George Slingsby was born in a ‘grace and favour’, also known as a ‘tied’ cottage at Babworth, Retford, Nottinghamshire, England, on the 30th April 1889, the son of John Edward and Sarah Ann Slingsby (née Hill). The cottage was on the estate of Colonel Dennison, squire of Babworth Hall, where John Edward Slingsby was a gardener.
He had three brothers, John, born in 1887, Arthur, born in 1891 and Alfred, born in 1904. In 1897, however, John died tragically, when he fell into a canal lock and was drowned.
Having begun his career in domestic service as a garden boy on the estates of Babworth Hall and Rufford Abbey, the home of Lord Savile, and ambitious to do inside service, George Slingsby sought and obtained the position of hall boy, which effectively began his career in gentlemen’s service. It was when he was in this position that he met King Edward VII for the first time!
Ever ambitious, in 1907, he joined an agency which specialised in gentlemen’s service and this provided him with a new position as a junior footman at Brittwell Court, Burnham Beeches, Berkshire, the home of a Mr. Christie Miller. This appointment meant his spending some time in Ireland with the family during the summer months of the year and it was during one afternoon walk near the Irish estate that he had his fortune told by a woman lace maker. This is described in a book, George: Memoirs of a Gentleman’s Gentleman, all about his life, written by his daughter Nina Slingsby Smith in 1984: -
“You’re a lucky fella, but ye won’t always be as well off as y’are now. Y’ll meet a few very ‘ard toimes in yer loife, Oi c’n see roughs as well as smooths.”
“Can you be more specific about these?” George prompted. She gazed into the cup quietly for a moment, then set it down and looked earnestly at him.
“The leaves aren’t always specific, sur-r, but for the immediate future, you will travel far and see wonderful things. You will come back to Ireland sur-r, but when ye do, it will be under very distressing circumstances.”
It made no sense at the time but George had reason to recall the lace maker’s words later in his career.
Following a spell as butler at the early age of 18 years, which did not exactly suit his temperament, he then secured a position of third footman to the Duke and Duchess of Portland at Welbeck Abbey. After service at Welbeck, during which time George Slingsby danced, to fulfil a bet, with the Duchess of Devonshire at a masked New Year’s Eve ball, he re-joined the staff at Rufford Abbey, as chief footman.
It was during his second time of service there, that he met King Edward VII again and actually drank a tankard of beer with him! After two more years at the Berkshire estate, he finally achieved his goal when he was appointed as valet to Canadian millionaire Frederick Orr-Lewis, whose principal residence was at Lancaster Gate, in London.
Mr Orr-Lewis had made most of his money in Canada and America, and during the war years, also carried out work for the British Admiralty. He would receive a baronetcy in 1920, for this work. He was a frequent traveller across the Atlantic Ocean, with his wife, often in the company of their great friends Sir Montague and Lady Marguerite Allan and their two teenage daughters, Anna and Gwendolyn. They also spent most of their summers together in the south of France.
Naturally, as valet to Sir Frederick, George Slingsby accompanied his master on all his foreign visits and when the Great War broke out in August 1914, the family was holidaying in southern France. George Slingsby then had the difficult job of getting the
household staff and two motor cars back to Great Britain, which he accomplished with his usual efficiency and professionalism! Soon afterwards, he accompanied his master on a trip for the Admiralty, to Quebec and back, across the war-torn sea lanes!
On March 20th 1915, Orr-Lewis and George Slingsby embarked on the Lusitania from Liverpool to New York on secret British government business, with the intention of returning at the beginning of May. Having concluded this business, they booked saloon passage home, (from Montreal, with ticket number D1348) on the Lusitania and having arrived back in New York, they boarded the liner on the morning of 1st May 1915. George Slingsby was allocated room B62, which he shared with Ronald Denyer another ‘gentleman’s gentleman’, and valet to millionaire Alfred Vanderbilt. His master was allocated room B74.
Lady Marguerite Allan and her two teenage daughters were also on board the Cunarder, which finally left New York harbour just after mid-day and as Slingsby was a great favourite with the girls, he was in great demand by them to entertain them on the crossing!
