It’s early in the morning, May 29th 1914
and the coal-carrying freighter Storstad is plodding its way slowly along in the dark. A few minutes ago the lights from another
ship were spotted way ahead in the distance but then at the worst possible moment, a dense
fog bank rolled in and shrouded the ship from view. Storstad’s crew can’t see more than a
hundred feet in front of their ship. The two vessels signal to one another in the
fog, blasting their horns; but then Storstad’s captain spots something terrifying. Out of the murky black he sees lights - close-by
from a ship directly in front of him. Then the fog dissolves to reveal the steel
cliff face of an ocean liner’s side - and his ship is about to crash straight into it. He rings down an urgent order to his engine
room, full speed astern but he doesn’t even look to see if his order is followed. His eyes are fixated, wide with terror at
the massive ship that looms over him. Storstad’s propeller thrashes in the water
but its too late; collision can’t be avoided. As quickly as it appears, the other ship vanishes
into the fog. Storstad’s captain is concerned that his
ship might be sinking and orders its four lifeboats to be readied. Ten minutes after the impact, all was still
and quiet - when drifting across the water from somewhere out in the fog Captain Andersen
and his crew began to hear something. It was the sound of screaming. The mighty Saint Lawrence River. At its widest point it spans over 100 kilometers
or 62 miles. Dive for 76 meters - 250 feet straight down
in some spots and you’d still not see the riverbed. Now like any great body of water in the world
it’s a favorite haunt for pleasurecraft and water sportsmen. But it's also a vital link from eastern Canada
to the Atlantic. Travel 250km or 155 upriver and you’ll find
something extraordinary. Here, encrusted in marine growth - tangled
and broken lies the wreck of a once-great ship. You wouldn’t know it. Very little is recognisable. It’s a cold, dark, lonely place and only
the most skilled divers ever visit. But what if I told you that this ship was
once the pride of its owners - so renowned and beloved that it had a popular waltz written
about it. The ship had carried thousands of hopefuls
to new lives in Canada from Europe. Now, scattered throughout its wreck you find
bones - hundreds of them. These were once people looking to visit their
family and friends - starting new jobs or going to new schools. Musicians, clerks, engineers, performers - children. 110 years ago this tangle of wreckage looked
very different. In May 1914 - in the uneasy few months before
the First World War erupted - a ship was preparing to leave for Britain. She was big, luxurious and smartly painted;
a beautifully proportioned and beloved ocean liner. She’d been a familiar sight on the Saint
Lawrence river having sailed between Britain and Canada for the better part of a decade. She was reliable and trusty but also glamorous
and comfortable. If you’d stood on the dock as passengers
swarmed aboard that morning you might have gazed up in admiring wonder at her gleaming
nameplate, the golden letters proudly spelling out the name which made her a favourite of
so many Irish immigrants. She was called the Empress of Ireland. The Empress of Ireland was the brainchild
of the Canadian Pacific railway, an incredible company with a vast, sprawling network of
transport that circled the globe. It had started in the 1880s as an effort to
expand the Canadian railway network out of Ontario. By 1886 the company had spanned the North
American continent meaning you could haul goods and passengers from one coast to another
in six days - a journey that once would have taken weeks on horseback or by ox train. To complement this network the company negotiated
with the British government to establish a steamship service operating between Canada,
Britain and the Far East. By the early 1900s this profitable service
had grown to include a simply massive fleet of hundreds of ships. It was possible to travel from Japan to Canada
and then keep going back to Japan without once stepping foot from off of a Canadian
Pacific Railway ship or train. The world’s biggest and best-known ships
operated the glamorous transatlantic route from Liverpool or Southampton in Britain to
New York - not only did this court millionaires and the famous but it also carried hundreds
of thousands of hopeful immigrants from Europe to start new lives in America. But Canada offered plenty of opportunities
to migrants too; so ships plied the Atlantic from Britain to Quebec and Montreal. In 1903 the Canadian Pacific Railway rushed
to capitalize on this bustling trade. But this was not the glamorous New York service
- and it showed. Canadian Pacific’s early ships were second-hand,
having been bought from other lines at a bargain. That and they were mostly combination cargo-passenger
ships, with just as much a focus on the freight they carried as the people. To get a leg up on the competition and truly
cement their transatlantic dominance the Canadian Pacific line set out to invest in their future;
they would order two brand new, huge ocean liners to be built to an exacting standard. They would be every bit as glamorous and comfortable
as their bigger rivals on the millionaire’s route to New York and hopefully attract a
clientele because of it. The pair of identical sister ships would take
turns operating between Liverpool and Quebec in the summer season - they’d need to run
at high speeds, 18 knots, to ensure a regular weekly service from both sides of the Atlantic. Their speed would be complimented by their
size; passengers wanted safety and comfort and Canadian Pacific would give it to them. The pair of sister ships would be by far the
biggest in the Canadian Pacific’s fleet; 14,191 gross registered tons and 570 feet
or 170 meters in length. The order was placed in 1905 with Fairfield
Shipbuilding at Govan, Scotland. It was a great choice; Fairfield was a renown
builder of warships for the admiralty. The two ships were built side by side to the
most modern specifications; being 14,000 gross registered tons their bulk meant they could
comfortably carry 1,500 people across four classes. By 1906 14,000 tons wasn’t a monumental
volume but it wasn’t tiny either; just a decade earlier the two new ships would have
