The Ship of Dreams: Chapter 7

There was something to traveling the open sea that was seemingly ineffable to describe by virtue of its own paradoxical quality. It was as if the very act of being lost amidst the vast expanse of ocean waves boldly proclaimed, “This is freedom.” One that signaled yet another one of humankind’s attempts to pit themselves against and come up on top of nature and her most basic elements. That somehow, by looking into the depths of those waters that stretched further beyond what the naked human eye could see was the means to complete liberation of one’s spirit, one’s very soul. As if it called to it, whispered to it, asking it if it so wanted to be unchained.

It reminded the observer of how small we are in the grand scheme of things, echoing the proverbial philosophical statement ushered in, “We are but dust in the wind.” To set one’s glance at that endless abyss was to see all of life in a grain of sand as the saying goes. The way that it is by singular microscopic droplets of water that make up the whole and constitute the entirety of the thing, just as each person is made up of billions upon billions of subatomic particles, housing them all without ever having to ever consciously think about it; a fact that was reiterated repeatedly with each clash of waves that hammered along the ship's side. Just as it served to make one realize the folly in every attempt to thwart nature, for it is from nature that we come, and to nature that we will return.

What was perhaps most interesting about this sense of freedom was found in the way that in an apparently contradictory way, it bared a relationship with and almost became synonymous with vulnerability. As if the two were part of the same spectrum where the further the individual came to this freedom, the further they stepped away from their personal security.

Even more fascinating was the way that this relationship seemed to speak of the nature of humankind itself dividing itself equally into two different groups. On the one hand, there were those who like Captain Smith constantly pushed the bounds of human limitation toward the extreme of complete freedom. Whereas there were those like Geoffrey, who was by no means ashamed to admit that he belonged to this category of people, that needed the safety net of security. And that through this lens, it acted as an analogy that in life we participate in an endless dance that oscillates between such extremes, where we must come to a bypass by which we can find balance as in all things.

Oddly enough, in contemplating these things Geoffrey was forced to think how important a role setting played in any story that could ever be told. To a certain extent, the setting of any given narrative acted as a constant but unseen character; so much so that because of how obvious it is, goes almost completely unrecognized. Yet at the same time, it is this unseen character that is the most important, because it determines every event and outcome without so much as having to do a single thing.

Jane Chopin’s, The Storm, would not be possible without the precedents put into place by the town’s raging storm. Just as his article would not be possible, or at the very least would be something else entirely if it did not take place aboard the R.M.S Titanic. If suddenly, he found himself a castle in London or any other remote place for that matter, it would be a completely different thing altogether.

But from the context of his own location on the evening of April 13th, 1912, Geoffrey found that it was one that was all quiet and whispers. The type of day that was filled with driveling banalities that made up every nothing to write home about story ever told. In terms of a story, it was poverty with a view; a stunning and breathtaking experience to the eyes, but one that was ultimately uneventful. Unless, of course, one was to count the numerous childlike horror stories.

It was for this reason that Geoffrey found himself taking the long stroll down the brilliantly lit hallway leading to the ship’s writing room at nine o’clock. There was the occasional banter between passersby; a mother scolding her child or the flirtatious laughter of two star-crossed lovers whose affair would last but the duration of the trip, but nothing extraordinary or of any particular interest. So, it came much to his surprise as he reached for the large double doors to hear the rowdy raucous issuing forth from the other side.

That, however, was nothing compared to how astounded he felt at the sight before him as he pulled the great oak entry open. It made his heart leap bounds and skip a beat in its excitement, and he had to take a nervous gulp to swallow it back down into his chest. For before him in the confinement of the room, was the very holy grail that he had been looking for. It seemed as if all his wishes had been answered, and it explained the excitement and electricity that proliferated throughout the room.

It was a magnificent writing room. The walls were lined with great shelves that housed just about every great work of literature that any writer would gawk over, and secured by a fine panel of protective glass, encircling all the room in this way. Another one of the ship’s great chandeliers hung overhead providing such great luminosity that it seemed to reflect off of anything and everything, making the individual feel as if all things were connected by this sort of light source.

As one could expect, the room was full of tables and chairs so that the passenger could busy themselves in this study all day long in high comfort. Crowded though it was, there were two tables that stood out amongst the rest, situated one right next to the other tucked away in the corner of the room.

