John Wanklyn McConnel was born in Prestwich, Lancashire, England, on the 14th February 1855, the son of William and Margaret Bradshaw McConnel (née Wanklyn). His father owned a cotton mill, employing 1,000 workers by 1861 – 225 men, 400 women, 150 boys, and 225 girls! He was the second eldest of eight children, and the family home was at Brooklands, Bury Old Road, Prestwich.
John was educated at Repton School, Prestwich, and then studied law at Cambridge University. He qualified as a barrister, being called to the bar in 1882, but if he practised as a barrister, it wasn’t for long, as he took over as the managing director and chairman of his family’s cotton business – McConnel & Company Limited, Ancoats, Manchester.
On the 11th June 1885, he married Caroline Edith Cobbold in Ross, Herefordshire. The couple had no children. The couple divided their time between their home at Wellbank, Lowther Road, Prestwich, and Knockdolian Castle, Colmonell, Ayrshire, in Scotland, where John McConnel was the laird, and also a Justice of the Peace.
As well as being the owner of the family cotton mills, he was Vice President of The Fine Cotton Spinners’ and Doublers’ Association, and a member of the Federation of Master Cotton Spinners. He was a frequent visitor to the United States of America, in the course of this trade.
On 6th April 1915, he arrived in New York on business on board the Anchor Lines vessel the S.S. Transylvania and for his return to England, he booked passage as a saloon passenger on the Lusitania, to sail from New York to Liverpool on 1st May. His ticket, which was numbered 46014, was booked through The Mississippi Deblon Painting Company of 1205, Central Bank Building, Memphis Tennessee, where, presumably, he had been conducting his business. Having left Memphis in April, presumably by rail, he had boarded the vessel at the Cunard berth at Pier 54 on the west side of the city in time for her scheduled 10.00 departure. He was allocated room D36, which was the personal responsibility of First Class Bedroom Steward William Barnes, who came from New Brighton, Wallasey, Cheshire, on the opposite side of the River Mersey from 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 just six days later, on the afternoon of 7th May; she was torpedoed and sunk by the German submarine U-20. At that point, she was off The Old Head of Kinsale in southern Ireland and only 250 miles hours away from her Liverpool home port and destination.
John McConnel was lucky enough to survive this action, however and after being landed at Queenstown, lat
account of his experiences in The Manchester Guardian, shortly after his return and this was syndicated in many newspapers. He said: -
Just after two o'clock, English time, Friday, after lunching and addressing a couple of letters, I came out of the cafe at the stern end of A deck, (the top). Ireland was in view as it had been for hours. I was walking forward to see from some place clear of the boats, whereabouts we were, when we heard the crack - a sharp crack accompanied by a great blast of dust and dirt, near or in the forward of second funnel. My first thought was that I was at a play when the crisis had come, my second that it was an infernal machine, not a torpedo. Then I saw all the people forward running to the main entrance and down came a sweep of dirty water - more than rain but not buckets full.
At once I started forward through the lounge to the companion. No lifts were working. The stairs were crowded with people, mostly coming up, and all behaving very well. I got down gradually to my cabin on D deck, where I put on my life saving waistcoat, snatched some papers and a flask, and taking another lifebelt, went up to B deck.
There I gave my spare belt to a young lady, and finding a boat grinding down from A deck past the opening on B, I shoved as hard as I could to clear it. I think the young lady got into the boat. As the gunwale reached our ledge the stern ropes were let go and the boat fell endways to the water. The other falls were dropped and she seemed all right except that half a dozen or a dozen of her crowd were in the water. Then I went up to A deck. An officer told me there was plenty of time and that the ship was not sinking; but the list, which, by the way, began at the very first second, became rapidly worse.
I crossed to the starboard and there two or perhaps three, boats and stewards calling for passengers - “Ladies and children first.” Many got in but some ladies would not leave their husbands. Almost instantly the boats were in the water and the edge of A deck level with them, a drop, I believe of 60 feet. I jumped over a rope entanglement into the last boat, which was full. Then as we tried to clear the sling ropes, now being pulled down by the davits, I suddenly found myself sitting in the water. All my knowledge of my neighbours ceased.
A funnel came sweeping down a few feet to the left; then something closed over me and I went down and down and down. Then it cleared and I got to the top but mighty forces were swirling everything about and once again something quite enormous covered me and I was driven down, I don’t know how far but I thought all hope was gone and curiously, my great regret was that I should not know what America would say. Then up again, and great as had been the distance down, the rise was very quick. Of course I had sucked in quantities of sea water, not noticeably unpleasant.
