Category: Passenger Profiles

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“Embarcome”: Manuel Uruchurtu Ramirez

"Embarcome": Manuel Uruchurtu Ramirez

Manuel Uruchurtu Ramirez is the only confirmed passenger of Mexican nationality on Titanic.

He was born in late June of 1872, in Sonora, Mexico, into an elite family. As such, he had the privilege of traveling to Mexico City in order to study law.

While there, he met and married another student by the name of Gertrudis, who was from a similarly aristocratic (and therefore affluent) family.

Manuel and Gertrudis settled into life in Mexico City, going on to have a total of seven children. Manuel, in the meanwhile, established his law practice.

By way of his familial connections, education, and friendship with the Vice President of Mexico, Ramon Corral, Manuel became a politician.

But when the dictatorship was overthrown in 1911, and both President Porfirio Diaz and Vice President Corral were banished, Manuel found himself in a precarious situation. He was reportedly considered a member of the “catrines;" that is, an individual who had close personal ties to the now-former government owing to his wealth and/or social standing.

Not great, and certainly unsafe.

And so, Manuel Uruchurtu found himself himself fleeing to Europe in order to reconnect with his fellows.

After conducting a meeting with Vice President Corral on or about March 1, 1912, Manuel booked passage home on the SS City of Paris, which was scheduled to depart on April 10, 1912, from the port of Cherbourg. He was ready to be home, it's reported, and eager to see Gertrudis again.

Shortly before he was set to travel, however, Manuel had a visitor to his hotel in Paris. Guillermo Obregon, who was Vice President Corral’s son-in-law, had arrived to discuss what turned out to be a fateful exchange: that of Manuel’s ticket upon the SS City of Paris with his own on the Titanic.

This writer has not found evidence as to why Obregon was eager to swap tickets with Manuel. Given comparison of the two travel routes, it would seem reasonable to assume that Obregon wanted to get to Mexico as soon as he possibly could, owing to the fact that Titanic was scheduled to arrive very far away in New York City. And Manuel was almost certainly obligated to any member of Corral’s family.

Regardless.

Manuel agreed to the exchange of tickets. He would travel on Titanic, in room PC 17601.

Manuel’s travel plans can’t have been altered much. He was still going to depart from Cherbourg on April 10. As such, he took the train down, and made some new acquaintances along the way, including fellow First-Class passenger Edith Russell.

The trip going down to Cherbourg was marked out distinctly by the acquaintanceship started with several very nice ladies in my (train) compartment, one a Swedish lady, two others Americans, who had been cabled to return to America and were overjoyed that they were sailing on this wonderful boat, and a Mexican gentleman, who informed me that he was a member of Parliament in Mexico. We were a merry little party; the fact that all were going on this exceptional ship seemed to draw us together, as everybody was looking forward to seeing the monster boat.

Courtesy of [source]

From Cherbourg, Manuel sent his last documented communication: a telegram to his brother that read only, “Embarcome.”

Little information pertaining to Manuel Uruchurtu’s actions while on board Titanic are definitive or—more accurately—confirmed to have happened at all.

Because Manuel is more or less exclusively noted today because of his famed Heroic Act.

Unfortunately--like so much of what happened on and within Titanic throughout the sinking--this story of Manuel Uruchurtu, which has been recounted for some time by his indirect descendant, is thus far unsubstantiated.

The story goes that Manuel was offered a seat in Lifeboat 11 owing to his political stature, but when an Englishwoman from Second-Class was not allowed to board that same lifeboat, he acted in chivalry and faith and forfeited his seat to her.

It's reported that in return, Manuel but asked her to visit his family back in Mexico to share his final memory with them, which the woman agreed to do.

And while this narrative is certainly compelling, it is the opinion of this writer that the story is most likely fabricated.

The woman supposedly in question, Elizabeth Rammell Nye, did, in fact, survive the sinking in Lifeboat 11. But she provided multiple accounts as to what occurred that night, and she made no mention of Manuel. Nor did anyone else in the lifeboat.

Moreover, Edith Russell, who was confirmed to have made an acquaintance with Manuel en route to Cherbourg, was also in Lifeboat 11, and yet—despite her many, many accounts about Titanic—she  made no mention of Manuel’s Heroic Act, which surely would not have gone unnoticed by her, had it occurred.

Additionally, supporting documentation has not been produced in an accessible format, despite claims to the contrary.

Multiple people, including Manuel’s own granddaughter and an author who had previously been led to accept the story as truth, have come forward in recent years to discredit it as fantastical.

Butin spite of all of this, the true importance of Manuel Uruchurtu’s experience during the sinking should neither be mistaken nor disregarded: regardless of the veracity of the story about Manuel giving up his seat in Lifeboat 11, the truth of the matter is that he was an actual person who lived and was lost. Lost to his family and his country and to the memory of so many people who never even knew that he was on Titanic.

And he was brave because at some point within that frigid night, amidst trauma and chaos and fear, he confronted his mortality.

Manuel Uruchurtu died on April 15, 1912, in the sinking of the Titanic. His body, if ever recovered, went unidentified.

He was 39 years old.

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“My God, If I Could Only Forget”: Eugene Daly

"My God, If I Could Only Forget": Eugene Daly

Titanic had two stopovers after leaving Southampton: the first in Cherbourg, France, on April 10, and the last in Queenstown, Ireland, on April 11. 

And as Titanic turned away from Ireland toward the open sea,  Eugene Daly played “Erin’s Lament” on his uilleann pipes.

Eugene was from Athlone, Co. Westmeath, Ireland, and was 29 years old when he boarded Titanic.

Per census records circa 1911, Eugene was living with his widowed mother and two siblings. Eugene, as the eldest son, was the unmarried head of household, and was noted as a wool “heaver”. In addition, he supplemented his income by taking jobs as a mechanic.

And of course, Eugene also belonged to the Clan Ulseach War Pipers’ Band and the Irish National Foresters Band, as well as hid local chapter of the Gaelic League.

But Eugene decided to break free and try out a new life for himself in the United States. So he saved for a few years and purchased steerage passage on Titanic. He boarded at Queenstown, in the company of his cousin Maggie and their friend, Bertha. Like all steerage accommodation, he had a shared cabin. Per Eugene’s accounts, he was bunked with two other lads in C23.

The days in steerage seem to have been pleasant and minimally structured. Lawrence Beesley, a survivor from Second Class, shared his observations. And he seems to have spotted Eugene among the jollity, although he mistook his nationality.

Looking down astern from the boat deck or from the B deck to the steerage quarter, I often noticed how the Third-Class passengers were enjoying every minute of the time; a most uproarious skipping game of the mixed-double type was the great favorite, while ‘in and out and roundabout’ went a Scotchman with his bagpipes playing...

Lawrence Beesley, as written in "The Loss of the S.S. Titanic." © First Mariner Books, 2000.

It appears that Eugene played often for his fellows. Even on the night of the sinking, he played his pipes at infamous dance/party held in Third Class.

When Titanic struck the iceberg later that night, Eugene was nearly thrown out of his bed. He dressed in his trousers and shoes and went out to the gangway, but was assured by a steward that nothing serious had occurred and that he should just go back to bed.

Eugene did just that, if only for a little while. But commotion made him go back up on deck, where he saw a lot of people panicked and running around. So he rushed down to steerage to retrieve Maggie and Bertha.

They came out with me, but a sailor told us there was no danger. He said the ship would float for hours. He also said to go back, and that if there was any danger he would call us.

The group went to the stern to procure lifejackets, and Eugene reported that he had a “scuffle” with a man for one, which ended up being given to Maggie.

There was a great deal of noise at this time and water was coming in. We knelt down and prayed in the gangway. Then the sailor said there was danger. We went to the deck but there were no boats going off. Then we went to the second cabin deck. A boat was being lowered there. It was being filled with women. Maggie and Bertha got in, and I got in. The officer called me to go back, but I got in. Life was sweet to me and I wanted to save myself. They told me to get out, but I didn’t stir. Then they got hold of me and pulled me out.

As cited in "On Board RMS Titanic," by George Behe. © The History Press, 2012.

After he saw Maggie and Bertha safely off, Eugene went to find another boat that would let him on. And that is when he bore partial witness to one of the Great Mysteries of Titanic: an officer shooting two male passengers, before committing suicide.

In May of 1912, Eugene reported to the Daily Sketch that he saw an officer shoot two passengers who were fighting to break through the crowd to board a lifeboat.

There was a terrible crowd standing about. The officer in charge pointed a revolver and waved his hand and said that if any man tried to get in he would shoot him on the spot… Two men tried to break through and he shot them both. I saw him shoot them. I saw them lying thereafter they were shot. One seemed to be dead. The other was trying to pull himself up at the side of the deck, but he could not… Afterward, there was another shot and I saw the officer himself lying on the deck. They told me he shot himself, but I did not see him.

As cited in "On Board RMS Titanic," by George Behe. © The History Press, 2012.

