Alice Frances Louisa Phillips
Second-class, 21 years old, Lifeboat 12
The Women of Cabin D-17
As an only child, I felt responsible for taking care of my father
after losing my mother from tuberculosis.
Dad was always so good to me.
Since I was very small, I looked up to him.
He’d once worked at the Royal Clarence Hotel,
the first inn in all of England to be given the title hotel.
Mum used to say she ran her own hotel of sorts—a boarding house.
Dad and I both missed her terribly.
Without her, our home felt cold as ice—empty.
So, after receiving a letter from Uncle William,
we decided to take his advice and move to America.
A factory foreman position waited for my father in New Brighton, Pennsylvania.
We sold our home and purchased tickets aboard the SS Philadelphia,
but due to a national coal strike, our passage had been transferred to the RMS Titanic.
My mind swirled with dreams of grandeur,
because we’d be among the first passengers to sail on this brand-new ship.
On the morning of April 9th,
we took a nine-hour train ride from Ilfracombe to Southampton.
At our hotel there, I wrote Grandmother, describing the ocean liner docked at berth 44.
“Dad and I have been to look at the Titanic.
It is a monstrous great boat as high as the Clarence Hotel and I cannot tell you how long!
We are going to embark tomorrow after breakfast.”
When morning sun peered through the gap in the drawn curtains,
I quickly dressed and was ready for my first ocean voyage.
As we stepped inside the grand ship, I could not believe my eyes.
It was like a magical fairy house, only lovelier than I ever imagined.
A cabin steward led us to an elevator then to our separate rooms.
I shared Cabin D-17 with three travelers from St. Ives, Cornwall--
Mrs. Agnes Davies and her young son, John,
and a girl about my age, Maud Sincock.
Our second-class room had four bunk beds,
freshly painted white walls, a polished mahogany dresser, and a wash basin.
It was all like a fantastic dream.
As I put my things away in the closet,
I glanced up and smiled at my reflection in the shiny glass mirror.
Titanic set sail at noon, and the flutter in my stomach had quieted down.
It had been twenty years since Dad had seen his brother,
and he was looking forward to their happy reunion.
Uncle William and my Aunt Bessie had a daughter.
Ethel was two years younger than I.
I’d only known them from photographs and letters,
so I looked forward to meeting them.
At lunchtime, we headed for the dining saloon.
The long room was elegant with oak panels,
rows of mahogany tables, and swivel chairs with fancy crimson upholstery.
And at the far end of the dining room, there was a piano!
Joining us at our table was a friendly couple and their two lovely daughters.
After our meal, Dad and I were anxious to explore the ship.
We climbed the stairs then took a leisurely stroll along the sun deck,
counting the covered lifeboats hanging from the davits.
Father grew sleepy, so while he relaxed on a deck chair to enjoy the ocean view,
I joined in on deck games—shuffleboard and ring toss.
And later after dinner, I played a game of backgammon in the library.
Dad retreated to the smoking room with some of the other men.
Our days at sea were passing by too quickly.
I almost didn’t want them to end, but I knew they must.
Then, on Sunday night, April 14th,
As I lay awake in bed, a tremendous shock gave me a start.
Desperately frightened, I rushed into the corridor with Mrs. Davies.
Our cabin steward assured us it was nothing to be alarmed about.
I was not convinced. Something felt amiss.
Dad came by our room and I accompanied him to the open deck.
There, we stood back and watched as sailors pulled tarps off the lifeboats.
One of the crew shouted, “All on deck with lifebelts on!”
I hurried below to alert my cabin companions.
With our lifejackets on, Dad and I hurried back to the upper deck.
I shivered from the cold. In my haste, I’d forgotten my coat.
An officer called, “Women and children first!”
Father walked me over to the lifeboat on the port side.
He kissed me on my cheek and helped me into the boat.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll join you later.”
As the small boat lurched toward the sea, a man jumped in.
Once on the water, sailors took to the oars and pulled away from the ship.
Then came what sounded like an explosion.
I watched in disbelief as the Titanic dove into the ocean.
Those left aboard were tossed into the icy sea.
I could never forget their cries for help. It was awful.
And to know my dear father suffered such a tragedy
was too terrible to even think about.
