Infected Waters:
A Titanic Disaster
Alathia Paris Morgan
My daughter, Mackinsy: Honey, you had an amazing idea, thanks for letting me use it.
My best friend: Thanks for keeping me on track and not letting me give up. I can always count on you to help me find perspective.
My dear hubby: Patient and supportive, cheering me on to the next thing.
Dana Hook: You did an awesome job editing!!! Even though our life trial and tribulations, we did it. I need some good laughs and you supplied.
Jonathan: Thanks for letting me use your name, even though I gave you the last name of a singer by mistake.
Nicki Paris: Amazing cover once again, I don’t know how you take my story idea and always make a perfect cover. Love ya.
This is a work of fiction and in no way is meant to portray the actual historical event. People, names, places, events or situations are all fictional with the exception of Chef Charles Joughin, Captain Smith and Mr. Andrews. The Titanic was an actual ship that sank, but the events in this book are truly fictional and have no factual basis. The ideas were from the author’s own imagination and any resemblance to people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright: August 2016 Alathia Paris Morgan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of quotations for articles and reviews.
Prologue
Running through the quiet street, he glanced over his shoulder, trying to find his pursuer in the darkness. The moon was hidden behind the thick clouds, heavy with the last frost of the season. It caused a mist to form over the ground, only deepening the threat he felt was chasing him.
Casting another look over his shoulder, he tripped on the uneven cobblestones but caught himself, his face landing only inches from the ground. He quickly stood, ignoring the sting of pain coming from his wounds. His focus was solely on the sounds following him through the mist.
Taking a deep breath, he stopped. But, before he could take another, a clatter in front of him sent him racing toward the wharf again. If he could just make it to the ship, he would be safe. There was no way they could follow him onto the water, or at least that was what the stories had said.
With a burst of speed, he dodged the towering crates that were waiting to be loaded onto the RMS Titanic over the next few days. The rats scurried out of his way as he came to a sudden halt by the huge rope tethering the ship to the docks.
The ramps were guarded by watchmen, but the steel beams holding the ship at the dock were high enough to hide behind and not be seen.
Turning back to look over his shoulder, he saw that the rodents were swarming around the crates again, but those further away were starting to make high-pitched squealing noises.
Knowing he had no other options, he stepped onto the steel beam and took a few steps toward the boat. Several shapes moved closer through the shadows, forcing him to move farther out over the water. The beam had been stable to start with, but started to sway as he tried to hurry across.
Closing his eyes—only to sway mid-step—he opened them again and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.
Falling to the ship’s deck, he laid there, catching his breath as the pain started to sink in.
His shoulder throbbed where one of the shadows had scratched him as he pulled away, but on his side, there was a graver wound. A chunk of flesh was missing over his ribs.
As the adrenaline started to fade, he groaned and rolled onto his knees in an attempt to get up. Pushing himself up, despite the pain, he clutched the railing in hopes that his attackers weren’t trying to cross the thin beams to the ship.
When there was no sign of pursuit, he staggered to the nearest set of steps and headed toward the staterooms that had yet to be occupied. Throwing open a door, he made it to a bed before collapsing completely.
Drained from being chased and attacked through the streets of Belfast, he didn’t wake up until the ship was underway to its destination, never knowing that he would be the reason the ship was destined for doom.
Chapter 1
Tuesday, April 9, 1912
Pitch darkness surrounded Gil as he woke with a start. He tentatively put his hand out and felt wood. Starting to panic, his hand touched straw and he realized he wasn’t inside a coffin.
They don’t pack bodies in straw in Ireland, so where the hell am I?
Pushing the straw around, he uncovered a small stream of light.
I’m in a bloody packing crate.
Scratching his head, full of brown hair, Gil tried to remember how he could have gotten there. It wasn’t his usual type of sleeping arrangement, but the immediate problem was how to get out of the box.
As he pulled back his feet, he forcibly rammed them into the side until there was a slight give. Encouraged, he tried again and again, loosening only one board. His vision was limited, but he could see more crates and boxes lined up in what he assumed to be a large warehouse type room.
Using his feet again, he displaced a second board, allowing enough space for his wiry frame to squeeze through.
Standing up to stretch his lanky frame, he looked around in amazement. An entire wharf was shoved into a single room on a boat, if the slight movement he was feeling indicated anything.
After a moment, his brown eyes adjusted to the light coming in through a porthole near the ceiling. He turned back to the crate and crawled back inside to retrieve his pack. He never left it behind.
How did I get on this boat? Gil wondered as he looked around, confirming he hadn’t been discovered. He stood up and crept down the aisle to see exactly what type of boat he was on.
The row of crates continued as far as he could see, but on the closer side, there was a set of stairs leading to whatever was above.
“Act like you own it,” his mother always said. Gil knew that looking like he belonged and actually belonging were two entirely different things.
