Elizabeth Agnes Davies
50 years old, second-class, Lifeboat 14
Mother of passengers Joseph Charles Nicholls, 19 years old,
and John Davies, 9 years old

​The Women of Cabin D-17
 
Standing tall, I take in a deep breath
then walk across the stage of the Calumet Opera House. 
I slip behind the lectern and face the audience.
In the front row, a young man fidgets in his seat,
and I wonder if he had been a passenger aboard theTitanic,
could he have stolen his way into one of the twenty lifeboats?
My voice cracks as I begin my lecture.
 
“My third child, Joseph Charles, would have turned twenty in July.
I’m certain he would still be alive if we had only stayed put in St. Ives.
After my second husband died, I sold all of our belongings
and purchased second-class tickets aboard the RMS Titanic.
My daughter, Mary Ethel, who is married, remained in England.
We were traveling to Michigan to join my eldest son, Richard, and his wife.
Joseph was excited to see his big brother again.
He planned to start a boarding house business to help keep us out of debt
and take care of his younger brother, John, and me.
Joseph had a heart as big as the ship we sailed upon.
Back home, he took great pride as a member of the Boys Brigade.
 
Once we boarded Titanic at Southampton, we located our stateroom.
Joseph had a separate accommodation while John and I shared Cabin D-17
with my friend’s daughter Maude Sincock and a young woman, Alice Philips.
Miss Phillips was traveling with her widowed father.
At almost noon, we made our way to the second-class deck,
and with my boys at my side, I bid a tearful farewell to England.
 
Everything was shiny new on Titanic.
The ship stewards were eager to assist and please.
And to my delight, there was an electric lift.
Each day, the lift attendant whisked me off to C-Deck,
where I enjoyed afternoon tea in the library.
John delighted in games of marbles and playing ball with other children.
Joseph spent most of his time with friends his own age.
I’d never seen my boys so content.
Each bright morning brought us closer to living our dreams.
 
Then late Sunday night, we awoke to an unusual grinding sound.
Our steward assured us there was nothing to fear,
and we ought to return to our beds.
Mr. Phillips stopped by our cabin and he and Alice left to investigate.
The girl returned excitedly.
There’d been an accident and we were ordered to put on our lifebelts
and report to the lifeboat area at once.
Still, our steward assured us there was no cause for alarm.
 
Maude and I had already dressed.
I nudged John awake and helped him into his day clothes.
Joseph came to our room and assisted us with our lifejackets.
We followed other passengers up the stairs.
Joseph grabbed my elbow and steered me toward one of the lifeboats.
The officer shouted, “Women and children only!”
My boy helped little John and me into the boat dangling midair
then asked the officer in charge if he might also be allowed to enter.
He threatened to shoot him if he tried to get in.
I begged, “Please, sir, that’s my son. Won’t you let him come with us?
My sons are all I have in this world.”
But the officer turned a deaf ear to my pleas.
In his gray overcoat, Joseph stepped back into the crowd.
 
As our lifeboat dropped past the lighted windows,
some men slid down the davit ropes and thumped into our boat.
I wish Joseph had done the same,
but all his life, he’d been taught to respect authority.
With about fifty people in our boat, there was room for more.
So, I’ll never understand why Joseph couldn’t come with us.
The mere thought of his final moments on that ship haunts me.
 
My son’s body was found by the recovery ship CS Mackay-Bennett.
Beneath his gray coat, Joseph wore his blue suit, blue socks and black boots,
and his Boy’s Brigade belt.
The sailors buried him at sea and returned his personal belongings to me.
After five hours of not knowing if we’d be rescued,
a ship appeared out of the darkness—the RMS Carpathia.
We were saved.

​In New York, the White Star Line paid for John’s and my train fare,
gave us five dollars each, and box lunches for the remainder of our journey.
Richard and his wife met us at the train station in Mohawk, Michigan.
But without Joseph, our family circle was broken.”
 
I pause in my account and the theater falls silent.
The young man in the front row dabs at the corners of his eyes.
Stepping aside from the lectern,
I thank the audience for coming to hear my experience aboard the Titanic.
I only wish it had a happier ending.
 
Note: After the tragedy, the public wanted to learn more about the doomed ocean liner. They wanted more than what newspapers had to offer. To satisfy their curiosity, survivors like Elizabeth agreed to share their personal experiences aboard the ill-fated ship at public venues. Some speakers were paid while others refused payment. Either way, it must have been therapeutic for those who chose to talk about what happened to them and their loved ones in the wee hours of April 15, 1912, in the middle of the dark and icy North Atlantic. Elizabeth Agnes Davies remarried in 1921. She died in 1933.