Having survived the sinking, George Slingsby was able to write home to his mother from The Imperial Hotel in Cork, where he had been taken eventually after being landed at Queenstown. Part of his letter was published in The Retford Times for Friday 28th May 1915 which stated: -
George Slingsby says he was saved by holding on to some wreckage. He adds that he could write a book on what he saw. He saw the submarine before it struck the ship, which went down in 15 minutes and says, “It was marvellous how I got saved, and could not swim. I gave all my life-belts to women and children. Mr. Lewis and I never expected to see each other again, but he was saved as well, so both of us are safe.
I will explain everything when I see you. I am all right and feeling strong, but Mr. Lewis is older than me, so it took more effect on him. I lost all my clothes and everything, but the Cunard Company will have to make them good. I found I had only trouser leg left. Someone must have pulled it off but I don’t care about that. I am safe and sound, and hope you have not been worrying about me.”
A much more full account of what happened when the liner was sunk is ably described in George: Memoirs of a Gentleman’s Gentleman, however, beginning with the morning of the disaster: -
He took a turn round E deck before breakfast. The ship's notice-board announced the sighting of the coast of Ireland, but in the fog that had closed in during the early morning no one would be seeing anything. Later in the morning, he watched the children chasing one another round the deck, laughing at their antics. He had arranged to meet his valet friend for a beer at twelve o'clock in one of the bar lounges. George found his friend already at the bar when he arrived. They had scarcely got their beers and settled down to chat when the ship seemed to lurch violently. Someone fell heavily against the bar and several charged glasses crashed to the floor. George and his friend stared at one another momentarily in some consternation before rushing on deck in the confusion to find out what was happening.
The sun was shining now, the mist having almost cleared. No one knew why
they had changed course so suddenly. George could now make out the coastline towards which they appeared to be steaming. There was no sign of the cruiser alongside which they had been told to expect. Had some emergency suddenly reached the ears of the Captain on the bridge to cause him hastily to seek the shelter of Queenstown harbour? It had happened before, that the Lusitania had put in there on the homeward trip. As no immediate explanation was forthcoming and everything appeared to calm down again, George and his friend returned to their drinks in the bar. But so engaged did they become with their conversation that they failed to notice the time passing and missed their places at the one o'clock sitting for luncheon in the dining saloon, where they had agreed to meet the two maids. F deck was almost deserted as they made their way to their rendezvous. They found the maids waiting for them by a window on the starboard side of the second-class dining saloon towards the stern of the ship. They waved as George and his companion entered. Apologies were made and the steward took their order.
The maids were Emily Davies and Annie Walker and George Slingsby’s valet friend was almost certainly Ronald Denyer, Slingsby‘s room companion.
It was already past two o'clock. George did not know what made him at that moment gaze out to sea. His eye was caught by a disturbance in the calm water, like a long furrow speckled with white, advancing rapidly in a straight line in the direction of the forepart of the ship. Although he had never seen anything like it before, he knew instantly what it must be. Before he had time to draw the attention of the others to it, the torpedo struck.
The impact was so violent that the great ship seemed to lurch out of the water. Up on the balcony, the orchestra was playing a lively rendering of 'It's a long way to Tipperary' when the explosion occurred, and the grand piano was flung through the balustrading, to land with a discordant crash in the middle of the dining saloon. There was an ear-splitting sound of breaking glass and crockery and a pall of scalding steam billowed through the doorway. Black smoke and dust descended in a choking cloud and the ship took on a steep list to starboard, making it difficult to stay on one's feet. Seconds later came another loud explosion, presumably a second torpedo, and the list worsened, throwing everyone in a heap. They clawed at one another in fear and desperation and George struggled as hard as any. Stark panic was breaking out as they realised their plight and, through this screaming nightmare, George managed to get himself out on deck.
It was now difficult to breathe in the fumes and thick black smoke. People ran screaming the names of loved ones who were missing. George had never seen such panic in his life. He hauled himself along the sloping deck, holding on to anything that would keep him upright. Those able to swim were discarding their shoes and diving overboard. Immediately they touched the water, some were sucked back into the bowels of the ship through a gaping hole in the ship's side on the waterline. The crew were trying to launch the lifeboats, but the angle of the ship made it almost impossible. George saw one boatload of children reach the water safely, only to be sunk by those struggling in the water. They hauled themselves aboard until the boat became overloaded and spilled the lot into the sea.
