William T. Sloper
First-class, 28 years old, Lifeboat 7
Streaks of lightning lit up the stormy sky
as our rescue ship, the RMS Carpathia, slipped into New York Harbor.
My father and elder brother, Harold, met me at the dock
and whisked me off to the Waldorf-Astoria.
It was eleven o’clock at night, and I hadn’t eaten since noon.
Father ordered room service.
Just as I began to have my late dinner, there was a knock.
An onslaught of persistent reporters met Harold at the door.
Since I had already decided to offer my personal account of the sinking
to my friend, Jack Vance, the editor of the New Britain Herald,
I declined all other interviews.
One reporter attempted to rush past my brother.
The other journalists crowded around, shouting questions.
Harold, who is a six-footer like me,
pressed his forearm under the persistent reporter’s chin,
then with the force of his arm, pressed against the man’s Adam’s apple,
shoved him and the others back into the hall,
and slammed the door.
I hadn’t given the incident any more thought until a few days later
when a letter from an acquaintance arrived at my home.
Out slipped the front page of the New York Journal-American.
A bold headline caught my eye.
William T. Sloper, son of a prominent Connecticut banker,
rescued from the Titanic disguised in a woman’s nightgown.
My hands began to shake.
I knew the spiteful story had to have been written by that brazen reporter.
Who else?
I crumpled the malicious article and tossed it into the fireplace.
In the days to follow, I received clippings of the same news story
from family, friends, and even some unknown cranks.
Furious, I wanted to go after Hearst’s International Wire Service,
and sue the reporter for libel.
But Father strongly advised against it.
He felt certain the public would soon lose interest
and move on to the next sensationalized story.
Yet, to this day, my honor as a gentleman remains questionable.
So, once and for all, I’d like to set the record straight.
Here is the unvarnished truth.
I did not disguise myself as a woman to steal my way into Lifeboat 7.
Actress Dorothy Gibson is the reason I survived the sinking of the Titanic.
I met her in the lounge just a few hours before the accident.
She walked over to the desk where I had been writing letters
and invited me to play bridge with her group.
I found it difficult to resist her charm and beauty.
After I finished my thank-you notes to my London friends,
I joined the trio at their table across the room.
Dorothy introduced me to her mother, Pauline,
and Frederic Seward, a gentleman from her church.
I warned them that I wasn’t very good at playing cards.
“It’s all in good fun,” Frederic said.
We had a pleasant evening.
At half-past eleven, a library steward asked us to finish our game.
None of us wanted the night to end, but naturally we complied.
As I held the door open for the ladies, the lounge lights dimmed.
Dorothy mentioned she planned to take a brisk walk before going to bed.
I thought I’d join her.
So, I bid good night to Mrs. Gibson and Frederic
then dashed to my stateroom to retrieve my coat and hat.
As I waited for Dorothy at the top of the Grand Staircase,
a sudden lurch nearly knocked me off my feet.
Dorothy darted up the steps.
We hurried to the top deck on the starboard side
and spied something white looming out of the black sea.
It swiftly vanished beyond the stern into the starlit night.
The ship’s engines stopped.
I noticed Titanic had a slight keel to the left.
Dorothy hurried back to her room to alert her mother.
They quickly returned with Frederic
and we all headed toward the upper deck.
Making a full loop around,
I had the oddest sensation that I was walking downhill.
Still, I did not feel we were in any serious danger.
Back at our original starting point, fellow passengers had gathered,
some still dressed in their night clothes.
An officer instructed all passengers to put on their life-preservers.
Following orders, we returned to our rooms to get our lifebelts.
Once back on deck, we helped one another adjust them properly
while the sailors prepared the lifeboats.
The growing crowd appeared calm—except for Dorothy, who became quite hysterical.
She repeated loudly, “I’ll never ride in my little gray car again!”
It was evident that she wanted everyone around us to hear her.
The officer shouted through a megaphone,
“Any passengers who would like to do so may get into this lifeboat.”
Men and women moved forward to enter the boat.
Others balked and stepped back.
Why would I leave the comforts of a well-lit ship for a raft paddling in the dark?
Nevertheless, Frederic and I helped the officers assist Dorothy and her mother
into the bow of the small boat.
Dorothy grabbed my hand. “We won’t go unless you do!”
She threatened to jump back onto the ship if we didn’t agree.
I glanced at Frederic. “What do you say?”
