All eight musicians were lost; so there are no firsthand accounts.  We can only piece the story together from bits of evidence.  The search is made more difficult by a host of legends that have cropped up, and by the fact that few of the Titanic's survivors seem to have been blessed with a very good musical ear. 

The whole problem is further complicated by the fact that there were two distinct musical units on the Titanic, not just a single eight-piece orchestra, as is generally assumed.  First, there was a quintet led by violinist Wallace Hartley and used for routine ship's business - teatime and after-dinner concerts, Sunday service and the like.  There was no brass or drums.  Vernon and Irene Castle had introduced the foxtrot, but it hadn't reached the White Star Line yet. 

In addition to this basic orchestra, the Titanic had something very special: a trio of violin, cello, and piano that played exclusively in the Reception Room outside the A la Carte Restaurant and Cafe Parisien.  This was all part of White Star's effort to plant a little corner of Paris in the heart of a great British liner, and appropriately the trio included a French cellist and a Belgian violinist to add to the Continental flavoring. 

These two orchestras had completely separate musical libraries.  They had their own arrangements, and they did not normally mix.  It is likely (but not certain) that on the night of the collision they played together for the first time.  Hence whatever they played had to be relatively simple and easy to handle without sheet music - the current hits and old numbers that the men knew by heart. 

Where did they play?  Apparently they initially took their stand in the First Class lounge on A Deck around 12:15 A.M.  Dressed in their regular uniforms with the green facings, they looked as though it was a perfectly normal occasion.  Jack Thayer remembered them playing to a restless crowd milling in and out of the room, not paying much attention. 

Later, the band moved up to the Boat Deck level of the grand staircase.  Here they were in the mainstream of the passengers heading from their staterooms to the boats.  There was a small piano on the port side of the foyer, and it was put to good use. 

Near the end, they moved out onto the Boat Deck itself, but still remained near the entrance to the grand staircase.  By now the interior of the ship was nearly deserted and if their music was to do any good, they had to be where people could hear them. 

How long did they play?  Legend has them carrying on with the water practically up to their knees, but by then the slant of the deck would have been so steep, no one could have stood.  At the other extreme, Colonel Gracie, on board to the last, said that the band stopped playing about half an hour before the ship sank.  He added that he himself saw the musicians lay down their instruments.  Curiously, Gracie did not mention this in his authoritative study The Truth about the Titanic, but he went into some detail in a talk he gave at the University Club in Washington on November 23, 1912.  This was less than two weeks before he died; so it is presumably his last word on the subject.

Gracie's recollection seems confirmed by First Class passenger A. H. Barkworth, also there to the end, who recalled: "I do not wish to detract from the bravery of anybody, but I might mention that when I first came on deck the band was playing a waltz.  The next time I passed where the band had been stationed, the members had thrown down their instruments, and were not to be seen." 

Barkworth was a stolid Yorkshireman, not given to fantasy.  He and Gracie undoubtedly told what they saw, but nothing varies more wildly than estimates of time the night the Titanic went down.  Other witnesses, equally reliable, remember the band playing almost to the final plunge. 

Harold Bride recalls their music while he was on the roof of the officers' quarters struggling to free Collapsible B.  Greaser Thomas Ranger heard them when he came up from turning off 45 fans to find all the boats gone.  But perhaps the musicians' best epitaph comes from the testimony of Steward Edward Brown at the British Inquiry.  When asked how long he heard the band play, Brown replied, "I do not remember hearing them stop." 

What were they playing?  All agree that the band featured light, cheerful music-ragtime, waltzes, and the comic songs that were then so popular in the London music halls.  Survivors specifically recalled Irving Berlin's "Alexander's Ragtime Band" and a pretty English melody called "In the Shadows," the big London hit of 1911.  Colonel Gracie couldn't remember the name of any tune, but he was sure the beat was lively to the end.  Nevertheless, the Carpathia had no sooner reached New York than the story spread that the band went down playing "Nearer, My God, to Thee."  The idea was so appealing that it instantly became part of the Titanic saga - as imperishable as the enduring love of the Strauses and the courage of the engineers who kept the lights burning to the final plunge. 

Yet doubts persist.  In the first place, the whole point of the band playing was to keep the passengers' spirits up, and light music seems best suited to that.  As Colonel Gracie observed, "If 'Nearer, My God, to Thee' was one of the selections, I assuredly would have noticed it and regarded it as a tactless warning of immediate death, and more likely to create a panic that our special efforts were directed towards avoiding. ..."

Moreover, no one up close remembered it.  For instance, Mrs. A. A. Dick of Calgary, Alberta, vividly recalled seeing the musicians lined up on deck playing "Nearer, My God, to Thee" ...yet she was in Boat 3, at least a quarter-mile away.  On the other hand, passengers Peter Daly and Dick Williams - both on board to the last - agreed with Colonel Gracie: the band played only light, cheerful music. 

