by Steve Turner
Devonshire Park Theatre, another Eastbourne venue well known to Wes Woodward.
The music it played was varied. In a symphony concert in March 1909, it played Dvorak’s New World Symphony and Liszt’s Second Rhapsody, and worked with a visiting composer, Dr. J. W. G. Hathaway. The Sunday evening program, which featured vocalist Edith Clegg, included Marche Solennelle by Alexandre Luigini; the overture from Fingal’s Cave by Mendelssohn; Ernest Guiraud’s violin and orchestra piece “Caprice”; extracts from André Messager’s ballet Les Deux Pigeons, Wagner’s opera Lohengrin, and Charles Gounod’s opera Faust; and “The Bees Wedding” by Mendelssohn.
They also did concerts of what were called Popular music, which were light orchestral numbers: Julius Fucik’s “Entry of the Gladiators,” Jules Massenet’s “Scenes Napolitaines,” Schubert’s “Marche Militaire,” and a selection from Arthur Sullivan. The local paper commented: “Nobody nowadays associates the term popularity in music with anything that is cheap or tawdry, least of all may they do so in connections with Mr Tas’ programmes which are culled from the most fascinating works, and are so well compiled as to echo the last note of variety.”
The audiences had high expectations for the music, as did the critics on the local papers. If it fell below the expected standard, they would make their objections known. In February 1908, Tas briefly handed his baton over to Dan Godfrey from Bournemouth and apparently the standard slipped. “A world of difference is interposed between the Duke’s Orchestra at their best and at their ordinary level,” wrote a critic from the Eastbourne & Sussex Society. “It was regrettable that under the direction of so eminent a conductor, they should have fallen somewhat beyond the high water mark on Friday last. Their achievements could not, for instance, in any way be compared to those chronicled at the Edward German concert of a fortnight ago, and their want of enthusiasm naturally spread to the audience, who received some of the works tamely.”
Very occasionally Woodward would perform a solo. On February 15, 1908, for example, he played “Cavatina” by Joachim Raff (originally written for piano and violin but often adapted for cello) and “Danse Rustique” by British composer William Henry Squire. On January 9, 1909, he again played the piece by Raff along with “Mazurka” by David Popper. A local novelist and music lover, Emeric Hulme Beaman,3 said of Wes:
On several occasions he exhibited brilliant qualities as a solo executant but he excelled rather as an orchestral player than a soloist. His orchestral playing was uniformly sound, steady and reliable; while these same invaluable qualities, conjoined with much natural taste and a cultured style, enabled him to appear to utmost advantage in chamber music. He was a thorough and conscientious musician, whose playing, whether in solos or concerted work, was always interesting and always enjoyable.
Many of the orchestra’s musicians did extra work, such as playing at the roller rink in Devonshire Park, but, according to the Duke’s wages books, Woodward restricted himself to the main orchestra work. This may have been because he wanted to play music with other ensembles in his free time. In 1908 Strad magazine reviewed him in concert at the Town Hall in a fundraising event for St. Peter’s Church. Apparently “his violoncello solos formed quite a feature.” The Brighton Advertiser reported that he also performed with the orchestra in the Lounge Hall of the Grand Hotel under Simon Von Lier, the conductor who had been with the Kensington Palace Hotel Orchestra when Theo Brailey played there.4
The hiring of Von Lier in 1903 was indicative of the importance that orchestral music played in the marketing of middle-class resorts and hotels at the turn of the twentieth century. It was the sign of culture and sophistication. The chairman at the time wrote:
I believe you will agree with us that music (especially that of a high class) is now considered almost an essential requirement for hotels of the character of the Grand. If so, I am sure you will approve of the engagement of this orchestra which plays daily in the Hall, afternoon and evening. It is admitted by all who have heard it to be one of great merit and considerable note and has, so far, proved an attraction and has given great pleasure to the visitors, as is evidenced by the applause with which their music is greeted.
The composer Claude Debussy came to stay at the Grand in 1905 with his pregnant mistress, Emma Bardac, and while there completed his best-known composition, La Mer.
