Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  The Attorney General became exasperated. “And, more particularly, if you were approaching ice in the night it would be desirable, would it not, to slow down?”

  “I am not a navigator.”

  Lord Mersey, clearly growing irritated with Ismay, startled his colleagues a bit with an impatient interjection. “Answer the question!”

  Ismay's response was meek but nonetheless clear. “I say no. I am not a navigator.”

  Sir Rufus, quietly furious, berated him. “You are not being quite frank with us, Mr. Ismay.”

  Sir Robert Finlay, who had been silent since his opening statements, promptly protested. “The Attorney General will forgive me- but I do not think there is the slightest justification for that remark!” Momentarily, calls of agreement and disapproval from those in attendance threatened to overtake the proceedings.

  Sir Rufus paused, waiting for the din to quiet down, never taking his eyes off Ismay. “What is your answer?”

  Ismay drew in a breath before replying. “I should say if a man can see far enough to clear ice, he is- he is perfectly justified in going full speed.”

  “Then apparently you did not expect your captain to slow down when he had ice reports?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  Sir Rufus leaned over toward Lord Mersey for a private consultation while Sir Robert looked daggers at his colleagues. The Attorney General then resumed. “Mr. Ismay, according to your view, what do you say as to the weather conditions that night?”

  “So far as I could judge, it was a perfectly fine, clear night,” was Ismay's measured response.

  “So, on a perfectly fine, clear night,” Sir Rufus replied, seeming to take on Ismay's phrase with a touch of mustard, “with the expectation that you are coming within the region of ice, your view is that the captain would be justified in increasing his speed?”

  “I do not see any reason why he should not, so long as he could see sufficiently far to clear the ice.” Ismay fought an urge to cough, his throat becoming sore. He felt a cold trickle of perspiration run down his neck. An intensely private man, he had struggled to cooperate as much as possible in such very public interrogations in both Britain and the U.S., but he was depleting the last of his emotional reserves and finally allowed himself to uncharacteristically attempt to show some impatience in the face of authority.

  “Begging the Attorney General's forgiveness, and this is not an attempt in any way to become impertinent given the deadly seriousness of the occasion, but I should like to know-” he halted for an instant, his teeth chattering with nervousness- “when can we please move on to the whole Carpathia incident?”

  A tone of discord rocked the Drill Hall, as inquiry spectators jeered and whistled in disapproval and the horde of reporters leaned forward in their chairs in lurid fascination. However, the Attorney General seemed intent on adopting a different tactic by ignoring the question completely. “Mr. Ismay, you occupied a cabin on B deck?”

  Ismay was completely taken aback and disappointed by the deflection of his question, but answered anyway. “Yes.”

  “Did you occupy a suite there?”

  “I did...” He gradually realized that the subject of the Carpathia was not going to be addressed any time soon.

  “That is on the port side of the vessel?”

  “The starboard side, I think.”

  “No, it is the port side- at least, I think so, if it is the one I mean. Do you remember the number?”

  Ismay frowned. “I think it was 52 or 56, or something like that.”

  “Will you just look at the plan and you will see?” A Board of Trade assessor handed a copy of the plan to Ismay. “I will remind you of what you said in America. At one time you were not quite sure of the number. You thought it was 52?”

  “I think some other gentleman said he had that room.”

  “That is right- some other gentleman said he had it?”

  “Yes, but I still think I had 52...” Ismay's voice trailed off a bit, sounding both mournful over the proceedings and increasingly frustrated with his memory. “The passenger plan would show which room I had.”

  Sir Rufus turned towards Lord Mersey, attempting to ensure that Ismay's location on the ship was not in question. “If your Lordship will look at B deck, it is on the port side, and on the port side you will see B-52, B-54, and then a bathroom, and then B-56. So it is either 52 or 56 that you occupied?”

  Ismay, not taking his eyes off the ship's plan, still seemed embarrassed and confused. “Or- or perhaps the corresponding rooms on the other side,” he stammered.

  Lord Mersey's eyes shot up toward Ismay in disbelief, realizing just how muddled some of his testimony had become. “You do not mean on the other side of the ship?”

  Ismay could not bring himself to address the Board directly during his response, still staring at the plan. “Yes, I am not certain which side it was- the corresponding rooms.”

  Sir Rufus sighed slightly, and quickly decided that trying to pinpoint the location of Ismay's room on the ship was going to take up valuable time. “Very well. At the time of the impact you were in bed and asleep?”

  “I was.”

