Call Me Ismay (32 page)

“That Mr. Lyons treated you as nothing more than a madam!” he shouted. “Along with some flowery nonsense about raw sex, and 'I love you's!'”

“Where did You find this?” she demanded, her heart pounding.

“I told you, in the coat of another man's pocket. But that is all immaterial now, for Mr. Lyons has some very special plans for
him.
”

“Very special plans?” she gulped. “For a man... on this ship?”

“Yes, for blind God's sake, what other ship would I mean? We let him go; I offered to kill him right on the spot, but Lyons persuaded Me not to, because He has something else in mind for him- and indeed, for this entire ship. It should be quite the exciting evening.”

“Gidley.” She stood before him, and addressed him in a commanding voice. “You told me You killed him. You must take me to him at once.”

He stared at her slack-jawed for a moment. “Who's the one that is bleeding insane, now?
Killed
him? We'd barely just met him!”

“And I'm sure You'd only 'just met' that policeman, but that didn't stop You. And how did You just meet him, when You never went to Wandsworth...” she stopped herself from talking, and a horrible bit of deduction went through her mind. “Oh dear God. It was poor Stanley.”

“Stanley
? Who's Stanley? For God's sake, woman, just how many men have you tried to lie with?”

“Never mind, You filthy man. Just take me to him at once. If he's not dead, I must see him.”

“Well, you see, therein lies an enormous problem,” Gidley replied in a sadistically confiding tone. “Mr. Lyons wanted Me to make it absolutely clear to you that you are not to set foot out of this room tonight- for any reason, regardless of anything that you might see or hear. He will send for you or I will collect you personally at the appropriate time. If you set so much as one little toe out of this room, the Master-In-Arms will be called and you will be arrested for being a stowaway. Your little friend Ismay will have his hands full tonight, so believe Me, even though there might have been some special arrangement for your being on this ship, he is going to be far too preoccupied to deal with the legal misfortunes of a promiscuous and insignificant chambermaid.” Lillith's eyes darted back and forth frantically in confusion, but she was wise enough to remain silent. “You will absolutely be arrested, you will have no identification papers and will be relinquished from any protection that you might have had with Us. Sometimes there
are
benefits from having a deal with the devil, Lil, whether you understand or respect that or not.”

Lillith was now weeping painfully, but chose her words carefully. “Gidley, if the man I wrote that letter to is still alive, I
must
see him. I
must.”

“My dear,” Gidley replied, taking on a tone that for a moment almost seemed fatherly. “My darling. Do not allow yourself to be arrested. Mr. Lyons wants you ensconced in here until the appropriate juncture. Then you shall be rescued, in the fullness of time, and We will proceed with our plans to head out west as scheduled.” He narrowed his eyes before speaking again, any trace of kindliness evaporating. “Personally, there's a considerable part of Me that should like to have you cut into such tiny little pieces that they could be served in an egg cup, for all the trouble that you have caused,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “But mostly, dear Lillith, please learn that this is a man's world, and it will have been created and ended that way.”

Gidley winked at her in that pernicious manner he had employed so many times before, collected his cane, turned and left- with one final caveat.

“I warn you- you must absolutely not leave this room, no matter the commotion you might hear outside. Mr. Lyons may have a soft place in His dark heart for you, but I have absolutely no compunction with tearing your throat out irreparably if you so much as disobey His commands tonight.” He glared at her one final time, then closed the door behind him.

Lillith's hands flew up to her face as a rush of both grateful and frightened tears came pouring forth, simultaneously overjoyed and horrified that Kerry Langston had somehow made it to the
Titanic
after all.

5:30 P.M.

The
Titanic
surged ahead westward, leaving a monstrous, miles-long frothy wake
that would take hours to dissipate. Some of the more experienced seagoers on board had marveled at the wake's significance throughout the voyage. Indeed, on the past few nights some passengers were able to spot a large cloud of bioluminescent plankton in the water as the ship's propellers churned the Atlantic.

Titanic
was a name that delivered a big promise, and on so many levels she did not disappoint; a fast-paced tour of all of her decks would have taken at least two and a half hours. Many of the ship's officers- men with several year's worth of maritime achievement behind them- privately admitted to each other that they had managed to get themselves lost in terms of just getting around the ship. Even from a great distance,
Titanic
kept her reputation of enormity intact- to some passing ships, she resembled a gilded shingle drifting alone in the water.

In reality, the
Titanic
and any other ship in the North Atlantic in April of 1912 was far from alone. Although the current air temperature was dropping quickly, it had been an unusually warm winter in the vicinity of the Greenland glaciers, and a glittering carpet of ice that had broken free was drifting into the shipping lanes. In her five days at sea, the
Titanic
had received six advisories of ice in the region; only one of those messages had actually been posted in the chart room. Now, with her two reciprocating engines (each of them three stories tall) turning propellers on the wings of the ship, and her third engine, a steam turbine, turning the central propeller, the
Titanic
hurtled forward. Great amounts of smoke drifted high into the air from her funnels, which looked like solemn Roman columns in the setting sun.

7:00 P.M.

Kerry Langston, drained, relieved, exhausted and tired of battling his sore ankle, had decided to turn in very early and was already lying on his side in his Third Class bunk. The thought of dinner that evening had initially been appealing, but his appetite was, for the most part, dashed when he learned the main course for supper that night was going to be rabbit pie. Kerry could never bring himself to eat anything that included rabbit meat, and in fact had threatened to induce vomiting right at the dinner table if anyone had ever tricked him into doing so. He had owned rabbits as pets while growing up in Surrey, and while he did not consider himself a vegetarian by any means, the thought of devouring such gentle creatures was abhorrent to him.

