Voices from the Titanic

by Geoff Tibballs

  John Lovell, a twenty-year-old steerage passenger from Devon, was visiting his brother Leonard in the United States. He died in the sinking although his body was never identified. He sent two postcards. The first – to his uncle, William Wivell – was posted in Southampton. It read:

  Dear Uncle, Just writing a few lines to let you know that I have got to Southampton all right. We got to Southampton about 7.30 in the evening and we all lodge at the Alliance Hotel. I could not sleep that night. I am not downhearted yet, I am happy. J. Lovell.

  The second – to his aunt, Beatrice Wivell – was posted from Queenstown.

  I am sending you a postcard of the Titanic. We started from Southampton about 12 o’clock last Wednesday. Slept well the first night. I been on ship one and a half days. I am not sea sick yet. I am enjoying myself fine. Good bye. J. H. Lovell.

  Kate Buss, aged thirty-six, from Sittingbourne in Kent, was travelling second-class on the Titanic. She was on her way to meet her fiancé in the United States and broke the first stage of the journey by sending a letter to her brother Percy – on Titanic headed paper, dated 10 April 1912. She survived the sinking.

  The first class apartments are really magnificent and unless you had first seen them you would think the second class were the same. We were due to reach Cherbourg at 5 p.m., but not there yet although mail is cleared. I think I’d best try and get some postcards of the vessel. My fellow passenger hasn’t turned up yet, so if she is coming it will be from Cherbourg or Queenstown. I was advised to eat well so had a good lunch – two clergymen opposite me at table. No sign of sea sickness yet – I mustn’t crow … The only thing I object to is new paint so far. Must clear and have a wash now. Will pop this in the post in case I’m sea sick tomorrow… Much love Kate.

  First-class passenger Mrs Mahala Douglas of Minneapolis was to lose her husband Walter in the disaster.

  We left Cherbourg late on account of the trouble at Southampton, but once off, everything seemed to go perfectly. The boat was so luxurious, so steady, so immense, and such a marvel of mechanism that one could not believe he was on a boat – and there the danger lay. We had smooth seas, clear, starlit nights, fresh favouring winds; nothing to mar our pleasure.

  On Saturday, as Mr Douglas and I were walking forward, we saw a seaman taking the temperature of the water. The deck seemed so high above the sea I was interested to know if the tiny pail could reach it. There was quite a breeze, and, although the pail was weighted, it did not. This I watched from the open window of the covered deck. Drawing up the pail, the seaman filled it with water from the stand pipe, placed the thermometer in it, and went with it to the officer in charge.

  On Sunday we had a delightful day; everyone in the best of spirits. The time the boat was making was considered very good, and all were interested in getting into New York early.

  (US Inquiry, 9 May 1912)

  Belfast-born John Edward Simpson, an assistant surgeon on board the Titanic, wrote a letter to his mother from the ship, dated 11 April 1912. It was posted at Queenstown. It was the last correspondence he would have with her, as he died in the sinking.

  Dear Mother, I travelled from Liverpool on Monday by the 12 o’clock train – arrived on Ward at 10 p.m. feeling pretty tired. I am very well and am gradually settled in my new cabin which is larger than my last. This seems all the time as if it were the Olympic and I like it very much. I am a member of the Club now which is an advantage. Be sure to let me know how father gets on with his club. I was glad to get away from Liverpool as usual and don’t intend to go up for a month or two. I found my two trunks unlocked and five or six dollars stolen out of my pocketbook. I hope none of my stamps have been stolen. Did I have my old portmanteau when I borrowed the kit bag? I think not. With fondest love, John.

  Twenty-year-old Alfred Nourney from Cologne purchased a second-class ticket but, dissatisfied with his cabin, asked to be upgraded to first-class. He sent a jubilant postcard to his mother from Queenstown:

  Dear Mother, I’m so happy being first class! I already know some nice people! A diamond king! Mr Astor, one of the wealthiest Americans, is on board! Thousand kisses, Alfred.

  Alfred Nourney was one of the lucky survivors.

  Edith Brown was just fifteen when she sailed on the Titanic with her sister and father, both of whom died in the sinking. The family, from South Africa, were planning to open a hotel in Seattle. On the journey Edith wrote a postcard to her stepsister. It read:

  We are just sailing today by this boat for New York – 4000 tons – all well. With love to all. Your loving Sis E. B.

  Unable to post the card, she still had it in her pocket as she jumped into lifeboat No. 14 after the collision. The last she saw of her father was as he stood on the deck of the listing liner with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other. When she had recovered from her ordeal, Edith hand-delivered the card to her stepsister in Johannesburg.

  Stephen Curnow Jenkin, aged thirty-two, lived in the United States but had been visiting his family in St Ives, Cornwall. He was planning to sail on a different ship, but the coal strike in Britain forced him to transfer to the Titanic. He was uneasy about travelling on the Titanic and took the precaution of leaving his watch and other valuables with his parents in case anything happened to him. After sending a series of postcards to his family, he went down with the ship.

  Dear Father and Mother and Sisters. I am sending another photo of the same ship. This is the third one I sent you. This goes from Queenstown and the last one I sent from Cherbourg, the first one from Southampton. They are three different views of the same ship. I am not sick yet. She is a nice ship to ride on. I’ll write from New York next time. From your loving son Stephen.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE MOMENT OF IMPACT

  William Thompson Sloper, aged twenty-eight, a stockbroker from New Britain, Connecticut, returned home on the Titanic following a three-month holiday in Europe. He subsequently told how he was persuaded to sail on the liner by a group of new-found friends.

  I walked into the palm court of the Carleton Hotel on Pall Mall in the middle of the afternoon. The streets around the hotel and the hotel itself were deserted except for one group of people gathered under the shade of a sheltering palm whom I recognized as a family from Winnipeg, Manitoba, by the name of Fortune who had been passengers to Egypt in January on the same steamer as myself. At once the young people started calling me to join them for tea.

  During the trip from New York I became very well acquainted with the second daughter, Alice, who was a very pretty girl and an excellent dancing partner. Soon after I joined them that afternoon, one of the first questions Alice asked me was, ‘When are you going home?’ I explained I had only the day before paid for a state room on the Mauretania for the following Saturday. Before tea was over I promised Alice to drop in at the Cunard Line office the next morning and see if the company would refund my passage money.

  If Alice herself was not enough inducement, her assurance that she knew of twenty people who would be passengers on the Titanic who had been on our steamer in January certainly was.

  I remember I chummed around those first four days with a young, unmarried man about my age by the name of William Dulles who had been on the steamer going over in the winter. He was a gentleman, a trotting horse breeder from Goshen, New York. I saw him early Sunday evening, but I never saw him again.

  Sunday night we all enjoyed the glorious sunset from the decks of the Titanic as the sun sank like a ball of fire into the sea.

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

  At 11.30 we were still playing bridge when the library steward came over to our table and asked us to finish up our game so that he could put out the lights and retire.

  At the top of the stairs Dorothy announced that she would like to take a brisk walk around the promenade deck before going to bed. After saying good night to Mrs Gibson I hastily ran to my cabin to don a hat and overcoat.

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

  We found that in the few moments we had been walking around the deck thirty or forty passengers had gathered, most of them dressed in night clothes and dressing gowns. At this moment the designer of the ship, at whose table in the dining saloon Mrs Gibson and Dorothy had been sitting at mealtimes during the voyage, came bouncing up the stairs three at a time. Dorothy rushed over to him, put her hands on his arm and demanded to know what had happened. Without answering and with a worried look on his face, he brushed Dorothy aside and continued on up the next flight of steps, presumably on his way to the captain’s bridge.

  Helmsman Robert Hichens was at the wheel of the Titanic when the giant iceberg suddenly loomed up ahead.

  I went on watch at 8 o’clock Sunday night and stood by the men at the wheel until 10. At 10 I took the wheel for two hours.

  On the bridge from 10 o’clock were First Officer Murdoch, Fourth Officer Boxhall and Sixth Officer Moody. In the crow’s nest were Fleet and another man whose name I don’t know.

  Second Officer Lightoller, who was on watch while I stood by, carrying messages and the like, from 8 to 10, sent me soon after 8 to tell the carpenter to look out for the fresh water supply, as it might be in danger of freezing. The temperature was then 31 degrees. He gave the crow’s nest a strict order to look out for small icebergs.

  Second Officer Lightoller was relieved by First Officer Murdoch at 10 and I took the wheel then. At 11.40 three gongs sounded from the crow’s nest, the signal for ‘something right ahead’.

  At the same time one of the men in the nest telephoned to the bridge that there was a large iceberg right ahead. As Officer Murdoch’s hand was on the lever to stop the engines the crash came. He stopped the engines, then immediately by another lever closed the watertight doors.

  The skipper came from the chart room onto the bridge. His first words were: ‘Close the emergency doors.’

  ‘They’re already closed, sir,’ Mr Murdoch replied.

  ‘Send to the carpenter and tell him to sound the ship,’ was the skipper’s next order. The message was sent to the carpenter. The carpenter never came up to report. He was probably the first man on that ship to lose his life.

  The skipper looked at the commutator, which shows in what direction the ship is listing. He saw that she carried five degrees list to starboard.