At one of these great tables sat none other than one British author, editor, and journalist, W.T. Stead with another individual, a male, that was no doubt of the same intellectual caliber. If that itself was not good enough, sitting there, at the table right next to them was the legend himself, Captain Edward John Smith.

The couple had no doubt chosen their seat for the very same reason he was about to attempt and join their table as a fellow colleague. That of course is that it got them close enough to the source while blending in with the backdrop of the room, while at the same time avoiding the folly of an attempt to sit or talk to the captain without so much as a word back.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. From one journalist to another, do you mind if I join the two of you,” Geoffrey inquired in his approach towards the table?

Stead’s beady brown eyes studied Geoffrey with mixed curiosity and skepticism that were slanted with a ferocity that could only be gained by experience and wisdom. He reminded Geoffrey very much of a seasoned Civil War veteran with his stoic sternness with those brown eyes that acted as the last living testimony of a time when his now graying mane of hair and accompanying thick beard had once been of the same color.

The prophetic scribe then gave a subtle glance over towards Captain Smith and the table next to him, turning only his eyes very briefly as to make him out in the peripherals of his vision, then brought his attention back to where Geoffrey stood before him. A thin smile began to form at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he finally let out giving a slight nod of approval and gesturing Geoffrey over to the seat opposite to him. “It seems you have an eye for what’s going on, and who would I be to impede on and obstruct the investigations carried about by another of the same feather?”

Geoffrey returned the smile as if it were the secret handshake to get into a special boy’s club, then took his seat between the two men, using his hands to fold and adjust his jacket as he did so, finding it to be an appropriate formality.

“Well, it would seem that introductions are in order,” Stead continued in a matter of factual tone, the curiosity still glistening in his eyes.

“Agreed,” Geoffrey agreed without so much as a second thought. Not that he did not know a great deal about the man already. Whereas Ida Tarbell had been the grandmother of investigative muckraking journalists, Stead had taken up where she left off redefining the movement altogether, gaining a great deal of controversy and scandal around him as he did so.

The truth of the matter for Geoffrey was that it was like meeting a childhood hero or idol. One of the many reasons that he had gotten into journalism was that it seemed to be a field that was at a developmental stage that was booming. That year alone, Columbia University, the University of Oregon, and the University of Wisconsin had all opened their own respective schools for the trade alone, and it was men like Stead that seemed to create the very paradigm in which they studied.

In no time at all, he had seen himself as both contributor and editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, bringing innovation to each publication house he served in great long strides. It had been Stead who had introduced the idea of incorporating photographs in a paper’s articles. More recently, he had started his own well-known journal, Review of Reviews, and had a great many books written under his belt. So, Geoffrey wasted no hesitance in agreeing to this little formality both out of respect for this great honor, and because he did not want to seem so rude, not to mention foolish, in not having the slightest clue who the other member at the table was.

“My name is Geoffrey Archibald. I am with the New York Times. And if you don’t mind me saying it is such an honor to get the chance to meet the both of you and to have the opportunity to be a guest at your table” Geoffrey started. He extended his hand, shaking the hands of both men at the table.

“Pleasure,” the stranger said as he released Geoffrey’s hand, without the slightest change in expression or demeanor since he had first arrived.

“ You don’t say,” William Stead bellowed out at the exact same time as if it was in perfect synchronicity with his partner. “I mean to say, it's great meeting you. Another member of our flock. That is just one hell of a coincidence.

“What’s that,” Geoffrey asked, his confusion all but apparent on his boyish face.

“Oh, it’s nothing really. I have just never been one for chance encounters. As I am sure you know, I am William Thomas Stead. Just as I am sure you are aware of the multiple papers that I write for. This, however, if you did not know, is the historian and author, Archibald Gracie IV. A colleague of mine that I hold in high esteem. It is just fascinating for me to note the similarity in the two of your names given how random this little meeting of ours is. I must say it makes me the more comfortable. Almost like it was meant to be.”

“That really is quite intriguing,” Geoffrey said, wondering to himself what the odds must have been for such an occurrence. “Do you believe in fate Mr. Stead,” Geoffrey went on, having just remembered reading something about how important spirituality was to the aged writer?

