Helen Margaret Walton Bishop
First-class, 19 years old, Lifeboat 7
Dickinson and I extended our honeymoon, so we could return to New York
on the largest trans-Atlantic liner in the world—the RMS Titanic.
During our stay in France, we booked our first-class passage
and arrived at Cherbourg on the afternoon of April 10th.
We heard the steamer ship had been delayed, because of an unexpected mishap.
I cuddled my little dog Freu Freu that we acquired in Florence, Italy,
while the SS Nomadic, ferried us to the outer harbor to wait for the vessel.
We stood by for an hour.
At last her four smokestacks came into view.
Everyone marveled as the enormous ship steamed toward us.
Once aboard, Dickinson and I instantly fell under her fairytale-like magic
She was magnificent—romantic.
I felt like the luckiest bride.
The Titanic was the absolute perfect way to end our wedding vacation.
We enjoyed every moment at sea.
That Sunday night was especially delightful.
My husband and I marveled at the beautiful sunset.
The rest of that evening we spent in the lounge with friends.
Back in our lovely stateroom, Dickenson relaxed, reading a book.
Freu Freu slept in a cozy den I made for her behind two of my suitcases.
And I slipped beneath the cozy covers of our bed and drifted off to sleep.
Awakened by a gentle nudge, I met Dickinson’s concerned look.
“What’s the matter?” I whispered.
He felt something was amiss with the ship.
There was a peculiar noise and then her engines stopped.
Curious to why she had lost power,
we dressed warmly, hurried topside, and walked around the deck.
We exchanged quizzical glances when we found quite a lot of ice on the foredeck.
There, a ship steward met us and laughed.
“You go back downstairs,” he said. “There is nothing to be afraid of.
We have only struck a piece of ice and steered passed it.”
Taking his advice, we returned to our cozy room.
In our stateroom, Dickinson continued to read his book.
I crawled back into my warm, comfortable bed.
Hardly five minutes had gone by when my husband’s elderly friend,
Albert Stewart, pounded on our stateroom door.
He strongly urged us to meet him on the boat deck.
We dressed and met him upstairs,
where we also joined our friends John and Madeline Astor.
Everyone shouted as the smoke stacks blew off steam,
making it difficult to hear one another speak.
I felt chilled, so Dickinson returned to our cabin to retrieve my muff.
While he was away, Colonel John Astor had a private word with Captain Smith.
The captain suggested we put on our lifejackets.
I hurried back to our room to tell my husband.
Dickinson snugly tied on my life-vest.
Freu Freu tugged at the hem of my dress.
She wanted to go with us.
Dickenson nudged me into the corridor.
My poor little dog whined and scratched from behind the locked door.
“I’ll be back,” I promised her.
My husband took my hand. “Hurry, darling.”
We met our circle of new friends on the starboard foredeck.
The crew prepared and swung out the lifeboats.
“Put in the brides and grooms first,” someone suggested.
Madeleine thought it was silly. “Titanic can’t possibly sink,” she said.
From the davits, a small boat hung seventy-five feet above the sea.
Mr. Stewart gathered us along with another couple, George and Dorothy Harder.
“You kiddies stay together and get in the first lifeboat. I’ll be right back here.”
Dickinson and I boarded the small boat.
The Harders and two other newly married couples joined us in Lifeboat 7.
On deck, Albert Stewart stood back with about fifty others, mostly men.
Then he walked off and went back inside.
We had pulled about a hundred yards away from the ship
when I noticed the bottom row of brightly lit portholes disappear beneath the sea.
About a mile away, the second row of deck lights vanished.
Soon the third hauntingly settled beneath the dark, calm waves.
We took a count of how many were in our lifeboat--
twenty-eight in all, including three crew members.
I thought of the others who were hesitant to enter our boat.
Surely John and Madeline had gotten into another one.
And sweet grandfatherly Mr. Stewart—I prayed for his safety.
Everyone took a turn at the oars except for Baron von Drachstedt,
who refused to row and sat smoking his obnoxious pipe,
After nearly two hours rowing, our muscles ached to the bone.
We were now too far away to see the faces of those left aboard the ship,
but I could make out the black masses of human forms clinging to the deck rails.
I gasped as the Titanic dipped forward into the sea,
her nose pointing downward like an enormous whale submerging head-first.
And once she was gone, death cries and groans arose from the dark ocean.
Oh dear, God, my little Freu Freu! I should never have left her.
I buried my head against Dickinson’s shoulder and wept.
For hours, we drifted in silence.
Feeling sorry for a little girl shivering from the dreadful cold,
I pulled off my stockings and handed them to her.
As the night wore on, our morale sank lower.
And though I felt we might perish, I attempted to ignite a spark of hope.
“Listen, everyone,” I said. “An Egyptian fortune teller predicted I’d survive a shipwreck
and an earthquake, but a motor car accident would end my life.
So, we have to be rescued for the rest of my prophecy to come true.”
At early dawn, a rescue ship was spotted and we all gave a Hurrah!
