Passenger Profiles - Soliloquism

“Joe, the Ship Is Going Down Fast”: Joseph Pierre Duquemin

When Joseph embarked on 10 April 1912, he did so in the company of 28-year-old Howard Williams, his good "chum" from back home. Joseph called him Harry.

Each of them already had work lined up in the United States.

Harry was Boston-bound, and planned to work at a shipyard. Joseph intended to continue his work as a quarryman once he reached his destination in western New York state.

Coincidentally, Joseph and Harry also knew at least one Second-class passenger on Titanic: a Guernsey fruit farmer and athlete called Bert Denbuoy.

When Titanic struck the iceberg on the night of April 14th, Joseph Duquemin was in his quarters and settled in to sleep.

The impact of the collision threw him out of his bunk.

Alarmed, Joseph immediately proceeded up to the boat deck, where he was instructed to return to bed.

But he could not bring himself to abide that instruction.

Instead, Joseph went to Harry’s cabin, where he found him abed. Joseph urged his friend to accompany him to the boat deck with haste. Something was dreadfully amiss.

Harry heeded the warning, dressed quickly, and followed Joseph up top to the Third-class promenade, at the stern.

Once there, the pair struggled with their next move.

Joseph recounted this back-and-forth in a letter to his father, which was published by the Guernsey Evening Press on 6 June 1912.

Joseph's humble assertion that he “walked up and down the ship for a bit" belies prior reporting from that very same periodical.

According to an article published by the Guernsey Evening Press a full month prior to his firsthand account, Joseph spent the disaster on deck, aiding women and children as they awaited lifeboats on the port side.

Curiously, though, this article makes no mention of Harry Williams's presence at all.

Instead, it reports that Joseph was acting alongside his friend from Second-class, the aforementioned Bert Denbuoy.

Whether both accounts are complete, or two halves of a whole—and, if the latter, in which sequence they might have occurred—is unclear.

Neither Harry Williams nor Bert Denbuoy survived. Harry was reportedly drowned in the eddy of Titanic's suction.

As he flailed, he screamed for Joseph.

Having struck out away from the ship, Joseph Duquemin swam hard for the nearest lifeboat. It was Collapsible D, which was launched off the port side at 2:05 a.m.—only fifteen minutes before Titanic fully submerged.

But when Joseph at last reached the lifeboat, he was refused entry. "They were," as Joseph's son summarized, "afraid too many people would get on board."

As Joseph gripped the canvas sides of the lifeboat, he was beaten away with oars; it was the same violence inflicted upon fellow steerage passenger Thomas McCormack.

Joseph reversed his fate, however, when he insisted that he was a capable oarsman. Once pulled from the water, he readily hauled another struggling swimmer aboard: First-class passenger Frederick Hoyt, whose frantic wife was already in the same lifeboat.

Joseph's goodwill was not well-received by the other occupants in Collapsible D.

News of the disaster reached Guernsey almost immediately, on the 15th or 16th of April.

Terrified, Mr. and Mrs. Duquemin awaited any word of Joseph’s fate. According to Joseph’s little brother Gerald, his mother was put on bedrest by the family physician due to shock.

Word arrived almost an agonized week later, on the 20th. It was delivered personally by the master of the local Post Office.

Mr. Duquemin’s hands were shaking so badly that he could not read the telegram he held; Joseph’s sister had to read the words aloud for the family.

It was a meager five words: “Joseph Duquemin reported safe, Ismay.”

Upon his arrival in New York City, Joseph was hospitalized for his frostbitten legs, as well as presumed injury to his hands when he had been struck with oars. "Every winter," his son remembered, "his hands would turn white where they hit him with the oars."

Once recuperated, Joseph proceeded with his plan and traveled to Rochester, New York, for masonry work. He wrote to his father, "I am glad to say that I have quite recovered from my dreadful experience. I am well and at work." At some point thereafter, he moved to Windham County, Connecticut.

Shortly thereafter, he served in the First World War.

Upon his return to the United States, Joseph migrated southward toward the Connecticut coastline. Reportedly, Frederick Hoyt—who was the affluent First-class passenger Joseph had pulled into Collapsible D—connected him with a job in Stamford, Connecticut.

And so it was that Joseph settled there, married, and had three children.

According to family, Joseph was a stern and stubborn sort; he spoke of his experience on the Titanic rarely if at all, and it was not an open topic of discussion in his household. When it came to Titanic, "You didn't talk until [Joseph] talked."

But for the rest of his life, Joseph woke up screaming; in nightmares, he could still hear Harry crying out his name.

“Good-bye For Ever”: James Farrell

The Kates of Co. Longford might not have survived that night, had it not been for James Farrell.

James, born in 1886, was one of nine children, and thus a middle child amongst a swarm of siblings.

According to census data, his family owned a farm; by 1911, records indicate that his mother, Ellen, had died.

In the 1911 census, 24-year-old James was noted on the same farm property as his father, as an unmarried farmer’s son. And as a farmhand, he was reportedly a rather brawny lad.

What reason James had for traveling to America in 1912 is still uncertain. Records suggest he might have been due to meet a Patrick McGrath, or perhaps a James Keating, both of whom resided in Brooklyn.

A fair few Third-class ticket-holders, who like James were leaving their homes in Co. Longford, also traveled by train to the Queenstown dock that day.

That particular group reportedly made fast friends with each other, having recognized one another from neighboring villages in Co. Longford. This group included Kate Gilnagh and Thomas McCormack, amongst quite a few others.

They chatted and joked, and even had a sing-song on the train ride, according to a secondhand account.

All things considered, this group most likely included James Farrell.

From the train, the Co. Longford crew boarded the tender ship SS America.

As the little ship shuffled to Titanic’s side, the group likely watched the hills, the churning waves, and the colorless facade of Queenstown receding from view.

In those moments, fellow steerage passenger and musician Eugene Daly rested his pipes against his shoulder, bit down on the mouthpiece, and began to play. It was a moment much adored by those on board.

