Unsinkable

by Gordon Korman

  Gilhooley held him back. “Easy, Seamus. This is a ship. The little rat has nowhere to run. We’ll find him soon enough. And when we do, he’s going over the side.”

  Paddy lay beneath the towels, barely daring to breathe.

  As Gilhooley and his man left, Paddy heard the voice of John Jacob Astor once again. “Well done, Joseph,” the wealthiest of the wealthy praised the attendant. “I shall mention your handling of this situation when I dine with the captain this evening.”

  Amen, thought Paddy. But now he faced another problem. The Turkish bath that had saved him was now his prison. He couldn’t very well leave without being noticed. Yet it was more important than ever for him to get off the ship at this last port. Once they headed into open ocean, there would be no escape. He would be trapped on board with two Gilhooley gangsters. And then surely he would never see New York.

  He needn’t have worried. After a few minutes, a voice in his ear whispered, “Come with me — not a sound.”

  Paddy got out from under the towels. Colonel Astor and the other gentlemen were either covered up or dozing. He followed Joseph through the steam room and onto the deck of the swimming bath.

  “I’m not going to ask what you took from those brutes,” the attendant told him in a low voice.

  Twelve pounds, Paddy thought dismally. Would that he’d never reached his hand inside that cloak! Aloud, he said, “A long, sad story, it is.”

  Joseph did not press him further. “Stay clear of those two,” he advised before returning to his very important customers. “They look more than capable of turning their threats into reality.”

  Paddy made no reply. All his attention was focused on the porthole closest to him. It showed the departed tender halfway back to Queenstown Harbor.

  He was too late.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PORT OF CALL: QUEENSTOWN

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1912, 1:30 P.M.

  Captain E. J. Smith, Commodore of the White Star Line, the finest and most experienced master of any ship on the high seas, stood ramrod straight on the bridge of the Titanic. His eyes were not on Queenstown, but on the open Atlantic. That was the style that had made him a legend — focus exclusively on the path ahead. It made no difference where one had been, only where one was going.

  The ocean was reassuringly calm, as if in tribute to his final crossing. Captain Smith was retiring after taking the Titanic on her maiden voyage. It was fitting that his last command would be a memorable one.

  “All right, Mr. Lightoller,” he addressed his second officer. “Weigh anchor.”

  Suddenly, a very young seaman rushed onto the bridge, all agitation. “Sorry, sir! I tried to stop them —”

  Kevin Gilhooley and his huge henchman, Seamus, elbowed their way into the captain’s presence.

  “Captain, you have a criminal among your crew!” Gilhooley accused.

  “What I have,” Smith said sternly, “are two passengers who have not been invited onto the bridge.”

  “I told them, sir! They wouldn’t listen —”

  “At ease, Mr. Loomis,” said the captain, always under perfect control.

  Kevin Gilhooley was not accustomed to having his requests ignored. “Did you not hear me, Captain? I said one of your crew is a thief! I saw the boy not half an hour ago! I demand that you assemble the contingent and allow me to identify him.”

  The captain grimaced. “I do the demanding on this vessel, sir.”

  Standing behind Mr. Lightoller, Thomas Andrews, designer of the Titanic, spoke up for the first time. “Allow me to make the introductions, Captain. I live in Belfast, so I’m familiar with this man’s family. They are involved in a number of activities that are — shall we say — frowned upon by the authorities.”

  Smith nodded his understanding and turned back to Gilhooley. “You may feel free to pursue legal remedies with the police in New York. But aboard this ship, I am the law. If that is unacceptable to you, my officers can arrange to have you put ashore here in Queenstown. I trust that’s clear.”

  Gilhooley was livid. “You’re protecting a criminal! The White Star Line will hear about this!”

  A shorter man with a prominent handlebar mustache stepped forward. “The White Star Line has already heard. I am J. Bruce Ismay, the managing director. How do you do?”

  Gilhooley grew even redder. “You stuffed shirts always line up against the common man!”

