Where was I? Okay, Alexander Holmes has been singled out to stand trial on a manslaughter charge in an American federal court in Philadelphia for the death of one passenger. The captain's role in the original smash-up, the first mate's failure to assume command in the longboat (the only definitive order he gave was to "lighten the load"), the failure of the ship-owners themselves to provide sufficient lifeboats—none of these can be questioned. It would upset the established order, and cost the maritime industry money, as well as slow the rate of emigration from Ireland to American if potential emigrants thought the voyage likely to kill them.
Holmes, being a Swede, had no supporters in either America or Britian beyond the Seaman's Friend Society, and being a common sailor, no social rank. Meanwhile, the Irish community in both places was agitating for someone to be brought to justice.
The defense argued that Holmes was in peril of his life, and that man's nature is such that in extreme circumstances, it is natural for him to try to save himself, even if it means that in doing so he will kill or cause the death of others.
The prosecution argued that it was Holmes' duty as a seaman to place the welfare of the passengers above his own.
It was a foregone conclusion that he would be found guilty; after all, he admitted to throwing passengers overboard. The only question was, how guilty? He'd also saved a number of them, after all.
Still, the jury tried to hang themselves up, and when the judge wouldn't let them, they came back with a guilty verdict and a strong recommendation for clemency.
The newspapers were all over the story once the verdict had been given and the ban on publishing lifted. It was generally agreed that the government had gotten what it wanted, that is, a legal precedent to the effect that killing one's fellows outright, even to effect one's own escape from a common danger, was still punishable by law, unless all shared the same chance of being among the ones to live. And the maritime industry had gotten what it wanted: a pass on closer examination of the conditions under which ships sailed. Lastly, passengers were acknowledged to be at least as entitled to a chance to live, "a seat on the boat," as the ship's crew.
Holmes was sentenced to imprisonment after all, six months in solitary at hard labour in addition to time served, plus a fine of twenty dollars. Ships continued to sail the same route across the North Atlantic, and every now and again one would smack into an iceberg, and sink, and there were never enough lifeboats. The story of the William Brown surfaced as part of a book, Highwaymen and Pirates' Own Book, published in 1845. By this time, it'd grown so simple in the telling a child could understand the moral. Its author, Henry K. Brooke, wrote, "The result of the trial is the settlement of a principle of considerable importance of the wayfaring part of the world." This principle-- that when in dire circumstances, where some must die so that others might live, a fair procedure, such as casting lots, must be followed-- was eventually referred to as "lifeboat ethics".
As a legal precedent, The United States v. Holmes has been cited in several cases over the years, some being more of a stretch than others. But it is as an ethical precedent that it has become more generally used in discussions of social values. Brooke's version of the story has recently been used to shore up arguments for medical rationing, for alleviating one famine but not another, and other like issues.
In these last pages, Koch finally pulls his thesis together: that lifeboat ethics, when used in this way, conveniently bypass the questions such as if the purported "scarcity" actually exists, and if not, what is it we're really talking about?
The problem with the simplified story of the William Brown and the metaphor of "lifeboat ethics" it has bequeathed us is that it ignores the causes of scarcity, the generative conditions of disaster. It prohibits important questions from being asked (why was there only one longboat on board?) under the guise of considering real and important concerns (who will be thrown overboard?). The metaphor assure we will consider preventable tragedy as a theological judgment, that we will blame God for the heat wave that cooks us, the winter cold spell that freezes the homeless, the dam that breaks and drowns townspeople who could not afford to live away from the riverbanks. That none of these events is necessary— and none necessarily the act of a capricious deity— is a fact hidden by the stories we tell ourselves about the inevitability of it all.
The accepted metaphor of lifeboat ethics that began with the William Brown and later grew with the Titanic looks only at the disaster and never questions its contributing elements. Whether the subject is health care, housing, or the "hunger crisis," the metaphor assures that, like Holmes' legal accusers, we, too, will accept the necessity of sacrificing a portion of our passengers (the medical longboat, the food longboat, the education longboat, etc.). The only question the metaphor permits is how those to be sacrificed will be chosen.*
United States v. Holmes decision did not require ships to carry enough lifeboats to seat all on board. It did not require ships on the western Atlantic run to take a longer, less profitable, iceberg-free route. Had it done either of those things, the Titanic, among many others, might never have wrecked or left so many souls on the water.
What it did give us, though, are sound ethical reasons for letting other people die.
* pp188-9