His bunkmates were absent, as he was sure they were to remain for the duration of the evening. Almost every night without exception they had stayed until late in the General Room, playing cards and listening to music. The red and white afghan that bore the White Star Logo had become a familiar friend, bundled up around his shoulders, and he was still pondering the feasibility of taking it with him when he left the ship.

The only discomfort that he felt at the moment- and unfortunately it was not insubstantial- was the twisted ankle. By now, Langston was afraid he perhaps actually had fractured something when he'd  fallen off of that railing. The throbbing of the
Titanic's
engines, which was felt keenly throughout Third Class, would normally have been a source of sleepy comfort for him, as he usually found himself soothed by the steady sounds of a train in the distance or the mechanics of a nearby factory. However, the vibration of the engines was such that it only seemed to aggravate the pulsating pains  coursing through his foot, and as such he could not take his mind off it. It eventually was the thought of encountering Bartholomew Gidley on board earlier in the day that finally brought him to the edge of near-sleepiness, which Langston knew to be curious because normally any thought of that man or Edward Lyons would usually leave him a panicked, sweaty state. However, he'd had a bit of luck, from that chance meeting with Ismay. While he wouldn't dare to presume that it had truly given him any sort of upper hand, he found himself with at least the proverbial mustard seed of faith in his heart, and was at last able to close his eyes and rest, if not necessarily sleep.

7:15 P.M.

J. Bruce Ismay was not himself. One would not have caught on if they'd observed him at a reasonable distance. He would have appeared as just one of many distinguished gentlemen in the First Class Smoking Room, sipping a Martell Cordon Bleu cognac. In truth, he was hoping the brandy would soothe his nerves and settle his stomach. He had asked that the ship's surgeon, Dr. O'Loughlin, remain with him throughout the social time and dinner. He had decided to skip lunch earlier in the day after failing to locate Andrews, whom he presumed was elsewhere on a tireless inspection of the ship. As to what his own medical complaint was, Ismay could not firmly say. He was not feverish or in any pain, just an unusual fit of agitation had seemed to overcome him, and he was finding it very difficult to remain focused or articulate any of his thoughts. He had asked the doctor to accompany him with the greatest of discretion, to not let on to
anyone
that he was monitoring him- he was merely to be seen as socializing with him. The main reason for Ismay's desire for secrecy wasn't so much about causing unwarranted worry for- or gaining unwanted attention from- his fellow passengers. The fact was, he couldn't at all be entirely sure of just what exactly his strange malady was.

He sipped his brandy with caution, not wanting to overindulge. He gazed for a few briefly comforting moments at the fireplace, the only genuine coal-burning fireplace aboard the ship. Any serenity that came from watching the lazy flames was quickly washed away with anxiety when he again recalled that for some reason, he could not account for the telegram Captain Smith had given him, and indeed wasn't even sure if he had eaten breakfast that very morning.

Ismay would give Dr. O'Loughlin a silent acknowledgment every once in awhile, as he shifted in his chair with its comfy burgundy leather, alternating between a vigorous puff on his cigarette and a furtive sip or two from his crystal glass, which was etched with a little White Star burgee. The days of the voyage had suddenly begun to blur together for him, and he had asked Dr. O'Loughlin repeatedly, “Isn't today Sunday? It is, am I quite right?” Whenever the doctor answered in the affirmative, Ismay would sink back into his chair, wondering if perhaps all he needed was a bite to eat or perhaps a long nap.

After a few moments, Ismay heard a bit of a stir take place behind him, and he turned slightly to see that it was Captain Smith who had happened to come in the room, his hat tucked under his arm. The captain was approaching him, and apparently with purpose.

“Sir,” the Captain said, smiling as usual but with just the slightest twinge of anxiety in his voice, “have you got that telegram which I gave you this afternoon? I want it to put up in the officers' chart room.”

Ismay blinked for a moment, processing the request. “Ah, quite right, yes.” He placed his brandy glass on the small oak table before him and set aside his cigarette. The captain seemed to be peering at him expectantly, and Ismay took a breath. “Yes, well, that's just it, I...” He began to go through his jacket's pockets, trying to delay his admission that for some odd reason he no longer had it on his person. “I... I seem to have misplaced it, E.J.”

The captain stood before him, his smile unchanged, but his feet fidgeting ever-so-slightly. “We should have to alter our course to the north, but it would be helpful if we have that telegram to post.”

Ismay, embarrassed more than he would normally be because it had been a bit of a rough afternoon, began almost frantically pawing through his coat, unable to produce the telegram- until he finally detected something in one of his coat's numerous pockets. It was a piece of paper, that had been folded over and over repeatedly into a very small square. Ismay practically panted with relief. “Yes, here it is,” he sighed.

The captain made no reference to the head of the White Star Line's apparent nervousness. “Very good, sir,” Smith replied, taking the message away from him, allowing Ismay to have a much-needed free hand for his brandy. “We should be able to see water breaking at the base of any icebergs, but if not, I'd rather we face them head on than be surprised by any small ice or growlers.”

Ismay blanched as he downed his brandy. “Head on? That's a very
brave
bit of maneuvering, don't you think? Taking the greatest steamer in the world right into an ice field?”