by Walter Lord
Yours faithfully,
C. W & F. N. Black
The “enclosed uniform account” included such items as a lyre lapel insignia (2 shillings) and sewing White Star buttons on a tunic (1 shilling). Altogether, Hume’s account added up to a grand total of 14s. 7d.—or about $3.50 in American money.
C. W. and F. N. Black, who so diligently pursued their $3.50, were Jock Hume’s agents, and any entertainer or writer today who complains about his agent would do well to ponder the situation in 1912. He might find things are not so bad after all.
Until 1912 the various steamship lines dealt directly with their musicians, signing them up as members of the crew like stewards, firemen, and ordinary seamen. The pay was union scale, which worked out at £6 10s. a month, plus a monthly uniform allowance of 10s.
Then the Blacks entered the picture. An enterprising talent agency based in Liverpool, they promised the steamship companies a simpler and cheaper way to good music. One after another the companies signed contracts, giving the Blacks the exclusive right to supply bands to their vessels. The musicians still signed the ship’s articles for a token shilling a month (putting them clearly under the captain’s authority), but they were now really working for the Blacks, and could get no jobs except through the Blacks.
Since the musicians worked for the Blacks or not at all, they had to take what the Blacks were willing to pay them—which turned out to be a sharp cut in salary. Instead of a basic pay of £6 10s., they now got only £4. Instead of a uniform allowance of 10s. a month, they now got nothing at all. The terms of employment were also hard: if the steamship company objected to any musician, the Blacks had the right to remove the man without any investigation or explanation.
The Amalgamated Musicians Union protested without success. Only some of the bandsmen belonged, and in any case, these were not the times for strong union action.
Finally, early in March 1912, a delegation from the union waited upon Bruce Ismay. As Managing Director of the White Star Line, Ismay was a mover and shaker in the British shipping industry, and maybe he could be persuaded to do something. The great Olympic was about to sail from Southampton, and the delegation pointed out that her five-man band was being paid at less than union scale, supplemented only by the monthly shilling that White Star paid to make them officially members of the crew.
If the delegation expected to melt Ismay’s heart, they didn’t know their man. He replied that if the union objected to White Star carrying its bandsmen as members of the crew at a shilling a month, the company would carry them as passengers.
Sure enough, when the Olympic reached New York on March 20, her five musicians were listed as Second Class passengers. All had regular tickets, and all had to appear before the immigration officials in the usual way. As a crowning irony in view of the reason for this masquerade, all had to produce $50 in cash to show that they were not destitute.
The masquerade continued when the Titanic sailed. She, of course, had not only the standard five-man band, but the special trio added for the Café Parisien. Hence there were now eight extra names on the Second Class passenger list. Otherwise nothing had changed: the musicians still had the cramped quarters on E Deck (next to the potato washer), and certainly none of the “perks” of passengers. When they played the last night, they played as disciplined members of the ship’s crew, not as a group of talented passenger-volunteers.
It was natural, then, for the musicians’ families to turn first to the White Star Line for financial benefits under the Workmen’s Compensation Act. Sorry, said White Star, the bandsmen were Second Class passengers and not covered by the Act. The Line suggested that the families contact C. W. and F. N. Black, the real employers.
Sorry, said the Blacks. The problem wasn’t their responsibility. They carried insurance to cover such matters, and any claims should be laid at the insurer’s door.
Sorry, said the insurance company, the bandsmen were not workmen as covered by the policy. They were independent contractors, using the Blacks as a booking agency, and the insurance company was under no liability.
Months passed while White Star, the Blacks, and the insurer tossed this hot potato back and forth. Finally, in exasperation the families took the Blacks to court. The judge was sympathetic, but that was all. The bandsmen, he decided, were not the employees of anybody. They were passengers in the case of the White Star Line, and independent contractors in the case of the Blacks and the insurers.
