By Dave Jensen, W7DGJ

On June 1st, 1914, a black train made its way across the Canadian railway system, headed to the Northern town of Rimouski. It is here, in the Bas-Saint-Laurent region of Quebec, that the channel opens so that ships can head directly to England as they leave the mighty St. Lawrence River.

This train was on a mission, its cargo unique. There were no passengers, and there were no throngs of people awaiting its arrival at the station. Instead, dozens of grim-faced porters stood ready to begin moving its cargo into a temporary morgue that had been set up in Rimouski town center. This train carried hundreds of coffins -- enough for the dead recovered from the disastrous Empress of Ireland sinking a few days earlier. Three times that many bodies were still on board the huge ocean liner which now rested on the riverbed. The massive ship had sunk in 14 minutes, leaving many in their cabins or the steerage quarters below decks. While over time bodies would wash up along the river bank, at this moment the Rimouski rescuers had gathered as many as they could find at the site of the accident and set about the difficult job of identification.

This was (and still is) Canada's largest-ever maritime disaster durng peacetime. While it bears a great resemblance to the Titanic, there has been nothing near the same level of attention paid over the last 110 years. This is due to timing . . . the RMS Empress disaster occurred just a few weeks before the outbreak of World War I. While the incident made news around the world, the media quickly moved on as the war commenced. The Empress of Ireland story was soon relegated to the inside pages of newspapers filled with headlines of soldiers dying in the trenches of France and Belgium.

As radio operators, we should once again be proud. Our colleagues distinguished themselves on the Empress. It was a young radio operator (Ron Ferguson, 4VF and later G4VF) who, regardless of the risk to his own life, stood by his station ensuring that help was on the way. Hundreds of lives were saved due to the efforts of these Marconi men.

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At the turn of the century, the Canadian Pacific Railroad enjoyed a successful move into sea travel after establishing rail routes across Canada. They had an almost immediate success with the purchase of three used vessels; these were put into service ferrying thousands of Irish immigrants to Canada. What they didn't have was the luxury demanded by First and Second-Class passengers.  To correct this, in 1903 Canadian Pacific contracted with the Fairfield Shipbuilding company in Scotland to design and build two state-of-the-art oceangoing ships, each designed to hold four classes of passengers.

The Third-Class passengers and Steerage took up the rooms below the water line -- promoted as being safer than anything afloat due to a series of watertight doors across the length of the 570' ship. On both the Empress of Britain and the Empress of Ireland, the First and Second-Class passengers were thrilled with their respective luxury, reflected in private smoking, dining, and entertainment rooms. A grand central stairway ran up and down these rooms of the Empress. It was a magnificent ship, and while the Titanic attracted famous passengers, the Empress enjoyed a very positive reputation for those of all financial levels who wanted to travel in style from England or Ireland to Canada. They promised only "four days at sea" as they came in through Nova Scotia and Northern Canada.

The Evening of May 29th 1914

With First-Class only partially booked, but a passenger contingent of well over 1000, the Empress of Ireland departed Quebec on May 29th headed for the United Kingdom. The ship's mascot, a large orange tabby cat named Emmy, deserted the ship moments before departure and could not be convinced to get back onboard. The crew of 420 grumbled as old hands pointed out that it was a very bad omen for the voyage.

The St. Lawrence is a wide river -- often 50-60 miles across -- and its basin supplies one-tenth of the world's fresh water. Large vessels like the Empress use a pilot to guide them through the channel and into the section near Rimouski, Quebec, where it broadens into the Atlantic. On their first evening out, May 29, 1914, the ship's pilot had been dropped off at Fathers Point Lighthouse and Captain Henry Kendall was on his own, navigating through an increasingly foggy and difficult evening.

It was just after 1 AM when Kendall and his mates in the blacked-out bridge spotted the lights of another ship ahead. Kendall sent out audible signals to advise this vessel of their location, but in the dense fog it is difficult to tell where sounds are coming from. Kendall was confident that his message was received . . . he ordered the ship's engines to stop so that the other vessel could move around him safely. It was at this time that the fog bank surrounding the Empress of Ireland took a turn for the worse. Their lights weren't visible for more than a couple of hundred yards. And, unknowingly Captain Kendall had positioned his ship horizontally across the channel, its starboard side fully exposed.

The approaching ship was the Storstad, a Norwegian freighter inbound from Nova Scotia, loaded with 10,000 tons of coal from the Sydney N.S. mines. The ship was only four years old and had been built with a specially reinforced bow to cut through pack ice. Seamen know that when you get a load this size moving, it's not easy to stop or even steer. And that ice-breaker bow on the Storstad made certain that in any eventuality the ship could pass through obstructions. 