Finally, we must face the hymnologists.  They point out that both British and American survivors recalled "Nearer, My God, to Thee," but ordinarily the hymn is played to entirely different music on the two sides of the Atlantic.  In America the setting is normally Lowell Mason's haunting tune "Bethany"; but in Britain the standard Episcopal setting is J. B. Dykes's "Horbury," while the Methodists prefer Sir Arthur Sullivan's "Propior Deo."  Unless the band played all three versions (an absurdity), more than half of those who remembered the hymn must have been mistaken. 

Sunday service on British liners of the period was normally Church of England, which suggests that Dykes's "Horbury" was used, but to balance that, Bandmaster Hartley had a strong Methodist background.  In his hometown, Colne, his father served as choirmaster at the local Methodist church for 30 years and invariably used Sullivan's "Propior Deo."  Hartley himself favored this setting, according to a fellow musician who had played with him on another ship.  His friends and relatives firmly believed that this was the version played on the Titanic, and in fact, the opening bars are carved on the monument over his grave. 

The story included an illustration reproducing several lines of the music, and also quoted three stanzas.  The first line ran "God of mercy and compassion, look with pity on my pain," and even more appropriate were two lines in the third stanza: 

Hold me up in mighty waters; Keep my eyes on things above.

The hymn completely fitted the occasion, and Bride was the perfect authority.  He was no distant observer; he was on the Boat Deck to the last.  As a wireless operator, he was trained to be meticulously accurate.  So "Autumn" it was, both in A Night to Remember and in accounts by other writers attempting to get below the surface and discover what really happened. 

Then once again, the hymnologists.  This time they pointed out that "Autumn" is the name of a hymn tune, and that in both Britain and America hymns are customarily known by their first line, not by the name of the music that provides the setting.  Hence we refer to "Onward, Christian Soldiers," not its tune, "Saint Gertrude," and a choir sings "0 God, Our Help in Ages Past," not its tune, "Saint Ann."  The same goes for "Autumn."  If Harold Bride meant a hymn, he would have referred to it by the opening line of some hymn that used this piece of music as a setting. 

Even then it would not have been "God of Mercy and Compassion", for there is no Episcopal hymn that begins that way.  "Autumn " was an alternate setting for the Episcopal hymn "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah," but it seems to have been rarely used and was dropped from the hymnal after 1916. 

The hymnologists' case against "Autumn" came through in driblets, and it wasn't until research began on this book that it became clear how convincing it was.  The arguments are neatly summarized by Jessica M. Kerr in her article "A Hymn to Remember," appearing in the January 1976 issue of the magazine The Hymn. 

What, then, was Bride referring to when he mentioned "Autumn"?  The most likely answer is contained in a series of letters written to me in 1957 by Fred G. ValIance of Detroit, Michigan.  Mr. ValIance was bandleader of the Cunard Liner Laconia at the time of the Titanic and was writing from the point of view of a shipboard musician.  He pointed out that whatever the band played, it had to be something they all knew by heart - something that could be played in the dark, on a sloping deck, and without the benefit of sheet music.  The hymn tune "Autumn" did not remotely meet these requirements, but a currently popular waltz, "Songe d'Automne," did. 

"Songe d'Automne," moreover, was generally known simply as "Autumn."  Composed by Archibald Joyce, it was never very popular in America, but was a major hit in London in 1912.  Played at roller-skating rinks, cafes, and the like, Harold Bride would probably have known it, and he might well have assumed that his American interviewers understood what he meant. 

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 rag- time 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 ValIance, 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 ValIance 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 Cafe Parisien trio never joined forces with Wallace Hartley's quintet, but continued to playas 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 allover 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:

The "enclosed uniform account" included such items as a lyre lapel insignia (2 shillings) and sewing White Star buttons on a tunic (I 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 Cafe Parisien.  Hence there were now eight extra names on the Second Class passenger list.  Otherwise nothing had changed: the musicians still had the same cramped quarters on E Deck (next to the potato washer), and certainly none of the "perks" of passengers.  When they played that 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.

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THE U.S. COAST GUARD/INTERNATIONAL ICE PATROL

THE WREATH LAYING AND MEMORIAL SERVICE
APRIL 15, 1994

FOR THE TITANIC HISTORICAL SOCIETY
and the
COMMITTAL SERVICE
for
MRS. RUTH BECKER BLANCHARD



Close-up photo: The two wreaths commemorated annually at the the Titanic's gravesite by the International Ice Patrol. One is from the Ice Patrol and the other is from the Titanic Historical Society to remember those who died in the tragedy.
The other photo is the Ice Patrol's flight crew including Petty Officers Holland and Munson holding the wreaths and Chaplin John K. Carter (center) who officiated.

Mrs. Blanchard was one of the last living Titanic survivors.  Her ashes were scattered over the ship's resting place.

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