E deck was one below the dining saloon. Had George been berthed in the
first-class cabins at this level towards the bows of the ship, he would have found them already under water. Many of the portholes had been left open on the starboard side and thousands of tons of water cascaded in to the forward cabins of both E and D deck within seconds of the first impact. Though the list to starboard had increased in the minutes it took him to struggle to his own cabin in the rear, he found himself having to scramble up a steep slope as the ship's stern rose out of the water.
Shielding his face from scalding steam, he groped his way along corridors strewn with debris and filled with smoke. He found his cabin door wrenched from its hinges and jammed tight in the doorway. There was no time to be lost. The ship slipped to an even greater list. He struggled to move the door enough to get through, but discovered his life jacket was gone. In panic, people had rushed to the nearest cabins and had taken the first lifejacket they could lay hands on; now George was driven to do the same. He went from cabin to cabin, eventually finding three. He struggled into one and clutching the other two, started back, with the ship groaning ominously under his feet. On the stairs, panic-stricken people tackled him frantically for possession of his life jackets, but George fought just as hard to keep them. He dragged himself up to a higher deck and began to search the screaming throng for Sir Frederick and Lady Allen. He jostled with weeping women, their terrified children clinging to them, all struggling to get to the lifeboats, treading on the injured lying about the decks in their panic to get away.
On the port side, George found a man brandishing a revolver and demanding to know why lifeboats weren't being lowered. A crewman with an axe in his hand said the Captain had ordered that boats weren’t to be launched. No one appreciated the catastrophes that had occurred trying to launch boats while the ship was still moving rapidly through the water. Under threat of shooting, the seamen knocked out the pin and the boat, loaded with passengers, crashed down on to others clambering up the sloping deck.
The man with the revolver was saloon passenger Isaac Lehman from New York and the lifeboat was No. 18. At least 30 passengers were killed as a result of his intervention!
Then George spotted Lady Allen over by the ship's rails, hugging her two children to her. The little girls spotted him and ran with open arms to greet him, their pretty faces full of trust. “Don't cry, Mamma, it's all right now. George has found us and he will know what to do.”
George couldn't have described his feelings at that moment. Those who scorn the life of a servant in those days could never understand the pride and satisfaction he felt at the little girls' words. They prized and trusted him, even in a terrible situation like this. What more could any other employment have brought? He hugged them too and Her Ladyship burst into tears.
“Oh! George, how glad we are to see you!” she said. George inquired about Sir Frederick, but she said she hadn't seen him since luncheon, when he had gone to his cabin to take a rest. George knew he wasn't there because he had been to his cabin at the rear of the first-class berths before going in search of life jackets.
They fought their way through the chaos to where another lifeboat was being launched on the other side of the ship. At least they might get the children away. The two maids were there waiting their turn to get into the boat and, during the time it took to strap the little girls into the spare life jackets, he gave them orders to take charge, once they were safely in the boat. Then he noticed that Lady Allen was also without a jacket and, despite her protests, George gave up his own, deciding that he would have to take his chance. This side of the ship listed badly over the water, but it did make launching easier. The lifeboat hung away from the side and it was a shorter distance down to the water. He fought with other terrified passengers to get the children into the boat and the crew lifted the two maids in as the boat was lowered. There wasn't room for Lady Allen and, smiling bravely for the children's benefit, she waved them off with tears in her eyes. The boat reached the water safely, swirled for a moment, like a leaf caught on the tide then, with strong strokes, the oarsmen pulled clear of the suction area and struck out for the distant shore.
George Slingsby’s account of seeing the children rowed away from the sinking ship in a lifeboat conflicts with Lady Allan and her two maids’ stories told later in Queenstown after their rescue from the sea. All three stated that as the liner was about to go down, they simply joined hands and jumped into the sea together!
The sea was now a mass of struggling people and it was dreadful to see how they scrambled for the smallest piece of wreckage. They managed to launch another boat, but as it touched the water, it was immediately capsized by a number of people who jumped from the decks in the hope of getting into it at the last moment. The ship suddenly lurched again and the list worsened. People were thrown off their feet and rolled, like ninepins, down the deck and over the edge. George clung desperately to some rigging. After this, no more boats could be launched because of the angle of the ship. Those who were left on board now had only one chance of survival - the fervent hope that rescue would be in time.
