by Senan Molony
Across the breadths of sea.
1901 census – Lyons
Henry (44), publican. Catherine (45), wife.
Children: William Henry (14), Denis James (12), John F. (11).
Ellen Lyons, servant (28), barmaid.
William McCarthy (47) Saved
Able Seaman.
From: 9 Grattan Hill Road, Cork.
William’s picture and address appeared in The Cork Examiner of 23 April 1912. He was said to be ‘fortunately amongst the survivors’.
It is known that he survived in lifeboat No. 4, which he helped to crew. It left the port side of the Titanic at 1.55 a.m. and dragged in several men from the sea, including McCarthy’s fellow crewmember from Cork, William H. Lyons, who died.
McCarthy returned to Britain on the Lapland, but was never called to give evidence at the official inquiry. He retired to Cork after a long seafaring career. He liked to make decorative anchors out of wood and shells, and is thought to have died in the 1930s.
1911 census – 9 Grattan Hill Road.
Widowed mother Catherine McCarthy, 80, born Cork. Daughter Kate, 35, born in England.
The 1901 census for the same address also showed Catherine, 69, as a widow, with Kate, 27, a dressmaker. Another daughter was present, May Ellen, 22.
Hugh Walter McElroy (37) Lost
Chief Purser.
From: Tullacanna, County Wexford.
Polygon House, Southampton.
Chief Purser on the Titanic was a huge responsibility – and it was filled by an Irishman who was larger than life and the last word in gallantry.
Hugh McElroy occupied a critical shipboard position for the White Star Line. As Purser, he was the company’s main interface with the bulk of passengers. They came to his office on C deck for everything – to lodge and retrieve valuables for safe keeping, to hand in wireless messages to pass on to the Marconi room, to report a leaky tap in a stateroom wash-hand basin, to organise a games of quoits on deck, right down to buying a ticket to the Turkish bath on F deck, and yes, renting the deckchairs ($1 per voyage).
McElroy was the perfect man for the job, because he clearly was an effortless arranger even during his short stays on shore. On 9 April, while still in Southampton, McElroy and his Wexford-born wife, Barbara, sent flowers in the Danish national colours of red and white to Miss Adeline Genée, a famous dancer. Perhaps she had been an important passenger in the past, but the gesture was particularly polished given the fact that Miss Genée was due to perform a special ‘flying’ matinee at the Southampton Hippodrome two days later – the afternoon after the Titanic sailed.
McElroy was still oozing charm and goodwill at Southampton when Francis Browne, the clerical novice soon to become famous for his photographs on board the Titanic, called to his office on C deck, ‘where a letter of introduction served as a passport to the genial friendship of Mr McElroy’.
The soul of urbanity, McElroy was also a favourite of Captain E. J. Smith, and the two men were photographed together on deck, the Purser appearing with his hands joined behind his back, an image of strength at the master’s right hand, and ever ready to do his bidding.
The Cork Examiner, which took the famous shot, noted in its issue of 15 April, while unaware of the unfolding tragedy:
On the right of the picture is Commander E. J. Smith, R.D., R.N.R., to whose skill and watchfulness is committed the care of the great ship and her freight of close on four thousand souls. He is one of the heads of his profession, and he has a long and extensive connection with the White Star Line. The Captain may be the best, but unless the Purser knows everybody and everything, and combines the perfection of urbanity, tact, prompt appreciation of circumstances – in fact, is the best of fellows – his passenger list does not fill all the time, but on any ship on which Chief Purser McElroy has filled that position, the booking has always been complete well in advance of the sailings.
In fact the Titanic was by no means full. But that simply allowed McElroy to indulge his special charm with the ladies. Mrs Henry B. Cassebeer recalled visiting the Titanic’s Purser soon after boarding to ask for an upgrade from Second Class. It was done at once and Mrs Cassebeer ended up with one of the finest First-Class staterooms ever created for ocean-going luxury, the bulk of which were on this vessel. She remembered running into the Purser a little later and, pushing her luck, asked that it be arranged that she should dine at the Captain’s table. McElroy’s reply, quoted in Walter Lord’s The Night Lives On, was: ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll have you seated at my table.’
