The cold succeeded in keeping most of the passengers inside, with its fireplace and electric heaters, along with its hot food and seemingly endless supply of distilled spirits. A few stray souls were to be found above deck, seeking exercise, perhaps a smoke, a private conversation. One individual- in a mood so sore that he was seeking neither of those options- was Kerry Langston.
He was seated on a bench on the Third Class Poop Deck, flat cap pulled down almost to his eyebrows, legs crossed tightly, and- significantly- the wooden box that contained the vampire kit tucked under his arm. It had been a miserable few days on the largest vessel in the world.
Not long after departing Southampton, the novelty had worn off with swift cruelty. Langston discovered just how deeply segregated the class system was onboard when, out of his natural curiosity, he had wanted to take in the view from the Boat Deck as the Titanic approached Cherbourg. He had observed the NOTICE: THIRD CLASS PASSENGERS ARE NOT ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT sign that was attached to the railings outboard of the well deck stairs to B deck, but had decided as long as his visit was a brief one, surely no one would mind or notice. Also, in what he knew was probably foolish hope, he envisioned that perhaps by chance, by fate- he would possibly catch a glimpse of Lillith somewhere up on the deck. Maybe she would be making a brave attempt to take in fresh air and to free herself from Edward Lyons, if only for a little while. He had looked about before attempting to scurry up the railings, but had no sooner just passed Lifeboat No. 15 when he was accosted by a particularly imperious steward.
“I don't know who you are, lad, but it's obvious that you don't belong here,” he warned. Langston thought of reaching into his coat and providing some of his now outdated London Daily Chronicle credentials, but the steward continued his orders with “If I was you, I'd just turn around and walk away.” Langston did so, placing his hands on the railings and looking off into the distance, and feeling as far from Lillith as ever before. He lifted one leg back over the railing, feeling foolish and hoping that no one else had seen his transgression, and he lingered there longer than he had realized, for behind him came the steward's unnecessarily harsh tone again. “I thought I told you to get off the deck!” the steward snapped. Langston hurriedly complied, jumping down without looking or thinking- and managed to viciously twist his ankle in the process.
Shortly thereafter during a brief hobble through Third Class, he discovered locked gates that segregated steerage from second and first class passengers. A fellow steerage passenger- a rather large Irishman seated on a bunk while untying his boots- saw Langston staring up at the gates in wonder and immediately knew what he was thinking.
“How about that, eh?” the man, a never-met-a-stranger type piped in. “United States Emigration laws, you see.”
Langston would have figured it was his fellow Britons who had concocted such a scheme- but no, it was the Americans, land of the free, home of the brave, prairies of dead Indians and lynched Blacks, he seethed to himself. He would stare at the lights above in wonder for some time, beckoning him to other parts of the ship, to Lillith, to greater freedoms and privileges that were no doubt magnificent, but, for a man in his position, entirely out of reach.
As he nursed his sore, swollen ankle in his bunk and cursed the overzealous cretin of a steward who had indirectly caused him to injure himself significantly, the one dimly bright ray of hope that gave him any comfort was the food of which he could daily partake. Normally a transatlantic steerage passenger could be expected to bring their own food along for the journey, but for the White Star Line things were different. Three times a day- and frequently by means of sheer force- he limped his way to the Third Class dining saloon on the middle (F) deck, constantly apologizing to those in queue behind them and many times waving them ahead of him. The dining rooms for Third Class were sparse, but clean, sunlight streaming into the enameled white space through several portholes. The long tables could seat as many as twenty, and Langston had done his best to keep to himself while dining, absorbing himself in a copy of the Titanic's own newspaper- The Atlantic Daily Bulletin- which had kindly been pilfered by one of the nicer stewards from First Class and offered to anyone in steerage who might be interested. Langston's copy of the daily newspaper was dated April 11th, and he held onto it with great care, making sure he had it along for every meal so he would not have to partake in any unwanted conversation.
The reporter in him could easily detect what portions of the paper had been printed previously onshore, and what had been inserted into it onboard- stock prices, horse racing results, and the like. The growing influence of wireless telegraphy- which allowed the Titanic to keep its passengers up to date with the most recent news- was not lost on Langston, and, as a print journalist, it both worried and fascinated him.
The food that Langston had been eating in social solitude tasted finer than anything he had eaten in months. After seemingly endless digestive issues and especially poor nutrition while trying to scrape his way to Southampton, he had vowed that for at least this journey he would not leave a scrap behind. Just that day- on Sunday the 14th- he had partaken of oatmeal porridge, fried tripe and onions, bread and butter, marmalade, Swedish bread and tea for breakfast; bouillon soup, roast beef and brown gravy, green beans, potatoes, cabin biscuits, prunes and rice for lunch. He had felt his belt gradually tightening around his waist for the past few days, and had cared not a whit. But on this cold afternoon- his mood already affected by frustrated loneliness and pain in his ankle that did not seem to be improving in the least- the rich feasting was starting to catch up on him, and an all-too-familiar horrible ache had returned to his bowels, embarrassing and scaring him. The thought of using a public toilet in a potentially explosive state terrified him, and he was now seated on a slatted bench, sweating and ruefully trying not to laugh at his own situation by knowing full well that he was trapped on the aptly named Poop Deck.