It was just thirty-six miles from Queenstown, and about eleven from the Head of Kinsale - near enough to have seen land, if it were not for the thick pall of black smoke. Surely the message about their distress must have reached the coast guards at least? The ship lurched again and slid further down into the water. People began to climb up the steep slope towards the stern as the Lusitania rolled almost on to her side. George followed their example, holding grimly to the rails and trying to keep with Lady Allen, but in the mad scramble he lost sight of her. If the ship rolled over, George debated, perhaps he could run on to her side. A crazy thought, but he was ready to try anything rather than share his brother John's fate. He thought back to that terrible day, when he had walked with that stretcher carrying his brother's lifeless body. He remembered his grief-stricken mother and he prayed for something - anything - that would spare his mother from such anguish again. At that moment, he lost his grip and rolled down the steep slope, quite expecting to end up in the sea. Instead he rolled against one of the huge funnels and made a grab at the rigging. He noticed that Captain Turner was only a few yards away clinging on to one of the ventilators. True to the code, he had stayed with his ship.
As if in answer to his prayer, the great ship suddenly gave a loud groan and,
although it was very low in the water, she levelled out on a more even keel. Hopefully he scanned the horizon for any sign of rescue, but in vain. George prayed that some of those watertight compartments would stay watertight. There was a terrible rumbling sound coming from the interior, followed by another violent lurch and the water was now washing over his feet. Then came a blinding explosion from the boilers below, which blew off one of the funnels in a cloud of scalding steam, and he felt himself lifted off his feet. He was air-borne and, he remembered thinking briefly, at least going in the right direction. Seconds later he was dumped into the sea.
George was drawn down into a whirl-pool of green bubbles and wreckage. His lungs were bursting and his eyes felt as though they were being gouged out of their sockets. He tried to prepare himself for death, but another great explosion occurred and he felt himself rushing upwards at great speed. He shot up, like a cork, and was flung high into the air before finally being dumped back into the sea clear of the suction area. His limbs felt like leaden weights, numbed by the icy water, but his mind stayed alert. A large piece of wreckage floated within reach and he grabbed it and clung on. It seemed to be a door from one of the cabins and it kept his head above water until he could summon enough strength to hoist himself on to it. He lay dazed, his eyes painful and swollen. He felt weak and fought to remain conscious. There was no feeling in his legs and each breath was agony. Men, women and children were being washed against one another by the turbulence where the ship was rapidly plunging beneath the water. Some floated face down, their limbs loose and lifeless, while others clawed over them to keep themselves afloat. The screaming had ceased now, but the low moans of the dying was something George remembered all his life.
Suddenly his raft began to pitch and toss violently, as another drowning soul made a bid for life. George was powerless to help him, but eventually the man struggled on and lay gasping for breath. As the smoke and steam cleared, he could see that the Lusitania had groaned her last. She was gone.
All hope was fading now. There was still no sign of rescue from any direction and yet they were so near to the coast of Ireland. Surely, the sinking of that great ship could not have gone unnoticed. At least one of the lifeboats must have reached the shore by now. Water began to wash over George's face as he realised that the raft had been invaded to the extent that it had sunk beneath the water. The next minute he was tipped into the sea. For a time, he kept himself afloat by holding on to the dead and dying, until a cylinder floated near. He made a frantic effort to catch it, but it was very buoyant and bounced about in the water. With an effort born out of sheer desperation, he managed to grasp one end and held on grimly.
It would be difficult to describe the intense coldness of the sea as an eerie stillness descended on that dreadful scene, for those who still grappled with a spark of life were too weak to cry out. A stewardess managed to get a grip on the other end of George's cylinder and, for a while, this helped a lot, because it kept it more stable in the water, with one on either end. She was covered in thick black oil and began to make awful gurgling noises in her throat. George tried to speak to her, but his tongue was too swollen and his efforts were ignored anyway. She clung for a while and then slid down in the water. In the struggle to retain his hold on the cylinder, which bounced
violently, he lost sight of her. He found the only way to keep a tight hold on it now was to embrace it.
Time began to lose all meaning. He was so numb that his mind drifted between consciousness and oblivion. He tried to think of those at home, but his thoughts became jumbled with frightening things, groups of men, dancing frenziedly, with grotesque faces. In his delirium, he saw his own funeral, with flowers heaped on the coffin, and his family gathered at Babworth churchyard. A little girl washed against him, bringing back reality for a moment.
