Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  “Funny thing about the Baltic,” Smith interjected, now taking on his role as excellent raconteur. “Nearly six years ago, I was in command of her, and we were about two days out of Queenstown, when someone- and we were never quite able to sort out who- took it upon themselves to post three extremely urgent news bulletins on the Baltic's bulletin board. They were said to have come from the liner Columbia. The only trouble was, they were absolutely false. They were written on Marconi wireless blanks, and informed anyone who could read that Thomas W. Lawson- that somewhat unconventional stock promoter from Boston- had committed suicide, and that Japan had presented Germany with an ultimatum to withdraw all of their troops immediately from Chinese territory! I ordered the reports to be taken down, and I investigated the matter until I finally concluded that the Columbia never sent us any messages, and that the author of the notes would never be found- and he never was,” he chuckled.

  “Japan telling Germany to dispel her troops, Thomas Lawson a suicide? I daresay...” Sanderson quietly intoned, seemingly pleased with himself as he composed his thoughts for several seconds before speaking, making his colleagues wait for his next utterance. “I daresay that some Oriental stock promoter had decided to become a wireless jokester, when he probably could have gotten just as much attention with a fortune cookie!”

  The quartet of men politely laughed, their insular and unfortunately ethnic humor not overheard by others.

  2 P.M.

  Gidley and Lyons were now seated on a bench of Teak wood opposite Lifeboat No. 8. Gidley dotted his cigar ashes injudiciously on Titanic's decks of pine while Lyons pretended not to notice. As Gidley spoke, Lyons noticed the decks were fairly weathered for a ship so new; he could only surmise that the ship had been out in the elements for some time before her first actual voyage. He was struck that by no matter how hard a man might try, that the old superseded the new; disintegration always won out over permanence.

  “I'm less interested in what the women have to say than some of the men,” Gidley growled. “Take that Ismay for instance- what was that nonsense in Southampton- 'tidies up his current condition?'” He stood up in outraged indignation. “The bloody hell sort of a feminine toff talks to another man like that, like some coy wench? And denigrating men of his class just so he can keep up precious appearances on this scrap heap of a bucket of bolts!”

  “The Titanic is hardly a thing to despise, Bartholomew,” Lyons replied, standing up and taking a moment to glance up at some of the ship's impressive rigging. “It is indeed a technical marvel, a step up from those battleships the Britons used to guard the Channel waters with when I had to be seen as respectable for awhile in the Royal Navy.”

  “You're only partly right,” Gidley sneered. “While it's certainly not another hapless cargo and cattle steamer, it is a gilded machine, run by foolish men, Mr. Lyons- and nothing more. Quite symbolic of how the Empire is going to fail- right now!” Gidley was emphatic. “The sooner We round up and blood execute those responsible for the deterioration, the better. We can stop the inevitable by becoming the inevitable, the natural order of things demands that there be a leader! Let Us not forget the words put forth by the Red Knight, although they once seemed to lead Us astray: 'Launched upon a fatal curve, Too late to sway or swerve, Proudly to Fate abased- The stricken hull, the doomed, the beautiful, the Naronic.'” Gidley paused, trying to sense if his words were landing anywhere with Lyons. “The Naronic. Somewhere within there, My good Sir, somewhere must be the pathway of resolving the Argued Prophecy.” He stood up and stepped towards Lyons, and leaned heavily on his cane. “There must be a form of order brought to Our world's disorder. At the very least, bring Ismay to Me, Mr. Lyons,” he pleaded in an almost reptilian hiss. “Taking his aloof and superior blood out of him will bring Mine own down to a small boil.”

  “Bartholomew,” Lyons replied, staring off into an endless horizon of sea, “I should like to take the opportunity to make something sparkling clear. Out of line, unclean, You have taken the blood of a reporter and at least one policeman. Now, why this 'gilded machine' as You call it hasn't been forced to turn around and head back to England is a mystery to Me, and I think We both realize that it is the result of luck and not of any cleverness on Our part or the outcome of any damned tired Prophecy- which had nothing whatsoever to do with those words handed down by the Red Knight; he was just a silly old dark arts storyteller. So if You think that I am now going to give My consent towards taking the life of the man who owns the very ship that We are sailing on just so You can soothe Your wounded pride, then Your old brainpan must have very little more than some leftover embalming fluid in it.”