After our horrific ordeal at sea,
Dickinson and I spent our summer vacation in California.
In the middle of the night, we were jolted awake by a beastly roar--earthquake!
The temblor sent an oil painting of a Spanish mission crashing to the red-tiled floor.
At last, the rumbling and shaking stopped.
“It’s just like the Egyptian fortune teller predicted,” I said.
Dickinson hugged me tight. “It’s only a coincidence, dear.”
California is famous for earthquakes.
Eight months after the sinking of the Titanic,
I gave birth to our beautiful son, Randall Walton Bishop.
Ten tiny toes and fingers—he looked perfect.
But a few days later, we lost him and lay him to rest.
Mother said I was still young and could carry more children.
But all I wanted was my baby boy to fill my empty arms.
A year had passed and Dickinson and I hoped our difficult times were over.
We now looked toward our future with shiny optimism.
To celebrate our second anniversary,
we drove to the Country Club in Kalamazoo for a night of dancing.
Friends joined us.
In the early morning, we were motoring toward home.
when the car swerved out of control and struck a tree.
I was thrown twenty-five feet away from the automobile.
My injuries were severe and I was not expected to live.
The surgeon removed a portion of my skull and brain,
and a silver plate was placed in my head.
Miraculously, I survived the operation.
Dickinson had only minor injuries.
After the accident, my husband complained about how much I had changed.
“Moody,” he said. Not the adventurous and fun girl he’d married.
I filed for divorce and it was granted on the grounds of his drunkenness and cruelty.
On March, 1916, while visiting a friend I slipped on a rug and struck my head.
Mother and Father rushed to my side.
My misfortune was published in the Dowagiac Daily News.
Headlines on the left side of the page read:
Helen Walton Bishop Dies Suddenly Today In Danville Hospital
OLD ACCIDENT TROUBLE IS THE MAIN CAUSE
Dickinson made his own headlines on the same page.
D.H. Bishop Is Married At Atlanta
START ON HONEYMOON
Will Spend Two or Three Months in Honolulu.
I wish Dickinson and his new bride good fortune and a happy life.
Note: Helen Margaret Walton Bishop was an only child. At the time of her death, she was 23 years old. Helen was buried beside her infant son at Oak Lawn Cemetery in Sturgis, St. Joseph, Michigan. And though she did not die in a car accident per se, her head injury, resulting from a previous automobile crash, indirectly contributed to her death. So, in some strange way, in the end, Helen had fulfilled the Egyptian fortune teller’s prophecy.
First-class, 19 years old, Lifeboat 7
Dickinson and I extended our honeymoon, so we could return to New York
on the largest trans-Atlantic liner in the world—the RMS Titanic.
During our stay in France, we booked our first-class passage
and arrived at Cherbourg on the afternoon of April 10th.
We heard the steamer ship had been delayed, because of an unexpected mishap.
I cuddled my little dog Freu Freu that we acquired in Florence, Italy,
while the SS Nomadic, ferried us to the outer harbor to wait for the vessel.
We stood by for an hour.
At last her four smokestacks came into view.
Everyone marveled as the enormous ship steamed toward us.
Once aboard, Dickinson and I instantly fell under her fairytale-like magic
She was magnificent—romantic.
I felt like the luckiest bride.
The Titanic was the absolute perfect way to end our wedding vacation.
We enjoyed every moment at sea.
That Sunday night was especially delightful.
My husband and I marveled at the beautiful sunset.
The rest of that evening we spent in the lounge with friends.
Back in our lovely stateroom, Dickenson relaxed, reading a book.
Freu Freu slept in a cozy den I made for her behind two of my suitcases.
And I slipped beneath the cozy covers of our bed and drifted off to sleep.
Awakened by a gentle nudge, I met Dickinson’s concerned look.
“What’s the matter?” I whispered.
He felt something was amiss with the ship.
There was a peculiar noise and then her engines stopped.
Curious to why she had lost power,
we dressed warmly, hurried topside, and walked around the deck.
We exchanged quizzical glances when we found quite a lot of ice on the foredeck.
There, a ship steward met us and laughed.
“You go back downstairs,” he said. “There is nothing to be afraid of.
We have only struck a piece of ice and steered passed it.”
Taking his advice, we returned to our cozy room.
In our stateroom, Dickinson continued to read his book.
I crawled back into my warm, comfortable bed.
Hardly five minutes had gone by when my husband’s elderly friend,
Albert Stewart, pounded on our stateroom door.
He strongly urged us to meet him on the boat deck.
We dressed and met him upstairs,
where we also joined our friends John and Madeline Astor.
Everyone shouted as the smoke stacks blew off steam,
making it difficult to hear one another speak.
I felt chilled, so Dickinson returned to our cabin to retrieve my muff.
While he was away, Colonel John Astor had a private word with Captain Smith.
The captain suggested we put on our lifejackets.
I hurried back to our room to tell my husband.
Dickinson snugly tied on my life-vest.