Unable to find a ready lifeboat and with water rushing the deck, Eugene clamored to a “sort of canvas craft,” which may have been Collapsible lifeboat A or B. He worked frantically with a group of other men to free it from “a wire stay which ran up to the mast.”

But when the canvas lifeboat was washed off the deck, there was no choice for Eugene Daly but to dive into the ocean. And so he did.

Eugene swam for the same lifeboat that he believed he had been attempting to cut loose. The boat he found was Collapsible B, which had floated away upside down as Titanic submerged. Eugene climbed on top of it; he estimated that over a dozen men followed. Together, they watched Titanic groan and vanish.

Eugene Daly survived the night balancing on the back of Collapsible B, alongside many other men, including Second Officer Charles Lightoller, 17-year-old Jack Thayer, Colonel Archibald Gracie, and Junior Marconi Officer Harold Bride. He often credited his survival to the heavy coat he wore, and he held onto his “lucky coat” for the rest of his life.

Eugene's daughter, Marion Joyce, wrote the following about her dad's lucky coat.

On that fateful night aboard the RMS Titanic, he put on his shoes and his trousers and, a heavy block overcoat with an Astrakhan fur collar. He still had it on when picked up by the Carpathia - that coat and his watch and rosary were treasured relics of his survival.

Many a cold night in my childhood in Ireland, that coat would be thrown over us in bed to keep us warm. We called it "the Titanic." It had a greenish tinge to it, maybe from the sea water, but it still had heaviness and warmth in it.

When Eugene was brought on board Carpathia, he blacked out and was carried to the cabin of a passenger named Dr. Frank Blackmarr, who worked to revive Eugene with hot drinks and unspecified “stimulants.” And then Dr. Blackmarr transcribed Eugene’s account, word for word.

[NOTED BY DR. BLACKMARR: Here this man fell back on his pillow crying and sobbing and moaning, saying: ‘My God if I could only forget!’ After a bit, he proceeded.]

My God, if I could only forget those women’s cries. I reached a collapsible boat that was fastened to the deck by two rings. It could not be moved. During that brief time that I worked on cutting one of those ropes, the collapsible was crowded with people hanging upon the edges. The Titanic gave a lurch downwards and we were in the water up to our hips.

She rose again slightly, and I succeeded in cutting the second rope which held her stern. Another lurch threw this boat and myself off and away from the ship into the water. I fell upon one of the oars and fell into a mass of people. Everything I touched seemed to be women’s hair. Children crying, women screaming, and their hair in their face. My God, if I could only forget those hands and faces that I touched!

As I looked over my shoulder, as I was still hanging [on] to this oar, I could see the enormous funnels of the Titanic being submerged in the water. These poor people that covered the water were sucked down in those funnels, each of which was twenty-five feet in diameter, like flies.

Eugene was hospitalized along with other survivors at St. Vincent’s in New York, and from there, he sent the following letter to his mother.

Dear Mother, got here safe. Had a narrow escape but please God, I am all right, also Maggie. I think the disaster caused you to fret, but things could have been worse than what they were.

As cited in "On Board RMS Titanic," by George Behe. © The History Press, 2012.

Soon thereafter, he filed a claim with White Star for the loss of his beloved pipes, and was compensated $50. He was very pleased with the sum, thinking it more than that pipes had been worth.

Eugene was celebrated as a hero, especially back home in Ireland. "The Westmeath Independent" commented that "the courage credited to Eugene Daly in the foregoing will not surprise his fellow townsmen, who knew him as a man of principle and pluck. In the present deplorable disaster, he appears to have upheld the traditions of the Gael."

He went on to become a machinist for the Otis Elevator Company, and that led him to meet his future wife: the sister of his coworker Jimmy, an English woman named Lillian who owned silk mills in the neighboring state of Connecticut. They married in 1917, and the couple appears to have begun life in New York but eventually moved back to Ireland. Quite by accident and due to his trauma, according to Eugene's daughter.

In 1921, they got a cable from home to say that Eugene's mother was dying. So my Mom booked passage right away and they sailed for home.

...As soon as the ship was a few hours out Eugene lost all sense of security. He was in an extreme state of panic. He couldn't eat or sleep. He walked the decks the whole voyage, and my Mom paid a steward to look out for him.

Once they arrived in Ireland, Eugene refused to sail again. He did not return to the United States until he was widowed in 1961--and only then because flight was a travel option.

In his later years, Eugene was noted as a devout parishioner and quite musical, although he was also described as “very loud.” But people seem to have forgiven him this, as he was probably somewhat deafened from years of working in the mills.

Eugene Daly died on Halloween, 1965, in New York City. He was 82 years old.

In recent years, a curious artifact was salvaged from the wreck site: an instrument with undeniable similarities to uilleann pipes.

SOURCE MATERIAL

Behe, George. "On Board RMS Titanic: Memories of the Maiden Voyage." The History Press, 2012.

Beesley, Lawrence. "The Loss of the S.S. Titanic: By One of the Survivors." First Mariner Books edition, 2000. Originally published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912.

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/eugene-dalys-account.html

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/eugene-daly-his-daughter.html

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-survivor/eugene-patrick-daly.html

https://www.irishcentral.com/news/eugene-daly-irish-titanic

 

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“Wishing You All Good Things Until We Meet”: Daniel Coxon

"Wishing You All Good Things Until We Meet": Daniel Coxon

In Merrill, Wisconsin, there once lived an Englishman, and they called him Popcorn Dan.

Daniel Coxon was beloved. He was genial and bright and the precise definition of “a character.”

In a small, dirt-road town such as Merrill, Dan was a delightful sight to behold. Because—as you may have deduced from his nickname—Dan Coxon was a popcorn vendor.

Every day, he walked the dusty streets of Merrill, with his pretty red-and-yellow popcorn cart, pulled along by his white horse. It was a noticeable spectacle, for sure. Add to that the steam ever whistling from the boiler and Dan’s renowned conviviality, and he never seemed to want for patrons.

Popcorn Dan most often set up shop on the corner of Poplar Street and East Main Street. Along with popcorn, he also sold freshly roasted peanuts.

But Dan did more than popcorn.

He took a lot of odd jobs around town, primarily manual labor and painting. He offered hauling services thanks to his horse and wagon. He even worked for a time as the live-in caretaker of a haunted house: a Queen Anne mansion, perched eerily on the banks of the Wisconsin River.

One might think that odd jobs and a popcorn cart wouldn’t pay out much in dividends. But one would be wrong.

On his varied income, Dan was the proud owner of a rare and pricey phonograph. His horse and popcorn cart, of course. And he was even able to purchase TWO houses. One, he paid $400.00 for; the other, $1,000.00. And being a savvy gentleman, he resided in the former, while leasing out the grander.

His tenant was Harry Krom, who had emigrated from Russia and opened the fanciest men’s dress shop in Merrill, called Krom Clothing & Co.

And industrious individuals are always impressive, sure. But Dan Coxon was particularly so. And this was because he worked all his many labor-intensive jobs with a physical handicap.  Specifically, Dan’s left arm was shriveled from birth.

Dan Coxon had emigrated from London to Canada sometime in the 1870s, and then Wisconsin sometime in the 1880s. He wasn’t married and was in no rush to do so; his brother said he “made a laugh out of it.”

By 1911, Dan was in his early 50s. He was well-established in Merrill and successful—and he wanted to open the first movie theater in northern Wisconsin.

And so, Popcorn Dan traveled back to the UK to learn more about the movie-theater business, and to visit with his family for the holidays.

But before he did, he had to get snazzy.

Just a few days before Thanksgiving, Dan went to Krom Clothing and dropped $15 on a new suit—as well as $115 on a proper fur coat. Today, that coat would cost approximately $3,000.00.

Dan arrived in London on December 23, stayed through Christmas, and then through the winter months into the springtime with his sights on Easter. He wrote the following to his friend on April 1, 1912.

I am now writing to let you know that I am coming back. I have already booked my passage back by the “Titanic,” which will leave Southampton on the Wednesday after Easter… I have had a pretty good time on the whole but am getting rather tired now of holiday making and shall be very glad to get back again and settle down once more.

As cited in "The Last Night on the Titanic," by Veronica Hinke, 2019.

Dan also ribbed his friend for some lazy and imprecise addressing.

I was very delighted to receive your letter. It was quite a wonder though that I did get it as the envelope was only addressed “Mr. Daniel Coxon London, England” which of course is not sufficient for a place like London. Anyway, I was glad to get it (thanks to the post office people here).

As cited in "The Last Night on the Titanic," by Veronica Hinke, 2019.

Popcorn Dan delayed his departure past Easter in order to sail on Titanic. He could easily have afforded a Second-Class ticket, but elected instead to only purchase steerage accommodation.

Dan left his brother Alfred’s house to reach Waterloo station at 7am and headed out from there to Southampton, which was over an hour away. Alfred accompanied them, as well as their nephew John, who was the son of their sister Elizabeth.