  Lyons stood, and then with an angry, dramatic flourish, he removed the large Masonic ring from the little finger of his right hand. He glowered at Gidley, and then hurled the ring off like a shot, over the railing and into the sea. “That's the last bit of arguing over any blasted Prophecy, the end of Anglo-Saxon Lodge Number 343, so I hope You will revel in the settling of that debate.”

  Lyons took his leave without another word. Gidley sighed, at least as much as a man of his temperament was able, and forcefully tapped a few ashes off his cigar in protest.

  Those ashes swirled and kicked about in the Atlantic wind for a moment, some dissipating quickly while others remained stubbornly clustered as they floated over the Titanic. At last, a small collection of ash drifted down lazily once it had found the small wind break behind the fourth funnel...

  2:05 P.M.

  ...and landed on disconsolate Kerry Langston's left shoulder, agitating him only further. He brushed it off in a thoroughly annoyed fashion. He was berating himself even more than before, as his intestinal situation had not improved. He cursed himself for his weaknesses, knowing he was the prisoner of a natural bodily function that he was nonetheless ashamed of. Venturing to the Poop Deck had been a mistake, for as time passed he realized that he would never make it to the lavatory below decks. He punched himself on his right thigh- and quickly realized that he had done it much harder than he had intended, as his left ankle was already throbbing. He had now almost certainly given himself a charley horse by punching his leg in frustration. Despite the cold, he could feel sweat accumulating on his brow and dripping down his back, under his coat and onto his shirt. He glanced about- certainly anyone who sees me wouldn't necessarily know that I'm suffering, would they? They wouldn't see my locked knees or my contorted face? Or they could easily understand that, well, we're all human, and someone shouldn't be reviled for having something like a digestive accident- even if it was on the decks of the greatest ship in the world...

  He drew in a few breaths. The below decks are out of the question. Aren't there private lavatories on the Boat Deck? He knew his choice was desperate, realizing any steward who encountered him up there was not likely to be compassionate, and the pressure in his bowels was not going to allow him to scurry up the railings, and that the poor condition of his ankle made it an almost certain impossibility.

  He cared no longer. He forced himself to stand, clenching his legs together, clutching the vampire kit under his arm and fighting for balance. He fixed his eyes to the railings outboard of the well deck stairs to B deck, and proceeded to make a go for it, gulping for air and wincing with every move he made.

  Much further forward on the starboard side, Ismay, Sanderson and Andrews had concluded their brief tete-a-tete with Captain Smith, and were now stepping past the less-than-waist-high railing with its NOTICE: PASSENGERS NOT ALLOWED FORWARD OF THIS sign, and were casually making their way midships.

  “In regards to the coal that we have onboard the ship,” Ismay seemed to dictate to no one in particular, “there is no chance of the ship arriving in New York on Tuesday. We had very much better land there on Wednesday morning, be off the lightship at 5 o'clock, and only if the weather is right and fine in every respect then we could possibly take a run out of the ship.”

  As the trio of White Star Line officials headed aft on the Boat Deck, lost i
n conversation, towards them there came a figure- small at first; it seemed to drift, then move ahead with purpose. It was Kerry Langston, who had forced himself through sheer will onto the Boat Deck, and was now being pursued by the same bully of a steward who had antagonized him days before. Ismay had turned to face Sanderson and Andrews, stepping slowly backward as he spoke, unaware of the pursuit that was taking place behind him. Before his friends could react appropriately, they realized that this strangely hobbled man's inevitable path had become clear- he was going to collide immediately with Ismay.

