Charles Tilden Hill was born in Richmond, Virginia, in the United States of America, on 18th November 1878, the son of Charles Emmet and Elizabeth D. Hill. His father was a plumber, and he was one of four children, although by 1900, one of his siblings had died.
He lived, and worked as a bill collector, in Richmond City, Virginia, up until 1900, and then in 1901, he arrived in England as the London director of The British American Tobacco Company of 111, 5th. Avenue, New York.
On the 29th December 1903, he married Anita Alexandria Jeffress in Acton, London. The couple had two sons – Charles William, born in New York in May 1910, and Albert Henry, born in Harrow in July 1913.
In 1913, he set up home with his wife and two children at 12, Lyon Road, Harrow, Middlesex, having previously lived in Hampstead, London.
He was a frequent trans-Atlantic business traveller, and on 17th April 1915, he and his family left Liverpool for New York, together with his children’s nurse, on the last east to west voyage of the
Lusitania. His wife was returning to her native country for health reasons, and on the liner’s arrival there, she, the children, and their nurse, carried on to the home of her sister in Berkeley, California, whilst he conducted business in New York, before boarding the liner once again on the morning of 1st May at her berth at Pier 54, in time for her scheduled 10.00 a.m. sailing, for his return to London.
Once on board - with ticket number 9956 - he was escorted to room B110, which was the personal responsibility of First Class Bedroom Steward Percy Penny, who came from Aigburth, a district of Liverpool. The liner’s sailing was then delayed until the afternoon as she had to embark passengers, crew and cargo from the Anchor Liner Cameronia
which had been requisitioned by the British Admiralty for war service as a troop ship, at the end of April.
The Lusitania finally left port just after mid-day. and not long afterwards, Hill was marginally involved in a curious incident later described by authors Des Hickey and Gus Smith in their book
Seven Days to Disaster, published in 1981: -
During the customary search for stowaways after the liner sailed, the master-at-arms had surprised three men in a steward's pantry near the Grand Entrance on the shelter deck. Staff Captain Anderson confronted the men, demanding to know who they were, but they refused to give him any information. Suspecting they might be Germans, he sent for the ship's detective William Pierpoint and the interpreter Adolph Pederson.
Anderson knew of the German threats to the Lusitania, but nothing of the espionage ring. When Pierpoint formally arrested the men, Anderson decided to take them to Liverpool for questioning by the authorities. After Pederson confirmed they were Germans the men were locked in the ship's cells. Pierpoint questioned them again later, but was unable to learn if there had been an attempt to plant explosives on the Lusitania.
Charles Hill had been chatting with Anderson when one of the masters-at-arms had come hurrying along the deck with the news of the men's discovery. Hill asked the Staff Captain what had happened. “We have arrested three German suspects,” Anderson admitted, “and locked them in the cells.” Why hadn't they been ferried to the Carmania or sent back to New York Hill wanted to know. Anderson dodged the question. “Our cells,” he assured Hill with good humour. '“are the most comfortable on the Atlantic.”.
The two Masters-at-Arms serving on the Lusitania were Peter Smith and William Williams. William Pierpoint was not actually
the ship's detective, but a Liverpool City policeman, who was on a mission to New York, the details of which have never emerged, even to this day.
The three Germans having been put down below in the ship’s cells were probably amongst the first to die when the loner war torpedoed, six days out of New York, by the German submarine
U-20. At that time, she was within sight of the coast of southern Ireland and only about fourteen hours away from the safety of her home port.
Just before the torpedo struck, Charles Hill remembered that he was late for an appointment with ship’s typist, Miss Sadie Hale, who was going to type some business letters for him, and he left the dining saloon to go to her in the library on ‘A’ Deck. The lift attendant inadvertently stopped the lift at the promenade deck, where Hill stopped to speak to Chief Steward Fred Jones. Once more, Hickey and Smith described the scene: -
As Charles Hill crossed from the Grand Entrance to speak to the Chief Steward at the rail, Jones turned to him and said in amazement, “Good God, Mr. Hill, here comes a torpedo!”
Glancing in the direction of the man's finger Hill observed the periscope of a submarine, but not the torpedo itself. Then he noticed a line of disturbance in the water forming a pronounced curve. He said calmly to Jones. “It looks as though it might cross our bows.” It did not seem to him that the periscope, which was ahead of the Lusitania and to starboard, was more than 200 yards away.
