Authors: Greg King
At the end of the concert, passengers scattered. “I was nervous during the whole trip,” Josephine Brandell recalled, “so much so that I kept worrying my friends about fearing the submarine.” The concert did nothing to distract her from a sense of foreboding: she was so worried that she asked passenger Mabel Crichton if she could sleep in her cabin so as not to be alone. Crichton “did all she could during that whole night to quiet my nerves,” but Josephine got very little sleep.
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Henry and Annie Adams returned to their cabin. “My husband was still obsessed with the idea that something was going to happen,” she remembered.
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Lusitania
was equipped with lifebelts known as Boddy’s Patented Jackets, heavy and cumbersome vests stuffed with cork.
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Henry Adams “went to the wardrobe to take down the lifebelts, which were stored there. He found them so tightly jammed against the ceiling that it took much time and work to get them loose. “After we practiced putting them on, we threw them under the lower berth.”
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It became a common theme. Worried about what to do in case of an emergency, Francis Jenkins vainly searched his cabin for instructions on how to put on the lifebelt and where to go if the lifeboats were lowered. He also failed to find any obvious cache of lifebelts available to passengers on the decks.
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Charles Jeffery had brought his own lifebelt with him. “I had, when a couple of days out from New York,” he remembered, “looked for a lifejacket in my cabin, but could not find one.”
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Michael Byrne was amazed that few passengers even knew where lifebelts could be found, much less how to properly put them on.
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Despite hearing assurances while seated at the Captain’s Table that
Lusitania
was in no danger, Jessie Taft Smith was worried enough that she, too, practiced putting on her lifebelt, just in case of an emergency.
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Some passengers were more worried than others: an officer had actually interrupted Angela Papadopoulos during the concert. Her husband, Michael, “crazily had slipped into one of the lifeboats to pass the night, convinced that the
Lusitania
a little while later would be torpedoed.”
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Officers and passengers gathered around the lifeboat: the whole thing seemed absurd to Robert Timmis: “We all laughed at him.”
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Soon Angela arrived, accompanied by Alfred Vanderbilt and Sir Hugh Lane. At first, no amount of pleas or ridicule could convince Michael Papadopoulos to leave the security of his boat; finally, Angela—along with Vanderbilt and Lane—managed to coax him down and back to his cabin.
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Harold Boulton saw that many passengers, anticipating the worst and thinking that “they didn’t want to be drowned in their cabins,” had decided to spend the night in
Lusitania
’s public rooms. Stewards arranged blankets and pillows on sofas in the Lounge, Reading and Writing Room, and Smoking Room. Boulton decided “it didn’t much matter if I drowned in the cabin or in the lounge,” and went back to his stateroom.
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Members of the crew covered skylights with black canvas and stewards drew heavy curtains to conceal the few remaining lights.
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Lusitania
steamed through the night: in a few hours, she would enter the war zone.
A beautiful sunrise greeted
Lusitania
as she approached the Irish coast on the morning of Friday, May 7. Within a few hours, though, heavy fog enveloped the ship, shrouding the coast from view.
Lusitania
’s foghorn interrupted what had, for Rita Jolivet, been a restless night. “I had not slept well,” she recalled, and she decided to remain in bed until just before luncheon.
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What annoyed some alarmed others. Oliver Bernard thought that the horn only heightened “general apprehensions now that they were so near the danger zone.” To him, “the policy of announcing the liner’s whereabouts to friend and foe alike” seemed like madness.
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Theodore Naish agreed: early that morning, he complained to his wife, Belle, that the incessant siren “sounded too much like calling for trouble.”
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The deep, booming horn woke Harold Boulton at half-past eight. After dressing, he wandered over the ship; here and there, he saw passengers begin to stir from their makeshift beds on sofas in
Lusitania
’s public rooms, “picking up rugs and pillows and going down to tidy up.”
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A few sipped coffee or tea and looked over the latest edition of the
Cunard Daily Bulletin.
It was a hoax, the publication told readers, that the Germans were emerging victorious in the war. There were reports from Africa and Europe of the latest military action, but nothing about any recent vessels being sunk by submarines.
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Nevertheless, Boulton recalled, there was “a great deal of excitement at breakfast over the U-boat threats.”
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Walking the deck, Boulton was dismayed by the lack of speed. He cornered an officer, asking if the ship was going so slowly because of the fog. It wasn’t just the fog, came the reply:
Lusitania
had deliberately slowed to save coal and reserve steam, in case any of the lookouts spotted a submarine.
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Shortly after ten the fog dissipated; an hour later, the distant coast of Ireland again came into hazy view, and people lined the ship’s decks to take in the scene as gulls swooped and circled above. The day was now “exceptionally lovely … bathed in clear spring sunshine, and the sea was as smooth as a mirror,” recalled one man.
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Even when the fog cleared,
Lusitania
seemed to inch along the coast. As he strolled around the deck, Michael Byrne heard the same conversation, over and over again: “Why are we not making full speed?”
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Carl Foss stood against the port railing, scanning the horizon. Even though the day was now clear and the ship was near the coast, he recalled, “
Lusitania
’s speed did not increase.”