With the legalities settled, the musicians’ union made a final appeal to White Star’s sense of moral responsibility: “Three families lost their only sons—three young men ranging from 21 to 24 years of age, cut off in the prime of their life while performing an act of heroism that stirred the whole world to its depths. Surely there is something for the White Star Company to consider over and above the mere terms of an Act of Parliament.” It did no good.
In the end, the day was saved by the “Titanic Relief Fund,” an umbrella organization that was set up to manage the charitable contributions that poured in from all over the world. On January 2, 1913 the Fund announced that it would treat the musicians as though they were members of the crew. This opened the door at last to adequate benefits. Welcome news, but no thanks to the White Star Line. To the end it maintained, as far as I can determine, that the musicians were no more than Second Class passengers.
While this shabby little business was unfolding behind the scenes, front-stage the drama of the band’s heroism continued. On May 18 there occurred one of those great public funerals, dripping with melancholy pageantry, that the Victorians and Edwardians did so well. Bandmaster Wallace Hartley’s body had been retrieved from the ice-strewn waters off Newfoundland, and now he was coming home to his final rest.
Seven bands played as his rosewood casket, borne shoulder-high, was carried through the winding streets of Colne, Hartley’s birthplace in the hills of Lancashire. Aldermen, councillors, ambulance men, police, boys’ brigades, and musicians from all over England fell in behind—the procession was a half-mile long. Thousands lined the route; most wore black or white, but occasionally there were mill girls in their drab shawls and miners in their blue overalls. All business had stopped for the day. At the steep hillside cemetery, as the casket was lowered into the grave, a dozen Boy Scouts raised their bugles and sounded “The Last Post.” The notes echoed off the neighboring hills, drowning out the squabbling and petty maneuvers for that day at least.
CHAPTER XII
“She’s Gone”
THE CLIMACTIC MOMENT OF the night came just before 2:20 A.M..The Titanic’s stern rose high into the air; the lights went out; and she stood nearly perpendicular to the water, silhouetted against the star-filled sky. She hung there at least a minute, while everything movable broke loose and thundered down through the hull. Then, leaning back slightly, she slid beneath the sea. It was almost like a benediction, Second Officer Lightoller recalled, as the men clinging to the overturned Collapsible B breathed the two words, “She’s gone.”
Lightoller was sure that the Titanic went down intact. So was Third Officer Pitman, who watched from Boat 5. Colonel Gracie and Lawrence Beesley, the two survivors who wrote the most authoritative contemporary accounts, both agreed. All in all, a formidable array of experts, and through the years their view became accepted gospel. To question it amounted to heresy.
So it was all the more surprising to find, when the Titanic was located 73 years later, that her bow and stern lay in two separate clumps of wreckage about 2,000 feet apart. Moreover, the pattern of debris indicated that the ship had split in two at or near the surface, rather than upon hitting the bottom.
The discovery shows once again the danger of relying too much on experts. They are not always right. Here, moreover, there was good reason to question their opinion from the start. After all, Beesley was a mile away in Boat 13; Pitman was at least 400 yards off in Boat 5; and Gracie didn’t see the final plunge at all—he was under water fighting for his life. Lightoller did h
ave a swimmer’s-eye view, but much of the time he, too, was under water or trying to climb onto overturned Collapsible B. From the collapsible, 250 feet of the Titanic’s hull towering over him could easily have looked like an unbroken wall stretching up to infinity.
In contrast, there were other survivors—often with a far better vantage point—who saw things quite differently. In fact, of the 20 witnesses who described the final plunge at the American and British investigations, 16 firmly declared that the Titanic either split in two or at least was breaking up as she went under. There is, moreover, a remarkable similarity about what they saw….
Quartermaster Bright, in Collapsible D, last boat to leave the ship and 100-150 yards away. Ship broke in two; after part briefly righted itself, men plunged down.
Greaser Thomas Ranger in Boat 4, last regular lifeboat to leave, and 50-100 yards away. Forward end seemed to break off; after part came back on an even keel, then turned up and went down steadily.