Once embarked on Titanic, the 113 newly arrived steerage passengers would have descended to the lower decks.

It might have been tiresome, navigating the corridors toward their assigned berths: single men to the bow section; unwed girls aft, in the stern. Married couples—or those couples pretending to be—shared the stern with the ladies.

Later, a settle-in was followed by a hungry pilgrimage to the Third-class dining saloon, which was located on F Deck. Therein, the long, clothed tables awaited them. The passengers were obligated to arrive to dinner in shifts, since the dining saloon could not accommodate everyone at once.

Therein, the sight of pressed tablecloths and electric lights were a delight that many had never before experienced.

As it was in the berths, the unmarried men were secluded from maidens and families while dining; the saloon, divided as it was by a watertight bulkhead, facilitated this separation.

Coats were hung on pegs along the white walls, and seats were taken. The dinner was served by stewards; the food was robust, and the room presumably boisterous.

After dinner, the Co. Longford company might have reconvened in the Third-class general room to spend time in each other’s company.

They might have taken up a game of chess, cards, or dominoes; alternately, they might have decided to enjoy music by the upright piano. One of the Co. Longford girls, named Kate Murphy, had brought her violin along.

The men likewise might have adjourned to the adjacent Third-Class Smoking Room, which was designated exclusively for their use.

The Co. Longford group almost certainly spent time out on the aft decks as well.

Much of James Farrell’s time was likely spent this way: reporting for meal times, and spending time with his new friends from Co. Longford.

The men and women from Co. Longford—James Farrell among them—seem to have done their utmost to stick together throughout the sinking.

After Kate Gilnagh and her cabin mates were awoken and alerted to the emergency by Eugene Daly, they tried to ascend the decks as quickly as they could.

But, according to survivor testimony given to author Walter Lord, the steerage passengers were held back, and thus barricaded from salvation in a lifeboat.

In that dire moment, James Farrell appears in a survivor account for the first time.

Others somehow reached the second class Promenade space on B deck, then couldn’t find their way any further… Others beat on the barriers, demanding to be let through. Third class passenger Daniel Buckley… jumped to his feet and raised up the steps again. The seaman took one look, locked the gate and fled. The passenger smashed the lock and dashed through, howling what he would do if he caught the sailor...

At another barrier a seaman held back Kathy Gilnagh, Kate Mullins, and Kate Murphy… Suddenly a steerage passenger, Jim Farrell, a strapping Irishman from the girls’ home county, barged up. “Great God, man!” He roared. “Open the gate and let the girls through!” It was a superb demonstration of sheer voice power. To the girls' astonishment, the sailor meekly complied.

In the calamity that followed the girls' escape from behind the unspecified "barrier" between the Third- and Second-class decks, Kate Gilnagh found herself temporarily separated from her Co. Longford friends.

They were, at that moment, located a full deck above her.

She did manage, under curious circumstance, to rejoin the other Co. Longford lasses up on the boat deck, where they had just boarded Lifeboat 16.

And it was here that Kate Gilnagh would encounter James Farrell one more time.

Kate had just been denied entry to the lifeboat; it was too full to take on any additional passengers, she was told. But she finagled her way aboard with a compulsive fib.

Defying great odds, James Farrell had succeeded in securing the girls their survival. And so, as the lifeboat descended, he took the opportunity to bestow upon Kate Gilnagh a last kindness.

James Farrell was the 68th Titanic victim found in the Mackay Bennett's recovery expedition. On 24 April 1912, his corpse was committed to the sea.

They buried him with his Rosary beads.

Kate Gilnagh, along with multiple other Co. Longford girls, survived the sinking.

And Kate believed that James Farrell's bellow across the barrier that night was what saved her life.

Kate was interviewed about her survivor experience in November of 1956. Even then, after more than four decades, she was moved to reflect on James Farrell's fearlessness.

"Well, we were standing on the steerage, Third Class, they call it, and then we couldn't get up to Second," Kate said. "And of course then there was one man with us.

And he was our guardian angel."

“Too Heart-broken To Talk Much”: Austin Van Billiard

The family arrived in London for what was intended to be a three-week stay before continuing on to the United States. Austin had already forged connections with diamond brokers in New York City, and he was eager to get there.

Austin excitedly informed his parents back home of his upcoming return to the United States—but in limited detail. Austin conveyed to them only that he would travel later into the spring.

Quite intentionally, he did not specify when.

Austin was expected in New York City by the aforementioned diamond brokers. And so he seized upon the opportunity to surprise his parents with an early visit.

He had not seen them in over ten years.

After some deliberation, it was decided that Maud would stay behind with the younger children in London, to extend her recuperation from childbirth.

But Austin and their two oldest sons, 10-year-old James and 9-year-old Walter, would travel ahead and surprise the family back in Pennsylvania.

And so, Austin Van Billiard booked passage on Titanic.

Curiously, despite his evident familial affluence and his cache of diamonds, Austin Van Billiard purchased Third-class tickets.

It has been speculated that Austin was trying to lay low because of the treasures he carried, which reportedly amounted to "many thousand dollars worth" of uncut diamonds. Sailing in steerage certainly would dispel any notions that he was well-off.

It has also been suggested that, since First- and Second-class passenger lists were published in American newspapers, that Austin hoped to keep his homecoming a surprise from his parents by staying anonymous in Third-class.

Or maybe he was simply frugal.

It is unknown how Austin and his sons spent their time onboard, perhaps supporting the notion that the Van Billiards strove to keep a low profile.

Austin's movements during the sinking are unknown. Contemporary reporting suggests that James and Walter would have clung to their father as Titanic foundered, rather than be separated in a lifeboat. Or perhaps, because the Van Billiards were steerage passengers, they never got to a lifeboat at all.

Austin and both of his boys died when Titanic sank.

Austin was 35 years old.

In Pennsylvania, Austin’s parents, James and Phoebe, had no reason to believe they were affected by the Titanic disaster; they did not know their son had been on board with the grandchildren they'd never met.

