Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  Angry and defiant, he pointed accusingly at Ismay, and then pulled on the flag, extending it fully to display the White Star logo. The stern began sliding downward. Lyons tugged on the flag for emphasis, pulling himself closer to the pole so that the White Star was fanned across his chest. Ismay's eyes glassed over in petrified horror, the star overtaking his vision until all he could see were five white points of the insignia. Pulling it tightly over him with one hand while still pointing directly at Ismay with the other, Lyons never broke his gaze as the water closed over both him and the ship. It was 2:20 A.M., April 15th, 1912, and the timeless, never-ending sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.

  Ismay, numbed, dazed, an emotional void, turned slowly back to face the front, his thoughts blurring and clouding as the white figure burned through his eyes to the back of his head. While shivering in the cold, barely audible under his breath came the words “White star... white star,” repeatedly like a deranged mantra.

  The screams of those trapped in the sea would continue for about thirty minutes. The cries died out as the lifeboats rowed further away, and the victims left behind lost consciousness. Some would die from exposure after the lifeboat they were in capsized, while others would expire after being pulled into a lifeboat far too late.

  Ismay was experiencing his own special form of death- a massacre of memories, a slaughter of his subconscious. The hex that had been dropped upon him by Lyons now hung upon his shoulders like a dark shroud, and his recollection of the evening's horrible events became disjointed, unclear. On a certain level, he knew he had just witnessed one of the worst disasters in maritime history, but it was almost impossible to account for it with any clarity. Hadn't I seen some message regarding the possibility of ice in the area- from Captain Smith? Hadn't I? Hadn't I? Why didn't I give it back to him sooner? Where the bloody hell was I all afternoon? Wait- what message? Whatever do I mean, there wasn't a message or a telegram or anything like that, I do not think... And why- why did I experience so much unease at dinner- oh dear God- the doctor! Dr. O'Loughlin! Didn't he survive? And what- oh my dear, dear God- what about Mr. Andrews, the Captain, Mr. Sanderson?

  His eyes darted about the boat, searching for them in vain. Harold Sanderson had in fact survived, but Ismay believed deep in his soul that none of them had escaped with their lives. Escaped! Merciful God in Heaven, they'll think I escaped from the ship! But- but I just sat down! I sat down in a lifeboat! The decks when I left the ship were empty, weren't they? Weren't they? Hadn't I done all I could do? I- I wouldn't have been on this lifeboat without doing so. I knew the end was near and I could not bear to see it, I simply could not bear to see it- I turned around and looked at the end- no, wait, I- I did not. I did not look, I could not look, I did not want to see her go down. But, no, no, no, I must have, for I- I could see the star... the white star...

  That white, five-pointed star would again dominate his vision, superseding everything else in his line of sight, obliterating all other thought, with no memory of Lyons, specifically, pulling him down to the depths of despair. Barely any sound would make an impression on his hearing- not the rowing of the oars, nor the inconsolable sobbing of women. He would not hear a sudden burst of early morning wind whistling in his ears, nor the cries of excitement when rockets fired by the Cunard Liner Carpathia were sighted about an hour after the sinking. Blinding white light, and terrible, soul-freezing cold, were all that he could experience.

  Five other lifeboats would be rowed to the safety of the Carpathia over the next few hours, their passengers making their way up the hull on a flimsy rope ladder, before Ismay and the other passengers of Collapsible C would arrive at the steamer's side. Morning had broken, and passengers on the Carpathia were astounded by what they saw- not huge amounts of wreckage, for there was practically nothing of that sort to be found floating on the sea's surface. Instead, what became horrifyingly clear was the number of icebergs surrounding them. They took on a terrible, mother-of-pearl type of beauty, as the sun's first rays danced upon their curves and crevasses, looking almost like sharp fangs that pointed straight up into the heavens.

  Ismay, his body stiff, his lips blue from the cold, slowly rose up from his seat in the lifeboat when he felt it was his turn to mount the Jacob's ladder. His slippers and his sore feet and his numbed hands and his dazed condition made for a dangerous combination as he climbed forty feet, struggling mightily the entire way, finally stepping onboard at about 6:30.