  “Stop!!” the steward shouted. “If you've any sense stop right-”

  It was too late. Langston, already crumpled forward from the pain in his ankle and his gut, never saw Ismay, who in turn never saw Langston as he was too busy pontificating to his colleagues. Langston took the worst of it, immediately falling to his knees and dropping the kit and spilling some of its contents. Lillith's letter- which had been folded inside- flew out of the box and about the deck. Ismay stumbled badly but managed to never lose his balance. The steward, while angry and embarrassed that his quarry had nearly toppled the head of the White Star Line, couldn't help but have a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, knowing this latest unauthorized excursion on the steerage passenger's part was certain to result in the most severe of punishments.

  “Good God, man- whatever is the meaning of this?” Ismay demanded, astonished that he'd nearly just been tackled on the decks of his own ship. “Did you intend to bring such violence and disorder up here?”

  “Certainly not, sir,” a humiliated Langston panted in exhaustion and deep pain. “I'm... I'm in need of shelter, of privacy.”

  “What did you say?” Ismay asked, incredulous. “You seek shelter, up here, on a restricted part of the ship?”

  “Not just shelter, sir. Please... please, I implore you, I am about to be very ill, and I am in dire need of just a few moments in a private lavatory.” Langston glanced about and saw that the crucifix had fallen out of the kit. Acting quickly, his kicked his good leg out before anyone else had seen it, and sent the crucifix off like a shot, tumbling over the railing and likely into the sea.

  “Ill?” the petulant steward exclaimed. “Beg your pardon, sir, Mr. Ismay, but I'm more likely to see hogs fly than to believe that he's ill. On sailin' day I chased this no-account ruffian from steerage off of this very same deck!”

  “I only wanted a better view that day!” Langston pleaded. “And I wanted to see her,” he muttered, “and today, I am sincerely ill, that is all.”

  To the steward's consternation, and indeed surprising Andrews and Sanderson a little, Ismay knelt down slightly and spoke to Langston a bit more quietly. “You wanted a better view of our finest ship, is that it?”

  Langston was confused, but quickly decided to answer in the affirmative. “Yes. Yes, I suppose sir.” By her he had meant Lillith, and not the ship, but right now he was too desperately uncomfortable to care. Langston was nauseous and truly frightened that the vampire kit's tools might be scattered everywhere. He'd accounted for at least the crucifix and from what he could tell the box had crumpled down onto the deck not far from him, and Lillith's letter had drifted over to Andrews' shoe, where Ismay heard it rustling in the wind.

  “Well, tossing about litter and nearly assaulting the ship's owner aren't likely to help your cause,” Ismay muttered, handing Langston his box, closing it shut and not opening it, and absent-mindedly putting the letter in one of his own pockets, opposite from the one that held the Marconi message. He reached down and pulled Langston up a bit by his shoulders.

  “What is your name?” Ismay queried.

  “Langston. Kerry Langston.” He clutched the box to his chest, quickly and surreptitiously surveying the area with his darting eyes and seeing that none of its other contents had spilled out.

  “Mr. Langston, call me Ismay. I am the ship's owner.” Langston's eyes widened and Ismay smiled slightly. “When I was a lad my father oversaw the construction of the Oceanic in Belfast, and I spent many an afternoon poking my young curious nose into every compartment I could, even if I wasn't supposed to be doing so. If you truly were seeking out only a momentarily better view of our ship, and also aren't feeling quite right at the moment, I see no reason why we shouldn't just address this incident as gentlemen.” Ismay turned to a disappointed but nevertheless obedient steward. “Please see to it that this gentleman is afforded a moment's comfort in one of the private lavatories, after such time please escort him with proper dignity back into steerage.”

  “Sir, I humbly thank you for your kind consideration, I truly do,” Langston replied, rising to his feet with renewed strength in realizing that relief was coming soon. The steward gave Langston a very stern glance, but to his credit immediately did what he was told, leading an immensely grateful Langston away.

  “Remarkable,” Sanderson exclaimed, still not relinquishing his grip on the coins in his pockets.

