The two lookouts, facing down the ladder, had their breath pulled out of them- their jaws completely slackened, and they both stayed in motionless terror as a strange chant came from the mouth of Edward Lyons.
“Solemn strikes the funeral chime/from the tombs, a doleful sound/Notes of Our departing time/come men, to view unholy ground!”
A high pitched shriek pierced the ears of the two paralyzed lookouts- a sound that was heard only by them, as they remained imprisoned in tunnel vision with those coals of fire. Gidley- well versed in Transfixion, Third Degree- was gleeful in his complete knowledge of the suffering that the men were experiencing. After watching them in frozen pain for a few moments, he continued the chant.
“Mortals, now indulge a tear/This clay must be your bed/For your mortality is now here/For tall, for wise, for reverend head!”
“Dark Lord, is this Our end of days?” Lyons continued. “To fit Our souls to fly/Give these poor fools a fitful HAZE-” he put special powerful emphasis on that last word- “while We rise to the sky!”
For the men in the crow's nest, the shrieking instantly ended. The burning coals vanished. As their muscles suddenly unfroze, they were both hit with a violent bit of coughing as air once more went to their lungs. Fleet was the first to rise, the freezing air burning his spasming throat, coughing and choking for a moment as he tried to regain his composure on the port side of the nest. Lee finally came up as well, folding his arm over his mouth, trying to cover cough after repeated cough. The men panted and blinked their eyes, any clear memory of what had just happened quickly vanishing from their minds. They were left with the dawning realization that they were both out of breath and not paying much attention to the view forward.
For their part, Lyons and Gidley departed from the forecastle, fleeing the scene like black kites on a night sky.
11:38 P.M.
Lee had pulled out a handkerchief and was blowing mucous from his nose in copious amounts, while Fleet, clearing his throat and remaining still for a moment before moving back into place, rubbed at his watering eyes and cursed as he felt tears instantly freezing upon his face.
“Corblimey! Look here!” Fleet exclaimed, catching his breath and peering into the darkness. It seemed a haze had formed on the horizon that was making it difficult to see. “Well, if we can see through that we will be lucky,” he proclaimed, readjusting his hat.
“Yes, there's a slight haze,” Lee replied, folding his fouled handkerchief and putting it away. “It's right upon the waterline. But I'm not sure if it's anything to talk about...”
“They should be able to see a haze on the bridge, right?” Fleet leaned slightly forward.
On the distant horizon, slowly approaching the bow, there came an object- small at first- that gradually grew in size, indistinct at such a distance, but becoming clearer as the seconds passed. At first it seemed to drift, then move ahead with purpose- and then, for both Fleet and Lee, its inevitable path became clear.
Fleet fumbled for the lanyard of the warning bell, gave it three sharp tugs and then went straight for the heavy brass wall telephone, ringing up the bridge.
Sixth Officer Moody answered. “What do you see?”
“Iceberg right ahead!” Fleet shouted.
“Thank you,” came Moody's terse reply.
Fleet slammed the phone down then turned to look once more. Suddenly, the haze that was on the horizon had mysteriously lifted, and the blazing stars in the sky now illuminated the proceedings with ease. A menacing black mass bore down on the Titanic, which for about thirty seconds maintained its course before any evasive action was detected. The lookouts stood spellbound, waiting for the ship to make a move, any move other than forward. When she finally started to veer to port, she still managed to brush the iceberg, responding with a slight jolt and causing a fair amount of ice to come crashing down on the forewell deck. As Fleet and Lee watched the ice shatter and leave a field of frozen debris on the deck, they shot each other a horrified glance.
“We did all we could do,” Lee said, his voice trembling in fear. “What with the haze and all.”
Fleet, gulping furiously for breath, clouds of freezing air pumping from his mouth, gave Lee an intensely angry look. “Haze? Do you see any bleedin' haze out there right now?”
Kerry Langston was awakened in his Third Class bunk bed by the sound of scraping metal. Lillith Sinclair, who had drifted into a sorrowful sleep on her Second Class settee, was jolted awake by a grinding noise. In First Class, J. Bruce Ismay was shaken from his sleep by what he thought, from experience, was the loss of a propeller blade.
In fact, the RMS Titanic- whose engines had not yet stopped- was now suffering from a unique form of internal bleeding.
CHAPTER TWELVE
April 14th, 1912
11:45 P.M.
The Titanic had continued to surge ahead at about 22 knots for about a minute and a half after the collision- and that was with six small sections of buckled plates on the starboard bow side, just above the bottom of the ship. Deep within the ship, the engine telegraphs rang, and the turbine was stopped. Stokers and engineers worked frantically to shut all the dampers in the stokehole as icy jets of seawater threatened to come in contact with boilers full of potentially explosive high-pressure steam. Firemen looked at each other in terrified amazement as the water came to be waist-deep just as their work was being completed.
As the Titanic drifted to a stop for what no one on board- except Lyons and Gidley- could have known was the last time, she ended her journey within the Labrador Current, which had drawn the iceberg into her path. As soon as the engines stopped, the ship's three working funnels shrieked with the sound of escaping steam. It was a noise with the intensity of a train whistle that would continue unabated for about forty-five minutes, making verbal communication nearly impossible on the Boat Deck. In fact it forced many passengers to stay inside when they could have been boarding lifeboats.