  “You were awakened by the impact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you realize what had happened?”

  Ismay did not physically shake while at the stand, but he could still feel the vibration of the impact deep in his bones. “I did not.”

  “Did you then get up?”

  “I stayed in bed a little time, and then I got up. I really thought what had happened was we lost a blade off one of the propellers.”

  “You got up, and where did you go?”

  “I went along the passageway out of my room, and I met a steward.”

  “Did you ask him what had happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did the steward say?” Sir Rufus asked.

  “He told me he did not know.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I went back to my room and put a coat on, and I went up to the bridge.”

  “Was Captain Smith there?”

  “He was,” Ismay replied, sighing slightly.

  “Then did you ask him what had happened?”

  “I did.” Ismay was back to choosing his words carefully, it seemed.

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “He told me we had struck ice.”

  “Did you ask him anything further?”

  “I asked him whether he thought the damage was serious, and he said he thought it was.” Another dramatic murmur shook the hall.

  “What did you do then?”

  Ismay felt a twinge of anxiety. There was much about that disastrous evening that remained unclear to him. “I think I went back to my room for a short time, but I am not absolutely certain...”

  “Did you hear any order given by Captain Smith?”

  “I went up, after that, on to the bridge, and I heard Captain Smith give an order. I- I am not quite certain whether it was to lower the boats or to get the boats out, but it was in connection with the boats.”

  “When you heard that order given on the bridge, what did you do next?”

  “I went along the deck, and then I think I spoke to one of the officers.”

  “You do not remember which officer it was?”

  “No.”

  “Did you help to get the boats out?”

  “I rendered all the assistance that I could.”

  “And to put the women and children in?”

  “Yes,” he replied grimly.

  “That was on the Boat Deck?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you stay there until you left the ship?”

  “Yes, practically. I don't- I do not think I ever left that deck again.”

  “Can you tell us at all how long it was after you felt the impact that you heard the order given by Captain Smith to get the boats out, or to lower the boats?”

  “No, I- I really could not tell, it is
very difficult indeed, it might have been 20 minutes, but it is very difficult to judge the time...” Once more the jumble of that evening unrolled in his mind; all the flashing shades of black and blue and chaos and the recollection of shouts of many men made most of it an inexpressible mental burden to carry.

  “Did you see some of the boats lowered?”

  Ismay struggled to focus. “I did.”

  “On which side of the deck were you?”

  “On the starboard side.”

  “Was there any confusion amongst the crew or the passengers?”

  “I saw no confusion at all.” And yet Ismay felt uncertain about what he had seen.

  “Did you see any attempts by men to force their way into the boats?”

  “I did not.”

  “Or to get into the boats?”

  “I did not.”

  “Were there a number of women and children on the deck?”

  A shade of anguish shaped his answer. “There were.”

  “Did all those who were on the deck get away in boats?”

  “All the women that I saw on deck got away in boats.”

  “Did you realize that they were not all the women and children who were on board the ship?”

  A black steel door seemed to slam shut in Ismay's mind. “At the time I did not.”

  “Did you know at all what was happening on the port side?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did you hear any reports of the ship making water?”

  “I did not.”

  Sir Rufus was skeptical. “You were not told about that?”

  “I was not.”

  “Did you notice any list?”

  “When I left the ship she had a list to starboard,” Ismay nodded.

  “To starboard?” Sir Rufus pounced. “Mr. Ismay, innumerable witnesses in two inquiries have to this moment testified that the ship was suffering a pronounced list to port!”

  “To- to port, I... I beg your pardon.” There came another reaction of disdain from the crowd.

  “Tell us this, Mr. Ismay,” Sir Rufus continued with understated and brittle British sarcasm, “how long did you remain on the Titanic after the impact? Can you answer that with any degree of certitude?”

  Ismay, red-faced, breathed in silently before responding. “I should think, as I said in Washington-” he said with deliberate and angry pronunciation- “an hour and a half, or perhaps longer than that.”

  “Your candor is much appreciated, Mr. Ismay,” Sir Rufus replied, moderating his sour tone a bit. “Meanwhile, did you then notice the vessel was going down by the head?”

  “I did.”

  “That downward direction, of course, increased as time went on?”

  Ismay, still irritated, remained monosyllabic. “It did.”

  “Did you think it was in a very serious condition?”

  Ismay's anger shifted into sorrow as he lowered his eyes. “As time got on I did.”

  “And that the ship was sinking?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you tell anybody that?”