On that fatal Sunday, just after midnight, when the Titanic engines had stopped after impact with the iceberg, bathroom steward Samuel Rule was investigating the oddity when he saw Purser McElroy on A deck ‘in deep conversation’ with Second Steward George Dodd. He expected to receive orders, but none were given.
At ten past midnight, stewardess Annie Robinson saw McElroy accompany Captain Smith in the direction of the mailroom, where water was within six steps of coming up onto E deck. ‘About a quarter past twelve, or round about that time’ Second Steward Joseph Wheat was going up to C deck when he met McElroy looking over the banisters. ‘He saw me coming and told me to get the men up and get … lifebelts on the passengers and get them on deck.’ The Purser had been talking urgently to two or three officers, including Chief Steward Andrew Latimer. At ten minutes or a quarter to one, Wheat was again given orders by McElroy, to get all the men to their stations at the boats.
McElroy’s communication skills were at the fore when disaster struck and the Captain needed trusted men about him. There is evidence he played a major role in harnessing the passengers to their task of putting on lifebelts and preparing to abandon ship. Quietly, too, it seems he was passed a loaded revolver. Although not strictly one of Smith’s officers, McElroy had assumed a position of veiled yet real power.
He was next seen outside his office on C deck, where a queue for valuables had begun and was being quickly processed by assistant pursers who emptied the safe. He later addressed the crowd, who were standing around in confusion, urging them to go up top. The Countess of Rothes moved close by and McElroy declared: ‘Hurry, little lady, there is not much time. I’m glad you didn’t ask me for your jewels as other ladies have.’
McElroy followed his clucking flock, then returned to his duties. He was later seen in the company of his fellow Irishman, Dr W. F. N. O’Loughlin, the senior ship’s surgeon. Soon, however, he made his way to the boat deck, where chaos reigned and where every man of authority was desperately needed. McElroy answered the call.
Saloon steward William Ward witnessed Mr McElroy with First Officer Murdoch and J. Bruce Ismay, Managing Director of the White Star Line, at boat No. 9 on the starboard side. ‘Either Purser McElroy or Officer Murdoch said: “Pass the women and children that are here into that boat”,’ said Ward. McElroy next ordered himself and bathroom steward James Widgery into the boat ‘to assist the women’. They went.
Before anyone left on board could draw breath, it was nearly 2 a.m. Just two boats remained on the starboard side, with a collapsible hanging in the davits perilously close to the slowly submerging superstructure. A crowd had surged down to it, milling about the restraining officers and crew.
Elsewhere McElroy was bestriding a boat half-lowered to A deck, one hand clutching a fall rope, another wielding a gun. But his voice was his major weapon. At least that’s the image conjured by the dramatic account of a First-Class passenger who was present at the last gasp. Seventeen-year-old Jack Thayer saw an armed McElroy attempting to quell panic at the last. His account was written privately for friends and family in 1940, more than a quarter of a century after the disaster. Then a mature 45, but with imperfect recall, Thayer wrote:
There was some disturbance in loading the last two forward starboard boats. A large crowd of men was pressing to get into them. No women were around as far as I could see. I saw Ismay, who had been assisting in the loading of the last boat, push his way into it. It w
as really every man for himself …
Purser H. W. McElroy, as brave and as fine a man as ever lived, was standing up in the next to last boat, loading it. Two men, I think they were dining room stewards, dropped into the boat from the deck above. As they jumped, he fired twice in the air. I do not believe they were hit, but they were quickly thrown out.
At some time there had been a lull in all this frenetic activity on the Titanic’s boat deck. McElroy found himself with Dr O’Loughlin and other senior colleagues near the First-Class entrance. They shook hands, and then McElroy turned for a final handshake with others – Assistant Purser Reginald Barker was certainly there, and probably Assistant Purser Ernest Waldron King, a third Irishman in the group. Junior Surgeon John Simpson, yet another Hibernian, shook hands with the senior medic and the rest. They were saying to one another, ‘Goodbye, old man.’
Second Officer Charles Lightoller broke off his duties for a moment to also come over. He too, grasped hands with everyone and wished them all the best. They were, after all, all in the same boat. And it was sinking beneath them. Within minutes, the waves came.
