Accompanying the crew on their disheartening recovery mission was “a leading local undertaker, John Snow of Snow & Co.” With stoic pragmatism, he had made sure the indispensable accoutrements of his trade had come with him. These items included more than one hundred coffins and huge quantities of embalming fluid. Anticipating that many burials would take place at sea, he had added scrap iron and rolls of canvas to the gloomy inventory. Snow had also insisted that the ship carry more than eighteen thousand kilograms of ice to reduce the chance of further deterioration of those bodies that could not immediately be embalmed.
Some of the bodies recovered were said to be badly disfigured, and it was rumoured that some passengers had sustained terrible injuries as the invading sea viciously assaulted the sinking ship. There has always been considerable debate about the allegations of massive injuries. Yet those who shared personal accounts of seeing many of the bodies generally insisted that most “looked as calm as if they were asleep,” and the formal inquiries that followed the tragedy confirmed that most victims had died of exposure.
During its thirteen days at sea, the MacKay-Bennett found three hundred and six bodies. One hundred and sixteen of them were buried at sea; this number has been controversial, as it has never been adequately explained how the victims were selected for an ocean burial. One theory is that all of the bodies first retrieved from the Atlantic were handled this way, but this was halted when White Star Line objected to this seemingly callous treatment. Captain Fred Lardner, the master of the vessel, did state that many of these bodies could not be identified, and some of the identified, he claimed, were badly damaged or already in a state of advanced decomposition. Later, when cornered by reporters who demanded better explanations of why the bodies of many crew members and steerage passengers had not been brought back to Halifax, Lardner insisted that his decision had nothing to do with class consciousness. He declared that it had happened because “it was more than his embalmer could handle.” The MacKay-Bennett did, in fact, run out of embalming fluid and had to obtain an additional supply from another vessel, the Minia. However, the captain admitted that “no prominent man was committed to the deep.” His reason was that “it seemed wise to embalm the bodies of those identified victims who might have possessed large estates.”
The return to Halifax on April 30 was a bittersweet occasion for the Mac-Kay-Bennett’s crew, who must have been anxious to escape from its cargo of death. Newspapers painted a stark picture of the returning vessel containing many bodies covered by tarpaulins. In one of the ship’s holds, they were said to be literally piled “one on top of another.” On the Coaling Number 4 dock at HMCS Dockyard, undertakers’ carriages were lined up to remove coffins and bodies from the ship. Also waiting at dockside were numerous officials and those identified as next-of-kin or their designated representatives, who had arrived in closed carriages, automobiles and taxi-cabs.
A reporter for The Halifax Evening Mail provided his readers with a scenario of death in its most brutal manifestations. “The first bodies taken ashore were those of the crew. Their bodies had not been embalmed or even sewn up in canvas and presented such a gruesome sight that it would be impossible to picture. The bodies were carried on stretchers by members of the MacKay-Bennett crew, and at times as many as thirty or forty bodies were in a heap on deck where they had been taken from the ice-filled hold. The second-class passengers and steerage were sewn up in canvas bags, and they were brought ashore later. They were embalmed and had all been identified. On the wharf, Messrs. Snow & Sons had fully thirty teams, and the bodies were taken away as fast as they could be brought ashore. At 10 a.m., the various hearses began to remove the bodies from the yard.” It was a lengthy ordeal to remove and transport all of the bodies from the MacKay-Bennett. More than three hours had passed before the macabre job ended with the unloading of the bodies of the first-class passengers, which had all been partially embalmed and placed in coffins.