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The blare of the foghorn had also roused Charles Lauriat earlier that Friday. “I turned over and took another snooze,” he recalled, “for there was no use in getting up if it was foggy and disagreeable.” Finally, around noon, he dressed and took to the deck for a quick stroll. He noticed “that we were not going anywhere near top speed” and “wondered at our loafing along at this gentle pace.” Scanning the horizon, he enjoyed the “light wind, a smooth sea, and bright sunshine”; in the distance, he could see “the good old Irish coast.” “If a German submarine really meant business,” he thought, “she would have to wait weeks for a more ideal chance than the present weather conditions. With a flat, unbroken sea, such as that around us, the periscope of a submarine could certainly carry a long distance.”
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George Kessler had endured “a very sleepless night”; the siren interrupted any efforts to nap. Finally, he got up and retreated to the Smoking Room for an early game of bridge. While he was there, a steward announced that the numbers for the ship’s daily Pool Auction were to be posted. “For the previous two days,” he recalled, “the mileage was 506 and 501, and on Thursday the mileage was 488.” He heard the steward announce twenty numbers, “from 480–499. I thought it would be a grand speculation to buy the lowest number as we were going so slow. I did buy it, and paid $100.” The pot, he remembered, was between $300 and $350. Kessler’s gambit paid off: when the steward announced the run, his low number won the sweeps.
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More people appeared as luncheon drew near. In her cabin, Dorothy Conner carefully dressed in a fawn-colored tweed suit and set out for the Dining Saloon.
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Passengers spotted Alfred Vanderbilt, dressed in a pinstriped suit and looking dapper.
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“Hot and sweaty” from a vigorous game of medicine ball on deck, Robert Timmis and his friend Ralph Moodie decided to cool down with “a couple of cocktails” before eating.
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Kessler met Edgar Gorer on deck, and asked if he would join him for luncheon; saying he “wanted to take five minutes of exercise,” the art dealer agreed to rendezvous with Kessler in the Dining Saloon.
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But apprehension remained beneath this apparently pleasant surface: Elisabeth Lassetter entered the Dining Saloon clutching her jewelry box, afraid to leave it in her cabin should disaster strike.
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At one, the ship’s bugler sounded the call to luncheon. It was a fine day; when he entered the Dining Saloon, Michael Byrne—along with many other passengers—saw that the “portholes were all open.”
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“A spirit of animated, intimate, spontaneously confidential sociability,” said Oliver Bernard, seemed to permeate the room.
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Theodate Pope and Edwin Friend entered just as Bernard was paying his wine bill; the amount of coins he received as change, he grimly joked, would give him something to “hang on to in the event of an explosion.”
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Theodate and Friend took their places and chatted with their tablemates. One man had just ordered ice cream for dessert; as a steward ran back to fetch a clean spoon, Theodate heard her fellow diner joke that he’d hate for the ship to be torpedoed before he could enjoy his dessert.
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Lusitania
was due to arrive in Liverpool early the following morning. Everything would be in a frenetic rush, and officers asked passengers who had steamer trunks in their cabins to pack them so that they could all be taken up on deck by ten that evening. Howard Fisher decided he would rather “get it over with,” and spent the morning sorting his belongings. As a result, he and Dorothy Conner were late to luncheon. Margaret Mackworth and her father were just finishing their meal, but lingered as Fisher and Dorothy ordered squab and chatted about the voyage.
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All the worry over submarines and talk of attack now seemed ridiculous; in fact, Dorothy complained, the trip had been dull. In the few hours they had left before reaching Liverpool, she jokingly said, she still hoped that there might be “some sort of thrill going up the Channel.”
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In her cabin, Belle Naish “started to put on a pretty frock for luncheon,” decided to save the dress for later, and went to fetch a tray for her husband. On the way, she went out on deck. “The day was fine,” she remembered. “It was more than fine. It was glorious, with air so warm women went without their wraps on deck.” Standing in the Second Class Dining Saloon, she noticed that “everybody was happy because of the radiant weather, and the idea that they were nearing land and safety.”
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Down the corridor, Phoebe Amory enjoyed a bath, hoping “to increase my appetite.” She did not have time to dress properly before the bell signaled the second luncheon service; not wanting to miss her meal, she hastily flung a raincoat over her negligee and raced to her place at the table.
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Passengers had been certain that the Admiralty would send an escort to safely shepherd
Lusitania
through the danger zone; Captain Turner had said as much at the previous night’s concert, but it was another of his many obfuscations. He didn’t expect an escort: “the Admiralty never troubles to send out to meet the
Lusitania,
” he had told reporters before leaving New York. “They only look after the ships that are bringing the big guns over.”
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This wasn’t quite correct: on at least two previous occasions the Admiralty
had
provided
Lusitania
with an escort. In November 1914, the Admiralty ordered the battleship
Princess Royal
to escort
Lusitania
when she sailed from Liverpool to New York. And, in March of 1915, they had ordered two destroyers dispatched from Milford Haven, on the west coast of Britain, to meet
Lusitania
as she approached the war zone. This attempt was less than successful: the destroyers failed to meet the liner, as her then master, Captain Dow, refused to acknowledge wireless messages for fear of exposing his location to lurking submarines.
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