Titanic Week - Soliloquism

“A First-Class Raconteur”: Chief Purser Hugh McElroy

Hugh McElroy was Titanic's Chief Purser--that is, the man in charge of the ship's business affairs, especially as it pertained to passenger expenses and needs.

Tickets for additional luxuries, like the Turkish baths and extra deck chairs. Wireless messages to friends and family. Drinks. Valuables locked in the ship's safe for secure storage. Cabin complaints and exchange. A seat at the Captain's dinner table. The so-called face of the entire crew. All the job of the Purser.

In short, Hugh was The Guy.

Everyone knew him; everyone loved him. He had previously served both the Adriatic, the Majestic, and Titanic's elder sister Olympic, all under Captain E.J. Smith. Hugh was beloved for his robust humor, his geniality, and his ability to "hold his own" without causing offense. He was a "first-class raconteur" and often called the "Commodore Purser" of White Star.

Hugh was one of three White Star representatives documented to have dined with the passengers, the others being Captain Smith and White Star Chairman J. Bruce Ismay.

And since Hugh was such a delight, many set their dining schedules around when Hugh had seats available at his table. In particular, Purser McElroy was known to invite solo passengers to his table; for instance, one of Hugh's regular entertainees was Second-Class passenger Lawrence Beesley.

In summary: Hugh was jolly and amenable, with a booming brogue, hearty laugh, and a whole lotta charm that came in handy often, particularly when dealing with the demands of high-maintenance passengers... or you know, when impulse-buying exotic pets.

By the time Hugh sailed on Titanic, he had a well-established reputation as a Bird Man. During his stint on the troopship Britannic during the Boer War, Hugh was strolling the docks at Cape Town, South Africa, when he heard "Landlover off the starboard!" squawked nearby.

The source was a stunning and boisterous white Australian parrot. Hugh bartered for him with his reluctant owner, reasoning that he would be a great source of morale on board. The owner relented, but he had a single condition: that the parrot, named "Petroleum Pete" to his chagrin, would be rechristened Baden-Powell.

The deal was struck, and the newly named Baden-Powell the Parrot became quite famous as Hugh's talkative shoulder accessory on board for years thereafter. "The Cedric's Parrot Mascot" was even so popular as to merit an article in the New York Times in 1903.

Some time later, Hugh's affinity for avians preceded him, and he was asked to mind another parrot en route home to Brooklyn named Jack Binns (the parrot, that is; not the passenger.)

So it makes sense that when a prized canary owned by a Mr. Meanwell boarded Titanic, Hugh was asked to mind it. The canary is often erroneously cited as one of the non-canine pets to go down with the ship, but in fact, it disembarked at Cherbourg to be reunited with its owner--but only after paying its ticket of 25c.

All in all, Hugh had been with White Star about thirteen years by 1912, though he had previously studied to join the clergy. Which is quite interesting, since it was actually Hugh who befriended Father Francis Browne and escorted him about the Titanic while it made port in Queenstown on April 11, 1912. As a result, Father Browne took what would become the last known photos of the Titanic, as well as some of her passengers and crew.

Shortly before Titanic set sail, Hugh wrote to one of his friends, a priest named Phillip Corr, on a postcard.

When Titanic struck the iceberg, Hugh was reportedly on C Deck, just completing his nightly rounds of collecting receipts from bars and visiting the Marconi wireless room.

It is said that, considering eyewitness testimony and his long-standing relationship with Captain Smith, Hugh was one of the first crewmembers to bear witness to Titanic's death sentence. After the collision, Hugh was seen with Captain Smith inspecting the mailroom.

He was then found at the Purser's office, trying to appease the throng of people to retrieve their valuables and claim receipts. After Captain Smith gave the order to abandon ship, Hugh went on deck and used his famous ease with passengers--as well as his imposing stature--to help speed along the filling of the lifeboats.

Hugh labored alongside his longtime colleague and friend, First Officer William Murdoch, in helping launch the lifeboats on the starboard side. And trying without reprieve to assist them was none other than the most shamed man on Titanic: J. Bruce Ismay, who was savaged by the entire world for saving himself.

As Hugh and First Officer Murdoch attempted to launch Collapsible C, a desperate and terrified mob swarmed the area. Jack Thayer, a survivor age 17, stated the mob was made entirely of men, and that two jumped down into the boat from the upper deck.

In one motion, Hugh McElroy's famously jovial voice bellowed over the bedlam, and he drew his pistol, firing it twice into the air. The two leapers were quickly removed and Hugh somehow brought the mob under control. He thereby saved 21 women and 10 children who would have otherwise been overturned--all third-class passengers.

There are multiple reports of gunshots that night, including the supposed suicide of an officer rumored initially to be Captain Smith, and most often to be First Officer Murdoch. But it would seem that at least two of those shots, fired by Purser McElroy, actually saved lives.

