“Point taken, Sir!” Gidley snapped, yanking his arm out of Lyons's grip and narrowing his eyes in anger. “But what about You, old chap? Have You shown discretion by bringing along that little tart from Cornwall? She'll have You taking the cure and swearing off blood and You'll be dead in five years!”
Lyons seethed. “Lillith is My property. Do You understand? Not another word against her from You, Gidley, or I'll have Your dark heart in the hands of a vivisectionist the moment We disembark in New York, I swear it!” Lyons's tone left little doubt that he did not mean it to be taken in a pejorative sense. He pulled out a pocket watch. “I believe We are about forty minutes away from Southampton. Now, in the meantime, We've somehow got to get back into Our assigned compartment on this train without drawing attention to Ourselves.” He pocketed his watch and then produced a handkerchief from his jacket, and began dabbing at the unsightly gore on Gidley's shirt. “If anyone expresses concern, You slipped and fell and hurt Your jaw.”
Gidley collected his cane and looked down at himself, realizing just how much of a bloodstain there was on his chest. “That must have been some fall, Sir,” he muttered. “I daresay it provided Me enough blood credit to carry Me all the way through to the Wasatch.”
*********
Berth 44 in Southampton continued to roil with activity, and by now smoke was starting to rise from three of the Titanic's four smokestacks. Kerry Langston had been herded with hundreds of other steerage passengers across one of the gangways, and he fancied himself as one of many insects who- like mosquitos- had dared to penetrate the ship's seemingly imperturbable skin. While the boarding process was swift for the third class passengers once they had been examined for lice and other infections, Langston couldn't help but deliberately drag his feet for a moment in order to take in the ship's cleanliness, its warmth, its bright shining lights. Many a foreign tongue chattered around him, but he knew they had to be verbalizing the same excitement over the ship's unexpected accommodations that he felt; until now, travel by steerage was something to be endured, not enjoyed. Although each room was decidedly sparse, the ship seemed to convey comfort to even the lowliest of passengers. Normally, the smell of fresh paint was something that had nauseated him, but in this instance Langston reveled in its pungent, sparkling white newness. It was as if the ship's builders wanted to convey a sense of welcome to everyone.
In brutal honesty, the opinions held by those in steerage could not have been further from J. Bruce Ismay's mind. As he strolled the length of the platform alongside the ship, he chatted excitedly with the ship's architect, Thomas Andrews, and Harold A. Sanderson, member of the firm of Ismay, Imrie and Company. Ismay punctuated his words with a walking stick as he spoke, adding a bit of unavoidable smugness in doing so.
“I daresay that we perhaps have gone one better than the Hamburg-Amerika Line, do you not agree, gentlemen?”
Andrews chuckled and Sanderson responded clinically. “I believe,” he called out, having to raise his voice as the crowds at the port grew gradually louder, “that we have built two new ships that are not surpassed in size and magnificence, and yet at the same moment I do not think there is as simple and as straightforward a ship afloat as this one for getting from one part of it to another. It really is a marvel of design.”
“You flatter me, Harold,” Andrews replied, his eyes sparkling as he seemed to relentlessly drink in the ship's detail at any given moment, rarely taking her eyes off of her. “Not bad for a lad from Comber, though I doubt you would ever see the likes of her sailing down the Glen River!” Ismay smiled while Sanderson broke into a very rare faint grin.
“Harold, I should like to draw your attention to the First Class Promenade Deck- those glass windows?” Ismay gestured up at the A Deck Promenade, where the forward section had been enclosed. “In certain weather, we encountered some trouble on the Olympic, with some of our passengers getting drenched with bow spray.
Since the Titanic is the latest thing in the art of shipbuilding, absolutely no money was spared in her construction, and, therefore, I ordered the forward promenade enclosed.”
“It's true, he did,” Andrews interjected. “Mr. Ismay, do you know what we shipbuilders have nicknamed those windows?”
“No, I don't.”
“We call them the 'Ismay screens.' It seemed appropriate,” he added, drily. Ismay pondered this bit of information for a moment, then nodded his head in a quiet sign of approval. Sanderson stoically regarded the large windows, also in silence; the only sound to come from him was the jiggling of coins, as he absent-mindedly fondled the loose change in his pockets.
Two stewards who were making their way towards the aft end of the ship overheard the exchange. As they walked past, one of them whirled around for a moment, determining none of the important men were in earshot, and took into account that the noise at the port rendered it highly unlikely anyone could hear him. He turned back around, nudged his colleague in the ribs, cocking his head near his friend's ear.
“You hear that? The 'Ismay screens.' It's a sight better than being named after the poop deck, innit?”
He allowed himself a significant laugh, while the other steward seemed momentarily lost in thought, then replied cluelessly. “Well, since the poop deck is at the aft part of the ship, I do not see the point of putting the windows there at all.”
Realizing that his colleague hadn't understood his attempt at scatological humor, the joking steward laughed once more, clapping his exasperated friend's shoulder in both amusement and pity.