According to Alfred Coxon, Dan had a particularly difficult time trying to board Titanic because of his withered arm. The overseeing officers, Alfred said, subjected Dan to an inordinate amount of scrutiny and were extraordinarily suspicious of him. Dan even had to produce paperwork to prove that he was, in fact, a naturalized US citizen.

Once he was finally permitted to board, Dan, Alfred, and John spent about an hour and fifteen minutes exploring the ship. Once Alfred and John disembarked, they stayed on the dock and “waved [their] hands to him as far as [they] could see him.”

Like so many steerage passengers, we know comparatively little to absolutely nothing about Dan's time on board Titanic.

On the morning of April 15—the very same morning of Titanic's sinking—a letter written by Dan was delivered to Hans van Kaltenborn, a friend and newspaper editor in Brooklyn, NY.

If you happen to have the time I should, of course, be only too pleased if you could manage to come and meet me on the arrival of the boat. I have had a very good time, but now feel that I should be glad to get back and return to work, for I am getting a little tired of fooling around. I should think that by the time I get back the weather will be settling for the better, and the rougher kind will, I hope, be all over. It is growing pleasant over here now, and spring here, as you may know, is very delightful. Wishing you all good things until we meet.

Popcorn Dan died in the sinking. His body was never found.

His wallet, however, has been recovered from the wreck. It has been determined that the wallet was Dan's because the $10 and $15 bills within bore stamps from Merrill, Wisconsin.

SOURCE MATERIAL

Hinke, Veronica. "The Last Night on the Titanic: Unsinkable Drinking, Dining, & Style." Regnery History, 2019.

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-victim/daniel-coxon.html

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/mr-coxon-may-be-lost.html

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“For the Rest of My Prophecy to Come True”: Helen Bishop

"For the Rest of My Prophecy to Come True": Helen Bishop

Helen Walton was 19 years old when she married 23-year-old Dickinson Bishop. She was his second wife. When they met, he still wore a mourning band for the first wife he had just lost to childbirth.

After their wedding in November 1911, Dick and Helen took off on a lavish extended honeymoon spanning Europe and North Africa. In four months, they had visited France, Algiers, Italy, and Egypt. 

Dick was besotted. And somewhere along the way, Helen fell pregnant.

Helen was overwhelmed with beautiful gifts from her new husband—he even bought her a pretty little lapdog in Florence to celebrate the pregnancy. Helen named the puppy Frou-Frou and doted on her endlessly, and Dick continued to dote on Helen.

The Bishops had read about the opulence and glittering amenities on the brand new Titanic, and Dick, beside himself with elation, suggested that they join Titanic’s maiden voyage.

The Bishops (and Frou-Frou) boarded at Cherbourg.

Helen and Dick were a particularly sociable couple; they even befriended Colonel John Jacob Astor and his very young new wife Madeleine. The Astors, affluent though they were, were having a romantic scandal and had been thusly ostracized by some of the haughtier First-Class passengers.

In fact, Helen made fast friends with Mrs. Astor, as they were of similar age and newly pregnant on their honeymoons, and all too happy to play with Frou-Frou, who Helen had been permitted to keep in her stateroom.

On the night of the sinking, Helen and Dick were alerted immediately.

“My husband awakened me at about a quarter of 12 and told me that the boat had struck something. We both dressed and went up on the deck, looked around, and could find nothing… We looked all over the deck; walked up and down a couple of times, and one of the stewards met us and laughed at us. He said, :You go back downstairs. There is nothing to be afraid of. We have only struck a little piece of ice.”

Helen testified that after this, she and her husband returned to their suite, only to be interrupted 15 minutes later by fellow passenger Albert Stewart. 

“He knocked at our door some time after the disaster. This was after we had dressed, gone up deck, and gone to our beds again. Mr. Stewart said ‘Dickey-bird, you’d better come up on deck and amuse yourself,’ in a tone that warned us.”

The Bishops encountered the Astors during this second round, and Colonel Astor chased down Captain Smith, who “told him something in an undertone.” Astor returned and advised everyone to put on their lifebelts.

As the Bishops left their stateroom for the final time, Helen asked if it would be prudent to bring Frou-Frou with her. Dick assured her that this was a necessary precaution and nothing more, and that Frou-Frou would be safe to await Helen’s return. But Frou-Frou was desperate to stay with Helen.

Dick locked the stateroom as they left; Helen never saw Frou-Frou again. 

“It broke my heart to leave my little dog ‘Freu-Freu’ [sic] in my stateroom… I made a little den for her in our room behind two of my suitcases, but when I started to leave her she tore my dress to bits, tugging at it. I realized, however, that there would be little sympathy for a woman carrying a dog in her arms when there were lives of women and children to be saved.”

On deck, Helen and Dick found themselves at Lifeboat 7 on the starboard side, nearby Fifth Officer Harold Lowe.

“We had no idea that it was time to get off [Titanic], but the officer took my arm and told me to be very quiet and get in immediately.”

Helen went on to assert that Dick had been pushed in after her, a story that he corroborated.  Dick took his seat beside his wife and reassured her as they descended. He would  be forced to grapple with this for the rest of his life.

Although she did not testify to it during the Senate Inquiry, Helen also asserted that she had heard the instruction that “all brides and grooms may board” the lifeboat, and that she and Dick were one of four couples in their boat.

Lifeboat 7 was the first to leave Titanic, and Helen Bishop is regarded as the first passenger to have boarded a lifeboat following the collision. Shortly thereafter, she was joined in the boat by movie actress Dorothy Gibson.

The lifeboat was noticeably under-populated, and once some distance had been gained between it and Titanic, a headcount was taken; Helen testified to a total of 28 people in Lifeboat 7.

There were no officers in the lifeboat, and only a trio of crewmen. The passengers therefore took turns in rowing the boat, including Helen, pregnant though she was. An exception was made for a fraudulent German baron who elected to sit rowing out and have a smoke instead.

Helen’s account of the sinking itself was brief, but heartbreaking.

“For a moment, the ship seemed to be pointing straight down, looking like a gigantic whale submerging itself headfirst… a veritable wave of humanity surged up out of the steerage and shut the lights from our view. we were too far away to see the passengers individually, but we could see the black masses of human forms and hear their death cries and groans.”

Helen also removed her wool stockings to give to a small girl who hadn’t had sufficient time to dress for the cold. 

Because Lifeboat 7 was the first to launch, its passengers also spent the most time adrift in the dark with nothing but “ghastly… green lights, the kind you burn on the Fourth of July” that a steward had brought on the boat. 

According to Helen, “Whenever we would light one of these diminutive torches, we would hear the cries from the people perishing aboard. They thought it was help coming.” And so, the occupants of Lifeboat 7 became increasingly concerned about being swarmed and overturned by desperate survivors.

As her fellow passengers became more paranoid, Helen attempted to placate them with a fun anecdote.

Helen said that while she and Dick were in Egypt, she visited a fortune teller who informed her that she would survive a shipwreck and an earthquake, but a motor vehicle accident would take her life. Therefore, she assured everyone, they would absolutely survive the night. 

“We have to be rescued,” she said, “in order for the rest of my prophecy to come true.”

Helen and Dick did survive, of course. Although Dick's reputation did not. Like other male survivors, he was harangued for his cowardice, and was also accused of dressing like a woman in order to board a lifeboat.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Bishop were also called before the Senate Inquiry. 

Helen gave birth to their son in December of 1912, but the infant died only two days later.

Helen and Dick took a holiday to California in the springtime of 1913 in an effort to distract themselves from their bereavement.

But an earthquake disrupted their holiday.

Helen was newly distraught. Two-thirds of the prophecy had now happened; despite Dick’s reassurance, she was terrified of the third and final act: a fatal car crash.

In November of 1914, Helen was on her way home from a country club dance with a group a friends. The car spun out while taking a curve and crashed into a tree. Helen was thrown 25 feet from the vehicle and fractured her skull.

She survived, despite expectations. But she did have a metal plate installed in her skull.

Her personality subsequently changed, and her marriage to Dick deteriorated because of it. They divorced less than two years later, in January of 1916.

Only two months later, Helen fell on a rug and struck her head near the location of the metal plate. Unconscious, she suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and died within days, on March 16, 1916.

Helen’s obituary appeared on the front page of her hometown’s daily newspaper, right alongside the wedding announcement of Dick and his third wife.

Helen Walton Bishop was 23 years old.

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“Here, There, and Everywhere”: Chief Designer Thomas Andrews

"Here, There, and Everywhere": Chief Designer Thomas Andrews

As a child, Thomas Andrews, Jr., was fond of horses and beekeeping. He was a competitive cricket player.

And of course, he really enjoyed boats.

Thomas Andrews. Taken on July 7, 1911.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

Thomas, who often was called “Tommie”, was 16 years old when he was granted a privileged apprenticeship at Harland & Wolff in 1889. This was convenient, since his uncle was none other than Lord William Pirrie, partner of the firm.