Freu Freu tugged at the hem of my dress.
She wanted to go with us.
Dickenson nudged me into the corridor.
My poor little dog whined and scratched from behind the locked door.
“I’ll be back,” I promised her.
My husband took my hand. “Hurry, darling.”
We met our circle of new friends on the starboard foredeck.
The crew prepared and swung out the lifeboats.
“Put in the brides and grooms first,” someone suggested.
Madeleine thought it was silly. “Titanic can’t possibly sink,” she said.
From the davits, a small boat hung seventy-five feet above the sea.
Mr. Stewart gathered us along with another couple, George and Dorothy Harder.
“You kiddies stay together and get in the first lifeboat. I’ll be right back here.”
Dickinson and I boarded the small boat.
The Harders and two other newly married couples joined us in Lifeboat 7.
On deck, Albert Stewart stood back with about fifty others, mostly men.
Then he walked off and went back inside.
We had pulled about a hundred yards away from the ship
when I noticed the bottom row of brightly lit portholes disappear beneath the sea.
About a mile away, the second row of deck lights vanished.
Soon the third hauntingly settled beneath the dark, calm waves.
We took a count of how many were in our lifeboat--
twenty-eight in all, including three crew members.
I thought of the others who were hesitant to enter our boat.
Surely John and Madeline had gotten into another one.
And sweet grandfatherly Mr. Stewart—I prayed for his safety.
Everyone took a turn at the oars except for Baron von Drachstedt,
who refused to row and sat smoking his obnoxious pipe,
After nearly two hours rowing, our muscles ached to the bone.
We were now too far away to see the faces of those left aboard the ship,
but I could make out the black masses of human forms clinging to the deck rails.
I gasped as the Titanic dipped forward into the sea,
her nose pointing downward like an enormous whale submerging head-first.
And once she was gone, death cries and groans arose from the dark ocean.
Oh dear, God, my little Freu Freu! I should never have left her.
I buried my head against Dickinson’s shoulder and wept.
For hours, we drifted in silence.
Feeling sorry for a little girl shivering from the dreadful cold,
I pulled off my stockings and handed them to her.
As the night wore on, our morale sank lower.
And though I felt we might perish, I attempted to ignite a spark of hope.
“Listen, everyone,” I said. “An Egyptian fortune teller predicted I’d survive a shipwreck
and an earthquake, but a motor car accident would end my life.
So, we have to be rescued for the rest of my prophecy to come true.”
At early dawn, a rescue ship was spotted and we all gave a Hurrah!
After our horrific ordeal at sea,
Dickinson and I spent our summer vacation in California.
In the middle of the night, we were jolted awake by a beastly roar--earthquake!
The temblor sent an oil painting of a Spanish mission crashing to the red-tiled floor.
At last, the rumbling and shaking stopped.
“It’s just like the Egyptian fortune teller predicted,” I said.
Dickinson hugged me tight. “It’s only a coincidence, dear.”
California is famous for earthquakes.
Eight months after the sinking of the Titanic,
I gave birth to our beautiful son, Randall Walton Bishop.
Ten tiny toes and fingers—he looked perfect.
But a few days later, we lost him and lay him to rest.
Mother said I was still young and could carry more children.
But all I wanted was my baby boy to fill my empty arms.
A year had passed and Dickinson and I hoped our difficult times were over.
We now looked toward our future with shiny optimism.
To celebrate our second anniversary,
we drove to the Country Club in Kalamazoo for a night of dancing.
Friends joined us.
In the early morning, we were motoring toward home.
when the car swerved out of control and struck a tree.
I was thrown twenty-five feet away from the automobile.
My injuries were severe and I was not expected to live.
The surgeon removed a portion of my skull and brain,
and a silver plate was placed in my head.
Miraculously, I survived the operation.
Dickinson had only minor injuries.
After the accident, my husband complained about how much I had changed.
“Moody,” he said. Not the adventurous and fun girl he’d married.
I filed for divorce and it was granted on the grounds of his drunkenness and cruelty.
On March, 1916, while visiting a friend I slipped on a rug and struck my head.
Mother and Father rushed to my side.
My misfortune was published in the Dowagiac Daily News.
Headlines on the left side of the page read:
Helen Walton Bishop Dies Suddenly Today In Danville Hospital
OLD ACCIDENT TROUBLE IS THE MAIN CAUSE
Dickinson made his own headlines on the same page.
D.H. Bishop Is Married At Atlanta
START ON HONEYMOON
Will Spend Two or Three Months in Honolulu.
I wish Dickinson and his new bride good fortune and a happy life.
Note: Helen Margaret Walton Bishop was an only child. At the time of her death, she was 23 years old. Helen was buried beside her infant son at Oak Lawn Cemetery in Sturgis, St. Joseph, Michigan. And though she did not die in a car accident per se, her head injury, resulting from a previous automobile crash, indirectly contributed to her death. So, in some strange way, in the end, Helen had fulfilled the Egyptian fortune teller’s prophecy.