Hugh McElroy was last seen standing on deck near the gym with his colleagues.

There is no testimony as to how Hugh McElroy died. His body was recovered by the Mackay-Bennett and listed as follows.

A small group of the Titanic's staff were waiting for the final plunge. The water was lapping the deck at their very feet, and the end was merely a question of a few minutes. McElroy turned to his companions with a smile and shook hands with them, saying:

"Well, good-by, fellows. It looks like sand for breakfast to-morrow."

"That was typical of McElroy," says Brown. "He was one of the merriest, bravest men who ever lived. It was like him to have his little joke in the face of death."

Shipyard Casualties

Titanic, along with her sister vessels the Olympic and Britannic, were constructed in Belfast, Ireland. Belfast was an industrial city, and jobs were labor-intensive. And thanks to Belfast's ship-building company, Harland & Wolff, the construction of the behemoth liners was a city-wide operation that everyone talked about morning, noon, and night.

Belfast women primarily worked in the local linen industry, and their men were localized to the Harland & Wolff shipyards. These ladies were nicknamed "Millies," and the 15,000 men employed by Harland & Wolff worked in "The Yard."

Shipyard workers had 6am-5:30pm hours, Monday through Saturday. After work on Saturday, many often headed off to rally for the Glens--their shipyard football team--at The Oval, a local stadium, in a game against their local rivals, the Linfields. Then they would go on to exalt or lament in local pubs through East Belfast later in the evening. Rinse, repeat.

Sunday, of course, was for church. But for some, God could wait. According to Francis John Parkinson, Jr., who was less than five years old at the time and whose father was a woodworker for Titanic.

"I can well remember one Sunday afternoon, my father said... 'You tell your Sunday School teacher you'll not be in Sunday School next Sunday, for your dad's going to take you down to see the Titanic at Harland & Wolff.'"

"I remember looking up at this big steel hulk... and he described to me how someday they'll take away all the timber props that held up the ship, and they would release it into the water. And I remember quite well saying, 'But Dad, how can that big ship stay up in the water?' 'Oh,' he said, 'that ship will always stay up in the water. It will always stay up.'"

Parkinson's warm confidence speaks to the comeraderie felt throughout Belfast.

Building these ships was an extremely personal and sentimental effort for the thousands of people employed and bearing witness to their construction. Thomas Andrews, the ship's designer, was regularly found walking through The Yard with plans in his pockets, to talk with and best appreciate his workforce.

Contrary to popular imagination, White Star did not declare Titanic unsinkable. But a periodical called "The Shipbuilder" did. Therein, the RMS Titanic was pronounced "practically unsinkable" due to its novel fittings--such as the three-propeller system and fancy boilers--and its safety features, such as its watertight compartments and double hull, which would theoretically allow it to float even in spite of a crash.

One of the reasons safety regulations are so stringent today is because up until recent history, they didn't exist at all. If you crushed a finger, lost an arm, burnt your face on duty? That was the hazard of the job; wish your livelihood farewell. And a number of men, often referred to as Titanic's First Victims, were subject to that reality.

A total of eight shipyard men died during the construction of the world's finest ocean liner, although some could hardly be called that. Samuel Scott was the youngest at only 15 years old; John Kelly, 19. Many workers in the shipyard were as young as 13.

Samuel lived on his own down the street from his mum, who was listed in contemporary census as having six of her children living with her; in addition, the Scotts shared the house with another couple, who had three children themselves. Having the elders clear out to make space was common practice at the time, despite how objectively young Sam was.

On April 20, 1910, Sam was working on SS 401. As everyone did, Sam lined up to get his "bourd," the bit of wood with his assigned ship's number written on it. Sam was what they called a "catch boy" at The Yard, working as part of a riveting crew.

Essentially, the rivets were stoked in a coal bucket to white-heat by the "bellows boy;" the rivets were then removed with tongs and immediately tossed high in the air up to Sam, who caught them with his tongs and placed them in the hull so another boy, the "holder on," could keep it in place while it was driven in with a sledge hammer, and then a bevy of boys with hammers would alternatively work away at the still-cooling rivet to mold it into shape.

The boys were paid per rivet, so the smoother the teamwork, the hIgher the profit. But, if stories up from the ground and just a little clumsy, a catch boy could lose his job. Or his life.

High up alongside SS 401 on April 20, 1910, Sam slipped from a ladder on staging stories above the ground, and fell to his death; according to the inquiry performed as a result, no one witnessed his actual fall. His death was attributed to shock from fracture to the skull.

Sam was buried in an unmarked grave, but in 2011, Belfast historical organizations endeavored to get Sam a headstone.