I almost felt I would have liked to have died with him.
The monstrous ship as high as the Royal Clarence Hotel was gone.
Our boat drifted along in the calm sea.
There was nary a ripple.
Thousands upon thousands of stars shone bright.
In the bone-chilling night, we nearly froze to death.
Then in mid-ocean, several of the lifeboats were tied together
to help make us more visible to a rescue ship.
With room in our boat, we took on more passengers
from the ones that were overcrowded.
Before the sun rose and the dark began to slip away,
I glanced around at the pale, ghostlike faces of those who survived this horrible night.
But how much longer could any of us last?
Was a ship coming?
Then a sharp sound of a whistle grabbed our attention.
Across the waves, we spotted an upside-down life-raft and rowed toward her.
Standing on top of the boat were men, some looking near collapse.
Carefully, they balanced themselves on the bottom of the overturned boat.
The survivors were assisted into our lifeboats,
and still holding onto hope, I searched for my father’s face--
When I saw that Dad was not among them, I cried.
Then blue lights appeared in the sky—rockets.
A ship came into view.
At last, we were saved!
Steaming through fog and a dreadful lightning storm,
our rescue ship—the RMS Carpathia—arrived in New York on Thursday night.
With the other survivors, I made my way down the gangplank.
Somewhere from within the enormous crowd, I heard my name called.
A man waved his arms above his head. “Alice! Alice!”
I recognized him from an old photograph. “Uncle William?”
He approached me and I dissolved into tears.
“Dad is gone. I’m afraid I shall never see my poor father again.”
I collapsed into his arms and sobbed.
After the shipwreck, I became seriously ill.
Once I regained my health, I was trained as a stenographer for my uncle’s workplace.
And while I appreciated Uncle William’s and his family’s generosity,
I felt horribly lonesome for my grandmother and relatives in England.
So, nine months after Dad and I had left Southampton together,
I sailed back alone on the Baltic to Liverpool.
Note: Alice returned to England and married Henry Leslie Mead on February 5, 1916. Five years later, their only child, Josephine, was born. Then in 1923, Alice died of influenza. And several months later, her infant followed her mother in death.
Second-class, 21 years old, Lifeboat 12
The Women of Cabin D-17
As an only child, I felt responsible for taking care of my father
after losing my mother from tuberculosis.
Dad was always so good to me.
Since I was very small, I looked up to him.
He’d once worked at the Royal Clarence Hotel,
the first inn in all of England to be given the title hotel.
Mum used to say she ran her own hotel of sorts—a boarding house.
Dad and I both missed her terribly.
Without her, our home felt cold as ice—empty.
So, after receiving a letter from Uncle William,
we decided to take his advice and move to America.
A factory foreman position waited for my father in New Brighton, Pennsylvania.
We sold our home and purchased tickets aboard the SS Philadelphia,
but due to a national coal strike, our passage had been transferred to the RMS Titanic.
My mind swirled with dreams of grandeur,
because we’d be among the first passengers to sail on this brand-new ship.
On the morning of April 9th,
we took a nine-hour train ride from Ilfracombe to Southampton.
At our hotel there, I wrote Grandmother, describing the ocean liner docked at berth 44.
“Dad and I have been to look at the Titanic.
It is a monstrous great boat as high as the Clarence Hotel and I cannot tell you how long!
We are going to embark tomorrow after breakfast.”
When morning sun peered through the gap in the drawn curtains,
I quickly dressed and was ready for my first ocean voyage.
As we stepped inside the grand ship, I could not believe my eyes.
It was like a magical fairy house, only lovelier than I ever imagined.
A cabin steward led us to an elevator then to our separate rooms.
I shared Cabin D-17 with three travelers from St. Ives, Cornwall--
Mrs. Agnes Davies and her young son, John,
and a girl about my age, Maud Sincock.
Our second-class room had four bunk beds,
freshly painted white walls, a polished mahogany dresser, and a wash basin.
It was all like a fantastic dream.
As I put my things away in the closet,
I glanced up and smiled at my reflection in the shiny glass mirror.
Titanic set sail at noon, and the flutter in my stomach had quieted down.
It had been twenty years since Dad had seen his brother,
and he was looking forward to their happy reunion.