Though Thomas's parents were still, of course, required to pay for the opportunity.

Lord William Pirrie's office at Harland & Wolff, where Thomas Andrews undoubtedly spent time. Taken by Robert John Welch for Harland & Wolff.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

During this five-year apprenticeship, Thomas’s daytime hours were spent working in various departments, including the cabinetmakers and draughting office, throughout the firm. And at night, he attended technical college.

In late 1894, he took a proper job at the shipyard; in 1907, he became the managing director of the Draughting Office. Good news, that, as he was engaged to be married.

At the time, Thomas was engaged to Helen Reilly Barbour, who he called Nellie. Apparently, he had proposed to her rather abruptly back in 1906, according to a remorseful letter he sent to her on March 25 of that year. "My dear Nellie," he wrote, "I cannot tell you how much it grieves me to feel that I frightened or gave you any annoyance last night."

Nellie clearly forgave him for his impulsivity, though, and they married in 1908. They had a daughter, nicknamed Elba because of her initials, in 1910.

Thomas with his wife Nellie and daughter Elba. Taken November 29, 1910.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

So it was in 1907, after having been promoted, that Thomas began a new project: a line of triplet luxury liners for the White Star Line, beginning with the R.M.S. Olympic.

The draughting office. Taken by Robert John Welch for Harland & Wolff.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

Now by the time of this well-earned promotion, "Tommie" was an extremely popular guy in the yard.

Vera Morrison, who is Nellie's daughter from her second marriage, recounted a story her mother had told her of Thomas’s popularity at Harland & Wolff.

He told Nellie when they were driving out of the shipyard one day together that all the workers who were coming out were his mates. He was so very popular and dearly loved, I think, by so many people.

This anecdote goes hand-in-hand with a biography of Thomas Andrews by Shan Bullock, which was published in 1912.

He would share his lunch with a mate, toil half the night in relief of a fellow-apprentice who had been overcome by sickness, or would plunge gallantly into a flooded hold to stop a leakage. “It seemed his delight,” writes a foreman, “to make those around him happy. His was ever the friendly greeting and the warm handshake and kind disposition.” Such testimony is worth pages of outside eulogy, and testimony of its kind, from all sorts and conditions, exists in abundance.

Despite his esteem, tenure, and status at the shipyard, some of Thomas’s suggestions for the White Star superliners—including a minimum of 46 lifeboats and watertight bulkheads reaching up to B Deck—went unheeded.

Deck plans of the R.M.S. Titanic, as used for reference in the Senate Inquiry.

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Thomas had been on the maiden voyages of the Adriatic, Oceanic, and Olympic, so the choice to sail on Titanic was routine--so much so that Chief Baker Charles Joughin had a customary loaf of bread made especially for him at the start of each journey.

None of this is to say that Thomas wasn’t enthused about his newest ship. He wrote the following to Nellie while in Southampton.

The Titanic is now about complete and will I think do the old Firm credit tomorrow when we sail.

Henry Etches, a steward who had also worked on Olympic, attended to Thomas’s needs on board, taking him “some fruit and tea” and helping him to dress in his evening wear every night.

“That would be about a quarter or 20 minutes to 7, as a rule,” Etches said. “He was rather late in dressing.”

By all accounts, Thomas spent his time roaming all about the gargantuan ship looking for improvements to be made. He always took down the minutest of details in his notebook, such as an excess of screws in the stateroom hat hooks and the color of the red tiling on the promenade deck being just a touch too dark.

Etches testified to as much at the American inquiry. When asked by Senator Smith if Mr. Andrews had been busy and worked nights, Etches replied as follows.

He was busy the whole time… He had charts rolled up by the side of his bed, and he had papers of all descriptions on his table during the day… He was working all the time, sir. He was making notes of improvements; any improvements that could be made… during the day I met him in all parts, with workmen, going about. I mentioned several things to him, and he was with workmen having them attended to. The whole of the day he was working from one part of the ship to the other… I happened to meet him at different parts of Deck E more often than anywhere else.

According to Etches, he also knew that Thomas visited the boiler rooms, as he saw the suit that he wore when visiting the boilers discarded on Thomas’s bed.

Thomas’s perfectionism and meticulous attention to detail, however, should not be taken as an implication that he was not pleased with Titanic on the whole. He is reported to have said to first-class survivor Albert Dick, whom Thomas had befriended on board, “I believe her to be nearly as perfect as human brains can make her.”

Thomas routinely worked into the late hours, and is reported to have been awake and working at the time of the collision with the iceberg. Immediately thereafter, he was witnessed taking emergency tours of the ship. Per survivor Albert Dick, as reported in Shan Bullock’s biography of Thomas Andrews:

He was on hand at once and said that he was going below to investigate. We begged him not to go, but he insisted, saying that he knew the ship as no one else did and that he might be able to allay the fears of the passengers. He went.

Steward James Johnstone reported that while he was in the dining saloon, he saw Mr. Andrews run down toward the Boiler Room, followed by Captain Smith.

Johnstone said that while he was stuffing four oranges in his pockets, Thomas resurfaced. Johnstone followed him down to E-Deck, where he watched him descend further still to the mail rooms.

When he peered after Thomas running down the stairwell, he saw water flooding in.

Thomas, who was without a hat and had an insufficient coat for the ocean night-chill, was also witnessed personally seeing to getting passengers to wear their lifebelts and enter lifeboats throughout the entire sinking.

Jack Thayer wrote in his account that he and his parents were directly approached by Thomas.

We saw, as they passed, Mr. Ismay, Mr. Andrews and some of the ship’s officers. Mr. Andrews told us he did not give the ship much over an hour to live. We could hardly believe it, and yet if he said so, it must be true. No one was better qualified to know.

Excerpt from "The Sinking of the S.S. Titanic" by Jack Thayer.

Jack's encounter is hardly unique. Given Thomas’s famed congeniality and his apparent omnipresence on the ship, he was highly esteemed by many passengers and was often stopped for a comforting word or further information about what was really going on. He makes appearances in many survivor accounts.

The testimony of Mr. Etches at the Senate Inquiry sheds light on Thomas’s calm but urgent direction to the stewards, as well as attests to his overwhelming concern for the passengers.

[I saw Mr. Andrews at] 20 minutes past 12. He stopped me. I was going along B Deck, and he asked had I waked all my passengers… Mr. Andrews then told me to come down on C Deck with him, and we went down the pantry staircase together. Going down he told me to be sure and make the passengers open their doors, and to tell them the lifebelts were on top of the wardrobes and on top of the racks, and to assist them in every way I could to get them on, which I endeavored to do.

We walked along C Deck together. The purser was standing outside of his office, in a large group of ladies. The purser was asking them to do as he asked them, and to go back in their rooms and not to frighten themselves, but, as a preliminary caution, to put the lifebelts on, and the stewards would give them every attention. Mr. Andrews said: "That is exactly what I have been trying to get them to do," and, with that, he walked down the staircase to go on lower D Deck. That is the last I saw of Mr. Andrews.

Stewardess Mary Sloan likewise was awed by Thomas’s calm and determined selflessness, despite the fact that his face “had a look as though he were heart-broken”.

She said, “He was here, there, and everywhere, looking after everybody… thinking of everybody but himself.”

Stwardess Annie Robinson’s report likewise speaks to Thomas’s drive to protect those on board. After asking her to open up all the unoccupied rooms and distribute their lifebelts and blankets, as well as to make sure all the ladies had left their rooms, he gently chided her for not wearing her own lifebelt. Per the biography of Thomas Andrews written by Shan Bullock, their exchange went like this.

“Did I not tell you to put on your life-belt. Surely you have one?”

She answered, “Yes, but I thought it mean to wear it.”

“Never mind that,” said he. “Now, if you value your life, put on your coat and belt, then walk round the deck and let the passengers see you.”

“He left me then,” writes the stewardess, “and that was the last I saw of what I consider a true hero and one of whom his country has cause to be proud.”

All of his bravery and pro-activity is belied by perhaps the most famous of all Titanic’s oft-called Last Sightings: that of Thomas Andrews, standing mute, dazed, and lifebelt-less at the fireplace of the First-Class Smoking Room.

Starboard view of the First-Class Smoking Room on Olympic. Thomas Andrews was encountered by the fireplace in Titanic's identical room.

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This comes from First-Class Steward John Stewart, who was one of two stewards charged with the Verandah Café. Per the Bullock biography, Stewart’s encounter went thusly.

[Stewart] saw him standing along in the smoking room, his arms folded over his breast and the belt lying on a table near him, "Aren't you going to have a try for it, Mr. Andrews?"

He never answered or moved. "Just looked like one stunned."

Thing is, this wasn’t the last sighting of Thomas Andrews.

And it was never purported to be.

While Thomas was indeed seen in the Smoking Room, the timeline for this particular Last Sighting is just plain off. Stewart stated that he saw Mr. Andrews only minutes before he took to Lifeboat 15, which left the ship at 1:40a.m. The ship did not sink until 2:20a.m.