Samuel Scott was one of eight to die building SS 401--the ship that a year following his death would be launched and christened the Titanic--but he's only one of five whose names we know. Three men are still unidentified. In spite of this, the Harland & Wolff Football and Social Club commissioned a commemorative plaque, which was dedicated in 2012.

“We Thought He Would Fiddle Himself Into Fame”: Violinist John Law Hume

Jock was by all accounts a merry and charming man. He was described by a former band-mate, Louis Cross, as "the life of every ship he ever played on and beloved of every one from cabin boys to captains."

He'd been a bright student with innate aptitude for the violin--a fact he was no doubt delighted by, given that his father liked to spin family mythologies about forebears being great Scottish composers and instrumentalists. Louis Cross also recalled that Jock boasted that his family had been full of "minstrels" in days long past.

Jock appears to have preferred moving about between tables when playing a saloon, and loved to engage with people--even having a bit of fun with uppity passengers.

For instance, according to Louis Cross, a lady was vexing Jock by being a right know-it-all. After giving Jock a very tiresome time, she requested a particularly intricate piece of classical music. Jock smiled, whispered to his band-mates and then they played--so beautifully, that the woman made the effort to thank them afterwards for accomplishing such a fabulously difficult classical number.

Except that it was actually ragtime, played super-slow.

Jock reported to Titanic with two violins in hand, as he was testing them to see which suited him best.

He was assigned to the five-man band led by Wallace Hartley, and which played during various occasions throughout the ship.

The Notoriously Unlucky Lucky Stewardess Violet Jessop wrote in her memoirs of Jock's exuberant performance on the evening of April 14, 1912. The two had known each other from their time on Titanic's elder sister, Olympic.

This was characteristically Jock, as far as any testimony can support. It was well-known that he loved to imbue otherwise staid pieces with some Scottish flair, and loved to play jigs.

Accounts such as Violet's have led to some speculation that Jock, not Wallace, was Titanic's bandleader, but this is misleading. Violet's memory, as well as others, was of a quartet. It's likely, though unable to be confirmed, that Jock casually joined up with the restaurant trio during his downtime from the five-piece band led by Wallace Hartley.

After the collision with the iceberg, Violet somehow bumped into Jock as he ran up the stairs.

Andrew was so livid about the request that he forwarded it to the Amalgamated Musicians' Union. They published it with a single line of commentary from the editor: "Comment would be superfluous!"

But there was more outrage on Andrew Hume's horizon.

As it turned out, Jock had died never knowing that his fiancee, Mary Costin, was pregnant. Jock's family refused to accept the baby for years thereafter, even fighting Mary's claim in court during her pregnancy. They lost.

In turn, Mary, evidently wanting to make her daughter's paternity perfectly clear, named her daughter Johnann Law Hume.

“Nearer, My God, to Thee”: Bandmaster Wallace Hartley

Wallace Hartley was from Lancashire, England, and was engaged to be married to Maria Robinson when he was asked to transfer from Cunard's Mauretania to be Titanic's bandmaster for her maiden voyage.

Wallace was described by his friend, Thomas Hyde, as "a very nice lad" who was "incapable of anything mean," despite being "a bit what you might call 'roughish.'"

We also know that Wallace hated the 9-to-5 life, because he took an job as a bank clerk under pressure from his father, who didn't want him to pursue a musician's lifestyle for fear of financial insecurity. Wallace found work in a mundane office "irksome".

Wallace was an outstanding musician, though his fellow classmate didn't recall him being a prodigy when they started violin together at school around age 12. But the headmaster's son wrote in 1958 of Wallace having had notable talent from the start... and some really cool toys.

A lesser-known fact is that Titanic's band was actually split into two independently functioning units: Wallace's, which played at dinners and Sunday services, and a second three-man, violin-cello-piano unit that stationed themselves in the room outside the entrance to the The Restaurant and Cafe Parisien.

It's most often reported that it was Wallace who roused his fellow musicians to go to the First Class Lounge and play after Titanic struck the iceberg, although there's speculation that he did so under the instruction of Chief Purser Hugh McElroy or even Captain Smith.

Multiple witnesses attested to them playing light, happy tunes, as well as ragtime. But at the end, Wallace tapped at his violin and began to lead the band in what would become one of the most contested piece of trivia in Titanic lore: The Last Song.

Most witnesses, however, report that the band played the hymn "Nearer, My God, to Thee".

This makes sense. It was the official hymn played graveside for every member of the Musicians Union.

It was also one of Wallace's favorites--he even introduced it to his congregation as a musician back home. Moreover, a band-mate of Wallace's from Mauretania reported to the Daily Sketch that years before, he asked Wallace how he would conduct himself if he were on the deck of a sinking ship. Wallace told him that he'd get his orchestra together and play either "O God, Our Help In Ages Past" or "Nearer, My God, to Thee."