He remembered seeing her running round the deck, with her fair ringlets flying out behind. She was quite still, her eyes closed, as the current carried her away. The sun was gone now and a stiff wind was increasing the water's turbulence. He was finding it difficult to breathe and he couldn't think any more - he didn't want to. It was much easier just to go to sleep and George allowed himself to drift into a long dark tunnel and merciful peace.
A flicker of life returned to George with a voice that said, “I t'ink there's one over here wid a bit o'loife in him“. George was aware of being pummelled and felt resentful at being disturbed. Something that burnt was being poured down his throat, making him splutter and flashing lights danced before his eyes. As the clouds of unconsciousness parted, he tried to remember, some-thing - anything - but it hurt. Suddenly, he could smell something familiar, but he couldn't think what it was. Then came that voice again, and more pummelling. “Come on now, me foine boy'o - come on wid ye now“.
More fiery liquid was being poured down his throat and, as he choked his heart up, his memory came flooding back. He tried to move, but a restraining arm held him and the voice out of the darkness came again. “That's better, come on now, you have some o' this, it'll set ye up foine“. His memory was returning with a rush, of screaming people, his boss, Lady Allen and those two little girls. He became aware that he was wrapped in a blanket and that the 'voice' was bending over him. He suddenly knew that accent - it was Irish. The familiar smell was far from fishing nets. His mind briefly recalled his last visit to Ireland, when he had chatted with the fishermen and marvelled at the nimbleness of their fingers as they mended the tools of their trade. Through cracked lips, he asked where he was and was told that he was safely on board a torpedo boat. The mere mention of the word 'torpedo' was enough to bring the dreadful events following the death of the Lusitania back to him. He asked to be allowed to sit up. Painfully he was propped against the wall, where he could see something of his surroundings. The cabin was small and, by the light of the lantern that hung from the ceiling, he was horrified to see that the deck was piled high with bodies. The seaman was speaking again. “By all that's holy, ye had the saints on your side this night. Fished ye out like a mackerel - so we did.” The life coming back to George's limbs was almost unbearable. He asked the time, and was told that it was ten o'clock in the evening. He had survived those terrible conditions for seven and a half hours. Suddenly he began to vomit and, with the seaman supporting him, he got rid of large quantities of the Atlantic ocean from his stomach. He learned later that they had cleared his lungs by artificial respiration, but now he felt that he would
die all over again. With tears of weakness wetting his face, they made him comfortable in a sitting position and left him to recover a little. Then they gave him small sips of hot soup before he fell into a sleep of exhaustion.
It was daylight when he awoke and, although he felt as if he had been put through a mangle, he was refreshed and able to sit up by his own efforts. His rescuer brought him some more hot soup, which he drank gratefully. The piles of bodies were still there, a pitiful sight to behold, and George whispered a prayer for them and for his own miraculous escape. He asked the seaman to help him to stand up and, after a wobbly start, he was able to totter as far as the ablution. Here he was able to take a look at himself in a small mirror and he could hardly believe that the face looking back at him was his own. It was the face of an old man, not one of only twenty-six. It was bloated and blistered by the long soaking in icy sea water, and his eyes were swollen slits. His lips were cracked and bleeding and great hollows were where his once healthy cheeks had been. He was also aware of a searing pain in his right foot and lowered himself down into a sitting position. He saw that his foot was swollen to twice the normal size and one trouser leg was missing.
They put in to Queenstown harbour, where George was helped ashore to the waiting cameras and newsmen. As they began to unload the bodies, an old priest took George into his care. They travelled by donkey-cart to a crude building some distance from the harbour, where they were received by the nuns, who were giving what assistance they could to a number of other survivors in a similar condition. They bound his injured foot, and provided him with some warm clothing. In normal times, it would have been a big laugh to see the usually so immaculate George in such a strange assortment of garments. There was an overcoat that had seen the best of its days and was about four sizes too large for him, a pair of corduroy trousers and a hefty pair of hob-nailed boots, which he was unable to wear because of his injured foot. The boots were exchanged for a pair of white plimsolls without laces. The sisters were marvellous, and gave what little they had to those who had survived the cruel sea. George slept on the wooden floor that night, and relished the hot vegetable stew they provided, but the following morning he explained that he had to go in search of Sir Frederick and the others in his party and, reluctantly, they let him go.
