Voices from the Titanic Read online

  When I ran up to first-class, I saw that the ship must be going to sink and I lost my head. But a man, I think he was one of the sailors, when he saw that I was there, he pushed me into one of the boats.

  (Canadian press, 24 April 1912)

  Russian steerage passenger Berk Pickard described his ordeal at the subsequent Senate hearings.

  My cabin was No. 10 in the steerage, at the stern. I first knew of the collision when it happened, about ten minutes to twelve. We had all been asleep, and all of a sudden we perceived a shock. We knew something was wrong, and we jumped out of bed and we dressed ourselves and went out, and we could not get back again. I wanted to go back to get my things but I could not. The stewards would not allow us to go back. They made us all go forward on the deck. There were no doors locked to prevent us from going back. I did not take much notice of it, and I went to the deck. The other passengers started arguing. One said that it was dangerous and the other said that it was not; one said white and the other said black. Instead of arguing with those people, I instantly went to the highest spot. I said to myself that if the ship had to sink, I should be one of the last. That was my first idea, which was the best. I went and I found the door. There are always a few steps from the third class, with a moveable door, and it is marked there that second-class passengers have no right to penetrate there. I found this door open so that I could go into the second class, where I did not find many people, only a few that climbed on the ladder and went into the first class, which I did. I found there only a few men and about two ladies. They had been putting them into lifeboats and as no women were there, we men sprang in the boat.

  The steerage passengers, so far as I could see, were not prevented from getting up to the upper decks by anybody, or by closed doors, or anything else. While I was on the ship no one realized the real danger, not even the stewards. If the stewards knew, they were calm. It was their duty to try to make us believe there was nothing serious.

  (US Inquiry, 4 May 1912)

  John Hardy, aged thirty-six, chief steward, second class, had the task of rousing his passengers on decks D, E and F.

  I did not retire until twenty-five minutes after eleven. I went down to my room after going around the ship and seeing that all the unnecessary lights were out. I went to my room, and stripped and turned in. I had not been in more than five minutes before I heard this slight shock. I got up, and slipped on my pants and coat over my pyjamas, and went on deck to see what the trouble was. I got on deck and could not see anything. I went below and turned in again within about ten minutes after I had gone on deck.

  I was reading a few minutes when the chief first-class steward came to my room and asked me to get up, as he thought it was pretty serious, that she was making water forward. I went with him forward to see what water she was making, and on my return to my end of the ship I met Purser Barker.

  He advised me or told me to get the people on deck with their lifebelts on as a precaution. Immediately I sent down for all hands to come up. We assisted the ladies with their belts – those that hadn’t their husbands with them – and we assisted in getting the children out of bed. We commenced to close the watertight doors on F deck. I assisted the bedroom stewards also in sending the people up through the companionways to the upper decks.

  (US Inquiry, 25 April 1912)

  Thomas Whiteley, aged twenty-one, was a waiter in the first-class saloon.

  My quarters were on E deck, which is five decks down. I did not feel any shock, but a shipmate of mine took me by the shoulder and said to get out. I said: ‘Is it 5.30 already?’ He said: ‘No, we’ve hit a berg.’

  I looked out of the port, the sea was like glass and I did not believe him. I looked on deck and found it covered with ice. Stokehole No. 2 began to fill with water at once. All the water-tight doors were closed. They had to be opened again to let the men go down and draw the fires to prevent an explosion. Then the order came: ‘All hands above decks with lifebelts!’

  (US press, 19 April 1912)

  Eight-year-old Marshall Drew was travelling second-class with his aunt and uncle. He later recounted his experiences.

  When the Titanic struck the iceberg at 11.40 p.m., I was in bed. However, for whatever reason, I was awake and remember the jolt and cessation of motion. A steward knocked on the state room door and directed us to get dressed, put on life preservers and go to the boat deck, which we did. There was a watertight compartment next to our state room. As we left, it was closed. I remember the steward as we passed was trying to arouse passengers who had locked themselves in for the night. Elevators were not running. We walked up to the boat deck.

  Fireman Robert Williams revealed how some of the crew danced on deck while waiting for women to fill the lifeboats.

  I was in my bunk at the time of the collision, and was awakened, but lots of my mates were never disturbed. I ran aft, and a storekeeper told me how the water was rising below, and I hurried back to my quarters to tell my mates. Some of them laughed at me, and wouldn’t get up.

  They were taking the covers off the boats, and I helped them, and after that I went down below into the steerage to help to get the women and children up. They wouldn’t believe there was any danger, and we had to fairly punch some of them up. A lot who were left below couldn’t be persuaded at any cost to leave their quarters.

  On deck I heard them shouting repeatedly for the women, but none appeared. The band was playing, and while we were waiting for the women several of us were waltzing round with one another, and smoking cigarettes.

  Out of a watch of about a hundred firemen, trimmers and greasers, only ten were saved. The men drew the fires in the fore stoke-hold to prevent the boilers exploding, and before they got out the water was above their waists.