The eight men of the Titanic orchestra played for over an hour, some wearing lifebelts. Eyewitness reports attest to the water climbing from their ankles to their knees.

Still, they played on.

As things became more grave, Wallace reassembled the orchestra on the boat deck, near the entrance to the Grand Staircase. Only minutes before the ship split, at around 2:10 a.m., the entire band was washed away.

Wallace Hartley was 33 years old.

His body was recovered by the crew of the Mackay-Bennett, and was list as follows.

The unexpected happened; the unthinkable occurred. The ship that everyone thought could not sink is now two miles at the bottom of the Atlantic.

But our friend kept his word. The inevitable command to get the boats ready in the middle of that dark but clear Sunday night, with the subsequent order "Women and children first" found those hands, now stiff in death, gliding along the strings of that beloved violin and guiding the companion stick, producing the tune that at once became articulate and interpreted the desires of many hearts as they were lifted to heaven.. This was done until the waves claimed both him and his violin.

Still, some have blamed the band for giving passengers the wrongful impression that the situation was not as dire as it truly was. But by a number of contemporary accounts, this was essentially the point: to keep the passengers calm by playing frivolous tunes, so as not to cause alarm.

And it appeared to have worked to calm nerves that were fraught and raw. Second Officer Charles Lightoller was glad of the band's presence and their selection in the face of death. "I could hear the band playing a cheery sort of music," he said. "I don't like jazz music as a rule, but I was glad to hear it that night. I think it helped us all."

Others, such as First-Class passenger Colonel Archibald Gracie, insisted the band never played at all. Moreover, he insisted that if they had, and played "Nearer, My God, To Thee," that he would have been outraged.

I, who am not a sentimentalist, think it would have been finer if the band of the Titanic had been quietly saved, instead of being drowned while playing--whatever tune they were playing, poor devils. I would rather that they had been saved to support their families... I am not consoled by the false, written-up, Drury Lane aspects of that event, which is neither drama, nor melodrama, nor tragedy, but the exposure of arrogant folly... And that's the truth. The unsentimental truth stripped of the romantic garment the press has wrapped around this most unnecessary disaster.

“I Can Look Back and See Every Detail”: Lawrence Beesley

Beesley boarded the Titanic as a second-class passenger on April 10, 1912, in Southampton.

His accommodations were ideally suited to his tastes. He wrote, “I had been fortunate enough to secure a two-berth cabin to myself, - D56, quite close to the saloon and most convenient in every way for getting about the ship."

Like any true academic would, Beesley mused extensively in his memoir of the disaster--the very first published--about the Second-Class library, which he visited on the afternoon of April 14, 1912.

Beesley stopped a steward in the hall and was assured that there was no cause for concern. Beesley dressed and went up to the boat deck, and was summarily dismissed.

On his way downstairs, Lawrence noted that even though the stairs appeared level, his footfall was out of balance, and he knew the ship was sinking. So he went to his room, dressed warmly, stuffed some books in his pockets, and returned to the boat deck.

This time, with no women and children in the vicinity, Lawrence Beesley was instructed by an officer to jump into Lifeboat 13.

Beesley not only survived the sinking itself, but also had a near miss when Lifeboat 13 drifted under Lifeboat 15 as it was being lowered, threatening to crush the occupants of Lifeboat 13. It was thanks to Lead Fireman Frederick Barrett that no one was harmed. Barrett managed to cut the ropes in time under great duress, saving seventy lives.

BeeLawrence sley later described the sinking in poignant detail, making note of the ship's unnerving stillness and "the slow, insensible way she sank lower and lower into the sea, like a stricken animal" whose will to live had been lost.

In the dark after the sinking, he tried to calm a crying baby in the lifeboat by tucking a blanket about its toes, and in the course of conversation with the woman holding the baby, found out they had some mutual friends back in Ireland.

Lawrence Beesley went on to write his memoir, The Loss of the S.S. Titanic, while he was in America; it was published less than eight months after the disaster.

Its contents have proved invaluable to researchers seeking answers to questions about weather conditions, life and accommodations on board, and the last moments of the dead. For instance, Lawrence Beesley was adamant upon the issue of giving special recognition to the doomed bandmembers for their valor.

Lawrence returned to England on a Cunard liner--reportedly because the White Star Line was the competitor--and never traveled or went to sea again.

He eventually remarried and had three more children. His daughter recalled a single family outing to the beach, and said that her father kept his back to the ocean the whole time.

He also became a notable writer and golfer, and he notoriously crashed the set of the 1958 film "A Night to Remember," in hopes of having a renewed chance to go down with the ship. The director ultimately had him removed.

Lawrence Beesley died in 1967 when he was almost 90 years old.