  He shuffled about four steps onto the deck, settling his back onto the cold steel of the bulkhead of the deckhouse, repeatedly uttering something to himself. A steward took note of his fragile appearance and stepped up to him.

  “Sir, what is it? What do you need, sir?”

  Ismay's throat was dry, and he could barely part his lips in the freezing air. He stammered, staring blankly ahead, unable to support his voice.

  “Wh- white... star... white star.”

  “I beg your pardon sir?” the steward asked solicitously.

  “White... star...” the words just barely came out in a hoarse whisper.

  “I'm starved? I'm starved, is that it? Yes sir, I can understand. Allow me to take you to the dining room, we've some hot soup waiting for all of the passengers.”

  Ismay, empty, devoid of all meaning, could not correct him. The steward took him gently by his lapel and lead him away.

  Two female First Class survivors, swaddled in blankets, pale-faced and shivering, could hardly believe what they had just witnessed.

  “That was the President of the White Star Line, wasn't it?” said one of them, sipping brandy.

  “Yes, I believe that it was, yes,” replied the other, having trouble holding onto her hot coffee. “What did he say- 'I'm starved? I'm starved?' We have just watched our men drown and he says that he's starved?”

  She turned to a member of the Carpathia's crew. “Sir, did you hear that horrible, despicable man? That was Bruce Ismay. He's actually complaining that he's starved!”

  The steward gave a polite but sad shrug of his shoulders. “Mr. Ismay is still an immensely powerful man, even if he doesn't own the Cunard line. I suppose if he wants to have hot soup, he will have some.”

  Ismay, in short order, would be taken from the dining room after it became obvious that he could barely hold a spoon, much less eat. Dr. McGhee, one of three doctors onboard the ship, would take Ismay to one of his own private cabins. After a quick evaluation of his shattered condition, the doctor put him on heavy opiates, judiciously keeping Ismay away from embittered Titanic survivors; by doing so he was in essence sealing off Ismay from himself.

  There was one important visitor to his room. “The Electric Spark,” as Captain Rostron was called by his colleagues, was alarmed upon hearing that Ismay was holed up in his room, and not communicating what could be vital information of great importance to the families of Titanic's victims and survivors. With remarkable presence of mind, Rostron had prepared the Carpathia as it lunged for the Titanic's final reported position. He set up first aid stations in all of the dining rooms. He ordered blankets and pillows to be collected from every available space on the ship. He appointed certain members of the crew to collect the surnames of all of the survivors as soon as possible, so they could be transmitted immediately to Halifax by wireless. As he prepared to talk with Ismay, he sought a moment of privacy and engaged in a long prayer. Rostron, very devout, was one of few seamen known to openly reply on prayer in times of peril on the sea.

  He knocked politely on Ismay's door before entering, his captain's hat tucked politely under his arm. What he saw inside the suite shocked and disturbed him. Here sat the man who had willed the Titanic into being, oversaw every element of her creation- and then watched it founder. He looked as though he had spent the night lying on a cold sidewalk. Ismay, his eyes red, his face pale, also bore what for a man of his station was unthinkable: early morning stubble that roughened and aged him.

  “Mr. Ismay,” Rostron said, clearing his thr
oat, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, although I must say that I regret that it is under absolutely the most terrible of circumstances...”

  Ismay could say nothing in reply.

  After an uncomfortable pause, Rostron continued. “Don't you think, sir, you had better send a message to New York, telling them about this accident?”

  “Yes,” Ismay hoarsely replied. With a faltering hand, Ismay reached for a pencil and stationery that rested on a nearby desk. As he squinted severely and shakily scribbled down a few words, Rostron spoke quietly.

  “I should like, sir, to hold a service, a short prayer of thankfulness for those rescued and a short burial service for those who were lost. Will you allow me to seek a clergyman on board, sir, and do so?”

  Ismay did not reply directly; he turned and handed the message to Rostron, his expression a dull void. “Captain, do you- do you think that is all I can tell them?”

  Rostron gave the slip of paper a thoughtful glance. “Yes, sir. I shall have this delivered to our wireless operator immediately.”