  “Indeed we do,” agreed the captain cordially. “Now kindly vacate my bridge. I’m sure you have some unpacking to do. Mr. Loomis will see you to your cabins.”

  When Gilhooley and his man were gone, Second Officer Lightoller spoke up. “Standing by to weigh anchor, sir.”

  “I gave that order, Mr. Lightoller.”

  “Captain, the quartermaster informs me that we have only enough binoculars for the bridge crew, not for the lookouts in the crow’s nest. Shall I send ashore for additional glasses?”

  Before the captain could reply, Mr. Ismay offered his opinion. “Of course, I’m merely a passenger, but we’re already behind schedule because of that unfortunate incident with the New York. Do we really want to suffer any additional delay?”

  “Quite right,” decided the captain. “A true seaman sees better with the naked eye. Take us out, Mr. Lightoller.”

  Minutes later, the great ship began to move toward open ocean.

  Captain Smith savored the thrum of the Titanic’s huge reciprocating engines rising from the deck beneath his feet.

  One last voyage.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RMS TITANIC

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1912, 3:45 P.M.

  The view from the boat deck was like nothing Sophie had ever seen. Here, eight stories above the Atlantic, she was surrounded by endless sea and cloudless blue sky. It was so clear that she could actually make out the curve of the earth at the horizon.

  She lay back in her deck chair while Alfie tucked a warm woolen blanket around her. “It’s cold out here, miss. I brought you a mug of hot bouillon. We can’t have you taking a chill.”

  “What is it about bouillon on this boat?” Sophie complained. “The wealthiest people on earth wouldn’t feed it to their dogs anywhere else. But here they swill it like it was the finest champagne!”

  Alfie was taken aback. “I can get you tea or chocolate if you prefer.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Pay no attention to me, Alfie. I’m having a terrible voyage.”

  “But why, miss?” Alfie enquired. “You’re aboard the finest ship in the world.”

  In answer, Sophie gestured over the rail to A Deck below them. The windows in the first-class lounge were open, and strident voices could be heard in a strenuous argument. There were several men trumpeting with outrage. But the loudest of all was decidedly female.

  “Women are only irrational because the standards of rationality have been established by men!” Amelia Bronson held forth. “You’ve been in charge since the dawn of history, and what do we have to show for it? War! Hunger! Slavery! We should all choose our leaders, not merely half of us. Then you’d see a revolution without bullets or bloodshed!”

  “Madam!” came an indignant bluster. “I never thought I’d say this to a lady, but you are no lady!”

  “Agreed!” Sophie’s mother roared. “I am a human being, just as you are!”

  “I suppose you can hear that.” Sophie sighed miserably. “They can probably hear it back in England.”

  “I’m told that she’s also trying to organize the women on board,” Alfie said sympathetically. “Perhaps first class isn’t the right group for it.”

  “Don’t tell her that!” Sophie exclaimed quickly. “She’ll go to second class and start recruiting there. And then steerage. We’ll be put in a lifeboat and set adrift in the middle of the Atlantic!”

  “No one thinks of lifeboats on an unsinkable ship, miss.” Alfie chuckled. “Aboard the Titanic, they either hang you from the yardarm or make you walk the plank. Cheer up. Here comes Miss Glamm to
keep you company.”

  In fact, the girl was practically running, holding on to her long skirt as she hurried up the companion stairs. She rushed over and sat down in the chaise next to Sophie’s, sinking low.

  “A blanket, Alfie. Quickly!”

  “I can fetch more bouillon if you’re cold,” the young steward offered.

  As he tucked a blanket around her, she pulled it right up to her nose. “I’m not cold; I’m hiding. Major Muttonchop is about! He wants to finish his story about tiger-hunting in India!”

  Sophie groaned. “He is, bar none, the most boring man on the face of the earth. You have no idea how much I was pulling for the tigers. How could you lead him to me, Julie?”

  Juliana laughed. “I think I gave him the slip on the Grand Staircase.”