Meanwhile, an unusually didactic Ismay continued his descriptions of all things Titanic, pointing out features and details to Sanderson in free association while Andrews continued his unending visual inspection. Ismay commented on the tawny brown paint of the ship's funnels, and the fact that only three of them were “working” funnels- the fourth smokestack was a dummy. He pointed out that the American flag was flying on her foremast to indicate her country of destination. He boasted that her ports of call in Cherbourg and Queenstown were much too small to accommodate the Titanic and, therefore, her anchor would have to be dropped a few miles offshore. As his descriptions began to involve things inside the vessel- the elegant Turkish baths, the gymnasium with its rowing machine and its electric horse (meant to simulate rides), her heated swimming pool- it occurred to him that he and his companions should probably board at once. Ismay also needed to collect his family, a wife and three children, who were hurriedly exploring the liner since they were not going to be joining him on the voyage to New York. As the trio of White Star Line officials headed back towards the gangways for the First Class front entrance on D deck, on the distant horizon, slowly approaching Berth 44, there came an object- small at first- that gradually grew in size, indistinct at such a distance, becoming clearer as the seconds passed. It first seemed to drift, then move ahead with purpose- until, finally, its inevitable path became clear.
Steam roiled. Porters and stewards flew into action with swift efficiency. The boat train from London had made its arrival at the dockside, its hissing engines competing with the Titanic's 750lb steam whistles as they blared the occasional sailing day siren call.
Despite the seaport's apparent eager desire to serve its passengers quickly, Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley had decided to forestall their departure from the train. Sgt. Wade's blood had barely dried on the front of Gidley's shirt, and indeed, while the men had tried with handkerchiefs and spit to conceal it, dark red stains were still plainly visible on his coat. Only a few passengers had seemed to detect the soiled condition of his clothing as the two men had made their way back to their compartment, but Lyons merely gave them a stern look, deciding to forfeit the “slipped and fell and hurt his jaw” strategy. By hiding in plain sight, not proactively offering an explanation, Lyons thought that they could go about their business without interference.
Waiting and watching and listening, the men assured themselves they had to be the final passengers on board before deciding to make a
go for it, peeking out of their compartment to ensure that no porter was waiting at the open door. They stepped furtively onto the platform, where about forty yards away a plaintive call of “Here, gentlemen! Here, good sirs!” rang out. It was their frantic valet, Marcus, pulling together their luggage, while a deeply saddened Lillith moved slowly in her duties- moving their cases, but going about it with only a sullen semblance of duty.
“Gentlemen, my- my sincere apologies!” he sputtered. “I was terribly concerned that perhaps we had somehow gotten separated, and-”
“Shut up, Marcus,” a tightly wound Lyons snapped; Marcus ducked like an abused, but still sadly loyal, dog. “We are in close proximity now, and all I want for Us to do is to board that ship.” He glanced over at Lillith, who was now looking daggers at Gidley. A quick survey of the blood on his clothes and a recollection of the high-pitched whine was all she needed. She thought of bluntly asking Gidley if he'd left the body on the train, but instead decided to take a different course, since Marcus was new and completely in the dark as to whom he served.
“And how was Your blood pudding this morning, Mr. Gidley? It certainly couldn't have been Your first helping.” She firmly set down a few suitcases in angry emphasis.
“Listen, clever girl,” Gidley started to growl at her.
“Silence!” Lyons once again hissed sharply, glancing around the immediate area of the platform. “Our man Gidley here merely slipped and fell and hurt His jaw whilst on the train, and that is all you need to know.”
“Oh sir!” a horrified and solicitous Marcus cried out, digging in his own coat for a handkerchief. “Are you going to be quite all right? Should you like me to retrieve a change of shirt for you from the luggage, sir? It's really no trouble at all-”
“Would you shut your bleeding mouth?” Gidley rudely interrupted, leaving Marcus speechless with a handkerchief at the ready in his trembling hand. “What would you have Me do, you stupid young man- change My clothes right out here on the dock? I will do no such thing!”
“I'm- I'm terribly sorry, sir. Please forgive me.” He hurriedly shoved the handkerchief back into his coat, and without another word immediately resumed pulling together the luggage.
“Bleedin' mouth is a rather interesting choice of words, Mr. Gidley, don't You think?” Lillith replied, not letting go of her anger and her hate. “Is it truly Your mouth that bleeds, or did someone bleed on Your mouth-”
Before she could finish her sentence, Lyons had taken his walking stick and swung it down with great force, just barely missing her face but making the frilly edges of her chambermaid's cap flutter as it landed point-down inches from her toes.
“That will be all, you cheeky little bint,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Another injudicious word out of you will result in the most severe of consequences, I can assure you.”
Lillith stood frozen, truly petrified and wondering why Marcus couldn't seem to do anything but relentlessly try to please his masters. He had completely ignored what had just happened by preoccupying himself with the luggage. Lillith wished that, for once, someone had perhaps witnessed Lyons's display of temper and cruelty. Her heart sank as she realized there wasn't a soul on their side of the train; everyone else, by now, had walked over to the ship.
