Uncategorized - Soliloquism

“Lead, Kindly Light”: Noel Leslie, the Countess of Rothes

The Countess of Rothes, whose name was Noel Lucy Martha Leslie, was reknowned for her beauty, her gracefulness on the dance floor, her lifelong philanthropy. But when it comes to Titanic, she is famed for her relentless optimism and being the fiercest woman on the sea.

Noel was 33 when she boarded Titanic with her parents, cousin-in-law Gladys Cherry, and maid Roberta Maioni, at Southampton. Before setting sail, she was interviewed and stated that she was going to America to see her husband, and that they hoped to purchase a pretty little orange grove.

When the reporters derisively asked her if she looking forward to leaving the glamour of London society for a "California fruit farm," she replied, "I am full of joyful expectation."

The Countess's parents disembarked at Cherbourg, and the others carried on.

On April 14, the crash woke the ladies in their suite, and they sought out Captain Smith, who insisted they immediately find lifevests and head for lifeboats. The three were put into Lifeboat 8 around 1am, which was launched off the port side.

Captain Smith put approximately 4 men with experience at sea in Lifeboat 8; unfortunately, they were experienced stewards and the like, not sailors. After they had lowered, and were attempting to push themselves out from Titanic, the ladies on board were critical of their ineptitude, and it certainly didn't help.

Doing their damnedest, stressed, scared, and frustrated, it was reported by a Mrs. White at the Senate Inquiry that one crewman said to another, "If you don’t stop talking through that hole in your face, there’ll be one less in this boat."

The person this vitriol was directly at was Thomas Jones, the lone seaman in Lifeboat 8, only 32 years old, who had been assigned to it by Captain Smith at the last minute. But it was the Countess who immediately took charge.

Jones famously said of the Countess that, because he had to row, "she had a lot to say, so I put her to steering the boat."

And she damn well did, stopping only briefly after an hour so she could take to comforting a fellow passenger, an almost-teenaged newlywed, who was distraught about leaving her husband.

The Countess said "the most awful thing was seeing the rows of portholes vanishing one by one" beneath the water, and later, the sounds of the dying, and the eventual absence of sound from the dead.

She, Tom Jones, and some others wanted to row back for more people, but were overruled for fear of the boat being overturned. Tom Jones is remembered as having said, "Ladies, if any of us are saved, remember, I wanted to go back. I would rather drown with them than leave them."

Tom's comment about the Countess having "a lot to say" has been intepreted in recent memory as snide, or some sort of punishment for a woman daring to speak out of turn, but he meant it in earnest. He said, "I heard the quiet, determined way she spoke to the others, and I knew she was more of a man than any we had on board.”

According the the Countess herself, "We were lowered quietly to the water, and when we had pushed off from the Titanic's side I asked the seaman if he would care to have me take the tiller, as I knew something about boats. He said, 'Certainly, lady.'"

At the subsequent inquiries, the Countess also made sure to emphasize that Thomas had wanted to turn the boat back.

If that isn't sufficient to refute the impression that Jones was being vindictive, the Countess bestowed an engraved silver pocket watch upon Thomas Jones in gratitude for his saving their lives. In reciprocation, he sent her the plaque from Lifeboat 8. They remained friends for the rest of their lives, writing to one another every Christmas; the Countess's letter was always sent with a pound enclosed, according to Jones's daughter. The plaque and pocketwatch now both belong to the Countess's family.

The Countess of Badass rowed, alternating with other women, through the night. When the rescue vessel Carpathia was finally sighted, the boat began singing "Pull for the Shore" and "Lead, Kindly Light."

Once on board Carpathia, the Countess was intent on helping steerage survivors, in translating, acquiring medicine, and making clothes. The London periodical Daily Sketch reported, "Her Ladyship helped to make clothes for the babies and became known amongst the crew as the 'plucky little countess.'"

According to her great-granddaughter, Angela Young, The Countess wrote a letter to her own parents, detailing her many busy hours on board Carpathia. In that letter, Noel wrote that she worked closely with the doctors to help feed the children on board so their mothers might recuperate. She was also sought out by the doctors to aid in calming a "hysterical" French woman who they feared might commit suicide; in addition, the young widow Pepita Penasco, who the Countess had comforted in the lifeboat, clung to her "like a baby" as she spoke no English and knew not a soul but one in America.

“Surrounded by Mothballs and Memories”: Quigg Baxter & Berthe Mayne

Zette, 27, was married, and defied her husband's wishes by traveling with her family.