Uncle William and my Aunt Bessie had a daughter.
Ethel was two years younger than I.
I’d only known them from photographs and letters,
so I looked forward to meeting them.
At lunchtime, we headed for the dining saloon.
The long room was elegant with oak panels,
rows of mahogany tables, and swivel chairs with fancy crimson upholstery.
And at the far end of the dining room, there was a piano!
Joining us at our table was a friendly couple and their two lovely daughters.
After our meal, Dad and I were anxious to explore the ship.
We climbed the stairs then took a leisurely stroll along the sun deck,
counting the covered lifeboats hanging from the davits.
Father grew sleepy, so while he relaxed on a deck chair to enjoy the ocean view,
I joined in on deck games—shuffleboard and ring toss.
And later after dinner, I played a game of backgammon in the library.
Dad retreated to the smoking room with some of the other men.
Our days at sea were passing by too quickly.
I almost didn’t want them to end, but I knew they must.
Then, on Sunday night, April 14th,
As I lay awake in bed, a tremendous shock gave me a start.
Desperately frightened, I rushed into the corridor with Mrs. Davies.
Our cabin steward assured us it was nothing to be alarmed about.
I was not convinced. Something felt amiss.
Dad came by our room and I accompanied him to the open deck.
There, we stood back and watched as sailors pulled tarps off the lifeboats.
One of the crew shouted, “All on deck with lifebelts on!”
I hurried below to alert my cabin companions.
With our lifejackets on, Dad and I hurried back to the upper deck.
I shivered from the cold. In my haste, I’d forgotten my coat.
An officer called, “Women and children first!”
Father walked me over to the lifeboat on the port side.
He kissed me on my cheek and helped me into the boat.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll join you later.”
As the small boat lurched toward the sea, a man jumped in.
Once on the water, sailors took to the oars and pulled away from the ship.
Then came what sounded like an explosion.
I watched in disbelief as the Titanic dove into the ocean.
Those left aboard were tossed into the icy sea.
I could never forget their cries for help. It was awful.
And to know my dear father suffered such a tragedy
was too terrible to even think about.
I almost felt I would have liked to have died with him.
The monstrous ship as high as the Royal Clarence Hotel was gone.
Our boat drifted along in the calm sea.
There was nary a ripple.
Thousands upon thousands of stars shone bright.
In the bone-chilling night, we nearly froze to death.
Then in mid-ocean, several of the lifeboats were tied together
to help make us more visible to a rescue ship.
With room in our boat, we took on more passengers
from the ones that were overcrowded.
Before the sun rose and the dark began to slip away,
I glanced around at the pale, ghostlike faces of those who survived this horrible night.
But how much longer could any of us last?
Was a ship coming?
Then a sharp sound of a whistle grabbed our attention.
Across the waves, we spotted an upside-down life-raft and rowed toward her.
Standing on top of the boat were men, some looking near collapse.
Carefully, they balanced themselves on the bottom of the overturned boat.
The survivors were assisted into our lifeboats,
and still holding onto hope, I searched for my father’s face--
When I saw that Dad was not among them, I cried.
Then blue lights appeared in the sky—rockets.
A ship came into view.
At last, we were saved!
Steaming through fog and a dreadful lightning storm,
our rescue ship—the RMS Carpathia—arrived in New York on Thursday night.
With the other survivors, I made my way down the gangplank.
Somewhere from within the enormous crowd, I heard my name called.
A man waved his arms above his head. “Alice! Alice!”
I recognized him from an old photograph. “Uncle William?”
He approached me and I dissolved into tears.
“Dad is gone. I’m afraid I shall never see my poor father again.”
I collapsed into his arms and sobbed.
After the shipwreck, I became seriously ill.
Once I regained my health, I was trained as a stenographer for my uncle’s workplace.
And while I appreciated Uncle William’s and his family’s generosity,
I felt horribly lonesome for my grandmother and relatives in England.
So, nine months after Dad and I had left Southampton together,
I sailed back alone on the Baltic to Liverpool.
Note: Alice returned to England and married Henry Leslie Mead on February 5, 1916. Five years later, their only child, Josephine, was born. Then in 1923, Alice died of influenza. And several months later, her infant followed her mother in death.