McELROY – April 14th, on board R.M.S. Titanic, Hugh, beloved husband of Barbara McElroy, Springwood, Wexford.
(Wicklow People, 25 May 1912)
Hugh McElroy’s family were originally from County Wexford and were staunchly Catholic. His parents had emigrated to Liverpool, where Hugh was born, like so many other Irish who went in search of work during the late nineteenth century when Merseyside was an engine of empire and the colonial trade. McElroy opted for a life at sea, and served three years on the troopship Britannic during the Boer War at the beginning of the new century. He had thirteen years with the White Star Line, serving on the Majestic and Olympic before transferring to the Titanic. In 1910 he married his long-time sweetheart, Barbara Mary Ennis, whom he had known growing up in Liverpool. She was the daughter of John J. Ennis, the passenger manager of the Allan Line of steamships in that city. The couple made their home in Tullacanna, Harperstown, County Wexford, when J. J. Ennis retired to his extensive family farm there. Barbara and Hugh were less than two years married when the Titanic sank, and had no children.
The Cork Examiner reported on 18 April 1912:
Mr McElroy, the Chief Purser, was a Wexford man, and as fine a type as could be found. He was the Commodore Purser and only recently married the daughter of Captain Ennis of Wexford.
Mr John J. Ennis JP … came to reside with his two daughters at his home place in Springwood (Ballymitty, County Wexford). Last year, one of his daughters, Miss Barbara Ennis, was married to Mr Hugh McElroy, who belongs to a very good Liverpool family, and is brother to Fr McElroy, who lives close to Bootle. He had been a purser in the White Star Line for a quarter of a century.
The remains of the Chief Purser were destined to be recovered from the ocean by the MacKay-Bennett search vessel. He was wearing a white dress uniform – leading to the initial mistaken conclusion that it could be the body of a steward. From a fragment, they came up with the name of D. Lily, but in fact there was no one of this name on board. The body was that of Hugh McElroy.
No. 157. Male. Estimated age, 32. Dark Hair.
Clothing – Ship’s uniform; white jacket; ship keys; 10 pence; 50 cents; fountain pen. Steward. Name – D. Lily.
The body was buried at sea. A scrap of paper in the name of his wife was also taken from the remains and later provided corroboration of his identity.
Percy Mitchell, the White Star Line’s manager in Montreal, later signed a declaration to obtain the above effects from the coroner’s officer of Halifax, Nova Scotia. He certified the name of the deceased as H. McElroy, Purser, SS Titanic, his residence as Southampton, England, his religion as Roman Catholic, and his nationality as Irish. The official name of the claimant, issued in the space provided, was ‘White Star Line’. It was perhaps appropriate. His white-clad corpse was the most senior member of crew to be recovered, and he had been one of their brightest lights for a long time, ever the embodiment of the White Star Line.
Dr J. C. H. Beaumont, for many years senior surgeon on the Olympic, claimed in his book Ships and People, published in 1927, that it was known that Purser McElroy had premonitions about the new liner prior to embarkation. He did not expand on the remark.
1911 census – ‘Springwood’, Tullacanna, County Wexford.
John Ennis (75), widower, retired steamship manager … Hugh Walter McElroy (36), purser. Wife Barbara Mary (34). Married less than one year.
Six servants, including domestics, farmhands, a stableman and professional nurse.
First-class house with ten rooms and 15 outlying farm buildings.
George ‘Paddy’ McGough (36) Saved
Able Seaman.
From: Duncannon, County Wexford.
St George’s Street, Southampton.
George McGough was a killer. He appears in the 1901 census as an inmate at HM Prison Winchester, fifteen miles from Southampton. He is the only George McGough born in Ireland in the entire census. The inmate is shown as a mariner.
George Francis McGough was born in Duncannon, County Wexford, Ireland, in 1875. His birthday, appropriately, was Bastille Day, 14 July – named for the storming of that prison. McGough is shown on the 1901 census, correctly, as aged 25. But eleven years later, aged 36, he is still claiming to be aged 25 when he signs on for the ill-fated RMS Titanic. Here AB George McGough is shown to be from Duncannon.
It’s the same man – there was only one McGough family in Duncannon, and mariner George trimmed his age the better to sell himself at the hiring fair. Everyone did, but photographs from 1912 show McGough to be well-seasoned and no stripling. He has long since seen 25.
