Frederick Fleet isn't a name that immediately conjures up images of a shipwreck. Among a gallery of early-twentieth-century'somebodies,' John Jacob Astor IV, Isidor Straus, and Benjamin Guggenheim are arguably more likely to elicit a sorrowful identification as some of the most prominent individuals that perished in the Atlantic Ocean after being onboard the magnificent, yet fateful, Titanic. Fleet, on the other hand, was not rubbing shoulders with such leaders of industry in the dining saloons and smoking lounges; fact, his early existence as a real 'waif and stray' would have never indicated a presence onboard the era's most magnificent ship, no matter how unsinkable his optimism.
Frederick Fleet was born on October 15, 1887, the illegitimate son of Alice Fleet and Frederick Laurence, a father he had never seen. In the instance of Fred Fleet, the parental tie, while not purely a natural thing, lacked a nurturing character, and he was taken into care at a young age. Fleet was just over two years old when he was brought to the Liverpool Foundling Hospital in December 1889, where he would spend the next three years. During his tenure there, it appears that his mother made minor contributions to Fred's care, albeit infrequently.
She also managed to keep up with the hospital matron on a regular basis, which was crucial. Fred could not have avoided feeling a mist of neglected loneliness wrap him following his mother's next moves, regardless of the origins of these intentions. In October 1890, Alice and her sister boarded sail for America, the optimistic pair following their own American aspirations, eventually settling in Springfield, Massachusetts.
While Alice continued on her hopeful trek, her baby boy remained without a father in the Foundling Hospital. During this time, the hospital started to have its own problems. Its prospects were hampered by a lack of money, and it looked that company might be forced to close. Fred's most probable fate in such a situation would be a referral to the local workhouse, but this was avoided thanks to a plea for help from the Church of England. The application reads like a heartbreakingly tragic account of Fred Fleet's early phases of abandonment. Perhaps the title of the application to the 'Church of England Central Society for Providing Homes for Waifs and Strays' says it all. Nonetheless, the contents shed light on the tumultuous environment he found himself in throughout his formative years.
In March 1893, Fred was sent to the newly-opened Liverpool Diocesan Boys' Home, Elm Lodge, Seaforth, where he was most likely admitted as one of the first inmates. It had a capacity of thirty boys aged 7 to 14, and while there is little corroborative information pertaining to Fred's stay there, surviving testimony would imply that the home provided him with the reasonably stable and safe setting he had yet to encounter. A former lodge resident penned a wistful letter to his former matron, reminiscing about the wonderful Christmases he had spent there. 'Liberal supply of apples, oranges, and biscuits, turkey and plum pudding, and possibly a threepenny piece!' he wrote nostalgically.
Fred's regular responsibilities at the house would, of course, include duties such as cleaning dorms and communal rooms, as well as caring to the outside regions while simultaneously attending the local school. However, it appears that living in the facility did not give all of its members with a good reaffirmation. It's maybe not surprising that the young man's fractured and rejected upbringing resulted in behavior issues inside Elm Lodge. These trying years unwittingly shaped Fred's future fate, which he now sees with sarcastic insight. Shortly after his twelfth birthday in November 1899, he became a source of great anxiety for the Society. During urgent attempts to rehouse Fred, senior personnel at Elm Lodge and other facilities exchanged a flurry of letters.
Mr Edward Rudolf, the founder and secretary of the Waifs and Strays Society, contacted the Tattenhall Home in Cheshire near the end of 1899 with the hopes of receiving Fred. Tattenhall Secretary Adela Joyce's response is instructive. 'There is a vacancy at Tattenhall, so we may accept this youngster on trial; but if he is as problematic as he appears to have been at Seaforth, we shall not be able to keep him,' she suggested. Despite his youth, Fred's notoriety was already beginning to hinder his possibilities. Despite the fact that the plans appeared to be set in stone, his trial period at Tattenhall never materialized.
Rudolf put in a lot of work on Fred's behalf, but it turned out that the Seaforth Home Committee had completely other ideas for the young man. The Seaforth Committee's Beatrice Lockett wrote to Rudolf, stating that the planned relocation was no longer in Fred's best interests, and that her husband had written to the commander of the industrial school ship Clio, asking if they might 'get Freddy on that ship.' The Clio was a former Royal Navy corvette stationed in the Menai Straits off the coast of Bangor. These ships were designed to teach young boys seamanship skills and prepare them for a life at sea.
