Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  I covered the bloody Siege on Sidney Street, for Christ's sake! My poor sister doesn't HAVE her damned feet- and she would be shoving me up those damned stairs!

  He placed his hand over his heart and momentarily closed his eyes. Well Nancy, if you never see me again, do the best you can. Now for God's sake, man- move on!

  Bracing himself for what he knew was going to be a severe struggle, he clutched the kit to his chest, and began shoving his way up the crowded stairs, yelping in both the urgency of his mission and the pain from his troubled ankle. He was greeted with both surprise and anger from his fellow steerage passengers, but was not about to back down. At last he reached the top, finding himself with his face pinched violently against the gate. For an instant, he wondered if his predicament might turn into a mixed blessing, with his body providing enough weight to crash the gate down.

  After a moment, his balance stabilized, his face and glasses no longer pressed into the gate. He gestured urgently to the steward, who had inexplicably wandered away from the landing.

  “Sir! Sir, can you hear me?” he shouted over the noise. The steward came back, this time clearly recognizing Langston, confusion and scorn in his eyes.

  “Sir,” Langston shouted, the voices behind him subsiding slightly as they realized he was successfully communicating with the truculent steward. “Sir, we can do this either easily, or in a more difficult manner,” he declared, clutching the vampire kit to his chest as a reminder to himself that he was in fact armed with a pistol. “Now, sir, do you have a mother?”

  The steward, beady-eyed and with hair that had been shaved from the sides of his head, reacted with contempt. “Have I got a mum? The bleedin' hell kind of a stupid question is that?”

  “Does she support women's suffrage?” Langston called out to him.

  The steward narrowed his eyes, not answering the question, a trickle of sweat appearing on his brow. He seemed only to be growing angrier. “Does she support women's suffrage?” Langston repeated, frustrated. “You do know what suffrage is, right?”

  “I know what it is!” the steward yelled back. “And what she believes is her own business!”

  “Then I take that to mean that she does. Good, good,” Langston replied quickly. “Then you know what the suffragettes are after, right? Not special rights for themselves, but equal rights for all- equal rights for all! Regardless of gender or class. So if you know that your mum can support such a cause and understand what that means, then surely you know that equality applies in more than one instance! If your mum was a Third Class passenger, you would not leave her down here, would you?”

  There was a split second of self doubt in the steward's eyes. He felt a crimson flush rush up his neck. Without saying another word, he immediately started fumbling for the gate's keys in his pocket. The swarming mass behind the gate cheered.

  12:47 A.M.

  Ismay, still on the starboard side of the ship, had a couple of unseen observers. As he paced nervously near lifeboat No. 5, Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley stood in the gloom not far from the aft end of the gymnasium. Gidley, in a devious bit of wisdom, had lighted a cigar and was puffing on it, occasionally sharing it with Lyons in an attempt to conceal the fact they were the only men outside whose breath wouldn't freeze.

  Ismay had been restraining himself after the awkward exchange with Officer Pitman, observing the preparation of the lifeboats in a manner both officious and timorous. From behind where he was standing, originating at the forward part of the ship, came the unmistakable sound of water dripping, then spilling, then pouring over the well deck.

  Ismay immediately panicked, lunging toward the davit rope of lifeboat No. 5, where Fifth Officer Harold Lowe was handling the slack end of the rope. “Lower away! Lower away! Lower away!” Ismay cried.

  “If you would get the hell out of that I should be able to do something,” Lowe snapped, with no idea of whom he was addressing. “You want me to lower away quickly? You'll have me drown the lot of them!”

  Ismay, embarrassed at his own impulses, said nothing in reply. He turned and dashed forward towards the starboard bridge rail, where looking down he could see that the well deck was indeed now awash. His hands gripped the rail as his vision tunneled only upon the ship's bow. One damned ice warning! he berated himself mentally. One! Surely there were others received- but why not that one? Where in God's name was I this afternoon?

  His thoughts were interrupted abruptly by a gruff command from Officer Boxhall, who was standing only a few feet away on the bridge wing. “Stand aside, sir, stand aside. Get back!”

  The officer then pulled on a lanyard, resulting in a shriek of fire and a puff of smoke. Seconds later, a distress signal shell burst about six hundred feet overhead, sending about a dozen streaks of colorful sparks fanning out like an umbrella before falling back towards the ship and fizzling out. Ismay heard an appalled vocal reaction from the passengers on the Boat Deck, some of whom finally seemed to be grasping the gravity of the situation.

  12:50 A.M.

  Lillith and Marcus had successfully made it to the Boat Deck on the port side, both adorned with lifebelts. As they stood aft of the third funnel, another distress rocket went screaming from the ship, this time from the bridge wing on the side they were on. It, just like the other, trailed several hundred feet into the air before exploding, briefly illuminating the ship in much the same manner as a camera flash-lamp.

  They both stood on their toes, straining to look forward, but quickly realized that keeping their balance was a problem.

  Something's wrong, Marcus declared, looking down at the deck and then up at Lillith. “Something's out of balance, and I cannot keep my feet in the right place. Do you suppose our master is finding himself in the same condition?”

  Frustrated by Marcus and his unceasing devotion to Edward Lyons, an exasperated Lillith looked about until she saw two young ladies clad only in dressing gowns. Shawls and cloaks were draped over their shoulders, and their teeth were chattering. Feeling a camaraderie at least in age, she called out to them. “Pardon me, ladies, but has anyone officially said what is the matter?”

  “It's an iceberg,” one of them replied. “But we are now going on again.”

  Lillith, confused, looked at the evacuation activity that continued just behind the young woman. “Then why are they putting people into the boats?”

  “The crew says it's just a precaution,” the other woman replied. “They say we might have to paddle out for a bit before they let us back on.”

  Lillith quickly surmised that this couldn't possibly be correct, and shook her head. “Come now, Marcus,” she said curtly, pulling him forward.

  As they walked away from the two women, Marcus turned back with a question. “So they can mend it? It's nothing serious?”

  Lillith sighed heavily and pulled him by the arm. “Come away. You and I both know that this is very serious.”

  “Hold on, then!” Marcus stopped.

  “What is it now?” Lillith replied, losing her patience as she heard the sound of davit pulleys in motion, and men calling orders to each other with great urgency.

  “Your breath,” he whispered. “Your breath- it doesn't freeze like mine!”

  Lillith, for an instant, was concerned her vampirism might be uncovered, but she decided it was more important to keep Marcus focused. “Marcus, that is the most foolish thing I have ever heard you say!”

  “But it doesn't!” he practically giggled. “It's the strangest sight I've ever seen. Do like this-” he exhaled broadly. “See? It's almost as if I'm smoking a cigar! But you- yours doesn't do that! How can that be?”

  “Marcus,” she seethed through clenched teeth, “if you don't stop this ridiculous nonsense this very minute and help me find Kerry Langston, you will see me breathe fire all over your face, I swear it.”

  Within her gaze, he believed she might actually mean it. “Right then,” he replied. “Let's carry on.” They continued forward as best they could, very slowly win
ding their way past people who were jostling about vigorously in a desperate effort to keep warm, past wives who didn't want to leave their husbands.

  12:53 A.M.

  The reluctant hero of a steward led Langston and about forty other steerage passengers up the Third Class stairway, to the aft well deck. They went forward past the Second Class Lounge and into First Class space, where the aft Grand Staircase took them three decks up to the Boat Deck.

  As they ascended the stairs, Langston could hear gasping and many foreign tongues wagging over the elegance that presented itself to them. While some of the woodwork wasn't quite as ornate as what could be found on the forward Grand Staircase, the shiny brass strip on the lip of each step and the bronze cherubs serving as lighting fixtures, were unlike anything any of them had ever seen.

  As they stepped out into the stabbing cold air on the Boat Deck, Langston lingered for a moment, hoping to share a final word with the steward.

  “I know you didn't want to do this,” Langston panted, winded from travelling up so many stairs and trying with all his might to ignore the searing pain in his ankle. “But there's a certain wonderful irony in you being the one to escort so many steerage passengers through First Class and to safety.”

  The steward, red-faced with embarrassment, tugged at the pockets on his white jacket. “Very soon I don't think it will matter what deck you're on, mate,” he said, turning on his heel and heading back inside.

  Kerry looked forward, astonished to see a distress signal sailing into the sky and bursting into a multitude of green, red and white sparks that reflected in the lenses of his glasses. Still clutching the kit and hobbled by an injury, he headed over to the port side aft. He watched the rocking davits as lifeboats were lowered, and was puzzled by what he thought was the sound of a cello being played in the distance.

  12:55 A.M.

  Lyons and Gidley, now seated on a bench on the starboard side just behind the fourth funnel, saw the sudden influx of steerage passengers onto the Boat Deck. Lyons in particular was perplexed.

  “I must say I'm surprised to see stewards showing Third Class passengers the way to the boats. That means barriers that are closed at ordinary times are now open. This evacuation is far too efficient, Mr. Gidley. We've got too many rockets being fired to alert other ships in the region.” He turned to his left, and squinted his eyes towards the starboard horizon. “Tell Me, can You see any other ships near Us?”

  Gidley leaned forward on his cane and shook his head. “I see stars that are extraordinarily bright on the horizon that might be mistaken for ships...”

  Lyons turned back to Gidley. “I imagine the captain must be trying to roust them by means of the wireless. Do not lose possession of the message that I dictated to You. In the interim, We must stop this exodus from steerage. And that means We will stem the bleeding... by inducing a different form of bleeding.”

  There was an evil spark in Gidley's eyes. With no further discussion, the men rose from the bench. In a great rush, they headed below deck in the opposite direction of the escaping steerage passengers.

  1:00 A.M.

