Voices from the Titanic

by Geoff Tibballs

  People came in so rapidly in the darkness that it was impossible to distinguish them, and while I did not see him again, I thought that he also was in, as there seemed to be still room for more when the boat was lowered.

  There were, according to my recollections, either 35 or 36 people in the boat, and I was not aware that Mr Warren was not with us until we were afloat and his name was called with no response.

  (Portland Oregonian, 27 April 1912)

  Sixty-five-year-old Catherine Crosby was travelling first-class back to her Milwaukee home with husband Edward and daughter Harriette. In her statement to the Senate Investigation into the disaster she revealed that on the afternoon of Sunday, 14 April, she noticed seamen on the Titanic checking the water temperature. The seamen in question said that the temperature of the water was lower than usual, thus indicating that the ship was in the vicinity of ice fields.

  At that time my husband and I were walking up and down the promenade deck, which as I recollect it, was the deck below the hurricane deck, and it was while we were walking up and down this deck that we first noticed these seamen taking the temperature of the water. My husband was a sailor all his lifetime, and he told me all about it, and it was from that that I knew what they were doing. I could see what they were doing.

  My husband retired at about nine o’clock that evening, and I retired about 10.30. Elmer Taylor, one of the passengers who went over with us on the steamer, told me afterwards, when we were on the Carpathia, that at the time I retired that night he noticed the boat was going full speed. I had not retired long when I was suddenly awakened by the thumping of the boat. The engines stopped suddenly. This was about 11.30. Captain Crosby got up, dressed, and went out. He came back again and said to me, ‘You will lie there and drown,’ and went out again. He said to my daughter: ‘The boat is badly damaged, but I think the watertight compartments will hold her up.’

  I then got up and dressed, and my daughter dressed, and followed my husband on deck. When she got up on deck, the officer told her to go back and get on her life preserver and come back on deck as soon as possible. She reported that to me, and we both went out on deck where the officer told us to come. I think it was the first or second boat that we got into. I do not recollect other boats being lowered at that time. This was on the left-hand side where the officer told us to come, and it was the deck above the one on which our state rooms were located: our state rooms were located on the B deck, and we went to the A deck where the officer and lifeboat were.

  (US Inquiry, 17 May 1912)

  Young English schoolmaster Lawrence Beesley was travelling second-class in cabin D56. In company with most of the passengers, he was unaware that there had even been a collision.

  The voyage from Queenstown was quiet and successful. We had met with very fine weather. The sea was calm and the wind was westerly to south-westerly the whole way. The temperature was very cold, particularly on the last day. In fact, after dinner on Sunday evening it was almost too cold to be on the deck at all. I had been in my berth for about ten minutes when at about 11.40 p.m. I felt a slight jar. Then soon afterwards there was a second shock, but it was not sufficiently large to cause any anxiety to anyone however nervous they may have been. The engines, however, stopped immediately afterwards. At first I thought that the ship had lost a propeller. I went up on deck in my dressing gown, and found only a few people there, who had come up in the same way to inquire why we had stopped, but there was no sort of anxiety in the mind of anyone. We saw through the smoking-room window that a game of cards was going on and I went in to ask if the players knew anything. They had noticed the jar a little more and looking through the window had seen a huge iceberg go by close to the side of the boat. They thought we had just grazed it with a glancing blow, and the engines had been stopped to see if any damage had been done.

  None of us, of course, had any conception that she had been pierced below by part of the submerged iceberg. The game of cards was resumed and, without any thought of disaster, I retired to my cabin to read until we went on again. I never saw any of the players or the onlookers again.