The reasons behind Lockett's quick rescheduling of Fred's immediate future are unknown. Mrs Lockett and her colleagues acted quickly and without apparent opposition, but whatever the reasons for the U-turn, the actions of Mrs Lockett and her colleagues realigned Fred's destiny toward an unexpected journey. Despite acquiring essential seamanship instruction and abilities, stories of life on board portray a harsh and unforgiving reality. The lads were subjected to arbitrary discipline, beatings, and ruthless bullying, which were all frequent occurrences. Fred's existence onboard the Clio is shrouded in mystery, yet he bravely endured the ship's rigors for four years, learning the talents that would eventually be called upon under such dire circumstances.
Fred kept in touch with one member of the Elm Lodge Home Committee, George Killey, who may or may not have guaranteed Fred's future with the prestigious White Star Line, under his mentorship. Killey takes a nearly fatherly tone of victory in a letter to Edward Rudolf in 1910, reflecting on his one-time dread about Fred, but that, as a result of his training aboard the Clio, he has 'become a splendid young lad' and is now a 'lookout man on the White Star Liner, Oceanic.'
The White Star Line was founded by Thomas Henry Ismay, who paid the princely amount of £1,000 in January 1868 to buy the company's trade name, flag, and goodwill, which had been formed by John Pilkington and Henry Threlfall Wilson. The firm, however, was unable to reach financial equilibrium, and the shipping line was driven into bankruptcy, owing £527,000 to the Royal Bank of Liverpool. Ismay, ever the opportunist, converted an initial failure into a lucrative potential.
Following four years onboard the Oceanic, the fleet's naval fangs were shaved. He was paid £5 per month as a seaman, with an extra 5 shillings for lookout duties. It was in this capacity that he would quit the Oceanic and take up a permanent observing position onboard the Titanic, the most luxury ship ever built.
Titanic's first voyage was set to commence on Wednesday, April 10th, 1912, with a departure from Southampton. Although Fred Fleet would not be granted the sparkling experience reserved for people in the higher tiers of the separate class system onboard, he might indulge in the significance of the event. The crew began to board the ship early on the morning of departure, prior to the arrival of Captain Smith, the ship's highest-ranking officer, who arrived at half past seven. The vast ship was suddenly alive with the frenzied scampering of staff members performing last inspections before passengers boarded. The crew lowered two of the lifeboats as part of the safety assessment to guarantee operation and demonstrate their competence to handle them, however it was anticipated that these vessels would stay redundant.
Titanic was set to leave Southampton around lunchtime. Approximately 900 people boarded here, with more to be picked up at Cherbourg — 142 first-class, 30 second-class, and 102 third-class passengers boarded in the French port before sailing to Queenstown, County Cork, Ireland. Captain Smith ordered an emergency practice before the ship arrived in Irish port on April 11th, during which safety equipment, emergency doors, and exits were examined; however, no record exists of whether the lifeboats were inspected again. Nonetheless, 240 more ecstatic passengers embarked at Queenstown before Titanic set off for the vastness of the Atlantic.
The ship's grandiose trappings and furnishings were completely in keeping with the early hyperbole of its magnificence during Titanic's first 24 hours at sea; 386 nautical miles had been covered and the ship's grandiose trappings and furnishings were completely in keeping with the early hyperbole of its magnificence. The wifi area, however, was far from the beautiful trellised walls and sweeping stairs, with an abundance of notifications emphasizing perilous sailing conditions ahead. Several ships issued several ice warnings, despite the potential risk was not considered as immediate due to the ship's distance from dangerous zones.
It was a cool and clear morning on Sunday, April 14th. Despite the fact that Titanic had previously received more ice warnings, a small haze followed the crisp early hours, and this harsh atmosphere was judged cause enough to abort the regulatory lifeboat drill. From the comfortable confines of the filled library and scorching Turkish baths, these alerts proceeded throughout the afternoon, travelers blissfully ignorant of any looming difficulty. The temperature outside was rapidly dropping, indicating the existence of bouldering icebergs. On the night of 14 April, the lookout crew's task was very important, and remarks in the night order book reinforced the need to be attentive for these glacier masses.
Archie Jewel and George Symons, Fred Fleet's coworkers, took over as the ship's eyes at 8:00 p.m., replacing George Hogg and Frank Evans. The lookout crew was made up of six men who worked in pairs for two-hour shifts. Following that, a four-hour break would be followed by a return to duty. The men were stationed in the crow's nest, 50 feet above the forecastle deck, high on the mast. The duty of those on the crow's nest seemed seemingly simple, but it took unbroken focus in practice, as they constantly scanned the expanse ahead of them for approaching dangers. Even though the water was peaceful and motionless, the sky was moonless, and the stars overhead were lucid and clear, a seemingly tame ocean might very soon become one of unbridled wrath, and constant vigilance was required.