But when James read a passenger manifest in the newspaper, he saw his own last name.

James believed it a coincidence; Austin and the children were not due to arrive for weeks yet.

Never the less, James wired his daughter-in-law in London, inquiring if Austin and the boys had, unbeknownst to him, already sailed.

Maud confirmed the worst.

“Attached to Each Other”: Denis Lennon & Mary Mullin

The tender SS America shrunk down as it bobbed toward the RMS Titanic, ferrying over 120 passengers toward their fate. And amongst those passengers was Joe’s little sister, Mary, along with her lover Denis Lennon.

They were eloping.

Mary's family evidently did not approve.

Joe Mullin, a runner for Guinness and reportedly a mercurial, impulsive drinker, was witnessed pounding his fists on the dock rail in ire.

The police at Queenstown later affirmed to Joe that yes, they had indeed seen a young couple who appeared to be “runaways.” But they did not react, as they had not been informed of any runaways.

Mary was just 18 years old; Denis, 20.

It all unfurled after the Easter holiday.

Mary had been at home in Co. Galway with her mother and siblings. She was then due to return to her boarding school, called Loreto Abbey.

The Mullin family was a prosperous one. Mary’s widowed mother, Delia, owned a thriving pub and general store in Clarinbridge, Co. Galway. Joe worked as the bookkeeper, while his younger brother Owen was shopkeeper.

And according to the 1911 census, the shop assistant was Denis Lennon.

Denis, born in Co. Longford, was the third of six children in an impoverished family. Mary’s hometown of Clarinbridge was well over 100 miles away.

And yet somehow, for reasons still unknown, Denis had made his way there.

Mary was not present at home at the time of the 1911 census; she instead is found listed as a pupil at Loreto Abbey, located in Rathfarnham.

Despite this, at some point, Denis and Mary fell in love. Afraid that their desire to marry would be denied by her family, they made a plan.

It had been arranged that, following the Easter holiday with her family, Mary would take the train into Dublin, to be collected by her brother Bartholomew. He would thereafter deliver Mary back to school.

She reportedly left on time for the rail station on departure day.

But Mary Mullin never met with Bartholomew in Dublin.

Mary’s sister Bridget suspected something and made her way to the railway. There, Bridget had spotted Denis “the barman” watching her from a train.

Mary and Denis were presumably gleeful, then, to find out that their passage was transferred to the maiden voyage of Titanic, scheduled to depart only four days later.

Their ticket bore falsehoods.

The pair reported that they were siblings: a 21-year-old laborer and a 20-year-old spinster. Perhaps in a cheeky nod to their intention to marry, they registered solely under Denis’s last name.

And so, having eluded Joe Mullin’s handgun, they boarded Titanic as “Denis and Mary Lennon.”

Little exists in the way of information regarding Mary and Denis while on board Titanic, although contemporary reporting asserts that they “were spoken to while aboard the ill-fated vessel.”

Neither survived.

At first, it was speculated that maybe "the bride" Mary had survived, but it was a futile hope.

In her bereavement, Delia Mullin engaged local solicitors, Blake & Kenny, to investigate the fate of her stolen daughter.

After interviewing survivors, the solicitors discovered that a couple resembling Denis and Mary that either had a single lifeboat seat—or alternately, a single lifebelt—between them, meant for the girl. She refused, stating that ‘if he couldn’t have one’ then neither would she.

For decades thereafter, Denis and Mary were a persistent mystery: thanks to the error of the White Star Line, Denis’s surname of Lennon was, for a long time erroneously recorded, as “Lemon.”

The true nature of their relationship was, and still is, uncertain.

And, of course, “Mary Lennon” was elusive in found records, since, technically, she did not exist.

The legacy of Mary and Denis endures even today.

After the disaster, local folklore memorialized the tragedy of the lovesick girl who eloped on Titanic with her family's shop-hand.

An alumna of Loreto Abbey stated during an interview that as late as 1949, the school continued to invoke dedicated prayers each April for Mary Mullin. Hers was their chosen cautionary tale against romantic impulse.

And then, more than seven decades later, Mary and Denis inspired the creation of a fictional, forbidden liaison on the RMS Titanic.

It was a movie about a rich girl, a poor boy, and an angry chase involving a handgun.

“Declaration of Intention”: Franz Pulbaum

Witching Waves Co. was founded by Theophilus Van Kannel, who had also invented the revolving door in 1888.

Van Kannel’s Witching Waves ride debuted in Luna Park, Coney Island, in 1907. It was the same year that Franz arrived in the United States, although there is no evidence at present that the two occasions were related.

The Witching Waves swiftly became the most popular ride at Luna Park, which itself had only opened four years prior in 1903. Soon after its installation, the ride was regarded as a flagship attraction.

Under Luna Park’s hundreds of thousands of dazzling lights, the Witching Waves recreated a so-called “stormy sea experience” in Coney Island’s “Electric Eden.”

The cars, though steerable in the most basic sense, had no starting mechanism, so they had to be manually pushed out of the loading area by a ride attendant.

The cars likewise were not equipped with restraints, resulting in not a few mishaps as riders were bounced about. Riders were sometimes flung head-over-feet from their cars.

Inevitably, more grievous injuries sometimes resulted. In 1919, for example, firemen at Rockaway Beach had to destroy the ride to save a child, ripping it into pieces to rescue a boy who had gotten caught in the floor’s mechanism.

Unfortunately, the Witching Waves suffered a short expiry date; its longevity was often truncated by metal fatigue and an array of mechanical failures.

Despite these operational quirks, another was installed in Manhattan 1910. More Witching Waves rides followed in various amusement parks in both the United States and Europe.

Franz Pulbaum, reportedly a chief mechanic for Witching Waves Co., would have been critical to these subsequent installations.

In 1912, one such installation had recently been completed at Luna Park—a franchise location of Coney Island’s original—in Paris, France.

Franz Pulbaum was sent to inspect it.