been the largest in the world, such was the rapid rate of technological development. In January 1906 the second of the two sisters
thundered down the slipway on her launching day; the first ship had been named Empress
of Britain and the second liner was called Empress of Ireland. On introduction the two ships had caused quite
a stir; they elevated the experience for passengers crossing to Canada by a huge margin and not
just because of their comfort. The ships were safe; they’d been built with
all the modern technological developments. Double-bottomed hulls would prevent sinking
from grounding on rocks; tall steel walls called bulkheads divided the ships into eleven
individual self-contained sections called compartments. These could be sealed off from each other
by heavy cast iron doors which would be hand-cranked down creating a watertight seal. The Empress sister ships could remain afloat
with any two of their compartments flooded. Safety tests were run to see how quickly the
doors could be shut in the event of an emergency. The captain rang down an order from the bridge
on a telegraph signaling the crew to close all doors; the men below rushed into action. Stewards ran to cupboards to fetch heavy brass
keys that could slot over the winding shafts and then bodily hand-crank the heavy doors
shut. A well-drilled crew could have all 24 watertight
doors closed in just three minutes. None of it was automatic or electric; the
system relied on good training and a quick reaction. For six years the Empress sister ships had
proved hugely popular and were a massive success for the Canadian Pacific Railway. Then in 1912 something happened that shocked
the shipping world. White Star Line’s Titanic, which was far
more modern and over three times larger than the Empress sisters had sunk on its maiden
voyage with a huge loss of life. Public confidence in shipping technology was
badly shaken; lines rushed to fill their ships with lifeboats and promote their safety features. Canadian Pacific were at pains to proudly
point out that their Empress sisters had lifeboat and raft capacity for 1,860 people, far more
than their total capacity. To the general public and the Canadian Pacific
Line themselves, the Empress of Britain and Empress of Ireland were the very latest and
safest ships afloat. As long as the watertight doors could be shut
in an emergency, the ships would stay afloat and all the lifeboats could be launched safely. Eight years after her introduction the Empress
of Ireland was tied up at the port of Quebec. It was May 28th, 1914; and an excited stream
of passengers steadily made their way up the ship’s gangways and poured inside what would
be their new home for the next four days. Just last month the Saint Lawrence river,
which freezes over in winter, had had its ice break and thaw and now the Empress was
about to depart on its first round voyage for the season. She was headed for Liverpool and up the gangways
trod a variety of characters from all walks of life. 1914 was a monumental year for modern world
history. We know now that in May, the outbreak of the
first world war was just three months away. Tensions in Europe were high; people could
feel it. For those who’d made the trip out to Canada
in years prior from Mainland Europe, Britain or Ireland the temptation to get home and
see family, maybe even to try persuading them to go back to Canada with them - must have
been great. Of the two sister ships it was Empress of
Ireland who had attracted considerable interest and affection from Irish migrants; on special
occasions she flew the green flag of Erin and every year at St Patrick’s Day a huge
gala dinner was held on board with lots of singing and dancing. That Thursday morning some 700 Third Class
passengers boarded the ship; many were going home to see family. Some had made the migration effort out to
Canada but not found success and were returning home disappointed. They came from all over and not just Canada. The American midwest and the Great Lakes was
well-represented by the Third Class contingent and it included some 300 Detroit Ford factory
workers who’d been laid off in the summer. There were Poles, New Zealanders, Italians,
Swedes and of course, Irish; a mass of people from across the globe who must have stared
up at the big ship with a sense of pride; they knew they were traveling on the best. Up other gangways strode the second class
passengers; clerks, businessmen, bankers. Many mothers were traveling with their children
to meet husbands who were away on business trips abroad. For many young ones this would be their first
overseas trip. 138 children in total boarded the Empress
of Ireland that day, wide-eyed at the size of their ship and the bustling scenes around
them. Then there were men in uniforms with shiny
silver buttons - on their collars and caps they proudly showed the red emblem of the
Salvation Army. The Army was a church and humanitarian organisation
which had been formed in the 1800s to reform society’s down and out and bring them closer
to god - and salvation. This had been done in an era where wealth
disparity was monumental and few cared for the plights of society’s discards; the homeless,
the drunk or the downtrodden. The Salvation Army had fed mouths and given
shelter to thousands across the globe and in 1914 a conference was being held in London. This was an opportunity for members of the
organisation to come together for world peace and to showcase what their own little chapter
of the Salvation Army looked like. They were noted for their staff bands; it
had started as a quirky tradition in 1879 but by 1914 the sight of Salvationist musicians
was familiar and well-loved. That day 167 members of Canada’s Salvation
army boarded the Empress of Ireland in second class. They were headed by their beloved commissioner
David Rees, a kindly bearded man of 57 and joining him was his wife Ruth. They’d met in the Salvation Army and fallen
for one another; up the ship’s gangway she anxiously corralled the couple’s three young
children. 500 Canadian delegates were making the trip
across the ocean with many booked on other ships in the coming days; in early June there
would be a huge reception at the Royal Albert Hall and the expected turnout was 5,000 people. The Salvationists gazed down excitedly from