The vampire kit was another matter. As he shifted uncomfortably on the bench, he could feel items inside the box rolling loosely about- he imagined that one of them had to be the crucifix. For about the past day or so, Langston had found himself seized by an insane desire to vigorously heave the entire box over the railing of the ship- abdicating himself of all knowledge, all responsibility of the situation. He knew in his heart that Lillith would be horrified at his lowly state, barely able to walk and now quite possibly about to soil himself at any given moment. However, the folly of his crusade had become all too painfully clear: as a journalist, he had reported on what others had done with their lives, and hadn't brought about any change on his own. He had never run for office and probably never would, and yet he fancied himself as somehow being a part of politics by merely reporting on it. His was a spectator's life, not that of an initiator; he was coming to the conclusion with every mile the Titanic was working so hard at bringing him closer to America that all of his efforts had been in vain. He angrily shook the box in his hand out of frustration. He snorted in derision as he caught a glimpse of his own Masonic ring, now considering himself completely unworthy of the fraternity of brotherly love.
He looked to the sky, watching smoke roil overhead as it dissipated out of the boiler rooms and into the open air. An occasional tiny bit of ash would land on the Poop Deck, swirl about and then vanish into nothingness; Langston felt this particular visual was highly symbolic of his foreseeable future.
1:45 P.M.
Kerry Langston wasn't the only one to be engaged in soul-searching on the decks of the Titanic that morning. Up on the Boat Deck, with unlimited access to the ship as personally promised by J. Bruce Ismay, were Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley. The cold winds had subsided a little bit by the time they were out for a stroll- but it wasn't of great significance to them. The weather never impeded these two men in their actions, and at the moment they knew only the hardiest of passengers would be out for a walk in these conditions, and they especially wanted to have some words out of the earshot of any meddlesome female servants.
Their time on the Titanic had been far more comfortable than Kerry's Langston's, but that didn't prevent them from grousing. Gidley was still stubbornly offended by the downgrade in their tickets even though they had been allowed full access to the ship, walking whenever and wherever they chose. They were free to take in the delights of the Cafe Parisien, a charming sun-lit verandah that offered a view of the sea while dining, something never available before on a British sea liner.
Lyons had been oddly reticent for the past several days, ever since the public humiliation at Southampton: being jeered at by suffragettes. Lyons was not entirely without a conscience, and he had been pondering whether he had at least earned a form a punishment for stringing along the women's movement for his own gain for so long. Gidley howled with raucous, derisive laughter when Lyons had quietly made the suggestion to him in the First Class men's smoking room, drawing unwanted attention to their private alcove of conversation. In short order, Gidley prodded Lyons into making chauvinistic statements at least once more, to his own great amusement.
It was now approaching one o'clock in the afternoon, and for both men, their grievances were still a source of irritation. Gidley lit his fourth cigar of the day while Lyons came to a stop, not far from some empty deck chairs on the port side of the ship and Lifeboat No.8, and lightly tapped his walking stick absent-mindedly on the ship's railings for a moment.
Gidley, Lyons began, not taking his eyes off of the ocean spray below, “Have We outstayed Our existence's usefulness?”
“What?” an annoyed and perplexed Gidley asked.
“Have We outstayed Our existence's usefulness to the point where We can no longer expect to rule as We please in this world?”
“What are You on about now, bloke?” Gidley asked, impatiently.
“You saw how that crowd of people reacted in Southampton,” Lyons replied, turning to face Gidley. “It was unlike anything I have ever seen. Women and men united against the natural order of things. If ever there was an indication of what the women's movement could lead to, I say You should look no further.”
“It's shameful when You can't treat a woman as You please,” Gidley stated without a trace of irony, taking a puff of his cigar. “It's downright unfair.”
“Unfair and unnatural,” Lyons responded, turning to let his eyes fall on the ocean's spray once more as the Titanic continued to slice through the chilly waters of the Atlantic. “For decades- for centuries!- I have felt something change in the world. First feudalism broke down, then monarchies started being replaced with democracies, kings were being replaced with parliaments- and worked that system well, We have, pretending to grant all of that equal opportunity nonsense to the masses while at the same time taking it away!” Gidley nodded. “We could assimilate into the times and still rule with an iron fist. But first the news was remote, coming from places like America, with its revolution and civil war, the abolition of slavery, and then of course We can't leave out the collapse of the aristocracy of France, and now Britain, perhaps losing its grip on Ireland and possibly the empire, while it rots from within, becomes feminized, out of order.”
Gidley pondered his words for a moment. “Perhaps it's time to allow the split-tails a chance to truly have access to money and to spend it? Let the dumb creatures think they're being empowered when they spend money while they're actually enriching the rest of Us.”
