Call Me Ismay (27 page)

“I noticed that, sir,” the steward confirmed, wrinkling his nose. “He's not only disagreeable but also filthy- looks like he's been in a fight or something this morning, sir.”

“Indeed.” Ismay looked about for a moment, checking to see if there were any other White Star Line officials nearby but there were none. He leaned back towards the steward. “Young man, this ship is the Queen of the ocean. She is the latest, largest and finest steamer afloat. House of Commons or private secretary or no, we cannot allow a scruffy bit of riffraff to parade about our ship. Indeed, I will
not
allow for it. I know for certain that the coal strike has caused quite a few cancellations, many passengers have had to postpone their travel plans. I should like you to move this- what is his name?”

“Gidley, sir. I believe that the secretary is named Gidley, and I believe the other man is a Mr. Lyons.”

“Very well. I should like you to move Mr. Gidley and Mr. Lyons from their First Class arraignments to Second Class, wherever you may find an availability. They should be quite comfortable there and if there is any consternation, you may tell them that your orders are descended from the highest authority. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” the seemingly pleased steward replied. “I shall see to it straightaway.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the two men, while Ismay turned to John Fry for assistance in boarding the ship.

The steward approached Gidley and Lyons and addressed them with clarity. “Gentlemen, there has been a change in plans made for you today.”

“What change of plan?” Lyons eyed him suspiciously.

“Well,” the steward said, responding in an ingratiating but firmly commanding manner as only the British can, “given the apparent lack of decorum shown today by Mr. Gidley here, the White Star Line has determined that it would simply be inappropriate to have him in this condition within the most elegant spaces of our ship. Therefore, we invite you to allow yourselves to be entertained on this maiden voyage on the Second Class portion of the ship, where indeed tea is served in the afternoon and the linens are changed daily.”

“Second Class?
Second Class
? You cannot be serious, man!” Gidley exclaimed.

“Yes sir,” the steward replied professionally, not taking Gidley's angry bait.

“But- but this is a member of the House of Commons, and I'm His private secretary!” he shouted, pointing with his cane at a quietly fuming Lyons. “You wouldn't put even a representative of the protectorate of Botswana into a second class cabin! This is outrageous!”

“I'm sorry that you feel that way, sir, but I have my directions from the highest of authorities, and it would be my pleasure to assist you by implementing them...”

By now, Lillith and Marcus had trudged their way to their master's place in line. While Marcus nervously tugged at his cufflinks as Gidley continued his tirade and Lyons interjected his own hostile word or two, a deeply tired and defeated Lillith simply dropped what she was carrying. She looked around, simply not wanting to hear Gidley's ranting for a moment, not wanting to feel Lyons's figurative boot on her neck. She stumbled slightly, then pushed past a few spectators who were eavesdropping on the heated argument. She stopped and gasped for an instant, taking in the much-too-big ship that lay before her. She felt waves of resentment at this iron monstrosity that was waiting to drag her across the sea to America, to an unending existence at the beck and call of these exhausting men. She lowered her eyes and stepped forward again, finding refuge on the quiet side of one of many delivery vehicles that were on the dock.

Lillith clutched her stomach, her pain for Kerry Langston only worsening with every passing moment. A fine man he had been, so generous with his time and his trust and his genuine concern for other people. The possibility that Bartholomew Gidley, with his often horrid breath and lascivious sneer, was the last person Langston ever saw was almost too great a burden of guilt to bear.

She turned her head, looking down at the bow end of the ship, knowing that she really only had a moment's time to grieve and would inevitably wind up being on board. About twenty yards away, she saw a man, well-dressed, who seemed to not be looking at the ship but perhaps in the direction of where Lyons and Gidley were still berating the steward. From his clothes and his bearing, it was obvious that he was of some high estate, and she could tell that he was watching the argument with great interest. He seemed to be talking to another man- his butler, perhaps- and gestured occasionally with a walking stick, clearly somewhat agitated. She drew somewhat nearer to him, straining to make out his words over the din of the bustling dock.

“The finest in the world... they'll have to make do... should we alert the Master-At-Arms?”

Staying for the most part hidden behind the delivery vehicle, Lillith started making “Psst!” sounds, trying to beckon him surreptitiously. When it became obvious that her efforts were failing, she resorted to soft, insistent cries of “Sir! Sir! Over here! Please, sir!”

The man finally turned, looking annoyed over being distracted from monitoring the fight- which had by now turned more towards a vocal sort of cajoling rather than a full-blown argument. Lillith saw two emotions- bemusement and disdain- flash across his face, before she used a tool that she rarely deployed: transfixion. She allowed a kaleidoscope of fire to roll across her irises for a fraction of a second. Her natural beauty did the rest.

Ismay broke away from his butler, walking slowly towards her, with the look of a man who seemed utterly unprepared of how to react. She knew that she would have at least a moment of his time before his possible irritation returned.

“What is the meaning of this?” he blurted, in a voice both confused and fascinated.

“Sir,” she whispered, “I do not know exactly who you are, but you are obviously an important man. Do you represent the ship?”

“I do,” he replied in a tone both wondrous and bewildered.

“Are you the official who downgraded Their passage?” she asked, darting her eyes in the general direction of Gidley and Lyons.