By all impressions, Franz seemed to be doing rather well for himself. He used a pocket-sized, leatherbound date book, its binding branded with Maryland Club Rye, which was a popular and elite whiskey made by Cahn, Belt & Co. out of Baltimore. Back home in New York, he had purchased a striped, grey-silk necktie, as well as silk socks, for himself.

Most notably, Franz had just recently received a certificate of “Capital Stock” in the amount of $50,000.00 from Witching Waves Co.: proof enough that he excelled at his work.

All of this while still refining his mastery of the American-English language, as evidenced by the German-to-English dictionary he carried.

During his business trip to Paris, Franz appeared to have enjoyed his leisure time as a tourist.

He collected postcards—29 in all—of various Paris attractions, picturesque scenes of the Seine and Tuileries Garden. Notably, he also carried a postcard of a rollercoaster called Le Scenic Railway, an attraction at the Parisian Luna Park where he carried out his work.

Friends wrote him while he was abroad, sly in their envy as they asked after him and declared he must be enjoying limitless fine wine, being as he was in France.

Franz also made time a visit to his native Germany.

So Franz’s time was well-spent, and his work well-done.

Because his boss, the aforementioned inventor Theophilus Van Kannel, was reportedly so pleased with Franz that, when time came for him to return to the United States, Mr. Van Kannel offered to upgrade his passage.

In 1993, RMS Titanic Inc., proceeded with a recovery expedition of the wreck site.

Amongst the salvaged items from that expedition was unopened luggage.

It belonged to Franz Pulbaum.

Within were the intimate artifacts of his blossoming life: His German-English dictionary. His small leather notebook, containing snippets of advice for the successful modern businessman. His professional tools, rusted but intact, including his fabric tape measurer. A bottle of hair tonic. His collection of Parisian postcards, bundled with string. His brand-new silk socks, still pinned at the toe.

“He Was Not Likeable”: Alfred Nourney

Alfred Nourney was from Cologne, Germany. He was 20 years old when he embarked on Titanic at Cherbourg, France, in the evening of April 10, 1912.

Research published in recent years has suggested that Alfred was banished by to the United States by his mother, after he had gotten a local woman pregnant. Alfred, on the other hand, insisted that he had been in Paris with his mother and had annoyed her into purchasing a ticket on his behalf.

Whichever might be true, Alfred intended to launch a career "demonstrating motorcars" once he arrived stateside.

Alfred boarded the Titanic as a Second-class passenger. He called himself Baron von Drachstedt.

But he quickly determined that Second-class accommodations simply could not do for such a baron as himself.

Alfred therefore sought out the Purser's office, and requested an upgrade to a First-class ticket for a nominal fee.

And it worked, possibly due to his insistence on his supposed aristocratic status.

Exactly why Alfred rebranded himself as a baron is unknown.

He may have been trying to evade the scandal that might have followed him due to his liaison. Or, perhaps he called himself a baron to accomplish exactly what he accomplished: better accommodations on the ship's illustrious maiden voyage.

Or maybe it was simply to appear more impressive to the elites he was so eager to meet.

If that latter-most was true, it was a failed attempt: Alfred was hardly popular amongst his "peers" in First-class.

And with justifiable reason. Although Alfred was by all accounts delighted by his surroundings and social opportunities.

"I'm so happy being first class!" he wrote to his mother. "I already know some nice people! A Diamondking! Mister Astor, one of the wealthiest Americans, is on board! Thousand Kisses Alfred"

And yet, Helen Churchill Candee wrote thusly of her first interaction with him.

At my table in the dining room were six persons. ‘ Good morning,’ I greeted them with an inclusive bow. Four of them looked shy and scarcely acknowledged my effort at traveler’s courtesy. Poor things, I didn’t mean to hurt them. One only arose and made me a standing bow. It was my turn to be shy and I did not like it. The man was evidently of the world, his tall figure wore English tweeds, yet I could swear be was born and bred on the Continent. He had a certain sleekness that lessened the value of his good looks. He managed to slip his card to me after part of our fellows had left the table. The card held a German name and gave him the title of Baron. He spoke to me in perfect English with none of the accents that so often offend the ear. But he was not likeable, thereafter I avoided him.

While on board, Alfred entertained himself by sending out two Marconigrams, both on April 13th, and both at 12:20 p.m. The contents were similar, and hardly of substance.

On the evening of April 14th, Alfred had been playing bridge in the First-Class Smoking Lounge with Henry Blank and William Greenfield. They reportedly barely felt a shudder, but only saw the liquor sway in their glasses.

Alfred, supposedly by way of the captain's private staircase which he had discovered during a clandestine exploration of the vessel, eventually made his way to Lifeboat 7 on the starboard side. He boarded with neither difficulty nor resistance.

It was the first lifeboat to launch from Titanic.

Also in Lifeboat 7 were actress Dorothy Gibson, newlyweds Helen and Dickinson Bishop, and French aviator Pierre Marechal.

They did not much care for Alfred either.

And again, they were not without reason. Helen Bishop later described the distasteful and disruptive actions of "the baron" in an interview published less than a week later, on April 20, 1912.

He went to the Smoking Room, and lay down on top of a pile of blankets, monopolizing them for himself to be used as a bed. The blankets were intended for survivors as they were brought aboard, and Nourney refused to move when a woman asked for them.

The lady, disgusted, nearly spat out the words: 'To think of it: the like of you saved and women left to drown; shame on you.' She could scarcely restrain the urge to grab Nourney by the collar and toss him into the sea. She yanked away the top blanket underneath Nourney, causing him to roll on to the floor. People jeered him and, thoroughly shamed, he beat a hasty retreat from the room.

During the trip the crew of the Carpathia placed at the disposal of the extra passengers a large quantity of emigrant blankets… It was bitterly cold one night and there seemed to be an unusual dearth of blankets. My friend and I approached the count, whose name I never learned, and I asked him for some of the huge stack of blankets that he had appropriated.

