A Suitcase from the Titanic

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About the author

Enrique Rodolfo Dick was born in 1950 in a beautifulhilly area at the geographical heart of Argentina.

He studied first at the German Elementary Collegein Córdoba, later attending a Military Lyceum, aprestigious secondary school run by the ArgentineArmy, who demand high academic standards of theirstudents. In 1968 he enrolled in the Army MilitaryCollege, from where he graduated with the rank ofSecond Lieutenant. He went on to serve in a numberof parachute units and later graduated as a Mechanicaland Weapons Engineer from the Army University inBuenos Aires.

Enrique then continued his studies in France, wherehe obtained a degree in Aeronautics from ENSAE (theNational Higher School of Aeronautics and Space) inToulouse. After his return to Argentina in 1986 he

worked at the Argentine Armed Forces Institute for Scientific and Technical Research(CITEFA).

At around this time, and whilst continuing with his scientific research and publications,he also started to pursue more literary interests, which started with his fulfilling a promisehe had made to his father who had been a member of the crew of the pocket battleshipthe Graf Spee which had been dramatically scuttled in the River Plate in 1939. Thisresulted in the publication of his first non-technical work, a biography-cum-history ofthose events and their aftermath entitled “In the Wake of the Graf Spee”, which becamea best-seller and has just seen its 8th edition. Enrique is currently the head of an OldComrades Club made up of veterans of the Graf Spee.

Following the success of that first novel, Enrique wrote another, this time based onthe exploits of one of his great uncles who had been born in Argentina of French descentand who had volunteered to serve on the Western Front during the Great War. This wasfollowed by another entitled “Sails and Steam”, which was published by the ArgentineNaval Institute.

This present novel, A Suitcase from the Titanic, was first published in Spanish in2002 and has also enjoyed considerable success. WIT Press is delighted to offer readersthe opportunity to read this fascinating story in English.

It is perhaps worth mentioning that neither these nor any of the other books thatEnrique has written have proved any hindrance to his military career. He was promotedto the rank of Major General at the end of 2002 and is stilling teaching at the MilitaryUniversity in Buenos Aires. His love of history continues unabated and in 2007 hestarted work on a PhD in History at the University of Salvador in Buenos Aires.

A Suitcase from the Titanic

Enrique Dick

Translated by Marilyn Myerscough

A Suitcase from the Titanic by Enrique Dick

Translated from the original by Marilyn Myerscough

Published by

WIT PressAshurst Lodge, Ashurst, Southampton, SO40 7AA, UK

Tel: 44 (0) 238 029 3223; Fax: 44 (0) 238 029 2853E-Mail: witpress@witpress.com

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For USA, Canada and Mexico

WIT Press25 Bridge Street, Billerica, MA 01821, USA

Tel: 978 667 5841; Fax: 978 667 7582E-Mail: infousa@witpress.com

http://www.witpress.com

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataA Catalogue record for this book is available

from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-84564-678-3eISBN: 978-1-84564-679-0

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2012944682

No responsibility is assumed by the Publisher, the Editors and Authors for any injury and/ordamage to persons or property as a matter of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from

any use or operation of any methods, products, instructions or ideas contained in the materialherein. The Publisher does not necessarily endorse the ideas held, or views expressed by the

Editors or Authors of the material contained in its publications.

© WIT Press 2013

Originally published in 2002 by EDIVERN under the title Una valija del Titanic

Printed by Lightning Source, UK.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, ortransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

To the third generation of the Andrew family: Wilfred Alejandro ‘Freddy’ Andrew, Samuel Alfred ‘Fred’ Andrew and the late Hilda Ana Jautz de Echaide.

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Contents

Acknowledgments ix Prologue xiii

Chapter 1 The Sails of Whitby 1

Chapter 2 From El Espinillo to El Durazno And in Whitby, Sam Andrew is an estanciero 11

Chapter 3 Indelible memories 27

Chapter 4 Charras – Paris, City of Light 31

Chapter 5 From Río Cuarto to the Cliffs of Whitby 41

Chapter 6 Whitby – Stockton-on-Tees 47

Chapter 7 El Durazno – Paris – Whitby 51

Chapter 8 The long search for the Titanic 57

Chapter 9 An emotional visit to El Durazno 69

Chapter 10 At sea – Farewell to Whitby – El Durazno 75

Chapter 11 A death at El Durazno – In the Argentine Navy 81

Chapter 12 Mixed fortunes 99

Chapter 13 Brave lives remembered 107

Chapter 14 The training ship, Presidente Sarmiento 109

Chapter 15 Harriet Fisher 121

Chapter 16 The centenary – On attachment to the US Navy 125

Chapter 17 Trenton – El Durazno – Bournemouth 133

Chapter 18 The shipyard in Quincy – Bournemouth – The superb RMS Titanic 151

Chapter 19 RMS Titanic’s fi rst and last fateful journey 167

Chapter 20 Trenton – El Durazno – Battleships – In the wake of the disaster 191

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Chapter 21 Progress – Prosperity – Proposals 203

Chapter 22 All change in Trenton and at El Durazno 215

Chapter 23 The next generation 219

Chapter 24 A bright new dawn 223

Who’s who 233

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Acknowledgments

I would like to say a special thank you to the following people.To my cousin, Patricia Andrew de Sozzani, who has so carefully

preserved so many of the documents that have formed the basis of this book.

To my Uncle Freddy Andrew, who has lovingly conserved the diary that his father, Wilfred, kept when he traveled to England, as well as the original indentures of his grandfather, Sam Andrew, when he was apprenticed to his own father as a sailmaker in Whitby.

To Captain Jorge E. Chichizola (�) of the Naval Engineers Corps, for so richly entertaining me over the years with his anecdotes, including one about shoveling coal on board the training frigate Presidente Sarmiento. Captain Chichizola also shared with me his encyclopedic knowledge of the engines and boilers used by those venerable old ladies and what life on board an Argentine naval ship was like in those distant days. I am indebted to him for his valuable suggestions for improving the text and for helping me to pursue my ideas and occasionally encouraging me to revise them.

To Carlos Mayol Laferrere, director of the Historical Archives of the Municipality of Río Cuarto, whose guidance and observations I have at all times warmly appreciated and likewise the generous access he gave me to comprehensive archives under his supervision.

To Samuel ‘Fred’ Andrew of Trenton, United States, who has done me the honor of appointing me custodian of all the material his father, Alfredo Andrew, ‘the Engineer,’ so lovingly collected at his beloved home, ‘Bella Vista.’

My thanks go to Father Juan Spina, who told us so much about life at the old El Durazno ranch, and to María Elena Vieyra de Cerutti and her family, who looked after us so kindly during our stay.

To María Marcela Angelici and Pablo Pereyra of the Museo Naval de Tigre in Buenos Aires, for their invaluable cooperation.

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To María Lorena Fernández and José Abdala at the CITEFA Library, for their professionalism and help and who spent so much time searching through their own and other catalogs in order to track down old registers, books, reports and other information to assist me in my research.

To my sons Nicolás and Martín, both grown up and busy with their own lives but who always put their own interests aside to help me. Martín, it was wonderful to have your company at El Durazno.

To Vice Admiral Eduardo Avilés, who during his posting with the Argentine Naval Commission in the United States sent me so much information about the American fl eet in the early years of the 20th century. And to Naval Captain Roberto Sánchez, a most valued friend, who always knew the answer to any question I asked about the history and traditions of the Argentine Navy, however obscure. It was thanks to them that I was able to spend four days on the train-ing ship ARA Libertad between December 11 and 14, 1999 as she sailed from the port of Buenos Aires to the Puerto Belgrano Naval Base, a total of 556 miles, more than half of which were made under sail.

To Naval Captain Hugo Luis Dietrich and Professor Fotio Peneiotti for all their kindness when I was on board the Sarmiento. These two gentlemen were responsible for the welfare of this truly noble and venerable ship, a task they undertook with the greatest dedication.

To the eminent and highly professional conservators at Eastern Michigan University (EMU) in Ypsilanti, United States, Dr Lauren B. Sickels-Taves, PhD, Chief Conservator of the EMU’s Titanic Collection and Professor of Historic Conservation in the Department of Geography and Geology, and to her colleagues, Dianne J. Little and Tonya R. Weaver.

To Julia Cros de Andrew, Professor Liliana Urbini and Luis María Trujillo for their invaluable observations and support.

To Cecilia Perriard for her wonderful design of the cover for the original Spanish edition of this book, whose professionalism and creative skills I so greatly admire.

To Atilio Vivérn (�) and Alejandra Glaze, the editors of the 2002 Spanish edition of this book, for the confi dence they placed in me.

Acknowledgmentsx

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To Professor Carlos Brebbia, Director of WIT in Southampton, a close and most valued friend and himself a widely respected author. The opportunity to translate and publish this book in an English version is entirely because of his initiative and tireless professional support and cooperation.

To Marilyn Myerscough, my translator, for her impeccable trans-lation. Throughout the process we worked as a team, exchanging valuable ideas and suggestions, and by the end we had forged an enduring friendship. To both Marilyn and Carlos, I owe my heartfelt thanks.

I would also like to express my gratitude to my dear uncle, Augusto Víctor Bousquet (�); to the staff of the Archive Department at Whitby Library; to Monica Ventress of the Whitby Museum; to Elsa Póveda of the museum operated by the Naval Museum; to John and Ann Richards, Ernersto Perriard, Sergio Dutruel and Aníbal Vettorel; to Mrs Joyce Martin (�), Daniel Lisi, Petty Offi cer Second Class Horacio Romero, Carina Luebs, Günther Heineken, Lt Hernando Tarapow, Silvia and Allan O’Mill, Roberto Pasolli and Alicia Grinspan de Pasolli (�); and to Noemí Pasolli de Elena, Father Néstor Genta, Lorenzo Urdiain (�), Julia Andrew, Guillermo Croce, Naval Captain Efrén Villegas, Naval Captain Osvaldo Casal (�), Marina Nigra, Carlos Vega, Wing Commander Carlos Vázquez, Naval Captain Dellegluze, Petty Offi cer First Class Ernesto Pérez, Warrant Offi cer Ernesto Tosoni, General Federico Anschütz, Valentín Trainotti, Juan Pablo Cuadra, Dik Barton, and Judith and Arnie Geller.

To my beloved María Alejandra and María Belén Labrune, for their unfailing love and encouragement.

And to all my extensive family for their continual patience, support and love.

Thank you all!

Acknowledgments xi

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Prologue

It’s late July in the year 2000. The beam from the powerful refl ector of the submersible, Mir I, is searching, apparently at random, the debris scattered across the dark, muddy seabed. According to the coordi-nates her crew are reading off the sub’s highly sophisticated instru-ments, they are very near the bow of the Titanic, now lying some 2,000 feet away from the great ship’s stern after she had broken in two before she sank, according to theories recently supported by simula-tion algorithms and computer animation models.

Down in the dark waters of the Atlantic, Dick Burton is lead-ing one of his company’s fi rst operations in the 2000 Dive Season. An Englishman with short hair and an oval, young-looking face, Burton is feeling refreshed and rested but also excited, in spite of being nearly 13,000 feet below the surface and having to cope with a pres-sure of almost 6,000 lbs per square inch. There are three men on board, Burton, the pilot, a bored-looking Russian, and an observer, all crammed into a narrow space measuring less than six feet across. They have been concentrating so hard on the task in hand they have exchanged barely a word with one another for the past couple of hours. The seabed around the wreck is calm and the visibility surprisingly good. They are still not quite alongside the huge hulk, but Burton is already exerting a slight pressure on the controls, making the submersible move rhythmically back and forth as its beam continues to illuminate the scene. He notices the bits of coal that lay scattered all around. They will be collected, taken back up to the surface, cut into tiny fragments no bigger than a thumb-nail, packaged inside little black cardboard boxes and sold with a curso-rily printed certifi cate of authenticity at every new RMS Titanic exhibition across the world. ‘What a little goldmine,’ thinks Burton, smiling to himself. ‘But hey, these expeditions have to be fi nanced somehow!’1

1 In total, 2,385 kilograms of coal have been collected and processed this way out of the 5 tonnes it is estimated still lay scattered on the seabed.

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The silence is overwhelming. Suddenly, Burton brings the Mir I to a stop and the crew stare in excitement. A dull-colored object has been spotted just a few yards in front of them. They move tentatively forward and a clearly rectangular shape is suddenly revealed in the sub’s powerful beam.

‘It’s a suitcase,’ murmurs the observer.‘You’re right, it is,’ agrees the Russian, shivering with cold.Burton skillfully maneuvers the little vessel nearer the momen-

tous fi nd, activates the manipulator arms and carefully grasps the suitcase. At fi rst it resists his efforts and refuses to budge. He can feel the weight of it in his gloved hands as he operates the controls; then fi nally, just over half an hour later, he manages to lift it and place it in the specimens basket on the bow of the Mir I, leaving a ghostly trail of fi ne particles of silt. The submersible responds to the additional weight by tilting slightly to one side.

Delighted with their remarkable fi nd, for who knows what the case might contain, the pilot continues to explore the bow of the Titanic for a couple more hours. They follow their carefully planned schedule, taking notes and fi lming everything they see before coming back up to the surface.

The excitement on board the submersible’s parent vessel, the Akademik Mstislev Keldysh, is palpable. Even though Burton had already announced there has been a fi nd over the ship’s radio, when the men see it being lowered through the hatch they can’t help shout-ing, ‘Hey, look – a suitcase!’

Later, once everything has quietened down on the Mir I, by now fi rmly tied up with seawater pouring out of her superstructure, Burton considers his options. Two specialists from the Shirshov Institute of Oceanography walk across to the submersible in their distinctive bright blue overalls and collect the specimens basket, eager to take a good look at what it contains. With surgical care, they slowly raise the lid of the suitcase with their gloved hands and make a preliminary visual and dimensional check. The contents appear to be in very good condition, and whilst there is not much in the way of clothing, there are a lot of books and other paper artifacts. They also fi nd some shoes,

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Prologue xv

a toothbrush, something that might be a bottle of ink and a couple of carefully folded pieces of cloth – or that, at any rate, is what they look like to the experts – darkened by age.

‘I’m sure there are other things too,’ comments one. ‘But I sug-gest we leave it like this for now in the specimens basket until we can carry out the usual procedures. What do you think?’

‘OK, but rinse everything off,’ her colleague decides before going off to write up his report.

A few months later, a sealed tank fi lled with seawater with the suitcase still carefully submerged in it arrives on the United States mainland where it is handed over to a team of specialist conservation experts. Their fi rst task is to compile an inventory of its contents and to sort the items according to the material from which they are made: paper, leather, textiles, metal, glass, ceramics or wood.

As soon as the paper artifacts are received by the relevant sec-tion of the laboratory, the two senior conservationists start compiling a provisional list. One of them, whose name is Laureen, is tall and has long fair hair, her arms and face covered with freckles. Her col-league, Tonya, is of a slightly chubbier build and has a cheerful smile. Amazed at what they are seeing, they can’t help remark on how much paper the suitcase contains. They identify school books, letters, post-cards, envelopes, all patiently added to the list. Almost in a whis-per, Laureen tells her assistant, ‘Look, it’s a thick book. It looks like a dictionary.’

Tonya notices that there’s a name on the fl yleaf. ‘Can you read it out to me please, so I can write it down?’ she asks, at the same time trying to separate the soaking wet pages using a pair of philatelists’ tweezers. Progress is very slow.

While Laureen adjusts her glasses and continues to make notes, another pair of specialists who work at the well-equipped laboratory, this time in the textiles section, are dealing with two small, scrupu-lously folded, rolls of cloth.

‘They look like towels,’ comments a youngish man in need of a good shave, before joking in bad taste, ‘Looks like this passenger was planning to keep a few as souvenirs of the Titanic.’

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Ignoring his thoughtless remarks, Laureen looks back at what she has written in her notes. They had found a typically English name on one of the artifacts. It could also be American, of course, although something told her that might not be the case.

‘First impressions are often wrong,’ she muttered to no one in par-ticular. And anyway, the name she had written down was very simi-lar to the name of the man that she knew had designed the Titanic.

As the days passed, Laureen’s eagle eye managed to decipher a number of words and phrases from the letters found inside the case, some written in English, others in another language that looked vaguely familiar to her, and her interest was fi red. Finally, one after-noon, in a voice trembling with excitement, she read out some words she had managed to transcribe:

My dearest …

How sorry we are to know the rheumatism in your arm is not better, but hope you have … I want you to learn all you can … We gave your message to Josephine … she may write …

And thus it was that more than 90 years after it sank to the bot-tom of the sea, an ordinary buff-colored leather suitcase gave up its extraordinary contents and secrets. Rediscovered, rescued from oblivion, they would tell of its owner’s own short life, the lives of his family and the circumstances that had led to his being on board the Titanic on her fateful maiden voyage.

�

Ninety years earlier, Annie Andrew, née Robson, had sat at the desk that had once belonged to her late husband, Samuel. She lit the oil lamp, opened the cover of the family Bible before turning to look through the window of El Durazno, the cattle ranch in the middle of the Argentine Pampas that had been her family home for the past three decades. She watched the trees as they were stirred by the fi rst autumn breezes. The sky was leaden gray and a heavy silence hung over the property. It reminded Annie of Whitby on the north-eastern coast of England, where she had been born on September 11, 1854.

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‘But autumns in Whitby were always sad. They are much warmer here,’ she thought. She loved the trees outside her window – allspice, Spanish planes, birches and all the others, many with names she didn’t know or couldn’t pronounce. ‘They make such a pretty rainbow with their ocher and purple, red and maroon, leaves, some of them even streaked with silver,’ she refl ected.

Annie Andrew was a small woman, just 5 feet tall. She had gray eyes and was still clearly beautiful with her long straight nose and wide forehead. She was an immensely kind person, although an innate shyness and her somewhat strict Victorian upbringing in England meant she tended to hide it. Sighing, she picked up her pen, dipped the nib into the English-made porcelain inkwell, smoothed her hand across the inside cover of the Holy Bible, which had been printed in Oxford in 1887, and began to write.

Samuel Andrew and Annie Robson, united in holy matrimony, October 18th, 1882.

Silvano Alfredo Andrew, born August 15, 1883 in Río Cuarto, province of Córdoba, Argentina, South America. Her eyes fi lled with tears as she remembered her fi rst-born son, Alfredo, now living in the United States with his American wife, and missed by them all in faraway El Durazno.

Isabel Mercedes Andrew, born July 13, 1885 in Río Cuarto. ‘Hmm,’ she said to herself, ‘Samuel used to have a soft spot for a girl called Mercedes. If I remember right, her second name was Isabelita so she was probably some little Creole wench.’

Wilfred Andrew, born March 8, 1887 in Charras.She rewets the nib of the pen and thinks about Charras, the

town to which they had all been forced to fl ee to avoid the plague at that time.

Ethel Annie Andrew, born December 1, 1888 in Río Cuarto.Hilda Andrew, born August 29, 1890.William Henry Andrew, born September 8, 1892 in Río Cuarto.Edgar Andrew, born March 28, 1895 at El Durazno. ‘My poor dar-

ling Edgar,’ she whispered. ‘I always did have dreadful premonitions about him. I remember telling Wilf that I wouldn’t let him leave here.

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Always so full of affection for Josey. And that phobia he had about coal, and his determination to pack his suitcase all by himself with everything so neat and tidy. I can almost see him now, carefully fold-ing up those little towels Ethel had embroidered with his initials for him just before he left.’

John Vickers Andrew, born October 1, 1899 at El Durazno, died April 6, 1900. Her last baby, snatched from her and Samuel at just six months old.

With the date of her marriage and her children’s details consigned to the family Bible for posterity, Annie sank back in her chair, at peace with the world. She lay a piece of blotting paper over the words she had written and closed the cover of the Bible before her tears caused the ink to run.

�

Stroking his luxuriant mustache, which had once been red but was now threaded with gray, Sam Andrew picked up the letter he had received from Domingo Funes. It had been sent from Paris and was dated October 2, 1882.

I was pleased to receive your kind letter of the 28th last and send you my congratulations on your choice of a companion in life. As I am sure you are aware, we all take a very close interest in your happiness because we look on you as a member of our own family. I was forced to abandon the trip to Spain and we opted instead to travel with a number of families of our acquaintance on the ‘Paraná.’ She is bound for The Hague and will be leaving on the 18th of this month. From your affectionate friend who wishes you every great happiness.

�

J. W. Benson, watchmaker, court goldsmith, jeweler and silver-smith, had been awarded medals for his work in London, Paris and Dublin, and was the proud holder of a Royal and Special Warrant granted by Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. He was now waiting with

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great deference on Sam Andrew at his shop at 62–64 Ludgate Hill, London. A traditional private business fi rst established in 1749, Benson’s was conveniently located between Ludgate Circus and St Paul’s Cathedral. But while Sam liked the area well enough, the proximity of an expensive jeweler so close to the squalor and mis-ery of Newgate Prison and the personal tragedies being played out at the Old Bailey made him uncomfortable. After some deliberation, he had fi nally made his selection from the magnifi cent items on dis-play in the shop. He had been shown trays of rings and earrings set with precious stones, lapel pins, and a wealth of timepieces. These ranged from a huge grandfather clock, to a wall clock with a painted porcelain dial, to a skeleton clock with its mechanism on full view (which he had thought about reserving), right down to pocket watches and ladies’ fob watches. Finally, he made his choice. He adored Annie Robson and wanted nothing more than to make her happy.

‘If I may be so bold, Mr Andrew, may I ask for whom these beauti-ful objects are intended?’

‘My fi ancée and her mother.’‘They are indeed lucky ladies!’ said Mr Benson as, with a some-

what pained look on his face, he handed Sam the bill for £36. On it were listed a diamond engagement ring, a wedding ring, another ring with a raised ribbed design, a chain and two ladies’ watches.

Sam watched the jeweler carefully wrapping each item in its own little pouch before folding them in tissue paper. Mr Benson, made expansive by all the tradition with which he was surrounded, the fi ne wooden cabinets, the crystal lamps and the charming sound of hun-dreds of ticking timepieces, advised him:

‘Gold does not lose its luster, although now and again you could use an old trick to restore the shine – whiting powder and sal ammo-niac. You mix it to a barely moist paste then apply it lightly with a soft toothbrush and leave it to dry before removing it with a moder-ately stiff toothbrush. The gold will come up beautifully! And remem-ber, Mr Andrew, the watch ribbon is always worn to the right. Don’t forget. Here are the guarantees.’

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‘Thank you, sir, and good morning.’ And with that Sam takes his leave, satisfi ed that some of the money he has been advanced by Domingo Funes has been well spent.

As he strides along, his cane in his hand, he feels like a gentleman and in truth that is what he is on his way to becoming, albeit not per-haps quite a fully-fl edged one just yet. He crosses the busy street and makes his way to another establishment where he has left a parch-ment scroll for framing. It was in fact the document that had made him determined to decide for himself what course his life would take.

‘This is very impressive, sir,’ said the assistant, his eyes gazing admiringly at the beautiful document that starts with the words ‘THIS INDENTURE WITNESSETH,’ its fi rst letter a large, ornately embel-lished capital T. The scroll also incorporated a depiction of the royal shield and the words ‘HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE’, and under-neath there was a large, rectangular Prussian blue fi scal stamp for the half-crown fee the solicitor had been paid to draw up the indentures, plus another smaller rectangle, this one silver, embossed with the seal of the town of Whitby, above which was written the solicitor’s proto-col number – 1310–58 – followed by the signatures of both father and son. Everything had been sealed with neat circles of red sealing wax at the foot of document.

‘Allow me to read you what it says’:‘This document bears witness that Samuel Andrew the younger,

of the town of Whitby in the County of York, has been taken on as an apprentice by his father, Samuel Andrew of Whitby, offi cially recog-nized sailmaker, that he may learn his art … Throughout this time, the said apprentice will serve his master faithfully and well. …’

‘He was your father?’‘Yes.’‘… will keep his secrets, will at all times and in all places carry out

his lawful orders, will cause no harm to his master nor permit others to cause such harm to him unless, and insofar as he is able, he doth notify and warn his master of such deeds. He will not squander his master’s goods nor illicitly loan them to any other person, nor engage in fornication nor marry within the said term …’

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‘And you, sir, how old are you?’‘Thirty.’ And in a change of tone, Sam added, ‘It’s alright, sir, I

know the wording of this contract off by heart. I wanted it framed to remind me of how old England used to be and so that my children might also know.’

‘But it’s a legal contract for an apprenticeship, sir!’‘Yes, that’s right, it is. Good afternoon.’He was in a bad mood by the time he left the shop. Even now, all

these years later, he still didn’t understand why his father, who had in truth been a good man, had acted the way he had. But this document would serve as a warning, a reminder in the years ahead, of what he had managed to escape, just as the jewelry he had just purchased would remind him of those he would love forever.

�Ethel Ana Andrew was a shy young woman and had the air of a

woman in love. She had just written a postcard to her suitor in Flores, Argentina. The postcard was in fact a photograph of her standing with her friends Angelita and Luisa Mayer on the banks of the Río Cuarto and on the back she had written:

My dearest Mario

I received your letter on Saturday but as I was traveling with mother and Hilda I have not been able to write back to you before now. I hope you are well. Love, Ethel.

Ethel, or ‘La Paico’2 as she was affectionately known to her family and friends, was 5 feet 2 inches tall, had brown hair, neat ears, brown eyebrows, blue eyes, a regular forehead, straight nose, regular mouth, and a neat and rounded chin set in a pale oval face. She was deeply in love with Mario Bousquet, who loved her just as much as she loved him. She had been looking through some old postcards and had come across one that she had received from her friend Ella Hall who lived

2 ‘Paico’ is a herb that grows in Argentina and is used to make a popular kind of herbal tea.

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at Cedar House in Whitby, telling Ethel that the following day she was planning to go on a picnic and to take some photographs. There were also ones from Wilfred and Alfredo, her beloved brothers, ask-ing her to remind them when her birthday was. The card was printed with a lovely photograph of her standing with one of her uncles next to the Abbey, and on the back it read, ‘La Paico and the elderly man playing with a dog on hallowed ground.’

Young Ethel knew how to fi re a Mauser, was well-read and had been given an English education. She continued looking at her post-cards and came across one from Miss Hesk, her former headmistress, written in her thin reedy handwriting. It reminded her of the beauti-ful gift Miss Hesk had made for her when she had left her boarding school and the dedication she had written in the book of poems by Tennyson: ‘To dear Ethel A. Andrew who is leaving Whitby School for Girls. With much love.’

But Ethel had neither eyes nor thoughts for anyone but Mario.

�Ethel’s oldest brother Silvano Alfredo had been named after a

member of the kind-hearted Funes family. But he hated the name Silvano and always insisted on being called Alfredo instead. He was a well-traveled man, who enjoyed writing letters in his fi rm, sloping, elegant handwriting and keeping journals of the places he had seen. When he was young, he had studied as a naval engineer at the Tech-nical Institute in Stockton-on-Tees before undergoing further training at the Marine Engineering Works of Messrs Blair & Co. (his younger brothers often ironically referring to him in later years as ‘the Engi-neer’). Alfredo subsequently joined the British Merchant Navy. One of his fi rst ships had been the SS Red Cross, from where he had sent a few lines to Ethel, telling her, ‘The one on the left was a heavy opium smoker, he was on board to moor up our steamship on the banks of the Bombay Harbour Channel.’ He also served on the SS Resolu-tion, from where he again wrote to Ethel on January 21, 1905 telling her: ‘I hope to see you soon, the boat is on its way to the Black Sea. Please convey my best wishes to Miss Hesk.’ Shortly after that he had

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transferred to the SS John Barry, where he took a photograph and later sent it to Ethel at El Durazno with a note saying: ‘We arrived last night and leave again on Sunday; during this very short time I found everybody well, including Hilda and the boys, who came over on horseback in the early evening bringing some chickens.’

Alfredo also liked to paint pictures of ships, something he did very well. He had sent a print of a merchant ship hand-colored in red, black and blue to Ethel while she was at the Whitby School for Girls, adding a note under the illustration telling her: ‘Hurry up and study as hard as you can, as this ship will be waiting to take you home.’

In his cabin, he could hear the ship’s timbers creaking and groan-ing, even at night, but at least the steam engine wasn’t complaining any more and the waves, less rough now, were gently rocking the Argentine navy corvette. The noise of the pulleys banging against the railings did not unduly disturb the young English-looking offi cer, but unable to sleep, he started to write up his journal after several days at sea:

The corvette ‘Uruguay,’ Tierra del Fuego, 1908. We have had a fairly good passage, considering the risks and dis-comforts that one might expect to encounter on a voyage to these deso-late regions in a little ship like the ‘Uruguay’ that is not really built to withstand pack ice. But for now, as we lie here at anchor in one of the beautiful and wild channels of Tierra del Fuego waiting for the day when we can all go home, we can forget for a while the awful pitching and rolling we have experienced in these fl oe-infested waters.

Ethel also came across some more postcards from Alfredo which he had sent from the training frigate, the Presidente Sarmiento, which he had served on during her 9th voyage, when she had more or less circumnavigated the globe. And cards to Hilda from Naples and Ven-ice, and to their brother William, addressed to the School of Agron-omy and Animal Husbandry in Córdoba where he was studying at the time, and a joking admonishment sent from Venice to Edgar, telling him, ‘This is to remind you to behave yourself a bit better.’ And lots more to Ethel, one from the USS Culgoa while she had been moored up in Brest, announcing his trip to Guantanamo, and a nice letter written from the battleship USS North Dakota on best quality

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bond paper emblazoned with a gold monogram, his handwriting more fi rm than ever, written half in English, half in Spanish: ‘Mother wrote to me about Edgar and how he doesn’t want to join the Navy. If that’s how he feels, he should be allowed to do what he wants. I have chosen to work with machines because I have always liked them, but if Edgar doesn’t want to study he needs to fi nd a god who will listen to him and advise him what he should do.’

�In 1911, Edgar Andrew had sent Josefi nita Cowan a series of post-

cards from Bournemouth via the El Durazno ranch in San Ambrosio, telling her in one: ‘You look wonderful in the photographs, although in one of them you seem to be looking for somebody up in the sky!’

In February of the following year, he also sent a letter to his sister Ethel:

‘I received your lovely long letter for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart, because of all the people who write to me, you tell me the most news. Today I am writing to “the Engineer” asking him about the date of his wedding so we can have rockets and fi re-works standing by ready to give him a good send-off from his life as a bachelor. What do you think, dear sister? Do you think he’s going to invite us for tea and cakes? Or will I be the only one going to the wed-ding as there are still hopes of another quick run to the States. Here in England there is about to be a coal strike. You mark my words, if there is a strike the trains and the steamships will stop running and pity poor England then, because it looks like coal from other coun-tries won’t stop coming in. “The Engineer” says that one of these days he will make a trip around the world in an automobile.’

Ethel used to sob every time she read that letter from Edgar, with its references to ‘the Engineer,’ as Edgar used to call his serious-minded big brother, Alfredo. That letter with its touching gratitude for her passing on the family news, its playfulness and hint of subver-sion, and the reminder of the 1912 coal strike just as Edgar was about to leave England to attend his brother’s wedding in New York broke her heart.

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The pen scratched its way across the paper as Edgar dashed off the date, April 8, 1912, then started to write:

Dear Josey

It’s been several weeks since I had the pleasure of receiving your letter from which I see that you are to come here to Bournemouth, which I am very happy about, although I shall not have the pleasure of spend-ing the season in your company, although I imagine you will strike up a friendship with Tia and the cousins, and that your stay here will therefore be a happy one. In three days time I embark for New York. It seems that Alfredo wants me to go and work for the company owned by his fi ancée, Harriet Fisher. I can already imagine how you will feel when you arrive and I won’t be here, but don’t lose heart, Josey, just do your best to enjoy your time here. You can’t imagine how much I regret having to leave without seeing you, but I have to go and there’s nothing I can do about it. When I received your fi rst letter, the one in which you told me that you were thinking of coming here, I was so happy at the news that I couldn’t think about anything else, and I compiled a full program for your time here, but unfortunately none of those plans will come to fruition now.

Being forced to write such a letter greatly upset Edgar, so he put it to one side for a moment to concentrate instead on his leather suit-case. He was determined to take good care of it because not only was it of very good quality, but it had also been given to him by someone very dear to his heart. ‘I won’t take too much. This will do me while I’m there, but I mustn’t leave those alligator skin shoes from Morton’s, they are so comfortable,’ he thought. Then he sat back down in his chair, leaned one elbow on the little table, and continued his letter:

Just imagine, Josey, I was due to embark on the 17th of this month on the ‘Oceanic’, but because of the miners’ strike the ‘Oceanic’ can’t sail, so I have to leave a week earlier on the ‘Titanic.’

�

At the London Scottish Drill Hall in Buckingham Gate, on an over-cast day in July 1912, the commission presided over by Lord Mersey, a man with a razor-sharp tongue and sharp eyes that missed nothing, assisted by fi ve counselors, announced its verdict into the catastrophe

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suffered by the RMS Titanic. The wood-paneled chamber was dark and the atmosphere tense. The room was surrounded with high inter-nal balconies, one of them reserved exclusively for ladies. There was a clock in the middle, stools and side tables for the counsel and benches for everyone else, plus a 20-feet-long plan of the Titanic carefully dis-played to ‘show her full length.’ The room was full to overfl owing as the secretary read out the commission’s fi ndings in a stentorian tone:

‘The fi nal stages of the sinking cannot be determined with any accu-racy owing to the prevailing confusion, natural in those circumstances. The fo’c’sle on the foredeck was not underwater until 01.35 a.m. By the time the last lifeboat was lowered from davit ‘D’ on the port side, deck A was under water and the stairs were awash with seawater. Almost immediately, the hull started to sink below the water, although the fun-nels were still above the surface. The stern was gradually fl ooded and the propellers were by now visible. The ship did not break in two: It was being gradually lifted into a perpendicular position when the second funnel slid beneath the waves. Everything was plunged into darkness from that moment until the end. Before lifting into the per-pendicular position – with the ship at an angle of 50 to 60 degrees – a loud creaking noise was heard, which can be attributed to the boilers coming loose from their housings and slamming against the bulk-heads. The ship fi nally lifted into the perpendicular position and went slowly down. She disappeared at 2.20 a.m. on the 15th of April.’

As the clerk of the court paused for breath and to turn the page of the document he was holding, those attending the commission mur-mured in horror at what they had just heard.

On its covering page, the court report would laconically state: ‘The Court, having carefully inquired into the circumstances of the casu-alty, fi nds, for the reasons appearing in the annex hereto, that the loss of the said ship was due to collision with an iceberg, brought about by the excessive speed at which the vessel was being navigated.’

�Over the course of the past 30 years, I have scoured hundreds of

documents and dozens of sources in an effort to chart my family’s

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history, for, as you may have already guessed, Sam and Annie Andrew were my great grandparents and Ethel Andrew was my grandmother, and Edgar, who was on board the Titanic when she sank on April 15, 1912, would have been my great-uncle had he still been alive today.

During this time, I have traveled thousands of miles from Argentina to the United States and England delving into my family’s past, the events that took them to Argentina, and trying to make sense of what happened out there in the dark waters of the Atlantic on that terrible night in April 1912.

In a bid to bring order to what could easily have become an unmanageable amount of data, I have compiled diagrams and fl ow charts summarizing my family tree with all its roots and branches and little squares – the leaves of the forest, as I like to think of them. I have managed to fi ll some of them with dates of births, of marriages and of deaths, but others remain stubbornly half empty or have a question mark as I wait for some new snippet of information to come to light. I have spent hours looking at old sepia photographs, search-ing for a half-familiar face or for a clue that might unravel some mys-tery and bring it blinking into the daylight. Sometimes the results of my research or of meetings with others engaged in a similar quest simply ‘to know’ have caused me to deviate from one path or guided me toward another. I have dwelt at length on old geographies, con-sulting historical maps and tourist guides, and I still have a long list of books and magazines and other documents that I need to obtain and read.

I had already completed the fi rst stage of my pilgrimage, the one that was geographically closest, when suddenly, in 2000, it took a totally emotional and powerful twist when the lid of a suitcase that had been lying on the seabed for the past 90 years was raised, reveal-ing its secrets for the fi rst time in almost a century.

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