“Call it destiny or whatever you will but I am inclined to think more along those lines, yes. Me, I have already visited this vessel several times over. I have been here before, as I can see in your very eyes, and could very well wager a hefty sum that you have too. Let me ask you. Have you yet had the chance to read, “How the Mail Steamer Went Down in Mid Atlantic, by a Survivor Mr. Archibald?

“Yes. It is a maritime disaster story of a ship that hits an iceberg mid-Atlantic. Also, one cannot help but notice the striking similarities between the vessel of that story and Titanic. But I’m not really sure why you ask, or how it is relevant to the previous question. And what is this of having visited the ship before?

“It is truly remarkable to note the similarities is it not? Those were my thoughts exactly. I began the endeavor prior to the ship’s construction and did not have such details, but that is the way that the muse presented it to me to be written, in such striking detail. It is your question of destiny that has me relay to you that I have visited Titanic before. The first time was in dream and the most vivid that an individual could have. Following the dream, I must say that I consulted the oriental medium of I-Ching afterward. I wanted to see if it were a good idea to write about such a dream, and how well it would do. After receiving a positive result, I then revisited Titan, or Titanic a second time, as I wrote that story. And here I am yet again. Do the events that we are subjected to form our thoughts and realities around us, or is it the other way around? Do our thoughts give us a lens through which we see what lies ahead? Call it coincidence, fate, or destiny, but it is real as I or you. What about you? Where have you visited this place before? Archibald Gracie IV watched this exchange as if he were watching an intense back and forth tennis rally with either side given in. He did so with the same unchanged expression that looked like one analyzing a scientific experiment with the highest level of observation.

“Come to think of it, to tell you the truth, I have been having frequent dreams of being aboard an ocean liner. The more so as of lately. But that doesn’t really mean anything, does it?

“Why, it means that you have visited this place before as well. Two times before having read my book as well. Similar minds tend to wind up in similar places. Perhaps we met before in the dream world or in some frequency that can be found in the book that I wrote. Writing is the closest thing that we have to telepathy in that way. Through the written mind my thoughts are conveyed to you through time and space. Just another living testimony of what we call destiny.”

“What a tremendous amount of insight you have Mr. Stead. Anyways, I just meant to ask you,” Geoffrey began, but he never got the chance to inquire as to what that was. He did not get the chance to do so, because it stood frozen at the tip of his tongue with a million other questions that he wanted to ask. Geoffrey also would not get the chance to make his inquiry because at that precise moment in time the large oak double doors closed shut, announcing the arrival of J. Bruce Ismay into the room. An announcement sent a deafening silence throughout the room.

For a moment, Ismay paused at the front of the doorway. Ironically enough, he was holding a folded-over newspaper to his side in his free left him. Watching him like birds of prey from their table, it seemed he possessed to him a sort of boyish excitement. One that he was doing his absolute best to contain to come across as serious and professional despite the fact. His gaze fixed Captain Smith, he gave a little nod as if at that precise time he had decided to muster the courage to make his approach.

“Hold that thought. We just might have our story boys,” William whispered, with his head ducked down and leaning over the table, so that his statement was only just barely audible to their table alone. In the brief time that Geoffrey’s attention had been diverted elsewhere, he had magically produced a pen and notepad, showing the degree to which, he was always at the ready. Once again, Geoffrey found himself his predecessor's lead, retrieving just as Ismay grew nearer to the captain’s location. The two of them had the awareness of everyone in the room.

As Ismay came within reach of him and everyone else at the table, he felt that small part of himself that made him sick. The very same that longed for tragedy in the name of a good story. It was the dark side of himself that now delighted to see Mr. Ismay, probably more so than ever before in his whole life. He had been looking for a villain, a kind of protagonist for his article, and it seemed he had found it.

As Bruce Ismay stopped at the foot at the table, clearing his throat as he did so in order to capture Captain Smith’s attention, Geoffrey had to admit to himself that he was perhaps the perfect person for such a role. For starters, Geoffrey knew that there were a great many, himself included, who were frustrated with him simply for standing in place of J.P. Morgan. He even was given the most expensive Promenade Suite that Morgan himself was supposed to be in.

“Captain, a word,” Ismay started.