"'You wouldn't have me give up my nice warm bed, would you?' pleaded the count. 'Yes, I would,' I answered. I couldn't get them until I called him a brute and demanded them. He then got up grumbling and under him were ten of the heavy blankets, while others were shivering about the deck. We took two of the blankets and as he settled down on the others I leaned over him and said. 'You were saved and women and children went down with the ship.' Some wanted to throw him overboard.

One of the real sufferers by the Titanic disaster is Baron Alfred von Drachstedt, 20 years of age, who hails from the sweet-scented city of Cologne. Escaping with his life, Alfred is mourning with a grief that refuses to be assuaged the loss of his entire wardrobe, and is of two minds as to suing for the value thereof, because he doubts the ability of American tailors and haberdashers to replace in proper style the things made in Germany which may now be in the midst of some predatory shark or whale cavorting around the banks of Newfoundland.

In order that the reader may fully appreciate the gloom which surrounds the youthful baron, wo append a list of the vanished glories with which he had equipped himself for an invasion of the United States. He puts their value at $2,320, but for ourselves we are fain to confess that this seems a beggarly price. However, here is the tally sheet, and those who are more conversant with glad rags than ourselves can figure the thing out for themselves: Ten suits of clothes, two tuxedoes, four overcoats, twenty white shirts, and twenty colored ones, twenty negligee shirts, fifteen night shirts, forty collars, fourteen suits of underwear, forty, pairs of hose, sixteen pairs of assorted shoes, one hundred and twenty scarfs, fifty handkerchiefs, six pairs of knickerbockers, two hunting suits, an aviation coat, ten pairs of gloves, two top hats, nine other headpieces, eight tennis trousers and coats, ten silk tennis shirts, with rings, cigarette cases, watches, match boxes, scarfpins, diamond studs, a sweet gold bracelet and ever so much more.

“I Did Not Think I Was Going to Live”: Thomas McCormack

Thomas traveled with his cousins, brothers John and Phillip Kiernan. John was returning to his home in the United States, and had persuaded his younger brother Phillip to come along to the new world.

Unexpectedly along with Thomas and the Kiernan boys were the Murphy sisters, Kate and Margaret. The girls were running away from home, defying their aging and widowed mother.

None in the party were more than 25 years old.

Thomas, John, and Phillip boarded the train to Queenstown on the morning on April 11, 1912.

Once seated, they were met with many other steerage passengers bound from their home of Co. Longford. Amongst these newfound compatriots were three siblings: Barney, Agnes, and Alice McCoy.

According to secondhand memories of the McCoy family, the new friends conversed amiably and even sang throughout the ride down to Queenstown.

And once the party disembarked the train, they boarded the tender ship America.

The America was one of a pair of tenders (the other being her sister Ireland) tasked with ferrying Queenstown passengers from the dock over to the Titanic. The passage took approximately thirty minutes.

On board the America, piper Eugene Daly played Erin's Lament as the tender gained distance from the shore.

The Titanic turned toward the open sea at about 2:30 p.m.

Thomas most likely stuck with Co. Longford group as they sought out their cabins in the seemingly endless corridors deep below. A hearty dinner would follow.

As is the case for many steerage passengers on Titanic, there is scant official documentation of how Thomas McCormack spent time on board.

But thanks to the aforementioned recollections of descendants of the McCoys, some casual memories persist: most of their evenings were apparently whiled away in the general room, or otherwise in the Third-Class Smoking Room.

Thomas was presumably a part of these gatherings, as one of the McCoy sisters reportedly came down with a bit of a crush on young Tom, and was frequently in his company.

Meanwhile, Kate Murphy had brought her violin on board. She thusly played with other musicians in the Third-class party that occurred in the evening hours of April 14th, the night of the iceberg strike.

Whether Thomas attended this party is not documented. But since Kate had played her violin that night and Katie Gilnagh, who had also befriended Thomas's group on the train, was also in attendance, it is reasonable to assume that Thomas may have at least made an appearance.

Tom's sister Catherine later claimed that her brother had to fight his way past crewmembers to make it up to the boat deck. Tom himself said, "When I was running up to the deck in the confusion that night, I did not think I was going to live."

Once up top, Thomas found himself navigating through "many excited persons" who were "crying and yelling." Then Thomas ran into Barney McCoy, one of the Co. Longford group he had made friends with while on the train to Queenstown.

Tom and Barney "were not long in finding out that the ship was sure to sink." The boys proceeded to secure and fasten their lifebelts. Tom may have assisted in seeing Barney's two sisters off in a lifeboat.

The boys had realized that the Titanic "was settling badly."

So they jumped overboard.

"I panicked and ran to the rail. I never stopped to look how far from the water I was. I just jumped over," Tom recounted. "It felt like a mile down to the ocean, and it was freezing water. All I had was my lifejacket."

Thomas surfaced and swam for a nearby lifeboat.

But he was attacked.

In a contemporary article published by the Tasmanian periodical Examiner, "He got his hands on the gunwale of a lifeboat, but members of the crew struck him on the head and tore his hands loose."

His experience was also officially documented during the British Inquiry into the Titanic disaster.

After being beaten severely by sailors with oars I managed to get into one of the life and boats [sic]... [Kate and Margaret Murphy] sat on me and tried to cover me up.

After a while one of the sailors saw my legs protruding, and seizing them asked me ' what in _____' I was doing in the boat. He dragged me out and tried to throw me into the water. I grabbed him by the throat and said if I went overboard I would take him with me. When he saw that he could not thro [sic] me over he finally desisted and I was allowed to remain.

Upon the arrival of the rescue ship Carpathia in New York City, Thomas McCormack disembarked to be picked up by his brother-in-law, Bernard Evers, who had traveled there to bring Thomas home.

But amidst the confusion on the dock, in the dark cold and under the rain, the men missed each other entirely.

Bernard hunted all night and the following morning for Thomas. As fear mounted that perhaps Thomas's survival had been falsely reported, Bernard learned that Thomas had been transferred to Ellis Island so "his credentials could be inspected," since no one had claimed him.

