Sarah Elizabeth Wilton Hodder Gill
21 years old, Widow of John William Gill
The moment I learned of the wreck of the Titanic,
I dropped to my knees and prayed my husband had been among its survivors.
But as days dragged by with no further word—hope waned.
Ten days after the accident,
I received an official letter from the White Star Line.
John was among the lost.
His body had been found by a recovery ship, the CS Mackay-Bennett.
The letter stated that his remains were sent to America for burial.
I crumpled onto the floor in an inconsolable heap.
I was in complete shock—disbelief.
Just two months earlier,
I had married the most wonderful man on St. Valentine’s Day.
at St. John’s the Evangelist, in Clevedon, Somerset.
We were the happiest couple in the world.
Now, he was gone—never to hold me in his safe arms again.
Thoughts began to float to the surface of my mind--
perhaps the body found was not John’s.
I clung to hope until a second letter arrived.
For a deposit, John’s remains would be returned to England.
White Star Line wanted to charge me to ship my husband’s body home?
The letter further stated that the White Star
could not be held responsible for the unfortunate accident.
Soon after, I received a handwritten letter from the CS Mackay-Bennet.
John was given a proper burial at sea by the crew.
And enclosed were my beloved’s personal belongings.
Weak-kneed, I dropped onto a chair
and like a fierce storm, my tears raged uncontrollably.
How did it all come to this, John—how?
As I rested my head against the wall, the pages of our life began to turn back.
Before falling in love, John and I had been childhood friends.
After he left England in 1907 for America,
he felt quite lonesome in Wisconsin.
My poor John missed his family and the mates he grew up with.
He wrote home often.
Though it was the two of us who exchanged letters faithfully,
soon postcards also arrived with darling little notes.
John always had a lovely way with words—a born poet.
I tucked all of them in a special keepsake box.
When he returned to England, we spent a lot of time together.
One day he dropped to his knee, and eloquently expressed in his way
how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
I quickly accepted his proposal before he changed his mind.
My darling husband had grand plans for our future.
Each time he spoke of America,
his eyes lit up like a child opening a gift from Father Christmas.
John wasn’t an ordinary dreamer.
He worked to make them come true.
America was where he wanted to raise his family—our children.
A boatload of brats, he’d say with a laugh.
His enthusiasm flowed like a fountain in a rose garden.
And with my heart bursting with affection for him,
I’d follow John around the globe, if he asked.
On April 9th, John had a train to catch to Southampton.
I missed him from the moment he kissed me good-bye,
though I planned to join him soon in America.
On the day Titanic sailed, he sent me a lovely postcard from the ship.
John wrote he had arrived at the dock too late to board the ocean liner.
He would have to wait until morning to check in.
Exhausted from his travels by train,
he spent the night in the backseat of a vacant taxi carriage.
The following day, he realized he had overslept and leapt out of the vehicle.
He nearly missed the Titanic’s maiden voyage.
Why couldn’t he have?
Months later, I received a large envelope from the Mackay-Bennett.
I sensed John’s sweet spirit gently nudge me to open it.
The handwritten letter stated my husband’s body was one of the 306 recovered.
It said, beneath John’s dark suit, he wore his pajamas.
Then opening the package wrapped in simple brown paper,
I discovered a white canvas bag marked with the numerals 155,
the number assigned to my husband after he was pulled out of the sea.
Taking a deep breath, I reached into the sack and pulled out his wedding band.
The ring was etched with his initials, J.W.G.,
a gold chain and pocket watch, its clock face frozen at 3:21 a.m.,
silver match box, his pocket knife, and comb.
I swallowed sobs as I clutched the container, holding the lead for his pencils,
and lifted out his pocket book of important papers, his keys, and
the money he had saved to start our new life.
In the corner of the bag was a collar stud John often wore.
As I came across a smaller envelope addressed to me,
the weight of emotion crashed upon me like the waves of a stormy sea.
My darling husband had written one last love letter to me.
For the next twenty years, I could not speak.
I had not a significant word to offer anyone
until the day I slipped and tumbled down a flight of stairs.
And like a weakened dam,
two decades of pent-up grief burst forth.
Note: Though, Sarah Gill was not a passenger aboard the RMS Titanic, she was one of many young widows left behind to deal with the weight of the tragedy. At the church where John and Sarah were married just two months prior, the congregation took up an offering for the widow, and on the church porch stood a large portrait of the couple on their wedding day. The congregations sang a special hymn composed by the Reverend C.R. Blathwaite. Sarah never remarried. She died in 1968 at the age of 77.
