The Night Lives On (5 page)

More understandable was the decision of George Rosenshine and Maybelle Thorne to be listed as “Mr. and
Mrs. G. Thorne.” They were not married but traveling together, and in the Edwardian era, appearances were often more important than reality. Appearances also played a part in the case of “Miss E. Rosenbaum.” She was a fashion stylist, and it simply seemed better business to anglicize her name. So although listed correctly, she was generally known as Edith Russell, and that is the way she has come down to us in most survivor accounts.

Three other passengers found it absolutely essential to travel incognito. They were professional cardsharps, hoping to make a maiden voyage killing. Obviously it was safer to use an assumed name; so George (Boy) Bradley was listed as “George Brayton”; C. H. Romaine as “C. Rolmane”; and Harry (Kid) Homer as “E. Haven.” There’s evidence that the well-known gambler Jay Yates was also on board, using the alias “J. H. Rogers.” Neither name appears on the Passenger List, but a farewell note signed by Rogers was later handed to a survivor on the sloping Boat Deck.

One shady figure definitely not on the ship was Alvin Clarence Thomas, a con man later known as “Titanic Thompson,” who achieved a certain notoriety as a witness to the slaying of the gambler Arnold Rothstein in 1929. It was generally assumed that the alias came from Thompson’s having plied his trade on the
Titanic,
but this is not so—he was only nine at the time. Actually, the name was an appropriate reference to several disastrous plunges taken when the stakes were high.

While the presence of this or that particular individual could be argued, there’s no doubt that a number of cardsharps were indeed on the
Titanic
, and in fact on almost every express liner plying the Atlantic at the
time. The combination of rich, bored passengers, easily made shipboard friendships, and the ambience of the smoking room provided the perfect climate for “sportsmen,” as the gamblers were politely called.

The wonder is that the lines didn’t do more to protect their ordinary passengers. The veteran gamblers were familiar figures to most of the pursers and smoking room stewards: were they being bribed to keep quiet? Undoubtedly there were occasional payoffs, but the real source of trouble seems to have been the steamship companies themselves. They didn’t want to take any step that implied they might be responsible for their patrons’ losses. Nor were all high-stake games dishonest; there was always the legal danger of a false charge. It was safer not to get involved.

On the
Titanic
there was only one low-keyed warning. This was a mild little insert, planted opposite the first page of the Passenger List:

The attention of the Managers has been called to the fact that certain persons, believed to be Professional Gamblers, are in the habit of traveling to and fro in Atlantic Steamships.

In bringing this to the knowledge of Travelers the Managers, while not wishing in the slightest degree to interfere with the freedom of action of Patrons of the White Star Line, desire to invite their assistance in discouraging Games of Chance, as being likely to afford these individuals special opportunities for taking unfair advantage of others.

Along with the deceptions, the
Titanic’s
Passenger List had its share of printer’s errors—unintended, but no less misleading to browsers then and now. “H. Bjornstrom,” for instance, was really H. Bjornstrom Steffanson, a wealthy young Swedish businessman, whose father seemed to own all the wood pulp in Sweden. Steffanson was a lieutenant in the Swedish Army Reserve, but his eyes were set on Wall Street. This was his third trip to New York in two years, and already he was well on his way to making a small fortune of his own.

Also on the list as Mrs. Churchill “Cardell”—whose last name should have been spelled “Candee.” In an era when genteel ladies were regarded as helpless creatures to be protected by solicitous males, Helen Churchill Candee had already jumped the traces with a book called
How Women May Earn a Living.
Published in 1900, it was full of crisp, breezy advice. Mrs. Candee had something to say about almost any subject, and other books soon followed: a western called
An Oklahoma Romance
; a cultural guide called
Decorative Styles and Periods
; and a history of tapestry, just finished and due to be published in the fall.

But it was not her literary career that put Helen Candee on the
Titanic
; it was a personal emergency. Her son had been hurt in an aeroplane accident—a novelty in 1912 that vicariously added to her own glamour— and she was hurrying to his bedside.