the decks of the ship; their comrades had turned out to see them off from the dockside. First class was underbooked for this voyage,
unusual for that time of year. But what the Class lacked in number it made
up for in personality. Calmly onto the ship strode Mr Laurence Irving
and his wife Mabel Hackney, renown actors the two of them. Laurence was the son of legendary actor and
manager Sir Henry Irving; from a young age he must have known he had big shoes to fill. The young man had wowed audiences on the stage
and turned his hand to writing hit plays. But it was in 1901 that a young actress joined
his theater company that his life was to change forever. Mabel Hackney was a talented actress from
Wales and she enchanted audiences across the Atlantic. For Laurence it was love at first sight; the
two were married in 1903. The pair were practically inseparable, co-starring
in plays that Laurence would write himself and were described as “the best suited couple
imaginable”. Laurence was famously defensive of his wife;
once he had publicly sought out and lambasted a critic for daring to denounce Mabel’s
acting talents. He had a good sense of humour too. If he was on stage and an audience member
coughed, he’d pause the play and offer the theater-goer a cough lozenge. Laurence and Maybel were at the height of
their careers and they’d just led their theater troupe on a highly successful tour
of Canada where they’d generated rave reviews. They were at last heading home, proud of their
success; but then they’d been a small holdup. Their agent had switched their booking; originally
the whole theater troupe was supposed to travel on the Empress of Ireland but they were moved
onto White Star Line’s Teutonic which was due to sail three days later. Laurnece was annoyed; he was eager to get
back to London as soon as possible to get started on his new play. He had his tickets switched back to the Empress
along with his wife; the rest of the troupe wouldn’t be ready in time but the Irvings
also booked their juvenile lead Harold Neville and his wife actress Nelsie Vron. The two were anxious to get home and see their
three young children as soon as possible. The party said goodbye to their friends and
left them in Canada; they’d be reunited within the week. The Irvings presence aboard the ship attracted
the most attention but another noted member of society boarded that day, Sir Henry Seton-Karr,
a legendary sportsmen and adventurer. At 61 years of age the man had a voracious
appetite for activity; he swam, hunted, hiked, rowed and golfed. He was at last headed for home after a series
of business trips abroad; undoubtedly he must have been planning for his next big adventure. The time of departure was near. On the dockside wellwishers gathered to see
the big ship off; some waved to loved ones on board. Others were just strangers excited to see
the first departure of the Empress for this season. Gazing down from the bridge at all of the
hubbub of activity was the Empress’ master, Captain Henry Kendall. Kendall was a young up and comer in the Canadian
Pacific Railway’s service at a spritely 40 years of age; but even by 1914 he’d made
quite a name for himself. In 1900 he’d survived a shipwreck off Newfoundland. Two years later he had worked with Mr Guglielmo
Marconi himself in helping to develop ship to shore wireless radio. He joined Canadian Pacific in 1910 and then
became something of a celebrity for the most bizarre of reasons. He was in command of the older Canadian Pacific
ship Montrose when a suspicious passenger caught his attention. Leaving from Britain, Kendall suspected the
man of being a notorious fugitive and radioed back to Britain. Scotland Yard was hunting a dangerous murderer
and suspected him of fleeing the country. Thanks to Kendall’s radio message a police
presence was waiting for the Montrose in Canada; on boarding the party was glad to discover
that the suspicious passenger was none other than Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen who’d murdered
his wife and fled with his accomplice and lover who had disguised herself as a boy. The disguise hadn’t worked; the keen-eyed
Kendall had figured them both immediately for who they truly were. It was the first time radio had helped apprehend
criminals. To top it all off as captain of the Lake Champlain
Kendall had sped to the rescue of the Allan Liner Corsican after it had struck an iceberg. Kendall was Canadian Pacific Line’s rising
star; it seemed natural to put him in charge of one of their two most treasured and glamorous
ships. This would be his first voyage captaining
the Empress of Ireland down the Saint Lawrence river. At around 4:30pm all were aboard and the ship
was set to leave. Tugs came to her assistance and the lines
that connected the ship to shore were cast off. The big ship slowly pulled away from the quay
where a dense crowd of people waved and cheered. Then in the warm summer air the strains of
music began to float. The Salvation Army band had quickly assembled
on deck unexpectedly; they held their instruments and played a final song, a farewell to their
friends and families and a promise; it was the hymn, God be With You Till We Meet Again. By late afternoon the Empress cleared the
channel and Captain Kendall opened her engines up. The ship thundered along slowly leaving Quebec
behind. For many this would be their last ever sight
of home. As the Empress slipped away into the evening
the gathered crowd dispersed and the ship’s passengers began to get settled into their
new home. A few hundred miles downriver another ship
was underway and this was a very different vessel to the Empress of Ireland. Where the Empress was elegant and luxurious
the other ship was utilitarian and basic. It was a cargo ship, a bulk freighter, loaded
deep into the water with its hull straining under the bulk of 10,000 tons of coal. But to the small crew aboard their cargo ship
was also a home and this was a happy one. The ship was named Storstad; only four years
at sea and extremely modern. When she had first arrived at Philadelphia
on her maiden voyage in 1911 she’d disembarked the largest single load of iron ore ever carried
by a single ship until that point. It might sound a dubious honour but her crew
and owners must have been extremely proud. On the bridge stood captain Thomas Andersen,