As I saw again the blessed thinning of the water, I sprang out into glorious sun. And at that moment, as it seemed to me, all the turmoil ceased like magic. No ship was there, of course, but bright, clear water, with boats here and there, sadly few right side up, wreckage everywhere and a few people bobbing about like myself. I was struck even then by the immense area the wreckage and survivors covered. As a matter of explanation, I am told that after the ship disappeared, an immense wave boiled up owing to an explosion which threw us all apart. There was certainly no suck-down after the ship.
Then the next part began - getting to some kind of safety. I got first one thing then another, and soon the corner of a big deck-chest, which was covered with canvas, where one could get one’s fingers into the joints. Another man and a woman shared it - perhaps others. The nearest, indeed the only refuge was a boat upside down with a steward or two looking as smart and as nice as usual except for their cork jackets. They and another man collected an oar or two and poked their way around to us. We got the woman onto the boat; then the man left me and I think he got on. Then they reached out the oars to me and by their kind help I was hauled up. Another man got on afterwards, very done indeed - a fireman who had been, he said, to the bottom. We were about seven men, the woman, and a dead woman.
Chapter III lasted, I suppose, three hours. We sat or those who could, stood at times, and hoped for relief. My flask, I think saved the woman and two men and helped us all. The blessed sun made all the difference and when not sick or shivering I had times when I thought that a row-boat the right way up might not be such an unpleasant thing to be in. The worst feature was that we did not know if any S.O.S. signal had been sent. And the only thing in sight was a sailing boat, which did not in fact save many, but which in that perfect calm was, of course, very slow.
This sailing boat was probably the Manx fishing boat Wanderer. John McConnel continued: -
Boats able to row had all gone. Smoke appeared on the far horizon, east, I think, but it seemed they never saw us and it passed away; first one and then a second. Then at last came the smoke of the torpedo boats pushing from Queenstown. The second one took us off and then plied round and round picking up other derelicts, many in worse case than ourselves. For though the water was not at first so cold as I expected, it must have been awful to have been in it all the time, as many were, some in injured boats and some with nothing but bits of wreckage to cling to; and of course many were suffering from bodily injury as well, though I expect that most of them died. One lady was picked out of a wicker chair in which she was sitting, with head back, unconscious.
This was saloon passenger Lady Margaret Mackworth, who was returning to south Wales with her father, coal magnate Mr. David A. Thomas, and his secretary Mr. Arnold Rhys-Evans. All three survived.
I think that the only other personal incident is that I was as black as a collier and my hair plastered with black mud. This was not from the first blast, as I had my shooting hat on then. It must have been got in one of my diving trips, and makes me partly believe the story of two of my companions on the boat keel - viz, that they had gone down one of the funnels and had been blown out again.
There was absolutely no panic anywhere near me. Everybody was considerate and quiet. And my companions on the boat roof said the same of the second class and steerage.
People known to have been sucked down a funnel and then blown out again were First Class Bedroom Steward Edward Bond, second class passenger Mrs. Margaret Gwyer, saloon passenger Inspector William John Pierpoint, and third class passenger Harold W. Taylor. As Mrs. Gwyer is known to have been picked out of the sea by a collapsible boat, the two that Mr. McConnel mentions might have been two of the three men.
Having been landed at Queenstown, Mr. McConnel got on a steamer for Holyhead, from where he eventually arrived back in Manchester in the early morning of Sunday 9th May. First Class Bedroom Steward William Barnes, who had looked after him in room D36, also survived, and eventually got back to his New Brighton home.
John McConnel was the author of a book – Cotton Growing with the British Empire and The world’s capacity for consuming cotton goods, which was published in 1921, copies of which can still be found today.
John Wanklyn McConnel died in Prestwich, Lancashire, on the 25th May 1922, aged 67 years. His remains were interred in Colmonell Churchyard, South Ayrshire, Scotland, on the 29th May 1922.
Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths, Manchester England Church of England Births and Baptisms 1813 – 1915, England Select Marriages 1538 – 1973, 1861 Census of England & Wales, 1891 Census of England & Wales, 1901 Census of England & Wales, UK Outward Passenger Lists 1890 – 1960, New York Passenger Lists 1820 – 1957, Cunard Records, Ayr Advertiser, Kilmarnock Herald, Kilmarnock Standard, Manchester Guardian, Oldham Standard, Probate Records, PRO 22/71, UniLiv D92/2/305, Graham Maddocks, Geoff Whitfield, Michael Poirier, Jim Kalafus, Cliff Barry, Paul Latimer, Norman Gray.
Copyright © Peter Kelly.