At nine o'clock, Captain Smith retired to his quarters, having given orders that he be woken promptly if anything unusual happened. Of course, Smith was aware of the several ice warnings received throughout the journey, one of which, given just after he retired for the evening, warned of ice immediately ahead of the ship's path. At ten o'clock, Fred Fleet climbed the ladder to the crow's nest. His job was to focus on the port side (left), while Reginald Lee was in charge of the starboard (right). High above the liner, the two guys gathered vigilantly in their confines. In the darkness of the night, only the men's occasional misty exhalations were visible. Something lot more evil, on the other hand, was going to appear.
Fleet's shift was coming to a conclusion at twenty to midnight when he noticed a black object high above the sea, dead ahead. Fleet sprung into action, ringing the brass bell three times and dialing the bridge, eventually reaching First Officer William Murdoch. Fleet uttered the now-famous words 'iceberg just ahead,' which cemented Fleet's iconic role in Titanic's ever-enduring story. The warning prompted the ship's crew to take quick measures in an attempt to avoid collision with the bulk. The ship started to swing away from the iceberg, but it didn't go far enough. As the huge strange object grew closer, Fleet gazed in terror. He had no choice but to try to persuade the massive ship to steer beyond the iceberg, no matter how fruitless it would be. It would be insufficient.
Deep below the waterline, the hull slammed violently with the ice, bursting rivets and piercing the ship's underbelly with a deadly gash. The seriousness of the collision was mostly unclear to the passengers, however some on deck saw enormous chunks of ice pouring down around them. It's hard to say how much terror this instilled in people onboard a 'unsinkable' ship, but it was clear that the finest ship of her day had been severely wounded and would soon be in its dying throes, along with its numerous passengers.
The stoic heroism and even – albeit rare – episodes of cowardice displayed by people onboard Titanic during her final death plummet to the depths of the freezing Atlantic have been well-documented, and as a result, there is no need to go over it again here. It was a huge human catastrophe. The Evening News graphic proclaiming 'Titanic Disaster Great Loss of Life' evocatively captures the reality that little over 1,500 people died that night. Fred Fleet was one of the 705 persons who survived the accident. Such a large death toll would, of course, elicit the usual inquiry, which would reveal probable reasons and lessons learned from the tragedy. The first investigation, which took place at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York, yielded nearly 1,000 pages of evidence from eighty-two witnesses.
The reading of Fred Fleet's testimony, which is encased inside its pages, offers an adorable innocence within Fleet's replies as he confronted a dogged Senator William Alden Smith, exposes an endearing naivety within Fleet's responses. Following Fleet's admission that the lookout team had no binoculars - a completely strange thought – Smith questioned how useful binoculars would have been up in the crow's nest on the night of the disaster. Fleet commented, 'We might have spotted it a little sooner.' Smith said, 'How much sooner?' 'Enough to get out of the way,' Fleet simply remarked.
Whether Fleet's simple'solution' to a probable avoidance of calamity was plausible or not, the detailed investigation did result in changes in policy and regulation, and was, at the very least, a force for good. Those who survived the horrible events on the Atlantic, however, were in a state of purgatory, despite the fact that they were first deemed "lucky." The laborious progress of that 'black object' carved severely into Fleet's weary psyche, and he became one of many 'insomniacs of the Titanic.'
Frederick Fleet, however, was back on the ocean just two months after the Titanic sank, serving as a seaman aboard the White Star ship Olympic. However, this was a short-lived endeavor, and by August 1912, he had cut connections with the firm. Fleet sailed with Union-Castle and a few other comparable businesses for the following twenty-four years before retiring from the sea in 1936. His ties to the water were not completely severed, however, as he chose to work for Harland and Wolff, the shipbuilders who had ironically built both the Titanic and the Olympic.
Away from the waters, Fleet married Eva Le Gros, a 26-year-old Jersey woman, in 1917. Dorothy, their only child, was born a year later, on November 24, 1918. Despite the fact that Fleet spoke gingerly about his experiences, they remained to haunt him. Fred Fleet did talk about the tragic evening with Titanic expert Leslie Reade in 1964, for example. The horror that had ringed Fleet's life following the Titanic event, tormenting him ever more, was expressed to Reade with heartbreaking intensity. He did seek medical help, but it was to no effect. Psychological trauma and its associated notions were, if they were recognised at all, in their infancy. 'Survivor guilt,' for example, was first coined in 1961 and may have impacted Fleet, but any therapy or even acknowledgement at the time would have been rare.