  “Oh, you mean Major Mountjoy, the gentleman from your dining table,” Alfie put in. “Belowdecks they call him Old Windbag. He does go on and on.”

  Juliana cast him a look of stern disapproval. “I’m certain that the White Star Line forbids you to gossip about your betters.”

  Alfie stared at her as if she had just slapped him. “But you just said —”

  Sophie tried to come to his rescue. “This is Alfie’s first voyage as a steward. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I’m certain he did not.” Juliana was gracious but unforgiving. She rose from her chair. “Perhaps I had best find Papa.” And she was gone in a swirl of skirts.

  “You have to understand, Alfie,” Sophie tried to explain. “She’s not a bad person, but she was raised in a house filled with servants who were no more to her than pieces of furniture. That’s the only life she knows.”

  Alfie was chagrined. “It’s I who should apologize. I chased your friend away. I’m most dreadfully sorry.”

  Sophie passed this off with a wave of her hand. “I don’t want conversation. I don’t want to read a book. I just wish something would happen.”

  Alfie blinked. “We’re on a ship in the midst of an ocean crossing, miss. What could possibly happen?”

  “Something that would take my mind off the fact that my mother is picking fights with the most important people alive.” She scowled. “And what that might be, I have absolutely no idea.”

  Alfie raised an eyebrow. “What if I told you there’s something on this ship that would turn your mind upside down and inside out?”

  “What?” asked Sophie, intrigued.

  “I can’t explain. I have to show you. Tonight.”

  Sophie spent the rest of the afternoon checking the progress of the sun as it sank toward the horizon off the bow.

  Finally — something to look forward to besides Mother being strung up by a mob of angry millionaires.

  Her thoughts crackled with speculation. What could Alfie be on about? What was this mysterious object that would turn her mind “upside down and inside out”? She hoped with all her heart that it would not turn out to be just another porthole with a slightly different view of the interminable waves. Sailors thought there was nothing more fascinating than the sea. But stewards weren’t sailors, were they? Especially a steward on his very first crossing.

  This had to be something good.

  At the same time, her anticipation was tempered by a little nervousness. Had she really agreed to meet a boy at eleven o’clock at night for some unknown adventure? Was that wise, or even sensible? Why, twenty years ago, a young lady caught alone with a man would be expected to marry him! Then again, twenty years ago someone like Mother could be hanged for sedition. At minimum, when the constables threw her in prison, they wouldn’t let her out again a few days later to catch a first-class boat.

  Sophie relaxed a little. That was Juliana’s world, the world of a previous century. This was 1912. Mankind had advanced to a point where light and heat came from wires carrying electricity, and Mr. Thomas Andrews could design an ocean liner that was unsinkable. Things were changing — even if it wasn’t quickly enough for Mother.

  She stayed on the boat deck as long as she could bear it, and then started to her cabin early to dress for dinner.

  As she walked along the passageway on B Deck, a soft juicy snort reached her ears. She rounded the corner and nearly tripped over him — a slender well-dressed gentleman sitting crumpled against the paneled bulkhead, smelling of stale tobacco and brandy. Even fast asleep and snoring, there was an elegance to the man in the way his tall frame folded neatly into the corner between the brass rail and the carpeted deck.

  If Mother were here, the speech would be loud and long: They entrust this drunkard with the vote while millions of informed, intelligent women …

  Recognition came as almost a blow. This was no ordinary drunkard. This was the Earl of Glamford, Juliana’s father!

  Sophie had been about to send for a steward, but how could she do that now? If there was one thing the first-class passengers liked more than money, it was gossip. The story of the English nobleman who had to be scraped off the deck and poured into his cabin would make its way back and forth across the Atlantic for years. Juliana would die of humiliation.

  Her mind made up, Sophie reached down and shook the sleeping man by the shoulders.

  “Your lordship,” she whispered. “It’s Sophie Bronson, Julie’s friend.”

  The earl gave no answer, but a large bloodshot eye opened and looked at her in confusion.