  A little later, hearing people going upstairs, I went out again and found that everybody wanted to know why the engines had stopped. No doubt many of them had been awakened from their sleep by the sudden stopping of a vibration to which they had become accustomed during the four days we had been on board. Naturally, with such powerful engines as the Titanic carried, the vibration was very noticeable all the time, and the sudden stopping had something of the same effect as the stopping of a loud-ticking grandfather’s clock in a room. On going on deck again I saw that there was an undoubted list downward from stern to bow, but knowing of what had happened concluded some of the front compartments had filled and weighed her down. I went down again to put on warmer clothing, and as I dressed heard an order shouted: ‘All passengers on deck with life belts on.’ We walked slowly up with them tied on over our clothing, but even then presumed this was a wise precaution the captain was taking, and that we should return in a short time and retire to bed. There was a total absence of any panic or any expressions of alarm, and I suppose this can be accounted for by the exceedingly calm night and the absence of any signs of the accident.

  The ship was absolutely still and except for a gentle tilt downward, which I do not think one person in ten would have noticed at that time, no signs of the approaching disaster were visible. She lay just as if she were waiting the order to go again when some trifling matter had been adjusted. But in a few moments we saw the covers lifted from the boats and the crews allotted to them standing by and curling up the ropes which were to lower them by the pulley blocks into the water.

  We then began to realize it was more serious than had been supposed, and my first thought was to go down and get more clothing and some money, but seeing people pouring up the stairs decided it was better to cause no confusion to people coming up by doing so.

  Presently we heard the order: ‘All men stand back away from the boats and all ladies retire to next deck below’ – the smoking deck or B deck. The men all stood away and remained in absolute silence, leaning against the end railings of the deck or pacing slowly up and down.

  The boats were swung out and lowered from A deck. When they were to the level of B deck, where all the ladies were collected, the ladies got in quietly, with the exception of some who refused to leave their husbands. In some cases they were torn from them and pushed into the boats, but in many instances they were allowed to remain because there was no one to insist they should go.

  Looking over the side, one saw boats from aft already in the water, slipping quietly away into the darkness, and presently the boats near to me were lowered and with much creaking as the new ropes slipped through the pulley blocks down the ninety feet which separated them from the water. An officer in uniform came up as one boat went down and shouted: ‘When you are afloat, row round to the companion ladder and stand by with the other boats for orders.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ came up the reply, but I do not think any boat was able to obey the order. When they were afloat and had the oars at work the condition of the rapidly settling boat was so much more of a sight for alarm for those in the boats than those on board that in common prudence the sailors saw they could do nothing but row from the sinking ship to save at any rate some lives. They no doubt anticipated that suction from such an enormous vessel would be more than usually dangerous to a crowded boat mostly filled with women.

  (New York World, 19 April 1912)

  May Futrelle lost her husband – novelist Jacques Futrelle – in the disaster. She described the scene on board ship prior to the collision.

  In the elegantly furnished drawing room, no premonitory shadow of death was present to cast cold fear over the gaiety of the evening. It was a brilliant scene; women beautifully gowned, laughing and talking – the odour of flowers. Why, it was just like being at some beautiful summer resort.

  All that afternoon and in the evening, e
verybody was discussing the probability of arriving in New York on Wednesday. It was regarded as certain that the Titanic would make her trip in record time. We were not afraid of going too fast. We only knew of the speed by looking at the indicator. The sea was so calm, and the motion of the boat so slight that it was hardly noticeable.

  The night was beautiful. The sea was placid and wonderful to look upon. Countless stars were reflected in all their glory in watery depths which gave no hint of the treachery lurking in them. Phosphorus gleamed upon the surface of the sea and reflected back its radiance from giant icebergs which were scattered over the face of the waters. There was not the slightest thought of danger in the minds of those who sat around the tables in the luxurious dining saloon of the Titanic. It was a brilliant crowd. Jewels flashed from the gowns of the women. And, oh, the dear women, how fondly they wore their latest Parisian gowns! It was the first time that most of them had an opportunity to display their newly acquired finery. The soft, sweet odour of rare flowers pervaded the atmosphere. I remember at our table there was a great bunch of American beauty roses. The orchestra played popular music. It was a buoyant, oh, such a jolly crowd. It was a rare gathering of beautiful women and splendid men.

  There was that atmosphere of fellowship and delightful sociability which makes dinner on the Sabbath on board ship a delightful occasion. I thought, as I glanced over the saloon, that it would be hard to find gathered in one place a crowd which would better typify the highest type of American manhood and womankind.