21 years old, Widow of John William Gill
The moment I learned of the wreck of the Titanic,
I dropped to my knees and prayed my husband had been among its survivors.
But as days dragged by with no further word—hope waned.
Ten days after the accident,
I received an official letter from the White Star Line.
John was among the lost.
His body had been found by a recovery ship, the CS Mackay-Bennett.
The letter stated that his remains were sent to America for burial.
I crumpled onto the floor in an inconsolable heap.
I was in complete shock—disbelief.
Just two months earlier,
I had married the most wonderful man on St. Valentine’s Day.
at St. John’s the Evangelist, in Clevedon, Somerset.
We were the happiest couple in the world.
Now, he was gone—never to hold me in his safe arms again.
Thoughts began to float to the surface of my mind--
perhaps the body found was not John’s.
I clung to hope until a second letter arrived.
For a deposit, John’s remains would be returned to England.
White Star Line wanted to charge me to ship my husband’s body home?
The letter further stated that the White Star
could not be held responsible for the unfortunate accident.
Soon after, I received a handwritten letter from the CS Mackay-Bennet.
John was given a proper burial at sea by the crew.
And enclosed were my beloved’s personal belongings.
Weak-kneed, I dropped onto a chair
and like a fierce storm, my tears raged uncontrollably.
How did it all come to this, John—how?
As I rested my head against the wall, the pages of our life began to turn back.
Before falling in love, John and I had been childhood friends.
After he left England in 1907 for America,
he felt quite lonesome in Wisconsin.
My poor John missed his family and the mates he grew up with.
He wrote home often.
Though it was the two of us who exchanged letters faithfully,
soon postcards also arrived with darling little notes.
John always had a lovely way with words—a born poet.
I tucked all of them in a special keepsake box.
When he returned to England, we spent a lot of time together.
One day he dropped to his knee, and eloquently expressed in his way
how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
I quickly accepted his proposal before he changed his mind.
My darling husband had grand plans for our future.
Each time he spoke of America,
his eyes lit up like a child opening a gift from Father Christmas.
John wasn’t an ordinary dreamer.
He worked to make them come true.
America was where he wanted to raise his family—our children.
A boatload of brats, he’d say with a laugh.
His enthusiasm flowed like a fountain in a rose garden.
And with my heart bursting with affection for him,
I’d follow John around the globe, if he asked.
On April 9th, John had a train to catch to Southampton.
I missed him from the moment he kissed me good-bye,
though I planned to join him soon in America.
On the day Titanic sailed, he sent me a lovely postcard from the ship.
John wrote he had arrived at the dock too late to board the ocean liner.
He would have to wait until morning to check in.
Exhausted from his travels by train,
he spent the night in the backseat of a vacant taxi carriage.
The following day, he realized he had overslept and leapt out of the vehicle.
He nearly missed the Titanic’s maiden voyage.
Why couldn’t he have?
Months later, I received a large envelope from the Mackay-Bennett.
I sensed John’s sweet spirit gently nudge me to open it.
The handwritten letter stated my husband’s body was one of the 306 recovered.
It said, beneath John’s dark suit, he wore his pajamas.
Then opening the package wrapped in simple brown paper,
I discovered a white canvas bag marked with the numerals 155,
the number assigned to my husband after he was pulled out of the sea.
Taking a deep breath, I reached into the sack and pulled out his wedding band.
The ring was etched with his initials, J.W.G.,
a gold chain and pocket watch, its clock face frozen at 3:21 a.m.,
silver match box, his pocket knife, and comb.
I swallowed sobs as I clutched the container, holding the lead for his pencils,
and lifted out his pocket book of important papers, his keys, and
the money he had saved to start our new life.
In the corner of the bag was a collar stud John often wore.
As I came across a smaller envelope addressed to me,
the weight of emotion crashed upon me like the waves of a stormy sea.
My darling husband had written one last love letter to me.
For the next twenty years, I could not speak.
I had not a significant word to offer anyone
until the day I slipped and tumbled down a flight of stairs.
And like a weakened dam,
two decades of pent-up grief burst forth.
Note: Though, Sarah Gill was not a passenger aboard the RMS Titanic, she was one of many young widows left behind to deal with the weight of the tragedy. At the church where John and Sarah were married just two months prior, the congregation took up an offering for the widow, and on the church porch stood a large portrait of the couple on their wedding day. The congregations sang a special hymn composed by the Reverend C.R. Blathwaite. Sarah never remarried. She died in 1968 at the age of 77.
