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Header-Heroine of the Titanic

 

 

On April 14, 1912, at 11:40 p.m. the Titanic, the ocean liner that supposedly “God Himself could not sink,” struck a towering iceberg in the Northern Atlantic. In less than three hours, the 46,328-ton ship sank beneath the waves to settle on the ocean floor.

 

Countess of Rothes

Noëlle, Countess of Rothes, was a passenger coming to the United States to join her husband, the 19th Earl of Rothes, who was purchasing an orange grove in California.

Ordered together with other ladies to enter lifeboat no. 8, the Countess’ leadership qualities quickly showed, so that once on the water, Able Seaman Thomas William Jones asked her to take over the tiller and steer the small boat on that dark, frozen night.

The Sphere quoted Seaman Jones as saying, “When I saw the way she was carrying herself and heard the quiet determined way she spoke to the others, I knew she was more of a man than any we had on board.”

Lady Rothes steered for about an hour, then handed this post over to her husband’s cousin, Miss Gladys Cherry, and took up a rowing spot next to Doña Maria Josefa Perez de Soto y Vallejo Peñasco y Castellana, to comfort the 22-year old woman who had just become a widow, as her husband, Don Víctor, drowned in the shipwreck.

She rowed until the next morning when they were rescued by the RMS Carpathia. All through the terrible night she calmed and encouraged the other passengers. Then, aboard the Carpathia, she continued to sacrifice herself, taking no rest, but helping and consoling the other survivors. An account in the London Daily Sketch stated, “Her Ladyship helped to make clothes for the babies and became known amongst the crew as the ‘plucky little countess.'”

Caught up in the Titanic tragedy, the Countess did what all nobles are called to do: Lead, and sacrifice oneself for the common good.

 

Upon arriving in New York, she gave the interview below to the New York Herald, and it was published on April 21, 1912:

Countess of Rothes“The pitiful sadness of our rowing, rowing toward the lights of a ship that disappeared. We in boat No. 8 saw some tramp steamer’s mast head lights, and then we saw the glow of red as she swung toward us for a few minutes. Then darkness and despair.” Lady Rothes yesterday, at the Ritz Carlton, told of her experience on board the Titanic.

“I went to bed at half-past seven,” she said, “and my cousin, Miss Gladys Cherry, who shared my room—No. 77 on deck B–also retired. It was bitterly cold. I was awakened by a slight jar and then a grating noise. I turned on the light and saw that it was 11:46, and I wondered at the sudden quiet. Gladys had not been awakened and I called her and asked did she not think it strange that the engines had stopped.

As I opened our cabin door I saw a steward. He said we had struck some ice. Our fur coats over our night gowns were all the clothes we had. My cousin asked the chief steward if there was any danger and he answered, ‘Oh no, we have just grazed some ice and it does not amount to anything.’

 

The Call for Lifebelts

“As we hurried along Lambert Williams came up and explained that the water-tight compartments must surely hold. Just then an officer hurried by. “‘Will you all get your lifebelts on! Dress warmly and come up to A deck!’ Quite stunned by the order, we all went. As I was going in to our stateroom my maid said water was pouring into the racquet court. I gave her some brandy, tied on her lifebelt and told her to go straight up on deck. We had to ask a steward where our lifebelts could be found. The man said he was sure they were unnecessary until we told him we had been ordered to do so. “We dressed as warmly as we could and went up to A deck.

Mr. Brown, the purser, touched his hat as we passed, saying:—‘It is quite all right; don’t hurry!’ What a lovely night it was! I stood close to Mrs. Astor. She was waiting under the starboard ports of the library and her husband got a chair for her. She was quite calm. The last I saw of Colonel Astor was when he still stood by his wife, trying to comfort her. “Captain Smith stood shoulder to shoulder with me as I got into the life boat, and the last words were to the able seaman–Tom Jones–‘Row straight for those ship lights over there; leave your passengers on board of her and return as soon as you can.’ Captain Smith’s whole attitude was one of great calmness and courage, and I am sure he thought that the ship–whose lights we could plainly see–would pick us up and that our life boats would be able to do double duty in ferrying passengers to the help that gleamed so near.

“There were two stewards in boat No. 8 with us and thirty-one women. The name of the steward was Crawford. We were lowered quietly to the water, and when we had pushed off from the Titanic’s side I asked the seaman if he would care to have me take the tiller, as I knew something about boats. He said, ‘Certainly, lady.’ I climbed aft into the stern sheets and asked my cousin to help me. “The first impression I had as we left the ship was that above all things we must not lose our self-control. We had no officer to take command of our boat, and the little seaman had to assume all the responsibility. He did it nobly, alternately cheering us with words of encouragement, then rowing doggedly. Then Signora de Satode Penasco began to scream for her husband. It was too horrible. I left the tiller to my cousin and slipped down beside her to be of what comfort I could. Poor woman! Her sobs tore our hearts and her moans were unspeakable in their sadness. Miss Cherry stayed at the tiller of our boat until the Carpathia picked us up.

