Call Me Ismay (44 page)

“Him?
Him?!”
Lyons protested, stunned by Lillith's intensity. “Gidley killed him back in London!”

“He did not! He was here with me tonight!” Lillith shrieked.

“That's impossible, you stupid woman! He was killed by Gidley in a cemetery!”

“That was Stanley Johns, You idiot! I
know
that Kerry Langston died here tonight!”

“And so will a lot of other worthless filth, you witch!”

Without another word, just a guttural, animalistic scream, Lillith pounced on Lyons, tearing at his neck, his eyes, his shoulders. He stumbled as she jumped upon his back, the two of them now engaged in a fight to the death. As they struggled about wildly, passengers shrieked in terror as the deck and the entirety of the ship was plunged into darkness.
Titanic's
lights had gone out forever.

2:15 A.M.

“The lights have gone!” a few passengers in Collapsible C cried out. “Did you see that? Oh dear God, the lights have gone!”

J. Bruce Ismay could not bring himself to turn around and look at this latest bit of news regarding the ship. Instead, he remained with his back to the
Titanic
, in a lifeboat that could have held at least eight more survivors than it was carrying. He did look directly ahead, realizing his immediate surroundings had become noticeably darker in the sudden absence of light that had been coming from behind him. Gradually the cloak of the inky night would turn into its own unique form of muted blue, as the stars above were now the only source of light upon the face of the waters. With a jolt, he abruptly jerked and looked from side to side, realizing he had no idea where his butler was, and that he'd had no chance to warn him.

John Fry would not survive the disaster.

2:16 A.M.

As hundreds of passengers ran for the darkened heights of the aft of the ship above, with
Titanic's
propellers by now well out of the water, Lillith and Lyons were engaged in a struggle that had forced him to stagger to the starboard rail. Lillith, who was still clinging to Lyon's shoulder and back, had deployed her fangs and dragged them across the back of his scalp, shredding his skin. As the tilt of the Boat Deck worsened, Lyons lost his balance and tumbled. Lillith landed on her stomach and Lyons, sprawled on his back, began to slide away. She flung out her hands, digging her fingernails into both sides of his face, but gravity prevailed and he continued to pull away as she tore deep red trenches into his cheeks. He slipped through her grasp, still sliding downward and was now practically amidships.

The continuous tilting halted for a moment, just long enough for Lyons to turn over onto his stomach, and for Lillith to rise, unsteady in her balance.

“There isn't one tragic incident or one war in history than cannot be blamed upon a woman,” he spat at her, venomously. “I should never have brought you, or allowed you to be alone with Ismay. But his pride will go down along with this ship!” he shouted triumphantly.

“Ismay? Ismay, You mentally corrupted fool? What are You saying?” she shrieked at him, wild-eyed and insane.

“I read your letter! I found it upon his person!” Lyons shot back, fighting to stand up.

“Any letter I ever wrote was meant for Kerry Langston only,” she cried, her shoulders racked with sobs, her balance precariously uncertain.

Underneath them, and felt throughout the entire darkened ship, there came a rumble not unlike an earthquake. The ship's iron body seemed to growl in protest as the strain on her flooded structure became too great. The deck that separated the two vampires began to buckle and crack, and Lyons, certain of what was happening before Lillith could begin to comprehend it, scrambled to stand up. Planks of wood began to split in half, snapping with a sound that resembled gunfire. Then with no further warning, the muffled roar from below hit both of them at full volume, as the
Titanic
ripped open, sending a flash of sparks flying upward.

Lyons, able to stand at the last moment, had the presence of mind to vault himself over the chasm and onto the aft part of the ship before it could claim him. Lillith, staggering and unsure, fell down and was tossed forward, and as her hands flailed about wildly in a desperate attempt to grasp onto something-
anything-
she was for an instant airborne
.
Her fall was swiftly interrupted, however, as a jagged part of the deck's wood pointing upward pierced her chest and impaled her.

There was no time to scream or even have much of a physical reaction. Her body instantly went limp, her head and arms dangling forward. Lyons, now on the aft side of the chasm, had the advantage of balance as the stern settled back, the ship separating, all nine of her decks now openly exposed. For a horrible instant Lyons could see
Titanic's
inner skeleton did, in fact, resemble the naves of half a dozen cathedrals laid end to end, just as some contemporaries had described. It occurred to him he resurrected Bartholomew Gidley from one place of worship, and that now Lillith was about to be posthumously baptized in a watery grave. The dark sea would close over the bow section almost immediately, taking Lillith in her white dress and black shawl, Kerry with his broken vampire killing kit, and far too many other souls to name straight to the bottom.

The stern tilted forward yet again, this time with a severe list to port. Those left on the deck now had only seconds to decide what they were going to do. Edward Lyons quickly determined that he needed to close the proceedings with a dramatic flourish.

Clawing over dozens of passengers, and tossing them prematurely into the sea, if he had to- he made it past the unfortunates who were desperately clinging to capstans, railings, deck benches, ventilators or any other protrusion they could find. He knew where he wanted to be- the fantail, or more precisely, on the
other
side of the fantail, which was certain to be the last part of the ship exposed. He could see on the stern's flagpole the White Star pennant flapping about- a ludicrous bit of decoration for a vessel that was, for all intents and purposes, ruined. Using his vampiric strength, he pulled himself over the gunwale, edging himself over to the flagpole. Just below him were the golden letters on her stern that declared her name,
Titanic.
He furiously scanned the darkened horizon in the general direction of what he believed to be Ismay's lifeboat.

2:19 A.M.

Collapsible C had managed to pull only about half a mile away when
Titanic
broke in two. The sound had been equivalent to a locomotive exploding and then tumbling down into the water, railcar after railcar piling upon each other. And yet J. Bruce Ismay still could not bring himself to look back.

The oarsmen had stopped rowing, while women sobbed and put their heads on each other's shoulders. Many a foreign tongue exclaimed in despair as the ship's sides clearly split open, and the forward portion of the breakage sank. With his left arm folded over his chest and his trembling right hand pressed to his lips, Ismay assumed that the boilers had just exploded.

Aside from the brutal cold that seemed to tear at him from all sides, there came a sudden tingling on the back of his head. Ismay twitched as it rapidly worsened, and he wondered if he'd been struck by someone, or perhaps it was the beginning of a stroke. He then deduced it was a sensation that was compelling him, commanding him to turn around.

At last, he relented and quickly looked back. The
Titanic
looked like a huge black mountain in the water, and he recoiled at the sight of her propellers thrust into the air- it was a part of the ship he had not even seen since she'd been built in Belfast. His heart seemed to skip a beat, and before he could turn himself back around, Ismay suddenly felt himself become very
aware.

Edward Lyons, the MP from East Surrey, was crouched upon the ship's stern, which was now horizontal while the deck behind him was vertical. With his face torn and bleeding, a faint kaleidoscope of fire emanated from his eyes. Its swirling and burning continued until it pulled Ismay's faraway vision into a tunnel that could see only him and the pennant.

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.