Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  “Trying again to catch the eyes of women who don't have husbands, eh, Langston?”

  “News stories on women's suffrage- good for the ovaries, isn't it, Kerry?”

  In the claustrophobic confines of the newsroom, Langston felt somewhat ashamed for finding himself obsessing on Edward Lyons yet again. As editors barked into candlestick telephones at the reporters scouring the city for stories, and staff shuttled from time to time to update the headline chalkboards out on the sidewalk, he despaired at the thought of the story that he'd been clutching to his chest for so long. He decided to console himself with a cigarette, while pretending to busy himself with the stack of papers on his scarred, wooden roll top desk. He removed his horn rimmed glasses, and his eyes fell upon the pigeon holes and letter compartments of his desk. Frustrated, he hoped he might find a distraction- something, anything to take him away from the internal crescendo of inadequacy from which he was now suffering.

  However, he sensed that he was being watched. He turned around from his desk to see Stanley Johns, the idealistic and intelligent young staffer, eyeing him expectantly.

  “Sir, it's another message, one directed at you- I mean, one that I should give you.”

  In Stanley's hands was one of those yellow parchment envelopes. Langston sat blinking and unbelieving for a moment, until he finally took the letter from the staffer. He turned the envelope over to see that indeed, it bore the old familiar red beeswax with a pseudo-Masonic symbol as a seal. It was the first such communication in quite awhile. Langston, feeling raw from his rough and emotional journey, blurted out in compulsive anger- “Stanley, what is the meaning of this?”

  The young man appeared wounded. “I have no meaning, sir, it's only that kind of message that you've always had me bring to you whenever one arrives.”

  “I realize that, Stanley, but...” Embarrassed, Langston took a long moment to deliberately avoid eye contact while pretending to closely examine the seal of a letter that had to be connected to Edward Lyons. He then took on a tone of contrition. “I beg your pardon, Stanley. My harsh tone is completely unjustified. You only did what you were asked to.”

  “It's the first one of its kind that I've seen in a while,” Stanley offered. “Whenever I see one of these envelopes in the mailroom, I try not to let it interfere with my other duties, but I do make a point of setting it aside for you.” The young man fidgeted for a moment, clearly wanting to say more. “Sir, I know these things don't constitute my work, I know they are big and important things to you alone, but I daresay I think I might know the significance of the seal.”

  Langston took a moment to absorb Stanley's words, setting the letter down and nervously pinching his own fingertips, debating whether the newsroom was a safe haven for such a discussion. He had kept Stanley away from the dark contents of each letter, but they had both openly discussed possible explanations of the seal. He glanced about the office, crowded and messy but with its own unique form of organization. Tired, and throwing caution to the wind, he decided to play along. “I haven't been able to decipher what it means, but if you, my learned friend-” he intoned congenially, having always liked and trusted Stanley- “if you have any inclination as to what it means, I should like to hear it.”

  “Well, I...” Clearly Stanley was agitated, his eyes darting around the noisy newsroom before continuing. “Sir, it's slightly horrifying, but if you wish me to say it, I will do so.” Langston felt his heart racing at the mere sight of yet another dreaded letter. He leaned towards the desk he was seated at, propping his elbow on the edge and holding his forehead in concentration, silently imploring Stanley to continue.

  “I don't mean to be inappropriate, but-” Stanley pulled himself a step closer. “Sir, I knew you'd become an Entered Apprentice, you mentioned it recently- you were at the Freemason's Hall on Great Queen Street?”

  Langston smiled faintly, impressed with Stanley's powers of recollection. “Stanley, your memory is of such an extraordinarily accurate kind that I cannot help but wonder if perhaps you follow me around taking down notes. I believe I had mentioned it only once in passing?”

  Stanley blushed a bit- a trait others found endearing, but that he himself quietly despised. “Mum always said I could remember the order of the tulips in our garden, right down to which rows had which colours. When I was a little boy, every spring she'd have me tie ribbons with the corresponding colours to the stems, then amaze her friends with how I remembered it all yet again. It's always a lad's mum that makes him feel like quite the performing flea, innit?” Langston chuckled softly at Stanley's aside. “Anyroad...we'd chatted once about the seal's resemblance to something Masonic, didn't we?”

  “Yes, yes we did,” Langston concurred grimly. “Do you believe there is a connection?”

  “Well, sir...” Stanley's face seemed to darken as he carefully weighed his next few words. “Sir, there are... unrecognized chapters of Freemasonry. Chapters that don't, um, fall under the proper charters, I suppose.”

  “That's correct,” Langston replied. “But what exactly are you suggesting, Stanley?”

  The young staffer chewed his lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I'm not exactly sure what to suggest, sir, but... I have overheard conversations in the nearby pub- not pertaining to these actual letters, sir,” he quickly added. “Rather, I have heard talk about 'fringe Masons'- groups that aren't recognized by any regular Masonic body. I tried to get in on these conversations, and I was pushed off- but I, what you call, hung around them. Strange old men who didn't seem to trust me. I supposed it was because I always ordered a cold lager.”

  Langston inwardly contained his fascination with hearing Stanley speak, trying not to focus on how he described things but rather what he was saying. “My boy, Masons, as a rule, do not approve of charlatans. I do not presume to say that of you, but Masons generally don't like to speak of anyone at all who doesn't represent their teachings or beliefs. It's a distasteful matter to them, not a slight towards you. As for the temperature of your beer, I should expect an odd reaction from them- it's only the Americans that would spoil a perfectly fine drink by cooling it. I daresay very few of those old codgers have been to America, much less have any parentage that originates from there. Your grandfather was an American, wasn't he?” Stanley nodded. “We English are by nature suspicious of cold beer, but I understand your somewhat unique Yankee circumstances. Don't worry, lad- I won't hold them against you.” The young man chuckled.

  Langston then leaned forward a bit, and took on a confiding tone. “Stanley, these fringe groups have no positive impact on Freemasonry. There's an Anglo-Saxon Lodge, Number 343, that is not recognized by the United Grand Lodge of England. Much of what they represent is considered a complete distortion of a regular charter. Now perhaps I've been reluctant to make any sort of connection between the seal on these letters and the Masons, but if you've evidence of something that may or may not be related, let's have it.”

  “Well, there is not much in the way of evidence, but that design- in my view- looks Masonic.” Stanley picked up the letter in question, and nudged the seal with his thumb. “I mean to say, there's what appears to be a compass, but it's the depth of the grooves that makes it difficult to distinguish if that's the letter 'G' or the number '6'.”

  “Yes, yes, we've been through all of this before,” Langston responded. “But is there anything new to this interpretation?”

  “I don't believe this is any sort of manufactured seal. In fact, because the impression is so imprecise, I'm almost certain this is being taken from the ring on somebody's finger.” Stanley's tone was becoming more confident. “And, if we were to compare the seals from all of the letters, I believe the top portion of the image that appears to be a compass is actually a partial impression of a hexagram.”

  “A hexagram!” Langston exclaimed. “In use as a talisman, for conjuring spirits and... witchcraft?” Langston shifted in his chair, agitated. He had never divulged anything directly to Stanley regarding the
inner contents of the letters, but he was becoming fearful of just how much he might know. “Stanley, I never spoke of what these letters make reference to. I do appreciate that you may have uncovered new evidence, but at this juncture I must really insist that you pursue this no further.” He grabbed the letter forcefully from his desk and thrust it into his coat pocket.

  Stanley looked horrified. “Beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure,” he gulped, his face pale. “I meant no offense or presumption. I only know the letters were important to you, because you insisted that they should be given to you alone and unmolested.”

  “And you carried out your duties impeccably, Stanley.” Langston nervously gathered a few belongings and prepared to leave. “I don't want you, for a moment, to believe that you have done anything wrong. But I shall prefer it if you do not speculate past what you've just discovered- or believe to have discovered,” he sputtered anxiously, as he pulled on a pair of gloves. “I've reason to believe that this is a very dangerous circumstance, and, through no fault of your own, you've been exposed to something that you shouldn't know. Or don't know. I don't know what you don't know.” He paused, then managed a slight chuckle at the absurdity of his words. “I should speak no further, but I do appreciate the role you've played as courier.”

  “But sir, if it's dangerous, shouldn't someone be notified? Not necessarily any lawful authority, but perhaps our own editors? They do bear a lot of wisdom.”

  “My friend-” Langston halted for an instant, then placed his hand confidingly on Stanley's shoulder. The two men stood absolutely still for a moment, in stark contrast to the hectic activity in the newsroom that had continued unbated. “Stanley. If I felt there was any way to share this information- and I do thank you for holding what little you do know in regards to it in confidence- I would do so, without reservation.” He paused, then continued emphatically. “But when one has stepped through the looking-glass, as I have done in the course of this wretched journey, I fear that there is little hope that anyone else approaching the glass would be able to detect anything out of the ordinary, anything beyond their own reflection.” He gazed at Stanley intently, as if trying to communicate something in silent code. “Let be, let be.” He turned to leave, briskly.

  “You're safe here, Mr. Langston, sir,” Stanley called to him. “You're among friends.”

  Langston stopped and smiled, touched by the young man's concern. “I appreciate that, Stanley.” He then turned, and was out on the sidewalk within seconds.

  The conditions were wintry on the streets of London. A light snow had fallen, and as Langston turned his collar up and began to leave the offices of the Chronicle behind he felt a twinge of guilt in not completing his editorial, and for berating Stanley. The young staffer was only trying to be helpful, as he was wont to do. The appearance of yet another mysterious missive, the first to arrive after his visit to Winkleigh, had rattled him. He pressed his hand to his coat, and through the material he could feel the lump of wax on the letter's seal. The occasional snowflake fell from the sky and landed on his face, causing a few painful pinpoints of coolness that would last for moment and then melt away as he hurried along. He quietly determined that he'd review the contents of the letter after supper when he arrived home on Brathway Road.

  However, at home that evening, Langston's appetite had deserted him entirely- the nervous turmoil inside his stomach had returned with a vengeance. He sat reviewing the envelope, which bore the same unmistakable handwriting that had appeared on every anonymous letter. He gazed upon the seal, realizing that Stanley's guess about the image being taken from a ring might actually be correct.

  After staring at the envelope for several minutes, Langston finally decided to open the letter. As he unfolded it, his eyes scanned the message with terrified fascination.

  Dear K. Langston-

  By now Gidley's fate is known to you. Hold your weapons vampirical as close to your heart as you do these Words-

  Gidley, is merely a pawn in the Chess Game mastered by Lyons- to Him, the Argued Prophecy is everything-

  Proceed with caution as the MP moves towards an independent Republic to be formed out West with Himself as Head-

  The Women will follow-

  Seek not to destroy by the light of day but by the Light of Truth-

  I grasp your spirit in the palm of my Hand as I wish you safety-

  Yours, Lillith

  Langston pushed his horn rimmed glasses up closer to his face, then slowly brought them back down over his nose. He gazed over the lenses and examined the note with his naked eyes. His heart was pounding.

  It was the first time one of the letters had been signed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  April 30th, 1912

  The Caucus Room of the Senate Office Building in Washington D.C. had initially been the location of United States Senate hearings on the Titanic disaster. It had seemed to be a natural choice for its immense size. Already the catastrophe had captured the attention of the world at large. Indeed, the public and the press had descended upon the nation's capitol, demanding answers. The room's elegance, including panels of marble and great chandeliers, eerily invoked the finest aspects of the Titanic's luxury, which had been lost in the depths of the Atlantic just two weeks and a day before. After just one day, however, it was decided that the proceedings would be moved into the much smaller Committee on Territories Conference Room, with its colonial lamps and mahogany furniture. Some members of the press speculated the inquiry had been moved out of respect for the Titanic's dead into a space that didn't reflect brazen ornateness. In truth, the hearings had been moved because the Caucus Room offered horrendous acoustics.

  The American inquiry, headed by Senator William Alden Smith of Michigan, had managed to illicit shocking, disturbing and poignant details of what had happened. The ship's crew, as it had become excruciatingly obvious, was absolutely unprepared to respond to the passenger's needs after the collision with an iceberg. There was severely conflicted testimony from the ship's lookouts on the presence of a strange haze on the ocean the night of the disaster. There had been a reckless, dangerous absence of foresight in the lack of a sufficient number of lifeboats. At least one nearby ship, the Californian, had inexplicably failed to respond to the scene of the accident in a timely manner. But of all the stories that had surfaced in the wake of the sinking, not one captured the attention of, or the condemnation by, the American people as did the story of the survival of J. Bruce Ismay- chairman of the White Star Line.

  Ismay had expressed an almost immediate desire to return to England, twice calling upon Senator Smith to allow him to go. Smith, who chaired the inquiry through a Senate Commerce Committee, had flatly denied Ismay's request. The Senator had been mostly a fair and responsible leader of the inquiry, but he was also quite capable of becoming zealous when he felt the occasion warranted it. Smith had gone so far as to subpoena Ismay before he'd even had a chance to disembark from the Carpathia, the steamer that had come to the rescue of hundreds of survivors.

  Ismay, dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, took a seat before the subcommittee for what he fervently hoped would be the last time. He was completely exhausted and visibly shaken. Sitting next to him were a handful of other White Star Line officials, including Harold A. Sanderson. A well-meaning but excruciatingly boring member of the firm, Sanderson- like Ismay- had somehow managed to survive the sinking. Also seated nearby was Phillip Franklin, the vice president of International Mercantile Marine. Rounding out Ismay's entourage were two hulking bodyguards that he'd deemed necessary to hire and bring along in the wake of several credible threats to his physical safety. He'd already been questioned in front of spectators and press at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York, and it had been deeply traumatic. Ismay came away from the proceedings believing that he'd been accused of a mortal sin for the simple act of surviving the sinking, and there was the very real chance that an angry surviving member of the Titanic's crew, or maybe a relative of a deceased passenger bent on vengean
ce, would attempt to complete what the disaster had spared him. As he sat before Smith and six other U.S. Senators- along with a horde of intensely interested newspaper reporters- he reminded himself to listen very carefully to each and every question, and to answer them to the best of his ability.

  Senator Smith was seated behind a long conference desk. Surrounding him were bipartisan colleagues from Oregon, Ohio, Florida, Nevada, California and North Carolina. Smith began the proceedings with a statement of fact. “Mr. Ismay, you were sworn in New York.”

  “I was, sir.” With both hands, Ismay gripped the handle of a walking stick that he had brought along, desperately needing all the support it could provide.

  The Senator from Michigan- a headstrong, intelligent man with handsome features- took an officious tone. “I desire to ask you a few questions in addition to those I asked you the other day. I believe you said your stateroom was on A deck?”

  “On B deck.”