Lights
Deck Officer
Location: Anyplace on Water
Posts: 637
Rivets: 17 (+17/-0)
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Final Crossing Pt1B
Looking into the mirror, he saw his wife set the large gold hat with its white plumes over her heavy, still largely dark hair. Such a lovely suit; gold silk with white flowers embroidered on the large square lapels, the high collar of the white lace blouse accented with a small gold brooch. Nothing flashy for Florence-ever.
As the two of them walked out on deck, their overnight ship to Belfast was making the final approach to the Harland and Wolff shipyards. Today, the first of the great Olympic-class liners, the 882-foot Olympic, would be officially handed over to the White Star Line, then taken on her sea trials before being sailing for Liverpool and Southampton.
Actually, since today was the birthday of both Lord and Lady Pirrie, the festivities would include the launching of Olympic’s not-so-little-sister, Titanic, following which there would be a gala luncheon. Even J.P. Morgan, the American tycoon and real owner of the White Star Line, would attend.
At that thought, Ismay’s stomach involuntarily twisted into a knot of revulsion. In 1902, Ismay, outvoted by family and stockholders, had sold his father’s beloved White Star Line to International Mercantile Marine, Morgan’s enormous shipping trust. Even nine years later, there were times when he agonized over the sale, silently apologizing to his late father for his lack of strength.
Morgan was, in the considered opinion of J. Bruce Ismay, a completely sleazy individual with no sense of business ethics: if Morgan wanted it, he went after it hook, line and sinker, not stopping until he’d had his way. Morgan had made J. Bruce managing director upon the sale of the line, a position which Ismay had accepted in the hope that the presence of an Ismay would help to ensure that the line was run as it had been since its founding in 1869, when Thomas Henry Ismay had bought the name and the house flag-a red swallow tailed pennant with a single white star-for a mere pittance. In the thirty years that followed, the elder Ismay had built the line into what it had been at the time of the sale. His son was determined to keep his hand in at White Star; to make certain that it was a line of which his father could be proud.
Once managing director, though, Ismay had discovered that the only thing that Morgan cared about was making money. How in the hell much money did one man need? Apparently as much as he could amass, at least according to Morgan.
In the past couple of years, whilst Olympic had been under construction, Ismay had begun to think of a way to bring the line back under Ismay family control. White Star had been a British Line in the beginning, and would be again, at least if he had anything to say about it!
In his own mind, he had failed his father; never in a million years would Thomas Ismay have sold his Line to a snake like Morgan! Now, J. Bruce sighed heavily; he had loved his father-had damn near worshipped him, but James had always come first in his father’s heart-his mother’s, too. He cringed to think what his father would think of his not being able to stand up to the rest of the family.
“J. Bruce, stand up and be a man! That’s why I passed the Line down to you! Because I thought you had what it takes to run something like White Star! Apparently I was wrong.”
Yes, that’s what his father would say, and then give him that cold rejecting look that he’d often given his son and walk away. J. Bruce had known better than to cry as a child, as that would have just brought down more scorn. How many nights as a little boy, before going to sleep, he would hope and pray that his father would love him, would be proud of him…
Yes, it seemed as if he had lived his entire life in the shadow of Thomas Henry Ismay-and he was still living in it, even though his father had been dead thirteen years. Didn’t it ever end?
Still, J. Bruce was certain that his father had loved him. Coming as close as he ever would to expressing love for his eldest son, shortly before his death in 1899, he’d told Bruce that he couldn’t possibly leave White Star in better hands than Bruce’s. It just hadn’t been his father’s way to be effusive in expressing love and approval.
His wife’s gasp roused him from his thoughts and he looked over at her to see her face looking raptly to port. He followed suit and when he did, what he saw caused him to gasp as well.
There she was, fully painted and provisioned, ready to sail-and what a beautiful lady she was! The racing designs of Edward Harland had been successfully modified and transferred to White Star’s newest liner. A good 882 feet in length, her lines were slender and elegant. Towering over her black hull and white superstructure, slightly raked back to enhance the image of sleekness and speed, were four black-and-buff funnels, all but the aftmost streaming smoke, making her look almost like a thoroughbred chomping at her bit. Two masts, one fore and one aft, supported the wireless antenna, which hung suspended over the funnels. This would mean that Olympic would always be within radio contact.
Wireless telegraphy, or radio, as some called it, had proven its worth two years before, when the Florida had collided with the White Star Liner Republic. Thanks to the Republic’s wireless and her operator, Jack Binns, there had been only four fatalities-everyone else had been got off safely. Now most ships-the crack ones, certainly-were all equipped with wireless.
“It-it’s beautiful, Bruce. She’s beautiful,” Florence corrected herself, smiling.
“Yes, she is. Isn’t she?”
Yes, indeed, Olympic was beautiful. Such a sleek lady; if ever a ship had been created to be queen of the ocean, this lady was it!
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Last edited by Lights, Jul/8/2006, 12:02 am
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TSOLD's time is: Nov/28/2009, 2:10 am