Uncategorized - Soliloquism

This Is Halloween: Jack O’Lantern

Halloween was not the impetus for gourd carving.

It's been tradition for thousands of years, for varying uses, across cultures. But like so many Halloween-specific traditions, we owe the jack o'lanterns we know to the Irish and the Highland Scots.

But what we consider a jack o'lantern is actually version 2.0, or even 3.0. Because in the old world, there were no pumpkins.

The prototypical jack o'lanterns were actually turnips, or sometimes potatoes, that more or less looked like mummified Voldemort.

At first glance, they don't have a very fanciful origin story.

In Britain, as far back as the mid-1600s or so, any nightwatchman with a lantern was reportedly called Jack--"Jack" being the all-encompassing name that was given to a man whose name you didn't know.

You, dear reader, might notice that a great many trickster and wily sprites also have this name, such as Jack Frost and Jack and the Beanstalk, even Jack in the Box. They all invite mischief and surprise. But that's a tangent for another day.

Eventually, though, Jack the Nightwatchman, swinging his lantern in the distance, began to morph with a legend. Specifically, that of a particular motherf cker named Stingy Jack.

There are about a thousand variants, but the following two appear to be very popular.

Jack was a thief and a fiend. One day, while going about in all his nary-do-wellness, he came across the Devil himself. Instead of letting his soul be stolen, Jack tricked the Devil into climbing a tree.

And while the poor Devil was up there, Jack carved a cross into the trunk so he couldn't get down. When Jack finally took it easy on the Devil and let him out of the tree, he did so in exchange for the promise that the Devil would never, ever take his soul.

In the second version, Jack is still a thief and a fiend. By different means and in various settings, Jack tricks the Devil into morphing in a coin, and then he hops into Jack's wallet.

But to the Devil's disadvantage, there is also tiny blessed crucifix in the wallet, so the Devil is again unable to free himself.

Jack, again, extorts the Devil, promising his freedom only if he received the same promise from him.

The result of both stories is the same. Jack eventually dies, as one inevitably does.

But God isn't having any of his sinful thievery in Heaven, and the Devil swore that old oath never to take his soul.

But the Devil--being as kind as he is apparently gullible--takes up an ember from the fires of Hell, that will burn bright for all eternity. And he gifts it to Jack, so the poor fellow can see his way as he wanders the lightless countryside.

Forsaken by both Heaven and Hell, Jack hollows out a turnip to contain Hell's ember--a makeshift lantern, if you will. And so he, Jack o' the Lantern, was damned to wander the twilight realm of lost souls forevermore, with only a glowing turnip to light his way.

And faraway through the deep night, people could see the bobbing flicker of Jack's undying ember.

Scotland's Will o' the Wisp functions on the same premise as Stingy Jack.

Will, however, was a wicked blacksmith who botched the second chance St. Peter granted him at Heaven's gate, and likewise is so condemned to wander the earth forever with only a coal from the Devil to light his path. Will's "wisp" is a bundle lit to make a torch, whose moving, winking flame would, at a distance, also appear to be an atmospheric ghost.

Will o' the Wisp, however, would seem to be a little meaner than Stingy Jack. Jack may have thwarted the Devil, Will lures night travelers to watery deaths, as his light often appears hovering just above lochs.

Other proposed explanations include the bioluminescence of fireflies and particular forms of fungi, or the light reflecting off of whiteish-colored animals like owls, which would account for the more erratic and reactionary movement of the "flames."

These flames were explained by people via superstitions within the context of their cultures; id est, with fairy stories and ghost legends.

So what people were witnessing in the night honestly may have been fire. Just not fire carried by a restless soul who duped the Devil.

When the Irish and the Scots hit American shores in droves, so did the many elements that would eventually coalesce into American Halloween.

The first reference to a jack o'lantern in American writing is found in Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Twice-Told Tales" from 1837: "Why, it will gleam through the holes, and make thee look like a jack-o’ lantern!"

But the difference between the old world and the new was this: turnips were out, and pumpkins were SO in. Pumpkins are plentiful here, especially in the month of October--it's their harvest season after all. Plus, they were larger than turnips--about as big as a human head, really.

And that meant they were just big enough to look like haunted, disembodied heads, especially when they were carved with gruesome faces.

With such limitless possibilities for frights, Jack o'lanterns were favored for Halloween pranks. They were often stuck on the end of a pike, so rascals could go around terrorizing their neighbors. Boys would randomly prop a jack o'lantern up in front of darkened windows.

Imagine all the screams of fright echoing down the streets while glowing orange jack o'lanterns swung in the air and darted around corners.

This is Halloween: Houdini

His death was all because of some gut punches thrown by a McGill University student named J. Gordon Whitehead.

Houdini had been in a reclining position in his dressing room, recuperating from a recently broken ankle and reportedly reading mail when Whitehead and his friend ushered themselves in.

Because Houdini had been bragging that he could take any strikes to his abdomen if he was able to brace himself first, Whitehead took him up on the challenge.

Under the impression that Houdini had, in fact, braced himself, Whitehead landed four quick blows to Houdini's unguarded torso.

Houdini performed that night in gruesome pain, and for two days thereafter.

When he finally went to the doctor, he had a 102 °F fever and was told to go to the hospital immediately to remove his appendix. Instead, he decided to put in his show as planned.