The Hall in the Grand Hotel, Eastbourne, where the orchestra would have played.
The Hall at the Grand was reputed to have extraordinary acoustics and for this reason would later become a key venue for live radio broadcasts of orchestral music. A guest named George Bagshaw, who spent time at the hotel while Woodward was in Eastbourne, said it truly was a “grand” hotel in that era. “In the evening the hotel porters were dressed in livery with white wigs, knee breeches and silk stockings. The Palm Court had a famous quartet orchestra conducted by a German [sic] Von Leer who played the violin and other players on piano, double bass and cello.”
If Woodward did play at the Grand, it’s not certain whether he fitted it in with his work with the Duke’s orchestra or whether he did a short stint there in 1910 when the orchestra was winding down. The 8th Duke of Devonshire died at the Hotel Metropole in Cannes in March 1908 and was immediately succeeded by his nephew, Victor Cavendish, who became the 9th Duke. The new Duke continued the sponsorship of the orchestra but by 1910 had second thoughts because the box office revenue fell below expectations. The total wage bill between January 1908 and January 1910 was £17,000. He decided that the town itself would need to at least offer partial finance if the orchestra was to continue, and so it was that it played its final symphony concert on October 27 and disbanded four days later.
It could have been during November that Woodward filled in at the Grand before setting sail on the Elder-Dempster-owned RMS Port Royal from Bristol to Kingston on December 10, 1910, to work at the Constant Spring Hotel. The ship didn’t arrive until early on Christmas morning because it was dogged by storms all the way. There was a strong southerly wind as soon as it left port and then for the next four days it had to contend with a westerly gale before being lashed by a variety of bad weather for the rest of the crossing.
He told friends in Eastbourne that the Caribbean sojourn had greatly improved his health. The main Jamaican daily newspaper, the Daily Gleaner, would say that he made many friends during the visit and had time to give lessons at the hotel. The orchestra, the paper added, was “the best of its kind that has ever visited Jamaica.” The Brighton Advertiser wrote of his Jamaica trip that he had “won much appreciation as a soloist. Like other artists who visit the island, he experienced great hospitality and kindness his sunny disposition rendering him a favourite wherever he went.”
His connection with C. W. & F. N. Black and his newly awakened appetite for travel attracted him to the life of a ship’s musician. Back in Southampton on May 1, 1911, he and John Law Hume signed on for the maiden voyage of the Titanic’s sister ship the Olympic, which was to leave Southampton on June 14 bound for New York. It was the largest and most luxurious ship ever to sail and its maiden voyage completely sold out.
The best of White Star’s crew were selected for the trip. As with the Titanic’s maiden voyage ten months later, the captain was the white-bearded Edward Smith, a favorite with wealthy customers, and White Star chairman J. Bruce Ismay and Harland & Wolff designer Thomas Andrew were VIP passengers. The eight musicians were mostly from the bands of the Majestic and the Arabic, the oldest of them only thirty years old. Violet Jessop, a first-class steward on both the Olympic and the Titanic, later remembered the excitement among the crew: “The great day came when the Olympic finally became a fact, the ‘largest and finest’ to fly the British flag. A crew, handpicked from every ship in the line, was assembled for muster on sailing day, feeling proud of the honour of being chosen but trying to hide it under the nonchalance that was only too obvious.”
The ship sailed first to Cherbourg in France, then to Queenstown in Ireland, before heading acros
s the Atlantic to New York. A writer for the New York Times was on board and could hardly conceal his excitement at the opulence, size, and range of activities available. He heard the band play. “The dining room lounge, an experiment on the part of the builders, the great success of which was hardly anticipated, proved to be the most popular resting place on the ship. Here a very good orchestra plays before and after meals, and tables and chairs were always at a premium for the demitasse.”
The unnamed writer also speculated on the safety of the ship in an unusually prescient way. He suggested that part of the adventure of sailing was the outside chance that something could go wrong.
