by Richard Peck
“We will make five hundred and fifteen miles a day,” he explained that night when him and me ducked into the gentlemen’s smoking lounge for a look around.
“I’m in no hurry,” I told him. For the closer we got to England, the more I worried that Miss Dabney was in for a letdown. It didn’t stand to reason that Queen Mary would meet us at the dock. We passed the library, where Miss Dabney sat in her evening gown at a desk, writing on the ship’s stationery.
“Who in the devil’s she writing to?” Alexander asked me. “Minerva?”
“She’s keeping up appearances,” I explained, but this went over his head.
We’d have passed the five-odd days without untoward event, except that two things happened, both noteworthy.
That first night I dreamt of Julian, who called out my name over and over. I dreamt the Olympic was passing like a whale directly above his bones, scummy with green slime. It was the regular kind of dream anybody can have, and went on so long that I overslept. When I woke up, Miss Dabney was dressed and gone, likely in search of the ocean. But I wasn’t alone in the stateroom.
A scrawny servant was bearing in my breakfast on a silver tray. The door slammed to on her skinny behind and nearly sent her flying across the cabin. This I saw through bleary eyes. I sat up with my hair standing out like the nest of a large rat. Even with riches, I wouldn’t keep servants. They rob you of privacy.
“You’re to ’ave your breakfast in bed, miss,” said the weedy maid. “The old party in the funny tweeds ordered it, so ’ere it is.” As she plunked the tray on my bed, I jerked fully awake. Hovering over me was none other than Sybil.
“Crikey!” we both cried, nose-to-nose once more. It could only be Sybil, with her stringy body lost in her uniform, and her crafty face. “It carn’t be!” she gasped, blinking at me. “Luvaduck! You don’t ’arf get around, do you?”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” I replied, wondering at what a small place the Atlantic Ocean is. Sybil poured out the tea. She was expert in her duties. But then I figured she’d always been a quick learner.
“Wot brings you on the ’igh seas? I thought you and that other kid was the law in—wot was the name of that place where you sent me packin’?”
“Bluff City.”
“That’s it. But never mind the story of your life. I ’aven’t the time to ’ear it. Work you like a galley slave on this tub is wot they do. Not a minute to myself. Still, the eats is better than wiv that Perfessor Regis.” She lifted the cover off a plate of small fish stretched out in a row, all staring up at us.
“What’s them?” I inquired, drawing back.
“Kippers, you chump,” explained Sybil. “This ’ere’s a proper English breakfast!”
“Well, Sybil, since them fish still have their heads and tails on, fling them back in the sea. They deserve a chance like anybody else.”
“Regular music-’all comedian, aren’t you?” said Sybil, settling down on my bed to eat my kippers—eyes and all. “Excuse my fingers,” she said. “I never got the ’ang of a knife and fork.”
There was nothing left but cold toast and tea for me after she’d taken the edge off her appetite. A full stomach seemed to perk her up no end. “I don’t ’old it against you, pokin’ your nose into my business and ruinin’ my career as the Spirit Sybil. You done me a good turn if you but knew it. I ’ope you done in the Perfessor while you was about it, the old b—”
“He won’t work Bluff City again in a hurry,” I assured her.
“Never mind. There’s plenty more Bluff Cities on ’is map of the world. ’E’ll be orl right. But I’m glad enough to be out of ’is clutches. Goin’ ’ome to the Bermondsey Road, I am, thanks to you. I won’t be any illegal alien there. Though you give me some ’ard times—not that I bear grudges.” Sybil wiped her greasy paws on my sheet. “ ’Ad to ’op freight trains orl the way to New York to get this job.”
“How’d the Olympic happen to take you on?” If this was the kind of help they hired, we’d be better off on an American ship is what I thought.
“I’m that subtle,” said she. “ ’Ung around the docks in New York makin’ careful inquiries. Seems they was short of ’elp due to several staff bein’ laid up wiv the flu. Narsty climate in America, no good for civilized people. I marched up the gangplank on sailin’ day, sayin’ I was sent by an employment agency. They ’ad to take me on, they was that desperate. Oh I can make my way in the world, orl right. Not like you ’oo’s spent ’er ’ole life lollin’ around between silk sheets. Some people ’ave an easy time of it and no mistake.”