It’s a heartbreaking moment for sure, but it was never set forth as Thomas’s last moments alive.

In truth, Bullock states directly thereafter that Thomas was seen on deck during Titanic' final few minutes; he was throwing deck chairs and anything else to hand overboard before being washed off the deck. And as per Mess Steward William Fitzpatrick and disclosed by the authors of “On a Sea of Glass,” he was last witnessed being washed off the bridge alongside or nearby Captain Smith.

Thomas's body was never recovered.

On April 19, 1912, the Andrews family in Belfast received the telegram they’d dreaded.

Interview Titanic’s officers. All unanimous Andrews heroic until death, thinking only safety others. Extend heartfelt sympathy to all.

He was 39 years old.

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“A Trip to See the Stars”: The Spedden Family

"A Trip to See the Stars": The Spedden Family

Frederic Oakley Spedden and his wife Daisy boarded Titanic as First-Class passengers with their six-year-old son Robert Douglas, who was called by his middle name. Along with them was their maid, Miss Helen Wilson, and Douglas’s private nurse, Elizabeth Burns.

Douglas was precious to his very doting parents, as he was an only child. And he loved Elizabeth dearly, and called her “Muddie Boons” because he couldn’t pronounce her name properly. They were practically inseparable.

Mr. and Mrs. Spedden were from New York, and both of them were the heirs of extremely affluent families. The family had been traveling abroad since 1911, beginning in Algiers, and going on to Monte Carlo, then Paris. They had also spent some time in northern Africa, including Egypt.

They elected to sail on Titanic for the return home.

Young Douglas Spedden is one of Titanic’s most recognizable characters. If you’ve seen enough Titanic-related photos—or recall the moment in the 1997 film, when that Jack Dawson casually steals a First-Class passenger’s coat—then you’ll recall Douglas.

He’s the little boy playing with a spinning top on deck.

He stands on his toes in the bright sun, as his father, who has a camera strapped to his shoulder, coaches him. Two unnamed men, standing still in their greatcoats, watch with their back to the camera; one smokes a cigar, the other holds a cigarette behind his back.

The photo was taken on April 11, 1912, by Fr. Francis Browne, who labeled it thusly in his personal photo album.

“The children’s playground” Taken about midday on the Saloon deck.

As reproduced in "Father Browne's Titanic Album: A Passenger's Photographs & Personal Memoir" by E.E. O'Donnell. Messenger Publications, 2011.

We know a bit about how the Speddens spent their time thanks to Daisy’s diary. For instance, Daisy, along with Douglas's nurse, took to the Turkish baths on Saturday, April 13, 1912. Turkish baths were a very popular luxury in the Edwardian period, so Daisy had every reason to believe that it would be delightful.

It was not.

She wrote in her diary, “It was my first and will be my last, I hope, as I’ve never disliked anything so much in my life.”

Daisy did, however, enjoy the dip in the heated swimming pool that followed. She also wrote that she spent Saturday afternoon playing cards.

The Speddens responded very quickly once they learned of the collision with the iceberg. Frederic and Daisy had woken up by the sound of the iceberg scraping the ship, and went up on deck in their nightclothes. When they noticed the listing deck, they dashed downstairs to wake their servants. Muddie Boons immediately roused Douglas.

When he asked why, she told him they were going to take “a trip to see the stars.”

Luckily for the entire family--but especially Frederic Spedden--they found their way to the starboard side of the ship and Lifeboat 3. With no other women in plain view, First Officer William Murdoch permitted Mr. Spedden to join his wife and son in the lifeboat.

Helen Wilson's recounting dated April 22, 1912, described it in detail.

Mr. Spedden was saved by what might be really called a leap for life. He had put his family into the boat which was lowered at once, and there were no more women in the immediate vicinity, so one of the officers seeing room for one more said to Mr. Spedden. 'You may as well jump and save yourself.' He did so and landed in the boat, thus joining his family.

And in all of this, Douglas had a stowaway.

He'd taken with him was his favorite stuffed toy: a Steiff polar bear that his Auntie Nan had purchased from F.A.O. Schwartz, perhaps as a Christmas gift, in 1911.

Fittingly, its name was Polar.

Douglas slept through the night in the arms of Elizabeth Burns, and awoke at dawn. When he looked around him, he was in awe. “Oh, Muddie," he said. "Look at the beautiful North Pole with no Santa Claus on it.”

Douglas was still sleepy when he was brought on board Carpathia. Like all the children rescued from Titanic, he was hoisted aboard in a burlap bag or net, because crewmen feared they would fall from the ladder climbing up the side of the ship.

And Douglas, quite accidentally, left Polar behind. When he realized his beloved toy had gone missing, he was nearly inconsolable. Daisy and Frederic may have sought a replacement in Carpathia's souvenir shop. But for Douglas, only Polar would do.

It was procedural, for rescue ships to haul in a lost vessel’s lifeboats—typically, by hoisting it up via a hook on one end. And when they drew up lifeboat 3, a waterlogged white toy rolled onto the deck.

The crewman who found him wrung him of his water and kept him, hoping to bring it home as a gift for his child. But when he encountered the Speddens and a still-upset Douglas, he connected the dots and presented the little boy with his stuffed bear.

By the grace of fate, all five of the Spedden party were saved—six, actually, if one includes Polar.

In 1913, Daisy wrote and illustrated a little book, which she titled “My Story.” It was, she hoped, a way to explain to young Douglas what they’d all been through, and gave it to her son as a gift for Christmas.

The story was written from the perspective of Polar, from his "birth" in Germany and his life in the toy store, to his happy adoption by Douglas and all his extraordinary adventures since, including the sinking of Titanic.

Sadly, though, the Spedden family's miraculous escape from Titanic did not inoculate them against heartbreak.

In the summer of 1915, while at his family summer home in Maine, Douglas ran out from within some shrubbery to catch a tennis ball and was hit by a car.

The frantic driver, a 27-year-old man named Foster Harrington, carried Douglas back to his home. Douglas briefly regained consciousness in the day following the accident, but declined rapidly and died from “concussion of the brain.” He was one of the first deaths by automobile in the state.

He was only 9 years old.

Bereft, Frederic and Daisy left their son’s room entirely untouched. So there Polar lived, at the bottom of a basket of toys, alone for decades without his boy. And as Douglas's parents died, poor Polar was lost to time.

Until Daisy Spedden’s diaries, along with Polar's original storybook, was discovered in a steamer trunk  in an attic.

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“Dressed Up in Our Best”: Benjamin Guggenheim & Victor Giglio

"Dressed Up in Our Best": Benjamin Guggenheim & Victor Giglio

Benjamin Guggenheim was scheduled to set sail on the Lusitania, until she was put out of commission for repairs.

So he elected to sail on Titanic.

Ben was the fifth son of the Guggenheim dynasty; his father, Meyer Guggenheim, was a mining magnate. It’s rumored that Ben, born in 1865 in Philadelphia, was the stereotype of a playboy; unlike his four older brothers, he had never known a life without luxury. He’d also reportedly been spoiled by his overly doting mother.

Benjamin Guggenheim.

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Ben married a woman named Florette in 1884; they had three daughters. It was apparently a tense and nearly miserable union; per a 1978 biography by John Davis, Ben’s was hardly more than “a marriage of family fortunes."

Eventually, Ben found himself spending more and more time in Paris while Florette lived her life in New York.

Ben boarded Titanic in Cherbourg with his trusted valet Victor Giglio, as well as his chauffeur. Along with them was Ben’s mistress, Leontine Aubart, who was a performer in Paris, as well as her maid Emma Sagesser.

Ben was 46; Leontine, who went by “Ninette,” was 24.

There doesn’t appear to be much information about how Ben met Ninette, although it’s presumed it was while she was performing in Paris.

Nor do we know much about Ninette herself during the Titanic era. She was blonde and petite, and was a singer. That’s about all.

There has been speculation, however, that Ninette was actually a courtesan, but this has in no way been proven.

Whatever she was, she is rumored to have performed across Paris, particularly at a famed Montmartre bar called Cabaret du Lapin Agile.

Cabaret du Lapin Agile in Montmartre, Paris, circa 1905.

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Ninette and Emma occupied cabin B-35; Ben and Victor, B-84. We don’t know how they behaved on the ship, but it can be assumed that they at least attempted to be discreet, given how scandalous they were.

Ninette and Emma were awoken by the collision with the iceberg. They went to alert Ben and Victor of the danger, and apparently woke them up in doing so.

Emma stated in an interview in 1937 that Victor chided her for making a fuss. Since the interview was conducted in German, interpretations vary, but essentially, Victor teased, “Oh, come on, icebergs? What even is an ‘iceberg’?”

Alongside Victor, Steward Henry Etches testified to attending to Ben in the moments after the collision.