By the time he began, his fever had escalated to 104 °F, and by the third act, he had collapsed behind the curtain. Even then, he couldn't be convinced to go to the hospital until the next morning. And then it was too late.

Houdini's alleged last words were, "I'm tired of fighting."

After his death, his friends claimed a variety of supernatural events, like his inscription vanishing from a book, and a bust of Houdini shattering without cause. But his wife, Beatrice ("Bess"), was still devoted and waiting.

And thus began a new Halloween tradition: the Houdini Seance.

Every year, on the anniversary of his death, a seance was held at the Knickerbocker Hotel in Hollywood by Houdini's widow. For 10 years, she waited for a sign from beyond the veil.

Spiritualism--you know, the seances and knocking and such--was the belief that the living could communicate with the deceased via a proxy or "spirit medium." It was the bee's knees in the 20s, and Houdini was having exactly none of that BS.

Houdini had a vendetta against spirit mediums. It was an animosity that developed after the death of his beloved mother in 1913.

Margery had been presented to a panel of skeptics convened by Scientific American; they offered a $2,500 reward for a medium who could outwit them all.

They actually considered validating Margery, until Houdini was informed.

Enraged, he dropped all his shows and rushed to Boston to witness Margery's seance. He went on to expose all of her trickery, but his condemnation of her was not to be taken lightly--she was a celebrity medium, after all.

Rumor has it that Margery's spirit guide, "named" Walter, assured an audience in 1926 that Houdini would be dead by Halloween of the same year.

That isn't to say the Houdinis weren't close (though they had their difficulties. Trust me.) How they met is still up for debate because they kinda loved to mindf ck people, but all the stories are charming regardless. Harry's brother said they met because he was dating her first, while they were performing.

Bess said they met when Houdini spilled something on her dress during a magic act at her school. Houdini himself said he "eloped with [Bess] out of her schoolbooks." At one point, while drinking, Bess reportedly told a friend that she "sold her virginity to Houdini for an orange."

In 1929, a medium named Arthur Ford claimed to have successfully channeled Houdini's ghost, and arranged a seance with Bess for January 8. Ford apparently successfully used the code, and he even had Bess sign a witness statement on her own stationary (though "not in her own hand.")

She even gave an enthused interview to the New York Times.

Bess, however, was recuperating from a fall down a flight of stairs and was heavily medicated (and by some accounts, an alcoholic.)

As it was reported that Houdini had at last returned from the grave, the skeptics rushed in. They claimed that Bess sold the code to Ford ahead of time, or that she just wanted fame.

Eventually, a now-sober and much-pestered Bess recanted her belief in Ford's message.

The code had apparently been revealed to a reporter the year before OR written in a book OR reported to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Arthur Ford had (unlike his contemporaries) done his research.

Upon Ford's death in 1971, his executor found proof that the Houdini seance was faked, as well as his extensive files of research on his other clients.

The Ford debacle aside, every Halloween, for ten years, Bess held a seance to reach her husband in the afterlife.

The so-called Final Seance was held on the roof of the Knickerbocker Hotel in L.A., and was broadcast on the radio. For an hour, they tried to summon Houdini, complete with desperate outcries.

At the end of the hour, Bess announced, "Houdini did not come through. My last hope is gone. I do not believe that Houdini can come back to me, or to anyone. The Houdini Shrine has burned for ten years. I now, reverently turn out the light," she said, snuffing the candle she had kept lit for a decade. "It is finished. Good night, Harry!"

Bess retired from the Houdini Seance in 1936--she famously stated that "ten years is long enough to wait for any man"--but the tradition continues officially AND unofficially to this day.

Bess Houdini died in 1943. She was buried against her wishes in a separate cemetery than her husband, because they were of differing faiths. (He, Jewish; she, Catholic.)

So what was the code?

It had been used by the Houdinis regularly in their mind-reading acts, and was a phrase made like this: a series of words, each one representing a letter, which thus created a word.

When finished--if correct--the code was, "Rosabelle, b-e-l-i-e-v-e."

Rosabelle was the song that Bess and Harry sang in their first performance together... or the song she sang when he fell in love with her during her performance on Coney Island.

This Is Halloween: Giles Corey

Giles Corey was born in England sometime in the summer of 1611, as parish records indicate that he was baptized on August 16, 1611. Data indicates that he may have moved to the colony as early as 1640 with his first wife, who bore him four daughters.

They originally settled in Salem Town, which was an "urban" and liberal seaport, before moving to Salem Village, which was backwoods and conservative, in order to farm.

His second wife bore him a son.

Giles's third wife, married in 1690, was Martha.

Martha had her scandals. She had given birth to an illegitimate son, Ben, in 1677, and he was of mixed race. She then married, and had a legitimate son named Thomas Rich.

Martha's past, however, did not trouble Giles, who was approaching 80 and had committed transgressions of his own. Specifically, he had been tried for the murder of his farmhand, Jacob Goodale (sometimes spelled Goodell or Goodall), in 1675. Giles allegedly beat the hell out of Jacob with a stick when he caught him stealing apples. Giles claimed Jacob had fallen from a horse or cart and broken his arm.

Giles eventually sent Jacob for medical treatment over a week later, but it was too little, too late. Since it was totes legal to use corporal punishment with indentured servants, Giles was accused of unreasonable force instead of outright murder and was found guilty.

So he paid a fine, and that was that.