“Deep In Desolate Thought”: Masabumi Hosono

Masabumi Hosono was 42 years old when he boarded Titanic as a Second-Class passenger in Southampton.

Hosono was a highly regarded civil servant of the Japanese government. After a brief stint at Mitsubishi, Hosono entered into a career working for the Ministry of Transport.

Having been a graduate of the Russian Department at the Tokyo School of Foerign Languages, Hosono had been sent to Russia in 1910 to study the country's railroad system.

Having done his duty by the beginning of 1912, Hosono elected to head home. He first stopped in London, and then boarded Titanic in Southampton.

On board the Carpathia, Masabumi Hosono began to write his survivor account.

He repurposed some Titanic stationary that he had initially intended to use to write a letter to his wife.

Dated April 10, 1912, he crossed out the letter’s original beginning—"My Dearest, I am now on board of the SS Titanic”—and proceeded to recount his daily experiences.

He was bored, he wrote, and wracked with nerves from poor weather conditions—he feared another sinking. The conditions were terribly crowded, as the Carpathia was accommodated hundreds of Titanic passengers alongside their own.

And he was isolated. He was reportedly treated with relentless suspicion. He sought sleep in the Smoking Room when he could manage to find a space, but he tended to avoid it otherwise as he claimed seamen ridiculed him throughout the journey.

At first, Masabumi Hosono hardly registered among the hundreds the survivor stories. Once he had arrived in New York City, he found his way to friends to ask for help in making his way home, then went on to San Francisco where he departed at last for Japan.

Back home in Tokyo, he was interviewed by multiple periodicals, one of which included a photograph of Hosono with his family.

Shortly thereafter, disgrace came.

Colonel Archibald Gracie, a blustery, a First-Class American who survived the sinking on the back of Collapsible B, released his harrowing account of the sinking.

In it, he referred to Masabumi Hosono as a "Japanese stowaway."

Furthermore, witness testimony at the American Senate Hearing damned Hosono, even though it was hearsay in which he was never named.

When asked if there were any make passengers in his lifeboat, crewmember Edward Buley testified that he saw none but was later told that there were “a couple of Japanese” men in the boat. “They never got in our boat,” Buley testified, “unless they came in there dressed as women.”

And that was enough to condemn Masabumi Hosono.

To date, stories such as these are entirely unsubstantiated. Unfortunately, they are never the less predictable—there was, and still is, a fervent game of blame about the Titanic disaster. And no surviving White Star employee wanted to invite the shame of letting imperiled women and children die all for the sake of men.

The esteemed and accomplished Masabumi Hosono lost his job in 1913, fired for his grave dishonor in the Titanic disaster.

He was reportedly referenced in textbook as an exemplia grata of shameful behavior, an ethics professor declared him immoral, though said source materials have yet to be located. Periodicals denounced him.

In short, Masabumi Hosono was entirely ostracized. But being so adept in his field, Hosono was eventually rehired by the Ministry of Transport, and he worked there until his death in 1939, at the age of 68.

But the shame of his ignoble escape continued to cast its pall over his descendants.

In 1997, the Hosono family wrote a letter to thank director James Cameron for not further villifying the family name.

Masabumi Hosono’s private account of his experience, written on board the Carpathia, was discovered hidden at the bottom of a drawer by his granddaughter.

It was subsequently published.

With the release of the film and the passage of time, Masabumi Hosono’s family has at last been granted exoneration. His grandson, an orchestral musician named Haruomi Hosono, attested to feeling “extremely relieved. Honor has been restored to the Hosonos.”

“A Costly Thing, Studded With Diamonds”: John Jacob Astor IV

John Jacob Astor--who went by Jack--is one of Titanic's most famous passengers because he was The Richest Man On the Ship, although it's been my experience that less people realize he did in fact die in the sinking.

Wildly wealthy, John Jacob Astor and his second wife--who was 19 to his 47--were returning from their honeymoon abroad in Egypt and France, which they were ending early because of her unexpected pregnancy. The Astors boarded Titanic in Cherbourg, France, with Mrs. Astor's maid and nurse, Col. Astor's valet, and the Astors' dog, an Airedale named Kitty.

Astor was a Harvard alum; he was a very intelligent man, and considered eccentric by some. In addition to the real-estate that comprised his fortune, he also tried his hand at writing science fiction in the 1890s; he published a novel exploring life on other planets in the faraway year of 2000, called "A Journey in Other Worlds".

He was also fascinated by technological advancements, and was known to invent certain things to make life's little tasks easier--a bicycle brake--and things to make the world better--a better turbine engine. He was also fond of motor cars.

Astor roused his wife immediately after the collision, assuring her the damage was "not serious." While waiting on deck for a lifeboat, the young Mrs. Astor offered her shawl to a third-class passenger, to keep her child warm.