  “A very generous act on your part, Mr. Ismay,” Andrews weighed in.

  Ismay waved at them dismissively, but not in a malicious way. “Weren't we all little boys at one time, playing with our little toy boats in the water, while our parents fancied us as some great future shipping magnates?”

  “Some of us still are,” Andrews replied, a gleam in his eye.

  2:25 P.M.

  A relieved Kerry Langston was stretched out on a deck chair on the starboard side of the ship, the kit under his arm, rubbing his stomach and breathing deeply. He had stretched his leg out to an exaggerated length, trying to relieve any pressure off of his aching ankle. His unenthusiastic steward stood by, no longer causing Kerry any grief, but clearly a bit impatient to get on with his other duties.

  “Aren't you gettin' a little cold by now, sir? The wind is settlin' down, but it seems the temperature is only goin' to be droppin' steadily from here on.”

  “No, not just yet,” Langston replied, not opening his eyes and relishing the fact that the only discomfort that he felt at the moment was from his still-injured ankle. “I should like to enjoy the open air for just a few moments longer. And with this ankle it is going to be a bit of an ordeal getting back down to my cabin. So please allow me a moment.”

  Langston took in a deep breath of salty, cold air, enjoying himself for the first time since his fall near Cherbourg and relishing the fact that for at least a few moments the steward who had been so unpleasant to him earlier could do nothing about his decision. He had, after all, been given a reprieve from none other than the White Star Line chairman. The gentle roar of the ocean, continually fading away from the ship at a steady pace, combined with the relative quiet on the deck, affected Langston to the point that closing his eyes brought him suddenly close to the edge of sleep.

  “Comfortable, are you?”

  The voice startled him and Langston came to, needing to adjust his horn rimmed glasses for a moment- and he almost snapped one of the temple arms when he realized that he was face to face with Bartholomew Gidley.

  “I- I beg your pardon?” Langston stammered.

  “I asked if you were comfortable, hoisting one of your legs in the air while dozing off in this cold weather,” Gidley sneered, pointing derisively at Langston's feet with the use of his cane.

  Langston's mind was racing. Had he been recognized? He sought any flash of recognition in Gidley's eyes, but found none.

  “Yes, I suppose,” Langston muttered. He felt the kit under his arm, but without the crucifix, he was not exactly sure of how to make any effective usage of the remaining tools- and he certainly couldn't just shoot Gidley where he stood. He gestured to the nearby steward, who had been standing by in insincere, stilted anticipation. “Should be heading on my way, though. Mr. Steward, uh, sir...do you think you could help me?”

  “A steerage passenger with his own steward?” Gidley exclaimed, incredulous.

  “I don't know what you mean.” Langston immediately felt seized with panic, and stared at Gidley with contempt, wondering what inf
ormation he was working with and- more importantly- if he knew who he was.

  “Don't be so surprised, lad. You're an easy one to call out. That shirt of yours hasn't been ironed for at least a week, and believe Me, knowing how the White Star Line treats it passengers in relation to how some of them are dressed, I find it no less than fascinating that they've somehow seen fit to assigning the likes of you your own steward.”

  “My orders are from no other than J. Bruce Ismay, the company chairman,” the steward stated crisply.

  “Mr. Ismay, the ship's owner, no less?” Gidley mused, sarcastic hostility coloring his tone. “Ismay, the master chairman, executive vice president to the chancellor of the supreme alliance of the White Star Line within His Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, holding First Class to the highest of standards.”

  Langston had the uncomfortable sensation of being toyed with in the same manner in which a cat might play with a mouse- and quickly decided that he would have none of it.

  “Sir, a moment ago, you asked me if I was comfortable. I truly had not been until a few moments ago, until I took this brief respite- but now I do feel that some of the unpleasantness that had dogged the early part of my journey has now returned. If you will excuse me.” He stood gingerly, buttoned his coat with a deliberate flourish, and allowed himself a gleeful moment at both Gidley and the snooty steward's expense.