The Night Lives On (13 page)

Certainly Bride never referred to “Autumn” as a hymn in his original interview of April 19. He specifically mentioned the tune three different times, but always casually, like a popular song that needed no further explanation. For instance:

From aft came the tunes of the band. It was a ragtime tune, I don’t know what. Then there was “Autumn.” Phillips ran aft, and that was the last I ever saw of him….

Nor did
The New York Times
ever check back with Bride on its article two days later, unveiling “Autumn”
as the hymn the band played at the end. The story was clearly based on the original interview, without further amplification.

It’s interesting to note that the British press never accepted the idea that the band went down playing any hymn called “Autumn.” The
Daily Telegraph
carried the April 19 interview with Bride, but identified “Autumn” as a “ragtime air.” This it certainly was not, but the description does indicate that the editors never thought Bride meant a hymn.

Nor did seafaring people think so at the time. According to Vallance, the general opinion among ship musicians was that the
Titanic’s
band played “Songe d’Automne” at least part of the time, and he himself was told this by more than one survivor. Once when he was playing it, a ship’s steward (apparently from the
Titanic
) came up and admonished him that it was “unlucky.”

Fred Vallance presented his case in 1957, but its true significance wasn’t appreciated until research began on this book. The hymnologists had to demolish “Autumn” first. With that out of the way, his theory becomes the most plausible explanation of what really happened.

But it is not carved in stone. There is always the possibility of some totally unexpected twist to the story. For instance, it is conceivable (though not at all likely) that the Café Parisien trio never joined forces with Wallace Hartley’s quintet, but continued to play as a separate group, ending with some hymn in another part of the ship. Then there is the question of what pianists Percy Taylor and Theodore Brailey were doing at the end, for it seems most unlikely, that anyone dragged a piano out onto the Boat Deck.

Whatever they played, they achieved immortality. The bravery of these men, trying to bring hope and comfort to others without a thought to their own safety, captured the public’s imagination all over the world. Editorials, speeches, sermons, and reams of worshipful poetry celebrated the deed, and letters of condolence poured into the homes of the bereaved.

Tucked in with the tributes received by the family of violinist Jock Hume, was a letter to his father that sounded a strangely jarring note. Dated April 30, 1912—just two weeks after the tragedy—it contained no words of sympathy, just a short, crisp reminder:

Dear Sir:

We shall be obliged if you will remit to us the sum of 5s. 4d., which is owing to us as per enclosed statement. We shall also be obliged if you will settle the enclosed uniform account.

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.

T
HE 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 have 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.