He gave a shrug. “We may as well go along with them.”
Frederic and I took our seats in the near-empty boat.
From the lifeboat, I peered at the undecided faces staring down at us.
Nineteen more passengers entered our boat.
The officer raised his megaphone.
“Are there any more who would like to get in before we lower away?”
When no one else moved toward the officer,
he gave a signal to the three sailors at the fall lines.
And we slowly descended seventy feet to the ocean below.
So, once again to clear the record,
I did not steal my way onto a lifeboat disguised as a woman.
My life was spared because of a very persuasive actress
who refused to leave without Frederic and me.
Indeed, I owe my life to Miss Dorothy Gibson.
If not for her, I most likely would have been among the unfortunate souls who perished
on that awful and most unforgettable night.
Note:
William T. Sloper was not the only male vilified for entering a lifeboat. There were many who experienced the same public scrutiny. Why were some men allowed in lifeboats when others were not? The unwritten rule of the sea was “Women and children only.” On this fateful night, if you happened to be on the port side of the ship, there was no bending this rule unless you were asked by an officer to assist in manning a lifeboat.
On the starboard side of the ship, the rule was a bit different, “Women and children first.” When there were no other women or children in the area to be found, men were allowed into the boats. Lucky for Mr. Sloper, he and his new friends were on the starboard side of the upper deck where Lifeboat 7 was the first to be launched from the Titanic one hour after the ship collided with the iceberg.
At this early stage, many passengers felt confident staying on the “practically unsinkable” ship. Sloper’s final lucky straw came when silent film actress, Dorothy Gibson, pleaded with the two men to enter the lifeboat, even going so far as to threaten to jump back onto the deck. William F. Sloper and Frederic Seward were among the small number of fortunate men who escaped the doomed ocean liner.
William T. Sloper was a retired stockbroker and well-known in financial circles. In 1915, he married Helen Talmadge Lindenberg and together they raised her three daughters from a previous marriage. On May 1, 1955, he died of a cerebral hemorrhage. He was 71 years old.
With so many women and children who tragically perished in the sinking, William spent the remainder of his life defending himself from those who accused him of stealing a seat aboard one of twenty lifeboats disguised as a woman.
First-class, 28 years old, Lifeboat 7
Streaks of lightning lit up the stormy sky
as our rescue ship, the RMS Carpathia, slipped into New York Harbor.
My father and elder brother, Harold, met me at the dock
and whisked me off to the Waldorf-Astoria.
It was eleven o’clock at night, and I hadn’t eaten since noon.
Father ordered room service.
Just as I began to have my late dinner, there was a knock.
An onslaught of persistent reporters met Harold at the door.
Since I had already decided to offer my personal account of the sinking
to my friend, Jack Vance, the editor of the New Britain Herald,
I declined all other interviews.
One reporter attempted to rush past my brother.
The other journalists crowded around, shouting questions.
Harold, who is a six-footer like me,
pressed his forearm under the persistent reporter’s chin,
then with the force of his arm, pressed against the man’s Adam’s apple,
shoved him and the others back into the hall,
and slammed the door.
I hadn’t given the incident any more thought until a few days later
when a letter from an acquaintance arrived at my home.
Out slipped the front page of the New York Journal-American.
A bold headline caught my eye.
William T. Sloper, son of a prominent Connecticut banker,
rescued from the Titanic disguised in a woman’s nightgown.
My hands began to shake.
I knew the spiteful story had to have been written by that brazen reporter.
Who else?
I crumpled the malicious article and tossed it into the fireplace.
In the days to follow, I received clippings of the same news story
from family, friends, and even some unknown cranks.
Furious, I wanted to go after Hearst’s International Wire Service,
and sue the reporter for libel.
But Father strongly advised against it.
He felt certain the public would soon lose interest
and move on to the next sensationalized story.
Yet, to this day, my honor as a gentleman remains questionable.
So, once and for all, I’d like to set the record straight.
Here is the unvarnished truth.
I did not disguise myself as a woman to steal my way into Lifeboat 7.
Actress Dorothy Gibson is the reason I survived the sinking of the Titanic.
I met her in the lounge just a few hours before the accident.
She walked over to the desk where I had been writing letters
and invited me to play bridge with her group.
I found it difficult to resist her charm and beauty.
After I finished my thank-you notes to my London friends,
I joined the trio at their table across the room.