“I beg- I beg your pardon?” His speech reflected at once an eagerness to please, along with astonishment at being questioned by an unknown chambermaid.

“Are you the one who is ordering
Them
-” she again cut her eyes in their general direction- “to move from First to Second Class?”

“I am,” Ismay replied flatly.

“Sir, I must ask you- I implore you- to reconsider. These are powerful men- not better than you, but powerful in a way that is dangerous. Please, please for the sake of peace let Them have their way.”

Normally a transfixion would force its subject to comply completely, but Lillith had kept it slight and Ismay's strong feelings on the matter were battling her. “I- I cannot. I cannot let anyone disrespect my ship.”

“Sir, again,
I beg you-
let this disrespect pass. I will see to it personally that Mr. Gidley gets a proper change of clothes and therefore there should be no further trouble-”

“What is this?”

Lillith's absence had garnered the attention of Edward Lyons, who was now standing only a few feet away. His face bore an expression of anger and amazement.

Ismay sensed his eyes being released from Lillith's gaze, and turned to face Lyons. “Beg your pardon sir, I'm sure,” he responded in a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. He quickly regained his composure and some of his proper stature started to return. “It would seem that this young lady is trying to persuade me to reconsider my decision regarding your passage.”

“Your
decision?” Lyons exclaimed.

“Indeed. Allow me to introduce myself.” He had by now fully returned to his senses. “I'm Bruce Ismay, Chairman of the White Star Line, and I am in control of the situation as it relates to this maiden voyage. You are welcome sir, to come aboard, but you must understand my position in holding First Class to the highest of standards. I assure you, your stay in Second Class will be a comfortable one, and we will not restrict your ability to visit all parts of the vessel, given that Mr. Gidley tidies up his current condition and does not repeat such an unpleasant showing.”

Gidley was boring his volcanic eyes into Ismay from a distance. Lyons, however, took on a far more concessionary tone. “I see. My man Gidley does have the tendency to rough things up a bit and for that I apologize.” He turned around for an instant, shooting Gidley a glare that left no doubt he should stand down. “We will accept this...
depreciation
in the spirit in which it was given and will offer nothing but Our finest behaviour and gratitude from this moment forward.” He lowered his voice slightly and leaned forward a bit. “Speaking man to man, we must keep
this
little church-mouse-” he gestured toward Lillith- “off the passenger manifest. Can't have the poor old sow at home thinking I've brought the help along.” Lillith could hardly believe what she was hearing, and Lyons sensed her incredulous glare. “I'll have a word with you in a moment,” he muttered to her under his breath.

“Very well,” Ismay sniffed. “We have several very prominent men aboard, and I am certain you can understand our desire to maintain the utmost stringency when it applies to standards of luxury.”

From a distance Gidley, standing sullen with one hand in his pocket and the other gripping his cane with ferocious, knuckle-whitening intensity, questioned the steward while still watching Lyons and Ismay. “What's your name, boy?”

“My name is Conrad, sir.”

“I see. Well, Conrad, you're an idiot.” Gidley smirked, knowing that in his own way he'd had the last word.

Ismay and Lyons exchanged a few final words before John Fry broke in, positively insisting that his master board the ship immediately. Ismay turned and left, and Lyons waited a few beats before grabbing Lillith forcefully by the arm and pulling her back behind the delivery car.

“Using your feminine wiles, eh? Well, those enticements are for Me and Me alone, is that understood?” He shoved her arm for emphasis.

“I was trying to protect You from Your own pigheaded stubbornness,” Lillith snapped. “It's always things for You and You alone, regardless of the wreckage that You leave in everyone else's lives.”

“Is this to do with that bloody stupid newsie?” he asked, mockingly.

“He was a
reporter
, a
journalist
! A man, a
real
man of integrity,” she cried.

“You seem to have known him quite well, for a woman who already has made her blood troth with another man. And that man would be I.”

“Blood troth!
” she repeated the words with sourness. “You think You've got me already locked up all to Your own in that stupid American desert. Truth be told, I'd rather marry a Spaniard from California than You!”

Lyons stared at her, uncertain for a moment if he wanted to laugh or to strike her. The sound of port activity filled the air all around them, with assorted foreign languages, seagulls and the ship's insistent siren enveloping the situation. He then took her forcefully by the arm, intending to take her back where Gidley and Marcus were waiting in line- but she resisted him, startling him and infuriating him further. Lillith had always spoken somewhat freely, but never before had she counteracted Lyons physically. He pulled her arm once more, causing her to yelp slightly. The struggle continued to the other side of the car, and when it became evident that she was not about to stop fighting him, he became enraged- pulling one of his hands back and preparing to land a violent backhand to her face.

At that precise moment of a cry of “Hey!” broke out from somewhere behind him, forcing him to freeze. Heads turned, and they beheld the sight of a well-heeled, six foot tall man about to slap a small, trembling chambermaid. There came another cry of “Hey! Just what is this about?” from somewhere in the crowd on the dock, followed by “For shame! For shame!” Red-faced with anger- and now embarrassment- Lyons slowly turned around, seeing the genuinely angry faces of several women and men- passengers and the family and friends who had come to see them off- berating him. “Hit a woman! Shame!” came the shouts. “Someone call upon the Master-At-Arms!” came another.