Because of its location, cold interior and glassed-in areas, the Mayflower Curling Club was chosen to become the crucial facility in the melancholy task of dealing with the recovered bodies. Then located on Agricola Street between McCully and May streets, the club had been subjected to a dramatic transformation. In preparation for the complexities of dealing with the dead, a section of the building was partitioned off to accommodate thirty-four benches, on which the embalmers could perform their sombre ritual of preparing the bodies for burial. Draped in black, the main part of the rink now held close to seventy square frames, two feet high, each large enough to house three coffins. The surrealistic setting was captured graphically in an article that appeared in the Montreal newspaper, The Gazette. The account must have horrified readers:
HALIFAX, APRIL 30. Strangely solemn and profoundly impressive is the interior of the Mayflower curling rink, which became a morgue today. This structure, which has on more than one occasion been the scene of all that represents life and gaiety, has been transformed for the silent sleepers gathered from the deep. Never before in the history of Halifax has such a spectacle been witnessed. All this afternoon and tonight more than a score of embalmers with a large number of assistants, were engaged in embalming the bodies at the Mayflower morgue brought in from the scene of the Titanic disaster. Orders were given by the White Star Line that all bodies should be embalmed and properly clothed and prepared for burial. The bodies so far examined present no mark of mutilation. Most others are frozen and many slightly decomposed. As a result of the frost, the work of the undertakers has been of necessity retarded.
The embalmers working at the rink focused their attention on identified bodies, while the unidentified were shunted to a temporary holding area. There have been rumours that attempts were made to bribe some undertakers to give priority to certain bodies, but if this did happen, it is believed that the White Star Line summarily put an end to such unethical tactics.
Most of the bodies arrived at the rink with their clothing intact. All garments were removed and catalogued. Forensic science was more primitive then, and it was important to describe every possible clue to someone’s identity. Such information came from the undertakers, whose duties involved the intimate aspects of embalming a body. They provided for each victim facts about gender, estimated age and weight, as well as hair colour, scars, birth marks, tattoos, etc. This information became part of a portfolio that included other data, such as the number used on a coffin. In cases where a body would be buried in Halifax, information about its final burial site was noted. Photographs were also taken “where features are at all distinguishable.”
The poignant task of addressing many of the logistics associated with dealing with such a large number of dead was said to have taken place in a “very much businesslike” setting. Still, it must have been an incredibly shocking experience for the people who were recruited to make lists of the material goods found on the bodies. It also must have been paradoxical to find oneself handling items that in some cases represented great wealth, and in others the pitiful belongings of passengers and crew members who might possess little more than the clothes on their backs.
Lists of the effects found on the Titanic’s victims are now an invaluable historical resource housed among the Nova Scotia Public Archives’ records in Halifax.
BODY 124. Colonel John Jacob Astor IV, 1st class Passenger. Multi-millionaire, age 47. Light hair and moustache. Blue serge suit; blue handkerchief with ‘A.V.’; belt with gold buckle; brown boots with red rubber soles; brown flannel shirt, ‘J.J.A.’ on back of collar. Gold watch; cuff links, gold with diamonds; diamond ring with three stones; £225 in English notes, $2440 in notes; £5 in gold; 7 shilling in silver; 5 ten franc pieces; gold pencil; pocketbook.
BODY 223, Unidentified Male, probably a steward, age about 20. Height 5 ft. 5 in.; weight 145 lbs. Brown hair. Eye teeth extra long. Wore steward’s uniform. No aids to identification.
To help ensure that the families would have the best opportunity to officially identify their deceased loved o
nes, one end of the Mayflower building, which had previously been used to observe curlers in action, was chosen as a viewing area. There people waited in bewildered anticipation until, following completion of the embalming procedure, the name of a deceased individual was called out. Those recognizing the name would then come forward to be exposed to a painful close view of a body that had just left an embalmer’s care. It is impossible to imagine the atmosphere in the rink, as the family members of a deceased person or their official representatives, left their seats and tentatively approached a body. The building must have echoed with their cries as the mourners viewed the corpse of a parent, sibling, close friend or colleague.
Frank Newell, an undertaker from Yarmouth, probably never dreamed that he would also be personally affected by the Titanic’s demise. This bizarre event occurred when, during his hard work, he suddenly encountered the body of a relative, A.W. Newell, who had been a first-class passenger on the ship. Apparently overwhelmed by this discovery, the poor fellow collapsed on the floor beside the body. Some say it was his uncle, but this has never been established as fact.