Painfully, he hobbled into Queenstown. He had no money, for all his possessions had gone down with the ship, except a few items that had been on his person. All his clothes, his passport and even his precious tie-pin, which had been a present from Lady Allen, were now at the bottom of the sea. Only his gold watch was left in his pocket, with the hands now stationary, marking the time of 2.30 p.m., a grim reminder of being flung into the icy sea, and of all that followed on that terrible May 7th, 1915.
The gold watch had been given to him by Mrs. Orr-Lewis, for exceptional service to her in helping to smuggle her and Lady Allan’s jewellery in and out of America to avoid paying crippling customs duties!
George began his search at the police station, but they were unable to help him. The survivors had been scattered wherever they could be accommodated and there hadn't been time to make an inventory. He was advised to go down to the harbour, where they were still bringing
and many of the victims, who had been skimmed up in the fishing nets, were mutilated beyond recognition. It was a sickening sight, as George picked his way through that macabre scene to the harbour master’s office. He got no information here either. Everywhere he inquired he got the same answer, and in the end he was going from door to door in his search.
After several wearisome hours, his patience was re-warded, for he found Sir Frederick in a cheap lodging house not far from the water-front. The place was filthy and was obviously a haunt for lonely sailors who needed a bed, with possibly female company provided as well. Being so near to the harbour, it was also infested with rats. There George found Sir Frederick in a pitiful state. He lay on a straw mattress on the floor of a small top room, looking like death, but they were both overjoyed to be reunited.
George discovered two five pound notes in Sir Frederick's pocket. They were saturated with sea water, but he was able to restore them well enough to be acceptable and, with these, he went to find a doctor. This was no easy task, for there were very few doctors in Queens-town and they were rushed off their feet with the influx of patients. The first surgery he called at was packed and a very harassed receptionist told him he would just have to wait his turn. He went on to the next, determined this time not to take 'No' for an answer. He pushed his way through the waiting room and into the surgery, where he pleaded almost hysterically that if Sir Frederick didn't receive some attention soon he would die. The doctor must have noticed that George was near to collapse himself, and packed his bag right away, leaving the nurse in charge.
They found Sir Frederick in a state of semi-consciousness and, while the doctor got to work, George hobbled off to find more suitable accommodation. The only hotel in Queenstown was full - or so they said until George produced one of the five pound notes. Then suddenly a small top room that was vacant was remembered. It was far short of the Ritz Carlton, but infinitely better than the hovel Sir Frederick was in at the moment, so he paid in advance and returned to find that, although very weak, Sir Frederick was now fully conscious. The doctor had left instructions that he was to be kept warm for a few days and to be given light nourishing meals. George approached the landlady about this, only to be told sharply, “I only do bed and breakfast. I can't do special meals for anyone“.
The hotel was not too far away and George decided it would be better to get Sir Frederick there as soon as possible. He was still very weak and was in only his under-vest. George asked what had happened to his shirt, and Sir Frederick told him how a young man had brought him to this place and had offered to get his shirt laundered, but hadn't returned. George instantly knew why. It hadn't all been out of kindness that this service had been offered; he had probably noticed the cuff-links that George had put into the sleeves on the morning of the disaster. They had been a birthday present to Sir Frederick from Her Ladyship, and had originally been especially made for King Edward VII. They were an exclusive design of diamonds and emeralds in a fine gold setting, but the King hadn't liked them and had returned them to the jeweller for re-sale. They were worth in the region of a thousand pounds. George was rather doubtful that they would see either the
shirt or the young man again.
Painfully, they set out and shivered their way through the streets in the bitter wind blowing in from the sea. Sir Frederick had to be supported every inch of the way, and the strain on George's injured foot was agony. But at last he was able to get Sir Frederick to bed with a hot-water bottle, where immediately he fell asleep. George needed rest badly himself, but there was still much to be done. As tired as he was, a driving influence made him determined to get some order back into this terrible situation and to find some warm clothing. He went to a pawnbroker, where he bought a black suit, turning green in places, for Sir Frederick and a pair of worsted trousers for himself. Then, with his purchases done up in a brown paper parcel, he made for the post office, where he sent off two telegrams, one to White Webbs and the other to Babworth, before hobbling back to the hotel.