  I remember Jacques and Mr Harris discussing at our table the latest plays on the American stage. Everybody was so merry. We were all filled with the joy of living. We sat over dinner late that night.

  I remember we discussed among ourselves a man sitting at a table across the cabin who was suspected of cheating at cards the night before. Card-playing had been permitted on the boat for the first time. The men warned one another against this man, who they said was a professional gambler, who made a practice of fleecing ocean travellers. The men were sure that he had cheated – so sure, in fact, that they had agreed to keep him at a safe distance in the future. He sat in that great dining room, with a cold-blooded smile playing over his features as he gazed over the crowd. It struck me as the one discordant and harsh note in the jollity.

  It was suggested that we take a bit of fresh air after dinner and before retiring many of the passengers ventured out on the deck. I stepped out into the open to get one breath of fresh air, as I told Jacques, and to look upon the night before I retired. There was a death chill in the air which sent a shudder through me and caused me to hurry back into the cheer and warmth of the cabin. The terrible chillness affected all alike and a number of the men commented that we must be in the vicinity of icebergs. No one had the slightest fear, however; for Mr Andrews, who had some part in the construction of the vessel (he called it his baby), had laughingly assured us that at last man had constructed an unsinkable craft.

  Before retiring, my husband complained of a slight headache. We had both gone to our state room. Nearly everyone on board had retired except the men who chatted over their cigars in the magnificent lounging room. There was the stillness which only comes with the sea. A faint tremor of the boat was the only thing which served to remind one that he was on the sea. Apart from this, one might well have imagined himself to be in one of the magnificent hotels of New York City.

  (Boston Sunday Post, 21 April 1912)

  First-class passenger Major Arthur Peuchen, of Toronto, Canada, described how he left $200,000 worth of stocks behind in his cabin when making a hasty evacuation.

  It was Sunday evening, a starry night and calm. There was an exceptional bill of fare on the evening dinner. We were all in evening dress and the ladies wore many a jewel. Music went on as usual. I dined with Mrs Markland Molson, Mr and Mrs Allison and their little girl. Everything was exceptionally bright. Then I went to the smoking room and met Mr Beattie, a partner of Hugo Ross, of Winnipeg, formerly of Toronto. I also met Mr McCarthy of the Union Bank of Vancouver, and a financial man from Toronto. Talk was unusually bright. That was about 11 o’clock. Then I said, ‘Good night, I am going to turn in.’

  I had just reached my berth, when I heard a dull thud. It was like a collision and I didn’t think it serious. That’s extraordinary, I thought, and went up to see. I ran upstairs and on the way met a friend who laughingly said that we had struck an iceberg and we went up on deck. There we found that we had struck aft of the bow about 75 feet from the point and had scraped along the starboard side. We saw ice falling on us. The berg was about 70 feet high. As the berg passed the portholes it alarmed the women in the berths.

  The passengers came on deck one by one, some in pyjamas, some in evening gowns. They were not yet much alarmed. I went inside and spoke with my friend Molson. Mr Hugo Ross was sick in bed. Then I got in touch with Charles M. Hays and Thornton Davidson, a son-in-law of Mr Hays. Then four of us, Mr Hays, Mr Molson and Mr Davidson, went up to see the ice.

  I then for the first time saw she was listing. This was about fifteen minutes after the strike. Then I noticed that all the people were putting on lifebelts, and for the first time it looked serious. I went inside, threw off my dress suit, put on my warmest clothes and my steward, a very nice fellow, helped me to put on my life preserver. I never saw him again.

  I took three oranges and a pearl pin. There was $200,000 of stocks and bonds, all my jewellery and presents for my daughter Jessie and family in the berth, but I did not touch them.

  It was rather sad to turn and leave the cheery room I had occupied – cosy, large and comfortable as it was.