  “I am very much obliged to you, Captain.” Ismay would not, could not make eye contact with him.

  “Sir,” Captain Rostron respectfully nodded. As he headed out the door, he once more carefully reviewed the message that Ismay had written. After a short beat, he turned back to face him.

  “Sir, just a quick clarification, if I may ask- did you mean to close with 'YAMSI' at the end of this message? 'YAMSI?' Is that a cipher?”

  “A what?” Ismay asked, his voice weak and hollow.

  “A cipher, sir, a message in code.”

  “Yes, I... I suppose. That is my personal signature for private messages, it's my surname spelled backwards.” Rostron nodded his head once more, indicating he understood.

  Ismay, his chapped hands folded tightly in his lap, his hair dampened and dull from hours of exposure, his eyes resembling shattered mirrors, managed to choke out a small, sad chuckle. “I... I suppose a 'cipher' also refers to something that has no weight, no worth. That is somehow appropriate on this dark day.”

  Rostron, deeply saddened and grim, left without forcing a broken Bruce Ismay to talk any further.

  On the deck of the Carpathia, which rocked gently in the sea, surrounded by a necklace of luminous icebergs, a very slow and sad roll call began before any memorial service was held. As passengers' identities were called out by members of the ship's crew, there were long, horrifying silences as name after name after name did not receive a response from those huddled on the deck.

  “Robert D. Norman?... Frederick Charles Sawyer?... Jenny Lovisa Henricksson?... Kerry T. Langston?”

  EPILOGUE

  J. Bruce Ismay was born in 1862. He died in 1937. However, some say he suffered a form of death in 1912, when his beloved Titanic foundered in the icy waters of the North Atlantic.

  A pampered, seemingly unfairly blessed man about town became a pariah overnight, when word came that he, the chairman of the White Star Line, had somehow managed to save his own hide while more than fifteen hundred souls slipped into their watery graves. He did not do much to improve the public's perception of him as his testimony during official inquiries into the disaster seemed to depict a clueless, unfeeling caricature of a man who seen, heard, and done virtually nothing while an unthinkable tragedy unfolded around him.

  “I have no idea, sir. Not that I remember. That I could not tell you, sir.” Surely those words had a hint of humanity to them when he actually uttered them, but in the stark print of newspapers the world over, he came across as evasive, unconcerned. “That I could not say.”

  Almost every quote attributed to him seemed to reflect the selfish, the craven: “I'm starved.” Those words were said to have come from him as he set foot on the Carpathia, demanding himself a meal regardless of the cost. I'm starved. Those words were absorbed by the public and sealed his reputation as a man who saw himself as grievously inconvenienced by a horrid turn of events that had just happened to consume the lives of hundreds upon hundreds, including women and children.

  “As to that I have no knowledge, sir.”

  “The lifeboat was there, so I got in.”

  “I could not answer that.”

  For four days, as the Carpathia made its way to New York, the ship's stewards remarked amongst themselves on those curious occasions when it was thought that the sound of soft sobbing could be heard coming from the doctor's sealed cabin. The soft, dull roar from the ship's engines as it sailed across a deep and timeless sea made it impossible to say with certainty.

  With deep gratitude, and grateful acknowledgment, to the Titanic Inquiry Project.

  www.titanicinquiry.org

  Special acknowledgement to Titanic enthusiast Diane Dennis.

  Heartfelt thanks to Theresa Mirci-Smith, Feath Pym, and Susanne Stephenson for keeping me honest, and forcing me to write a better book. Also very special thanks to Alan Mulcahy of the Winkleigh Society in Devon, England.

  Cover design by Kate Kersten.

  Visit www.facebook.com/CallMeIsmay

  Also by Sean McDevitt

  YESTERDAY'S RIVER (novel)

  THE WIZARD MURDERS (crime novella)

  THE VELVET SOFA (short story)

  Available in paperback and on Amazon Kindle

  If you have read and enjoyed this author's work, please consider leaving a review on the Amazon website- or send a blog link to the Facebook page listed above. Thank you!