The Last Lady from Hell by Richard G Morley

pleasant English gentleman–very fit, with a smooth, confident demeanor.
    He was about six feet tall and lean with close cut gray hair and a pencil mustache, a very handsome fellow.
    “Gentleman, thank you for joining me this evening and welcome aboard the RMS Olympic,” Hays said as he stood with his hat tucked neatly under his left arm. “I enjoyed your performance immensely and hope to hear more of the same on our voyage. Please remain standing and we’ll have a toast to the Queen.”
    We all scrambled for our glasses.
    “To the Queen,” he said, raising his glass high.
    “To the Queen,” we responded. The whiskey was warm going down and helped put us at ease.
    “Gentleman, be seated and please introduce yourselves, I must know more about your group.”
    As introductions were made, I watched how the ship’s crew treated this man. They had an obvious profound respect for him, and he for them. He had an unmistakable air of authority, but it was tempered by a charming social grace that had obviously been perfected after many years of dealing with wealthy, upper crust cruise ship passengers.
    “Allow me to offer another drink,” Hays said waving his hand at the glasses on the table. A steward rapidly responded with a flask of the amber liquid.
    Most of us had come from modest backgrounds and were not versed in the social graces. We watched the Captain and followedhis lead–except, of course, for the drummers who grabbed rolls and began to heavily butter them without regard for social niceties.
    Terry sat next to the Captain and they were chatting about the ship. Sean and I were next to each other and were idly talking about nothing important while trying to eavesdrop on the Captain and Terry’s conversation. The ship was Captain Hays’ favorite subject and he spoke of it with fondness, as though it were a family member.
    Perhaps the second glass of whiskey had gone to my head and common sense had retreated, for I spoke up at that point and said, “Captain I noticed this ship looks a lot like the Titanic.”
    As I recollect, I believe I was trying to be somewhat of a smart aleck to make my comrades laugh.
    Captain Hays took on a somber tone. “Yes, that’s very astute of you to notice. The Olympic is, in fact, the sister ship of the ill-fated Titanic. The difference is that the aft deck of the Titanic was covered or enclosed and the LOA was a mere nine inches longer than the Olympic.”
    The table had become silent and every ear was now tuned to what the Captain was saying.
    “This ship has been in service for five years and has made hundreds of Atlantic crossings without incident. After the Titanic tragedy, the White Star Lines took the Olympic out of service. No one would set foot on her, even after they doubled the life boats. She remained empty, so they sent her back to Belfast for extensive renovations. It took over six months to add several layers of bulkheads increasing the water tight compartment twofold. They also saw fit to add a double hull to her, increasing her beam by two full feet. This ship has, in fact, a stronger hull than most of her majesty’s battle cruisers.” He paused to let this information sink in.
    “That, along with the doubling of the lifeboats, seemed to ease the fears of the traveling public. We had the ‘unsinkable Molly Brown’ join us as a publicity stunt.” Hays looked out over the table with a wry grin. “She is, by the way, a wonderful woman with the remarkable ability to see only the good in life. She is, in fact, an infectiously happy person.”
    The faces of most at the table had gone from looks of concern to smiles of amusement.
    “You are, gentlemen, on a remarkably safe ship,” Hays said. “The unfortunate reality is that safety is very often realized in the wake of tragedy.”
    That night, I lay in my bunk, unable to sleep and thinking about the sister ship of the Olympic. That horrible night when so many lives were lost or forever changed. The story was