“If you must,” the captain responded. His face was buried in a book which Geoffrey was unable to make the title out of from his vantage point. He did not so much as lookup or show the slightest amount of care that he was in the presence of Ismay. As he flipped the page of his book, all he could afford the director was sheer indifference. There was a brief flickering moment, which was certainly the result of a kind of automated response to being addressed this way, where Ismay’s jaw stood ajar. No doubt in shock over the lack of concern that the captain was showing him. But it was ever so slight. So much so that Geoffrey was sure that most, being seated further back, most likely missed it.

“I’ve been thinking captain, and I have an idea,” Ismay said, laying the newspaper down flat on the table as if he was showing him a treasure map that revealed the location of the Holy Grail. At this point, it was evident that it was becoming harder for him to conceal his excitement. His chest puffed out proudly and wore a giddy beam as if he was proposing the deal of a lifetime. “Tell me, what is Titanic’s current speed?”

“Ismay, I hardly like where this is going. Nor do I see how it is of any relevance, least alone any concern of yours.”

“Just hear me out, Captain. It will only take a moment of your time. It is all about extra coverage. Isn’t it always? Anyways, I just thought it would be a grand ol’ idea if we were to pick up the pace a little. True, Titanic will never be a contender for the Blue Ribband. Still, speed says quite a lot of a thing. However, if we pick up the pace, just a little bit, then we could show up in New York the day or night before anticipated. The press would go wild over that. Eat it right up. What say you?

There was a lengthy pause as if the captain had nothing to say about it at all. He simply turned the page of his book and continued reading. “It’s not going to happen Ismay. Leave it be. I have much more pressing priorities to address. Let the sailors do their work, and you do yours,” he finally let out after giving Ismay’s tangent ample consideration.

“Captain, need I remind you whose ship this is? I think that it would serve you well to give the issue a little more thought than you have. It is what everyone wants and is in the best interests of all parties. Certainly, it is but a small task for someone of your experience and reputation. Why can’t you lend me this small favor?”

“Listen, Ismay,” Captain Smith began the second the words had left Ismay’s mouth. He placed his book down on top of the newspaper, his tone was growing louder as was his apparent frustration. “The fact of the matter is I do not care if you think that this is your ship. There is nothing that you can say that will change that. From my perspective, in this present situation, this is my ship. As acting Captain, every final decision comes down to me. Not you Ismay. If you think otherwise, then put it to the test. See how long you would manage without me. It would not be long I would wager. In no situation does it benefit you to pull rank or try to threaten me to get your way. You stand nothing to gain. I am done as far as I’m concerned. What are you going to do? Fire me the day I am to resign. What would it matter? “And” the captain trailed off, leaning his face within spitting range of Ismay’s, and bringing his own voice down to a whisper. “I’ll give you a number. Twenty.”

“That’s it? Twenty knots? That is not so bad. If we pick it up to, say, twenty-two, or twenty-three at the most, that will certainly suffice,” Ismay returned in his own hushed voice.

“No. We are currently bearing nineteen knots, but that is beside the point. No, instead there are at least twenty reasons I can think of as to why I can not do that,” Captain Edward Smith continued, lowering his voice the more as not to cause a commotion amongst the passengers in the room. Twenty is the approximated number of warnings I have received via communications indicating fields and other obstructions ahead.

“Did he say ice fields ahead,” Stead mouthed to Geoffrey as he wrote everything down? Geoffrey nodded his head before the captain continued on with his rant.

“On average, we’ve had about six or seven a day. That is twenty far more important matters at hand than your little speed race Ismay. You consider the mass of Titanic and her average speed with those numbers, and it is just not going to happen. Do you hear me, or is that too difficult for you to understand?”

“Understood Captain. That will be all.”

“Yes, it most certainly will be,” Captain Smith finished as he returned to his book, handing Ismay back his newspaper as he did so. Ismay gave him a disapproving grimace, then turned to make his exit, walking as a man defeated, his tail tucked between his legs.

“Ismay Brings Captain Dismay. Something to that extent should do. Well, I think that will be enough for me tonight gents. I must be off,” Snead announced to the table as the large double door closed behind Ismay, and all three of them left for their quarters as if they had a prior agreement to do just the thing. All three of them were destined to stay up well into the morning, in order to flush out onto paper the information they had just come upon. As if the three of them were all working together on the same project, sharing one another’s thoughts. Perhaps it had been that they had met prior, in the dream realm, in writing, or in some other lifetime, for at that moment in time, most of their contents were much the same indeed. Like the three of them were sharing one mind.