  “You’re on B Deck,” she tried to answer his unspoken question. “Not just that part of the ship — on the deck itself. The floor. Do get up, and I’ll help you to your suite.”

  When he made no move to stand, she hauled him to his feet, inserted her shoulder under his arm, and half carried him down the passageway to stateroom B-56. It was a struggle. He was an athletic man, and no lightweight. Mother would have been impressed. A woman carrying a man. Weaker sex? Fie!

  At last, wilting under her burden, she managed to scratch at the door.

  Juliana’s maid, Elsie, took in the sight of her employer and gave a little shriek.

  Juliana appeared behind her. “Sophie?” Her eyes fell on the spectacle of her father.

  The three young women managed to walk him to his bed. When they stepped back from him, he dropped like a stone and lay unmoving. The snoring resumed.

  “It’s the cards,” Juliana explained sadly. “He drinks when he plays, especially when he’s losing.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Sophie confessed, catching her breath. “I didn’t think you’d want me to call the stewards.”

  Juliana nodded gratefully. “You’re a real friend. I am in your debt. Any time I can do you a service, you have but to say the words.”

  Suddenly, Sophie knew exactly what she was going to ask for.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RMS TITANIC

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1912, 11:10 P.M.

  It was dark on the spiral staircase that led down the Number 2 Hatch. The space was so cavernous that Alfie’s kerosene lantern cast only a dim glow around the three figures. Juliana could barely see the hem of the gown she’d worn to dinner. It was hours later now, and the ship had grown quiet. The music and dancing had ended some time earlier, and the passengers had retired to their staterooms, or their cigars, or their card games.

  Cards. For once, Juliana wasn’t worried about her father’s poker losses. Papa had declined food, and was stretched out on his bed. He had been asleep since before the bugler had summoned first class to dinner. He was going to have a paralyzing headache when he woke up. With any luck, that would be long after this late-night escapade was over and his daughter was back in their suite again.

  Have I gone mad? she wondered.

  What was she doing skulking around the bowels of the Titanic with an untamed American girl and the steward she had inexplicably decided to befriend? But after promising Sophie a service, how could she refuse?

  So here she was, in the working part of the ship, where it was not seemly for passengers to visit. Surely not the behavior expected of a Glamm. Mind you, the head of
the family hadn’t exactly distinguished himself today. So any disgrace Juliana might bring down on them could only be second to his performance. Whatever happened, she was in for a penny, in for a pound — or those American dollars everyone was so keen on.

  “Now, if we run into anyone,” Alfie said in a low voice, “remember what I told you. I’m your steward escorting you to your luggage to get something you need.”

  “I don’t see why we have to go down to the hold ourselves,” Juliana complained. “Why couldn’t you have brought this item up to us?”

  “You’ll see, miss,” Alfie promised. “This isn’t the kind of thing that you can flash around.”

  “Is it just me or is it getting warmer?” Sophie put in nervously.

  “The boiler rooms are just aft of us,” Alfie explained. “Don’t worry; we won’t get too close to them. I’ve been there to visit my da on the black gang. You feel like the air you breathe is on fire in your lungs.”

  “Alfie.” Sophie’s voice was subdued. “If we get caught here, Julie and I will be scolded. But what will happen to you?”

  “I can’t really say,” he replied, so readily that it was obvious the thought had been haunting him. “I suppose it would depend on who catches us. But this discovery I’ve made has been bubbling up inside of me. I’ll burst if I don’t share it.”

  Juliana knew all too well what would happen to Alfie if they were caught. He would be relieved of duty and placed under arrest for the remainder of the voyage. He might even be stranded in New York. Employees dismissed for cause could expect no better. His father’s pay might purchase him third-class passage back to England on a different ship. But he would never set foot aboard the Titanic again. What could he possibly have to show them that was worth such a fate?

  They descended the metal staircase more than 70 feet into the depths of the ship, well below the waterline. It was a disconcerting thought to both girls that the surface of the ocean was actually above them. Yet, apart from the heat, the air felt no different than it had higher up many dozens of steps ago.