Meanwhile she must make the best of things. It was the off-season, and some 87 unattached men were in First Class. It did not take long for several of them to notice the handsome woman traveling alone, who could usually be found reading in her deck chair on the
Promenade Deck, forward. For her part, Mrs. Candee always took two chairs—“one for myself and the other for callers, or for self-protection.” No less than six shipboard swains were soon vying for that extra chair.

Of them all, she knew only Colonel Archibald Gracie, slightly. An amateur military historian, he had just finished a detailed Civil War battle history,
The Truth about Chickamauga.
Now he was crossing the ocean and back, to get it out of his system. Two others of the group had been recommended to her by mutual friends: Hugh Woolner, son of a noted English sculptor; and Edward A. Kent, a well-connected Buffalo architect. The rest were complete strangers, to be fixed in her mind the way one does with shipboard acquaintances. Clinch Smith was the Long Island socialite who kept polo ponies and lived mostly in Paris; Bjornstrom Steffanson was the dashing Swedish reserve officer; E. P. Colley was the roly-poly Irishman who laughed a lot but said little.

They were all dazzled by Mrs. Candee, and she in turn “felt divinely flattered to be in such company.” Coming on deck one day after lunch, she found them already waiting by her chairs. “We are here to amuse you,” one of them gushed. “All of us have the same thought, which is that you must never be alone.” Together, they formed one of those groups that sometimes happen on an Atlantic crossing, where the chemistry is just right and the members are inseparable…at least until last night out. To Colonel Gracie, they were “our coterie.”

The days glided by, one blending into another to form a seamless whole. The weather was always sunny, the ocean calm. In past crossings Colonel Gracie had
made a point of keeping in shape, but this time he found “our coterie” so enjoyable that he forgot about exercise.

Sunday, April 14, Gracie decided that he must get back on some sort of regimen. He bounced out of bed for a pre-breakfast warm-up with Fred Wright, the ship’s squash pro. Then a plunge in the swimming pool, and up for a big breakfast. Later he attended divine service, conducted by Captain Smith, and joined the rest of those present in the “Prayer for Those at Sea.”

Early afternoon, the weather suddenly turned cold. Most of the passengers stayed inside, writing letters and catching up on their reading. Gracie finished Mary Johnson’s
Old Dominion
and returned it to the ship’s library. Later he cornered Isidor Straus, on whom he had foisted a copy of
The Truth about Chickamauga.
The book strikes one reader as 462 pages of labored minutiae, but Mr. Straus was famous for his tact; he assured the Colonel that he had read it with “intense interest.”

Despite the cold, Mrs. Candee and Hugh Woolner decided to explore the ship. A door on the starboard side of the Boat Deck was open, and hearing some clicking sounds, they looked in. “Come in, come right in and try your strength,” called a cheery English voice. It was T. W. McCawley, the gym instructor, a bouncy little man in white flannels, eager to show off his domain. For the next hour they raced the stationary bicycles, rode the mechanical horses, and even took a turn on the “camel,” which McCawley said was good for the liver.

But it was getting colder all the time, and they decided to go down to the lounge for tea. They settled into a green velvet settee before a glowing grate, and it
reminded Helen Candee of coming back home to a fireplace after a frosty afternoon ride over the fields. Stewards arrived with steaming pots of tea and plates piled high with buttered toast, and she sensed a general feeling of total well-being and contentment—rare indeed since her son’s accident.

The spell was broken by the bugle to dress for dinner. For the next hour, First Class seemed almost empty, as “our coterie” and the others struggled behind closed stateroom doors with hundreds of shirt studs and thousands of hairpins. Every steward and stewardess—every personal maid and valet—was mobilized to help.

