Call Me Ismay (33 page)

Captain Smith seemed at a loss for words. There was an  uncomfortable moment of silence. Ismay uncharacteristically blushed, then corrected himself. “Sorry, my good man. I am not a navigator.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Ismay,” the Captain replied, no animosity whatsoever in his voice. “Those of us in the business of navigation would rather know of any potential hazards, than guess. It is merely a precaution to post this.”

“Quite so,” Ismay agreed, rubbing his forehead, still feeling foolish. At that precise moment, from far away the ship's bugler could be heard- in a burst of British patriotism- sounding the traditional meal call aboard all White Star liners, “The Roast Beef of Old England.”

“I must leave,” he half-whispered, setting down his brandy glass and swiftly taking his leave, with Dr. O'Loughlin and several other First Class gentlemen in tow. Captain Smith remained for a bit, stating a few niceties as the men sauntered off to dinner. Once everyone had departed, only he remained, the telegram still in hand. He gave it another look.

'Variable winds and clear,' it read. 'Fine weather since leaving...'

Without giving the matter any further thought, Captain Smith crumpled the telegram and tossed it into the large Italian marble coal-burning fireplace. He turned and joined the other men who had left the Smoking Room as the telegram blackened, folded over itself, and soon all that remained were the orange glowing remains of the edge of the paper.

7:30 P.M.

The RMS
Titanic
was now headed for an enormous field of ice that was approximately fifteen miles away, and she was running at nearly full speed. The ship, huge in its bearing but unknowingly vulnerable, had by now received its
seventh
warning regarding ice, this time from the Leyland liner
Californian
; that steamship was headed to Boston and was not carrying any passengers on her voyage. Her warning to the
Titanic
, like so many others, never made it to the chart room, and Captain Smith- who had, of course, just discarded the earlier message -never received word of it since he was now at dinner.

8:00 P.M.

Kerry Langston tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the
Titanic's
engines offering no comfort on this particular night. He gazed up at the exposed ceiling pipes overhead, wondering what their true function was, hoping that it would be a dull enough enterprise to lull himself into a bored sleep. It was not.

The amateur rich will get what's coming to them! That includes Ismay!
Gidley's taunting words from earlier were now bothering Langston. He had remembered them while ruminating over the fact that Ismay had been so kind to him- and it was all because of a misunderstanding.

I wanted to see her,
Langston had said to him earlier, while crumpled upon the Boat Deck.

You wanted a better view of our finest ship?
Ismay had responded, not realizing that he was referring to Lillith, and not the ship.

Somehow, Langston had managed to dig himself out of trouble with that overzealous steward largely by keeping his mouth shut when it had been appropriate. What if he had contradicted Ismay's inquiry?
I would likely have been handcuffed by the Master-In-Arms and hauled off to anywhere on this ship,
he mused to himself with a slight shudder. And why had Gidley apparently deemed it necessary to threaten Ismay? As the moments rolled on, Langston had allowed his mind to drift into a horrid direction: what if Gidley was going to harm Ismay, after their chance encounter on the ship? Would he not be bearing some of the responsibility if Gidley decided to do something foul?
Good God, I do not know what they have in terms of a security force on this ship,
Langston thought to himself.
And if Gidley decides to act, could they even stop him?

He drew a breath, sat up in the semi-dark of his room, fumbling for the bundle of his belongings which had been tied to a bedpost at the foot of his bunk bed. After struggling with the sack's strings for a few moments with shaking hands, at last he held the vampire kit in his grip.
What to do, what to do?
he practically whined to himself. Lillith had pointed him in the direction of those tools- ages ago, it now seemed- for good reason, and as he held the dark wooden box in his hands, feeling its weight, he berated himself for not taking the time to learn how to use them. To the end, he had hoped it would be unnecessary- even impossible- to actually use any of these strange weapons, and now he was regretting not having schooled himself when he had the chance.

However, the box did offer a strange sort of comfort. It was a link, some sort of palpable connection to Lillith- whom he had longed and feared for- for so long.
She is my security,
he thought to himself.
She will know what I should do with them to stop Gidley and Lyons when the time comes. I hope that time is not tonight.

In an action that he knew was completely eccentric, Langston replaced his pillow with the box, and actually laid his head upon it. Warm, solid and secure it was, and within moments he was sound asleep.

9:15 P.M.

Dinner for Ismay that evening had been a disappointing affair- and certainly not because the food offerings were anything but spectacular. On the menu had been oysters, filet mignon,
sauté
of chicken lyonnaise, greens beans and creamed carrots, punch romaine, roast squab, Waldorf pudding... Ismay had sampled them all, but he had still been unable to settle himself from the great feelings of unease and uncertainty that had been plaguing him for the duration of the day.

Is tomorrow Monday?
he had asked himself silently, the sight of 24 karat, gold-rimmed china not giving him the usual pleasure that it had so many times before.
Is today really Sunday? What happened this morning? Why can I not clearly remember anything prior to lunchtime?
he worried, as Dr. O'Loughlin kept a watchful, but not overly obvious, eye on him.