Sybil might have lectured on and on about my easy life if Alexander hadn’t set to banging on my door. “Come on up topside, Blossom,” he yelled, very excited. “You wouldn’t credit what’s happening up there! Aren’t you up? I been up two hours!”
At first I figured we were sinking. But then I remembered that any little thing will excite Alexander.
“No, I’m not up!” I yelled back. “Lemme alone. This boat is worse than the Astor Hotel. A person can’t get any rest!”
But Alexander babbled on through the keyhole, making no sense. “There’s going to be an aeroplane,” he said at one point. And then something about “Mr. Birdsall’s eyeglasses.”
“I don’t know no Mr. Birdsall,” I yelled back.
“I do. Hurry up or you’ll miss everything.”
In a low voice Sybil said, “Is that the kid wiv you the night you run me orf?”
“That’s ’im—him.”
“Wot’s ’e goin’ on about? Aeroplanes and Mr. Birdsall’s eyeglasses? Is ’e orf ’is ’ead?”
“No, that’s normal for him,” I said, my mind elsewhere. An idea was coming to me that might liven up the proceedings. Now that I thought of it, Alexander’d been getting too big for his britches. I wondered if I couldn’t give him a minute or two of excitement without the aeroplanes. “Say, listen, Sybil. How’d you like to go into your Spirit act,” I whispered, “just for old time’s sake?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Sybil smirked a snaggle-toothed grin. Though she’s of a criminal nature, we were thinking along similar lines.
“Too bad you don’t have any veils left from your old act,” I mentioned. “Still, you’re a fright even in your natural state.”
“A bath towel might work,” she said, moving to a cupboard. “Keep ’im talkin’ while I make meself ready.”
It’s no trick to keep Alexander talking. Finally, pulling up the greasy sheet, I called out, “I can’t hear you worth a darn, Alexander. You better come in. I’m decent.”
He burst through the door. “Come on, Blossom! You going to sleep the day awa—”
Sybil had taken up her post in a shadowy corner. A towel longer than she was hung from her chin to the floor, glowing white. Above it her waxy face and old-snow-colored hair was drained of all color. She sucked in her cheeks, and her jaw hung slack. She won’t look worse in death.
“Oooo,” she moaned. “I am a Spirit, returned from the grave to punish evil deeds and narsty thoughts. Look on me and despairrrrr.”
Alexander went whiter than Sybil. The hair stirred on his head, and his large knees buckled within his knickers. “Oh no!” he shrieked up and down an octave. “My Second Sight’s come back on me. It’ll run me crazy! Save me, somebody!” et cetera.
“What’s wrong, Alexander?” I inquired. “I don’t see nothing.”
He raised a trembling finger. “Right there in that corner. It’s a haunt and . . . Wait a minute. That looks like . . . Naw, it couldn’t be.”
Sybil dropped her towel and stepped forth in her misshapen maid’s outfit. “Sybil ’erself in the flesh. ’Ow’s it goin’, mate?”
“Not bad . . . Sybil. I guess it’s too much to ask how you come to be in Blossom Culp’s stateroom, out here in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Well let’s put it this way, mate. I got more business in ’ere than wot you ’ave, if we ’appened to be found out by the old party wiv the walkin’ stick and the
fur piece.”
Alexander got his color back and then some. It came to me that he was growing somewhat less susceptible to the spirit world and somewhat more to the opposite sex. Of which I am a member.
He banged the foot of my bed. “Blossom, you’ll go too far one day with these vaudeville tricks of yours.” But he didn’t speak with his old vigor. He was too busy regaining his dignity. “And don’t blame me if you miss your only chance in a lifetime to see an aeroplane.”
Then he straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and marched out.
Sybil collapsed on Miss Dabney’s bed, and we had a good laugh. I nearly regretted having to run her out of Bluff City so quick. She was not bad company. “ ’E’s a good-lookin’ cove in ’is way,” she commented upon Alexander. “A bit gawky, but that’ll pass.”
I was inclined to agree. But I didn’t have all day to gossip with Sybil. If I was ever going to see an aeroplane, I thought I’d better get up and go look at one.
