And the Band Played On (21 page)

The reporters’ and photographers’ vigil outside the Astor residence continued throughout the night, their patience sustained by hot coffee, hip flasks and the occasional appearance of an Astor servant telling them that it would not be long now, a dollar bill being discreetly exchanged for the information.

By mid morning on Wednesday 14 August, their stake-out was rewarded. The Astor butler ‘wearing a broad smile’ came to the door and read out a statement issued by Dr Edwin B. Cragin, the physician attending Madeleine Astor. It said: ‘Mrs Astor has a son, born at 8.15 o’clock. His name is John Jacob Astor. Mother and son are in good condition.’ An hour later Dr Cragin issued another bulletin in which he said: ‘The baby weighed seven and three-quarters pounds. There was no other doctor present. The nurses present were Helen Nesbit and Miss McLean.’ It was one hundred and twenty-one days since Madeleine had said goodbye to her husband on the deck of the
Titanic
before being helped into lifeboat number 4 by her husband and Colonel Gracie.

Throughout the day more news was passed on to the world’s press from the Astor home. The baby was said to be ‘strong, well formed and bearing a striking resemblance to his father’. Madeleine’s mother and sister had been with her, her father visiting the house shortly after the birth. Servants who had been with the Astor family for years were allowed ‘to have a peep’ at the baby. The
New York Times
reported next day:

It was said last night at the house that Mrs Astor and her son were doing splendidly. She has received many messages of congratulation from her friends and relatives, among them being a cablegram from Vincent Astor, who is at present with his mother, Mrs Ava Willing Astor, on a motor trip on the European Continent. Shortly after the receipt of the cablegram an immense box of American Beauty roses came to Mrs Astor from a Fifth Avenue florist, bearing the name of Vincent Astor.

The huge public interest in the birth of the baby was exceeded only by fascination and speculation over the provision made for the child under the late Colonel Astor’s will. Lawyers acting for the family had let it be known that Madeleine would be the beneficiary of a $5 million trust fund until her death or remarriage. But a clause in the will forbidding the young widow to remarry on penalty of losing some of her inheritance was regarded by many lawyers to be ‘against public policy’, as well as being unfair.

The baby would be made the beneficiary of another trust fund of $3m ‘until attaining majority’ – i.e., until the child was twenty-one. This was the smallest provision made for anyone in Astor’s will. However, trustees and family friends had made it clear that the trust would probably increase in value to at least $10m over the period and could even be worth two or three times this amount. The
New York Times
was quick to point out that:

The birth of the Astor baby, contrary to some speculation, is of no financial advantage to its mother. The will of Col. Astor provides that in the event of a posthumous child dying without issue, its trust fund will revert to the residuary estate, which was willed to William Vincent Astor.

A further complication vexing legal minds was the requirement to appoint guardians to protect beneficiaries who were ‘infants’. At the time of Astor’s death neither Madeleine, nor his son Vincent, nor his daughter Muriel had ‘attained majority’ – they were all under the age of twenty-one. The baby thus became the fourth Astor infant in the eyes of the law.

Colonel J. J. Astor could not have made more generous arrangements to provide for the members of his family. But the money would bring them little happiness and, like so many others, Madeleine and her firstborn would live the rest of their lives in the shadow of the
Titanic
.

15

Jock’s Worldly Goods

22 August, Dumfries

Some time in June 1912, an album of photographs of the unidentified bodies, taken by George Gauvin in the mortuary at the Mayflower Curling Rink, was sent from Halifax to the White Star Line’s offices in Southampton. They included a picture of Jock, photographed on the mortician’s table, labelled simply ‘193’. The content of the album was the stuff of horror films and, to spare the feelings of relatives, it was decided that friends and colleagues of the dead would be asked first if they could positively identify anyone in the ghoulish collection before families were approached. Number 193 was immediately recognised as Jock, who was well known in the White Star Line offices in Canute Road, Southampton. The sight of his pale, lifeless face, a curl of blond hair seemingly falling over his forehead, greatly distressed an officer who had got to know him on the maiden voyage of the
Olympic
.

The positive identification came as no surprise to Andrew Hume, who had identified his son – to his own satisfaction, at least – a month earlier. The White Star Line had written to him setting out their ‘belief’ that body number 193 was that of Jock Law Hume. Although they had guessed his age wrongly at twenty-eight instead of twenty-one, the description of the body noted by the purser on the deck of the
Mackay-Bennett
, the bandsman’s tunic, the inventory of the paltry contents of the young man’s pockets . . . all these confirmed to Andrew Hume that this was his son. The violin mute removed any last vestige of uncertainty. Hume wired the White Star Line asking for Jock’s effects to be returned to the family as soon as possible but was told this would have to await ‘official’ confirmation of ownership.

On 16 July Harold Wingate, the White Star Line official in New York responsible for administering the affairs of their late passengers, wrote to Frederick Mathers, the Deputy Provincial Secretary in Halifax.

Somewhat insensitively, the letter was written on White Star Line writing paper, which had been overprinted with a bleached-out photograph of the
Titanic
steaming ahead, plus a legal caveat: ‘N.B. Passages are only booked subject to all the terms and conditions appearing on the passage tickets’.

On 31 July Mathers wrote back to Wingate saying that Jock’s possessions were being sent by courier to Wingate in New York for forwarding to the family. ‘For expressage purposes,’ wrote Mathers, ‘I have valued the package at $5.00.’ Wingate was required to sign on receipt. The inventory of property was listed as follows:

On 9 August, Wingate (still using the
Titanic
writing paper) wrote back to Mathers confirming receipt and informing him that the package was being sent to Southampton on the White Star liner,
Oceanic
. Thirteen days later, on 22 August, the package was delivered to the Humes’ house at 42 George Street. Andrew Hume was out, giving a music lesson at Dumfries Academy, so Jock’s stepmother Alice signed for it in ink, her signature witnessed by her friend Annie Kellochan, who lived round the corner and was paying her a brief visit. The White Star Line lawyers were taking no chances. By signing the receipt, Alice and Annie were agreeing ‘to indemnify and save harmless the White Star Line against the claim of any person on account of the said effects’.

When Alice opened the cardboard box, she had expected to find an envelope containing the few paltry possessions that had been recovered from Jock’s pocket. Instead, she found herself holding one of the small ‘mortuary bags’ stitched hurriedly together on the deck of the
Mackay-Bennett
, this one with the number 193 stencilled on it. It looked like something that had come from a prison or an army store.

When Andrew arrived home shortly before 6 p.m., mortuary bag number 193 was still lying unopened where Alice had put it, on the mahogany table in the drawing room. Andrew cut it open with his pocket knife and tipped out the contents, which spilled across the polished surface.

Jock’s pocket watch was rusted beyond repair or restoration, the face washed away, its blackened hands, dislodged from their axis by ten days in the sea, lying askew, just visible through the clouded glass. His leather cigarette case looked like a discarded piece of old cardboard, warped and torn, the pocket knife was corroded, the stubby pencils probably past their useful life even before the ship went down. The wooden violin mute – he would keep that. A nice thing to have, always useful. No point in throwing away the three half pennies, either. He slipped them into his pocket, along with the mute. The African Royal Mail brass button puzzled Andrew as it rolled in the palm of his hand. Where had it come from? From one of Jock’s ships, one of his trips, no doubt. But which one? And why had he kept it? And why only one?