Unsinkable

by Gordon Korman

  Their suite, B-22, was large and beautifully appointed. Even so, Sophie could not remain indoors. She wanted to be on deck, waving to the crowd. She would not miss this historic occasion. Huge throngs had assembled to see the Titanic off, and Sophie intended to be a part of it all. This would be something she could tell her grandchildren. Far better than telling them how she had once spent a night in an English jail in the company of their sainted great-grandmother.

  As she stepped out onto the promenade, she was as high up as the steeple of a cathedral. Southampton stretched before her, and beyond that, the deep green of the English countryside.

  The horn sounded again — the signal for all ashore. High up, and close to it, the sound was almost deafening. When it died away, it was replaced by the excited chatter of the multitude on the dock, which seemed to have doubled as departure loomed.

  Teeming humanity covered every inch of the wharf, except for one spot directly below. An elegantly dressed woman stood there, and those around were giving her a wide berth. She brandished a large white handkerchief, alternately waving it, weeping into it, and then blowing her nose. Even at this distance, Sophie could hear her wailing.

  Is she looking at me? Sophie plotted the trajectory of the woman’s gaze. No, not at me, but someone on this deck, just a little farther down …

  Sophie’s eyes lit on a slender figure, a young girl her own age, perhaps slightly older. Her heart leaped. Another girl! Someone to spend time with, to share the sights and sounds of this amazing voyage. Someone who had never heard of Mother and the cause.

  Sophie caught her attention and waved shyly.

  The girl’s back stiffened. Her reply was not an answering wave, but a curt nod. She turned on her heel and disappeared from the promenade.

  Stung, Sophie lowered her hand and her gaze as well. What did she expect? When you arrive at the embarkation point under escort by the police who were expelling you from their country, you can hardly expect to be accepted.

  So she was an outcast — and they hadn’t even sailed yet.

  Thank you, Mother.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOUTHAMPTON

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1912, 12:15 P.M.

  Paddy Burns was in pickpockets’ heaven.

  True, Belfast had been home to purses aplenty, but a fellow had to know what to look for. Here on the Titanic’s first-class promenade, the wealth was so abundant, it seemed like you ought to be able to hold out a bucket and have it fill itself with silver and gold.

  It was a struggle to keep his eyes in his head as elegant ladies stood waving at the rail, wrapped in thick, lustrous furs and bedecked with jewels that would not have been out of place in the Tower of London. If their menfolk glittered somewhat less, it was in suits and cloaks of such exquisite tailoring that even a Belfast street lad could not fail to notice the quality. Paddy could only imagine the contents of the purses and money clips that bulged beneath all that fine cloth. Far more than the measly one-pound banknote that had cost poor Daniel his life.

  The thought triggered a wave of melancholy, and Paddy patted his breast, where he still kept Daniel’s sketch for Thomas Andrews.

  He had seen Mr. Andrews around the ship several times already. It was strange — for all the Titanic’s grandeur, Andrews seemed to see only problems. Paddy had overheard him lamenting the number of screws in the stateroom coat hooks, or the fact that the kitchen stores could accommodate only forty thousand eggs, and not the forty-three thousand the quartermaster had requested. Right now, the great man was on the bridge with Captain Smith and his officers, watching the tugboats guide the Titanic to open waters. Paddy couldn’t see him, but he imagined the designer’s expression — careworn and exhausted from overwork. As if the entire world wasn’t singing his praises.

  Paddy had considered showing Daniel’s sketch to Mr. Andrews. But then Paddy would be revealed as a stowaway. He’d be arrested, locked in the brig until he could be sent to prison in America or England. Of course, there were three square meals in prison, but he’d heard other things about it, too. Terrible things, far worse than an empty belly. It was enough to convince Paddy that he wanted no part of it.

  If he could learn Mr. Andrews’s stateroom number, he could slip the page under the door. But what earthly good could that do? Paddy had spent hours staring at the drawing. He could not make head or tail of it. Besides, Daniel Sullivan was more than a wrinkled leaf of paper. He was dead, and not even the great Thomas Andrews himself could change that awful fact.

  “You there — you’re not being paid to daydream!” A white-jacketed steward thrust a tray of brimming crystal champagne glasses into Paddy’s hands. “Don’t you know who these people are?” he hissed into Paddy’s face. “They have to be served before they even think about what they want. Go offer a glass to Major Butt over there. He’s military attaché to President Taft. And that’s Colonel Roebling. His family built the Brooklyn Bridge, you know….”

  The steward listed several other famous names, but none of them meant very much to Paddy, who had never heard of Brooklyn or its bridge. He knew these were fancy people, and very rich — and he also knew that he wasn’t here to serve them champagne, or even to walk among them. He’d better get himself out of sight before someone else realized it, too. His uniform made him look like he fit in. But as the voyage progressed, the crew would learn exactly who belonged and who didn’t. He was pretty sure he’d spotted that underage steward called Alfie — the one he’d overheard in the uniform room. And if Paddy was recognizing people, other crew members would, too. Possibly even Alfie himself.

  Paddy circulated among the passengers at the rail and distributed his drinks in their sparkling glasses. He couldn’t prevent himself from smiling. Being so close to so many fat pigeons ripe for plucking made his fingers itch. It was perhaps fortunate that his hands were busy balancing the tray, or he might have come away with enough money to buy legitimate passage aboard this floating palace. Oh, how Daniel would have laughed!

  A well-dressed swell, a little younger than the others, put a dove-gray-clad arm around Paddy’s shoulders. “You’d best save the last one for Mr. Straus, lad,” he said, indicating an elderly man standing with his wife, gazing out over the bow at the tugs. “He’s the owner of Macy’s department store in New York, you know. They say he’s worth more than fifty million American dollars.”

  Paddy sized the man up. He seemed no different from any of the other first-class passengers — confident, exquisitely dressed, like he owned the world. Which he probably did, or at least a good chunk of it.

  Amazing, Paddy thought dizzily. A week ago I was eating out of dustbins, and now I’m standing next to a fifty-million-dollar man.

  Suddenly, a series of cracks as loud as gunshots cut through the air. The steel hawsers mooring a smaller ocean liner snapped like wooden toothpicks.

  Paddy stared in amazement. It was the American liner New York — and it was floating directly into the Titanic’s path!

  “Are they daft? We’ll smash them to bits!”

  The young swell peered intently ahead. “That ship isn’t moving under her own power.”

  “Then whose power is moving her?” Paddy asked in alarm. “Are you saying she’s sailing herself?”

  “The Titanic displaces sixty-six thousand tons,” the man replied grimly. “The suction must have torn that ship clear out of her moorings. See? She’s moving backward!”

  The festive chatter on the promenade died abruptly as the stern of the New York drew closer to the Titanic‘s port bow, tossing like a dinghy in the overpowering wake of the oncoming liner.

  “We’re going to ram her!” Paddy breathed.

  Hundreds of passengers braced for impact. The fifty-million-dollar man held on to his wife as they watched the drama unfolding below.

  The smaller vessel bounced high on a wave and veered around, swinging toward the hurtling black steel of the Titanic’s hull.

  Paddy closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was
all over. The New York had reeled past them, missing a catastrophic collision by perhaps a few feet.

  The swell let out a long breath, and then raised his glass. “To Captain E. J. Smith, the finest, most experienced skipper on the sea!”

  Paddy nodded weakly, but in his mind, a discordant note had disturbed the regular thrum of the ship’s engines. No amount of experience mattered on board the Titanic, which was so much bigger than everything else afloat that she could pull full-size steamers clean out of their secure berths merely by lumbering past. Only Titanic experience mattered. And since this was the maiden voyage, no captain had that.

  Does anybody really know how to sail this boat? he wondered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RMS TITANIC

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1912, 8:45 P.M.