Sir Frederick was still sleeping, so George bathed his foot in cold water and tightened the bandage to try to stop the swelling. It was extremely painful and, after all the tramping about he had done, he felt he had to rest awhile. With Sir Frederick occupying the only bed, he made do with two chairs pushed together and his overcoat for warmth.
The following morning he was stiff and sore. His foot had swollen to the size of a large pudding basin and the pain made him feel faint. Only great determination got him down to breakfast, for there was no room service. He was allowed to take scrambled egg to Sir Frederick before sitting down to kippers with the other guests. It was now May 10th, three days after the disaster, and still no help had come from the Government, or indeed any other department. It was almost as though they had been abandoned and were now an embarrassment. In spite of the dense plume of smoke and all the other evidence of the great ship's distress, which couldn't have gone unnoticed so near to land, rescue had been left far too late and, even now, nobody seemed to care a damn for those who, by the grace of God, had survived.
Lady Allen, her two young daughters and the maids were still missing. After breakfast, George went again to the police station, where a list of sorts had been posted. There were a few names of those like himself who had come to make inquiries and he added his own name and Sir Frederick's before he left. The constable told him that the harbour was being used as a mortuary because there wasn't any other place large enough to accommodate the fourteen hundred men, women and children who had perished. The harbour had been screened off with canvas, leaving only a gap for people to walk round in single file. George joined the waiting queue and watched the faces of those who came out. It was clear whether the loved ones had been found, by the stricken expressions on their faces, but he could never have imagined what lay behind those canvas screens.
Eventually George's turn came and, dreading the ordeal, he went in and shuffled his way between the rows of bodies, laid out like a fishmonger's slab. They were all just as they had been dragged from the sea and it horrified him to look upon the remnants of what had once been human life. Bloated with sea water, their faces twisted and grotesquely, they were covered in green slime and thick black engine oil, many with limbs missing, where the sharks had got there before the fishing boats. There was a young
nurse-maid, clutching twin babies, one in either arm. Even in death, she had not relinquished her duty to her two tiny charges. There were rows of children of all ages, and here he stopped in his tracks, for among them were the two dear little Allen girls who, so short a time ago, had begged him to “come and play“. They were bloated and mottled and still wearing the life jackets he himself had put on them.
Despite his certainty at the time, whomever George Slingsby saw in the temporary mortuary, it was not the Allan girls, although they had, in fact, both been killed. The body of Anna Allan was never found and that of her sister, Gwendolyn, was washed up two months later, in July 1915, long after Slingsby had left the area, and only identified from documents found upon it! In the circumstances, it is not surprising that he made such a mistake!
Somehow he forced himself to continue, for Lady Allen and the two maids were yet to be found. The lump in his throat threatened to choke him. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he blundered out of that gruesome place, to walk the streets for a long time. The pain in his injured foot was nothing to the pain in his heart. He had to regain his composure before taking the sad news back to Sir Frederick.
Fortunately, Sir Frederick was much improved. The doctor had called again and had allowed him to get up for a few hours. He took the sad news much more calmly than George had anticipated, and showed great concern for Lady Allen. George hobbled off again, this time to the place where he really should have gone in the beginning, the small cottage hospital. However, George's usual common sense was not at its best, his head felt as though it were filled with cotton wool, as he staggered into reception and, before he could state his business, collapsed in a heap on the floor. George had never fainted in his life before, but it did serve to get him the attention he so badly needed.
He came round to find himself in a small ward with the doctor in attendance. An examination showed that his instep was broken and, for the first time since the shipwreck, it was properly treated. On inquiry, he learned that Lady Allen and her two maids had been admitted suffering from exposure, but were now recovering satisfactorily. He told the doctor that he was the bearer of sad news for Her Ladyship and, to George's great relief, the doctor volunteered to break the news for him. Although the small hospital was filled to capacity, they wanted to ward George, but he explained that he had his duties to Sir Frederick, who was also a sick man, and so they were content to strap his foot securely, give him a crutch and let him go.
Eventually, both George Slingsby and Frederick Orr-Lewis were judged fit enough to complete their journey to England. Isaac Lehman - the man with the revolver also survived, but George’s room companion Ronald Denyer and his master Alfred Vanderbilt both perished!
Once back in England, George Slingsby tried to join the Army with his brother Arthur, but although Arthur was accepted, George was turned down on medical grounds, because of the injury to his foot, and a heart murmur, both sustained during the sinking of the Lusitania.