To begin with, there is always to the imaginative person the joy of speculation, the mystery of untried things, perhaps the lingering uncertainty as to actual accomplishment. You know, for instance, that the shipbuilding and navigation are scientifically accomplished, that the least possible element of chance enters in, that the departure and arrival of the ocean steamers is almost as definitely fixed, under normal conditions, as the rising or the setting of the sun. And yet in the case of an untried vessel there is always that feeling of an added element of chance. What if this man or that has erred in his estimate, what if the unexpected should happen for just once, what if a dozen different ifs should develop to upset the calculations and bring you face to face with the hitherto unencountered?
The Olympic’s arrival in America on June 21 was hotly anticipated and Violet Jessop described it as a mass welcome that seemed to involve the whole city. Large and small boats were snapping at its heels as soon as it entered the Hudson and the edge of the river was thronged with cheering crowds. “Not a window, however small, but had a little flag or handkerchief waving from it, as we slowly passed on to the accompaniment of shrill tooting of greetings from everything afloat that had a whistle to blow.”
Woodward had a week to spend in New York because the Olympic wasn’t due to depart until June 28. He threw himself into discovering the best music he could find and told friends back in England that he learned a lot from his exposure to music in America. “He thoroughly enjoyed the opportunities he had of visiting New York where he made many friends,” reported the Brighton Advertiser. “He had a very high opinion of the Americans as lovers of music.”
He made three more trips to America on the Olympic, with a band reduced to five from the eight on the maiden voyage. Then, on September 20, 1911, just as he was about to leave on his fifth Olympic crossing, the unexpected happened. Shortly before 1:00 p.m., as the ship headed down the dredged channel in the Solent, the Royal Navy cruiser HMS Hawke appeared on its starboard side making toward the same narrow exit between shoals marked on the navigational maps. According to the “Rules of the Road” the Olympic should have slowed down and given way, but it didn’t. The Hawke vainly tried to turn at the last moment but its helm jammed and the seven-ton warship ploughed straight into the side of the Cunard steamer.
Telgram from Ismay to the Admiralty regarding the Olympic/Hawke incident.
Notification from Portsmouth’s Commander-in-chief.
Woodward was playing checkers in a cabin with members of the band during a break from a lunchtime performance when the collision took place, the main point of contact with the bow of the Hawke being only feet away. The impact on the big ship was felt so slightly by the players, however, that they carried on with their game. This was to be an eerie portent of the initial response to the Titanic’s encounter with an iceberg. It was only on closer inspection that it was realized that the Olympic had been badly damaged: Three blades of the starboard propeller ended up looking as though they’d been chewed by rats, a large triangular hole about twelve feet in length had been torn in the side just above the waterline, cabin bulkheads and fittings had been broken, and the dynamo room had been flooded. It wasn’t until divers looked under the ship that they realized there was another pear-shaped hole in the plating below the waterline.
Damage to the side of the Olympic.
Damaged propeller of Olympic.
This was to say nothing of the damage caused to the Hawke, whose bow was so twisted and bent that it looked like a boxer with a crumpled nose. It was clear within a short time that the Olympic would not be going to New York. It would, first of all, have to remain anchored in the Solent, and then it would return to Southampton before heading back to Harland & Wolff ’s dockyards in Belfast for emergency repairs. It was not only a disappointment for almost twenty-five hundred passengers, but also a humiliation for the White Star Line. Its greatest ship, so far, was out of action after only three months of active service. There was the obvious loss of revenue and prestige along with the additional prospect of having to pay damages to the Royal Navy if found guilty of negligence.
HMS Hawke’s broken bow after her collision with the Olympic.
The collision with the Hawke affected the Titanic. Not only was a diversion of effort required, but the only speedy way of repairing the damaged propeller was to replace it with one destined for the Titanic. It forced White Star to shift the date of the Titanic’s maiden voyage—as announced in September 1911—from March 20, 1912, to April 10, 1912. If the Hawke and the Olympic had never met, then neither would the iceberg and the Titanic.