“No Bart, this runs far deeper, more inevitable in its course than anything We could have controlled.” Lyons's tone grew quietly furious. “This existence grows wearisome, and I've come to lose faith in any empty promise that comes with fulfilling a Prophecy that none of Us can even agree upon. There's no leadership to be had when the forces of good and evil remain equal. There is no hope for any spirit to prevail when Fate seems determined to keep all things equal.” He gazed out at the vast stretches of the Atlantic Ocean, taking in a sea that on this day was almost matter-of-fact in its imperturbability and seeming invincibility. “I know that while You choose to spit on the notion that Lillith might force Me to take the cure, I can tell You that there are times that I would welcome it! To stop all of the hideous feeding... and let the aging process resume, naturally, going forward, perishing as any normal couple would...”
Lyons fell silent, and for the first time in a very long while, he could detect a slight twinge of sadness coming from Gidley as he spoke.
“But where would that leave Me, Sir?”
“You would do well to separate from the likes of Me,” Lyons smiled sadly, then deciding to inject a bit of dry humor into their dialogue. “Besides, Bart, with all due respect, You're not the best looking of men, and ever since the Anglo-Dutch Wars, I've grown a bit tired of looking at You.”
1:50 P.M.
Meanwhile, on the starboard side of the same deck, J. Bruce Ismay, Harold Sanderson and Thomas Andrews were holding a brief informal meeting. More accurately, Ismay sat on a slatted bench adjacent to the officer's deckhouse, dragging on a cigarette and, more or less, holding court while Sanderson and Andrews, for their part, stood at attention.
“It is not possible for the Titanic to be in New York by Tuesday, therefore, there is no object in pushing her,” he stated flatly.
“Who is making a move to push her?” Andrews queried, a bit puzzled.
“Passengers, who have a long journey onward from New York and do not want to waste any time in getting on with their travels,” Ismay replied, a touch exasperated. “So, we are set for arrival Wednesday morning, and we should be there by 5 o'clock. It will be a good landing for us, and we should be able to economize our coal. If for any unforeseeable reason we should arrive later, then we will provide meals for any of those who wish to stay aboard as a sign of good faith for the inconvenience.”
Sanderson, hands thrust into his pockets as always, scraped his loose coins together and he slowly and deliberately pondered Ismay's statements. “The information that was given to me at the time the ship was under construction was that her expected speed was 21 knots. It is my understanding now- through Mr. Andrews- that she has proved to be considerably faster.”
“Indeed,” Andrews piped in. “While she was under construction a new system of propulsion was adopted for the ship.”
“Wouldn't it stand to reason, then,” Sanderson droned on, “that any early arrival would be a show of unexpected power on the part of that new propulsion system and not because we pushed her?”
“Even if it were, I do not want to create a situation that would create a lot of uncertainty for our passengers,” Ismay replied firmly. “Despite some of the impatience, we would do well not to put ourselves at a disadvantage by arriving too early in New York. Better to accommodate with a few extra meals than with having passengers with no hotels that are prepared to take them in. And we haven't even taken her to full speed yet- if we do, that would be tomorrow at the earliest, and perhaps for only a few hours. And even then, E.J. would have to give clearance as regards to the weather. Speaking of which...”
Approaching them from the left, apparently fresh from the wheelhouse, came E.J.- the captain in command of the newest ship in the Olympic class. He possessed a dignified yet irresistible grandfatherly air about him, with his twinkling eyes and impeccably trimmed white beard, making it difficult for even the most terse businessman or uptight of the upper class to avoid smiling while in his presence. He was clutching a paper in his hand, which made for an irregular sight; usually he was to be found in dress uniform with his hands either folded before or in back of him, but otherwise it was the same familiar form that had graced the decks of many a White Star Line vessel.
“Captain Edward John Smith, RD, RNR,” Andrews boasted with playful yet respectful ceremoniousness.
“Well gentlemen, we seem to have heard from the Baltic,” Captain Smith replied, handing Ismay a Marconi message. “It would appear that one than more steamer is running short of coal.”
Ismay muttered a few of the contents out loud. “Short of coal... reports of ice... that sh
ould be interesting, I've never once seen an iceberg... what about our position?” he asked Captain Smith, looking up from the message. “We shouldn't be burning any more coal than is needed.”
“We have plenty of coal on board,” Captain Smith said. “In a way, it's almost amusing to see one of the 'Big Four' complaining about a lack of coal when we've got enough left over to bring us 'round the tail of the Southwest Spit, at full speed, probably three or four times over!”
“It's hard to believe that until about seven years ago, the Baltic was the largest ship in the world,” Andrews mused. “Only about seven hundred feet long, two funnels, propelled by twin screws.”
“She's served as more of a rescue ship in her later career,” Ismay weighed in, absent-mindedly placing the Marconi message into his coat pocket. “We were supposed to have the London Symphony Orchestra with us here on the Titanic but they are actually onboard the Baltic right now. They had to start a tour of the United States a week early due to scheduling constraints, so instead we've got that small eight-piece orchestra. They are not on our payroll, but they are contracted to White Star. So the Baltic does decidedly have the upper hand, in terms of entertainment, on this voyage.”
Call Me Ismay Page 20
