Call Me Ismay (26 page)

“You hear that? The 'Ismay screens.' It's a sight better than being named after the poop deck, innit?”

He allowed himself a significant laugh, while the other steward seemed momentarily lost in thought, then replied cluelessly. “Well, since the poop deck is at the aft part of the ship, I do not see the point of putting the windows there at all.”

Realizing that his colleague hadn't understood his attempt at scatological humor, the joking steward laughed once more, clapping his exasperated friend's shoulder in both amusement and pity.

Meanwhile, an unusually didactic Ismay continued his descriptions of all things
Titanic
, pointing out features and details to Sanderson in free association while Andrews continued his unending visual inspection. Ismay commented on the tawny brown paint of the ship's funnels, and the fact that only three of them were “working” funnels- the fourth smokestack was a dummy. He pointed out that the American flag was flying on her foremast to indicate her country of destination. He boasted that her ports of call in Cherbourg and Queenstown were much too small to accommodate the
Titanic
and, therefore, her anchor would have to be dropped a few miles offshore. As his descriptions began to involve things
inside
the vessel- the elegant Turkish baths, the gymnasium with its rowing machine and its electric horse (meant to simulate rides), her heated swimming pool- it occurred to him that he and his companions should probably board at once. Ismay also needed to collect his family, a wife and three children, who were hurriedly exploring the liner since they were not going to be joining him on the voyage to New York. As the trio of White Star Line officials headed back towards the gangways for the First Class front entrance on D deck, on the distant horizon, slowly approaching Berth 44, there came an object- small at first- that gradually grew in size, indistinct at such a distance, becoming clearer as the seconds passed. It first seemed to drift, then move ahead with purpose- until, finally, its inevitable path became clear.

Steam roiled. Porters and stewards flew into action with swift efficiency. The boat train from London had made its arrival at the dockside, its hissing engines competing with the
Titanic's
750lb steam whistles as they blared the occasional sailing day siren call.

Despite the seaport's apparent eager desire to serve its passengers quickly, Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley had decided to forestall their departure from the train. Sgt. Wade's blood had barely dried on the front of Gidley's shirt, and indeed, while the men had tried with handkerchiefs and spit to conceal it, dark red stains were still plainly visible on his coat. Only a few passengers had seemed to detect the soiled condition of his clothing as the two men had made their way back to their compartment, but Lyons merely gave them a stern look, deciding to forfeit the “slipped and fell and hurt his jaw” strategy. By hiding in plain sight, not proactively offering an explanation, Lyons thought that they could go about their business without interference.

Waiting and watching and listening, the men assured themselves they had to be the final passengers on board before deciding to make a go for it, peeking out of their compartment to ensure that no porter was waiting at the open door. They stepped furtively onto the platform, where about forty yards away a plaintive call of “Here, gentlemen! Here, good sirs!” rang out. It was their frantic valet, Marcus, pulling together their luggage, while a deeply saddened Lillith moved slowly in her duties- moving their cases, but going about it with only a sullen semblance of duty.

“Gentlemen, my- my sincere apologies!” he sputtered. “I was terribly concerned that perhaps we had somehow gotten separated, and-”

“Shut up, Marcus,” a tightly wound Lyons snapped; Marcus ducked like an abused, but still sadly loyal, dog. “We are in close proximity now, and all I want for Us to do is to board that ship.” He glanced over at Lillith, who was now looking daggers at Gidley. A quick survey of the blood on his clothes and a recollection of the high-pitched whine was all she needed. She thought of bluntly asking Gidley if he'd left the body on the train, but instead decided to take a different course, since Marcus was new and completely in the dark as to whom he served.

“And how was Your blood pudding this morning, Mr. Gidley? It certainly couldn't have been Your first helping.” She firmly set down a few suitcases in angry emphasis.

“Listen, clever girl,” Gidley started to growl at her.

“Silence!” Lyons once again hissed sharply, glancing around the immediate area of the platform. “Our man Gidley here merely slipped and fell and hurt His jaw whilst on the train, and that is all you need to know.”

“Oh sir!” a horrified and solicitous Marcus cried out, digging in his own coat for a handkerchief. “Are you going to be quite all right? Should you like me to retrieve a change of shirt for you from the luggage, sir? It's really no trouble at all-”

“Would you shut your bleeding mouth?” Gidley rudely interrupted, leaving Marcus speechless with a handkerchief at the ready in his trembling hand. “What would you have Me do, you stupid young man- change My clothes right out here on the dock? I will do no such thing!”

“I'm- I'm terribly sorry, sir. Please forgive me.” He hurriedly shoved the handkerchief back into his coat, and without another word immediately resumed pulling together the luggage.

“Bleedin' mouth
is a rather interesting choice of words, Mr. Gidley, don't You think?” Lillith replied, not letting go of her anger and her hate. “Is it truly Your mouth that bleeds, or did someone bleed on Your mouth-”

Before she could finish her sentence, Lyons had taken his walking stick and swung it down with great force, just barely missing her face but making the frilly edges of her chambermaid's cap flutter as it landed point-down inches from her toes.

“That will be all, you cheeky little bint,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Another injudicious word out of you will result in the most severe of consequences, I can assure you.”