Giles was also known for petty larceny and random acts of vandalism; the Proctors even suspected Giles for starting a fire to their property.

And I bet you thought Puritans were boring.

But back to the trials: Giles Corey was accused in the latter part of the debacle, after his own wife had been tried for witchcraft.

Dear reader, you may sometimes see stories that Giles actually participated in Martha's condemnation of witchcraft due to the damning fact that she seemed to read a whole lot, but that particular detail is thanks to Arthur Miller's character in The Crucible.

In reality, Martha was a pious and devoted woman who was unabashed about her disbelief in the girls' accusations. She made it clear that she didn't believe witches existed, period.

Which, of course, solicited accusations of witchcraft against her.

During Martha's trial, in which she pleaded innocence with unnerving calmness, the girls performed their typical histrionics. A tall and ominous man was whispering in Martha's ear, they said. A yellow bird--i.e., her familiar, which was gifted to her by Satan as an emissary--was suckling from the flesh between her fingertips, they said.

Additionally, before Martha's arrest, one of the most vocal accusers, Ann Putnam, Jr., had claimed Martha's spectre was tormenting her.

So the magistrates asked her what clothes Martha was wearing, and then went to go see for themselves, to confirm that Martha's clothes matched the girl's description. But Ann found herself conveniently blinded by Martha's evil hand, and thus could neither confirm nor deny Martha's wardrobe choices.

Unsurprisingly, Martha was found guilty and sent to jail, although she was later temporarily transferred to Boston due to overcrowding.

Giles, good guy that he was, had actually testified against his wife on March 24, 1692.

He declared that he'd found his ox "hipped" (id est, lame) in the yard and he was unable to yoke him, and that their cat seemed dead and Martha told him to knock it in the head, but he didn't, and it was somehow "presently" well.

Plus, he had seen Martha kneeling at the hearth as if in prayer, but didn't actually hear her praying.

She was, clearly, a witch.

But once Giles was accused himself of being a wizard, he refused to enter any more evidence against Martha.

Moreover, he refused to enter a plea, and because of this, trial could not proceed.

Historians still differ in their opinions about why Giles "stood mute," as was the widely used legal term for Giles's strategy. Some insist that Giles would not enter a plea because he knew that, if he did please and was invariably found guilty, that his expansive property and his prosperous holdings would be forfeited to authorities. By his refusal to plead himself neither innocent nor guilty, Giles's property would be passed on according to his final will and testament.

Some further believe that he was primarily accused to facilitate this very seizure; this hypothesis is supported by the fact that Sheriff Corwin extorted money from Giles's children. His daughter filed for damages in 1710.

Others believe that the interpretation of the law preserved a convicted person's right to pass his estate to his selected heirs, and moreover, that Giles had previously deeded his land away in anticipation of this issue. So "standing mute," it's argued, was the ultimate protest to preserve his name.

And so, Giles Corey was crushed to death.

Because Giles refused to enter his plea, Sheriff George Corwin, assigned by the Court of Oyer and Terminer, decided to enact Peine Forte Et Dure to "press" a confession out of the old man.

But pressing was more involved than just putting jagged rocks on top of someone.

On September 17, 1692, in accordance with Corwin's orders, Giles was stripped naked and dragged through a field beside the jail. There, they had dug a shallow pit and put a wooden board on top of it. They forced Giles down, put another plank on top of him, and then began piling weight on, rock by dreadful rock.

And he said not a word.

By all accounts, Giles did not even cry out. For two days, he endured this medieval torture without speaking, and without reprieve. Law mandated that he was only given three pieces of the "worst bread" and three servings of water, alternating by day until a confession was forthcoming.

And until then: rock. By. Rock.

By September 19, Giles's eyes were bulging from their sockets, and his tongue was stuck outside of his mouth. Accounts indicate that Sheriff Corwin, during one of his attempts to solicit confession, stuck Giles's tongue back in with the tip of his cane.

Corwin tried three times to eke a plea out of Giles, reportedly even standing on top of the pressing stones. But Giles only deigned to beg, "More rocks." (It's most often reported as "More weight." But that may have also been extrapolated from Miller's The Crucible.)

It's told that with his dying breath, Giles Corey cursed Sheriff Corwin and the whole of Salem.

Giles Corey's gruesome execution, along with the noose-side recitation of the Lord's Prayer by Reverend George Burroughs, is rumored to have incited doubt in Salem's hysterical residents about the validity of the witch trials.

Giles's curse was said to plague all Salem sheriffs with heart and/or sanguine diseases until they moved the Sheriff Department out of town in the early 1990s.

The curse began with George Corwin himself, who suffered a fatal heart attack at only 30 years old in 1696. It was less than four years after Giles's execution.

And in 1978, Salem Sheriff Robert Cahill suffered his own sanguine conditions, including heart attack and stroke. He looked back through department records to find that each of his predecessors had, too.

Giles Corey's apparition was reportedly witnessed the night before the devastating Salem fire of 1914. Legend persists that to see his ghost is a harbinger of misfortune in Salem.

Ghost Boats & Lost Souls

The tolling of the bell summoned all hands to the forecastle where thirty bodies are ready to be committed to the deep, each carefully weighed and carefully sewn up in canvas. It is a weird scene, this gathering. The crescent moon is shedding a faint light on us, as the ship lays wallowing in the great rollers. The funeral service is conducted by the Reverent Canon Hind, for nearly an hour the words For as must as it hath pleased - - ' we therefore commit his body to the deep' are repeated and at each interval comes, splash! as the weighted body plunges into the sea, there to sink to a depth of about two miles. Splash, splash, splash.

Even then, there were others to find, and many more that never would be.

Collapsible A had been launched only moments before submersion--so close to, in fact, that it was washed away without the officers being able to pop up its canvas sides.

Thus, even though people found it and boarded it, it had taken on water--so much, in fact, that those people were standing on it were knee-deep in water, and dying.

They did this for hours until they were rescued by Fifth Officer Harold Lowe, who was the only officer to attempt rescue of more people from the water.

Out of the thirty or so survivors who made it to Collapsible A, Officer Lowe found no more than a dozen survivors.

And many frozen corpses.

The Oceanic crew wrapped the three corpses in canvas, said a prayer, and buried them at sea.

Upon hauling the lifeboat on board, the Oceanic discovered something else: a gold wedding ring. Inscribed in its band was "Edvard to Gerda."

It would later come to light that the wedding band belonged to Swedish third-class passenger Elin Gerda Lindell. She and her husband Edvard had boarded Titanic bound for a new life in Hartford, Connecticut.

After sliding down the steepening deck into the ocean, the couple had both made it to Collapsible A.

But Gerda had been too cold, and the others too weak, to pull her aboard. She eventually fell silent and still, and Edvard was forced to let her drift away.

Before he let go, he removed her wedding band.

“In Death They Were Not Divided”: Isidor & Ida Straus

Isidor Straus was nine years old when he first set foot on American soil in 1854.

He, along with his three younger siblings, had been brought to New York by their mother. They then set forth to reunite with Isidor’s father Lazarus, who had already settled in Georgia two years prior to establish his mercantile business, which thrived—partly due to Lazarus’s pre-existing connections with wholesale merchants in Philadelphia, and partly due to the prosperity of local cotton plantations.

Reportedly, the Strauses were the sole Jewish family in their new hometown of Talbotton.

In 1861, sixteen-year-old Isidor was ultimately turned away from the Confederate Army of the United States; he was simply too young, he was told.

So, in 1863, after becoming the secretary to a Confederate agent, young Isidor Straus elected to become an international spy.

He hopped a ship from Charleston to Liverpool, which ran the union blockade. Isidor hid himself away—his life savings of $1200.00 in gold was sewn into his undershirt.

And after a layover of some months, staying with relatives in his birthplace of Otterberg, Bavaria, Isidor settled in London. He worked as an aide in financial deals for the Confederacy, and at all of nineteen years old, he even took on a mission to Cuba.

Isidor returned to Georgia in 1865, once the Civil War had ended. He found his family’s business destroyed, and so he convinced his family to reconsider their planned relocation to Philadelphia, in favor of New York City.

So Isidor arrived in New York broke, because he insisted on paying all of his debts prior to his departure, in spite of the fact that Confederate money had been rendered worthless.

In 1871, Isidor married Rosalie Ida Blun, whom he had met in 1863 while traveling to England.

They would go on to have seven children.

By 1871, Isidor had already been in business with his father for five years. Isidor’s brother Nathan and their brother-in-law joined in by 1873, thereby creating L. Straus & Sons, purveyors of crockery and fine china.

In 1874, L. Straus & Sons entered into an agreement with Rowland Hussey Macy, founder of Macy’s Department Store, to open a glassware department in the basement.

L. Straus & Sons became internationally successful. In 1888, Isidor and Nathan were invited into official partnership at Macy’s, which at the time boasted just over 2,000 employees.

And by 1896, Isidor and Nathan owned Macy’s outright.

They had wintered together in Europe in 1911 through 1912, spending most of their holiday at Cape Martin in southern France.

The Strauses had not planned to travel on Titanic. Like many other passengers, however, they found themselves with no other option due to the ongoing coal miners' strike.

Their daughter had been holidaying with them, but she did not board Titanic with her parents.

The Strauses’ time on board was evidently pleasant. Thanks to the account of Colonel Archibald Gracie, we are privy to an insight as to how Isidor and Ida spent the day of Sunday, April 14.

During this day I saw much of Mr. and Mrs. Isidor Straus. In fact, from the very beginning to the end of our trip on the Titanic, we had been together several times each day. I was with them on the deck the day we left Southampton...

During our daily talks thereafter, he related much of special interest concerning incidents in his remarkable career, beginning with his early manhood in Georgia when, with the Confederate Government Commissioners, as an agent for the purchase of supplies, he ran the blockade of Europe. His friendship with President Cleveland, and how the latter had honored him, were among the topics of daily conversation that interested me most.

On this Sunday, our last day aboard ship, he finished the reading of a book I had loaned him, in which he expressed intense interest. This book was 'The Truth About Chickamauga,' of which I am the author...

I recall how Mr. and Mrs. Straus were particularly happy about noon time on this same day in anticipation of communicating by wireless telegraphy with their son and his wife on their way to Europe on board the passing ship America. Some time before six o'clock, full of contentment, they told me of the message of greeting received in reply. This last good-bye to their loved ones must have been a consoling thought when the end came a few hours later.

On the night of the collision, Isidor and Ida found themselves at Lifeboat 8--the same lifeboat where Victor Penasco was desperately trying to get his sobbing bride, Pepita, to leave him and save herself.

Ida Straus stepped in, she expected Isidor to sit next to her; instead, thinking his wife out of harm's way, he stepped back on deck.

Ida immediately removed herself from the lifeboat and refused to reenter without her husband. Other First-Class passengers tried to secure a spot for Isidor aside Ida, but he refused.

Archibald Gracie described the scene as he witnessed it.

The self-abnegation of Mr. and Mrs. Isidor Straus here shone forth heroically when she promptly and empathically exclaimed: 'No! I will not be separated from my husband; as we have lived, so will we die together;' and when he, too, declined the assistance proffered on my earnest solicitation that, because of his age and helplessness, exception should be made and he be allowed to accompany his wife in the boat. 'No!' he said, 'I do not wish any distinction in my favor which is not granted to others.' As near as I can recall them these were the words which they addressed to me. They expressed themselves as fully prepared to die, and calmly sat down in steamer chairs on the glass-enclosed Deck A, prepared to meet their fate.

Ida's corpse was never found.

The last devotion of Isidor and Ida was a tale immediately and widely told, and it galvanized an outpouring of public sentiment and admiration.

Forty thousand people attended the memorial at Carnegie Hall in New York City, which could hold a mere fraction of the mourners.

Isidor was posthumously lauded by the New York Times as “a representative of humanity in its best form.”

A small memorial was erected in Manhattan, located off of 106th Street. The landscaped plot, aptly christened Straus Park, bears a bronze statue of a water nymph that once gazed upon a reflecting pool. This water feature was transformed into a flower bed in the 1990s with the consent of the Straus family.

Straus Park was dedicated on April 15, 1915, exactly three years to the date of the Titanic disaster. Isidor’s younger brother, Oscar, was one of many in attendance.

In 1913, approximately 5,000 Macy's employees donated their meager wages toward a memorial plaque for the Strauses, who were much beloved, particularly Isidor.

It's been reported that "'Mr. Isidor,' as he was known, regularly walked the shop floor, a pink carnation boutonnière stuck in the lapel of his dark suit jacket as he greeted workers by name."

The memorial plaque was re-dedicated in 2014 at the so-named "Memorial Entrance" on 34th.

It reads, "Their lives were beautiful and their deaths glorious."

“It’s a CQD, Old Man”: Distress Signals

Whatever, Lights.

The color of these DISTRESS SIGNALS is sometimes debated--most say white, some say multicolors. I think the latter is probably just a mis-perception from the falling starburst.

Fourth Officer Boxhall set off the distress signals, at intervals of a few minutes each, next to Lifeboat 1 on the starboard side. He said he didn't count how many--most historians accept eight to ten, maybe a dozen. Fifth Officer Lowe said he was "nearly deafened by them" and though he didn't know at the time who was watching alongside him, he was standing next to White Star Chairman Bruce Ismay.

Yes. There was a ship within miles of Titanic--so close that Captain Smith ordered some lifeboats to row for its lights. And it did nothing.

The Californian should and one day might be its own post, but suffice it to say that everything from hypothetical cold-air mirages to the Californian's passive, overly cautious captain prevented it from rescuing Titanic.

The ships each used Morse lights to try to communicate with each other as the sinking progressed, but results on each end were unclear. The captain's reaction to the aforementioned distress signals was that they were probably frivolous "company signals," and to continue trying to reach the ship with the Morse lights. Because of the aforementioned conditions, each message flickered out by one, appeared un-replied to by the other.

But one rescue component is absent from the Californian's efforts to reach Titanic as she sank: the wireless.

And that was because a) the Californian's captain never ordered that it reach out to the mysterious "large liner" via wireless and b) the wireless operator, Cyril Evans, TURNED HIS FREAKING RADIO OFF and went to bed only minutes before Titanic struck the iceberg.

And yet, the Californian crew was aware Titanic was nearby, because earlier in the night (pre-iceberg), the captain had ordered Evans to send a warning to Titanic, once the Californian itself was stopped by ice for the night.

So Evans did send that warning, his second to Titanic over the course of the evening. But he sent it rather unprofessionally, using language that was reserved for casual chats between operators. Meanwhile, the Senior Marconi Operator on Titanic, Jack Phillips, was overtired and working through an enormous backlog of messages that all had to be sent now that the ship was in range of Newfoundland.

Jack and Junior Marconi Operator Harold Bride were desperately calling to any ship in proverbial earshot, using the universal distress call "CQD", as well as "SOS". The latter, which was brand new and is so familiar to us today, was not first used by Titanic, despite many rumors. Harold Bride did, however, advised Jack Phillips to use it, joking that it might be their only opportunity to use the newfangled call.

The ships that received and replied to the distress signals included Titanic's sister, Olympic, the Mount Temple, the Frankfurt, the Baltic, the Asian, the Celtic, the Caronia, the Virginian, the Cincinnati, and, of course, the Carpathia.

“So That We Might All Live Happily Together”: Michel Navratil & ‘The Titanic Orphans’

By 1912, Michel's business was struggling, and he suspected Marcelle, 21, of cheating on him, so they separated. Even though the boys, 4 and 2 years old, were in the custody of Marcelle, she let Michel take them for the Easter break.

Thing is, Michel had no intention of returning them.

After a stopover in Monte Carlo, he brought them to England, where he bought three second-class tickets on Titanic. He registered himself as Louis M. Hoffman--the name of a friend who helped him accomplish the abduction--and registered his boys as "Louis" and "Lola". They boarded at Southampton.

Under the shadow of a giant azalea they sat yesterday afternoon, each with a brand-new boat in hand with which they entertained themselves while the French Consul to New York strove vainly to extract some enlightening word from the elder boy, whose age has been given as three and a half.

To every question the little curly haired chap replied with a polite and baffling "Oui" and said nothing more.

   "Do you like to play with your boat?" asked the Consul, taking the little fello [sic] on his knee.
   "Oui," came the monotonous reply.
   "What city do you come from?"
   "Oui."
   "Do you remember the big boat that brought you away from France?"
   "Oui."

Yet the children are by no means stupid. They are sweet, well-mannered, gentle little fellows, and my only hope for them is that having survived the perils of the iceberg and the open sea they may not be adopted by some American family which was born with a gold knife in its mouth.

Many photos were taken of "Louis" and "Lola" to be circulated worldwide. But in addition to their inability to speak English, the boys had been given fake names by their late father, so tracking down their mother was proving impossible.

When asked if the orphans could be traced via their father's tickets, Margaret Hays' father illustrated the fatal class divide perfectly in his response. "I have never travelled second cabin or steerage," he said, "so I don’t know anything about such matters."

Michel, Jr., recounted coming to the realization that, had they not been in Second Class, he and his brother would surely have died.

Meanwhile, in France, their mother Marcelle was desperately, frantically searching for her sons with no leads. She was entirely unaware that they had even left the country, let alone sailed on the Titanic.

Marcelle knew nothing of the so-called 'Titanic Orphans' until she saw their photos in a newspaper. Marcelle sailed to New York City courtesy of the White Star Line, and was reunited with her boys on May 16, 1912.

Permitted to meet them alone, she found Michel reading an alphabet book on a window seat, and Edmond on the floor, playing with puzzle pieces.

Edmond died in 1953, after having served in the French Army in WWII.

Michel, Jr., accomplished a doctorate in philosophy, and was a professor. He was one of the longest-lived survivors, and the last-living male survivor. He died in 2001, having said throughout his life that since four years old, he had "been a fare-dodger of life. A gleaner of time."

Because of the fake surname he used when boarding, Michel Navratil Sr. was interred in the Halifax cemetery that was designated for Jewish victims. The headstone has since been replaced to reflect his true identity.

“Not Damn Likely!”: Second Officer Charles H. Lightoller

Charles Herbert Lightoller was born to a family of cotton millers in England; his mother died shortly after birth, and his father abandoned him to live in New Zealand. So at all of thirteen years old, Charles looked to a life at sea, because he wanted to avoid being fated to factory labor.

But after surviving a shipwreck on a desert island, a cyclone, a fire at sea, and malaria, Charles said goodbye to the sea, and tried his luck in the Yukon for the gold rush.

This plan didn't come to fruition. So he then became a cowboy.

That didn't work either, so he became a hobo, riding the train rails back across Canada.

Then he bartered passage across the Atlantic as a cattle wrangler on a cattle boat. When he got back to England in 1899, Charles Lightoller was destitute.

Then, at last, in January of 1900, he began working for the White Star Line.

Lightoller signed onto Titanic two weeks before departure as First Officer, and acted in that capacity during sea trials. Captain Smith, however, renamed his Chief Officer, bumping Officer William McMaster Murdoch to First Officer, and consequently, Lightoller to Second Officer. His on-board nickname quickly became "Lights."

On the night of April 14, 1912, Lightoller was stationed at the helm for the 6:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. watch. He retired to bed after First Officer Murdoch reported to replace him, and he advised that the lookouts had been instructed to keep a weather eye for ice.

At 11:40, Lightoller felt a grinding motion in the ship, and ran to the boat deck in his pajamas, where he was met by Third Officer Herbert Pitman, also disturbed from sleep. But there seemed to be no alarm on the bridge, so they returned to their cabins.

But not ten minutes later, Fourth Officer Joseph Boxhall ran into Lightoller's room saying there was "water up to F Deck in the Mail Room." Lightoller threw clothes over his pajamas and reported to the bridge.

Lightoller, a veteran of shipwrecks, took the situation seriously, but he later admitted that at the time, he did not believe the ship would founder. He took to loading the even-numbered lifeboats on the port side; Murdoch took the odd-numbered boats, starboard.

Lightoller took the "Women and Children First" decree literally, and rarely let any men aboard lifeboats--the sole exception was Major Arthur Peuchen into Lifeboat 6 because he was a yachtsman. He even tried to eject a thirteen-year-old boy from Lifeboat 4, but was persuaded by the boy's father.

Lightoller worked so fervently that despite the freezing air, he was sweating through his clothes. As the water reached C Deck, Lightoller briefly joined Dr. John Simpson, Chief Purser Hugh McElroy, and others, where Dr. Simpson teased in greeting, "Hello, Lights. Are you warm?"

In the chaos, Chief Officer Wilde found Lightoller and demanded to know where the firearms were kept. Lightoller led them to the locker in the First Officer's quarters, where Wilde slapped a gun into Lightoller's hand, insisting he might need it. Later, a group of men swarmed Lifeboat 2; Lightoller jumped in, brandished his gun, and threatened them all to get out.

