Mrs. Jacques Futrelle Tells Story of Wreck of the Giant Titanic: Chapter 1 (Part 1)
Describes Heroism of Men Who Gave Lives for Women and Children
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Last week I shared the story of Jacques and Lily May Futrelle—journalists, authors, and distant ancestors who were aboard the Titanic in April 1912. Over the month of April, I am sharing Lily May Futrelle’s vivid account of the sinking of the Titanic. She reported the story as a two-part series in the Boston Post published on April 21 and 22, 1912. Years ago I found it on a newspaper archive site and saved what was still legible. Part 1 has since disappeared from the archive—or at least, I am unable to find it—so I am making the full piece available here.
The Titanic story is one of disparity. Futrelle was a first-class passenger. Some of her descriptions reflect the classism, racism, and sexism of her time. These sentiments only serve to underscore the value of revisiting the past to better understand the present.
Boston Post Sunday, April 21, 1912
Seems Like Horrible Dream—No Premonition of Danger on Splendid Liner—Not Alarmed When Steamer Struck—Realization of Desperate Situation Gradually Dawned on Passengers—Women Clung to Husbands Who Forced Them to Go Into Boats—Last View of Husband and Colonel Astor—Band Played Till Almost Last Moment—Many Picked Up in Water After Steamer Disappeared
The story of the sinking of the Titanic, written by Mrs. Jacques Futrelle, is by far the most graphic description of this, the most frightful marine disaster of modern times. Mrs. Futrelle is the widow of Jacques Futrelle, the well-known writer of short stories who is among the victims and who stood calmly by the side of Colonel John Jacob Astor smoking a cigarette, when the giant steamship dived two miles to the bottom of the sea. Mrs. Futrelle is possessed of distinguished literary ability and is the author of several novels, notably The Secretary of Social Affairs. Her home is at Stepping Stones, Scituate, Mass.
THE STORY OF THE TITANIC
By Mrs. Jacques Futrelle
(copyright 1912 by Mrs. Jacques Futrelle)
It seems to me like some horrible dream. I can’t realize yet that my husband, “my Jacques,” and the hundreds of other brave men, who with unexampled heroism stood back and gave up their lives that the women and children might be saved, are gone from us—oh, it is all too terrible.
Never shall I forget that night. No words can express the despair of it all. One cannot adequately describe the sufferings of the women parted from their husbands with such frightful suddenness, the heroism of the men, the fortitude of the women, the high courage of the officers of the Titanic, and that dread last moment when the shrieks of 1500 dying men and women were sent across the waters in an appeal to those who had no power to save them. I shall never again look upon the ocean without thinking of that scene. The world asks who is to blame? It is true that there are lessons to be learned in the future from this great catastrophe which so effectively demonstrated the futility of human effort when pitted against the powers of nature. Man had reached the pinnacle of his genius in the construction of this ocean monster, which it was confidently expected would defy successfully the dangers which lurk in the ocean. In the briefest space of time the elements, as if to show their scorn for his puny efforts, wrecked the ultimate product of man’s genius in marine architecture. Death, which hovers in various forms on the great ocean, came with awful abruptness.
Thought of Danger Seemed Absurd
Men laughed at the idea of anything happening to the Titanic. It was mere idle speculation to think of such a thing. And why not? Who ever feared drowning when seated in a luxurious library? What thought of death was there in the mind of the man who enjoyed his after-dinner cigar in the big, comfortable chairs of the smoking room? Why, it was as ridiculous to think of meeting death in the icy waters about us, as to fear it in the beautiful swimming pool below decks or in the luxuriously appointed Turkish bath.
In the elegantly furnished drawing room, no premonitory shadow of death was present to cast cold fear over the gayety of the evening. It was a brilliant scene; women beautifully gowned, laughing and talking—the odor of flowers—ridiculous to think of danger! Why, it was just like being at some beautiful summer resort. There was not one chance in a million of an accident happening, so they said. But someone took that chance; there was no slacking of the speed as we went through the ice fields, for it was felt that no obstacle could stand in the path of this mighty Leviathan of the Sea.
Oh, I don’t want to criticize, for they did their best; but why weren’t there enough life boats for all? Why were some men allowed in the boats and others kept out? Why were the boats not manned by men who knew how to handle an oar? Where was the system?
Why Not Enough Boats?
They did their best—the officers—poor dear old Captain Smith—they were not to blame. The women and children were saved, but, I ask, where are the men? Why were they not given a chance to save their lives? Why were there not enough boats for them? Why were they subjected to the fearful agony of parting from their wives? These are the questions which come to the lips of the heart-broken women whose husbands are gone.
All that afternoon and in the evening, everybody 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 so 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 odor 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 bouyant, 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 womanhood.
Filled With Joy of Living
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 travelers. 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. I remember this smile of his, which I saw as I looked towards him, when the men were discussing the incident of the card room. It struck me as the one discordant and harsh note in the jollity.
News spreads quickly on board ship. The gambler was ostracized by all. Even those who sat at his own table spoke to him only when the dictates of good breeding required that they should do so.
I remember that cold, calculating smile of his, because hours afterwards, his face still wore it when he cynically remarked that after all, he guessed there was something in the law of “the survival of the fittest.” This cold-blooded crook had survived, while brave men and good men, men who served noble purposes in life, had died. Was it “the survival of the fittest?”
Death Chill in the Air
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 chilliness affected all alike and a number of the men commented that we must be in the close vicinity of icebergs. No one had the slightest fear, however; for Mr. Andrews, who had some part in the constitution 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 stateroom. 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.
No Fear at Crash
At about 11:30, we felt a slight concussion. For the moment, neither of us experienced any feeling of alarm. I asked Jacques what he thought of it. “Oh, I guess it’s nothing,” he said. “We have simply bumped into a baby iceberg. If that’s what it is, it won’t bother the Titanic any more than if it had struck a match.”
I could not help but feel alarmed, despite Jacques’ confidence. A moment later there was the sound of scurrying feet in the halls, which divided the staterooms.
[This passage was followed by several illegible paragraphs.]
Read my original story, Parable of the Titanic.
Read Chapter 1 (Part 2) of “The Story of the Titanic” by Lily May Futrelle
Read Chapter 2 (Part 3)