They were in their room. I took the lifebelts out. The lifebelts in this cabin were in the wardrobe, in a small rack, and the cabin was only occupied by two. There were three lifebelts there, and I took the three out and put one on Mr. Guggenheim. He apparently had only gone to his room, for he answered the first knock. He said: "This will hurt." I said, "You have plenty of time, put on some clothes and I will be back in a few minutes."

Etches ended up pulling a large sweater over Ben’s lifebelt. On the boat deck, he saw the group moving from one lifeboat to another; Ben, he said, was trying to assist in loading the lifeboats and echoing the order of “Women first.”

Ben and Victor put Ninette and Emma in Lifeboat 9, despite their protests. Emma reported that Ben took a moment to speak to her in German. "We will soon each other again! It's just a repair. Tomorrow the Titanic will go on again."

The girls wore nothing but their nightclothes and light coats, and suffered from painful exposure as a result. Despite, this Ninette later waxed poetic in her account to the Daily Mirror dated May 13, 1912.

I had in my cabin jewels worth 4,000 (GPB) as well as many trunks of dresses and hats. One does not come from Paris and buy one's clothes in America. That is understood, is it not?

Nothing could I take with me; nothing at all. Just as we were, in our night clothes, [Emma] and I went on deck where the lifebelts were put around us. One the deck there was no commotion; none at all. Oh these English! How brave, how calm, how beautiful! I, who am patriotic french woman say that never can I forget that group of Englishmen- every one of them a perfect gentleman- calmly puffing cigarettes and cigars and watching the women and children being placed in the boats…

My last night of the upper decks was still a group of those Englishmen, still with cigarettes in mouth, facing the death so bravely that it was all the more terrible.

 

Ben and Victor were, in many opinions, the shining example of this valiant stoicism that Ninette so admired.

And so, the two men are often remembered for the final moments of their friendship, when they would not be persuaded to be parted.

After seeing off Ninette and Emma, it is reported that both Ben and Victor disappeared below decks.

When Etches saw them again, their lifebelts were gone, and they were dressed in fine evening attire. They looked as though the hadn't a care between them.

Things weren't so bad at first, but when I saw Mr. Guggenheim about three-quarters of an hour after the crash there was great excitement. What surprised me was that both Mr. Guggenheim and his secretary were dressed in their evening clothes. They had deliberately taken off their sweaters, and as nearly as I can remember they wore no lifebelts at all.

“’What's that for?’ I asked.

“We’ve dressed up in our best,’ replied Mr. Guggenheim, ‘and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.’

Ben then asked Etches to communicate a message to Florette back in New York City.

The steward produced a piece of paper. He had written the message on it, he said, to be certain that it would be correct. This was the brief message:

"If anything should happen to me, tell my wife in New York that I've done my best in doing my duty."

Apparently, this was not Ben’s only attempt to communicate a last message back to Florette. According to the Washington Times dated April 20, 1912, Steward John Johnson reported that he had also been given a task.

[Benjamin Guggenheim] sent for Johnson, who he knew was an expert swimmer, and for his secretary and asked them, if they should be saved, to get word to Mrs. Guggenheim.

"Tell her, Johnson," the steward related, "that I played the game straight to the end and that no woman was left on board this ship because Ben Guggenheim was a coward. Tell her that my last thoughts will be of her and our girls."

Guggenheim then, according to Johnson, lit a cigar and sauntered up to the boat deck and was engulfed with the ship.

The enduring mystery is why Ben Guggenheim never entered a lifeboat.

Lifeboat 9 was the fifth boat to be launched on the starboard side by First Officer William Murdoch, who let men aboard  when there were no more women in his line of sight.

One could argue for chivalry, of course, but a recent discovery has led historians to believe that maybe Ben simply refused to abandon Victor.

A photo of Victor Giglio has come to light. Taken in 1901, it’s an image of Victor when he was only 13 and boarding at Ampleforth College in Yorkshire.

Victor’s father was Italian; his mother, Egyptian. This confirmed photo of Victor not only gives us an idea of what he would have looked like when he went down with the Titanic at all of 24 years old, but also demonstrates that he had dark eyes and a dark complexion—which almost guaranteed that he would have been refused a seat in a lifeboat.

This has led some to believe that Ben would not board a lifeboat while leaving his dear friend and confidante behind to die.

What happened to Benjamin Guggenheim and Victor Giglio as Titanic sank will never be known. Neither were ever recovered.

On board Carpathia, Ninette sent out a single telegram.

Moi sauvee mais Ben perdu

“I’m saved, but Ben lost”

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“Everything & Everybody Spellbound”: Dorothy Gibson

"Everything & Everybody Spellbound": Dorothy Gibson

Dorothy Gibson was 22 years old and a "leading photoplayer" in motion pictures by April of 1912.

She’d been signed on as a leading lady by a French motion picture company called Éclair after a stint as an actress and dancer on Broadway. Even more famously, she had been the muse for artist Harrison Fisher, modeling for many of his illustrations. Over the years, she graced postcards, magazine covers, and other merchandise.

Dorothy Gibson was the model for this illustration by Harrison Fisher, circa 1911.

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Dorothy and her mother departed for Egypt on St. Patrick's Day of 1912, and evidently took the opportunity to go for a lark to Europe as well. Dorothy had only just completed a series of films, and needed some time for self-restoration.

They were enjoying Italy when Dorothy received word from her producer and secret lover Jules Brulatour that she was needed back to complete a new series, and she and her mother bought their First-Class tickets while in Paris.

A publicity shot of Dorothy Gibson, circa 1911.

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Dorothy was enjoying a late-night game of bridge with her mother and two new gentleman friends when Titanic struck the iceberg. One of the men, banker William Sloper, clearly took a shine to Dorothy, as evidenced by his  account of the sinking.

I returned to the library of the ship and sat down at one of the desks to write thank you letters to some of my London friends with whom I had visited during the two weeks I was there. A very pretty young woman approached my desk and introduced herself as Miss Dorothy Gibson. She explained that she and her mother were seated across the room hoping that they would be able to find another card player to make a fourth at bridge. Although I was not then and never have been a good bridge player I accepted to join her as soon as I finished my letter.

Dorothy recounted the circumstances of the card game herself, as well as her recollection of the moment of collision, to the New York Dramatic Mirror, which was published in the May 1, 1912 issue.

Four of us had been breaking the rules of the boat by playing bridge on Sunday evening. After the steward had told us that he must put out the lights, we begged to finish the rubber and have some Poland water. These ceremonies over, I walked down to my room, at just 11.40. No sooner had I stepped into my apartment than there suddenly came this long drawn, sickening crunch.

 

Mr. Sloper, who had agreed to take a stroll on the promenade with Dorothy, continues in his retelling.

Suddenly the ship gave a lurch and seemed to slightly keel over to the left. At the same moment Dorothy came hastily up the stairs and we ran together onto the promenade deck on the starboard side. Peering off into the starlit night, we could both of us see something white looming up out of the water and rapidly disappearing off the stern.

As soon as the ladies returned, the four of us passed out onto the forward promenade deck. As we came amidship I asked the others if they didn't think we were walking down hill?

According to Mr. Sloper, the group continued to walk, all the while growing increasingly concerned about the deck tilt. It was then that they nearly collided with Thomas Andrews.

At this moment the designer of the ship at whose table in the dining saloon Mrs. Gibson and Dorothy had been sitting at mealtime during the voyage came bouncing up the stairs three steps at a time. Dorothy rushed over to him, putting her hands on his arm demanded to know what had happened.

Andrews apparently did not answer Dorothy with anything other than a “worried look on his face” as he continued running up the stairs.

The group of four—Dorothy, her mother, William Sloper, and the other bridge-player Frederick Steward—dispersed to grab their coats and lifebelts, then reunited up on deck; they found themselves near Lifeboat 7, which was on the starboard side, and therefore presided over by First Officer William Murdoch and Third Officer Herbert Pitman.

They could barely hear one another over the roar of the steam escaping the funnel that stretched above them.

A publicity shot of Dorothy Gibson.

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Dorothy only stated that she and her mother were soon ordered into the lifeboat, and that she had to quite literally jump in as it swung to and fro on the davits.

William Sloper went into more detail, stating that an unspecified officer used a megaphone, inviting passengers to enter the boat if they’d like. A few stepped on before it was the group's turn to decide whether to stay or go, at which point Mrs. Gibson and Dorothy were placed into the boat.

For the rest of his life, Mr. Sloper credited Dorothy as his savior that night, because she refused to let go of his hand and insisted that he and Mr. Steward get in the boat, or she would not leave without them. No one else stepped forward, and the men relented to Dorothy’s pleas, even though the many still on deck around the boat continued to stand indecisive and still.

According to Mr. Sloper, Dorothy seemed to be the only one who comprehended the gravity of the situation at hand, and so was adamant about boarding the lifeboat.

Every passenger seemed to have taken a firm grip on his nerves. Dorothy Gibson was the only one who seemed to realize the desperate situation we were in because she had become quite hysterical and kept repeating over and over so that people standing near us could hear, ' I'll never ride in my little grey car again '. There was no doubt in Dorothy's mind in what she wanted to do.