Having been rejected, George meanwhile had returned to gentleman’s service with Frederick Orr-Lewis and completed another trans-Atlantic crossing to America and back, not without a certain amount of trepidation for obvious reasons. Whilst at the Orr-Lewis’ Enfield home, on the night of 2/3rd September 1916, he witnessed the shooting down at Cuffley, of the German airship SL11, by Second Lieutenant William Leefe Robinson - an action which would result in the award of the Victoria Cross for the young pilot.
Once conscription was introduced into Great Britain, many men were weeded out from the factories to train for war and George Slingsby was passed fit for war service at home by a Medical Board, despite his employer’s attempts to retain him to aid his own work for the Admiralty. Consequently, he had to leave the comparative luxury of the Orr-Lewis’ home to begin war work at The Enfield Small Arms factory. In the meantime he had become engaged to Dorothy Jennie Matilda Lawrence, whose family was well known and well respected in Enfield, and they planned to marry on 13th April 1917. It was hoped that Arthur Slingsby might get leave from the Western Front to be best man.
However, tragedy struck when it was reported, just three weeks before the wedding that Arthur Slingsby had died in Flanders. He had been sent to the Western Front in the spring of 1916 and as 24200 Private A. Slingsby, of the 10th Battalion, The Duke of Wellington’s (West Riding Regiment), served there for a year before dying of pneumonia on active service, on 25th March 1917. He was buried in Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, Poperinghe, not far from the town of Ypres.
With obvious heavy hearts, George Slingsby and his fiancée postponed their wedding, but eventually shared their special day at St. Andrew’s Church, Enfield, Middlesex, a year later, on the 13th April 1918, with a soldier and his fiancée who had obtained a special licence to wed, as the soldier was on embarkation leave. Throughout the ceremony, George Slingsby had the curious feeling that his brother Arthur was with them after all!
After the war ended, George Slingsby, like hundreds of thousands of others, was made redundant and following on from this a first child, a boy named Leslie, born prematurely, lived for only a few hours. Then, in November 1921, came the news that Sir Frederick Orr-Lewis had died, after which, his widow sold the estate and went to live in the south of France. With this news, all George’s hopes of returning to gentleman’s service effectively ended, although with changing post-war Britain, there was far less opportunity to practise his calling anyway!
The years after the Great War were very lean for George and Dorothy Slingsby, but the marriage was blessed with a daughter whom they named Nina and then in 1937, a second daughter, Marion, was born. By this time, they were living in Retford, but after Dorothy’s father died in February 1939, they left for Enfield once more, and moved in to 41, Gloucester Road, so that Dorothy could look after her mother. They lived at this address for the remainder of their lives.
George was also able to gain employment at Enfield Golf Club, until it closed down at the end of the war, after which he worked there for its new owner as a gardener, occasionally putting his earlier experience to good use running important dinner parties as well. He later worked as a general labourer.
On the fiftieth anniversary of the sinking of the Lusitania, he was able to recall his experiences of that dreadful day in 1915, for the local and national press and he was also featured on the B.B.C.’s Today programme. Naturally, the gold watch, given to
him all those years earlier by Lady Orr-Lewis for services rendered, and still a treasured possession, figured largely in the publicity surrounding him. Only failing health stopped him from appearing on a television documentary made by the B.B.C. not long afterwards.
George Slingsby died, at the age of 78 years, on 9th June 1967, and was buried in Lavender Hill Cemetery, Enfield. There is no mention of his Lusitania experiences on his grave. Administration of his will was granted to his wife at London on the 24th August 1967. He left an estate of £819.
Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths, London England Marriages and Banns 1754 – 1921, 1891 Census of England & Wales, 1901 Census of England & Wales, 1911 Census of England & Wales, 1939 Register, New York Passenger Lists 1820 – 1957, Canadian Passenger Lists 1865 – 1935, Cunard Records, Commonwealth War Graves Commission, Memoirs of a Gentleman’s Gentleman, Retford Times, Probate Records, PRO BT 22/71, Graham Maddocks, Gary Wimpress, Geoff Whitfield, Michael Poirier, Jim Kalafus, Cliff Barry, Paul Latimer, Norman Gray.
Copyright © Peter Kelly.