Lyons took on an imperious tone. “Marcus, have Our tickets ready, as well as Our belongings. We should be assigned Our own steward shortly. Lillith, stay brought to heel. And Mr. Gidley, do try to pull Your coat together and hide Your injuries, for that's what they are...” he looked at Lillith intently. “Just injuries.” The two men started to head for the other side of the train, leaving a frantically eager-to-please Marcus and a glum Lillith to deal with their heavy luggage.
Meanwhile, although Thomas Andrews and Harold Sanderson had already boarded the ship, Ismay found himself unavoidably detained on the dock by a seemingly endless stream of White Star Line well-wishers, along with his wife and children, who had by now completed their tour of the Titanic and were eager to proceed on their own holiday.
“I'm sure that you are prepared to be on your way, Florence, and would prefer to not dawdle away any more time inspecting the most elegant ship in the world,” he said with a wry smile.
“She is beautiful, she's virtually a floating cathedral,” his wife replied, dutifully fussing over the folds of his jacket. “I'm sure that you will all be extremely comfortable.”
“Indeed. Kiss little George for me,” he replied, watching his children already eagerly making their way back to the South Western Hotel. “I should think you might want to collect them.”
Florence kissed him lightly on the cheek, and he watched her leave swiftly, her plumed chapeau rapidly becoming lost in a procession of other women's church wide brim hats that were streaming towards the ship. “I shall return in about ten days!” he called after her. This was a day of immense pride for Bruce Ismay, seeing his elegant wife head off in the pursuit of their fine young children. Behind him was the result of five years of a relentless pursuit of excellence, a ship that made its sister (the Olympic) and indeed all other liners that had claimed to offer the finest in floating luxury look like a rusty scow.
He watched Florence hustle off into the distance for a moment more, when his eyes drifted closer and caught a glance of a man- an odd looking sort- somewhat older and pale in appearance, wearing a top hat and a jacket that was carelessly left open, making him appear slightly disheveled. It was Bartholomew Gidley, who had already tired of holding his coat together and thrown caution to the wind. He had apparently just joined the queue of passengers waiting to board the ship.
To Ismay, he seemed almost entirely out of place- rumpled, sour, and from what he could tell at a distance of about twenty yards, perhaps even dirty. Annoyed and alarmed, he promptly snapped his fingers at the nearest steward, who- when he saw who was summoning him- rushed to him.
“Do you see that man there?” he said disdainfully, using his walking stick to gesture at Gidley in the distance.
“Yes sir,” the young steward eagerly replied.
“Find out who he is, and why he is in such a condition. He certainly can't be preparing to board here.”
“Yes sir.”
Ismay briefly watched the steward make a beeline towards Gidley, but was distracted by a firm but polite “Hello, sir!” from John Fry, his valet, who had apparently been dispatched to collect him from the dock. “I do not believe that the ship should leave Southampton without you, sir,” he stated with familiar charm.
Meanwhile, in his third class cabin on F Deck, Kerry Langston found the quarters a bit snug and the amenities few, but he had already taken advantage of one of the top bunk beds out of a choice of four and was enjoying the warmth of a beautiful red and white afghan that bore the White Star Logo. The blanket was so comfortable that he'd pondered the possibility of pilfering it once they'd arrived in New York. His heart had been racing with excitement for some time now, and after murmuring a few polite “hellos” to his bunk mates- two Swedes and an American, all housed together as single men- he decided it was probably best for the moment to try and begin at least a few days worth of rest before setting foot in New York, for what was sure to be a trying time shadowing Lyons across the country. Pulling his blanket close, and seeing that his bunkmates were distracted with card games and reading of their own, he decided to pull out his worn-out old diary and perhaps read each and every entry from the very beginning, detailing every evil act committed by Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley, steeling himself for the challenges that lay ahead. He would also review Lillith's letters with a new understanding, savoring the trust that this remarkable young woman had shown in him.
Out on the dock, while making brief small talk with John Fry (who had been Bruce Ismay's valet for ten years and his personal assistant on all of his travels) the White Star Line chairman was slightly distracted as he eagerly awaited an update from the steward who had done as requested, approaching the unidentified and rough-looking mystery man. Isma
y thought he saw the man gesture to a valet to hand the steward a ticket, while another much better-dressed man approached the steward as well, apparently interrogating him and also animatedly instructing the valet to produce another ticket. As the little drama played out, Ismay, along with just about everyone within a three-mile radius, felt his sternum vibrate as the Titanic produced yet another warning siren from her whistles; the lifting of the anchor was not far away.
In short measure the steward turned around and headed back towards Ismay, his lips pursed together and his brow furrowed in thought. “Well?” Ismay called out somewhat impatiently, as soon as he sensed that the steward was within earshot.
“A valet presented First Class tickets, sir. He says that he's a PPS.”
“A what?” A puzzled Ismay queried.
Call Me Ismay Page 18