Quigg was 24, and had been a lauded football and hockey player back in his school days, until he was blinded by a stick to the eye in 1907. He continued to coach, though, and even set up one of the first international hockey tournaments in Paris.

Whiling away in a cafe in Brussels, Quigg met a young cabaret performer named Bella Vielly. Her real name was Berthe Antonine Mayne, and she was "well known in Brussels in circles of pleasure."

Helene Baxter had spent most of the journey on Titanic laid up with seasickness and nausea, and suffered weakness as a result.

When Titanic struck the iceberg, Quigg sought to discover what happened, and in so doing came across Captain Smith and Bruce Ismay in the hall. Captain Smith told him everything was just fine; Ismay, on the other hand, demanded that Quigg get his mother and sister to the lifeboats.

Helene had an anxiety attack when Titanic ceased moving, having taken comfort in the constant turning of the engine. Quigg carried his mother in his arms to the boat deck, and loaded her and his sister into Lifeboat 6.

He then went to fetch Berthe, and in what must have been the world's worst time to meet your future mother-in-law, Berthe was introduced to the Baxter women.

She did not want to get into the lifeboat, but Molly Brown helped persuade her. Quigg asked his mother and sister to be good to Berthe, and handed his mother his silver brandy flask. Now, the Baxter children had been raised to speak English to their father, and French to their mother, but it's reported that when he gave Helene the flask to keep warm with, she started in on him,wishing he wouldn't drink so much. But Quigg cut her off to ask if she was alright, and then bid everyone fare well.

Quigg Baxter died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

Helene Baxter never fully recovered from Titanic, and died in 1923. Zette moved to California, and according to her nephew, lived "surrounded by mothballs and memories" until her death on the last day of 1954.

“See You Soon, Darling”: Joseph & Juliette Laroche

Joseph Phillipe Lemercier Laroche was a gifted engineer from Cap Haiten, Haiti.

He was the only known black passenger on Titanic.

Joseph was 25 years old when he boarded Titanic in Cherbourg, France. He traveled with his two young daughters, Simone and Louise, and his wife Juliette, who was pregnant with their third child.

Joseph Laroche was born in Haiti in 1886. His mother, Euzelie, was 24 years old and a wildly successful business woman who made her substantial wages in trade. She was also a single mother.

Joseph was Euzelie's only child, and she prioritized her son's education. When she was absent and he was not in school, he attended cockfights and won handily in games of marbles with his friends. He was remembered as good-natured, but not particularly talkative.

Time wore on, and Joseph had been sent to study in France at just 15 years old with his teacher, Monsignor Kersuzan, Lord Bishop of Haiti.

And in the course of his studies in France, Joseph made a fateful connection. During an outing to the Parisian suburb of Villejuif, Joseph made friends with another young man named Maurice LeFargue. After a chat, Maurice invited Joseph back to his father's house for some food and drink.

Joseph certainly enjoyed the meal, but took even more pleasure in meeting the person who had prepared it: Maurice's sister, Juliette.

Within minutes, Joseph and Juliette were evidently besotted, and by the end of the meal, they had promised to write each other while he continued his studies a distance away. Soon enough, he was spending weekends with the LeFargues.

Joseph married Juliette on March 18, 1908, when he was 22 years old and she, 19. The ceremony was held at the local church in Villejeuf. At the reception, Joseph led his bride in a dance, and even showed his skills dancing the merengue.

Now a married man, Joseph immediately undertook an intense job hunt. His application was at last accepted by the company Nord-Sud, a company that possessed a contract for the "underground electric railway" being drawn up for Paris.

Low on options, Joseph and Juliette decided to move for their fiscal well-being, and were set to return to Haiti in late 1912 or early 1913.

But the timeline became urgent when Juliette found herself pregnant again.

With a job as a math instructor secured for Joseph by his eminent uncle Cincinnatus LeConte, the then-President of Haiti, the LaRoches were gifted tickets on the SS France by Joseph's mother, who was ecstatic that her son and his babies were at last coming home. She had never met her daughter-in-law or her grandchildren.

Joseph and Juliette soon found out, however, that vessel France had strict on-board rules about not allowing children to dine with their parents. The Laroches found this policy unfeasible for their situation--not to mention cold and unnecessary--so they exchanged their tickets for second-class passage on Titanic.

The family would travel from Paris to the port of Cherbourg by a luxury train called the New York Express.

April 10th was a bright day in France, and little Simone Laroche was all aflutter with excitement for the travel ahead.