17
THE DECK WAS THRONGED with all the First Class passengers, muffled against a stiff breeze. The wind thrashed the feathers on the ladies’ hats, and put out the men’s cigars. Miss Dabney was likely in their midst, as she was anxious to make friends. And Alexander was doubtless at the forefront of the action.
In my new plaid coat with the cape attached, I seemed to blend in with the well-dressed crowd. In dribs and drabs I overheard what was exciting them. The particulars I picked up were these.
An American gent, name of W. Atlee Birdsall, was traveling in our class. He was very short-sighted in more ways than one. He’d left home without his eyeglasses. Lacking them, he was all but blind. So he sent a marconigram back to the Wanamaker stores in New York City to mail new spectacles on the next ship out. He meant to wait for them at his English address.
The Wanamaker stores saw in this request a chance for advertising. They cabled back to the Olympic the sensational news that Mr. Birdsall’s glasses would be delivered to him on board ship. To do this, they hired the famous aviator T. M. Sopwith to fly out and drop the spectacles in a well-padded box on the Olympic’s deck. Nothing like this had ever been attempted, and many people remarked on the novelty of it.
I worked my way through the mob to where the widest part of the deck was roped off. On my way I noticed Miss Dabney in the throng. She leaned heavily on her walking stick, trying to make conversation with a lady near her, without success.
Being agile, I was soon up to the rope. Well beyond it three figures stood waiting in the open for the aeroplane. A talkative gent I’d elbowed aside pointed them out. “The fellow with all the gold braid is the ship’s captain himself, Commander H. J. Haddock.”
The small elderly man in a derby hat who stared around unseeing I took to be W. Atlee Birdsall. “And who’s that third fellow with them?” I asked, though I knew already.
“Oh,” said the talkative gent, “that’s young Alexander Armsworth.”
“It would be,” I replied.
The faint sputtering of an engine soon came from the clouds. The Olympic set her own decks shivering with a blast from the horn. The crowd went wild as the first aeroplane of my experience broke through a low cloud and swept over us. “And that fellow up there,” said the talkative gent waving a cane above him, “will be T. M. Sopwith, the greatest air ace still living!”
The aeroplane looked like a bird’s skeleton as it made a figure eight above us, waggling its brittle wings. The Olympic returned the salute with another blast. Ladies waved hankies up at T. M. Sopwith. He turned again in the air and flew well out ahead of the ship, dropping down near the choppy waves. It was a sight to turn your stomach giddy.
“And now he’ll drop the parcel, see if he doesn’t!” said the talkative gent.
The plane made straight for us. Its double wings wobbled and then held firm, and I fancied I saw T. M. Sopwith’s goggles through the whirring propeller.
“Little lady,” said the talkative gent, poking me, “you are witnessing the Modern Age in action!”
T. M. Sopwith’s aeroplane drowned out the cheering crowd as it roared over us. A brown package was already falling out of the sky, end over end. All eyes except Mr. Birdsall’s followed it down. The package dropped several yards off the bow into the ocean.
“Well, that’s a black eye for the Wanamaker stores!” declared the talkative gent, just like he’d predicted it. The aeroplane sputtered off, but no one waved.
Alexander seemed to be breaking the bad news to Mr. Birdsall, for the little man wagged his head in dismay. This would have ended the incident except for Alexander. He’d taken to being very pushy in a social way. This trait he probably inherited from his mama.
* * *
That evening Miss Dabney very nearly had a seizure when she found an invitation under our door to dine at Captain Haddock’s table. “You cannot comprehend the honor of this invitation, Blossom! We dine with the captain! At last we are recognized! All eyes will be upon us! What shall I wear?” et cetera. This was all understandable as nobody had spoken a word to her the better part of two days. However, I suspected we were riding to this particular social occasion on Alexander’s coattails.
This was true. Miss Dabney made a grand entrance into the main dining room with her head held so high she appeared to be all chin. She wore a necklace of old garnets over a rustling gown and trailed her furs.
But after Captain Haddock had blinked in surprise at the sight of her and then bowed, he clapped Alexander on the shoulder like an old chum. The male sex can be very hearty and sudden in their friendships.