When it became apparent that Halifax would become the centre for dealing with the legal ramifications associated with the Titanic’s loss, the provincial government implemented a number of appropriate strategies. In particular, steps were taken to eliminate a bureaucratic nightmare, and two men assumed key roles. They were John Henry Barnstead, who was Halifax’s deputy registrar of deaths, and Dr. W.D. Finn, the coroner and medical examiner. Along with their staffs, they established an office above the rink, and this arrangement made it possible for death certificates to be issued with little delay. It also made it easier for those claiming bodies to arrange the transport of caskets to destinations that were often thousands of kilometres away. One of the puzzling mysteries associated with the Titanic disaster is the fact that all of the death certificates issued in Halifax during the spring of 1912 have now gone missing.
Of the three hundred and twenty-eight bodies recovered by Canadian vessels, one hundred and sixteen were buried at sea and two hundred and nine were brought back to Halifax. Fifty-nine of those recovered were claimed by relatives and shipped to their home communities. The remaining one hundred and fifty victims are buried in three cemeteries: Fairview Lawn, Mount Olivet and Baron de Hirsch, all in Halifax. This final disposition of the bodies occurred from May 3 to June 12, 1912. Nineteen of the deceased were interred in the Mount Olivet Catholic Cemetery, ten in the Baron de Hirsch Jewish Cemetery, and one hundred and twenty-one in the Fairview Lawn Cemetery. Of these, forty-three remain unidentified (a baby has now been identified).
Many researchers and experts who investigate unnatural deaths today are fascinated by the unsophisticated techniques that were used to identify the bodies recovered from the Titanic disaster. For example, they are intrigued that Rabbi M. Walter was given the responsibility of identifying the bodies of those believed to be Jewish. (It has now been discovered that this man was a rabbinical student, not a rabbi.) Apparently, Walter made his determinations primarily on the basis of “a name or a man’s appearance.” If this was indeed the case, it proved to be an unsatisfactory form of identification, and a number of people identified by him as Jewish proved to be Catholics, including an Irish fellow from Galway. A number of Italian victims, who most probably were of the Catholic faith, now occupy gravesites in Fairview Lawn Cemetery, primarily a cemetery for Protestants. And for unexplained reasons, some pertinent clues, such as initials found on the clothing of several victims, were overlooked or ignored. But ninety years after the terrible ocean tragedy took place, it is unfair surely to criticize or try to second guess the excruciating identification process that occurred in Halifax during the spring of 1912.
Though the world has had a long-standing and intense fascination with the fate of the Titanic, the ship has been a more immediate and formidable presence for Atlantic Canadians. As I walked through the ice and snow in the Fairview Lawn Cemetery near a busy intersection in Halifax’s north end, I shuddered, not so much from the cold as from the thought of that terrible day in May, 1912, when thirty-six numbered coffins holding the bodies of Titanic victims were laid side-by-side in a common grave in this cemetery. It is not humanly possible to attempt to recapture the sombre, surrealistic setting that must have enveloped the eight hundred or more people who witnessed the mass burial.
I stop to reflect on the inscriptions carved on many of the headstones. Some families of the Titanic victims have replaced original grave markers with more elaborate monuments, but class distinction matters little to the dead. Perhaps most pathetic are the simple little monuments that bear only numbers, no names. Other gravesites have headstones that identify someone lost on the Titanic and also proclaim extraordinary bravery. On one such monument is carved: “Sacred to the memory of Everett Edward Elliott of the heroic crew S.S. Titanic, died on duty April 15, 1912 aged 24 years — Each man stood at his post while all the weaker ones went by and showed once more to all the world how Englishmen should die.” Another stone nearby simply reads, “Nearer my God to Thee.”
In the spring of 1912, Clarence MacKinnon, the principal of the Presbyterian College at Pine Hill, Halifax, made a prediction that has come true. Thinking of the dead, he said, “They shall rest quietly in our midst under the murmuring pines and hemlocks, but their story shall be told to our children and to our children’s children.”