It was that massive bow that Captain Kendall and his men saw approaching from out of the fog, only a few hundred yards away. Despite both ships attempting last-minute moves, they collided with that ice-breaker bow which traveled a full 22 feet into the side of the Empress. Captain Thomas Andersen of the Storstad attempted to keep his ship inside that hole, which could have acted as a cork, but he later said the ship was too hard to control. It drifted away from the Empress, as thousands of gallons of ice-cold river water poured through that opening every second.

Inside the Marconi Room

The Empress of Ireland was promoted as having the latest in wireless equipment along with a 24-hour wireless watch. It was indeed a state-of-the-art radio, and both Ron Ferguson (Chief Wireless Officer, age 20) and Edward Bamford (Assistant Operator) were proud to be working with such equipment and on such a beautiful ship. 

At the moment of impact, Edward was working the radio room while his supervisor, Ron, grabbed some sleep. There really wasn't much going on, as at this time of the morning there would be only junior operators (if anyone) listening at the other end. After the huge impact, Edward was about to transmit when Ron rushed into the room in his pajamas. "Get up to the bridge and find out what Captain Kendall wants us to send," he told Edward. Ron sat down at his key and opened the contact between the Empress and any shore operators he could connect with. According to many who knew him, Ron had a "wonderful, lovely fist" and was capable of very high-speed CW. But he knew that at this hour only the most junior of the shore operators would be manning their radios. He forced himself to QRS (slow down) when he was answered by a junior operator at the Father Point lighthouse.

Assistant Operator, Edward, returned and said, "The first officer says to send an SOS." Ron gave Edward permission to exit and save himself, and despite the rapidly sinking ship and the angle at which he was being forced to work, he gave clear instructions to the shore operator. "CQ CQ CQ de MPL, MPL. Standby for a Distress Signal. Have struck something," and he went into detail about their exact location. MPL was the call of the Empress. At the receiving end, second Marconi officer Leslie Crawford got his boss up and they reached out to two ships, the Eureka and the mail carrier Lady Evelyn. "OK sending ships to your assistance," the shore station replied. (See photo of the Father Point lighthouse and station below).

At 2:01 AM the power went off and the ship went dark. Ron attempted to get battery operation, but the cabinet opened due to the pitch of the ship and the huge batteriess fell out, hitting Ron. He knew it was time to get off and save himself. As soon as he stepped onto the deck, a large wave knocked him overboard, where he found a deck chair and floated around for nearly 15 minutes in the icy water.

The ship he had called, the Lady Evelyn, had arrived at the site and soon Ron found his way onboard. Instead of going for comfort, he saw that the radio room on the Lady Evelyn was locked and unoccupied. He broke a window, climbed through and got the radio powered up, and continued to communicate rescue efforts from the Lady Evelyn throughout the night. It was a remarkable feat. The Lady Evelyn and the pilot boat, Eureka, along with lifeboats from the Storstad, were able to rescue 465 people from the river -- most of whom would have died if not for the Marconi men and their radio.

The Aftermath

It was a horrible loss of life -- more than a thousand dead in river waters that were sheltered and within sight of land. The blame was eventually assigned to the Storstad, but a Norwegian investigation pointed the finger at Captain Kendall. It is true that mistakes were made, including the Empress's final position in the channel. Also, portholes had been opened by crew alomg the lower levels which were just a few feet above water, and as soon as the ship began to tilt those portholes allowed a massive intake of water. The water came in so quickly that none of the watertight doors could be shut due to the angles the ship had taken on.

Ron Ferguson went on to survive that evening, enjoying a distinguished career in radio operations. He was the Director of Marconi International Marine Company until he retired in 1967. Ron was an avid ham radio operator, giving back to his hobby through the Chelmsford Amateur Radio Society where he was club President for many years.

For my readers

I realize that this was a disturbing story. It's never fun to research disasters like this one, but I was so pleased to read about the young guys who manned the radio that night and who clearly had a positive effect on the outcome. That's the spirt of the radio operator -- and that spirit is in all of us, and visible today in the many ways that our operators and our clubs dedicate time to their communities, participating in emergency operations where needed. Thanks to all of you who give your time and resources to these efforts. 

73 for now,

Dave W7DGJ

PS - While writing this article, I repeatedly listened to a beautiful folk song, "Atlantic Blue" written by Canadian singer/songwriter Ron Hynes. The song is dedicated to another Canadian maritime disaster (the Ocean Ranger). This song is worth listening to as you think about the thousand dead on the Empress of Ireland.

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