Lillith stood frozen, truly petrified and wondering why Marcus couldn't seem to do anything but relentlessly try to please his masters. He had completely ignored what had just happened by preoccupying himself with the luggage. Lillith wished that, for once, someone had perhaps witnessed Lyons's display of temper and cruelty. Her heart sank as she realized there wasn't a soul on their side of the train; everyone else, by now, had walked over to the ship.

Lyons took on an imperious tone. “Marcus, have Our tickets ready, as well as Our belongings. We should be assigned Our own steward shortly. Lillith, stay brought to heel. And Mr. Gidley, do try to pull Your coat together and hide Your injuries, for that's what they are...” he looked at Lillith intently. “Just injuries.” The two men started to head for the other side of the train, leaving a frantically eager-to-please Marcus and a glum Lillith to deal with their heavy luggage.

Meanwhile, although Thomas Andrews and Harold Sanderson had already boarded the ship, Ismay found himself unavoidably detained on the dock by a seemingly endless stream of White Star Line well-wishers, along with his wife and children, who had by now completed their tour of the
Titanic
and were eager to proceed on their own holiday.

“I'm sure that you are prepared to be on your way, Florence, and would prefer to not dawdle away any more time inspecting the most elegant ship in the world,” he said with a wry smile.

“She
is
beautiful, she's virtually a floating cathedral,” his wife replied, dutifully fussing over the folds of his jacket. “I'm sure that you will all be extremely comfortable.”

“Indeed. Kiss little George for me,” he replied, watching his children already eagerly making their way back to the South Western Hotel. “I should think you might want to collect them.”

Florence kissed him lightly on the cheek, and he watched her leave swiftly, her plumed chapeau rapidly becoming lost in a procession of other women's church wide brim hats that were streaming towards the ship. “I shall return in about ten days!” he called after her. This was a day of immense pride for Bruce Ismay, seeing his elegant wife head off in the pursuit of their fine young children. Behind him was the result of five years of a relentless pursuit of excellence, a ship that made its sister (the
Olympic
) and indeed all other liners that had claimed to offer the finest in floating luxury look like a rusty scow.

He watched Florence hustle off into the distance for a moment more, when his eyes drifted closer and caught a glance of a man- an odd looking sort- somewhat older and pale in appearance, wearing a top hat and a jacket that was carelessly left open, making him appear slightly disheveled. It was Bartholomew Gidley, who had already tired of holding his coat together and thrown caution to the wind. He had apparently just joined the queue of passengers waiting to board the ship.

To Ismay, he seemed almost entirely out of place- rumpled, sour, and from what he could tell at a distance of about twenty yards, perhaps even dirty. Annoyed and alarmed, he promptly snapped his fingers at the nearest steward, who- when he saw who was summoning him- rushed to him.

“Do you see that man there?” he said disdainfully, using his walking stick to gesture at Gidley in the distance.

“Yes sir,” the young steward eagerly replied.

“Find out who he is, and why he is in such a condition. He certainly can't be preparing to board here.”

“Yes sir.”

Ismay briefly watched the steward make a beeline towards Gidley, but was distracted by a firm but polite “Hello, sir!” from John Fry, his valet, who had apparently been dispatched to collect him from the dock. “I do not believe that the ship should leave Southampton without you, sir,” he stated with familiar charm.

Meanwhile, in his third class cabin on F Deck, Kerry Langston found the quarters a bit snug and the amenities few, but he had already taken advantage of one of the top bunk beds out of a choice of four and was enjoying the warmth of a beautiful red and white afghan that bore the White Star Logo. The blanket was so comfortable that he'd pondered the possibility of pilfering it once they'd arrived in New York. His heart had been racing with excitement for some time now, and after murmuring a few polite “hellos” to his bunk mates- two Swedes and an American, all housed together as single men- he decided it was probably best for the moment to try and begin at least a few days worth of rest before setting foot in New York, for what was sure to be a trying time shadowing Lyons across the country. Pulling his blanket close, and seeing that his bunkmates were distracted with card games and reading of their own, he decided to pull out his worn-out old diary and perhaps read each and every entry from the very beginning, detailing every evil act committed by Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley, steeling himself for the challenges that lay ahead. He would also review Lillith's letters with a new understanding, savoring the trust that this remarkable young woman had shown in him.

Out on the dock, while making brief small talk with John Fry (who had been Bruce Ismay's valet for ten years and his personal assistant on all of his travels) the White Star Line chairman was slightly distracted as he eagerly awaited an update from the steward who had done as requested, approaching the unidentified and rough-looking mystery man. Ismay thought he saw the man gesture to a valet to hand the steward a ticket, while another much better-dressed man approached the steward as well, apparently interrogating him and also animatedly instructing the valet to produce another ticket. As the little drama played out, Ismay, along with just about everyone within a three-mile radius, felt his sternum vibrate as the
Titanic
produced yet another warning siren from her whistles; the lifting of the anchor was not far away.

In short measure the steward turned around and headed back towards Ismay, his lips pursed together and his brow furrowed in thought. “Well?” Ismay called out somewhat impatiently, as soon as he sensed that the steward was within earshot.

“A valet presented First Class tickets, sir. He says that he's a PPS.”

“A what?” A puzzled Ismay queried.

“A PPS- a Parliamentary Private Secretary, sir. He says that the other man-” the steward pointed over at Lyons- “is a member of the House of Commons, and that they belong together.”

“A
politician
!” Ismay exclaimed, his eyes widened with surprise. “And he plans to come on board this ship with his private secretary looking like
that
?”