  (Daily Sketch, 29 April 1912)

  James R. McGough, a thirty-six-year-old buyer from Philadelphia, submitted an affidavit to the Senate Investigation into the disaster.

  I was awakened at 11.40 p.m., ship time. My state room was on the starboard side – deck E – and was shared with me by Mr Flynn, a buyer for Gimbel Bros, New York. Soon after leaving our state room we came in contact with the second dining-room steward, Mr Dodd, in the companionway, of whom we asked the question, ‘Is there any danger?’ He answered, ‘Not in the least’ and suggested that we go back to bed, which we did not, however, do.

  It was our intention to go up to the promenade deck, but before doing so I rapped on the door of the state room opposite mine, which was occupied by a lady, and suggested to her that she had better get up at once and dress as there was apparently something wrong.

  Mr Flynn and I then ascended to promenade deck A, and, after being up there about ten minutes, were notified to put on life preservers as a matter of precaution. We then had to go all the way from promenade deck back to our state room which was on E deck. After procuring our life preservers we went back again to the top deck, and after reaching there, discovered that orders had been given to launch the lifeboats, and that they were already being launched at that time.

  (US Inquiry, 1 May 1912)

  Charles H. Romaine, 45, from Georgetown, Kentucky, survived by jumping into the sea, from where he was picked up by a lifeboat.

  At the time of the smash I was in the smoking room with a Mr Case, an auditor for the Standard Oil Company. The band had just finished playing. There was a decided quiver of the Titanic. No one in the smoking room seemed to think anything unusual had occurred, but when we went on deck there was some excitement.

  The officers of the Titanic were making the lifeboats ready and were ordering the passengers to get into them. None wanted to leave the Titanic. They believed she was perfectly safe.

  It was a very bright night and I could not see any icebergs. It was my opinion the officers were making a mountain out of a mole hill and I had no intention of getting into any of the boats. So I stayed on deck and watched the other passengers crowding into the lifeboats and on the life-rafts.

  Then I saw that t
he Titanic was sinking and decided I would take my chances swimming. I knew if I stayed too long I would be drawn down by the suction.

  (New York World, 19 April 1912)

  Seventeen-year-old Jack Thayer was travelling first-class with his parents, John B. Thayer, Second Vice-President of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Marion Longstreth Thayer, and Mrs Thayer’s maid, Margaret Fleming. After dinner on the fourteenth, he was befriended by Milton C. Long, son of Judge Charles M. Long of Springfield, Massachusetts. They met up again in the wake of the collision.

  We all went out onto ‘A’ deck, trying to find where we were supposed to go. They were then uncovering the boats and making preparations to swing them out. Everything was fairly orderly and the crew at least seemed to know what they were doing.

  It was now about 12.45 a.m. The noise was terrific. The deep vibrating roar of the exhaust steam blowing off through the safety valves was deafening, in addition to which they had commenced to send up rockets. There was more and more action. After standing there for some minutes talking above the din, trying to determine what we should do next, we finally decided to go back into the crowded hallway where it was warm. Shortly we heard the stewards passing the word around: ‘all women to the port side.’ We then said good-bye to my Mother at the head of the stairs on ‘A’ deck and she and the maid went out onto the port side of that deck, supposedly to get into a lifeboat. Father and I went out on the starboard side, watching what was going on about us. It seemed we were always waiting for orders and no orders ever came. No one knew his boat position, as no lifeboat drill had been held. The men had not yet commenced to lower any of the forward starboard lifeboats, of which there were four. The noise kept up. The deck seemed to be well lighted. People like ourselves were just standing around, out of the way. The stokers, dining-room stewards, and some others of the crew were lined up, waiting for orders. The second- and third-class passengers were pouring up onto the deck from the stern, augmenting the already large crowd.

  Finally we thought we had better inquire whether or not Mother had been able to get into a boat. We went into the hall and happened to meet the Chief Dining Room Steward. He told us that he had just seen my mother, and that she had not yet been put into a boat. We found her, and were told that they were loading the forward boats on the port side from the deck below. The ship had a substantial list to port, which made quite a space between the side of the ship and the lifeboats, swinging out over the water, so the crew stretched folded steamer chairs across the space, over which the people were helped into the boats.

  We proceeded to the deck below. Father, Mother and the maid went ahead of Long and myself. The lounge on ‘B’ deck was filled with a milling crowd, and as we went through the doorway out onto the deck, people pushed between my father and mother, and Long and me. Long and I could not catch up, and were entirely separated from them. I never saw my father again.

  (New York World, 21 April 1912)

  Honeymoon couple Mrs Helen W. Bishop and her husband Dickinson were returning to their home in Dowagiac, Michigan.

  We had been in Europe since January and had visited Egypt, Italy, France and Algiers. We sailed on the Titanic on the tenth and had had a most enjoyable voyage until the night of the disaster.

  I had retired when our ship struck the iceberg, but Mr Bishop was sitting in our state room, reading. I didn’t hear the shock, and it was several minutes before someone came to our door and told us to come on deck. I got up and dressed, then we went above. Officers told us we might as well go below and retire; that there was no danger. We did not do so for some time, however. Finally we did, and soon afterwards we were again summoned. We dressed quietly and had plenty of time.

