Sea of Despair

Sea of Despair

If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register, with a comment, of the various deaths of men; he who should teach men to die would at the same time teach them to live.

Michel de Montaigne

The last thing I remember of him was how he sat so elegantly, wisps of dark hair waving in the frigid wind as his bow sliced across the strings of his cello and the notes froze like icicles onto the dark Atlantic sea. I was mad for him; angry with decisions made and I raged against the injustice of it all. Where was the exodus? Where was the hope? Everything had gone drastically wrong and there were few survivors. I never dreamed it would end like it did. It seemed like water was where our beginning started and so soon after, ended for us.

After nearly a decade, renovations were finally finished at the Grand Central Hotel and a large winter garden had been constructed to give more vibrancy to the interior of the hotel in Leeds. I was living in England at the time as a young woman and still hadn’t adjusted to the fog and rain. Because it was raining buckets on the night of the party, we were converging and conversing in the monstrous ballroom. Guests started mingling with their champagne glasses full of sparkling liquid. I was wandering about intrigued by the outfits and felt like a misfit. I had absolutely no idea of what the night might bring. I was there as a guest, so when he turned and smiled at me, I could only do what I had been taught. I smiled back. He nodded to acknowledge me.

I’d seen him on the stage with the other band members. I didn’t think much of it, but I watched him gently pull out his beloved cello from its case like a woman lifting her infant from the crib after awakening. The other band members were busy arranging music on their stands and he smiled at a comment one of the violin players made. An amicable fellow I thought to myself. The band soon began to play and I went to find my dear friend, Katrina. We had much to discuss as we were leaving soon to study in Paris, France. She had recently arrived from America. I was ignorant of the articles regarding the imprudence, beauty, loudness, rich and vulgar that had been used to describe the women from the “American Girl’s Club,” but I wasn't concerned. I was able to study abroad and I was going to take advantage of this newfound freedom.

The night was full of dancing, carousing, conversation and gradually as the music slowed, the crowd began to disperse and an excellent evening had been enjoyed much to the chagrin of the more obstinate drunks and tallying guests. I was on my way to fetch my wrap after bidding others goodnight, when I felt a hand under my elbow.

“Did you enjoy the music this evening, Miss?” As I turned to the voice, I met the same brown eyes that had smiled at me from the stage.

“I did.”

“The night is young and there is much more music to be heard.”

And as if on cue, Katrina arrived in a flurry with a group of revelers ushering us all into the street and a night of more dancing, laughing and comradery. We were young, full of dreams, life and off to sing and dance into our futures. Within days, Katrina and I were stowed with our luggage onto the train that took us to Paris but we never forgot that magical night in Leeds or the wonderful way that a young man named Roger had tugged at my heartstring.

The next time I met my brown-eyed musician was a number of years later. The music brought us together once again. We “American girls” were out on the town once again. I was on the dance floor in the arms of a man and he was on the stage with the orchestra. He had been playing at various locations throughout the city and had perchance been at the same venue that evening that I had attended. We hadn’t forgotten each other and our smiles to each other sparked and spurred us on. Our romance simply picked up where it had left off all those years ago in England.

He had continued with his formal music training and had matured into a rather handsome young man. His gait was marred by a limp from some motorbike accident, but that didn’t deter the ladies or myself being attracted to him or from loving his charming French accent. His taste for the “good life” was evident from the circles that we rubbed shoulders with. Paris was the city of love and I was falling into it. Roger had his days free and so he would convince me to play truant and we would venture throughout the city exploring the sites and each other.

And so, when Katrina, who was still a dear, lively friend had informed me that her parents had given her a birthday gift – a ticket on the Titanic, making its maiden voyage to New York City – I was excited for her. She requested that I become her cabin mate and make the voyage with her. She assured me that her wealthy parents would pay my passage. I couldn't resist. When I informed Roger that I would be leaving for Southampton, UK in April, I thought he would be distraught, so it surprised me when he was absolutely thrilled. He too had been invited to join Wallace Hartley’s orchestra to play on board the ship for the maiden voyage as 1 of 8 musicians chosen by a Liverpool-cased agency. We were elated!

April 10, 1912 was a day that is etched in my mind. “The Millionaire’s Special” sailed into the night with mostly rain-free skies and light moderate winds, a hearty crew and a boatload of passengers from all walks of life. Katrina and I, as first-class passengers, were given our White Star Line request booklet, but I was eager to see and hear Roger and I insisted Katrina help me discover where his group was playing. After we had explored some of the ship, we found him outside in the corridor of the Café Parisien with his string trio enchanting the passengers with French melodies. The music blended beautifully with the restaurant and the other wealthy passengers loved the trio as much as the rich banquet of foods.

The equally first-class dining saloon was enormous and the second and third-class accommodations were comparable to other high rated ships. We were living in the lap of luxury aboard this floating hotel. In the evening, Katrina and I would dine in style and listen to the live orchestra playing. The oak, mahogany and sycamore furniture and panelling were appealing to the eye and we enjoyed conversing with the variety of people we met at our dinner tables. I was always eager to meet up with Roger when the evening came to a close.

When Roger wasn’t playing, we were together. There were enough other kinds of entertainment to keep Katrina occupied and amused, so she seldom missed me. Roger had his own cabin in 2nd class and so we had plenty of time to enjoy each other’s company without annoying roommates. We would play shuffleboard, drink our afternoon tea and sneak off to his room when we could.

