passengers, but in the confusion many may not have known where to look for them. Mellers, who had donned a life-preserver, was hurled into the air, from the bow of the ship by the force of the explosion, which he believed caused the Titanic to part in the center.
“I was not far from where Captain Smith stood on the bridge, giving full orders to his men,” said Mellers. “The brave old seaman was crying, but he had stuck heroically to the last. He did not shoot himself. He jumped from the bridge when he had done all he could. I heard his final instructions to his crew, and recall that his last words were: ‘You have done your duty, boys. Now every man for himself.’
“I thought I was doomed to go down with the rest. I stood on the deck, awaiting my fate, fearing to jump from the ship. Then came a grinding noise, followed by two others, and I was hurled into the deep. Great waves engulfed me, but I was not drawn toward the ship, so that I believe there was little suction. I swam about for more than one hour before I was picked up by a boat.”
Charles Herbert Lightoller, previously mentioned, stood by the ship until the last, working to get the passengers away, and when it appeared that he had made his last trip he went up high on the officers’ quarters and made the best dive he knew how to make just as the ship plunged down to the depths. This is an excerpt from his testimony before the Senate investigating committee:
“What time did you leave the ship?”
“I didn’t leave it.”
“Did it leave you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Children shall hear that episode sung in after years and his own descendants shall recite it to their bairns. Mr. Lightoller acted as an officer and gentleman should, and he was not the only one.
That Jay Yates, gambler, confidence man and fugitive from justice, known to the police and in sporting circles as J. H. Rogers, went down with the Titanic after assisting many women aboard life-boats, became known when a note, written on a blank page torn from a diary: was delivered to his sister. Here is a facsimile of the note:
{illust.}
This note was given by Rogers to a woman he was helping into a life-boat. The woman, who signed herself “Survivor,” inclosed the note with the following letter.
“You will find note that was handed to me as I was leaving the Titanic. Am stranger to this man, but think he was a card player. He helped me aboard a life-boat and I saw him help others. Before we were lowered I saw him jump into the sea. If picked up I did not recognize him on the Carpathia. I don’t think he was registered on the ship under his right name.”
Rogers’ mother, Mrs. Mary A. Yates, an old woman, broke down when she learned son had perished.
“Thank God I know where he is now,” she sobbed. “I have not heard from him for two years. The last news I had from him he was in London.”
Among the many hundreds of heroic souls who went bravely and quietly to their end were fifty happy-go- lucky youngsters shipped as bell boys or messengers to serve the first cabin passengers. James Humphreys, a quartermaster, who commanded life-boat No. 11, told a li{t}tle story that shows how these fifty lads met death.
Humphreys said the boys were called to their regular posts in the main cabin entry and taken in charge by their captain, a steward. They were ordered to remain in the cabin and not get in the way. Throughout the first hour of confusion and terror these lads sat quietly on their benches in various parts of the first cabin.
Then, just toward the end when the order was passed around that the ship was going down and every man was free to save himself, if he kept away from the life-boats in which the women were being taken, the bell boys scattered to all parts of the ship.
{illust. caption = “WHO HATH MEASURED THE WATERS IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND.'—Isaiah XL:xii}
Humphreys said he saw numbers of them smoking cigarettes and joking with the passengers. They seemed to think that their violation of the rule against smoking while on duty was a sufficient breach of discipline.
Not one of them attempted to enter a life-boat. Not one of them was saved.
The women who left the ship; the men who remained—there is little to choose between them for heroism. Many of the women compelled to take to the boats would have stayed, had it been possible, to share the fate of their nearest and dearest, without whom their lives are crippled, broken and disconsolate.
The heroes who remained would have said, with Grenville. “We have only done our duty, as a man is bound to do.” They sought no palms or crowns of martyrdom. “They also serve who only stand and wait,” and their first action was merely to step aside and give places in the boats to women and children, some of whom were too young to comprehend or to remember.
There was no debate as to whether the life of a financier, a master of business, was rated higher in the scale of values than that of an ignorant peasant mother. A woman was a woman, whether she wore rags or pearls. A life was given for a life, with no assertion that one was priceless and the other comparatively valueless.
Many of those who elected to remain might have escaped. “Chivalry” is a mild appellation for their conduct. Some of the vaunted knights of old were desperate cowards by comparison. A fight in the open field, or jousting in the tournament, did not call out the manhood in a man as did the waiting till the great ship took the final plunge, in the knowledge that the seas round about were covered with loving and yearning witnesses whose own salvation was not assured.
When the roll is called hereafter of those who are “purged of pride because they died, who know the worth of their days,” let the names of the men who went down with the Titanic be found written there in the sight of God and men.
And, whatever view of the accident be taken, whether the moralist shall use it to point the text of a solemn or denunciatory warning, or whether the materialist, swinging to the other extreme, scouts any other theory than that of the “fortuitous concurrence of atoms,” there is scarcely a thinking mortal who has heard of what happened who has not been deeply stirred, in the sense of a personal bereavement, to a profound humility and the conviction of his own insignificance in the greater universal scheme.
Many there are whom the influences of religion do not move, and upon whose hearts most generous sentiments knock in vain, who still are overawed and bowed by the magnitude of this catastrophe. No matter what they believe about it, the effect is the same. The effect is to reduce a man from the swaggering braggart—the vainglorious lord of what he sees—the self-made master of fate, of nature, of time, of space, of everything—to his true microscopic stature in the cosmos. He goes in tears to put together again the fragments of the few, small, pitiful things that belonged to him.
The only comfort, all that can bring surcease of sorrow, is that men fashioned in the image of their Maker rose to the emergency like heroes, and went to their grave as bravely as any who have given their lives at any time in war. The hearts of those who waited on the land, and agonized, and were impotent to save, have been laid upon the same altars of sacrifice. The mourning of those who will not be comforted rises from alien lands together with our own in a common broken intercession. How little is the 882 feet of the “monster” that we launched compared with the arc of the rainbow we can see even in our grief spanning the frozen boreal mist!
