him. It was a thorn of injustice, a flagrant untruth on
top of so much else he had to consider. The transcript
made it clear that the phrase “general impression” drew
the questions like spilt honey will draw a cluster of wasps.
The chairman circled the evidence over and over as
though it were vital, though he was likely just trying to get
to a single fact. It was reported on with such thoroughness, such persistence, that the public must have been
given little choice but to believe this was the nub of the
matter, Ismay’s insistence on speed. “A general impression” ended up having more credence than a proven fact.
Who were all these strange creatures who spun details
from inference and invention? The trouble is, and always
was, that Ismay could never really understand it—the
motivation from the individual’s point of view. He could
understand why collectively they all needed someone to
blame. There was symmetry to the idea. Like gathering
frost crystals that form recognizable patterns on a window
pane, a system of enquiry was bound to yield something
specific, to hone into a single point of blame. Why not
him? He was, after all, ultimately in charge of the whole
operation, and an unimaginable disaster had occurred
under his leadership.
There was even a strange kind of comfort in it. The
accusations kept pace with the frantic pulse of his
thoughts. He questioned his faith in the Siemens-Martin
formula for steel plating. Was it cost and only cost that
had made him a convert? At the Belfast dockside, foremen
and engineers alike referred to the plating as “battleship
strength.” Was this merely because Ismay was present?
Did they suppose this was the answer he wanted to hear?
In the months after the disaster Ismay would rattle
feverishly through drawers at four in the morning, finding,
reading, and re-reading the letters, searching for hidden
meaning, for opportunities to confirm he was the culprit.
He read through Thomas Andrews’ memos and letters
about the number of lifeboats. Before the disaster
Andrews’ query had sounded half-hearted to him, like a
man who merely wished to be reassured it was all right to
reduce the number of lifeboats when he, too, preferred the
idea of unencumbered deck space. Ismay felt at the time he
was merely helping to snip away some red tape. Now, with
the Titanic gone, it all seemed more open-ended. Andrews
was asking for leadership, and what did he give?
All the decisions seemed right at the time, as Julia kept
telling him, trying to control her impatience and desperation. But in point of fact, of course, they were wrong. This
was the problem. Who, ultimately, could disagree with
that simple analysis? And who could sharry the blame if
not the person who had made those decisions?
If anyone could have found a way to squeeze wisdom
from it all it would have been his father. Yet there was a
conundrum; the notion of a disaster of Titanic ’s scale
while his father lived and presided as chair was simply
unthinkable. Catastrophe—real catastrophe involving
heart-rending tears and desperation—could not exist in
the same space as someone as indomitable as Thomas
Ismay. Ismay caught this belief in the censorious shake of
the head of some of the older directors in the meetings
Ismay chaired after the Titanic . If the Oceanic had struck
an iceberg, his imagination had them thinking, Thomas
would have kept the ship afloat by sheer strength of character. No doubt their judgment of him was all wrapped up
with the accusations of cowardice, but loss was their
concern, financial loss and the stability of the company.
His willing death would have made no difference to that.
Ultimately it hardly mattered why he was blamed. As
a child he had been struck by an image of St. Sebastian in
a Religious Studies school book. Tied to a stake, face
contorted with pain, a dozen fiery arrows stuck out of
him. It served a purpose for the world, this ritual slaughter, he knew now. Ismay daily faced the
top of so much else he had to consider. The transcript
made it clear that the phrase “general impression” drew
the questions like spilt honey will draw a cluster of wasps.
The chairman circled the evidence over and over as
though it were vital, though he was likely just trying to get
to a single fact. It was reported on with such thoroughness, such persistence, that the public must have been
given little choice but to believe this was the nub of the
matter, Ismay’s insistence on speed. “A general impression” ended up having more credence than a proven fact.
Who were all these strange creatures who spun details
from inference and invention? The trouble is, and always
was, that Ismay could never really understand it—the
motivation from the individual’s point of view. He could
understand why collectively they all needed someone to
blame. There was symmetry to the idea. Like gathering
frost crystals that form recognizable patterns on a window
pane, a system of enquiry was bound to yield something
specific, to hone into a single point of blame. Why not
him? He was, after all, ultimately in charge of the whole
operation, and an unimaginable disaster had occurred
under his leadership.
There was even a strange kind of comfort in it. The
accusations kept pace with the frantic pulse of his
thoughts. He questioned his faith in the Siemens-Martin
formula for steel plating. Was it cost and only cost that
had made him a convert? At the Belfast dockside, foremen
and engineers alike referred to the plating as “battleship
strength.” Was this merely because Ismay was present?
Did they suppose this was the answer he wanted to hear?
In the months after the disaster Ismay would rattle
feverishly through drawers at four in the morning, finding,
reading, and re-reading the letters, searching for hidden
meaning, for opportunities to confirm he was the culprit.
He read through Thomas Andrews’ memos and letters
about the number of lifeboats. Before the disaster
Andrews’ query had sounded half-hearted to him, like a
man who merely wished to be reassured it was all right to
reduce the number of lifeboats when he, too, preferred the
idea of unencumbered deck space. Ismay felt at the time he
was merely helping to snip away some red tape. Now, with
the Titanic gone, it all seemed more open-ended. Andrews
was asking for leadership, and what did he give?
All the decisions seemed right at the time, as Julia kept
telling him, trying to control her impatience and desperation. But in point of fact, of course, they were wrong. This
was the problem. Who, ultimately, could disagree with
that simple analysis? And who could sharry the blame if
not the person who had made those decisions?
If anyone could have found a way to squeeze wisdom
from it all it would have been his father. Yet there was a
conundrum; the notion of a disaster of Titanic ’s scale
while his father lived and presided as chair was simply
unthinkable. Catastrophe—real catastrophe involving
heart-rending tears and desperation—could not exist in
the same space as someone as indomitable as Thomas
Ismay. Ismay caught this belief in the censorious shake of
the head of some of the older directors in the meetings
Ismay chaired after the Titanic . If the Oceanic had struck
an iceberg, his imagination had them thinking, Thomas
would have kept the ship afloat by sheer strength of character. No doubt their judgment of him was all wrapped up
with the accusations of cowardice, but loss was their
concern, financial loss and the stability of the company.
His willing death would have made no difference to that.
Ultimately it hardly mattered why he was blamed. As
a child he had been struck by an image of St. Sebastian in
a Religious Studies school book. Tied to a stake, face
contorted with pain, a dozen fiery arrows stuck out of
him. It served a purpose for the world, this ritual slaughter, he knew now. Ismay daily faced the
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