  The ship was then rapidly settling forward. All the steam sirens were blowing. By the skipper’s orders, given in the next few minutes, the engines were put to work at pumping out the ship, distress signals were sent by Marconi and rockets were sent up from the bridge by Quartermaster Rowe. All hands were ordered on deck.

  (New York World, 19 April 1912)

  Mrs Frank M. Warren, aged sixty, of Portland, Oregon, lost her husband when the Titanic went down. She remarked how, immediately after the collision, someone had handed him a piece of ice as a souvenir.

  We started from Cherbourg on the evening of the tenth, proceeding to Queenstown, at which port we arrived about noon of the eleventh, and, after a delay of about 45 minutes, continued on our voyage. From the time of leaving Queenstown until the time of the accident, the trip was remarkably smooth and it was very bright and sunny except for about half an hour of fog on one occasion.

  The vessel on the first day out from Queenstown, that is from noon of the eleventh to noon of the twelfth, made, it was reported, 494 miles. On the second day, from noon of the twelfth to noon of the thirteenth, about 519 miles, and on the third day, from noon of the thirteenth to noon of the fourteenth, 546 miles.

  The general impression prevailing aboard the vessel was that the speed on the fourth day would be better than that shown on any preceding day and that we would arrive in New York sometime on Tuesday afternoon. The impression also prevailed among the passengers that the course of the vessel was more southwest than due west, the supposition being that this was to avoid fog. On Sunday, the day of the accident, the weather was particularly beautiful; there were no clouds, the sea was smooth and the temperature very moderate throughout the day.

  After dinner in the evening and until about 10 p.m. we were seated in the lounge on the dining room saloon deck listening to the music. About the time stated we went to one of the upper decks, where Mr Warren wanted to take a walk, as was his custom before retiring. He did not, however, as the temperature had fallen very considerably and the air was almost frosty, although the night was perfect, clear and starlit.

  We retired about 10.30, ship’s time, and we went to sleep immediately. About 11.45, ship’s time, we were awakened by a grinding noise and the stoppage of the vessel. Our room was on the starboard side of deck D, about 30ft above the water and in line with the point of impact.

  I arose immediately, turned the lights on and asked Mr Warren what terrible thing had happened. He said, ‘Nothing at all,’ but just at that moment I heard a man across the corridor say, ‘We have certainly struck an iceberg.’

  I then asked Mr Warren to go and see what was the matter. He first started out partly dressed, but decided to dress fully before going out, after doing which he went to one of the corridors and returned in a very few minutes with a piece of ice, saying it had been handed him as a souvenir.

  By that time, I had dressed and had laid out the lifebelts but Mr Warren said there was absolutely no danger and that with her watertight compartments the vessel could not possibly sink and that in all probability the only effect of the accident would be the delaying of our arrival in New York three or four days.

  We felt, however, too restless to remain in our room, so went out in the corridor again and talked with both the employees of the vessel and passengers. The general opinion prevailing was that there was no danger except for the expression on the part of one man who stated that the water was coming in below forward.

  Following this, we then went to our rooms, put on all our heavy wraps and went to the foot of the grand staircase on D deck, again interviewing passengers and crew as to the danger. While standing there one of the designers of the vessel rushed by, going up the stairs. He was asked if there was any danger but made no reply.

  But a passenger who was afterwards saved told me that his face had on it a look of terror. Immediately after this the report became general that water was in the squash courts, which were on the deck below where we were standing, and that the baggage had already been submerged. Just at this point a steward passed, ordering all to don life belts and warm clothing and go to the boat deck at once, saying that this move was simply a precautionary measure.

  According to my impression, the time was about 45 minutes after the accident. We went back to our room for a third time, seized the life belts and hastened to a point two decks above, where an officer assisted in adjusting our life belts.

  We saw in front of the purser’s office ship’s papers and valuables laid out, and I asked if we could take anything with us, but was told not.

  Continuing up to the boat deck we tried to get out to the port side, but we were unable to open the door. Noticing the starboard door standing open we went out that way. The boat deck was the top deck of the vessel, uncovered and only a few houses on it, such as contained the gymnasium.

  At the time we reached this deck there were very few passengers there,
apparently, but it was dark and we could not estimate the number. There was a deafening roar of escaping steam, of which we had not been conscious while inside.

  The only people we remembered seeing, except a young woman by the name of Miss Ostby, who had become separated from her father and was with us, were Mr Astor, his wife and servants, who were standing near one of the boats which was being cleared preparatory to being lowered. The Astors did not get into this boat. They all went back inside and I saw nothing of them again until Mrs Astor was taken onto the Carpathia.

  We discovered that the boat next to the one the Astors’ boat had been near had been lowered to the level of the deck, so we went towards it and were told by the officer to get in. I supposed Mr Warren had followed, but saw when I turned that he was standing back assisting the women.