After breakfast that morning, it is reported that Joseph and Juliette hired two taxicabs--both Renaults AG1s--for transportation to Gare Saint-Lazare, which was less than an hour from their home. Joseph and Simone took the first cab, while Juliette and Louise followed in the second.

Simone was giddy with anticipation upon her family's arrival at the train station, and while her father paid the taxi fare, the elder Laroche daughter ran ahead. Joseph called out and scolded her in Haitian Creole, as was his custom when his children were not behaving. Though Simone did not fully understand the language, she immediately obeyed her father.

At the station, a family friend named Monsieur Renard arrived to see off the Laroches. He brought with him a gift of two balloons--one for Simone, and one for Louise. Although Louise lost hers shaking the string, Monsieur Renard gallantly purchased a replacement.

The New York Express, exclusively designated for the transport of First- and Second-Class passengers of Titanic, departed at 9:45am.

Once settled on the train, Joseph and Juliette struck up a friendship with a young couple from Canada.

Albert Mallet was an importer of cognac for a liquor firm, and he traveled to Paris often for work; he, his wife Antonine, and their toddler Andre were traveling back to Quebec after a short visit with family. Joseph and Albert chatted the whole way as their wives did the same, and their children played.

The Mallets, as it turned out, had likewise exchanged their tickets on the SS France for passage on Titanic, and for the very same reason that had compelled the Laroches: it simply was not feasible to dine without their children.

And with that, the voyage appeared to have started well. Bound for a ship on which most people would speak only English, the Laroche family had made fast friends with another French-speaking family of similar age.

Juliette wrote a letter to her papa while on board Titanic, which was postmarked from Queenstown, Ireland, on April 11th. It reflected a pleasant time, and Juliette wrote of the ongoing kindnesses of fellow passengers.

The girls ate well last evening. They slept in one stretch the whole night and were awoken by the bells announcing breakfast; those made Louise laugh.

Right now, they are walking on the covered deck with Joseph. Louise is in her small car, and Simone is pushing her. They have already made acquaintances: since Paris, we have traveled with a gentleman and lady and their little boy, who is the same age as Louise. I believe they are the only French on board. So, we sit at the same table and like this we can chat.

Simone amused me earlier; she was playing with an English girl who had lent her a doll. My Simone was having great conversation, but the little girl could not understand anything. People are very nice on board. Yesterday, they were both running after a gentleman who had given them chocolate.

The couple to whom Juliette referred in her letter were, of course, the Mallets.

It is worth noting that there is little in the way discoverable first-hand accounts regarding racial treatment of the Laroche family while they were on board Titanic.

As a young interracial couple, it is assumed that they must have endured racism to an unquantified degree; their marriage, so full of devotion and strength, was neither commonplace nor socially acceptable by the standards of the era.

And yet, Joseph and Juliette paid this no mind. Their love, and their loving family, were all that mattered to them both. By all accounts, their company was warm, jovial, and accepting, and other passengers delighted in the presence of their sweet little girls.

Simone and Louise Laroche are mentioned, though not by name, in a letter written by fellow Second-Class passenger Kate Buss. "There are two of the finest little Jap[anese] baby girls, about three or four years old, who look like dolls running about."

The racism is there, even in a private letter. The Laroche daughters were not Japanese, but this was not a mistaken assumption on the account of Ms. Buss; it was a generic term of disparagement. At the time, people with not-white complexions were often called "Japanese" or "Italian".

By all accounts, Simone and Louise seemed to be having a gleeful time, but they missed their grandfather. Juliette also wrote the following to her papa.

April 14th was a Sunday, and the Laroches attended religious services presided over by Father Thomas Byles, a fellow passenger and Roman Catholic priest.

That night, Joseph answered his cabin door to find a steward demanding the family don their life vests and get up on deck with urgency. Joseph woke his wife, and she exited the cabin with Simone in her arms.

Joseph snatched his coat, and stuffed its pockets with their money, jewelry, and paperwork. Then he swaddled tiny Louise inside it, and chased after his wife.

On deck, Joseph gripped Louise in one arm, and clung to an unnamed sailor who was holding men back from entering the lifeboat with the women and children. Joseph, who was fluent in both English and French, somehow managed to secure a spot in for his bewildered wife and their children amidst the chaos.

Some accounts claim that Juliette entered Lifeboat 14. Others believe that it was Lifeboat 8, because Juliette recalled that a countess was in the boat with them, which many suspect was Noel Leslie, the Countess of Rothes.

Juliette recounted the memory with desperate pain.

When the collision happened, there was terrible panic. People were pushing, in a hurry to get off the boat. Suddenly, I felt that they were pulling my older daughter away from me, my little Simone... I saw her thrown to a lifeboat suspended above the abyss. "My child," I yelled. "My child! It is my child that was taken away!"

But right at that instant, I felt someone grabbing me as well. A pair of hands took me, and threw me into emptiness. I found myself in the lifeboat, next to my little Simone, and up there, on the deck, in the middle of the scramble, I glimpsed my husband. Arms extended above the crowd, he was holding our younger girl, whom he was trying to protect against the push. He was struggling against the sailors, showing them the little girl and trying to make them understand that she was separated from me, her mother. At last someone grabbed our little Louise from my husband's hands, and soon she was in my arms.

Then the lifeboat was once and for all lowered onto the sea. I hardly had time to bid my husband a final farewell. I heard his voice, above the rumble, yelling: "See you soon, darling! There will be space for everyone, don't worry, in the lifeboats... Take care of our girls! See you soon!"

When the Carpathia arrived on scene, the little Laroche girls were hoisted aboard in burlap bags.

Juliette, already surmising Joseph had died, did her best to remain level for the sake of her daughters. For instance, diapers were predictably absent on Carpathia. Juliette discreetly hoarded cloth napkins by sitting on them during mealtime, in order to use them later as makeshift diapers.

The coat that had kept Louise warm--and which Joseph had been present enough to stock with the family's valuables--is reported to have been stolen on board the Carpathia.

After the Carpathia docked in New York City, Juliette was transported to St. Vincent's Hospital and treated for her frostbitten feet.

Once she had recovered, Juliette and the girls returned home to France via liner on the morning of May 2, 1912.

According to "Le Matin," the local newspaper, Juliette's father, "an old man in mourning clothes," waited anxiously at the dock for the disembarkment of his bereaved daughter and grandchildren.

When they found each other, Juliette withered in her papa's arms, sobbing.

When Mrs. Laroche and her two daughters appeared on the gangway, the old man ran to them and father and daughter hugged for a long time, teary-eyed. Mrs. Laroche then recounted that at the time of the catastrophe, she and her two little girls had been forced to leave her husband behind. He'd tried to reassure her, affirming that he would be rescued just like her--only a little later. Crying, the poor woman repeated several times: "I believed him! I believed him! Otherwise, I would have never agreed to leave him!"

On May 24, 1912, Juliette held a memorial service for Joseph in Villejuif. To every mourner, she distributed a card, which had Joseph's photo on it surrounded by a black band.

It read only, "Please pray for the repose of the soul of Joseph Laroche, who passed away on April 15, 1912, in the sinking of the Titanic."

Joseph would have turned 26 only two days later, on May 26.

Juliette gave birth to a boy around Christmastime, 1912; he was named after his late father.

Destitute, heartbroken, and tragically widowed with three children all under the age of 5, Juliette Laroche sued the White Star Line for damages, and was awarded 150,000 francs in 1918--approximately $250,000 today. Juliette used the funds to open a dry-cleaning business operating out of her father's house.

Joseph's mother traveled to France in 1920 to meet her grandchildren at last. Sadly, Juliette never traveled to her late husband's home in Haiti.

Juliette reportedly never spoke of Titanic with anyone except fellow survivors Antonine Mallet and Edith Russell, the latter of whom she had met in Paris. For a number of years thereafter, Juliette received a small gift from Edith every April 15th, on the anniversary of the sinking.

Coal Strike & Engineering Crew

In response, the White Star Line announced that Titanic's speed would drop from 23 knots to 20.

In the wake of the strike, cabins on Titanic’s older sister, Olympic, reportedly housed all the coal that the White Star Line could manage to hoard.

By early April, the coal strikers at last received their demands and the strike was past.

Yet the coal shortage remained.

White Star, adamant to keep Titanic's scheduled maiden voyage of April 10, culled coal from every ship in the vicinity. The Oceanic, Adriatic, Philadelphia were all ported as a result.

By April 10, 1912, a representative of the British Board of Trade had declared that “the coal on board [the RMS Titanic] is certified to amount to 5,892 tons, which is sufficient to take the ship to her next coaling port.”

Passengers of ported vessels were forced to find a new ship to travel on.

Most elected to travel on Titanic.

Unfortunately, workers from these docked ships faced a dilemma of their own.

In particular, the so-called "black gangs"—ship firemen and stokers, so named because they were always caked in soot—were desperate for work, because so many having been recently laid off due to the strike.

