CARPE DIEM
Chapter Six
I dreamed I had a headache and
woke to four or five firm raps on the door of my stateroom. I ignored the sound
and buried my face deeper in the pillows of the bed, away from the light
spilling through both windows. I had neglected to close the dark, wine-colored
curtains last night; I cursed myself for my lack of foresight. The weather had
been consistently fair this entire trip. Calm seas, brilliant sunlight. Again,
I should have stayed in England, where heavy fog and spring rain showers hid
such things from my sight. The knocking persisted.
"Miss Ismay?" came a
woman’s voice, small and hesitant, unsure. She called again, "Miss
Ismay?" I reached blindly toward the nightstand for my glasses, found them
after knocking a silver bracelet and the bedside electric lamp to the floor.
The lamp didn’t break, but produced enough noise that the person calling my
name asked if I was all right.
"Fine," I answered,
putting on the glasses, blinking twice against even shadowed light, pressing
the fingers of my right hand against the sides of my head briefly. For half a
minute more I lay there, then rose, grabbing the shawl lying on a nearby chair,
throwing it around my shoulders and over my nightgown as I walked to the door
and opened it. A little blond stewardess in a well-ironed uniform stood ready
to knock once again.
"What is it?" I asked,
my voice reflecting drowsiness and not a little irritation. The girl looked
frightened, whether of me or something else entirely, I couldn’t be sure. After
all, I had been sleeping a mere two minutes before.
"My apologies, Miss Ismay,
but your brother said I should wake you. Said the day is upon us and you need
to embrace it…" She had more to say, that was obvious, but paused, gauging
my expression. She was very timid, I decided, either by nature or as a result
of her servant-like profession. I sighed and motioned for her to continue after
my hazy mind failed to form a comprehensive vocal response.
"He says you need to tell
the captain what he discussed in London," she replied.
I tipped my head slightly, only
mildly shocked. Oh, honestly, Bruce…can’t you do anything yourself? "When,
exactly?" I asked.
"Oh, he didn’t say,
miss." The little blond stewardess bobbed her head once and left my
presence, off to other useless errands and menial chores. I stood half in the
hallway, contemplating. He woke me for this? To pass off his own
responsibility? Something which mattered not at all and could be done anytime
in the remaining days of this voyage?
"Goddamnit…" I spoke
aloud, quietly but forcibly and in response to the pain assailing the backs of
my eyes. Mr. Isidor Straus exited his stateroom at just that moment. If the old
man was at all unnerved by the sight of me wearing nothing but a shawl and
nightgown, swearing in an otherwise empty hallway, he did not show it. With a
gracious smile, he bid me good morning.
"Good morning, Mr.
Straus," I replied in kind.
"Lovely day," he
commented.
"Oh, indeed…" I
muttered, restraining my sarcastic tone, ducking back into the stateroom
without another word. Goddamnit, I thought again. Bruce wanted me to
tell Captain Smith that he would undoubtedly be asked during the next few
months to give his account of last year’s accident between Titanic’s sister
ship, the Olympic, and the Hawke, a warship of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. The
accident had been costly to the White Star Line, incredibly so. Repairs on the
Olympic had delayed the launching of the Titanic and months without either ship
traversing any ocean brought in little revenue. Now the company stood to lose
more as the Navy sought damages in the courts of equity. As captain, Edward
Smith had been at the bridge of the Olympic at the time of the accident. It
felt neither proper nor in good taste to bring his attention to something
unfortunate, regrettable and, by all accounts, not his fault.
I washed and dressed angrily. The
anger mitigated the headache in an ill-fashioned but still relieving way. I
started to pin my hair up, but on second thought, left it down in waves around
my shoulders. Propriety vexed me at present. I slammed the door behind me when
I left the room.
Captain Smith ordered the last
boilers lit, whether from his own judgment or in response to my brother’s
constant nagging, I cannot be sure. I was entering the chartroom when he gave
the order to Officer Murdoch. The Scotsman accepted the directive without
question, his familiar expression, at once impassive and somewhat sullen,
firmly in place. I wondered briefly if the bitterness he appeared to cling to
was a natural inclination or if having been replaced last minute by Henry Wilde
as the Chief Officer on this transatlantic sojourn might account for it. I did
not know the man well enough to decide and gave the matter slight thought,
since both men and one of the other two crewmen focused on the charts had
noticed me and turned their attention accordingly.
"Miss Ismay?" Captain
Smith smiled warmly, but I suspected the presence of a woman in his chartroom
was mildly irritating. Officer Murdoch’s perpetual scowl remained unchanged, so
I was unsure if he directed it towards me or elsewhere. Either way, I took no
offense. My mood had cooled considerably during the walk from the stateroom.
"Captain," I answered
pleasantly. "If you have a moment to spare, I’d appreciate a word?
Privately?" Edward Smith and Officer Murdoch exchanged a glance, but the
captain excused himself, led me outside the chartroom into a quiet hallway.
"How may I be of service,
Miss Ismay?" he asked.
I was momentarily silent, unsure
of how to phrase what I had to say. "Sir, I…well, I was going to wait
until after we got to New York to tell you this." I looked down at the
deck, sighed. "I just want you to be aware that the Royal Navy blames the
incident last year with the Hawke on the Olympic, and the White Star Line by
association. They sent a letter last Monday, indicating their intention to seek
redress. I have no doubt you will be asked to testify…"
"They blame my
command?" He was frowning now, reasonably affronted by what struck him as
an accusation.
"No, not at all…if
anything’s to blame, the Navy believes it’s the ship’s design, and more than
its design, its sheer size," I answered honestly, and continued, "No
one doubts your capabilities or your actions as captain." And no one did.
He had led a distinguished career, now approaching its end. I’d heard this
would be his last trip; I wondered if that was true. He looked at me evenly,
unspeaking for a moment.
"Why didn’t Mr. Ismay tell
me this?"
"He preferred that I speak
with you, I suppose."
Edward Smith shook his head in
disgust. He thanked me briefly, turned to leave, then turned back and stated,
quite surprisingly, "Forgive me, Miss Ismay…but your brother retains a
questionable sense of honor."
I nodded silently, smiled sadly,
biting my tongue when tempted to reveal just how true the good captain’s words
actually were.