a gruff old sea dog; broad-chested with a huge moustache. He’d been at sea for thirty years and knew
his business well; but aside from his 35 crew there was another important person on board
who kept even the captain in check; his wife. Mrs Andersen had cheerfully joined her husband
on many voyages and turned the captain’s spartan cabin into a home with soft furnishing
and new curtains. The ship below Andersen’s feet was tough;
very tough. She’d been built using a system of construction
that was designed specifically to reinforce her against ice floes and other obstacles
in her path during winter and tough crossings. With a dead-straight front end and heavily
reinforced framing that ran the entire length of the ship’s hull the Storstad was a rugged,
formidable thing. Laden with over 10,000 tons of coal the ship
would take miles to stop. Good navigation and seamanship was crucial
because ships like Storstad had been involved in dozens of collisions before. In 1895 a German ship had been sunk in minutes
after being rammed by a freighter just like Storstad; the ice-breaker bow turned out to
be perfectly adept at breaking other ships too. All this can’t have been far out of Captain
Andersen’s mind as his vessel plodded its way up the Saint Lawrence; but with an experienced
crew and years of his own life spent below the mast, he was confident they’d reach
Montreal the next day and Mrs Andersen might even do some more shopping. He smoked his pipe and watched the river in
front of him. As the sun set and the early summer air developed
a chill passengers aboard the Empress of Ireland began to retire for dinner. They’d spent a few hours exploring the ship
but no doubt many were exhausted after traveling just to arrive at the Quebec docks. Many of them had come from all over Canada,
the Great Lakes and the Midwest. Going through the rigmarole of boarding a
liner; passing through inspection, customs, baggage - it was all tiring. Many went to bed early. The tradition was that on the first night
of a steamer’s voyage first class passengers didn’t even need to dress in their finery
for dinner; everybody was just too tired. There would be time to explore the ship tomorrow. Down in the first class dining saloon silverware
and crockery gently clinked as hungry passengers happily ate meals and chatted to their new
shipboard companions. The Irvings must have been there; Henry Seton-Karr
too. Ever the rake he ignored tradition and dressed
in his best for dinner. The ship’s string orchestra plucked and
sawed out the popular tunes of the day; the dining saloon was a gorgeous space with a
huge glass baroque dome that towered over it. As they dispersed from dinner many would have
enjoyed the other spaces at their leisure; the gorgeous music room, a richly decorated
salon centered on the top of the dining saloon’s dome. Up here passengers could sink into sofas and
listen to strains from the grand piano. Elsewhere they converged on the library or
the smoking room. The Empress wasn’t as big or glamorous as
the larger Transatlantic liners of the day - but she was pretty darn close. In Second Class diners chatted away happily;
they had a similar array of comfortable rooms to enjoy like a smoking room and library. The Salvation Army members were excited; the
mood on board was festive. Many had never left Canada; after dinner the
band formed up again and gave an impromptu concert for Third Class. As dusk turned to night and the temperature
dropped even more, only the hardiest passengers stayed up playing cards or smoking. The ship was well on its way now, approaching
Rimouski where it would drop off the pilot. Up on the bridge, Captain Kendall stood in
darkness with his officers and that pilot, Adelard Laurier. His job was to help guide the Empress out
of the treacherous Saint Lawrence as far as Father Point past Rimouski; he was a local
and he knew the waters like the back of his hand. The bridge was kept in darkness to preserve
night vision; but there was a more dangerous menace to visibility that night; fog. As the competing air streams converge on the
cold river water in early summer, the Saint Lawrence is notorious for generating impenetrable
banks of fog seemingly at random. As the Empress of Ireland passed little towns
that dotted the river banks fog banks crept in and the ship would have to be slowed right
down. It was a tiring process but it had to be done;
safety was paramount. Captain Kendall led a veritable floating town’s
worth of staff and crew with dozens of skills and specialities; bakers and cooks, sailors
and engineers, stewards and nurses; they all combined to create an army of people 400 strong
who kept their ship running. As the young moon shone overhead the ship’s
night stewards were on duty, manning the corridors in all three classes. Their job was varied, from ensuring passenger
shoes were shined to reporting on the half hour that all was well. In the event of an emergency they were also
trained in lowering the ship’s watertight doors; without automatic lowering it would
be down to them to save the ship. But as the hours crept on in the deserted
corridors disaster must have been the last thing on their minds. At 1:30 am the ship had reached Father Point
and it was time for the pilot Laurier to hop off. He shook Kendall’s hand and as the the Empress
of Ireland came to a halt the tiny pilot cutter Eureka came alongside. A ladder was laid over the side and Laurier
nimbly stepped off and onto the cutter. Then a sack was tossed down; the last of the
mail to leave the ship. It included letters from Salvationists who
were writing to friends back home about the fun they’d already had on board. Eureka set out for home at Father Point and
the Empress’ engines started up again. She was still brilliantly lit in the night
sky but as the Eureka sailed away its unlikely that the little steamer’s crew or Laurier
even looked back; they were just so used to seeing her. They couldn’t know it but this would be
their last chance to see the ship afloat. The Empress’ engines rumbled faithfully;
dining saloon tables were set for breakfast the next morning by white-gloved stewards
and the lights were turned out. Passengers slept soundly in their beds. All was well. Captain Kendall stayed on the bridge that
night; it had been a long day but the passage out from Canada through the Saint Lawrence
was nerve-wracking, especially since he had only just assumed command of the big ship. He’d see to her safe navigation himself. With him were five men; Jones, the first officer,
Moore, the third and two quartermasters who ensured the officer’s steering orders were
carried out and actually turned the ship’s wheel. It was quiet; the only sound that might have
interrupted their concentration was the deep rumble of the engines. But then - a single ring from the bell. High up in the mast, lookout John Carroll
had spotted something out ahead. A single ring meant something ahead on the
right; the other officers must have seen it too. The lights of another ship, maybe eight miles
distant. From the other ship’s bearing, this meant
the Empress would be cutting across its course. Kendall was taking the Empress diagonally
out across the river to exit into the Atlantic; but there was no cause for alarm. The other ship had right of way technically
but the Empress was fast and would easily clear the other ship’s course within eight
miles. He watched the other ship carefully to ensure
there would be no problem. The two approached and all was fine; but then
something caught Kendall’s eye. The Saint Lawrence was pulling its old tricks
again; a thick blanket of fog was creeping out across the river. This wouldn’t normally be a problem; there
were simple rules for dealing with fog at sea, born of years of trial and error - and
disaster. For big steamers, the best thing to do was
to post additional lookouts, sound the ship’s whistles at regular intervals and grope ahead
slowly without changing course. You might think that it would be safest to
stop, but a big ship stopped has no way of turning or controlling its movements. In a river with a strong current like the
Saint Lawrence you might drift directly into disaster with no way of getting out of it. A ship like the Empress takes time to build
up speed; with no water rushing over the rudder there was just no way of turning. Kendall took one last look at the stranger
before it was obscured from view; he judged it to be just over a mile and a half away. Maybe he was being extra cautious; the Canadian
Pacific Railway urged caution of its captains and this was of course his first time captaining
the Empress. At sea the master’s decision is final and
Kendall had a choice to make. The fog had come at exactly the time and place
the ships would be passing close by one another; it was like somebody had designed it on purpose. Kendall second-guessed himself; with his ship
moving slowly ahead he rang down an order on the telegraph; full astern. He’d set his engines in reverse and slowly
bring his ship to a stop until the fog had passed on. He blasted his ship’s whistles; three short
blasts meaning ‘I am going astern’. He figured the other ship would understand
and maybe do the same; if both ships stopped, then the fog would drift and they could resume
passage. The fog swirled in and hid the Empress from
the outside world; it was still and silent. The stars were gone; so was the moon. All of it was hidden by a thick cloud of mist. With his ship coming to a halt Kendall rang
down to stop the engines and blasted the whistles again twice; I am stopped. Through the fog there came a response; but
from where? It sounded much louder than it should have
and it seemed to come from every direction; the fog was playing tricks. All was still - quiet. Kendall stood on the right bridge wing and
waited. Then - out of the murk, there appeared a light. Kendall’s eyes strained in the dark; out
of the fog the lights materialised into the front end of a huge freighter - and it was
bearing down on his ship with speed. It sounded its whistles three times in warning;
and Kendall sprang into action. If Kendall could get the Empress’s nose
around quickly enough into the path of the other ship then the impact might be a glancing
blow. He ordered the engines full ahead and the
wheel hard around; but his ship was stopped. There could be no escape. Bearing down like a hound out of hell the
freighter looked like it was aimed at the Empress’ heart. Kendall’s worst fears were coming true before
his very eyes; white-knuckled he gripped his ship’s railing and waited for the inevitable. The freighter buried its reinforced bow deep
into the side of the Empress’ hull and the impact was slight. It was like stabbing a knife into a chocolate
cake; there was no resistance because the Empress of Ireland’s hull wasn’t reinforced
but the bow of the freighter sure was. It plunged through cabins and corridors maybe
as far as 10 feet; anybody asleep in its path was crushed instantly. Kendall shouted through his megaphone; Keep
Your Engines Full Ahead! He had immediately surmised the situation
his ship was in. A blow like that, dead in the middle of the
ship could only have plunged deep into the Empress’ beating heart, opening its critical
boiler and engine rooms up to the water. If the other ship could keep its engines going
ahead then the hole might be plugged. He rang down for his own engines to stop but
to his horror and frustration the other ship began to drift away. With a grinding of steel they were separated
and the freighter passed behind. As quickly as it had appeared, it had vanished
into the fog. The Empress was all alone. Kendall raced to his telegraph and signaled
for all the watertight doors to be shut; but even as he did so his passengers were already
fighting for their lives - and dying. The freighter’s bow had left a gaping wound
as much as 25 feet deep and 14 feet wide - around 8 by 5 meters. The freighter’s bow was the height of a
three story building; it had crushed through the hull from the bottom of the boiler rooms
and up and into the passenger cabins high above the waterline. Those in the immediate vicinity that weren’t
atomised or crushed to death by the impact were immediately drowned in their bunks; some
60,000 gallons - 227,000 litres of river water began to roar into the Empress every second. Any of those that ran out into the corridors
on that side of the ship were confronted with a tsunami of river water that surged in and
flattened everything in its path. Below, in the boiler rooms, men on duty were
horrified to see a steel mountain burst through the side of the space they’d been working