Dinner was the social high point of the day. The elite dined in the À la Carte Restaurant, but the main dining saloon on D Deck had glitter enough. The scene might have been the Ritz in London or Sherry’s in New York, with the men in white tie (except for a few daring souls in tuxedo), and the ladies shining in pale satin and clinging gauze. Tonight even the impoverished Mrs. Cassebeer looked superb, resplendent in the only snappy evening gown she had.

There’s no record of what Mrs. Candee was wearing, but it’s a safe guess that she looked irresistible to her six devoted swains. After a dinner of filet mignon Lili, they took a table together in the adjoining Reception Room for coffee and the nightly concert by the
Titanic’s
band.

The band has become so hallowed in memory that it seems almost blasphemous to say anything critical about its music. Nevertheless, there were those in “our coterie” who did feel that it was poor on its Wagner, while others said that the violin was weak. True or not, Wallace Hartley and his men were immensely popular with the passengers, and always willing to play any request.
Tonight they played some Puccini for Mrs. Candee and a little Dvorak for Hugh Woolner.

Colonel Gracie, who never recognized any number the band played now or later, used the concert as an opportunity to circulate among the crowded little tables that filled the room. He was an indefatigable celebrity collector, and liked to mention his Union Club membership and St. Paul’s School background. One can imagine people wincing at his approach but putting up with him anyhow, for he was kind, courtly, and certainly meant well.

Tonight the Colonel had fewer targets than usual, for the truly big names were dining in the À la Carte Restaurant up on B Deck, where the Wideners were giving a small dinner for Captain Smith. Yet there were still plenty of attractive tables, and Gracie felt that the ladies never looked lovelier. Around 9:30 he decided to break off the evening and retire. It was still early, but it had been a long day—all that squash, swimming, and exercises in the gym—and he had reserved the squash court for another session early the following morning.

By 11:00 the rest of the crowd in the Reception Room was breaking up too, and the band finished the evening with the “Tales of Hoffmann.” Soon the big Jacobean room was completely empty, except for one remaining table. Mrs. Candee and “our coterie” were going as strong as ever. But even they felt the emptiness of the room and decided to look for some place cozier.

Somebody suggested the Café Parisien, all the way aft on B Deck. It was the showpiece of the ship, stylish but intimate. Certainly there ought to be some life there. But all they found was one other party, presided over by Archie Butt, President Taft’s military aide.

And it was so cold. Mrs. Candee drew her scarf close, but it made little difference. They ordered hot drinks, and a waiter appeared with a tray of grog, steaming Scotch and lemon, and (for Bjornstrom Steffanson) a hot lemonade. Even these emergency measures didn’t help, and around 11:20 Mrs. Candee reluctantly went below, where there was at least an electric heater in her stateroom.

Colley also drifted off and the four remaining members of “our coterie” now went up to the smoking room, just above on A Deck. This was a male sanctuary where the ship’s night owls customarily gathered and which was bound to be warm. Someone produced a pack of cards, and the foursome began to play a rather lighthearted game of bridge. There were other tables of bridge nearby, including one carefully organized by George Brayton and two of his sporting cronies. The fourth at this table was Howard Case, London Manager of the Vacuum Oil Company. Case had been selected as the sharp’s next pigeon.

Several other groups sat around simply talking, and one lone traveler—Spencer Silverthorne of St. Louis— buried himself in a big leather chair, idly reading Owen Wister’s
The Virginian.
It was now nearly 11:40
P.M.
, and the hum of conversation blended with the steady throb of the engines far below.

Suddenly an interruption. As Hugh Woolner recalled it a few days later in a letter to a friend, “There came a heavy grinding sort of a shock, beginning far ahead of us in the bows and rapidly passing along the ship and away under our feet.”

It was not severe, but enough to spill gambler Harry Romaine’s drink. Everyone sprang up, and several of
the more curious—including Woolner and Steffanson—darted through the swinging doors aft and onto the open Promenade Deck. Steffanson’s eyes couldn’t adjust to the sudden darkness fast enough, but he heard one of the others call out, “We hit an iceberg—there it is!”