What caused George McGough, sometimes known affectionately to his shipmates as ‘Paddy’ because of his Irish origins, to be banged up in prison? On 10 March 1900, Able Seaman George Francis McGough engaged in a drink-fuelled brawl aboard the dreary collier Rustington while that vessel was anchored off Santos, Brazil. The fight was with another member of crew, Welshman John Dwyer, who was shoved over a hatchway and fell headlong into the hold, dashing his brains out on the tough timbers some 26 feet below.
Twelve years and one day before the Titanic struck her iceberg, the Barry Dock News of Friday 13 April 1900 reported to its Cardiff readers:
It appears, from a letter written from Santos by the Chief Engineer of the Rustington on the 13th March … that on the previous Friday, March 9th, the two men, Dwyer and McGough had some words on board and McGough, it is alleged, seized Dwyer, and whether deliberately or not it is not yet known, threw him down the forehold of the ship, Dwyer falling on his head, and death resulted shortly afterwards.
The terrible occurrence was witnessed by four members of the crew, and these men, together with McGough, who was at once placed under arrest, are now on their way home to England on board a Royal Mail steamer and are expected to arrive in Southampton in a day or two when McGough will be placed on his trial on a charge of ‘wilful murder’. The deceased leaves a widow … and seven children.
George Francis McGough was committed for trial in Winchester. It emerged the prisoner and others had been ashore and got drunk. When McGough returned aboard, reeling and belligerent, ‘he wanted to fight everybody’. He bodily picked up Dwyer and flung him down the forehold. The victim was found with bleeding from his mouth and both ears, dying within minutes. The South Wales Echo of Tuesday 3 July 1900 reported McGough’s conviction of manslaughter on the high seas, and sentence of only fifteen months’ hard labour. So McGough went off for his short stint in jail and was ‘snap shotted’ by the 1901 census. When released, he returned to the sea, sometimes using the alias George F. Bergin, instead of George F. McGough.
McGough’s alternate name, for which he held a separate seaman’s book, is shown on his marriage record as he wed a woman ten years his junior only months before the Titanic sailed. She was Beatrice Nellie Gannaway.
There is a certain irony in an interview with M
cGough (described as ‘George M. McGough’) carried in The New York Times on 20 April 1912 before his return to England, where the seaman ‘complains that the crew of the Titanic were treated as prisoners by the White Star company’.
Irish Survivor’s Story
Paddy McGough, an Irish seaman, according to the Daily Mail, said no-one was killed in the collision.
‘When I left the Titanic,’ he said, ‘she was down to below the forecastle. I saw her back break, and I heard an explosion, either of her main steam-pipe, or of the boilers. I last saw Mr Murdoch, the first officer, when he was lowering No. 15 boat, and keeping back some Italians.
‘From the boat deck I distinctly saw the lights of another ship. I saw Captain Smith, at some distance, swimming towards another boat. When they reached out to help him, he shouted at them – “Look after yourselves men. Don’t mind me. God bless you.” Then he threw up his hand and disappeared.’
(Irish Independent, 30 April 1912)
In an account reported by the Irish News on 20 May 1912, First-Class passenger May Futrelle declared:
One of the stewards, who relieved a sailor at the oar, couldn’t row … I asked, not in anger, but in a sort of wonder, ‘Why is that man in this boat?’
The Irish sailor, mistaking my meaning, I suppose, said: ‘Madam, he wants to save his life as much as you do yours.’
Bertha Watt, writing in her Jefferson High School newspaper in 1917, said: ‘The fellow at the tiller was an Irishman. Paddy had no authority, he was just a deckhand.’
Crewman George Kemish, in a letter of June 1955, wrote:
I saw how desperate the situation was by now, all boats were away. We had been throwing deckchairs and anything movable overboard. I took a flying leap intending to grab the dangling boat falls and slither down them to the water, but I missed them. I swam until I got aboard that No. 9 or No. 11 boat, I don’t know to this day what boat it was.
A deck hand named Paddy McGough took charge of her. She was overloaded dangerously. Picking up one or two more persons from the water would probably have meant drowning about 80. That was the number in her …