To snare a job on Titanic as a fireman was, therefore, some fine luck.

All in all, there were approximately 250 firemen on board when Titanic set sail.

They worked in unbroken rotating shifts: 8-12, 12-4, and 4-8. Rotating meant that block was worked by the same men, A.M. and P.M.

Completely removed from the passengers and most of the crew, the firemen took their breaks to sleep, eat, smoke, and spend lots of time with their "52 friends"--otherwise known as a deck of cards.

Titanic made impact with the iceberg during the fireman’s 8-12 watch.

In general, despite their location in the depths of the ship, the firemen had advanced notice of the damage and made their way to the deck with haste, many carrying their kits with them.

Being able-bodied men, some were assigned to lifeboats to row. Others tried to save themselves regardless, and were ejected from the boats—except for a fair few who escaped when the last boats were launched less discriminately.

Lead Stoker Frederick Barrett was one of these.

Fred jumped into Lifeboat 13.

Then Lifeboat 13 drifted directly underneath Lifeboat 15, which was being lowered simultaneously.

Horrified screams from 13 to stop lowering 15 were unheard in the melee, and 15 pressed down, nearly crushing 13 and everyone in it.

Fred rushed forward through the other passengers with a knife in his teeth, to cut the falls and push Lifeboat 13 away.

He saved dozens of lives in a matter of moments.

Along with other firemen, Fred Barrett also experienced hypothermia, because he was only wearing a paper-thin shirt. This attire was typical for the boiler room, but not conducive to the mid-Atlantic ocean.

Fred, who had immediately set to rowing, eventually had to relinquish the tiller. A female passenger then draped a shawl over him, and he fell asleep.

Unlike Fred, most of the firemen were left to fend for themselves in the open sea, such as stoker Arthur John Priest, who was miraculously rescued from the water in what is most commonly identified as Lifeboat 15.

Of the 163 firemen on Titanic, 45 were reported to have survived. Three of the 13 Lead Stokers survived.

Titanic’s firemen worked tirelessly for hours without reprieve, shoveling heavy coal into the mouths of furnaces blazing with fire, consumed by bitter billows of smoke.

Because of this, they usually worked shirtless, or wearing only a vest or suspenders. Being submerged in frigid ocean water, mere degrees above freezing, with little or no clothes from the waist up, was a particularly loud death knell for many firemen.

Additionally, there were 73 coal trimmers on board who handled the coal, from loading to maintenance to delivery. Twenty survived.

When Titanic sank, it is estimated that 2,500 tons of coal accompanied it.

To date, coal is found throughout the 15 square miles of ocean floor that constitutes the wreck site.

As it turned out, the initial wound and subsequent splitting of the ship scattered coal like a trail of breadcrumbs as Titanic slowed to a stop following impact with the iceberg.

More recent forensic studies suggest that its bow planed forward, and its stern spiraled like a helicopter blade as it descended.

And the coal trail certainly suggests as much.

On September 1, 1985, mastering an ROV-robot team named Argo and Jason, respectively, Robert Ballard discovered the Titanic.

Where previous expeditions to locate the shipwreck had used sonar, Ballard used his previous experiences and elected to search for, and follow, the debris field.

The first identifier during that expedition was a Titanic boiler, distinguished by its 3 doors—a type of boiler that only the White Star Olympic Class had.

It was this distinctive boiler and the aforementioned trail of coal that led the Ballard expedition to discover Titanic’s bow.

“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.”

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Category: Uncategorized

“Lead, Kindly Light”: Noel Leslie, the Countess of Rothes

"Lead, Kindly Light": Noel Leslie, The Countess of Rothes

“Surrounded by Mothballs and Memories”: Quigg Baxter & Berthe Mayne

"Surrounded by Mothballs and Memories": Quigg Baxter & Berthe Mayne

“See You Soon, Darling”: Joseph & Juliette Laroche

"See You Soon, Darling": Joseph & Juliette Laroche

Coal Strike & Engineering Crew

The Coal Strike & Titanic's Engineering Crew

The Coal Strike & Titanic's Engineering Crew

“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

"Lead, Kindly Light": Noel Leslie, The Countess of Rothes

"Surrounded by Mothballs and Memories": Quigg Baxter & Berthe Mayne

"See You Soon, Darling": Joseph & Juliette Laroche

The Coal Strike & Titanic's Engineering Crew

The Coal Strike & Titanic's Engineering Crew

"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

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