in; but that had been followed by an absolute torrent of water. They did their best just to run up escape
ladders and get out; they didn’t have time to close the watertight doors. The ship immediately began to roll under the
weight of the surging river water but the Empress’ meticulous watertight door plan
was put into action. The night stewards rushed to their positions
to fetch the keys and shut the doors; but those on the right hand side of the ship were
drowned where they stood by the cascade of water. On the left hand side the men had to struggle
already against the ship as it leaned in the water. Some were shut; but many, many more remained
open. Not a single night steward from third class
survived the night. The plan had failed; the Empress was sinking. Kendall knew already that his ship was in
bad shape. He didn’t need an inspection to confirm
it. He ordered the lifeboats uncovered and loaded
with passengers almost immediately and his crew faithfully got to work. Below their feet, hundreds of passengers,
mostly migrants and third class were awoken by rushing water and blindly groped their
way through the unfamiliar, winding corridors looking for a way out. The ship began to lean heavily under their
feet. The collision had been subtle; too subtle. Most of the passengers weren’t even woken
by it. Some had been woken instead by the loud booming
of the ships’ horns in the fog. They stepped curiously on deck; the lucky
ones stayed and got into a lifeboat. The less fortunate thought everything was
in hand and went back to their rooms, never to be seen again. In the short few minutes after the collision,
as hundreds fought for life trapped down below, there was an unmistakably ominous sign of
danger; the ship’s lights began to fade to a dull red. Kendall knew he couldn’t be far from the
southern bank of the river; he planned to run the Empress full speed into the soft mud
and beach his ship, stopping it from sinking. He picked up a telephone on the bridge and
asked the chief engineer to run the engines full speed but the chief’s response was
despondent; there was no steam left. The freighter’s bow had smashed through
both boiler rooms and flooded them. The very lifeblood that the Empress operated
on, that it relied on for running its engines and machinery was gone. Crucially, the steam also ran the ship’s
dynamos and created electricity. With a snap the lights switched off for good
- the ship was plunged into darkness. For those still down below it was a death
sentence; never mind already dealing with river water at their heels, the decks slanting
below their feet and the unfamiliarity. This was their first night at sea; nobody
knew their way around yet. When the lights died there must have been
absolute despair beyond words. Some might have lit matches to try to find
a way out; but close at hand was the rising water. Inevitably it caught up to them. The Empress listed hard onto her starboard
side; it made walking across the ship’s width a task in itself because now passengers
- many of them elderly or too young - now had to walk steeply uphill. The glamorous first class grand staircase
and others like it became death traps; leaning at so sharp an angle it was almost impossible
to hold on and climb your way up. Up on deck the starboard boats were hurriedly
uncovered and loaded; anybody at hand was quickly ushered in. Clearly there wasn’t much time left; water
was already roaring into the open promenades that had one stood thirty feet above the waterline. Crew had been assigned lifeboat stations,
many on the port side; they rushed to their post and tried to load lifeboats there but
now the ship’s listing created new problems. It was proving difficult, if not impossible,
to fill and lower the port side boats because the crews had to struggle to manhandle the
heavy steel boats out over the side that was lifting higher and higher into the air every
second. At least one launch was attempted on the port
side; the boat caught on the rising hull and flipped. It scattered its occupants screaming into
the water and bashed them into the side of the ship. Many crew there simply abandoned their posts
to help on the other side instead. Kendall was still on the bridge bellowing
orders through his speaking trumpet; he ordered crew below to fetch people from cabins, breaking
down doors if they had to. He urged hurry saying there wasn’t much
time to loose. Sadly if anybody obeyed his orders it would
have been a death sentence; Kendall was right. It had only been just over five minutes since
the impact and the Empress didn’t have long to live. The crews at the lifeboats stations worked
with incredible calm and efficiency considering the panic and mayhem happening around them;
but despite their care mistakes still occurred. It was all happening too quickly; boat one
broke free from its chocks and swung heavily out over the side, throwing many of its passengers
out. Boat fifteen, at the very stern of the ship,
was lowered away but capsized before it hit the water. Other boats got stuck in place, the heavy
and clunky rigging jamming or simply being nearly impossible to move against the roll
of the ship. Boat five was loaded and swung out but then
it didn’t even need to be lowered at all; it just floated freely away. Usually it would need to be dropped forty
feet or more into the ocean; but by now the river had risen to meet it where it sat on
the boat deck. Below, the fight for life continued. People clawed their way up staircase banisters
and corridors in the blackness hoping to find a way out. On deck Kendall was still shouting orders
but the screams of his passengers drowned him out. He held onto the bridge and watched the chaos
unfold helplessly. His passengers were in a fight for their lives,
but so was his ship. It had sat there for nearing ten minutes,
filling quickly with tons and tons of water. It was all a matter of buoyancy and stability;
a fight against gravity. But then, the Empress lost her fight and gravity
won. She rolled over. 14,000 tons of steel rolled onto the struggling
passengers’ heads and as it did, tons of deck equipment broke free and crushed them. Things that had been designed to save them
- rafts and lifeboats. They weighed tons. They all came crashing down with a thunderous
roar. Lifeboat 11 had been launched late; its occupants