Physically, severe blackouts were becoming a common and serious illness for Fleet, one that necessitated a brief stay at the Royal South Hampshire Hospital. He and his wife Eva were staying with Eva's brother, Philip Le Gros, on Norman Road in Southampton. Fleet was working part-time as a street seller for the Southampton Echo newspaper at the time, but he was living a sad existence. Eva died shortly after Christmas in 1964, bringing the sadness to a head. Fred was back on his own.
Fred was advised to look for new accommodations after Eva's death. Fred and Eva's brother are reported to have agreed that once Eva died, Fred should move out; after all, he had only lobbied for the arrangement for his sister. Fred had attempted to contact the welfare department previously, but had been unsuccessful. Fred's head was in shambles, and his life was falling apart around him. Even the most centered person would be overwhelmed by his wife's death and the prospect of homelessness; when combined with the never-ending emotions and unshakeably distressing recollections from Titanic's final evening, it's no surprise that the 77-year-demeanor old's was pervaded by immeasurable grief.
Fred's sadness was now revealing itself on a more regular basis. The cops came to see his daughter Dorothy on January 4, 1965. Her father had been discovered in a troubled state, threatening to commit suicide. This was not, however, a course of action Dorothy expected her father to pursue.
Dorothy saw her father alive for the last time on the morning of Saturday, January 9th. He paid her a visit at her house, depressed and emotional. For the course of the visit, which lasted about an hour, he remained seriously depressed. He gave Dorothy a wallet with £5 in it and asked her to watch after it for him. As he walked away from his daughter, he told her that she would be receiving a letter soon. She believed it was from the social services department. Later that evening, Le Gros spotted Fred packing his belongings and stripping his bed. He retired to bed, assuming Fred was staying with friends. Le Gros went outdoors the next morning to the coal house. Fred was leaning on the end of the garden's clothes post. He looked to be in deep thought. Le Gros yelled at his brother-in-law, but Fred remained silent. As Le Gros got closer, he saw Fred dangling from the ceiling. The guy whose gaze had initially fallen on the source of the world's biggest maritime disaster was no longer alive.
Le Gros didn't waste any time in calling the cops. Constable Beasley arrived at the scene at 47 minutes past nine. The rope looked to have been acquired particularly for this terrible reason and was not part of the garden's laundry line. The rope had been looped multiple times around the clothes post, while a handkerchief that had been loosely knotted around Fred's lips remained in place. Frederick Fleet's feet were practically touching the ground, and nearby stood a pair of little wooden stairs - just 2 feet high – from which he had clearly leaped, putting an end to his internal suffering for good.
Close to the body was a shopping bag. A sealed mail addressed to PC Beasley's daughter, Dorothy, was discovered inside. The tragic letter, written in Fred's handwriting, read:
My Dear Dorrie
I am sorry what I am going to do I can’t stick it any longer, tonight I am hanging myself. Now the stuff in the bedroom is yours two cases, clock, carpet, the carrier by the clothes post outside, the lamp on the floor and wiring I don’t know weather [sic] it belongs to me or Phil you must ask him the bed clothes you please yourself if you want them don’t forget the small case also the chamber I don’t know about the bed I am not interesting myself about it I hope to be dead. Well my dear this is goodbye love to all from your broken hearted father what an end another Titanic man gone. I have left the Photos in the small case don’t forget the basin under the sink, now Dorrie I am giving you a big thing to do I have always worried about being buried alive do you know anybody that would help you to have my body taken to the hospital to do what they like with it. I know its not nice to ask a thing like this to be done. Dear Dorrie a new pair of shoes upstairs if you know anybody would like them well this is all I have to say goodbye to all my friends.
Dad xxxxxxx
It was recognized by the deceased that following her [Eva's] death he would have to find other lodgings, and these two considerations may have played upon his mind,' the coroner said during Fred's inquest. A suicide verdict was recorded. Fred's sad conclusion was included into the Titanic tale almost by accident. Fred was buried in a pauper's grave in Hollybrook Cemetery near Southampton, in terrible conformity with his living incognito. His ultimate burial location looked to be a tragic mirror of his life, since it was located in a lonely and barren region with minimal traffic.
Fred, on the other hand, received a headstone matching his memory in 1993. The Titanic Historical Society was founded in America in 1963. The organization wanted to provide Fred the honor he deserved at the time of his death, which many thought he didn't get. A new headstone was placed at Fred's grave thanks to donations from the organization. Finally, a just memorial stands as an everlasting remembrance of one of the Titanic's forgotten soldiers — Fred had finally earned the respect and honor that had escaped him throughout his life.