  Langston was still fighting to catch his breath, and finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a steady posture on the deck. He realized that it wasn't entirely due to his twisted ankle. The deck was increasingly sloping downward, and by now he had overheard idle chatter about a possible collision with an iceberg. As he leaned on the port side rail, several feet aft of lifeboat No. 8, he peered into the distance, to the rear and east of the Titanic's current position. He could perceive no sign of ice, only what appeared to be a never-ending plateau of black oil, so still was the sea. Langston watched in worried fascination as the lifeboat was lowered- and lowered, and lowered, it seemed. He wondered just how far they would have to go to reach the sea.

  1:05 A.M.

  Lillith and Marcus, only about thirty yards away from Langston, had made very little progress in their push further forward on the port side. They were shoulder to shoulder in a crowd that was barely moving, and, indeed, had been slowed by dozens of passengers who had started to argue with the “women and children only” order that was strictly being enforced. An officer would call out “Who's for the next boat?” and receive no reply. As a result, a few women had been forcibly lifted up and dropped into the boats. Lillith, in her steely resolve, found herself wishing an officer would dare try to lay his hands upon her.

  Her eyes had been searching relentlessly for any sign of Langston, and she had described him for Marcus' benefit: about thirty years of age, brown eyes, flaxen hair, horn-rimmed glasses, frequently wearing a tweed cap. She began to realize, ruefully, her description matched that of just about every other man she saw on the dimly lit deck. She also saw that Marcus seemed distracted, apparently keeping a constant eye out for Lyons.

  She turned to her left and saw that about ten yards away, one of the lifeboats- specifically, No. 6- appeared to be in its final stages of preparation to be lowered. She pulled Marcus away by his arm, taking a seat on a bench.

  She thought very carefully before speaking. “Marcus, I believe that, for now, we should separate. It's clear that your mind is on your Master when I need your help finding Mr. Langston.”

  “Do you not want me to stay beside you?” he asked, blinking his dull eyes.

  “Do you want to stay, Marcus?”

  “Well...” his voice trailed off, and he spent a moment rubbing his hands on his pant legs for warmth. “With all due respect to you and your Mr. Langston, I do have my master to consider.”

  Lillith looked at him. “Very well, then. I release you.”

  Marcus stood, almost apologetic, but mostly relieved to learn that he could again be of service to Lyons. “Thank you miss. I should hope that you leave the ship before the ship leaves you.” He looked awkwardly down at his feet, then turned and headed aft, slowly through the thickening crowd.

  Lillith watched him go only for a moment, then turned to look forward to the bridge. As she saw and heard yet another distress rocket explode overhead, she wondered if Marcus had in fact headed in the right direction.

  1:10 A.M.

  Lyons and Gidley had received a puzzled look or two as they proceeded down further and further into the Titanic, going in the opposite direction from everyone else.

  The ship was by now tipping down at an eleven-degree angle, so for a person to maintain any sort of physical balance was rapidly becoming a serious challenge. In a few minutes, the ship would suddenly lurch about two degrees to port. Her deck was tilting further downward, and the sinking rate was rapidly increasing.

  As they made their way deeper into the ship, the noise from above- the shrieking distress signals, the children crying, the squeaking of the lifeboat davits- vanished completely. It was replaced by the faint hum of some of the electric lights, and the unmistakable sound of water spilling into places where it should not. As they approached E Deck aft, the floor receded into the distance and appeared to be a foot or more under water. They realized that they had come upon what sounded to be a cadre of immigrants who were still inexplicably in their berths, tossing luggage about and arguing. Lyons stopped in his tracks and held Gidley back as he heard snippets of Romanian, Russian and Greek. He was startled to find so many passengers still in one place.

  “I suppose You'll want the ship's bugler to sound a dinner fanfare,” Lyons muttered quietly to Gidley.

  1:13 A.M.

  On the Boat Deck bench, Lillith watched forlornly as yet another distress signal exploded overhead, when she thought she heard her name being called. She turned and looked aft, believing it to be the annoying Marcus coming back. However, in the gloom, what she saw was a familiar, professorial, apparently limping figure.

  “Lillith!” Langston cried out.

  “Kerry!” Lillith shrieked.

  She leapt up and ran to him, clutching him tight, her shoulders shaking. “Oh dear Kerry! You are here! Dear Kerry! I thought They had harmed you!”

  “No, no, I'
m here, I'm here.” Langston relished every moment of her embrace, but, tempered by the urgency of the situation, confided, “But I do fear they have harmed the ship.”

  1:14 A.M.

  Lyons kept his voice at a whisper. “From what I can tell, they are in rooms from here-” Lyons pointed to an entryway about ten feet away- “to about five doors away. I'm going to run down to the edge of the water by that last door. You will close in from here, and We must act quickly to contain this group. No one is to make it past You and up to the steps. Have You got that?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lyons,” Gidley replied with morbid pleasure.

  “If they start to make it out, they will not head for the water, they will head for the stairs. They must stay contained as We 'chain' way Our through. Have You got that as well?”