were struggling to get clear when they and their boat were crushed. It was an appalling sight - but if the outside
was bad, the inside must have been far worse. With her left side now pointed to the heavens,
the Empress sat still in the water and the lucky few in the boats looked on in horror. From the water, hundreds of mouths screamed
for help; perversely the whole scene was lit dimly by two dozens life buoys which bobbed
to the surface and fired off a chemical flare. It cast a faint blue light over the whole
scene. With her whole starboard side in the water
the Empress seemed to stay in place. Some even thought the ship had been grounded
on the river bank and might stay afloat. On the exposed port side of the ship dozens
of people clung together; it was a bizarre sight. Some likened it to being at a beach but instead
of sand there was just sheer black steel. There was a disturbing sight; many on the
side of the ship had slept through the whole ordeal or didn’t have time to escape. They opened their portholes and tried to squeeze
through; but the portholes were only 9 inches, 22 cm wide. Try as they might, even with help from others
there was just no way of getting through. They struggled and hurt themselves in the
process. One man calmly walked to the back of the ship,
stood below one of the massive bronze propellers and dived into the water. Others sat in place, unsure of what to do. The Empress didn’t move - or at least it
didn’t seem to. One observant passenger noticed that every
wave that seemed to lap on the hull seemed higher up than the last one. Below their feet was forty feet of ship and
a hundred feet of river water; the Empress was going down. Slowly, very slowly the ship began to disappear
into the black river. People who had been struggling to help free
those from the portholes had to turn away. The water began to swirl around their feet;
from the portholes there were waving arms but there was nothing they could do. Like a slowly rising tide more of the ship’s
side was covered until finally with a sigh the ship disappeared beneath the waves and
hundreds of struggling people were left behind. Where once there had been a proud and strong
ocean liner there were clumps of wreckage and passengers wrestling for life preservers. Captain Kendall was there too; he’d been
thrown from the bridge of his ship and he was still alive, but cold. The water that night was just above freezing;
you could see your breath in the air. Just like it had appeared at the most critical
moment the fog disappeared around the time the Empress sank, maybe even driven away by
air as it escaped from the rapidly sinking ship. There for the first time people in the lifeboats
and the water could see the ship which had hit them; it was the Storstad, and already
its lifeboats were in the water heading towards them. Immediately after the impact, Captain Andersen
had tried to keep his ship in the Empress’ side but the two ships had drifted apart. As the liner disappeared into the darkness
his primary concern had been his own ship; loaded with all that coal she could drop to
the riverbed like a stone. He had his lifeboats swung out and the damage
checked; but his ship was still afloat. When his crew heard the awful screams drifting
over the water they knew something terrible was happening but they just didn’t know
where. They mounted a rescue operation to grope their
way through the fog and help; but then the fog had lifted and instead of a sinking ocean
liner they were confronted by the sight of hundreds of people - alive and dead - choking
the waters’ surface. Through the night they ferried survivors to
safety and the Empress’ own boats plucked people from the water too. Captain Kendall was picked up by a boat. He had spotted the Storstad’s lights and
after picking up struggling people from the water, he and his boat rowed out to it; the
exhausted, frozen passengers were put aboard; then they rowed out again for more. He and the boat’s crew worked tirelessly
like this for three hours saving as many as 75 lives. At last, dead tired and beleaguered he clambered
aboard the Storstad and sought out the captain. “Are you the master of this ship?” he
asked of Andersen. “You have sunk my ship!” he had shouted. Andersen strongly disagreed. They had a brief argument; but no more was
said. There would be an intense investigation over
this; the less said now the better. All night people were pulled from the water,
alive or not. By morning the steamers Lady Evelyn and the
pilot cutter Eureka had arrived. Eureka had last seen the Empress alive; now
it would deal with its survivors and dead. The Irvings had been lost; a first class passenger
had seen them inside the ship, Laurence’s face bloodied from a fall. He was trying his best to comfort his wife;
they were last seen clinging to each other on the ship’s decks as it sank around them. Sir Henry Seton-Karr, the adventurer, had
died too. He was found two days later 40 miles downriver
still in his evening dress. He had died after helping another passenger
with their life vest. The Empress of Ireland had sunk in just fourteen
minutes; there was no time at all for the gallantry and romance of other disasters from
history. There was just the quick, the lucky and the
dead. The Nevilles, the young acting couple who’d
traveled with the Irvings, were lost. Hundreds were. The Salvation Army contingent had acted heroically
and professionally but the speed with which their ship was lost allowed for little gallantry
without the ultimate sacrifice. There had been nearly 170 on board; only eight
survived. The band was gone; so too was commissioner
David Rees. He’d given away his lifejacket and stayed
with his family. They were all lost. 1,012 people died with the Empress of Ireland
that night. Every second passenger that had happily climbed
up the gangway for departure would lose their lives. There had been 138 children on board; only
four survived. It had all happened so fast; but there had
been time for some heroics, made all the more impressive because of the limited amount of
time. They weren’t as widely reported or famous
as those from the Titanic. There wasn’t time enough for grand gestures
of chivalry. In fact most of the bravery that night will
