Why had the ponderous engines continued to thunder with the might of a hundred thousand horses, and the ship to plunge forward into the night with the unchecked speed of an express train?
God knows!
The captain knew, but his lips are sealed in death as, a self-inflicted bullet in his brain, he lies in the cold embrace of the sea he had loved and had defied—too long.
THE LOOKOUT’S WARNING CRY.
Perhaps Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the line, who was on board—and survived when women drowned—also knows. Perhaps he will tell by whose orders those danger warnings were scoffed at and ignored.
Perhaps; perhaps!
The lookout uttered a sharp cry!
Too late!
One grinding crash and the Titanic had received its death blow. Man’s proudest craft crumbled like an eggshell.
Ripped from stem to engine room by the great mass of ice she struck amidships, the Titanic’s side was laid open as if by a gigantic can opener. She quickly listed to starboard and a shower of ice fell on to the forecastle deck.