“Enormous Icebergs Surrounding Us, White as Swans”: Mary Conover Lines

As an expatriate family, Mary Conover Lines and her mother Elizabeth were already familiar with transatlantic travel, although they did not do so very often.

But in April 1912, they were intent to travel to Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, to attend the graduation of Mary’s older brother Howard.

American by birth, Mary had lived abroad with her parents for several years while her father, Ernest, represented his employer, New York Life Insurance Company, as its medical director in Europe. The family resided in Paris, which is where Mary received her education.

Mary and her mother traveled on their own, ahead of Mr. Lines who was kept back by work. "My mother and I came on ahead," she said, "as my father could not take too long a time away from his work. Just for fun and excitement, my father got a state room for my mother and myself on the new Titanic."

So Mrs. Lines and Mary boarded Titanic on April 10, 1912, as First-class passengers in Southampton. Their accommodations were located on D-Deck.

Mary was 16 years old at the time; Elizabeth, 50.

Titanic was, as Mary described it, "a delightful ship... in its furnishings [and] decorations."

On the evening of the iceberg strike, Mary and Elizabeth had retired early because it was so cold. Mary said they took great solace in the electric heater installed in the room.

Then they heard "a big blow on the ship" followed by "the escaping steam" from a funnel making what Mary called "a fiendish noise."

Shortly thereafter, Mary stated that their unnamed steward stopped by and instructed them to remain in their cabin, insisting there was no danger. Mary said, "I always thought that he should have come back and told us the truth, rather than say that we should stay in our cabin, but I think, probably, by that time he was too busy doing something else."

Mary and her mother only left their cabin once they overheard their neighbor, Percival White, "shout[ing] to his son to run for the lifeboats."

Mary elaborated on this moment in her own retelling.

Our next-door neighbor came running down to his cabin--he and his son were very delightful people from Hawaii and belonged to one of the families who had settled there as early missionaries and then become [sic] interested in many different things in Ireland. This father, I think, was talking to his son--they were rushing around finding their lifebelts. I opened the door to ask what was going on and he said, "My goodness, are you still here? Get up on deck as fast as you can. The ship is sinking."

After this exchange with Mr. White, Mary and her mother struggled to find and grab their lifevests because, according to Mary, they were out of reach on top of a cabinet.

The ladies then made their way up to the boat deck without getting properly dressed.

Mary and Elizabeth joined the other First-class passengers who were "congregating on the boat deck." The crew were distributing blankets from "two big barrels" as they stood, not moving much.

Eventually, Mary had the idea to go back down into their cabin and retrieve proper clothing for herself and her mother. She said that it was only on her way back down-deck, she said, that she realized there were quite so many flights of stairs.

On her descent, she encountered Second-class passengers on the stairs who were being directed "to the First-class boats" by an unidentified officer. "There was a slight moment of panic," she stated about the Second-class passengers, "wondering whether they were going to make it, but there was no real panic."

By the time Mary arrived on D Deck, she saw that most people had already fled the area. So she gave up the task of grabbing the clothing and headed back whence she had come.

Mary recalled that on the return journey, she found herself walking in line up the stairs behind John Jacob Astor and his young bride Madeleine.

Upon Mary's return to her mother in line on boat deck, the ladies were handed the afore-mentioned blankets and were "pushed into a boat."

Elizabeth later testified that an unnamed officer assisted her and her daughter in securing their lifebelts, and told them, "We're sending you out as a matter of precaution; we hope you will be back for breakfast."

Elizabeth and Mary Lines thereafter boarded Lifeboat 9, which was launched from the starboard side of Titanic by First Officer William McMaster Murdoch and Chief Purser Hugh McElroy.

On board with the Mary and Elizabeth were approximately 31 other passengers, including Leontine Aubart, the known mistress of Benjamin Guggenheim.

Mary later recounted that "it was a very dark night... I mean, there were stars, but you couldn't see anything." Furthermore, she insisted that there was no light in the lifeboat.

Fortunately, Mary had kept a penlight in her pocket. "it was the only thing that we had on the boat to find the oars and find the oar locks and get ourselves organized to try and row." Mary insisted that the sailors in the lifeboat refused to return to Titanic in any attempt to save others.

"The men who were manning the ship... were very unwilling to approach any nearer," she said, "because they said there would be terrific suction."

But their survival story is not typically what draws attention to Mary and Elizabeth Lines.

Instead, it is a conversation that the ladies happened to overhear, which was thereafter treated as one of catastrophic consequence.

In the afternoon hours of April 13th, Mary sat down with her mother for coffee in the First-class Reception Room, as they had made a habit of doing after luncheon.

After the ladies were seated, J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of the White Star Line, entered the room with Captain Smith.

The men were then seated at their usual corner table, mere feet from where Mrs. And Miss Lines were already situated.

Captain Smith and Mr. Ismay commenced a two-hour-long, apparently one-sided conversation.

And Mary and her mother bore witness to it.

In a sworn deposition taken in 1913, Mary’s mother asserted that she had witnessed Mr. Ismay pressuring Captain Smith to accelerate the Titanic by lighting the last boilers, so the ship could have a glorious earlier arrival in New York City.

41. Are you able to state from your recollection the words that you heard spoken between Mr. Ismay and Captain Smith on that occasion?

- We had had a very good run. At first I did not pay any attention to what they were saying, they were simply talking and I was occupied, and then my attention was arrested by hearing the day's run discussed, which I already knew had been a very good one in the preceeding (sic) twenty-four hours, and I heard Mr. Ismay - it was Mr. Ismay who did the talking - I heard him give the length of the run, and I heard him say "Well, we did better to-day than we did yesterday, we made a better run to-day than we did yesterday, we will make a better run to-morrow. Things are working smoothly, the machinery is bearing the test, the boilers are working well". They went on discussing it, and then I heard him make the statement: "We will beat the Olympic and get in to New York on Tuesday."

42. In your last statement, Mrs. Lines, were you giving the substance of the conversation or the exact words which were used?

- I heard "We will beat the Olympic and get in to New York on Tuesday" in those words.