go forever unrecorded, lost to all eternity in the flooding hull. Stepping aside here so somebody else could
get through a door first. Giving up a lifejacket here so somebody else
might live. We’ll never know what happened down there. But we do know what happened elsewhere; like
in the radio shack. Wireless operator Ronald Ferguson had been
dozing off with his junior working the station when he heard the ship’s whistles and felt
the jolt. He’d taken over and hurriedly sent out distress
calls. With the ship listing underneath him and having
to brace himself from falling out of his chair Ferguson contacted Father Point wireless station
with a series of messages that weren’t frantic but the exact opposite. He knew that this late at night only the junior
wireless operators would be at work on the shore stations. He tapped his messages out slower than usual
so they’d understand. Within eight minutes from the time of the
collision to the sinking he’d tapped out the ship’s position and the situation; rescue
ships were on the way. He burst out of the wireless office at the
last moment; the Empress rolled and threw him into the water. He was saved by a lifeboat and then, when
the Lady Evelyn arrived to the rescue, he had clambered aboard. When he found out the ship had no radio operator,
despite being exhausted, wet and nearly frozen he rushed to the wireless room and began coordinating
relief for hours. Ferguson was only twenty years old. Little Florence Loraine Barbour, eight years
old, was sailing back to England with her mother and sister. The family had moved with her father to Canada
but he’d been killed in a mining accident in 1913; a year later Sabena, her mother,
decided in her sorrow to move back home and booked on the Empress of Ireland joined by
two family friends, Robert Crellin and William Barrie. Crellin had wanted to marry Sabena; but in
the sinking the party was separated. Crellin found Florence and saved her. Sabena and her other daughter were lost - but
Crellin and Florence stayed together as he tried desperately to keep her afloat on a
piece of debris. They were rescued and Florence died an old
lady forever fondly remembering her beloved Uncle Robert, the man who’d rescued her. The following day, bodies arrived at Rimouski
in their dozens. There was no provision for this volume of
dead; no precedent. The Lady Evelyn had rescued the Empress’
passengers; now it retrieved the dead. A makeshift morgue was established and the
victims were lined up as coffins were embarked, en masse, onto trains from Quebec. Bystanders were moved by the sight of so many
children; mothers who still clutched their babies. The government cutter Lady Grey embarked the
bodies after they were put into coffins and sailed for Quebec where they could be identified
by loved ones and relatives. It was a tragic sight; 188 remains of the
Empress’ passengers were carefully carried off the ship to sheds on the quay. Just a day earlier those same people had set
out excitedly to new beginnings and chapters. Now their stories ended here. It was impossible not to be touched by the
sight of dozens of short child-sized coffins as they were unloaded. As bereaved families worked to pick out their
loved ones from the lines of coffins serious questions were asked. How could such a disaster occur? Who was at fault? It led inevitably to an inquiry; and a British
whitewash. Presiding over the whole affair was John Bigham,
the Viscount Lord Mersey who had also presided over the British inquiry into the Titanic
disaster. Mersey likely had an agenda; it was a matter
of national pride. A Commonwealth ship had been sunk and there
was an easy scapegoat in the Norwegian Storstad. What exactly happened that night in the fog
is hard to say for certain; the inquiry reports make for interesting reading. From the outset it is clear that almost everybody
blamed the Storstad; but that’s not an entirely fair assessment. One man, one of the quartermasters from the
Empress of Ireland, came forward and disclosed that the ship had issues with steering. This was almost universally refuted by Captain
Kendall, his officers and the other quartermasters - except one of the latter let slip that the
ocean liner did have some quirky steering habits that required a deft hand to resolve. The facts remained that Kendall had stopped
the Empress in the fog instead of maintaining headway and providing his ship the momentum
it needed to turn or evade an impact. But there was far worse; the watertight doors. Kendall could have telegraphed down for them
to be closed the second the fog bank rolled in; it would have been a prudent measure. But he didn’t; perhaps the nerves naturally
surrounding his first command down the Saint Lawrence got the better of him. In the end the inquiry found the Storstad,
predictably, completely to blame. Some minor recommendations were made and the
case was closed; then, weeks later, the great war erupted and the world had bigger issues. The impact of the Empress of Ireland disaster
was felt all over the world. A great pall hung over the Salvation Army
congress of 1914; Canada’s contingent was so hurt by the loss that they wouldn’t form
another staff band for fifty years. London had lost its two brightest theater
stars; but a short couple of months after the sinking, thousands were dying every day
on the Western Front. The Empress of Ireland faded into obscurity
and was almost forgotten except for those that had been through it. Little Florence Barbour never forgot. Her dying wish was to be buried next to Robert
Crellin, the man who saved her. As an older woman, 50 years after the disaster
in 1964, she visited Canada again and met his son who gave her his father’s watch,
the one he’d worn on the night of the sinking. She visited Crellin’s grave; he was buried
in the same cemetery her father had been. Today on the bottom of the Saint Lawrence river you’ll
find the remains of the Empress of Ireland. She’s encrusted with thick underwater growth
and very little is recognisable - it's hard to believe she was once so beautiful. Only one fifth of the victims were ever recovered;
this wreck is their headstone. The world moved on too quickly; and now 110
years later all we can do is look back and remember that golden moment, when the Empress
of Ireland was the pride of her passengers - and one of the most beautiful ships afloat.