The gravestones that mark the burial sites of those who lost their lives as a result of the Titanic’s sinking will forever serve not only as a cruel reminder of human mortality but also of a spiteful ocean that is capable of destroying even the most unsinkable ships and those who so foolishly put their trust in them.
Dorothy Grant
THE HALIFAX EXPLOSION
TAKING CARE OF THE VICTIMS
It claimed almost three times as many victims as the Great Chicago Fire and the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 combined. Until the advent of the atomic bomb, the Halifax Explosion of December 6, 1917, was the largest man-made detonation ever recorded, and it resulted from the collision of two vessels in Halifax Harbour. It was the height of the First World War, and Halifax was a beehive of activity, shipping munitions, goods and soldiers to England and beleaguered European nations. The Belgian relief ship Imo was exiting the Bedford Basin early that cool, clear December morning when — through a series of piloting errors — it struck the bow section of the Mont Blanc, a French munitions vessel en route to the Basin to queue up for a transatlantic convoy. The collision occurred at the Narrows, the least wide portion of Halifax Harbour, where north Haligonians and their Dartmouth neighbours are almost within hailing distance. What would have been a minor collision was rendered lethal by the thousands of tons of highly explosive materials on board the French ship. The now burning Mont Blanc drifted towards the Richmond area of north Halifax, its crew having quickly vacated the ship. Hundreds of spectators lined the docks and windows along the waterfront, taking in the spectacle. Most of these perished in the blast which followed, powerful enough to hurl a 1,140-pound anchor two miles and to break windows fifty miles distant. The Mont Blanc disintegrated, its hull turned into deadly shrapnel, and its death knell was heard over two hundred miles away.
Eerily, the Titanic’s identical twin, the Olympic, was at anchor in the Bedford Basin at this time. Looming in the smoke like a ghostly forerunner, she silently witnessed the death of over sixteen thousand people and the maiming of another nine thousand. Her sister White Star Liner had sunk five years earlier, in 1912, killing 1,522 people; ironically, the blast rocked not only the Olympic but also the graves of hundreds of the Titanic’s dead, buried not far from ground zero in Halifax’s Fairview Lawn Cemetery.
Witnesses described the blast from afar as resembling a huge mushroom cloud, and Robert Oppenheimer later would study the effects of the explosion in calculating the strength of the atomic bombs destined for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Over two square miles of the city were flattened, and the harbour was emp
tied of water, the subsequent tidal wave swamping the Dartmouth side and amplifying the toll of death and destruction. A black cloud hung over the city, and a toxic rain of tar and shrapnel fell for some time after.
Into this nightmare landscape were to arrive the first relief workers: a trainload of doctors, nurses and aid workers dispatched from the nearby communities of Kentville and Windsor. Among them was Dr. Percy McGrath, a recent graduate of Dalhousie Medical College, and his wife, a nurse. Unfortunately the railroad tracks were wrecked well out of the city, at Rockingham, and the rescuers had to trudge through rubble and past bodies “stacked like cord wood,” on either side of their path. One doctor compared the flames and death all around to the nether regions of hell from Dante’s Inferno.
Many of the injured were in horrific shape because flying glass had lacerated faces and damaged eyes. This was compounded by the fact that the sound of the blast had preceded the shock wave, luring many to run to their windows to see what happened seconds before the glass dissolved into a spray of razor-like shards. Conversely, the noise may have saved the life of the father-in-law of one of my patients. Mr. Robert Parker told me that his wife’s father was driving a wagon just mounting the crest of a hill overlooking the Mont Blanc at the moment of detonation. The horse bolted at the sound and pulled the wagon around to the lee side of the hill, allowing the blast to pass over the driver’s head without harming him.
Dorothea “Dot” Buchanan, a still-spry nonagenarian, related to me her experience of the explosion as a child of eight, living not far from the detonation site. Her family’s grocery business was almost flattened, and a
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In the devastation of the Halifax Explosion, many babies were orphaned or separated from their families. They were gathered by rescuers from the wreckage of their homes and taken to hospital nurseries. KITZ COLLECTION, MARITIME MUSEUM OF THE ATLANTIC
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