It took some more minutes, but 19 more people eventually took seats in the lifeboat; when no one else stepped forward to board, the unnamed officer had the boat lowered away.

Dorothy recounted that there was no plug in the lifeboat and that water was flooding in through the floor, but that everyone in the boat worked to stuff it with, as she put it, “lingerie of the women and the garments of men.”

Dorothy’s description of the sinking itself is particularly haunting.

It seemed like a nightmare. The lights flickered out, deck by deck, until the bow was quite submerged. Then with a lurch, the Titanic slid forward under the waves. Instantly there sounded a rumble like Niagara, with two dull explosions.

A pause of silence held everything and everybody spellbound, until the stern shot back into sight and immediately sank again. Then, there burst out the most ghastly cries, shrieks, yells and moans that a mortal could ever imagine. No one can describe the frightful sounds, that gradually died away to nothing.

At the boarish insistence of her producer-slash-lover Jules Brulatour, Dorothy was IMMEDIATELY set up to star in the world's first film about the disaster: "Saved from the Titanic." It was a 10-minute long silent film, which premiered all of 29 days after Titanic sank on May 14, 1912.

Just like today, the sinking created a ravenous market, so needless to say, "Saved from the Titanic" drew a large crowd. The film was generally well-received for its technically aspects, and Dorothy was praised for her acting and bravery in reliving the raw trauma for its benefit.

There were also, of course, objections to the brazen commercialization of such a violent tragedy mere weeks after it had occurred.

Advertisement from "Saved from the Titanic," which debuted on May 14, 1912. Courtesy of Eclair Films.

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"Saved from the Titanic" happened with such haste that Dorothy, who essentially played herself, wore the exact clothes that she had actually worn during the sinking.

She is rumored to have often undergone debilitating mental anguish, often breaking down in tears, during production. But she completed it regardless, because it was an “opportunity to pay tribute to those who gave their lives on that awful night”.

The original and only confirmed prints of “Saved from the Titanic” were destroyed in 1914, in a fire at the Éclair studios in New Jersey. It is considered one of the most significant "lost films" in cinematic history.

A still of Dorothy Gibson in "Saved from the Titanic" in 1912.

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Shortly thereafter, Dorothy ended her film career.

In 1913, Dorothy was driving Jules Brulatour's sports car in New York when she ran over and killed a pedestrian; in the resulting trial, it came to light that Dorothy was, in fact, Brulatour's mistress.

Within a few years, Dorothy withdrew from public life entirely after her scandalous marriage to and swift divorce from Jules Brulatour.

Following that, there is very little in the way of information about her to be had.

But we know that three decades after Titanic sank, Dorothy found herself living in Paris and visiting her mother in Italy at the onset of Hitler’s rise to power.

But owing to the trauma she experienced on Titanic, refused to travel via sea to America.

So there, in Italy, Dorothy Gibson, the Titanic survivor and former starlet, was eventually arrested for being an anti-Fascist agitator and jailed in the San Vittore prison in Milan.

She was eventually aided in her escape from the prison she called “a living death” by Italian official(s) who insisted that she was not anti-Fascist, but in fact was willing to become a double agent to spy for the German cause.

So in 1944, she appeared quite suddenly in Switzerland for interrogation by the American consulate. Her allegiances--whatever they actually were--were never determined.

In 1945, Dorothy returned to Paris.

In 1956, she died alone in her suite at Hotel Ritz.

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“Our Babe”: The Mystery of Titanic’s ‘Unknown Child’

"Our Babe": The Mystery of Titanic's 'Unknown Child'

Clifford Crease was 24 years old when he and his crewmates embarked on the grimmest journey of their lives: collecting the dead from Titanic.

The crew of the Mackay-Bennett recovers a Titanic victim.

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The Mackay-Bennett arrived to the site on the night of April 19, and saw that there were far more bodies than anyone could have anticipated.

At 6:00 a.m. on April 20, their work began.

All crew on the Mackay-Bennett were required to keep a log or diary of their gruesome task in the wake of Titanic. Only Clifford's, which has been donated, and one other are known to remain in existence.

One by one, small skiff boats were dispatched from the Mackay-Bennett, where they began manually pulling corpses from the water, to describe their faces and rifle through their pockets.

It had already been almost a week that they'd been bobbing in the water, exposed to the elements and ships passing through the massive debris field. Most of the bodies were mangled from the sinking--lacerated, bruised, many with broken bones.

(Please take a moment to reflect on how traumatic this reaping truly was. The men on board the Mackay-Bennett never get the credit they deserve.)

After the third body, a female third-class passenger, had been pulled aboard and catalogued, Clifford Crease's work turned from solemn to sorrowful.

Over the side of the boat, he scooped up a fourth body. Tiny. Blond, ocean-pale, and eerily still. Unlike the corpses all around them, this body was pristine--more doll than person, we might imagine. Clifford cradled the dead baby boy in what seemed like interminable silence.

After searching for identification and finding none, they reverently noted the baby as follows.

NO. 4 - MALE - ESTIMATED AGE, 2 - HAIR, FAIR
CLOTHING - Grey coat with fur on collar and cuffs; brown serge frock; petticoat; flannel garment; pink woolen singlet - brown shoes and stockings.
NO MARKS WHATEVER
PROBABLY THIRD CLASS

Clifford and his mates were in shock.

Back on board the Mackay-Bennett, the decision had been made to bury steerage passengers at sea, owing to a lack of space and shortage of embalming fluid. So only the First and Second Classes were embalmed or put on ice and returned to Halifax.

An exception was made for the nameless baby that was "probably third class." No one could bring themselves to commit him to the sea, all alone forever.

After recovering a total of 306 bodies from the site, the Mackay-Bennett returned to Halifax. Bodies were distributed to funeral homes, morgues, and grieving families. Photos were taken. Days passed.

But no one claimed the baby.

Hearses queued at Halifax Wharf, waiting to transport the corpses of Titanic victims to local funeral parlors. Courtesy of Nova Scotia Archives & Records Management (NSARM).

PUBLIC DOMAIN

The sailors who had been on board the Mackay-Bennett that nightmarish day then took matters into their own hands and adopted the child in death. Spearheaded by Clifford Crease, they arranged a funeral and pooled their wages for a small coffin and headstone.

In the coffin, they placed a brass plate engraved with two words: "Our babe."

Clifford acted as one of the baby's pallbearers.

The Unknown Child now rested in the Halifax's Fairview Cemetery. Suspecting that his identity might be that of 2-year-old Gosta Palsson, youngest son of Third-Class passenger Alma Palsson, he was interred in close proximity to her grave.

Years went by, and Clifford could never bring himself to forget The Unknown Child. Every year on the anniversary of the sinking, he laid a wreath on the grave.

And when Clifford Crease died in 1961, he was interred mere meters away from the child who had haunted him all of his life.

According to his family, Clifford didn't speak about his grim time on the Mackay-Bennett until the end of his life, prompted by a program he was watching on television about Walter Lord's "A Night to Remember." According to Clifford's granddaughter, "He never fully recovered... He told our father it was the worst thing that ever happened to him."

In 2001, two Canadian scientists named Ryan Parr and Alan Ruffman collaborated in order to find the identity of Titanic's Unknown Child.

They exhumed the remains, but there was nothing left other than a fragment of an arm bone, and three little teeth. Mercifully, the plate laid in the coffin by the crew of the Mackay-Bennett had protected these scarce remains. And miraculously, that was enough.

The remains were not a match to the Palsson family, who had originally given permission for the remains to be disinterred. They expanded the scope of their candidates from among 5 boys under the age of 3 who had died on Titanic.

In addition to Gosta Palsson, there were:

Gilbert Danbom 5 months old, from Sweden

Alfred Peacock 7 months old, from England

Eino Panula 13 months old, from Finland

Sidney Goodwin 19 months old, from England

Eugene Rice 2 years old, from Ireland

With the long-term assistance of geneaologists and historians, as well as willing descendants, Ruffman and Parr tracked down genetic samples from all 5 families of the little boys.

From the candidates remaining after Gosta Palsson was ruled out, 3 were evident non-matches; this left only Sidney Goodwin and Eino Panula as the possible Unknown Child, due to a shared mutation in their mitochondrial DNA.

Looking at the teeth that had been recovered from the grave, the scientists determined that they'd belonged to a child in the 9-15 month range. By process of elimination, Ruffman and Parr published their results: The Unknown Child was 13-month-old Eino, whose family was traveling from Finland.

It was accepted by the majority that the Unknown Child finally had a name.

But some, including Parr and Ruffman, suspected it was the incorrect one.

All because of a pair of shoes.

In 2007, Dr. Parr admitted that they may have made a mistake.

Back in 2002, a man named Earle Northover had donated a pair of brown-leather baby shoes to the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. They had belonged, he said, to the Unknown Child.

According to Earle, the wee shoes had been removed from the baby, and saved from destruction by his grandfather Clarence Northover, a sargeant for the Halifax Police Department. Earle wrote the following in his letter to the Museum.

Clothing was burned to stop souvenir hunters but he was too emotional when he saw the little pair of brown, leather shoes about fourteen centimeters long, and didn’t have the heart to burn them. When no relatives came to claim the shoes, he placed them in his desk drawer at the police station and there they remained for the next six years, until he retired in 1918.

The shoes, Dr. Parr thought, were too big for a 13-month-old to wear. So they retested the DNA samples with the U.S. Armed Forces Identification Laboratory, where the team isolated a single, but significant and rare, genetic distinction.

With around a 98% certainty, Parr's team amended their previous results.

Thanks to the little shoes hidden in Sargeant Northover's desk drawer, the Uknown Child was identified as Sidney Goodwin.

Sidney Goodwin, Titanic's Unknown Child.

PUBLIC DOMAIN (taken in 1911)

At 19 months old, Sidney was the youngest of six children. His entire family was traveling from England to America where their father, Frederick, was set to have a new job at the new power station in Niagara Falls.

The Goodwins had planned to set to sail on the S.S. New York, but were transferred to Titanic as a result of the coal miners' strike.

All eight members of the Goodwin family--both parents, and all of their children--died when Titanic sank.

Aside from Sidney, who would spend almost a century unidentified, no member of the Goodwin family was recovered.

Sidney Goodwin's parents and five older siblings circa 1910. The entire family died in the sinking.

PUBLIC DOMAIN (published in UK periodical(s) in 1912)

The Goodwin descendants held a memorial service at the grave of The Unknown Child on August 6, 2008. One by one, they read the name of each child lost on Titanic out loud, ringing a bell for each.

The family elected to leave the headstone installed by the crew of the Mackay-Bennett.

As a Goodwin cousin said in an interview, "The tombstone of the unknown child represents all of the children who perished on the Titanic, and we left it that way."

Open post

“Our Boats Waited in Deadly Silence”: Karl Behr & Helen Monypeny Newsom

“Our Boats Waited in Deadly Silence”: Karl Behr & Helen Monypeny Newsom

Determination, thy name may well be Karl Behr.

Karl was born in Brooklyn to German parents. He graduated from Yale in 1906. Moreover, he was admitted to the Bar Association in 1910, and was by all accounts an extremely successful lawyer. He also mined for silver in Mexico.

In the meanwhile, Karl was one hell of a lawn tennis player. He played on the U.S. Davis Cup team in 1907; in that same year, he was ranked number 3 in the sport. He was also runner-up at Wimbledon in 1907.

All in all, it seemed to have been a hell of an excellent year for Karl, though he enjoyed similar successes in tennis for many years thereafter.

Karl Behr in the Men's Doubles at Wimbledon in 1907.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

At some point, Karl fell in love with Helen Monypeny Newsom, the gorgeous friend of his little sister, Gertrude.

And, as in many grand love stories, Helen's mother and stepfather, Sallie and Richard Beckwith, did not approve of their romance. Karl was 27, and Helen was just 19.

Helen’s parents disliked Karl so ardently that, in an effort to deter his courtship of their daughter, they took Helen on a trip to Europe in February 1912.

As though that would stop Karl.

Karl furtively booked a trip on the same outbound vessel, and slipped away with Helen in Morocco.

And Madeira.

And the South of France.

The star-crossed lovers at some point agreed to meet back in NY upon their individual returns.

Karl Behr playing tennis. Published in "Methods & Players of Modern Lawn Tennis" in 1915.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

But Helen was a delightfully headstrong girl in her own right. So while Karl was in Berlin, Helen sent him a telegram.

"SAILING HOME FROM ENGLAND ON TITANIC'S MAIDEN VOYAGE."

With this alert, Karl concocted a business trip and booked passage on Titanic in order to continue their courtship. And so, with an engagement ring in his pocket, Karl Behr set out to surprise his love. He booked passage on a train down to Cherbourg alongside a number of other First-Class passengers, including his future tennis rival, Richard Norris Williams.

After a pleasant train ride through the French countryside, Karl joined Helen and the Beckwiths at the stopover at Cherbourg.

He supposedly spent most of his time ingratiating himself to Helen's disapproving parents. And there just might have been—according to their granddaughter—also a lot of covert kisses and clandestine handholding during the voyage.

Titanic departing Southampton for Cherbourg, France, where Karl joined Helen and her family.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

According to family lore, Karl was the one who alerted Helen and her parents when he saw people donning lifevests and a noticed a "list to starboard"--which contradicts the usual report of a list to port. Although, since the damage did occur on the starboard side, a negligible list could have occurred before the water sought its own level, resulting in the famous list to port.

The party approached and were permitted to enter the second lifeboat launched starboard, by Third Officer Herbert Pitman and First Officer William Murdoch. According to Karl, he went up to boat deck with Mr. Beckwith only to say goodbye to Helen, but both men were asked to jump in to row by White Star Chairman Bruce Ismay.

Karl was interviewed by his alma mater's periodical the Yale Daily News on April 18, 1912, while standing on the pier in New York after having disembarked the rescue ship Carpathia.

Karl's was the first survivor interview to be published.

Our boats waited in deadly silence until, at 2:30 a.m., the Titanic settled at the bow and took her final plunge. The sight was too horrible for description as the men on board rushed toward the stern only to be engulfed and sucked down by the suction.

Per contemporary newspaper reports, it was in the lifeboat that Karl proposed to Helen. But their granddaughter, Lynn Sanford, dissents. When interviewed, she said, "The idea that my grandfather proposed to my grandmother on a lifeboat while people around them were dying? No, that wasn't him."

However Helen and Karl finally managed to become engaged, Titanic seemed to have softened the Beckwiths' hearts.

Helen Moneypeny Newsom on her wedding day, as published by the Boston Sunday Post dated November 8, 1914. Courtesy of Encyclopedia Titanica.

PUBLIC DOMAIN (published prior to 1923)

Helen and Karl were married on March 1, 1913. The New York Times article of the wedding published on March 2 described Helen's dress in great detail.

The bride, who walked up the nave with her stepfather, Mr. Beckwith, who gave her in marriage, wore a gown of white satin charmeuse with a long veil of duches point that was draped in with the gown in pannier effect, the lace being carried down into a train. The gown was also trimmed with duchess lace. She carried lilies of the valley and white orchids... Both Mr. Behr and his bride are survivors of the Titanic disaster.

By all accounts, despite winning his hard-fought love, as well as his wild professional and athletic successes, Karl seems to have suffered from debilitating survivor guilt, though Lynn Sanford states that though it was evident to her, her grandfather never admitted to as much outright.

Karl was part of the committee formed to honor Captain Arthur Rostron of the Carpathia, the ship which had rescued survivors at dawn on April 15, 1912. When the Carpathia docked at her pier in New York for the first time since returning with Titanic survivors in 1912, the committee boarded and requested the Captain Rostron issue an order for all hands to muster in the ship's First-Class dining saloon. There, Captain Rostron was presented with an engraved silver cup and a gold medal of honor.

The New York Times reported on the event in its May 30, 1912, issue.

It was a striking picture, that of the brawny, weatherbeaten old bo'sun and the quartermasters and sailors in their blue uniforms mingling with the soot-begrimed firemen and coal passers who had come direct from the stokehole. In addition to the gold-laced uniforms of the officers and engineers, the cooks, in their white caps and aprons, were there with a big array of stewards. At the head of the table, beside cases of medals, was the silver loving cup, standing fifteen inches high, on an ebony base and bearing the following inscription:

Presented to Capt. A. H. Rostron, R. N. R., commander of the R. M. S. Carpathia.

In grateful recognition and appreciation of his heroism and efficient service in the rescue of the survivors of the Titanic on April 15, 1912, and of the generous and sympathetic treatment he accorded us on his ship.

FROM SURVIVORS OF THE TITANIC

 

Karl also testified against White Star in a class-action civil suit brought by other passengers; per Karl's testimony, Chair J. Bruce Ismay was acting in the capacity of supervisor as the lifeboats were being filled, and was not simply a passive passenger as White Star claimed. The suit ended in 1916 in a settlement of $663,000.00, after which the judge signed a decree putting an end to all lawsuits pertaining to the sinking of the Titanic.

Karl Behr helped to organize the Preparedness Parade--to encourage American intervention in the Great War--in New York City in 1916. But when the United States did intervene the following year, Karl was not permitted to join owing to his German heritage. Apparently unable to assuage years of sadness and remorse, Karl took briefly to a sanitarium in western New York state in 1917.

President Wilson at the Preparedness Parade in New York City, 1916. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

Lynn Sanford has said that her grandfather "wished he had saved someone from the water so that at least an act of heroism could have resulted from his survival... He was crushed by inarticulate sadness beyond anyone's understanding."

Karl died in 1949; Helen, in 1965.

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