The two men then watched with horror as the projectile entered the side of the ship with a sound
like the slamming of a door.
Charles Hill had left the Chief Steward to make his wav to cabin B52 in the hope of finding a friend of his, Mrs. Witherbee, and her four-year-old son. Their cabin was empty. Sea water was already pouring through the open porthole. He continued on to his own cabin to collect his dispatch case and overcoat. His steward Percy Penny helped him into a life-jacket, although he was wearing none himself. “I think you should go straight to the boat deck, sir,” Percy advised him. .....
In point of fact, room B52 had been allocated to Charles and Frances Fowles from New York. Beatrice and young Alfred Witherbee were in room D52, on the same level as Charles Hill. The managing director took Percy Penny’s advice and eventually managed to reach Lifeboat No. 14, on the port side of the vessel and got in the bow. Because the ship was listing heavily to starboard, the lifeboat had swung inwards and was all but trapped against the side.
As the lifeboat passed the promenade deck five or six stokers helped push it away from the liner's side. Then the men at the davits lost control. The bow falls became fouled and the boat dropped almost vertically, tossing the passengers sitting near the stern into the sea. Hill was held in by his seat and, to his amazement, the boat finally hit the surface right side up. Water began pouring through the planking and, as people in the sea attempted to climb aboard, it capsized.
Three times it capsized, three times it righted itself, and each time Hill hauled himself back into the waterlogged boat. He began to laugh crazily at the absurdity of the situation, and seeing the ship's barber Lott Gadd taking charge of the boat, he laughed some more, thinking, “I haven't paid him for my week's shaving.”
Eventually, Charles Hill and the other survivors in Lifeboat No. 14 were rescued from the sea and landed at Queenstown. Charles Hill was taken to The Rob Roy Hotel there, until he had recovered from his ordeal, after which he was eventually able to make it to London. He was aged 36 at the time of the sinking.
Another account of his experiences, published in The Harrow Observer
after the sinking told a slightly differing version of events and stated: -
The news of his safety reached Harrow also from the [British American Tobacco] Company and from them, little by little further details have filtered through. Mr. Hill is at present at The Rob Roy Hotel in Queenstown, where he will probably remain for some days.
It appears that he remained on deck almost until the vessel’s last plunge. In the water he managed to keep afloat for upwards of an hour. At the end of that terrible time, almost exhausted, he clutched a passing boat only to be pushed off by a man who cried that they were already too full!
Eventually he was pulled into a boat and it is probable though not certain, that he received his injuries in this way, for both his legs are badly skinned, and his doctor has forbidden him to travel.
Bedroom Steward Penny, who had looked after Charles Hill in room B110 also survived, as did Master-at-Arms Williams and saloon passengers Inspector William Pierpoint and Beatrice Witherbee. Her young son Alfred, Master-at-Arms Smith, Staff Captain Anderson and typist Sadie Hale all perished in the sinking, however.
The Rob Roy Hotel which accommodated Charles Hill and other survivors after the sinking still remains in Queenstown today, although the town has long since reverted to its former name of Cobh and the hotel is now a public house!
On the 14th November 1926, Charles Hill died, aged 47 years. His address at the time was The Neasden Golf Club, Neasden, Middlesex, and when his will was proven in March 1926, he left his estate of £7,392-7s.-6d. (£7,392.37½p.) to the public trustees of the golf club. His wife and children had travelled to Berkeley, California, in 1919, and there is no evidence that they had ever returned to England, and this, along with the fact that he left his estate to his golf club would suggest that they had become estranged.
Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths, London England Church of England Marriages and Banns 1754 – 1932, 1880 U.S. Federal Census, 1900 U.S. Federal Census, 1911 Census of England & Wales, 1920 U.S. Federal Census, New York Passenger Lists 1820 – 1957, Cunard Records, Harrow Observer, Times Dispatch, Seven Days to Disaster, Probate Records, PRO 22/71, PRO BT 100/345, Graham Maddocks, John Courtney, Geoff Whitfield, Michael Poirier, Jim Kalafus, Cliff Barry, Paul Latimer, Norman Gray.
Copyright © Peter Kelly.