“The most awful part of the whole thing was seeing the rows of portholes vanishing one by one. Several of us–and Tom Jones–wanted to row back and see if there was not some chance for rescuing any one that had possibly survived, but the majority in the boat ruled, that we had no right to risk their lives on the bare chance of finding any one alive after the final plunge. They also said that the captain’s own orders had been to ‘row for those ship lights over there,’ and that we who wished to try for others who might be drowning had no business to interfere with his orders. Of course that settled the matter, and we rowed on. “Indeed, I saw–we all saw–a ship’s lights not more than three miles away!” Turning to Lord Rothes, Lady Rothes said:–“I am a fair judge of distances, am I not?” He answered, “Yes, you are.”

 

The Lights Disappear

Continuing, Lady Rothes said:– “For three hours we pulled steadily for the two masthead lights that showed brilliantly in the darkness. For a few minutes we saw the ship’s port light, then it vanished, and the masthead lights got dimmer on the horizon until they, too, disappeared. “A Mrs. Smith did yeoman service. She rowed for five hours with Tom Jones without taking a rest. Really, she was magnificent, not only in her attitude, but in the whole souled way in which she worked. “Mrs. Pearson also rowed, and my maid, Roberta Maioni, rowed the last half of the night. “I did not know Mr. Ismay by sight, until one night at dinner in the restaurant he came in late, and some one pointed him out to me as being the managing director of the line.

There was no excitement of any kind, save that once the third class passengers became obstreperous, but it was instantly put down. “When the awful end came, I tried my best to keep the Spanish woman from hearing the agonizing sound of distress. They seemed to continue forever, although it could not have been more than ten minutes until the silence of a lonely sea dropped down. The indescribable loneliness, the ghastliness of our feelings never can be told. We tried to keep in touch with the other boats by shouting and succeeded fairly well. Our boat was the furthest away because we had chased the phantom lights for three hours. Yes, I rowed for three hours.”

Roberta Maioni, the maid, said:–

“I was not at all frightened. Everybody was saying as we left the ship that ‘she was good for twelve hours yet’ and I was too numb to realize the terror of it all until we were safe on board the Carpathia.” “Brave men, all that stood back so that the women should have at least a chance to live!” said Lady Rothes. “Their memories should be held sacred in the mind of the world forever.”

 


Short Stories on Honor, Chivalry, and the World of Nobility—no. 531

 

 

Quote of the day

DAILY QUOTE for November 11, 2019

What we need most in order to make progress is to be silent...

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November 11

 

What we need most in order to make progress is
to be silent before this great God with our appetite and with our tongue,
for the language He best hears is silent love.

St. John of the Cross


DEFEND Our Lady's HONOR !

Saint of the day

SAINT OF THE DAY

St. Martin of Tours

He met a shivering and half-naked beggar and, moved with com...

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St. Martin of Tours

Martin was born in German Sabaria about the year 316. His father, a military tribune, was transferred to Pavia when Martin was still quite young and the boy accompanied him to Italy. Upon reaching adolescence, Martin was enrolled in the Roman army in accordance with the recruiting laws of the time. Touched by grace at an early age, he was among the first attracted to Christianity, which had been in favor in the military camps since the conversion of Emperor Constantine.
 
Martin's regiment was soon sent to Amiens in Gaul, and this town became the scene of the celebrated "legend of the cloak." One bitterly-cold winter day, Martin met a shivering and half-naked beggar at the gates of the city. Moved with compassion, Martin divided his coat into two parts and gave one to the poor man. The part he kept for himself became the famous relic preserved in the oratory of the Frankish kings and known to all as “Saint Martin’s cloak.”
 
Martin, who was still only a catechumen, soon received Baptism and was finally released from military service at Worms on the Rhine. Freed from his obligations, he hastened to set out to Poitiers to enroll himself among the disciples of St. Hilary, the wise and pious bishop whose reputation as a theologian was already spreading beyond the frontiers of Gaul. However, he desired to see his parents again and returned to Lombardy across the Alps. The inhabitants of this region were infested with Arianism and bitterly hostile towards Catholicism. Martin did not conceal his faith and was very badly treated by order of Bishop Auxentius of Milan, the leader of the heretical sect in Italy. He was very desirous of returning to Gaul, but learning that the Arians also persecuted their opponents in that country and had even succeeded in exiling St. Hilary to the Orient, he decided to seek shelter on the island of Gallinaria, now Isola d’Albenga, in the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
 