  “Papa, if we don’t go now, we shall miss dinner.”

  The Earl of Glamford dismissed his daughter with a fluttering of the two fingers that were not cradling his poker hand. Juliana flinched as her father signed another chit and tossed it in the center of the table. When Papa was embroiled in a card game, the rest of the world simply did not exist.

  Another hand, more money into the pot. Juliana was not privy to the Glamms’ financial worries, but she would have to have been deaf and dumb not to know they existed. It did not take a chartered accountant to see that her father’s fondness for gaming — and his lack of skill at it — was a large part of the problem. She looked around the sumptuous dark paneling of the first-class lounge. The luxurious attention to the tiniest detail was impressive, even to someone reared in a family whose nobility stretched back centuries. Yet all Juliana saw were the card games, poker and bridge, grim-faced players, handwritten markers changing hands in lieu of banknotes.

  How can I get Papa out of here?

  She leaned close to her father’s ear. “Please — it’s not proper for me to go to dinner unaccompanied.”

  “Quite right.” Without glancing up, the earl snapped his fingers and a hovering steward came running.

  “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

  “Kindly accompany Miss Glamm to the dining saloon and see that she is seated. I shall join her shortly.”

  Face burning with humiliation, Juliana left the lounge on the arm of a steward who was not one hour older than she. Even worse, the young man was very much aware of her discomfort.

  “Don’t feel bad, miss. When the gentlemen get into the gaming, it’s nigh impossible to regain their attention. They wouldn’t notice if the ship was sinking.”

  Juliana was in no mood to be soothed. “This ship is unsinkable,” she snapped.

  “Well, then, they’ve got nothing to worry about,” he returned softly.

  She stared at him in surprise. “You have a lot to say for yourself!”

  It was the boy’s turn to flush. “Most dreadfully sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “And so you weren’t,” she assured him, ashamed of her ill-tempered behavior. “You were trying to be kind, and I appreciate it.”

  He was nice but, of course, he was paid to be. Juliana had grown up with servants her whole life. She was fond of some of them, and respected most of them. But their function was no different from that of any other useful item, like a broom or a motorcar.

  They descended the magnificent grand staircase, brilliantly lit and dazzling. Other passengers in evening clothes and white gloves, their jewels aglow, passed them on the broad steps, chattering, smiling, relaxed. At Cherbourg, France, more passengers had embarked — most of them wealthy Americans returning from the European social season.

  “I’m happy to escort you to your table, miss,” the steward told her. “If there might be anything you need, just ask for Alfie, and they’ll come and get me.” He swept her into the glittering dining saloon.

  Juliana had heard that this was the largest single room on any ship ever. She could see now that this description was absolutely true. Drenched with thousands of electric lights and centerpiece candles, fragrant with flowers, and alive with music, the vast space took her breath away. There were so many tables, so many elegant diners — the world’s elite, really. How was it possible that Alfie was escorting her to this table? Seated there was that girl she had watched board the ship — the one who, along with her mother, had been brought to the Titanic by the police.

  “Perhaps this is the wrong table?” she asked pointedly.

  The problem passed miles above Alfie’s understanding. He saw just two young ladies in charming evening gowns. The fact that one was the daughter of an earl and the other was being deported from the country was beyond him.

  What could a Glamm possibly have to say to such a person?

  Alfie seated her and withdrew. A waiter appeared and draped a snowy linen napkin across her lap.

  “You’re alone, too,” Sophie observed.

  Juliana inclined her head. “For the moment. My father, the earl, will be joining me shortly.”

  “My mother, too. She’s in the smoking lounge — puffing on a giant cigar.” Sophie noted the other girl’s shocked disapproval. “Well, probably not the cigar. But you can bet your last penny she’s having a political argument with some men who are growing angrier by the minute. That’s the effect Mother has on people.”

  “Is that why those constables —?” Juliana blurted. She bit her lip and said no more.