Rounding out the captain’s table was Mr. Birdsall. This stood to reason, since the captain was consoling him on the loss of his spectacles. As we were a somewhat unlikely gathering, Miss Dabney was right—all the eyes in the dining room were upon us.
She sat between the captain and Mr. Birdsall. Her garnets flashed as she inclined her long head first toward one gentleman and then the other. “And what takes you to Europe, madam,” inquired the captain, “pleasure entirely?”
“No, indeed.” Miss Dabney preened. “A Royal Command!” She expanded on this, invoking Queen Mary’s name. The captain looked both startled and baffled.
As to Mr. Birdsall, I never have heard his voice. He’s a very soft-spoken man and of a retiring nature, much like Miss Dabney when she’s acting normal. But she agreed to everything he seemed to murmur, and he gazed up at her in admiration. I squinted my eyes, trying to learn how she’d appear to one half blind. But Alexander kicked me under the table when he noticed. You can carry the Grand Manner too far, and Alexander did.
At the end of the dinner when the orchestra began to play dance tunes, the two gentlemen took glasses of brandy, and Miss Dabney agreed to just a thimbleful. “We have learned a valuable lesson today,” said Captain Haddock, “though at Mr. Birdsall’s expense. There is much irresponsible talk going about that aeroplanes will be the scourge of the skies in the event of war.”
Something trembled deep within me, and my sight flickered.
“But today we have undeniable proof that an aeroplane cannot hit the largest ship afloat with a parcel, let alone a bomb! This news should silence those prophets of doom who rule out the Navy in future wars!”
Miss Dabney grasped her bosom in alarm. “Wars? Doom? Bombs?”
“Steady on, madam,” said the captain. “Nothing like that on the horizon. No one is ready for war—England, America, France, Germany. Quite out of the question.”
The captain’s voice faded, and the white tablecloth went blue. I heard the roll of thunder I alone had heard before. Lightning nobody noticed played over the brandy glasses, and the fit was on me. I remembered how Miss Spaulding once said to leave the room if my Second Sight struck me sudden. “Fresh air,” I muttered to Alexander beside me, and sped to the open deck.
The wind cut my eyes while I clung to the railing. Anybody passing would have taken me for a seasickness victim, for I blinked and swallowed hard, trying to fend off my fit.
I knew it was to be fearful. Worse than the black lonely ocean far below, and worse than my former visions.
Music drifted out from the dining room. “Under the Bamboo Tree” was being softly rendered. But this tune sank beneath the awful sounds of bombs and battle, and I fell into my trance. It was a vision of the future, where I ventured without taking a step. And it aged me.
It was several minutes as long as years before I come to myself again. I still clung to the railing, and the wet wind had wrought havoc with my hair. But I’d been chilled by worse than wind. Somebody had fetched my coat, for it was over my shoulders. I could see the present world again. The ship glowed over me, and the four smokestacks were pale against the night. Alexander stood beside me.
“Your mind leave your body like it did . . . other times?” he asked quietly. I nodded.
“Was it real bad this time? Worse than ever?”
I nodded again.
“Well,” said Alexander very kindly, “let’s us walk around the deck. It will calm you. It’s a third of a mile around.”
We’d passed the lifeboats and were rounding the stern when Alexander said, “Maybe you ought to tell me what you . . . saw. Otherwise, it will prey on your mind.”
“Only you, Alexander. I wouldn’t tell nobody else. It’s too ugly, and people won’t believe what they don’t want to. It’s human nature.”
So I told Alexander and only him. I knew he’d keep it to himself without taking any childish oath. And this was nothing childish. Captain Haddock had set me off with his talk of no war and no bombs. I’d seen a vision of the future.
I saw men, young men burrowing in trenches like moles. I saw the loops of barbed wire and the flash and fire of explosions. Beams of light searched the clouds and found aeroplanes—dozens of them, flying in patterns. The guns fired and recoiled and fired again. The aeroplanes fell through the lights, whining like beasts. But still the bombs rained out of the skies, and the young men died in a swamp of mud. And I knew they were English and American and French and German and others too. Captain Haddock was right in one particular: They weren’t ready. But they died anyway. Millions. And they broke open like ruined toys.
