Call Me Ismay (30 page)

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 information 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.

“Steward...
attend me
.”

The steward began to lead him away, and a embittered Gidley called after them. “The amateur rich will get what's coming to them! That includes Ismay! You think that John Jacob Astor- he's on board, too- do you think his riches and airs and standing in society will save him from scandal, from ruin, because they won't! Mark My words!”

Langston pulled his flat cap down snugly, never looking back, more concerned with preparing himself for what he knew would be a painful trip down many a set of stairs. The steward- for his part- cast a furtive glance about, hoping that no one else had witnessed him in the presence of a man spouting such an offensive speech. Gidley, energized by what he had just learned, turned on his heel and went to find Lyons.

2:45 P.M.

Ismay, Andrews and Sanderson were still locked in conversation, although now they were in the comfort of the first level of the fore Grand Staircase, one of the most luxurious locations on the ship. The staircase had stopped many a First Class passenger dead in their tracks, gazing up at the ornate glass dome which allowed natural light to illuminate the space during the daytime hours. An astute eye or two had noted its English William and Mary style of decorative arts within its woodwork, while its banister seemed to evoke the awe-inspiring elegance associated with French royalty.

Harold Sanderson had brought the conversation to a crawl in a way that only he could, pontificating on how the
Titanic
had not been surveyed for seaworthiness by Lloyd's Register- not affiliated with Lloyd's of London. “I daresay it is immaterial. White Star ships are recognized as being of such a superior type to the ships which are ordinarily classed in Lloyd's, that the fact that Lloyd's passing them would commend itself to no one in particular.”

“Indeed,” Andrews interjected, shrewdly pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. “Oh my, we are fifteen minutes past the time that lunch is being served.”

“No matter,” Ismay responded. “Harold, if you would be so kind as to head for the Palm Court, tell them that special arrangements must be made for three White Star officials immediately. Andrews and I shall be with you shortly.”

“Quite right.” Sanderson stepped away.

There was a pause, and Andrews allowed himself the slightest of conspiratorial eye rolls before murmuring at Ismay. “Good heavens, can there be such a man who could make even the smallest of small talk read like an endless brochure?”

Ismay sighed. “Only he. Mr. Andrews, the captain handed me this Marconigram earlier, and I'm afraid I just pocketed it and forgot to give it back to him.” Ismay produced the message in question from one of his coat pockets and handed it to Andrews, who glanced over it. “Shouldn't I perhaps ensure that this is returned to him? Do you believe that it is important enough to warrant its return?”

Andrews read silently for a moment and then looked at Ismay. “Field ice? Well. We have two men on the look-out, and if the weather is clear I should think that two men should be able to see it as well as six. However, if the conditions are hazy it might be advisable to have more. I'm not sure what the forecast has in store for us, but I would say yes, if not back to the captain himself, I would say certainly to the chart room.”

“Very well. I shall redeliver it to him personally. I will join you at the cafe in a few moments, but by all means, feel free to
take your time
in catching in up to Sanderson.” Both men shared a small chuckle.

Ismay stepped out of the Grand Staircase entrance, a steward holding the door open for him. He was rudely shocked by the temperature outside, which seemed to be dropping steadily as the afternoon progressed. He shuddered, lifted on his hat, secured the Marconigram in one of his pockets, and was about to head forward in the direction of the officer's quarters when he found himself distracted by an odd thumping and rolling sound on the deck before him. To his utter confusion, tumbling up gently to his feet, was a small apple- a small, green, Laxton's Superb apple. He bent over slowly to pick it up, and was regarding it with complete astonishment as he stood upright- and immediately found himself face to face with Bartholomew Gidley.

The Parliamentary Secretary crossed his fingers in front of Ismay's face, scowled “
This blood shall be enough!”
and then immediately snapped his fingers, plunging Ismay into a catatonic state. The now-former MP from East Surrey, Edward Lyons, was right behind Gidley, hissing urgently into his ear “Remember! Transfixion
only
!”

The men moved swiftly, assisting Ismay towards the
Titanic's
gymnasium in much the same way that someone would help a blind man cross the street. They had already determined that the gymnasium was empty, and hurried Ismay inside, closing the door behind them with urgency.

Lyons took a moment to catch his own breath before speaking. “All right. If We are to do something We must act quickly. The chairman cannot go missing for long. Mr. Gidley, what are Your intentions?”

“I should like to break his neck and then pull blood from his veins until it came out through My own ears,” Gidley spoke huskily. “But since You've had an apparent fit of conscience, I suppose I'll have to settle for just humiliation.” He looked quickly about the room while Ismay stood frozen in a gaze resembling that of a man who had just seen ten thousand ghosts.

“We'll strip him down, put him on the rowing machine there,” Gidley proclaimed, using his cane to point at the Narragansett on the floor. “While he stays under long enough, the ship's officials will start to search high and low for him, and when they find him, here he'll be, a naked, drooling spectacle engaged in some scandalous exercise.”

“Right then. A bit eccentric, but original, I'll grant You that.” Lyons responded. “But We must act quickly if We are to remain disassociated from this tomfoolery. Give Me his coat, and You start with his shirt.”

Gidley pulled the coat off of Ismay, struggling with it the same way that a dress maker might have to in dealing with a store mannequin. He handed it to Lyons, and proceeded to unbutton his victim's shirt.

“Let's see what the old chap has on him, shall We?” Lyons said, a little evil bit of mischief suddenly creeping into his voice. He stared rifling through the coat's pockets, and found the now slightly-rumpled Marconigram. He rapidly read over its contents.

“Icebergs and a large quantity of field ice today? Shouldn't this perhaps be on the bridge?” he asked, showing it to Gidley.

“I wouldn't know about navigation,
You're
the former Royal Navy seaman,” Gidley sarcastically replied, pulling Ismay's dress shirt out of his pants.

“And
You
supposedly understand Morse code,” Lyons replied. He continued to go through the coat's pockets. In very short order he came upon another piece of paper; he unfolded it, began to read it, stopped, perused it some more and then squinted his eyes.

“Hold on, Gidley,” Lyons commanded.

Gidley looked at him incredulously. “I thought You said We must act quickly!” he protested.

“I said
hold on
!” Lyons shouted, and instantly Gidley knew the matter was serious.

Edward looked over the mysterious note once more, his jaws tightening. “This... this is a letter that is in Lillith's hand.”

“Poppycock!” Gidley responded, exasperated. “You've gone mad! It's always something to do with that damn girl, over and over-”

“It is, I'm telling You!”
Lyons exploded, shaking the letter violently in his hand. “She was playing the coquette with him from the beginning! Listen to this! '
Darling, I know you don't need more to convince you. But I want you to understand the following...'
This is a goddamned love letter from that trollop to
him
!” He spat furiously, pointing at deaf, blind and mute Ismay; he read another line out loud. “'
Lions would have me as Madam.'
She even signed the bloody thing, she's been at him ever since Southampton and this proves it! Goddamned slut!” He kicked at one of the rowing machine's oars. “This woman-
no
woman can be trusted with Our desires! This whole enterprise- leaving Britain, taking America- with vague dreams of endless hedonism on Our part- is useless,
useless
!”