For awhile he pondered the importance of that telegram he had given back to Captain Smith.
If it was important, why did he give it to me?
he wondered.
Why didn't I give it right back to him? And why did- HOW exactly had he given it to me at all?  Did he say he had given it to me in the afternoon? Why was it so difficult to find in my jacket? Why can I not remember?

The string orchestra, playing music from Puccini and Tchaikovsky, sounded alternately distant or discordant to him, only agitating him further. As the evening dragged on, his discomfort had become unbearable, and so he directly headed for his stateroom, where his valet- John Fry- found him unusually withdrawn and uncommunicative; Fry did whatever he could to make Ismay's transition into nightclothes an easy one. The befuddled head of the White Star Line placed his head on his pillow, sincerely hoping that an evening's rest would bring peace to his troubled mind.

9:45 P.M.

Lillith Sinclair had remained in her Second Class stateroom for hours now, but it had not been by choice. These powerful, infuriating men had kept her under control for so long, she feared even touching the cabin's doorknob. She dared to try a couple of times, but the attempts wrought terrible pain in her arms and hands.

The
Titanic's
ventilation system, while admittedly not perfect, gave her at least a modicum of fresh air, which was welcome since she was now feeling completely sealed within the cabin. There had been very little foot traffic in the corridor that evening, and, while she had pondered the possibility of making a run for it, the potential consequences were too awful. A young woman- to society at large, nothing but a chambermaid- caught in the brazen act of stowing away on the greatest vessel in the world. With Lyons and Gidley almost certain to turn their cruel but influential backs on her, she stood little chance of facing anything other than prison in either Britain or the U.S. Of course, Kerry Langston could make a valiant attempt to rescue her from unjust custody, assuming that he would ever even know what had become of her. However, she would most likely be erased, rendered extinct, discarded from the world. She knew, deep in her heart, she could not even consider using her status as a vampire in an act of evil, even if it could help her escape.

She had long since abandoned any of her work on her master's clothes, and had in fact tossed them to the floor, kicking at them and rumpling them in disgust. Alone on the settee, she pulled her knees up against her chest, rocking back and forth, trying to create some level of comfort for herself. She thought to herself:
When We arrive in New York, I hope those two are on deck, and as this ship passes the Statue of Liberty I hope her torch comes smashing down upon Their heads before Their cloven little hooves can even touch the ground.

She wept bitterly.

10:45 P.M.

For the
Titanic
, it was yet another element of inevitability towards her fate. For Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley, it was a special bit of horrid luck.

The
Titanic's
First Officer, William McMaster Murdoch, had been one of the few in charge of navigation that seemed to take any notice of the multitude of ice warnings. He ordered the fore scuttle hatch closed in order to block out the light streaming out of it. His reasoning was that the light's glow might make hazards like icebergs more difficult to detect, and so the forecastle of the ship had been darkened. It was a precaution that two of the ship's darkly clothed passengers deeply appreciated, as they were now undetectable under a ladder on the starboard side, where just above the crow's nest lay.

The temperature had fallen to 32 degrees, and Lyons and Gidley could actually hear the lookouts above stomping their feet and blowing on their hands in an effort to keep warm. However, the two hiding passengers had no reaction to the cold weather. Lyons liked to say that it was just one of many “benefits” of the lifestyle they had chosen. No gooseflesh, no shuddering- not even frozen breaths of air were experienced by the two men, as they continued to conduct their own sinister drill.

They had observed that the lookouts worked on two hour shifts. The last switch in crew took place at 10:00 P.M., so the men now doing their duty had been staring into a freezing wind for about forty-five minutes. Even so, Lyons knew that these were probably seasoned lookouts he was spying on, and he might have to use certain tactics in order to carry out his dreadful mission.

Not a word had been spoken between Lyons and Gidley since they had set foot on the forecastle, and not unexpectedly, it was Gidley who finally broke the silence.

“Charming night for a shut-down, isn't it?”

Lyons frowned, indicating that he hadn't understood Gidley's meaning.

“I mean, if We actually go through with this scheme- it's a beautiful starry night on the Atlantic, and the sea is calm. The only thing that would make it more delicious would be a full moon!”

“Nonsense,” Lyons replied, doggedly staring up at the crow's nest. “We
will
go through with it and I don't need the moon for inspiration.”

“Indeed,” Gidley replied, a bit disappointed in Lyons's reaction. “I would hope that with this being perhaps Our last exploit- at least for awhile- You would appreciate the irony of a full moon being connected to yet another bit of calamity.”

“Hush up!” Lyons hissed, trying to concentrate on the lookouts for any hint of activity other than trying to keep themselves warm. The shuffling and stomping from above was now occasionally accompanied by the occasional groan and moan, and as it went on for several seconds, Gidley's eyes widened and he couldn't resist a violent snicker and a bit of a jest.

“Hmmm, it seems that the lookouts get lonely too, don't they?”

“Shut up Man!”
Lyons spat out his words. “These men are cold, and they are getting colder. We must be approaching the ice.”

“Indeed,” Gidley muttered, leaning back on his cane. He looked about the well deck, took in the sight of the very dim light coming from the bridge above and behind them, and then put another question to Lyons, this time much more serious in tone.

“Why are We focused on
these
men- the lookouts?” he whispered, his tone irritated. “Why aren't We on the bridge?”