After days of sharing our lives together and falling all the more in love, Roger’s trio began to tease him. As he was the youngest of the group of musicians, they thought he was rushing into a relationship without thinking. They informed him that he should be out and about the ship observing other notable catches. He had apparently written to his parents that he was only going to marry a girl with money to “love in silk” and not live in an attic with fear of not eating the next day. I assured him that that would certainly not be the case! Katrina had met him on several occasions, but she was much more interested in the assortment of eligible men on the ship, than spending any time with either of us. Besides, we relished the time we had together.

We were in his room after dinner on the fourth night when there was a banging at his door. Most of the passengers had gone to their rooms that night by 11 pm.

“What on earth is all the racket?” Roger yelled as we scrambled to dress ourselves.

John “Jock”, the first violinist was standing in the hall when Roger peered through a slice of the door into the hallway.

“We’ve been called up to play. We’re just going to play a tune to cheer things up a bit.”

“What on earth for?”

“The ship has hit something, an iceberg they say. They want everyone up on the upper deck.”

Roger quickly dressed in his tux and told me to put on his jacket and we ran up the stairs – Roger with his cello and me with my hand in his being dragged behind. There were others on the stairs making their way upward as well. I still felt very safe. After all, this was the most amazing ship. It was built of steel and was the largest ship of its kind on the sea. They had used all sorts of modern technology and said that it was unsinkable.

The cold air hit us like a missile blast and we heard the porters shouting and saw the bewilderment on the faces of some of the passengers. Others were milling about huddling in groups rubbing their arms and hands to keep warm. There was no real commotion or panic and I wondered what all the fuss was about.

Roger located his trio and told me to come inside the first-class lounge and stay warm. He reassured me that all would be fine. Crew members were shooing people into the same area to get out of the cold night.

“I’ll find you later,” were his last words before I tried to orient myself and understand what on earth was happening. My first thought was Katrina as the ship gently leaned into the ocean and creaked in agony.

With Roger now playing with his trio and the orchestra trying to keep the passengers calm, I frantically went in search of her. I checked the smoking room, the library and our room, but they were all empty and so I returned to the lounge in hopes that she was there, but even that space was emptying and so I ventured onto the deck outside.

The ocean was dark, the air was brisk and people sensed something was wrong but couldn’t quite understand what was happening. By midnight Captain Smith finally ordered lifeboats into the water. I didn’t want to leave the ship without Roger. By now, the orchestra had moved to the deck outside.

“Take this and put it on,” a crewman instructed me. Life vests were handed to a number of us and a porter took my elbow and directed me to the edge of the now slanted ship. I intrepidly stepped into one of the lifeboats and the crew continued to load passengers after me in a calm and reassuring manner. Apparently, women and children first was the order.

I was shivering with the threadbare jacket that Roger had thrown over my shoulders when we rushed from his room. I sat with the others, a mixture of women, a few children and a younger gentleman. Some of the women were in their furs, sitting sedately with hands on their laps. A few children were whimpering into their mother’s arms and the younger gentleman wouldn’t meet my eyes. I could vaguely make out a few other lifeboats. Some of them had hardly anyone aboard them, while others were full. I learned years later that the crew hadn’t been properly trained on the lifeboat launching equipment. I don’t suspect they thought they would ever have to use them.

At first, things were quiet except the music. We could make out voices from some of the boats and popping sounds. I could vaguely make out passengers milling about on the deck. The stern was starting to sink even though the lights were still on. My mind was full questions. The wind was blowing and the sharp cold was stinging our faces. I thought I heard Katrina calling my name from one of the lifeboats already on the water but my only thought was of Roger.

I focused on the music as the ship continued to sink. Roger and his fellow musicians continued to play. It seemed like hours. We sat huddled in the wooden craft shivering and shaking from the cold and continued drifting out to sea amidst the inky black night. There was an eerie quietness as the last lifeboat was lowered into the water at the wee hours of the morning. Suddenly there was a loud explosion beneath the surface and the screams began. People were thrashing about in the water; pleas for help echoed across the waves and the Titanic disappeared under the water – gone. And we were alone floating on the sea of uncertainty.

As I sat in that boat, lost in the ocean of despair, I wondered about my own mortality. The rain of tears we cried were for the crew, the women who refused to leave their husbands and children, for those who never made it to the top deck, for those who died of exposure, but most of all my heart ached for Roger, who died doing what he loved. I was reunited with Katrina on board the rescue ship, the Carpathia, the next day. It was then that I found out that none of the musicians had survived.

Katrina and I were two of the 705 people who survived that night, but my heart was broken in two like the “unsinkable” ship. My hopes sunk to the bottom of the ocean where they lie today. I still hear “Nearer, my God to thee” in my thoughts of Roger and a salty tear escapes my eye as I fondly remember my brown-eyed cellist.

The children, my son and his family, are taking me to see my grandson this evening. When I glance outside, it is foggy and raining yet again. It seems so fitting. The water has a way of making memories and taking lives. It did both that fateful day on April 15th but tonight, I will beam with pride when the orchestra introduces their young violin soloist, Roger, to the applauding audience and I will remember. You see, it is the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic.

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