One of the findings of the court of inquiry into the incident was the likelihood that the displacement of water caused by a ship as huge as the Olympic set up a suction that dragged the smaller ship into its wake once it was so close. However, this did not excuse the Olympic. If it had adhered to Article 19 of the Regulations for the Prevention of Collisions at Sea it would have given way. “The Olympic, though perhaps not the overtaking ship according to the definition laid down, had excess of speed over the Hawke and could have reduced speed to keep astern of her in the narrow channel, seeing that she was obliged by the Rule of the Road to keep out of the way. Instead of which she attempted to pass the Hawke.” The summary was: “We are of the opinion that from the evidence heard that the Olympic alone is to blame.”
Woodward was transferred to the band of the much smaller Cunard steamer Caronia, which was doing regular summer crossings from Liverpool to New York, calling in at Queenstown on the outward journey. He left Liverpool on November 4, arriving in New York on November 12, where he spent almost a week before the Caronia embarked on the first of its winter cruises for the 1911/1912 season, going directly to Gibraltar on the way out and returning via Liverpool.
The Caronia arrived back in New York on Christmas Eve and sailed again on January 6, 1912, for a similar Mediterranean cruise. On February 20 it left New York for Alexandria, Egypt, calling in at Madeira, Monaco, and Naples. Visiting so many countries in such a short time, Woodward put his camera to good use, taking photographs of scenes that seemed exotic to British eyes. “When he was at one of the Mediterranean ports he snapped an Arab in the act of shaving a boy’s head outside a mosque,” reported the Brighton Advertiser. “The Mussulman manifested the indignation prompted by the well-known scruples of his co-religionists.”
He told his friends that he enjoyed the “change and variety” that came with life at sea. Along with his friend Jock Hume, however, he planned to leave ship life at the end of the summer of 1912. He had his eye on a position with the Devonshire Park Orchestra in Eastbourne. “He was full of hope and life and spirits,” summarized Emeric Holmes Beaman. “He was looking forward confidently to the future, and yet quite content with the present.”
7
“THE LIFE OF EVERY SHIP
HE EVER PLAYED ON.”
John Law Hume, known to his fellow musicians as Jock and to school friends as Johnny, had separated from Wes Woodward after the Olympic’s collision with the Hawke, but their paths remained remarkably similar. Hume was assigned to the Caronia’s sister ship, the Carmania, and like Woodward sailed to New York and cruised the Mediterranean. He arrived back in Liverpool three days later than Woodward on April 2, 1912.
Born in Dumfries, Scotland, on August 9, 1890, Jock Hume appears to have been th
e liveliest, cheekiest member of the band. Few people could speak of him without mentioning his huge grin, his appetite for life, his professional ambition, and his love of practical jokes. A tall, slim boy with fair curling hair, he left home at sixteen and despite his age had been on more ships than any of the other musicians on the Titanic. This was not unusual for the time. Boys growing up in towns with limited opportunities to work in industry joined the merchant navy straight from school for the security of employment as well as the promise of adventure.
John Law Hume.
The photograph of him released after the sinking didn’t do his personality justice. It was of a smartly dressed, tight-lipped young man in a high collar trying to give an impression of respectability. In contrast, a photo given to fundraisers in New York and published in the New York Times revealed his true character. Dressed in high waist trousers, a white shirt, white shoes, and a kipper tie, he had an insouciant look on his face. The thumb of his left hand was tucked into his belt and his right elbow rested on a post. He looked a snappy dresser, and proud of it. In an age characterized by formality, particularly when being photographed, Hume was casual. In the middistance, to his right, a young woman reclined on a lawn looking toward the camera. She wasn’t identified but seemed to be an admirer. One friend said of Jock Hume, “A cooler young fellow I never knew.”
He was from a musical family, although not as musical as he would sometimes suggest. His father, Andrew, was a music teacher and accomplished violin and bow maker who had studied under Prosper Sainton, a French violinist and professor at London’s Royal Academy of Music. By 1894 Andrew was sufficiently well thought of to be given a small entry in David Baptie’s encyclopedic work Musical Scotland. In 1915 he told a reporter from Strad magazine that he’d started making violins thirty years ago and that he’d learned the craft by visiting the workshops of Erlbach, Schönbach, and Markneukirtchen in the Saxony region of Germany, visits that he was still making each year.