Captain Smith had bounded into the bridge just moments after the collision, and in the dim light coming from the watertight door indicator panel and the double-faced drum telegraphs, an ashen First Officer Murdoch briefed him on what had just happened. Murdoch was horrified by this turn of events, but it was Fourth Officer Boxhall who pointed out that Murdoch hadn't been given much time by the lookouts to react. Boxhall then took it upon himself to make a quick inspection of F deck in Third Class, where he thought the damage- if any- might be, but he found none.
Third Class passenger, Kerry Langston, however, knew that something was amiss and, with the ship's engines suddenly silent, he wondered if something mechanical had gone wrong. He stayed under his afghan, the box still situated under his head. In short order, however, he began to hear activity from the hallway outside. The American who shared his cabin, a young man that he hadn't seen much over the past few days, swiftly entered the small room to grab an extra coat. “You might want to put on some warm clothing, my friend. There's talk of putting on lifebelts as well.”
“What?” a completely confused Langston exclaimed, rising up from his bed. “Lifebelts? What on earth is the matter?”
“I don't know,” the American sighed, “but they seemed pretty grumpy about it.” The man, whom Langston had never known by name, grimaced a bit and then quickly left.
Langston sat up blinking his eyes and, within an instant, his heart was racing. My God, he thought, it's THEM! What have they done?
11:55 P.M.
Officer Boxhall had no sooner reported to Captain Smith that he had seen no damage whatsoever when the ship's carpenter ran up to the bridge, advising the captain the ship was making water- and fast. A clerk then dashed in, stating the mail hold was filling with seawater, and that mailbags were already floating around on G Deck.
“Are you certain?” Smith questioned him incredulously.
“It is rising rapidly above the ladder, and I could hear it rushing in. Should I send men down below for those bags?” the clerk asked.
The captain thought
only for a second and then shook his head. “You had better wait until I find what we can do.” Smith turned and glanced at the watertight door indicator panel, reassuring himself that all of the doors had been closed.
J. Bruce Ismay, thinking the incident was most likely the throwing of a propeller blade but perplexed by the fact that the engines had obviously been shut off, decided not to wait for his butler. He put on a pair of slippers, a suit of clothes rather hastily pulled over his pajamas, and an overcoat. While rushing along the passageway outside his suite, he met an anonymous steward and demanded an explanation.
“What happened?”
“I don't know, sir,” the rattled steward replied.
Irritated, Ismay continued his way to the bridge, where, in the gloomy light of the ship's instruments, Captain Smith was in quiet, urgent conversation with the ship's engineer.
“Summon Mr. Andrews, and tell him I want him to sound the ship, straightaway.” The engineer fled and Ismay stopped in his own tracks, confounded.
“What has happened, E.J.?” he pleaded.
Captain Smith turned to look at him, and his dignified bearing had clearly been affected. “We seem to have struck ice, Mr. Ismay.”
Ismay, sensing the deadly seriousness in Smith's tone, turned pale. “Is she seriously damaged?”
There was a pause, and the twinkle in Captain's Smith's eye appeared to have deformed itself into a possible tear. “I am afraid she is.”
Electric shocks of terror shot through Ismay's legs, his feet, his ears. “This cannot be!”
Captain Smith's chin seemed to quiver for a moment before he spoke again. “I should have liked to have posted that warning in the chart room earlier, Mr. Ismay,” he muttered quietly. Just then- in an urgent burst of energy- Thomas Andrews came bounding into the wheelhouse, out of breath.
“What is this talk of an iceberg?” he asked, his eyes full of concern. “Have we stopped so as not to run over it?”
“Would that it were,” Smith replied ruefully. “I believe that at least the forepeak tank has been pierced, perhaps more.” Andrews' shoulders sagged, and his head bowed in disbelief.
“But- but she is constructed to float with two compartments full!” Ismay protested. “You cannot- you cannot be saying the damage goes farther than two compartments!”
Andrews held up his hand in a sign of interruption. “Mr. Ismay, Mr. Ismay, please.” He addressed Captain Smith directly. “Sir. On the way up here to the bridge, I thought could feel by my feet that something is wrong. Not that I can detect a listing, but a tipping; I can sense a grade downhill, meaning that she's down by the bow. I must go below deck and see just how far aft this gash or rent, or whatever it is that's been caused by the iceberg, is extended. If we-”
The clerk who had earlier reported floating mailbags dashed back onto the bridge and interrupted. “Beg, your pardon, sir, I'm sure, but the water is now rushing up to F Deck in the mail room.”
That was all Smith and Andrews needed to hear. Without another word, they hurried out of the bridge to the well deck.