As soon as Martin learned that an imperial decree had authorized St. Hilary to return to Gaul, he hastened to the side of his chosen master at Poitiers in 361. After having obtained permission from him to embrace the life of a hermit, which he had adopted in Gallinaria, he settled in a deserted region now called Ligugé. His example soon drew a great number of monks who settled near him. Such was the beginning of the celebrated Benedictine Abbey of Ligugé. Martin remained about ten years in this solitude and often left it to preach the Gospel in the central and western parts of Gaul where the rural inhabitants were still plunged in the darkness of idolatry and given up to all sorts of gross superstitions. The memory of these apostolic journeys survives to our day in the numerous local legends where Martin is the hero and which roughly indicate the routes that he followed.
 
When St. Lidorius, second Bishop of Tours, died in 371 or 372, the clergy of that city desired to replace him by the famous hermit of Ligugé. But, as Martin remained deaf to the prayers of the deputies who brought him this message, it was necessary to resort to a ruse to overcome his resistance. A rich citizen of Tours by the name of Rusticius went and begged him to come to attend to his wife who was in the throes of death. Without suspicion, Martin followed him in all haste, but hardly had he entered the city when, in spite of the opposition of a few ecclesiastical dignitaries, popular acclamation constrained him to become Bishop of Tours.
Consecrated on July 4, Martin fulfilled the duties to his office with all the energy and dedication that he had demonstrated in the past. He did not however change his way of life. He fled from the distractions of the large city and settled himself in a small cell a short distance from Tours, beyond the Loire. Other hermits soon joined him there and thus was gradually formed a new monastery that surpassed the Ligugé and came to be known as the Majus Monasterium, the “great monastery” or Marmoutier.
 
Thus, by an untiring zeal and great simplicity Martin administered to his pastoral duties and so succeeded in sowing Christianity throughout the region of Touraine. Nor was it a rare occurrence for him to leave his diocese when he thought that his appearance in some distant locality might produce some good. He even went several times to Trier, where the emperors had established their residence in order to plead the interests of the Church or to ask pardon for some condemned person.
 
His role in the matter of the Priscillianists and Ithacians was especially remarkable. Martin hurried to Trier, not to defend the Gnostic and Manichaean doctrines of Priscillian, but to remove him from the secular jurisdiction of the emperor. The Council of Saragossa had justly condemned the Spanish heresiarch Priscillian and his partisans and angry charges were brought before Emperor Maximus by some orthodox bishops of Spain, led by Bishop Ithacius.
 
Maximus at first consented to Martins’s request but when he departed, Maximus yielded to the solicitations of Ithacius and ordered Priscillian and his followers to be beheaded. Deeply grieved, Martin refused to communicate with Ithacius. However, when he went again to Trier a little later to ask pardon for two rebels, Narses and Leucadius, Maximus would only pardon them on the condition that Martin make his peace with Ithaeius. To save the lives of his clients, Martin consented to this reconciliation, but afterwards reproached himself bitterly for this act of weakness.
 
After a last visit to Rome, Martin went to Candes, one of the religious centers created by him in his diocese and there he was stricken with a malady, which ended his life. Ordering himself to be carried into the presbytery of the church, he died there at the age of about eighty-one, with the same exemplary spirit of humility and mortification that he had always practiced in life.

Weekly Story

WEEKLY STORY

Centuries ago, in Toledo, Spain, there lived a Cistercian nu...

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A Favor Granted

Centuries ago, in Toledo, Spain, there lived a Cistercian nun called Mary. Being at the point of death, the Blessed Mother appeared to her, and Mary said to her:

"Oh Lady, the favor you do me of visiting me at this hour emboldens me to ask you another favor, namely, that I may die at the same hour that you died and entered into heaven.”

"Yes," answered Mary Most Holy. "I will satisfy your request; you will die at that hour, and you will hear the songs and praises with which the blessed accompanied my entrance into heaven; and now prepare for your death."

When she had said this she disappeared.

Passing by Mary’s cell, other nuns heard her talking to herself, and they thought she must be losing her mind. But she related to them the vision of the Virgin Mary and the promised grace. Soon the entire convent awaited the desired hour.

When Mary knew the hour had arrived, by the striking of the clock, she said:

"Behold, the predicted hour has come; I hear the music of the angels. At this hour my queen ascended into heaven. Rest in peace, for I am going now to see her."

Saying this she expired, while her eyes became bright as stars, and her face glowed with a beautiful color.

From the Glories of Mary, by St. Alphonsus Maria de Liguori.

Centuries ago, in Toledo, Spain, there lived a Cistercian nun called Mary. Being at the point of death, the Blessed Mother appeared to her,

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