AT 5:30 A.M., THURSDAY, MAY 6, PASSENGERS IN FIRST-CLASS staterooms arrayed along the port side of the Lusitania’s boat deck—A Deck—heard a commotion outside. Theodate Pope, in A-10, recalled being “wakened by shouts and the scuffling of feet.” Metal clanked against metal; ropes moved through squealing tackle. All this was mingled with muffled curses and the sounds of men working at a task requiring strength, which the crew possessed, and coordination, which it did not.
With the ship about a day away from entering the Celtic Sea, Captain Turner had ordered the crew to uncover and swing out all the ship’s conventional lifeboats, meaning those that hung from davits along both sides of the boat deck. The two emergency boats were already in position.
Turner was being prudent. If an emergency were to occur, the boats could be launched from this position more quickly, and with less hazard, than if they were still locked in their deep-sea positions. At this hour, few passengers would be out on deck and thus would be less likely to interfere with the effort or, worse, be injured, though Turner risked causing annoyance by awakening them so early—and these were some of the most expensive staterooms on the ship.
Third Officer John Lewis, who ran the daily lifeboat drills, also directed this operation. First, he said, “we mustered the cooks, the stewards, the watch of sailors on deck, and any other day men that we could raise.” The crew began with the boats on the port side. Lewis climbed to the navigation deck and positioned himself at its midpoint, outside the Marconi room, so that he could monitor the entire operation at once. Six to eight men were assigned to each boat. To avoid tangled falls and guy lines, all the boats had to be swung out at once, according to Lewis. Next, the men—some eighty in all—shifted to the starboard side and repeated the process. Lewis then dismissed the cooks and stewards, but ordered the deck crew to secure the guy lines and pile the falls in tidy “Flemish” coils. Last, he had the men make sure that each boat contained its required complement of survival gear, including oars, mast, sails, matches, sea anchor, lamp, provisions, and drinking water.
The process did not go smoothly. First-class passenger Joseph Myers, up early, watched the crew work. “The men were not efficient,” he said. “I saw them trying to throw out the boats, trying to break away the boats from the davits, and it seemed to me that they were not equal to it. They were clumsy handling the ropes. They were bossed by some petty officer; I don’t know who it was but the men did not look to me as if they had been handling the boats before. They handled the ropes and falls like men building a house; they looked more like day laborers than seamen.”
Passengers who awoke later that morning were greeted by the sight of all the boats swung out and uncovered, with no explanation posted. For most the change was of minor interest; some may not even have noticed. For others, it was disconcerting. “On Thursday morning I felt rather uneasy when I discovered that the lifeboats were hung over the side of the ship,” wrote Jane MacFarquhar, of Stratford, Connecticut. “On inquiry, I was informed that it was essential that they should be so—according to law. I thought it rather strange that they had not been put ready after clearing New York instead of waiting until we were so near the other side. I noticed the other passengers did not seem to bother, so I also began to forget the lifeboats.”
Nellie Huston, adding a few more paragraphs to her diary-like letter, wrote, “This morning we have all the lifeboats swung out ready for emergencies. It’s awful to think about but I guess there is some danger.” She noted that she and fellow passengers expected British naval vessels to rendezvous with the ship that day, to provide escort.
She switched to cheerier observations. “What a crowd there are in the boat and all English. I was so pleased to see the Union Jacks on this boat when we were in New York, there are quite a lot of distinguished people in the 1st class but of course you couldn’t touch them with a soft pole! There is a Vanderbilt, one or two bankers. I have made lots of friends and if it wasn’t for the worry I could say we’ve had a lovely trip.”
THE DECK MEN did the usual “sailoring” to maintain the ship, a process that never ended. Every morning a group of sailors cleaned the brass and glass in the portholes that opened onto the decks. There was always a peek of rust that needed sanding and painting; the brine and dried mist that collected on the deck rails overnight had to be ragged off in the morning, so that the rails shone and did not spoil the dresses and suits of passengers. All the ship’s plants had to be watered, including the twenty-one large palm trees that stood at the heads of stairwells. Deck chairs had to be straightened, to avoid the haphazard look of a wedding after all the guests had left.
Seaman Morton was assigned to touch up the paint on the hull of one of the lifeboats. The crew must have swung the boat back in for this, because Morton had to lie underneath to administer the paint. The paint was gray and was known as “crab fat.” It was a messy task. “We were not issued with paint brushes, we had instead a swab of waste”—meaning a rag—“and the paint pot into which we dipped the waste and then applied it to the hull of the lifeboat.”
Morton was hard at work when he heard the sound of small shoes charging toward him, and looked out from under the boat to see two girls intently watching. These were Anna and Gwendolyn Allan, ages fifteen and sixteen, the two daughters of Lady Hugh Montagu Allan, of Montreal, one of the ship’s most prominent passengers. The three occupied a Regal Suite on B Deck, which included two bedrooms, bathroom, dining room, and parlor. The Allans traveled with two maids, who stayed in a tiny room squeezed between one of the ship’s funnels and the dome of the first-class dining salon.
The girls were a popular and vivid presence aboard. “I could not help thinking what lovely children they were and how beautifully dressed,” Morton wrote. “I seem to remember the eldest one was wearing a white accordion pleated skirt and sailor blouse.”
One girl asked, “What are you doing, sailor?”
Morton answered, “I am painting the lifeboat.”
“May we help you?”
Morton noted again the girls’ clothing and also the sound of heavier steps quickly approaching—these the footfalls of a woman who appeared to be a nanny. The woman did not look pleased.
Morton said, “I don’t think this is a job for little girls.”
The eldest girl, clearly accustomed to having her way, grabbed the improvised brush, which was soaked with paint, and started applying it to the boat and in the process applied it to her clothing as well.
“I was horrified,” Morton wrote. He heard the still heavier footsteps of his approaching supervisor, the bosun, or senior deck man, “coming along at the double.”
The girls fled, and so did Morton. He eased out from under the boat, toward the water, and climbed over the side to the deck below. “I did not feel there was any purpose in stopping to argue the point with either the irate bosun or the extremely angry looking Nannie.”
A BOY NAMED Robert Kay missed all the morning’s excitement. Kay, seven years old, was an American citizen from the Bronx, in New York City, traveling to England with his British mother, Marguerita Belsher Kay, who was in an advanced phase of pregnancy. She wanted badly to return to her parents’ home in England to have the baby and was willing to brave the passage, despite the German warning and her own tendency to get seasick.
By midweek Robert himself had begun to feel poorly. The ship’s surgeon examined him and diagnosed a full-blown case of measles. The boy, he said, would have to spend the rest of the voyage in quarantine, two decks down. The Kays were traveling in second class, but his mother chose to go below as well, to room with her son.
The monotony was crushing, but there was, at least, a porthole through which the boy could watch the sea.
CAPTAIN TURNER ordered the usual midmorning lifeboat drill. The team of “picked” crewmen climbed into one of the emergency boats as an audience of passengers looked on. One witness was George Kessler, the “Champagne King,” who went up to the sailor in charge, and told him, “It’s alright drilling your crew, but why don’t you drill your passengers?”
The man replied, “Why not tell Captain Turner, sir?”
Kessler resolved to do so.