Mrs. Arthur Ryerson, also in Boat 4: Titanic suddenly began sinking rapidly. Took a plunge toward the bow; then two forward funnels seemed to lean; then she seemed to break in half as if cut with a knife, and as bow went under, the lights went out. Stern stood up for several minutes, then that too plunged down.
Able Seaman F. O. Evans, Boat 10, about 150 yards away. Ship broke in two between third and fourth funnel. Stern section fell back horizontal, then tipped and plunged.
And so it went, account after account, all describing the same sequence: a break or fracture of the hull…the forward part disappearing from view…the afterpart righting itself briefly, then tilting up on end and plunging down too. A similar story was told by two young First Class passengers who did not testify at the hearings but left detailed accounts of their experiences. Jack Thayer and Dick Williams jumped near the end and witnessed the sinking from the water. Their recollections are subject to the same caveats as Lightoller’s, but deserve no less attention. Both felt the Titanic was buckling or breaking up just before she sank. Thayer’s view is erroneously depicted by a drawing that has been attributed to him, but was really sketched by L. D. Skidmore, a passenger on the Carpathia.
Colonel Gracie suggested that all these eye-witnesses were misled by the toppling of the first funnel, which fell over as the final plunge began. Crashing into the sea in a shower of sparks, the Colonel contended, it made the whole ship appear to be breaking up. But this explanation is highly unlikely. The accounts came from thirteen different vantage points—every possible angle—and included details which couldn’t reasonably be attributed to a collapsing smokestack.
But the falling funnel does lead to one more argument supporting the theory that the Titanic was breaking up at the end. There is a great deal of evidence about the first funnel—it barely missed Lightoller, Bride, and the other survivors on Collapsible B. Far less known is the evidence that the other three funnels, too, were collapsing at this harrowing moment. Jack Thayer later recalled that the second funnel “seemed to be lifted off.” Trimmer Patrick Dillon, standing on the poop as it swung slowly up, watched the fourth funnel “cant up and fall aft toward the well deck.” Mrs. Ryerson, sitting in Boat 4, felt that the first two stacks were “leaning.” At the time, the experts labeled such accounts as illusions, but when the Titanic was closely examined in 1986, sure enough, all four funnels were missing.
No experts were needed to evaluate what happened next. The sorriest chapter of the night was the failure of the ship’s half-empty lifeboats to heed the cries that rose from the sea. The only excuse is that sheer terror overwhelmed every other instinct.
Take the case of No. 8, one of the portside boats launched by Second Officer Lightoller. After he loaded it with all the women and children he could see, there were still about 30 empty places. The wives began begging Captain Smith, who was standing nearby, to let in some of the husbands to row. But the old Captain backed Lightoller to the hilt—the rule was “Women and children only.” So the boat was lowered and rowed away half-full, with the women still pleading for their men.
Yet after the sinking, many of these very same wives joined the great cry of protest that went up when Seaman Thomas Jones, in charge, proposed to row back and help people struggling in the water. Hardly anyone wanted to go, and finally the three men at the oars flatly refused to row. Miss Gladys Cherry, an English passenger handling the tiller, was one of the few willing to try, and she later wrote Jones a letter describing her anguish:
The dreadful regret I shall always have, and I know you share with me, is that we ought to have gone back to see whom we could pick up. But if you remember, there was only an American lady, my cousin, self, and you who wanted to return. I could not hear the discussion very clearly, as I was at the tiller, but every one forward and the three men refused. But I shall always remember your words, “Ladies, if any of us are saved, remember I wanted to go back. I would rather drown with them than leave them.”
Miss Cherry tended to see the dispute in terms of nationality, proudly pointing out that of the four who wanted to go back, three were English, but that was a little unfair. The most glaring case of the night involved Boat 1—only 12 people in space that could hold 40—and by far the dominant person in that boat was Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon, an Englishman to the core. Yet No. 1 did nothing, prompting Lord Mersey to give Sir Cosmo a mild rebuke in the final report of the British Inquiry.
