Wallace Hartley, the bandmaster, nodded at his musicians — his usual signal that they should stop and put away their instruments. He followed this with his customary bow, though he was having difficulty keeping his balance.
‘Gentlemen, thank you all. A most commendable performance. Good night and good luck.’
The bandsmen shook hands with each other, according to witnesses.
Jock Hume placed his violin in its case, then wound the strap round his body until it was tight against his lifejacket. The extra buoyancy, he hoped, might increase his chances.
It was 2.11am, on April 15, 1912. The bow of the ship was completely under water now, the icy sea slapping the musicians’ thighs. They moved further back towards the stern.
It would have been Jock’s style to leap first, joking that it would be like a dip in the Mediterranean compared to swimming in a Scottish burn.
In fact, there was no chance of survival in the -2.2c water. Within 25 minutes of jumping, the bandsmen were all dead.
Starcrossed lovers: Jock Hume, right, in a portrait released by his family after the Titanic sank. Left, Mary Costin in 1915, after her court victory over Andrew Hume, Jock's father
Two thousand miles away in Dumfries, Scotland, two families waited anxiously for news of Jock. It was two days since the Titanic had hit an iceberg, and that morning’s newspaper reports were alternately fuelling hope and despair.
Although Jock’s fiancee, Mary Costin, hadn’t slept, she got ready as usual for her job at a glove factory. On the way, she called in on Jock’s father, Andrew Hume, to see if he’d heard anything.
Mounting the six York-stone steps to the Humes’ front door, she grasped the heavy lion’s claw doorknob and knocked twice. Jock’s stepmother, Alice, opened the door.
Looking Mary coldly up and down, she told her: ‘Please do not call here again, Miss Costin,’ — and shut the door in her face.
Adapted from And The Band Played On by Christopher Ward, to be published by Hodder & Stoughton.
