titanic disaster was discussed by Robert H. Kirk, who installed the compartment doors in the ships of the United States Navy. Mr. Kirk’s opinion follows:
“The Titanic’s disaster will cause endless speculation as to how similar disasters may be avoided in the future.
“The Titanic had bulkheads, plenty of them, for the rules of the British Board of Trade and of Lloyds are very specific and require enough compartments to insure floating of the ship though several may be flooded. She also had doors in the bulkheads, and probably plenty of them, for she was enormous and needed easy access from one compartment to another. It will probably never be known how FEW of these doors were closed when she struck the iceberg, but the probability is that many were open, for in the confusion attending such a crash the crews have a multitude of duties to perform, and closing a door with water rushing through it is more of a task than human muscle and bravery can accomplish.
“A Lloyds surveyor in testing one of these hand-operated doors started two men on the main deck to close it. They worked four hours before they had carried out his order. If all the doors on the ship had worked as badly as this one, what would have happened in event of accident?”
General Adolphus W. Greely, U. S. A., noted American traveler and Arctic explorer, vehemently denounced the sinking of the Titanic and the loss of over 1600 souls as a terrible sacrifice to the American mania for speed. He gave his opinion that the Titanic came to grief through an attempt on the part of the steamship management to establish a new record by the vessel on her maiden voyage.
The Titanic, General Greely declared, had absolutely no business above Cape Race and north of Sable Island on the trip on which she went to her doom. Choosing the northern route brought about the dire disaster, in his mind, and it was the saving of three hours for the sake of a new record that ended in the collision with the tragic victory for the ghostlike monster out of the far north.
It was the opinion of General Greely, capable of judging after his many trips in quest of the pole, that neither Captain Smith nor any of his officers saw the giant iceberg which encompassed their ruin until they were right upon it. Then, the ship was plunging ahead at such frightful velocity that the Titanic was too close to avert striking the barrier lined up across its path.
CHAPTER XXV. OTHER GREAT MARINE DISASTERS
THE danger of collision with icebergs has always been one of the most deadly that confront the mariner. Indeed, so well recognized is this peril of the Newfoundland Banks, where the Labrador current in the early spring and summer months floats southward its ghostly argosy of icy pinnacles detached from the polar ice caps, that the government hydrographic offices and the maritime exchanges spare no pains to collate and disseminate the latest bulletins on the subject.
A most remarkable case of an iceberg collision is that of the Guion Liner, Arizona, in 1879. She was then the greyhound of the Atlantic, and the largest ship afloat—5750 tons except the Great Eastern. Leaving New York in November for Liverpool, with 509 souls aboard, she was coursing across the Banks, with fair weather but dark, when, near midnight, about 250 miles east of St. John’s, she rammed a monster ice island at full speed eighteen knots. Terrific was the impact.
{illust. caption = THE SHAPE OF AN ICEBERG
Showing the bulk and formation under water and the consequent danger to vessels even without actual contact with the visible part of the iceberg.}
The welcome word was passed along that the ship, though sorely stricken, would still float until she could make harbor. The vast white terror had lain across her course, stretching so far each way that, when described, it was too late to alter the helm. Its giant shape filled the foreground, towering high above the masts, grim and gaunt and ghastly, immovable as the adamantine buttresses of a frowning seaboard, while the liner lurched and staggered like a wounded thing in agony as her engines slowly drew her back from the rampart against which she had flung herself.
She was headed for St. John’s at slow speed, so as not to strain the bulkhead too much, and arrived there thirty-six hours later. That little port—the crippled ship’s hospital—has seen many a strange sight come in from the sea, but never a more astounding spectacle than that which the Arizona presented the Sunday forenoon she entered there.
“Begob, captain!” said the pilot, as he swung himself over the rail. “I’ve heard of carrying coals to Newcastle, but this is the first time I’ve seen a steamer bringing a load of ice into St. John’s.”
They are a grim race, these sailors, and, the danger over, the captain’s reply was: “We were lucky, my man, that we didn’t all go to the bottom in an ice box.”
But to the one wounded ship that survives collision with a berg, a dozen perish. Presumably, when the shock comes, it loosens their bulkheads and they fill and founder, or the crash may injure the boilers or engines, which explode and tear out the sides, and the ship goes down like a plummet. As long ago as 1841, the steamer President, with 120 people aboard, crossing from New York to Liverpool in March, vanished from human ken. In 1854, in the same month, the City of Glasgow left Liverpool for Philadelphia with 480 souls, and was never again heard of. In February, 1856, the Pacific, from Liverpool for New York, carrying 185 persons, passed away down to a sunless sea. In May, 1870, the City of Boston, from that port for Liverpool, mustering 191 souls, met a similar fate. It has always been thought that these ships were sunk by collision with icebergs or floes. As shipping traffic has expanded, the losses have been more frequent. In February, 1892, the Naronic, from Liverpool for New York; in the same month in 1896, the State of Georgia, from Aberdeen for Boston; in February, 1899, the Alleghany, from New York for Dover; and once more in February, 1902, the Huronian, from Liverpool for St. John’s—all disappeared without leaving a trace. Between February and May, the Grand Banks are most infested with ice, and collision therewith is’ the most likely explanation of the loss of these steamers, all well manned and in splendid trim, and meeting only the storms which scores of other ships have braved without a scathe.