43. If there were any particular words spoken that you can remember, I should be glad to hear them.

- Those words fixed themselves in my mind: "We will beat the Olympic and get in to New York on Tuesday."

44. Do I understand you to say that the other things that you stated were the general substance of what you heard and not the exact things or words used?

- No, I heard those statements.

Mrs. Lines continued by stating that she did not hear Captain Smith’s voice in this exchange, but only “saw him nod his head a few times.”

Mr. Ismay, however, was “very positive” and assertive tone. “One might almost say dictatorial,” Elizabeth testified. “He asked no questions… there was a great deal of repetition.... his voice sounded very emphatic."

Mrs. Lines went on to testify that the conversation ended unceremoniously.

"Come on, Captain," Ismay reportedly said as he rose from the table, "we will get somebody and go down to the squash courts."

“For Those Few Minutes, the Ship Was Alive Again”: Adolphe Saalfeld

Adolphe, who was 47 years old, was bound for America on a pleasure trip: he planned to see Niagara Falls, and visit both Montreal and Chicago.

He also traveled with the intention to promote his perfumes as a wholesale distributor to potential clientele, or perhaps establish a brand-new stateside outlet for his perfumes.

He boarded the Titanic in Southampton on April 10, 1912, as a First-class passenger. Adolphe would occupy a cabin on C Deck.

With him, he carried leather satchels, which altogether contained over 60 small vials of perfume oils.

Before officially embarking, Adolphe had taken a tour of the ship with his nephew and fellow chemist, Paul Danby. Paul wrote back to his wife in awe of Titanic’s luxuries, describing it as “wonderfully appointed.”

Adolphe wrote a letter to his own wife, Gertrude, on the same day. In this and subsequent letters, he calls her “Wifey.”

Both Adolphe and Paul took pride in believing that they had written the very first letters on board Titanic.

Adolphe would write a second letter to his beloved Gertrude later in the evening.

"Dear Wifey,

...It is not nice to travel alone and leave you behind. I think you will have to come next time... I have a small table for two to myself. I had a very good dinner and to finish had two cigars in the smoke room and shall now go to bed as I am tired...

So far, apart from occasional remarks I have not spoken to anyone. I want to keep quiet and have a thorough rest. As I do not know whether I will be up in time for the mail at Queenstown, I am posting this letter tonight. A kiss for you and love to all from your loving husband."

To date, it has not been proven which lifeboat saved Adolphe Saalfeld on the night Titanic sank. But it is often reported to have been Lifeboat No. 3.

This boat, along with all the other odd-numbered vessels, was launched from the starboard side by First Officer William Murdoch—who, in spite of the Captain’s decree—permitted men to board lifeboats once women and children were scant about.

Adolphe seems to have taken to a lifeboat early in the sinking. He left all of his belongings behind--including the satchels that carried his perfume samples.

"...saw boats being lowered and noticed general reluctance people going into them. Then I saw a few men and women go into a boat and I followed and when lowered pushed off, and rowed some distance fearing suction in case Titanic sinking -- All expected to go back after damage patched up, but as we drifted away gradually, saw Titanic sink lower and lower and finally lights on her went out, and others in my boat said that they saw her disappear. Our boat was then nearly 2 miles away but pitiful cries could be plainly heard."

After the sinking, Adolphe’s plans for his new American parfumerie do not appear to have been fruitful; it is likely that they were entirely undermined. As an affluent male survivor of the Titanic disaster, Adolphe was reported ostracized from society.

He returned to England and his beloved Wifey, Gertrude.

Family members later claimed that Adolphe’s experiences on Titanic robbed him of sound sleep for the rest of his life.

He reportedly took the calling upon his chauffeur, a man known as Patch, to drive him about the emptied streets into the wee hours of the morning, until he could at last doze off.

Adolphe Saalfeld passed away in 1926 at the age of 61.

But his was a story unfinished, even with his death.

In 2000, a leather satchel was recovered from the Titanic's wreck site. Crumbling but whole after nearly nine decades on the seafloor, the bag still bore Adolphe's name.

His perfume samples were still contained within. A few vials had broken open, but most were found to be intact.

Historian, artifact curator, and Titanic expert Bill Sauder described the moment that Adolphe Saalfeld's satchel was opened to the world above, for the first time since 1912.

"The one thing I'll remember about Titanic artifacts until the day I die is when the Saalfeld perfume vials came up.

When you recover things from the Titanic: it's wet; it's rusty, and it's rotten. And the smell that comes off of it is perfectly alien, perfectly fetid; you know it's a kind of death you have never experienced.

And so the lab is kind of unpleasant. And then all of a sudden somebody opens up this satchel--this leather satchel--and out comes the fragrance of heaven... It's all these flowers and fruity flavors, and it's delicious. It's the most wonderful thing you've ever had.

It was just a complete overwhelming experience. It was like, all of a sudden the fragrance of heaven, you know, kind of moves through the room. So instead of being surrounded by all of these dead things, um... for those few minutes, the ship was alive again."

“Curses and Prayers Filled the Air”: Robert Williams Daniel & Eloise Hughes Smith

At 27 years old, Robert had survived the sinking of the Titanic--although no one, including himself, seemed to know exactly how.

But however he was saved from the ocean, the third-hand account from the Carpathia's medical officer attests to Robert having been saved in a red "woolen sleeping garment" or nightshirt, and shoes. Robert also reportedly wore his late father's pocket watch tied around his neck.

Carpathia's physician, Dr. Arpad Lengyel, had been assigned to attend to Titanic's steerage survivors. And since this is where he first treated Robert, who he found to be "delirious"--insisting he was a doctor himself--and underclothed.

So Dr. Lengyel, believing Robert was a colleague in the medical field in a pitiful state, gave him his own suit to wear. Robert reportedly had no recollection of this interaction when Dr. Lengyel tended to him the next day.