With the help of Captain Smith and First-Class passenger Archibald Gracie, Lifeboat 2 was launched just before 2:00 a.m., 20 minutes before submersion; it took a mere fifteen feet for the lifeboat to hit the water.

It should have taken seventy feet.

I stood partly in the boat, owing to the difficulty of getting the womenfolk over a high bulwark rail just here. As we were ready for lowering the Chief came over to my side of the deck and, seeing me in the boat and no seaman available said, “You go with her, Lightoller.”

Praises be, I had just sufficient sense to say, “Not damn likely,” and jump back on board; not with any idea of self-imposed martyrdom—far from it—it was just pure impulse of the moment, and an impulse for which I was to thank my lucky stars a thousand times over, in the days to come. I had taken my chance and gone down with the rest, consequently I didn’t have to take any old back-chat from anyone.

Throughout the night, Lightoller called out the names of potential rescue ships to try to bolster the other survivors.

Still, one by one, men died.

The men on Collapsible B united in rounds of prayer. Around dawn, after Lightoller relentlessly blowing on his whistle for other lifeboats to come about, Lifeboats 4 and 12 approached, and the remaining survivors of Collapsible B were transferred to safety.

There is still debate about who may have lived and died on Collapsible B.

Second Officer Charles Lightoller was the very last Titanic survivor to board Carpathia, only after having ensured that all surviving passengers and crew were secure on deck.

Charles Lightoller was the highest ranking officer to survive Titanic's sinking, and testimony at the subsequent inquiries was vital, especially as he was not only testifying, but also defending himself, his employer, and his departed crewmates.

Lightoller went on to serve in the First World War, during which he was awarded with both the Distinguished Service Cross and the Reserve Decoration, and was promoted to Commander.

He saw combat again in World War II, when he crossed the English Channel to aid the Dunkirk evacuation, rescuing over 120 soldiers in his yacht, called "Sundowner." On the way back, Commander Lightoller encountered enemy aircraft and was attacked with gunfire, which he miraculously evaded thanks to a technique he had learned from his youngest son, who was R.A.F. and had been killed in action in 1939.

Still, Lightoller--like most surviving crewmembers--found that Titanic was still a black mark on his record, and encountered financial difficulties. Lightoller went on to try his hand at property speculation, boatyard management, inn-keeping, and chicken farming.

In 1934, he released his autobiography at the insistence of his wife.

Charles Lightoller died at 78 years old.

“Just Like Little Canaries”: Victor & Maria Josefa Penasco

Victor Peñasco y Castellana, born October 24, 1887, was just 24 years old and newly wed when he boarded the RMS Titanic at Cherbourg.

Young Victor was kind and athletic. He was also spectacularly wealthy, and family to the minister of the King of Spain.

And on December 8, 1910, Victor married Maria Josefa Perez de Soto y Vallejo, an heiress who was two years his junior and affectionately called Pepita. Their combined affluence ballooned to obscene proportions.

By all accounts, the newlyweds were carefree, pretty, and very much in love.

Victor and Pepita spent almost two years on their honeymoon, leaving a trail of receipts for precious gemstones throughout Europe. Because Pepita loved herself some fancy jewelry.

While whiling away in Paris, they happened upon a flyer for Titanic's maiden voyage. They longed to extend their honeymoon a little further by going to New York, but Victor's mother, Purificacion, had forbidden ocean travel--it was a truth universally acknowledged that it was very bad luck on one's honeymoon.

So the Penascos had their butler, Eulogio, stay behind in Paris, and left him with a collection of pre-written postcards to be sent intermittently to Victor's superstitious mother, boasting of trips to Notre Dame Cathedral, the Palace of Versailles, and the opera.

Victor and Pepita then absconded to have some fun in New York and return in secret. Purificacion would be none the wiser.

The Penascos boarded Titanic with Pepita's maid, Fermina, on the evening of April 10, 1912. The party occupied stateroom C-65.

They were not the only Spanish passengers, but they were the only ones in First Class.

Reports vary as to the Penascos' fluency in English, but multiple sources say they spent most of their time speaking with their fellow Spanish-speaking passengers. And there would have been a number, particularly from Argentina and Mexico.

Victor at the very least must have been proficient in the English language, but historical accounts reflect that Pepita was not.

Regardless of any language barrier, Victor and Pepita were apparently the darlings of any First Class coterie that beheld them.

Survivor Helen Bishop said of them, "[Pepita] and her husband were just like little canaries... …They were so loving… and were having such a happy honeymoon that everyone on the Titanic became interested in them."

On the night of the collision, Victor and Pepita were readying themselves for bed. Fermina, Pepita’s maid, had stayed awake because Victor and Pepita were late returning from dinner. Working to mend a corset while waiting to tend to the couple, Fermina felt a jolt and a shudder.

She immediately alerted Victor and Pepita. Later, Pepita would attest that the impact was so faintly felt that not a drop had spilled from a bedside glass of milk.

Victor dressed himself and left to seem information from officers. Met with the grim news, he hurried to collect Pepita and Fermina.

Victor outfitted his wife and Fermina with lifebelts and hurried to escort them to the boat deck.

Victor the ladies into the care of Second Officer Charles Lightoller, who was preparing to lower in Lifeboat 8.

It became a vessel well-known as the site of multiple lovelorn declarations that occurred that night--in particular, that of Isidor and Ida Straus.