  Sophie looked sheepish. “I was hoping nobody noticed that. Your English police aren’t sympathetic to votes for women. That’s Mother’s passion. It means more to her than anything — certainly more than her daughter.”

  In spite of herself, Juliana experienced a twinge of sympathy. At this moment, she was lower on Papa’s list of priorities than a deck of cards. She glanced at the gilded clock. Where was he? He’d promised to follow her in short order. Part of her suspected that he had no intention of coming at all. For Rodney, Earl of Glamford, a poker game was an all-night affair.

  “Well, at least you’re on your way home now,” Juliana offered kindly. “I’m sure your cause is more popular in America.”

  Sophie sighed. “It’s not. The only difference is when Mother is arrested in America, Father is on hand to post her bond.” She regarded Juliana curiously. “Is this a pleasure trip for you?”

  “I am accompanying my father. He has business in America.”

  “Oh, what cities will you be visiting?” Sophie asked.

  It dawned on Juliana that she had no idea where they would be going, or what the nature of her father’s business might be. She knew they were to be met in New York by a Mr. Hardcastle, who owned oil wells. But Papa wasn’t in the oil business, was he? Surely not. Papa wasn’t in any business.

  A splendid gentleman who seemed to have gained forty pounds since being measured for his tuxedo arrived at their table. “Bless my soul!” he roared through reddish muttonchop whiskers, seating himself across from the girls. “That I should be so fortunate as to be placed with such an abundance of delightful female company, each one more lovely and charming than the other! I shall become distracted trying to decide which one of you will be first to honor me with the pleasure of a dance!”

  The image of being steered around the dance floor backing away from that ample belly nearly caused Juliana to laugh in the gentleman’s face. She looked over at Sophie, and saw that the American girl was having the same struggle.

  Perhaps the daughter of an earl and an American deportee had something in common after all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RMS TITANIC

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1912, 8:25 A.M.

  The heat was unimaginable.

  Every time Alfie climbed down the ladder to the orlop deck, he was surprised anew that his memory of it was not half the reality. Twenty-nine boilers 15 feet high, a total of 162 fireboxes, blazes raging. That was what it took to propel the Titanic, the largest moving object ever built by man. Added to the temperature was the earsplitting sound of machinery as the steam drove the engines that turned the enormous trip
le screw that propelled the ship.

  It was a crowded place, too. Alfie always had a difficult time locating his father in this roaring hive of activity, the fiery realm of the Titanic’s “black gang.” It took more than 150 stokers to keep the boilers going, and they all looked alike — shirtless and black from head to toe with coal dust and ash. Da had been working at this on one ship or another for more than twenty years. No wonder his voice sounded like gravel. He must have had a pound of sludge in his lungs.

  Another stoker put a grimy hand on Alfie’s shoulder and pointed to one of the double-ended furnaces. “Your pa’s over there,” he rasped.

  John Huggins smiled and beckoned. Even here, the closest thing to an inferno Alfie could imagine, his father was always glad to see him. Whatever ill luck that had already happened and might yet befall him, there was that to hang on to. Being loved was no small matter.

  “Aren’t you on shift, boy?” Alfie’s father asked.

  “Mrs. Willingham has a shawl that she’s especially fond of,” Alfie explained. “And I’ve been sent to the baggage hold to dig it out of her trunk.”

  John Huggins spat into the roaring firebox. “Especially fond of!” he repeated in disgust. “I’m sure she’s got seventeen more in her stateroom. It’s a blessing to be working class. Money makes you soft in the head.”

  Alfie laughed. “Then I must have the hardest head of anybody. They’re paying me three pounds ten for the entire voyage.”

  His father jammed his shovel into the bin and came away with a scoopful of smoldering, smoking coal.

  Alfie was alarmed. “Your bin is on fire!”

  “Easy, lad,” his father soothed. “That happens when you’re working with coal. You’re supposed to keep it well watered, but some of the younger blokes just wet the top of the pile and don’t worry about what’s down below.”