  It broke my heart to leave my little dog, Freu Freu, in my state room. I had purchased her in Florence, Italy, and she was the pet of the ship. The steward wouldn’t let me take her to the butcher. He said she was too pretty, and she was the only one allowed to stay in the cabin. I made a little den for her in our room behind two of my suitcases, but when I started to leave her she tore my dress to bits, tugging at it. I realized, however, that there would be little sympathy for a woman carrying a dog in her arms when there were lives of women and children to be saved.

  The girl who occupied a state room across from us refused to get up and the stewards pulled her out of bed. She got back in and sank with the ship.

  (Dowagiac Daily News, 20 April 1912)

  In the wake of the launch incident at Southampton, Roberta Maioni, maid to the Countess of Rothes, had already heard a number of passengers remark that the ship was fated.

  On the Sunday evening I went into the music saloon to listen to the band, and found myself in the company of a man who had previously taken a fatherly interest in me. He was travelling alone, and seemed to suffer from his loneliness, for he had been one of the passengers most affected by forebodings.

  When 10 o’clock came and I was called away to bed, he begged me to remain with him a little longer, saying he was sure something awful was about to happen. Perhaps he was influenced by the fact that the band was playing such pieces as ‘Ave Maria’ and ‘Nearer, My God, To Thee’.

  His seriousness and pessimism frightened me, so for once in my life I was quite glad to be sent to bed. I bade him ‘Goodnight’ and never saw him again.

  After I had been in bed for about an hour and a half, I was awakened by a terrific crash, followed by the rending of metal, the rushing of water and the shouting of men.

  I was about to get up when a steward came and said: ‘Miss, we have struck an iceberg, but I don’t think there’s any danger. Should there be, I’ll come back and let you know.’

  I prepared myself for sleep once more, but in a few minutes the steward was back again, telling me not to be afraid, but to dress quickly, put on my life belt and go on deck. I put on the first clothes that came to hand and found my life belt. I could not fix this, but the steward came and did it for me.

  Still realizing nothing of the danger I was in, I joked with him about the funny way in which it was fixed. He did not answer, but smiled very sadly, and shook his head. Then I knew that something serious had happened.

  I was carried by a swarm of other passengers to the boat deck, and shall never forget the strange sight that met my eyes. There were pieces of ice all over the deck and groups of men and women, looking gaunt and fearful in their night attire or in odd garments hastily donned. Some of them were talking calmly, firmly believing that her watertight compartments would save the Titanic from sinking. Others were frantic with excitement or dumb with terror, huddled closely together in silence as though they knew they were about to be parted by death.

  There were men swearing horribly and women quietly sobbing, and I knew that many of them were praying as they never prayed before.

  But there was no panic and I, with the fortitude of youth, looked on in wonder. It was bitterly cold.

  I watched them preparing to lower the lifeboats. I heard the order, ‘Women and children first’. I saw women parting from their husbands and fathers. Some women clung to their husbands and refused to leave them, but the ship’s officers pulled them apart – the women to live and the men to die.

  Dr Washington Dodge, assessor for the port of San Francisco, travelled first-class with his wife and four-year-old son Washington Jnr.

  At 10 p.m. Sunday while my wife and I went out for a stroll along the Titanic’s promenade deck, we found the air icy cold – so cold, in fact, that we were driven inside although we had on heavy wraps. This change of temperature had occurred in the previous two hours. We went to bed and were awakened about 11.40 by a jar which gave me the impression that a blow on the side had moved the entire vessel laterally to a considerable angle. With only my overcoat and slippers, I went through the companionway, but, to my surprise, found no one seriously considering the shock.

  Men in evening clothes stood about chatting and laughing, and when an officer – I did not know his name – hurried by I asked, ‘What is t
he trouble?’

  He replied: ‘Something is wrong with the propeller; nothing serious.’

  I went back to my state room, where my wife had already arisen to dress herself, and I dissuaded her from dressing herself or our four-year-old son.

  A little while later, still feeling nervous, I went up to the promenade deck and there saw a great mass of ice close to the starboard rail. Going back to my cabin again, I met my bedroom steward, with whom I had crossed the ocean before, who whispered to me that, ‘Word has come from down below for everyone to put on life preservers.’

  I rushed back to my state room and told my wife the news and made her come up on deck with the baby, even half clothed. The boats on the starboard side were then suspended from the davits, but no passengers wanted to get in.

  It was a drop of fifty feet to the surface of the sea and apparently everybody considered that they were safer on the ‘unsinkable’ Titanic than in a small boat whose only propelling power was four oars. The first boat was only half filled for the simple reason that no one would get aboard.

  Personally, I waited for the lifeboat to become filled, and then, seeing there was plenty of room, I asked the officer at the rail why I also could not get in. His only reply was, ‘Women and children first,’ and the half-filled boat sheered off.