Dorothy introduced me to her mother, Pauline,
and Frederic Seward, a gentleman from her church.
I warned them that I wasn’t very good at playing cards.
“It’s all in good fun,” Frederic said.
We had a pleasant evening.
At half-past eleven, a library steward asked us to finish our game.
None of us wanted the night to end, but naturally we complied.
As I held the door open for the ladies, the lounge lights dimmed.
Dorothy mentioned she planned to take a brisk walk before going to bed.
I thought I’d join her.
So, I bid good night to Mrs. Gibson and Frederic
then dashed to my stateroom to retrieve my coat and hat.
As I waited for Dorothy at the top of the Grand Staircase,
a sudden lurch nearly knocked me off my feet.
Dorothy darted up the steps.
We hurried to the top deck on the starboard side
and spied something white looming out of the black sea.
It swiftly vanished beyond the stern into the starlit night.
The ship’s engines stopped.
I noticed Titanic had a slight keel to the left.
Dorothy hurried back to her room to alert her mother.
They quickly returned with Frederic
and we all headed toward the upper deck.
Making a full loop around,
I had the oddest sensation that I was walking downhill.
Still, I did not feel we were in any serious danger.
Back at our original starting point, fellow passengers had gathered,
some still dressed in their night clothes.
An officer instructed all passengers to put on their life-preservers.
Following orders, we returned to our rooms to get our lifebelts.
Once back on deck, we helped one another adjust them properly
while the sailors prepared the lifeboats.
The growing crowd appeared calm—except for Dorothy, who became quite hysterical.
She repeated loudly, “I’ll never ride in my little gray car again!”
It was evident that she wanted everyone around us to hear her.
The officer shouted through a megaphone,
“Any passengers who would like to do so may get into this lifeboat.”
Men and women moved forward to enter the boat.
Others balked and stepped back.
Why would I leave the comforts of a well-lit ship for a raft paddling in the dark?
Nevertheless, Frederic and I helped the officers assist Dorothy and her mother
into the bow of the small boat.
Dorothy grabbed my hand. “We won’t go unless you do!”
She threatened to jump back onto the ship if we didn’t agree.
I glanced at Frederic. “What do you say?”
He gave a shrug. “We may as well go along with them.”
Frederic and I took our seats in the near-empty boat.
From the lifeboat, I peered at the undecided faces staring down at us.
Nineteen more passengers entered our boat.
The officer raised his megaphone.
“Are there any more who would like to get in before we lower away?”
When no one else moved toward the officer,
he gave a signal to the three sailors at the fall lines.
And we slowly descended seventy feet to the ocean below.
So, once again to clear the record,
I did not steal my way onto a lifeboat disguised as a woman.
My life was spared because of a very persuasive actress
who refused to leave without Frederic and me.
Indeed, I owe my life to Miss Dorothy Gibson.
If not for her, I most likely would have been among the unfortunate souls who perished
on that awful and most unforgettable night.
Note:
William T. Sloper was not the only male vilified for entering a lifeboat. There were many who experienced the same public scrutiny. Why were some men allowed in lifeboats when others were not? The unwritten rule of the sea was “Women and children only.” On this fateful night, if you happened to be on the port side of the ship, there was no bending this rule unless you were asked by an officer to assist in manning a lifeboat.
On the starboard side of the ship, the rule was a bit different, “Women and children first.” When there were no other women or children in the area to be found, men were allowed into the boats. Lucky for Mr. Sloper, he and his new friends were on the starboard side of the upper deck where Lifeboat 7 was the first to be launched from the Titanic one hour after the ship collided with the iceberg.
At this early stage, many passengers felt confident staying on the “practically unsinkable” ship. Sloper’s final lucky straw came when silent film actress, Dorothy Gibson, pleaded with the two men to enter the lifeboat, even going so far as to threaten to jump back onto the deck. William F. Sloper and Frederic Seward were among the small number of fortunate men who escaped the doomed ocean liner.
William T. Sloper was a retired stockbroker and well-known in financial circles. In 1915, he married Helen Talmadge Lindenberg and together they raised her three daughters from a previous marriage. On May 1, 1955, he died of a cerebral hemorrhage. He was 71 years old.
With so many women and children who tragically perished in the sinking, William spent the remainder of his life defending himself from those who accused him of stealing a seat aboard one of twenty lifeboats disguised as a woman.