As the cries in the water died away, Boat 8 resumed rowing toward a light that hovered all night on the northern horizon. It never seemed to get nearer, nor did it ever seem to go away—a tantalizing lute, always just out of reach. Finally, about 3:30 A.M., somebody spotted the flash of a rocket far to the southeast followed by the lights of a new ship rapidly approaching. With relief, No. 8 stopped chasing the will-o’-the-wisp to the north, swung around, and headed for this fresh and more promising beacon of hope.
CHAPTER XIII
“The Electric Spark”
THE ROCKETS AND LIGHTS to the southeast signaled the entrance of a brand-new character on the stage—a man often overlooked in recent accounts of the disaster, yet one who in many ways symbolized the robust virtues of the period.
Captain Arthur H. Rostron, commanding the Cunard Liner Carpathia, brought to the job a driving spirit that was woefully lacking in the Titanic crewmen who lay on their oars, listening to the cries of the swimmers. Born in 1869, Rostron went to sea at 13, spent ten years in sail, joined Cunard, and then rose steady up the company ladder. Now, at 42, he was an experienced, respected shipmaster, known for his quick decisions and for his ability to transmit his own boundless energy into those serving under him. Not surprisingly, his Cunard shipmates nicknamed him “The Electric Spark.”
His other most notable quality was piety. Rostron did not smoke or drink, never used profanity, and frequently turned to prayer. When he did so, he would lift his uniform cap slightly, and his lips would move in silent supplication.
In January 1912 he became Captain of the 13,564-ton Carpathia—less than a third the size of the huge Titanic, but his most important command to date. On the night of April 14-15, she was three days out of New York on a Mediterranean cruise, and so far there had been little occasion for either prayers or quick decisions.
All that ended at 12:35 A.M., when Harold Cottam, the Carpathia’s wireless operator, burst into the Captain’s quarters to report that the Titanic had struck a berg and urgently needed help. Rostron’s reaction was completely in character. He immediately ordered the Carpathia turned around then asked Cottam if he was sure. Nine out of ten captains would have done it the other way around.
The Titanic was 58 miles to the northwest; the Carpathia’s maximum speed was 14 knots—meaning she could get there in four hours. That time must not be wasted. Calling his department heads to the bridge, Rostron rattled off a stream of orders. Later he wrote them up for the U.S. Senate investigation. Although prepared when he was no longer under pressure, the resulting document gives such a remarkable picture of his quick mind a
t work—thinking of everything—that it seems worth quoting in full:
English doctor, with assistants, to remain in first-class dining room.
Italian doctor, with assistants, to remain in second-class dining room.
Hungarian doctor, with assistants, to remain in third-class dining room.
Each doctor to have supplies of restoratives, stimulants, and everything to hand for immediate needs of probable wounded or sick.
Purser, with assistant purser and chief steward, to receive the passengers, etc., at different gangways, controlling our own stewards in assisting Titanic passengers to the dining rooms, etc.; also to get Christian and surnames of all survivors as soon as possible to send by wireless.
Inspector, steerage stewards, and master at arms to control our own steerage passengers and keep them out of the third-class dining hall, and also to keep them out of the way and off the deck to prevent confusion.
Chief steward: That all hands would be called and to have coffee, etc., ready to serve out to all our crew.
Have coffee, tea, soup, etc., in each saloon, blankets in saloons, at the gangways, and some for the boats.
To see all rescued cared for and immediate wants attended to.
My cabin and all officers’ cabins to be given up. Smoke rooms, library, etc., dining rooms, would be utilized to accommodate the survivors.
All spare berths in steerage to be utilized for Titanic’s passengers, and get all our own steerage passengers grouped together.
Stewards to be placed in each alleyway to reassure our own passengers, should they inquire about noise in getting our boats out, etc, or the working of engines.
To all I strictly enjoined the necessity for order, discipline, and quietness and to avoid all confusion.
Chief and first officers: All the hands to be called; get coffee, etc. Prepare and swing out all boats.