Rumor has it that Victor dashed back below deck for his wife's famed jewels. When he returned, he implored Pepita to get into the lifeboat, but in tears, she refused.

Speaking Spanish, in the midst of heartbreak and chaos, no one understood the exact words of their desperate exchange.

But the Countess of Rothes did try.

The Countess's cousin, Gladys Cherry, recalled the Penascos parting as a "terrible scene."

As patience in the waiting lifeboat wore thin, the Countess gently interceded in French, which she recalled in her letter to Walter Lord, the author of "A Night to Remember."

Pepita was no less inconsolable for the Countess’s polite intervention. Finally, according to Gladys, Victor "threw [Pepita] in our arms and asked us to take care of her."

There is the occasional report that Victor was last spotted on the boat deck, taking to his knees in prayer.

But he was never seen again.

Pepita wailed and wailed for him as the boat descended and pushed away from Titanic.

The Countess of Rothes described her time with Pepita in heartrending detail in the April 21, 1912, issue of the New York Herald.

Soon, the bereft family of Victor Penasco was soon faced with financial dilemma on top of the tragedy of his loss.

Contemporary Spanish law dictated that even though Pepita was legally widowed, she could not inherit Victor's fortune.

This was because without a body as proof of death, Victor could not be declared deceased for 20 years.

So unless Victor’s remains were found, their combined downries eould remain bound and untouchable in a savings account.

Figuratively cornered by the law, the family made an unusual choice: they bribed someone.

According to descendants, Victor’s family supposedly bought an unnamed victim's corpse, Fermina then identified it as Victor, which was substance enough to issue the death certificate.

However it happened, the result was the same: Pepita, though grieving, was that much wealthier.

Pepita married again about 6 years later and had three children; Fermina continued to work for her through retirement.

Pepita died at the age of 83.

First-Class Athletic Facilities

Titanic's gymnasium was accessible from the boat desk, adjacent to the second funnel. It was outfitted with elaborate equipment, especially during an era in which exercise was more of a hobby, or a quaint way to pass some time.

It would seem that prior to sail, it was open for exploration by both genders and other classes of passengers. But once Titanic departed Queenstown, it was a first-class exclusive, and was used separately by ladies and gentlemen.

The gym was the domain of Thomas McCawley, a spry moustache master always seen at his post, and always wearing his white flannels and plimsolls (canvas athletic shoes), the primmest and dapperest Edwardian fitness instructor you could ever imagine.

The gym was available for a shilling a ticket, which would be paid, of course, to Chief Purser Hugh McElroy prior to use, and would be good for one session.

The gym was exclusive to the ladies from 9am to noon, children 1pm to 3pm, and the men 2pm to 6pm. Tom McCawley was said to be precise to the minute in opening the gym for these scheduled shifts.

The gymnasium was equipped with punching bags, Indian clubs, stationary bicycles with giant red meters for monitoring one's progress, a rowing machine, and mechanical horses. It was also installed with an "electric camel", which mimicked the back-and-forth motion of a camel ride when sat upon, and which was lauded as "good for the liver."

There was a racquetball court presided over by instructor Frederick Wright on G Deck with an entrance on D Deck, and an observation gallery on F Deck. That would set you back two shillings for one half-hour of play.

Titanic also boasted Turkish baths, which offered massages, shampoos, and electric baths. The central feature was the Cool Room, and it was decorated in a lavish Arabic style--all teak wood, green and blue tiles, a marble fountain, and a scarlet ceiling with guilded beams and hanging lanterns. It was littered with lounges, folding chairs, and Damascus tables.

In 2005, they rediscovered the Cool Room in a remarkably preserved state. Because it had flooded early on, and its location was deeper inside the ship, it was largely protected from damage when the bow crashed into the seabed. And because it's so far within the ship, hungry microorganisms can't really get at it, so the woodwork, stained glass windows, and even the recliners are still recognizable.

The swimming bath was open only to First Class, of course; the use of a swimming suit was included in the fee of a shilling.

It was the second of its kind ever put to sea; the first was that of RMS Olympic, and the only notable difference between it and Titanic's was that Olympic's swimming bath had a diving board, while Titanic's was absent of the same. This was decided upon because the sloshy water made the diving end shallower than it appeared, and it caused a hazard to passengers.

First-Class survivor Colonel Archibald Gracie used the swimming bath to his great enjoyment. He took a refreshing swim on the morning of April 14, 1912--and later mused upon the irony of the same, stating he probably wouldn't have enjoyed it so much if he had known the next swim he was about to take.

The swimming bath was across the hall from the Turkish baths, but within the wreck, it is blocked by a watertight door. Given the relatively immaculate state of the Turkish baths, it is assumed the pool is in similarly excellent shape.

The gymnasium was a central location during the sinking; many people who rushed to the boat deck found themselves too cold while waiting for lifeboats, and crowded into the gymnasium for warmth.

It was here that John Jacob Astor was witnessed slitting open a life-vest with his penknife, to reassure his young wife about the buoyancy of cork. A few passengers peddled on the stationary bikes to keep warm.

And the entire time, Mr. McCawley manned his post. When asked about a life-vest, he declined to wear one; he insisted it would inhibit his swimming once the ship went down.

Thomas McCawley died in the sinking. He was 36 years old.

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Category: Uncategorized

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FOR THE ATHLETICALLY INCLINED: First-Class Gym Facilities

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