  (Halifax (Nova Scotia) Evening Mail, 19 April 1912)

  Liverpool-born leading fireman Frederick Barrett was stationed below in No. 6 boiler room, on the starboard side of the ship, when the crash occurred. He described a sound like roaring thunder, followed by a cascade of water through the gash in the ship’s side.

  There is a clock face in the stokehole and the red light goes up for ‘Stop’. I was talking to Mr Hesketh, one of the engineers, when the red light came up, and I shouted, ‘Shut all the dampers.’ That order was obeyed, but the crash came before we had them all shut.

  There was a rush of water into my stokehole. We were standing on plates about six feet above the tank tops, and the water came in about two feet above the plates. Together with Mr Hesketh, I jumped through the doorway into No. 5 section. The watertight door between the sections was then open, but it shut just as we jumped through. This door is worked from the bridge. I do not know whether any more men in my stokehole were saved. The water was coming in fast enough through the side of the ship to flood the place.

  Shortly afterwards the order came from the engine room to send all the stokers up. Most of them went up, but I was told to remain with the engineers to do any errands. Mr Harvey, Mr Wilson, Mr Shepherd (of the engineers’ staff) and I waited in No. 5 section.

  Mr Harvey told me to send some firemen for some lamps. Just as we got the lamps the electric light came on again. They must have been changing the dynamos over. Mr Harvey told me to fetch some firemen to draw the furnaces. I fetched about fifteen firemen, and they drew the thirty furnaces in the section. That occupied about twenty minutes. I looked at the gauge and found there was no water in the boilers. The ship, in blowing off steam, had blown it out.

  Mr Harvey told me to lift the manhole plate, which I did, and then Mr Shepherd, hurrying across to do something and not noticing the plate had been moved, fell down and broke his leg. We lifted him up and laid him in the pump-room. About a quarter of an hour after the fires were drawn there was a rush of water. Mr Shepherd ordered me up the ladder.

  (British Inquiry, 7 May 1912)

  Able Seaman Samuel Hemming claimed that Thomas Andrews of shipbuilders Harland & Wolff had confided shortly after the collision that the Titanic was doomed.

  I opened the forepeak storeroom. Me and the storekeeper went down as far as the top of the tank and found everyt
hing dry. I came up to ascertain where a hissing sound was coming from. I found it was the air escaping out of the exhaust of the tank. At that time the Chief Officer, Mr Wilde, put his head around the hawse pipe and says: ‘What is that, Hemming?’ I said: ‘The air is escaping from the forepeak tank. She is making water in the forepeak tank, but the storeroom is quite dry.’ He said, ‘All right,’ and went away.

  Me and the storekeeper went back and turned into our bunks a few minutes. Then the joiner came in and he said: ‘If I were you, I would turn out, you fellows. She is making water, one-two-three, and the racket court is getting filled up.’

  Just as he went, the boatswain came, and he says: ‘Turn out, you fellows, you haven’t half an hour to live.’ He said: ‘That is from Mr Andrews. Keep it to yourselves, and let no one know.’ That would be a quarter of an hour from the time the ship struck.

  (US Inquiry, 25 April 1912)

  The Titanic’s Third Officer, Herbert Pitman, was asleep in his quarters.

  The collision woke me up. It was a sound that I thought seemed like the ship coming to an anchor. It gave just a little vibration. I was about half awake and half asleep. I had a look around and I could not see anything and could not hear any noise, so I went back to the room and sat down and lit my pipe. I thought that nothing had really happened, that perhaps it might have been a dream, or something like that.

  A few minutes afterwards I thought I had better start dressing, as it was near my watch, so I started dressing, and when I was partly dressed Mr Boxhall (the Fourth Officer) came in and said there was water in the mail room.

  I said: ‘What happened?’

  He said: ‘We struck an iceberg.’

  So I put a coat on and went on deck, and saw the men uncovering the boats and clearing them away. I walked along to the after end of the boat deck and met Mr Moody, the Sixth Officer. I asked him if he had seen the iceberg. He said no. But he said: ‘There is some ice on the forward well deck.’ So to satisfy my curiosity I went down there myself.