Ismay, lost and looking rumpled in his slapdash grab of clothes, thrust his hands into his coat's pockets for warmth, and padded about the bridge for a moment. He appeared completely out of place, especially in the company of the cap badges and cuff braids of the ship's officers, when all he had on his feet were slippers. In the background, steam continued to roar out of the boilers. Curious seamen seemed to scurry around the perimeter of the bridge, and even a few passengers could be seen kicking about blocks of ice on the foredeck. Uncertain and decidedly shaken by the exchange he had just witnessed between Andrews and Smith, and hearing the captain's words, “I should have liked to have posted that warning earlier” ring painfully in his ears, he made a quick decision to head back to his suite, realizing that more appropriate clothing and proper shoes were in order. Also, a quick word of caution to his butler would perhaps be prudent. He did his determined best to keep his expression inscrutable, not wanting to cause alarm amongst any passengers who might recognize him.
12:01 A.M.
April 15th, 1912
Ismay made it back to his suite without being accosted, and had shut the door behind him.
Going down by the bow? Ismay thought. Water rushing into the mailroom? Why did I not deliver that cursed telegram earlier?
Weary, and realizing a few hours sleep had not washed away the grey cloud of confusion that was still dominating his mind, he half-closed his eyes. He had taken one step into the room when he felt a hand on each of his arms, seizing him and pulling him down into the nearest chair.
“Remember Us?” Bartholomew Gidley hissed into his left ear.
“Prepared to face the truth?” Edward Lyons shouted at him from his right.
Ismay was at first terrified, but then slowly turned purple with rage upon realizing who was manhandling him thusly. It was the two men who had made such at scene at Southampton! With astonished fury, he demanded, “What the- gentlemen, what is the meaning of this? Do you not realize who I am?”
“Certainly We do.” Gidley leaned in, taking on his most sinister of tones. “You're the bloody maniac who dared defy the wishes of those better and greater and deadlier than yourself, playing that stupid superior Englishman's card of class, class, class.”
“And you're the cretinous idiot who allowed himself to be seduced by the wiles of another man's property,” Lyons stated viciously. “The name of Edward Lyons may mean nothing to you, but you would do well to realize that He is never one to wallow in the muck of another man's leavings, if you follow My meaning.”
“This is preposterous!” Ismay snapped, being held in place by the two men, but doing an impressive job of resisting their strength. “I've no idea what this gibberish is in reference to- nor do I have the time to sort out what it is all about. Unhand me at once!” he shouted.
“This is inevitable, Mr. Ismay,” Lyons responded coolly. “Choices were made in Southampton- so many poor choices, indeed- that what is about to occur is the only way this particular story could have ended.”
“Gentlemen, I believe I only arranged for you some slightly different accommodation on board, and that is all,” Ismay declared, his breathing becoming labored. “My thoughts are not exactly clear at the moment, forgive me. The crew was instructed to provide you anything else you might need with dignity and respect. That is all I could do. Now, you must release me! The ship has been seriously damaged and I must provide whatever assistance I can!”
“Assistance is futile!” Gidley yelled, tightening his grip on Ismay's arm. “You just admitted the ship is damaged. May I remind you of the fact that We are in the middle of absolutely nowhere, halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, with the biggest ship in the world... all alone? Even if this ship does not founder, We are capable of creating chaos in ways you cannot possibly imagine, riotous disorder in your perfect rich man's paradise- your floating little hamlet where every pig knows its pen!”
Gentlemen, Ismay said, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. “Sirs, on behalf of myself and the White Star Line, I offer my deepest apologies if the treatment you were rendered in Southampton was offensive to you.” He opened his eyes and looked at Gidley. “But I was given no choice, none, by your slovenly appearance and I made what I considered to be the best possible decision for everyone involved in those circumstances, at that time. Reparations of some sort may be made if at some time in the future you choose the White Star Line for your return to Britain. However, right now, she is in danger.” Lyons's face flushed with anger, as Ismay's eyes welled up with tears. “The love of my life is in great danger, I am afraid, and you must allow me the opportunity to try to save her.”
“Her!” Lyons shouted. In his jealous state, Lyons former nautical experience failed him, and he mistook Ismay's feminization of Titanic for a reference to Lillith. “Her! Your entire life is about to be pulled out from under you and all you can think about is her?”
“Well of course it's all I can think a
bout- she means everything to me!” Ismay screamed, losing his cool completely.
Fire flickered in Lyons's eyes, and then faded. He violently shoved his hand off Ismay's arm, and then Gidley did the same. For a moment, the only sound was of three men huffing angrily.
“To Me as well,” Lyons croaked. “She has that effect on every man.” Ismay and Lyons, in misconstrued mutual agreement, stared at each other. Lyons then lunged towards Ismay, putting his hands on both arms of his chair.
“But understand this,” he growled, just inches away from Ismay's face, “no man can hold a rose petal in his hand for long. It may seem a sweet and enduring love at first, but everything- everything- is meant to be taken away from you and eventually that petal withers and crumbles and is swept away forever. Sometimes it happens far sooner than you would ever want it to.”
Lyons backed away and stood up. “And the pain is so great that you will wish you had never crossed paths. But, for you, Mr. Ismay, it will be a special kind of grief. It shall be a night to remember, and you, the head of the White Star Line, will only be able to recall about half of it.”
Call Me Ismay Page 25