Standing before the doorway of her cabin--lacerations on his bruised face, wearing "a pair of trousers large enough for a giant [and] a blue shirt he had bought from the Carpathia's barber"--the still-reeling Robert offered his companionship to 18-year-old Eloise, so that she might feel protected while the survivors awaited the Carpathia's arrival in New York City.

She was newly pregnant, suddenly widowed, and absolutely inconsolable. Barely three months earlier, she had been another man's bride.

When Robert disembarked Carpathia with Eloise in his arms, she was reportedly "in a fainting condition." They were some of the first to appear on the ship's gangway.

After Robert had parted ways with Eloise and her father on the quay, his mother found him despite the fact she barely recognized him. The New York Sun reported that he was "total wreck" and almost too weak to stand. Reporters swarmed him immediately, and his confused--and confusing--narrative unfolded.

Robert reportedly "reeled" at least once, and removed himself to lean on a railing to steady and compose himself.

"Let me smoke a cigarette before we go on," he is reported as having said at last.

The reporters pressed Robert about the bruises and cuts on his face.

Robert would proceed to regale the press with so many stories about fellow passengers as the Titanic went under--including Jack Thayer, Richard Norris Williams and his father, the Carter family, and Ida and Isidor Straus--as well as First Officer William Murdoch and Fifth Officer Harold Lowe.

Robert was also sought out by the bereaved family members of victims who were anxious to learn the details of their last moments.

Later in 1912, Robert had plans to meet up with fellow survivor Colonel Archibald Gracie, with whom Robert had formed a fast and profoud friendship while on board Carpathia. The Colonel was writing a comprehensive book of the disaster based upon passenger recollections and testimonies, and the men wrote to each other regularly.

Robert, having been abroad once again in England, was asked by reporters in December of 1912 about Colonel Gracie. He did not know that his friend had died the week earlier.

When Robert was informed, he was "overcome with grief" and declined to speak any further.

By 1914, Robert began calling upon another Titanic survivor with whom he shared traumatic memories: the widowed Eloise Hughes Smith.

Her father was not a little displeased, given that his daughter was, at the time, involved in ongoing litigation with her late husband's family on behalf of hers and Lucian's infant son.

In spite of Congressman Hughes's misgivings, Robert and Eloise grew to be closer and closer friends, and that friendship evolved into romance.

And so, in a remarkable turn of events, Robert Williams Daniel married Eloise Hughes Smith in a quiet ceremony in New York City in August of 1914.

The next day, Robert departed for London yet again.

There, he became stranded for over two months due to the outbreak of the Great War, which delayed Eloise and Robert in announcing their marriage to society.

Once Robert was permitted to return to the United States, he and Eloise settled in Philadelphia with Eloise's son, Lucian Smith, Jr., and Robert's new English bulldog. Among their neighbors were the Carter family, who had also survived Titanic.

In February of 1919, Robert was sent overseas to France at the behest of the United States War Department to handle money that would be used to convert French currency in the possession of American soldiers returning from the war front. He was subsequently awarded a medal for his distinguished service.

But by the time Robert returned, his marriage to Eloise was sadly deteriorating.

They separated in 1920, in the wake of rumors of his marital infidelity. And in 1923, Eloise filed for divorce after learning, according to her legal claim, that Robert was residing with "an unknown blonde woman" in New York.

The divorce was granted without contest. According to the divorce decree, Robert was to remained unmarried for five years.

By December of that same year, he remarried in New Jersey. And in 1929, he would marry a third and final time.

Eloise would likewise remarry a third time, when she was widowed yet again. Her fourth and final marriage would end in a swift divorce.

After all of that emotional tumult, Eloise reverted her surname to Smith--that of her first husband, Lucian P. Smith, and the love of her life.

Eloise Smith died in 1940 from a heart attack at only 46 years old.

Her ex-husband, Robert Williams Daniel, died later that same year from cirrhosis of the liver. He was 56 years old.

Regardless of its outcome, Eloise and Robert are noted as the sole survivors to marry after meeting in the wake of the disaster.

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Category: Passenger Profiles

“Joe, the Ship Is Going Down Fast”: Joseph Pierre Duquemin

“Joe, the Ship Is Going Down Fast”: Joseph Pierre Duquemin

“Good-bye For Ever”: James Farrell

"Good-bye For Ever": James Farrell

“Too Heart-broken To Talk Much”: Austin Van Billiard

"Too Heart-broken To Talk Much": Austin Van Billiard

“Attached to Each Other”: Denis Lennon & Mary Mullin

“Attached to Each Other”: Denis Lennon & Mary Mullin

“Declaration of Intention”: Franz Pulbaum

"Declaration of Intention": Franz Pulbaum

“He Was Not Likeable”: Alfred Nourney

"he Was Not Likeable": Alfred Nourney

“I Did Not Think I Was Going to Live”: Thomas McCormack

"I Did Not Think I Was Going to Live": Thomas McCormack

“Enormous Icebergs Surrounding Us, White as Swans”: Mary Conover Lines

"Enormous Icebergs Surrounding Us, White as Swans": Mary Conover Lines

“For Those Few Minutes, the Ship Was Alive Again”: Adolphe Saalfeld

"For Those Few Minutes, the Ship was Alive Again": Adolphe Saalfeld

“Curses and Prayers Filled the Air”: Robert Williams Daniel & Eloise Hughes Smith

"Curses and Prayers Filled the Air": Robert Williams Daniel

“Joe, the Ship Is Going Down Fast”: Joseph Pierre Duquemin

"Good-bye For Ever": James Farrell

"Too Heart-broken To Talk Much": Austin Van Billiard

“Attached to Each Other”: Denis Lennon & Mary Mullin

"Declaration of Intention": Franz Pulbaum

"he Was Not Likeable": Alfred Nourney

"I Did Not Think I Was Going to Live": Thomas McCormack

"Enormous Icebergs Surrounding Us, White as Swans": Mary Conover Lines

"For Those Few Minutes, the Ship was Alive Again": Adolphe Saalfeld

"Curses and Prayers Filled the Air": Robert Williams Daniel

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