  “I think not....”

  “So far as you know, were any of the passengers told that the vessel was sinking?”

  “Not so far as I know.”

  “Would you tell us what happened after you got the women and children in?”

  “After all the women and children were in and after all the people that were on deck had got in, I got into the boat as she was being lowered away.”

  “There was no order to you to get in?”

  Ismay's voice had little to no volume. “No, none.”

  “Before you got into the boat, was any attempt made to call up other passengers to come up on to the Boat Deck?”

  “That I do not know, I was never off the Boat Deck.”

  “Did you think then when you left the vessel that she was rapidly going down?”

  “I did.”

  “Before you left the vessel did you see the rockets being sent up?”

  The shrieking sound of the rockets, climbing up into the night sky, bursting into colored balls of fire was an all-too clear memory for Ismay. “I did.”

  “That went on for some time?”

  “For quite some time.”

  “When you got into the boat and she was lowered, how were you sitting?”

  “I was sitting with my back to the after end of the boat.”

  “Facing the bow?”

  “Yes, facing the bow.”

  “And did you assist with the oars?”

  “I did.”

  The Attorney General's voice came down in volume, as he set the scene for the Titanic's sinking. “There was very little wind that night?”

  “Very little.”

  “Practically a 'dead calm' that evening, we have been told?”

  “Yes, up until a certain hour in the morning, when the wind did get up.”

  “Did you see the lights of the Carpathia before daylight?”

  “No.”

  The Carpathia. At last, mention had been made of the Cunard Line steamship that had rescued the survivors of the Titanic disaster; once more, it seemed, it had arrived to redeem him. Ismay stood rigidly and stared expectantly at the members of the Board of Trade. However, the men on the dais merely looked back at him with blank stares.

  Hours later, Ismay found himself at last outside the Drill Hall, desperately trying to light a cigarette; the persistent spring rains that had soaked London had momentarily subsided. His wife, Florence, dressed fashionably in black, approached him.

  “Dash it all,” Ismay quietly muttered.

  “Beg pardon, dear?” Florence asked pensively.

  “Dash it all to Hell,” Ismay stated, drawing briskly on his cigarette and warily sizing up the Drill Hall that loomed just over his shoulder. He addressed her sotto voce, while his eyes- two exhausted, humorless, dark little moist marbles- danced across her soft features. “A second chance at an inquiry- on British soil, no less- and they brought me right up to the edge of the Carpathia matter without so much as letting me clear my name.”

  “What Carpathia matter, darling?” She answered softly, knowing full well what her husband meant but not wanting to speak of it.

  “You know,” he whispered hoarsely. “That whole bloody awful 'White Star' business,” he groaned. In America, just days after his last bit of testimony for the U.S. inquiry into the disaster, the Chicago Daily Journal had published a devastating morsel of information regarding him that- true or not- was to dog him mercilessly for decades. “And that cursed telegram about the ice warning. I have nothing to conceal, nothing to hide. Why they cannot be satisfied with my answer is beyond my understanding-”

  She reached up with her gloved hand, gently but firmly placing a finger on Ismay's lips and scouring his face with her eyes.

  “That, my dear, is the last we are ever going to let you speak of any of it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  January 30th, 1912

  Kerry Langston found it increasingly difficult to concentrate within the terrible din that surrounded him in the newsroom of the London Daily Chronicle. A dozen typewriters were in use around him and sheets of foolscap were being crumpled up and tossed on the wooden floor by frustrated, swearing and angry reporters. Earlier in the day, the British House of Lords had opposed the House of Commons by rejecting home rule for Ireland, and the pressure was on the newsmen to secure all of the latest details. Langston wondered if he'd be able to muster up the amount of focus it would take to accomplish his current goal: drafting an editorial that openly challenged the policies of MP Edward Lyons.

  It was an assignment Langston had to vigorously fight for. The editorial management had expressed great reluctance in publishing a critical essay without having a firm, recent example of Lyons engaged in anything truly newsworthy, other than his continued vocal support of women's suffrage. Indeed, Lyons had been keeping a low, inoffensive profile ever since Langston had made his frightening discovery in Winkleigh. As Langs
ton struggled to find the right words in the chaos of the newsroom, he gradually realized that his column was little more than a blatant attempt to marginalize the MP from East Surrey. His self-admitted goal had been to point out that Lyons did not have a political mandate to enforce much of anything. He cringed as he imagined the snide remarks that might come from some of his unsympathetic colleagues: