Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  “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!”

  “Does this
mean We can now take his life, Mr. Lyons?” Gidley asked quietly.

  Edward stared at the letter for another long moment, then tore it up in his hands. “No. No, I'll do far worse than take his life,” he thundered. “I'll pull it out from under him!”

  Gidley, now at a complete loss as to what to do next, leaned up back against a wall. A large poster that compared the Titanic & the Olympic was just to his right. “Whatever do You mean by that, Mr. Lyons?”

  “Let Me be, let Me be! Let Me think!” Lyons raged, walking over to a punching bag and letting loose with a fierce hit to it.

  “You've gone absolutely incandescent,” Gidley mused, “and I must say, I'm pleased. It is well past the time that We settle the score.”

  “Shut up and listen to Me,” Lyons interrupted, as he paced back and forth. “The words of the Red Knight, that prose that had been handed down for generations,” Lyons exclaimed, causing Gidley to arch his eyebrows in severe interest. “It always began with Launched upon a fatal curve, Too late to sway or swerve... Her brow... Titanic. TITANIC. It is Titanic, not the Naronic, We were wrong. I'm telling You! And the prose was the Prophecy! This... this telegram, this message about the ice...” He held up the Marconigram. “It cannot... it cannot be delivered to the bridge. It must never make it there or at least be delayed. There may have been other warnings that made it through, but We're going to intercept this one.”

  He held a clenched fist over his own mouth for several seconds before speaking again. His partner had fallen silent, his black eyes following his master's every move. “Gidley, there is a classic naval warfare tactic, it's called 'crossing the T.' If a line of ships move ahead of an enemy on a perpendicular course, they're able to launch salvoes at their target with both forward and rear turrets, maximizing the chances of a direct hit. The front of the enemy ship is left defenseless.” He continued to pace the floor- apparently doing mathematics in his head- as Gidley eyed him carefully. “We delay at least this message... the ice... the ice becomes perpendicular to the ship...”

  “But aren't We repeating ourselves a bit, here?” Gidley interjected.

  “Never mind that. We cannot assume that this is the only message regarding ice that this ship has received. It had to be significant enough, though, if he had it in his possession,” Lyons sneered, looking at a still-disabled Ismay, who stood in the gymnasium looking affright with a totally dazed expression on his face, his dress shirt untucked and rumpled.

  “Here. We'll put the note back on him, into one of this coat's many pockets.” He folded the telegram many times over, and grabbed Ismay's coat. “He'll have some explaining to do later. We will send him on his way, but not in the direction of the bridge. Get this man dressed again, quickly.”

  With urgent efficiency, the two men clothed Ismay properly. As he put the finishing touches on the necktie, an unusually somber Gidley quietly made an observation.

  “Perhaps We have outstayed Our existence's usefulness, Mr. Lyons, but if I follow You on this one, it seems that You are preparing a grand exit. Isn't intercepting one warning of 'ice ahead' a bit too small of a gamble?”

  “You underestimate Me, Gidley. There are additional measures that will be taken, I can assure You.”

  In short order they had restored Ismay to his previous condition, except for the unblinking coma in which he remained. They brought him to the gymnasium door, peeked outside for any foot traffic on the deck, then led him out. Lyons took Ismay forcefully by the chin, and spun him around in the direction of the bridge, and whispered menacingly in his ear.

  “You will not- will not- head this way. You will reach in your pocket for the message and it will not be there. You will then head for the aft part of the ship- it makes no difference where you end up- but you will not head for the bridge.” He turned Ismay around and pulled his hand from Ismay's jaw. “Mr. Gidley,” he said, expectantly.

  Gidley stepped forward, his hand in position just an inch from Ismay's face. “Enough will this blood be.” He snapped his fingers and the two men made a rapid escape for the forward First Class entrance.

  Ismay blinked for the first time in about fifteen minutes, wobbled a bit and clenched his hand to his eyelids. He gasped slightly in pain, realizing that his vision had suddenly become blurred and had an excruciating sensitivity to light. He rubbed his eyes vigorously for a moment, carefully opened them and looked down and wasn't sure which direction he was facing. He shook his head, looking about for anyone nearby who may have seen his strange episode but found none. He drew a restorative breath, then put his hand into his right pocket where he knew the message had been, but it was gone. Where is it? What did I do with it? What the devil am I doing? Where's Andrews? I need to see Andrews. A little more cognizant now- or at least with a singleness of purpose- he headed aft, but not feeling quite himself.

  3:30 P.M.

  In a Second Class two-berth stateroom, Lillith sat upon a small settee, sewing up a tear that had appeared on the cuff of one of Lyons's many shirts. The room itself was a little cove of enamel white walls, and mahogany furniture. Seated across from her on the bottom half of a bunk bed, was Marcus (the still relatively-new valet) fastidiously shining a pair of his master's shoes.

  She had done little to engage Marcus in conversation throughout the voyage, finding him a bit slow-witted and shallow. As she watched him go about his work on the shoes, however, she was struck by his focus and determination in getting it right, trying to be thorough and to do a good job, using Australian Kiwi shoe polish with the greatest of care and not so much as uttering a word as he worked. She felt a rush of sympathy, knowing what he did not know, and as the moments wore on she felt it only fair to shed some light of truth on what his employment situation really was.

  “Marcus,” she began quietly, “what did Mr. Lyons say to you when He agreed to bring you on as valet?”

  It took a few seconds for Marcus to come out of his shoe-shining reverie, and he honestly was not sure of what she had said.

  “Pardon?”

  Lillith set the shirt aside and gazed at him intently. “What did Mr. Lyons say to you when He hired you? How much did He tell you of what would be necessary in His employ?”

  “Just the usual of what's expected of a personal man-servant. That, and perhaps one day I might be assigned specific duties, like a silver specialist.” His focus began to pull towards his shoe-shining once more.

  “What did He tell you of this voyage? What did He say the purpose was?”

  Marcus glanced up at her. “Not much, really. Some business about possibly staying at the Waldorf-Astoria for perhaps a month or more while he attended to some of his affairs in New York.”

  “Affairs, how interesting,” Lillith replied, trying hard not to allow herself a wry smile. “Marcus, did He inform you that any part of this journey would take Us much farther west?”

  “No, I should say not-”

  They were both startled by the door to the stateroom flying open, and Bartholomew Gidley promptly making his full, overbearing presence known by taking several strides in with the assistance of his cane. Marcus stood at attention abruptly; Lillith refused to budge.

  “Marcus!” Gidley snapped.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Leave Us. Now. Go find yourself a book or something in your master's quarters if you're not too stupid to read, but go, now.”

  Marcus, frightened and his cheeks red with embarrassment, collected his master's shoes in a panic and fled. Gidley slammed the door shut behind him as he left.

  He turned to Lillith and leered at her. “Ready for a bit of chaos?”

  “What do You want? Where is Mr. Lyons?”

  “He's off... preparing for a bit of fun... with much thanks to you.” Gidley sat on the end of the settee, just inches away from her feet.

  “What are You on about?” She eyed him suspiciously. “I've done nothing wrong. I've been holed up in this cabin for days, darning His master's socks, pressing His master's shirts, I've-”

 
“That is not all that you have been up to, apparently, ever since We left Southampton.” He set aside his cane, folded his arms and viewed her imperiously.

  “I don't know what You mean,” she replied, getting annoyed and concerned over Gidley's behaviour. “Really, I've done nothing, and it seems if anyone should be judged for wrongdoing, it should be You, after Your 'feeding' or killing or whatever it was on that train.”

  “That bastard copper had it coming!” he shouted, spitting his words out viciously. “We never would have made it out of England if I hadn't stopped him- in his tracks, and I do appreciate the irony of that pun because that is exactly how it is intended. It was a beautiful thing to dispatch that little bastard.”