Now concerned with the cold while waiting on deck, the Astors went into the gymnasium, taking seats on the mechanical horses. It was during this time that Titanic's First-Class Barber Augustus Weikman found Jack and fellow millionaire George Widener watching some other men have a go at the punching bags.

The Colonel was also reportedly witnessed in the gymnasium slicing open a life-jacket with a pen knife to show his nervous wife the contents therein.

It was Second Officer Charles Lightoller who refused Jack a seat in Lifeboat 4, even though Astor indicated his wife was "in a delicate condition."

Jack took the refusal gracefully, asking what lifeboat number it was in order to find her later. And then, stepping back, The Colonel lit a cigarette with another doomed man.

Conflicting reports persist of Colonel Astor stepping aside, or otherwise giving up his seat to children and selflessly assisting other women into lifeboats. This imagined heroism is a common theme with notable men who died on Titanic; they are, however, often unsubstantiated.

Mrs. Astor's maid and nurse both survived.

John Jacob Astor IV, as well as his valet Victor Robins, both perished.

John Jacob Astor's body was recovered by the crew of the Mackay-Bennett on April 22, 1912, one of just over three hundred. The condition of his corpse remains a source of speculation, as it would likely indicate his precise cause of death: hypothermia, drowning, or--as rumor has dictated--the brute injury of being crushed by a falling funnel.

However he met his end, Titanic's wealthiest victim was labeled as follows.

Colonel Astor's fame and societal prominence invited much in the way of tall tales and un-truths that persist even today.

For instance, it's been rumored that Astor himself let all the passenger dogs loose from their kennels, although how he would have managed to go from the boat deck to F-deck and back again--all while in the company of his panicked wife and prominent friends--remains to be reasoned out.

And then there's the myth that he was idle at the bar when Titanic struck the iceberg and decided to quip, "I asked for more ice, but this is ridiculous."

By all accounts, John Jacob Astor IV wasn't one for humor.

Alma Paulsson

Nils had emigrated to America after realizing that he didn't want to be a miner anymore, and that mining was pretty much the only gig around where the Palssons lived in Sweden.

He arrived in Chicago in 1910; after landing a job as a tram conductor, he set to saving up enough money for his family to reunite in their new country. Swedish immigrants were the third-most robust nationality on Titanic, after the British and the Americans.

When Titanic struck the iceberg, Alma apparently struggled to gather and dress her children. By the time they got to the boatdeck from steerage class, it was too late; all the lifeboats had gone.

Another Swede named August Wennerstrom tried to look after the patriarch-less family in their distress. He said that he tried desperately to hold onto two of the Palsson children as the water washed the deck, but they were swept away. Wennerstrom survived.

Little else is known about Alma and her children; she was not seen again until her corpse was recovered by the crew of the Mackay-Bennett. It is thought that she must have presented an eerie and heartbreaking sight when she was found floating on the sea, her fair hair undone around her beautiful face.

She was listed as follows.

Memory persists of Alma playing songs on the listed mouth organ (a harmonica) for her frightened children as they waited helplessly for the ship's submersion.

None of the Palsson children, if recovered, were ever identified. For decades, it was assumed that little Gosta was Titanic's famed "Unknown Child," but genetic testing has at last proved otherwise.

An account of Nils Palsson's reaction exists, including his desperate attempts to find out if an orphaned boy was his son. At the White Star Offices in Chicago, Nils begged for information about his family.

He was told they were not listed on the roster of survivors.

In broken English, he hoped out loud that maybe they didn't sail.

Dogs on Titanic

Animals weren't scarce on Titanic.

Aside from Jenny the Ship Cat, whose premonitory departure at Southampton with her litter has already been outlined, there were also a number of fancy-breed French roosters and hens, a canary that is oft-misreported as going down with the ship, and countless rats, as on every ship in the history of humanity.

And of course, there were about a dozen dogs.

Dogs were only permitted if they belonged to first-class passengers, but there were no size restrictions. They included two Pomeranians, a Pekinese named Sun-Yat-Sen owned by the Harper family (as in, Harper Collins Publishers), and a toy dog named Freu Freu that was "too pretty [to stay in the kennels]" and belonged to Helen Bishop.

Larger dogs included Ann Isham's Great Dane or St. Bernard (my research leads me to believe the latter), John Jacob Astor's Airedale, Kitty.

The Carter family brought two dogs on board: their unnamed King Charles Spaniel, and their own Airedale Terrier. The latter belonged to their young son Billy.

And the most valuable canine passenger was an all-black French Bulldog named Gamin de Pycombe, who was a recent purchase of Robert Daniel's that cost the obscene equivalent of almost $14,000 today.

The dogs were kenneled on F Deck and looked after by the ship's carpenter. They were exercised and taken out for bathroom breaks daily. There were even enough purebreds on board that Titanic's schedule for Monday, April 15, 1912, actually called for a mini-dog show in the morning.

We all know what happened instead.

Of the 12 dogs confirmed to have been on board, 3 survived: the two Pomeranians and Sun-Yat-Sen the Pekinese, who were all smuggled or otherwise permitted on the lifeboats because they were so small

Little Freu Freu, clearly sensing dismay, pulled desperately on Helen Bishop's dress as she left for the boat deck. Helen reluctantly left Freu Freu behind in her room, feeling that to insist on saving her dog when people could die was indecent. She said it broke her heart.

The larger dogs clearly could not be secreted to safety, but that was only one reason for their demise. Recall that the dogs were locked in their kennels below deck.

This changed, however, when a still-unknown Samaritan made their way down to F Deck despite the rising water and freed the dogs, undoubtedly trying to give them a fair shot at survival, or at least a less inhumane end.

Rumors still circulate that their savior was John Jacob Astor himself; this is unverifiable, though one can guess at its origins.

Jack Astor and his wife were both extremely protective of Kitty, especially since she had been lost as they traveled the Nile on their honeymoon in Egypt. Luckily, Kitty was discovered on another American family's passing boat and returned to the Astors, who offered a sizeable reward.

Kitty apparently was most often found in sleeping in the Astors' suites instead of in the Titanic's kennels, and Astor walked her on deck every day. When Astor lifted his pregnant wife through a window and into a lifeboat, it's reported that she begged him to go find Kitty.

Some witnesses say it's the last they saw of John Jacob Astor.

Astor is also associated with the Carter family's unnamed Airedale, who belonged to their 11-year-old son, Billy.

Billy absolutely adored his dog. He had him on a leash while waiting for a lifeboat, but the dog was refused a spot on the lifeboat. Billy, in tears, was reassured by Astor that his dog would be well taken care of, no matter what.

Billy declined to speak much of the sinking even as an adult, being so traumatized with guilt over leaving his dog behind. The most he did say was that he last saw him sitting, still leashed, beside the preternaturally calm John Jacob Astor.

The Carters filed a $100 claim for their Spaniel, $200 for their Airedale, and $5,000 for their Renault car in Titanic's cargo hold... Yes, that's the Sexy Time Handprint Car in the 1997 movie.

As the ship sank, all the dogs left on board were seen running in a frantic herd up and down the sloping deck. Mrs. Astor said this is when she last saw Kitty, pacing back and forth. Frou Frou died locked in Bishop's room; no one knows how long Chow-Chow and Dog survived.

But this was not the last sighting of Titanic's dogs.

First-Class passenger and world-famous tennis player Richard Norris Williams was struggling to keep his head above the freezing water in the moments after Titanic submerged.

Breaking the surface, he came face to face with the last thing he would have expected in the middle of the nighttime ocean: Gamin de Pycombe the Extraordinarily Expensive French Bulldog, paddling for his own life in the swarm.

Gamin, was said to having been heard crying when the chaos began by Edith Russell, whose cabin neighbored Daniels'.

Edith went inside and pet the dog and put him to bed. He was fed a treat and "was very obedient and sat there and looked at me sweetly as I closed the door. I did not know then that we were in any great danger or else I would have taken him with me."

Gamin was presumably let loose from the room shortly thereafter, given Williams' encounter.

The last sighting of any of Titanic's doomed dogs was of that reportedly belonging to First-Class passenger Ann Isham.

Ms. Isham's dog is most commonly reported to have been a Great Dane, but I'm still looking for the primary source of this information; I believe that it comes from a widely circulated photo of three dogs on a ship deck (including a Dane) that is meant to represent the Titanic dogs. But don't be fooled; this photo does not portray any of Titanic's dogs. In fact, it was not taken on Titanic at all.

Looking down over the rail we distinctly saw a number of bodies so clearly that we could make out what they were wearing, and whether they were men or women.

We saw one woman in her nightdress, with a baby clasped closely to her breast. Several of the women passengers screamed, and left the rail in a fainting condition.

There was another woman, fully dressed, with her arms tight around the body of a shaggy dog that looked like a St. Bernard. The bodies of three men in a group, all clinging to one steamer chair floated close by, and just beyond them were a dozen bodies of men, all in life-preservers, clinging together, as though in the last desperate struggle for life.

Rigel supposedly rescued and aided victims throughout the night, and even barked to prevent the Carpathia from running exhausted survivors over.

This story, while heartwarming and novel--a Newfie in the ice-cold Atlantic rescuing people as Newfies are bred to do, how convenient--was first published as told by a Carpathia crewman named Jonas Briggs. But a) there is no record of a Newfie on Titanic, b) Murdoch's widow insisted he never owned a dog, and c) there is no record of a Jonas Briggs on Carpathia.

Moreover, Fourth Officer Joseph Boxhall, who was in the first lifeboat to be picked up Carpathia, made no mention of Rigel, which one would think he would had something so extraordinary occurred.

So, as awesome as Rigel was, he was only that awesome because he was imagined that way. But this has not stopped the story from circulating, even today.

Dining Facilities

There is a noticeable disparity in quality to the modern eye between this fare and the menu options for Second and Third Class, but in 1912, First-Class passengers had never felt more adored, and Second- and Third-Class passengers had never felt more privileged.

The White Star Line commissioned work with various companies for proprietary silverware, china, dishes, pots, and state-of-the-art electric equipment for the kitchens. All menu items were coordinated by 2nd Steward Andrew Latimer, whose recipe book was left behind in Southampton.

First-Class passengers had a dining saloon. They also had exclusive access to the Verandah Cafe, which was more often called 'the Palm Court' because of its trellis walls cloaked in ivy and its potted plants on pretty tile floors. It was also replete with wicker chairs and oversized windows to make full use of the soft light.

They were also privy to "The Restaurant," which was available exclusively to their class of ticket.

Tables in The Restaurant had to be reserved in advance; lucky passengers could even get a seat with Captain Smith, or White Star Chairman J. Bruce Ismay. An Italian restauranteur was in charge of The Restaurant; he in turn brought in his head chef from Olympic, a Frenchman by the name of Rousseau.

Adjacent to The Restaurant was Cafe Parisien, which the White Star Line hyped as a "charming sun-lit veranda, tastefully decorated in French trellis-work with ivy and other creeping plants." It was, naturally, exclusive to First Class.

Moreover, Cafe Parisien was also exclusive to Titanic herself, as it had been installed to replace what was an oft-untrod promenade deck on her older sister ship Olympic.

The Second-Class dining area hosted crewmembers as well as passengers, and its kitchen was shared with First Class, but the diners did not enjoy all the same luxuries.

For instance, silverware, although likewise silver-plated, was more utilitarian. Whereas First-Class passengers were given the extremely vital grape scissors at their tables, for example, Second-Class passengers were expected to pull the wanted grape from its bunch by hand.

In addition to Second Class, Titanic had a dining area for the maids and servants of first-class passengers on C Deck, which was accessed just off the Grand Staircase. Their silver napkin rings were engraved with the word "SERVANTS," lest they forgot themselves.

Third Class had plainer fare but no want for enthusiasm.

Many Third-Class passengers had never eaten better--or received better treatment--than they had on board. Not only were the chairs unbolted to the floor as was customary for Third Class, but the tables had linens, and they were given tissue napkins printed with the White Star logo.

In a marketing bid, Third-Class passengers were encouraged to keep their menus, which doubled as a postcard that White Star hoped they would send back home, thereby enticing their family and friends to buy a steerage ticket and experience the luxury. Despite the opulence that so often springs to mind at the mention of the RMS Titanic, First-Class tickets were not White Star's bread and butter: steerage, thanks to immigration to America, paid the bills.

1 2 3 … 6 7 8 9 10

Category: Titanic Week

“A First-Class Raconteur”: Chief Purser Hugh McElroy

"A First-Class Raconteur": Chief Purser Hugh McElroy

Shipyard Casualties

SS401 & Shipyard Casualties

“We Thought He Would Fiddle Himself Into Fame”: Violinist John Law Hume

"We Thought He Would Fiddle Himself Into Fame": Violinist John Law Hume

“Nearer, My God, to Thee”: Bandmaster Wallace Hartley

"Nearer, My God, To Thee": Bandmaster Wallace Hartley

“I Can Look Back and See Every Detail”: Lawrence Beesley

“I Can Look Back and See Every Detail”: Lawrence Beesley

“Deep In Desolate Thought”: Masabumi Hosono

“Deep in Desolate Thought”: Masabumi Hosono

“A Costly Thing, Studded With Diamonds”: John Jacob Astor IV

"A Costly Thing, Studded With Diamonds": Colonel John Jacob Astor IV

Alma Paulsson

PASSENGER PROFILE: Alma Paulsson

Dogs on Titanic

Dogs on Titanic

Dining Facilities

Dining On Board

"A First-Class Raconteur": Chief Purser Hugh McElroy

SS401 & Shipyard Casualties

"We Thought He Would Fiddle Himself Into Fame": Violinist John Law Hume

"Nearer, My God, To Thee": Bandmaster Wallace Hartley

“I Can Look Back and See Every Detail”: Lawrence Beesley

“Deep in Desolate Thought”: Masabumi Hosono

"A Costly Thing, Studded With Diamonds": Colonel John Jacob Astor IV

PASSENGER PROFILE: Alma Paulsson

Dogs on Titanic

Dining On Board

Posts navigation