The cargo door led out onto a large enclosed deck. Seeing no one about, he began walking around, hoping to find answers as to how he had gotten there.
Opening doors leading to seemingly endless halls, Gil explored several before happening upon one with another set of stairs that led to the second class deck and the servant’s quarters.
There was more activity on this deck, but still far fewer people than the boat was built to hold.
“Dia duit a dhuine uasail, Cá bhfuil mé?” Gil asked the stranger in Gaelic, translating into “Hello, where am I?”
Pulling Gil quickly into an empty room, the stranger advised, “Mate, you can’t speak that language while on board. Didn’t they tell you? Only English is to be spoken while on board. It makes the rich folk nervous when they hear a foreign language.”
Gil shrugged. “I’m filling in for my brother. He was supposed to be here but took sick, so they sent me to fill his spot.”
“Well, let me send you in the right direction. Go down this hall and take a left, and that is where you will find the kitchen. Ask for Mr. Barker. He’s the assistant steward. He will tell you where you belong and where to put your stuff.”
“Aye, thank you. I got turned around on this bloody ship, and since it was so last minute, there was no one to point out where to go. I’m Gil, by the way. What’s your name?” Offering his hand, the stranger takes it and introduces himself.
“Jonathan. Davis.”
“Good to meet ya, and thanks for the tip.”
Turning in the direction Jonathan pointed, Gil went to find out if he could wing it long enough to get to the next port.
~~~~~~
Gil stuck his head in the door and glanced around. Only seeing a baker kneading dough, he turned to leave.
“Young man, I need you to drop your bags at the door and scrub up. You need to get started on the dough before it drops and is no good to any of us.”
“Yes, sir.” Gil did as he was told and began to clean his hands, which were coated with several days’ worth of dirt and grime.
“Good gracious, son. Didn’t they do an inspection before allowing you to work?” The baker sniffed his nose in disapproval at Gil’s filthy attire.
“Well, sir, I am filling in for my brother. He was supposed to report this morning for work, but he came down with the chills and shakes. Ma sent me because I’m the next in line and we need the money to help out. I’ve always wanted to see America anyway.”
“Mon Dieu! How can all you Irish be so stupid? I must have a professional or this voyage will be in ruins. Ruins, I tell you.” Wringing his hands in distress, the baker went to rescue the rising bread.
“Wait! I know how to bake. I am not as good as my brother, but I know how to knead and you can direct me on how to make sure it’s right. Everyone has to learn somewhere, correct?” Gil held out his arms which hadn’t been this clean in weeks for inspection. Gil could only hope the baker bought his story.
The baker nodded to himself. “All right. We will see how you do with this and maybe you will be my helper for the trip.” Shaking a finger in Gil’s face, he added, “You mess up and off you go when we reach land. Comprendre?”
“Aye, sir.” Gil quickly placed an apron over his wet, but mostly clean shirt.
An hour later, Gil felt as if his arms would fall off. He had continued kneading until the baker decided they needed a break.
“Come it is time for a break, no?”
“I am Chef Charles Joughin and what shall we call you?”
“Gil Tierney at your service.”
Following his lead out to the decks for a smoke, Gil was uncertain as to if he should offer more information about himself or simply stay quiet.
Lighting his cigarette, Joughin turned to Gil, handed him one and stroked his goateed chin thoughtfully. “I believe there may be some use for you, but you will have to swear to take a bath before you return in the morning.”
Gil choked on the smoke. He had been trying not to inhale in his haste to respond. “Yes, sir. I just need to know where I should stay for the voyage, what kind of accommodations there will be?”
“You have done well for today. We will clean the kitchen before we rest for the night, then I will show you where you will sleep.”
Once his duties were finished in the kitchen and he finally settled into the crew quarters after a long bath, Gil felt relaxed and ready to retire. Bakers’ hours came early, before any of the others were up or awake to make sure the bread was fresh for breakfast, so he had to be ready for what was to come.
~~~~~~
In the predawn light, the ship appeared to be deserted. It held a ghostly presence as it approached the Southampton port where it would be boarded by those who were crossing the ocean to America.
Gil heard the bell ringing in the crew quarters to awaken the night crew, or the few who were on board already. It seemed he had only fallen asleep a short while before, but he felt remarkably well-rested since there hadn’t been a need to be on alert for danger to his surroundings.
For Gil, a normal night’s sleep would be to curl up somewhere hidden, occasionally in a large tree during the summer, or most recently, the wharf with large open crates housed in enclosed warehouses to keep the cold at bay.
Having been on his own since he was ten, life on the streets had been difficult and Sunday dinners were only time he was able to see his family, but he was still alive and free. Not a lot of his mates could say the same.
Gil dressed in the uniform provided in the wardrobes, admiring the clean way in which the clothes fit his body. Large hand-me-downs from his older brothers had been his attire, and wearing anything brand new was completely foreign.
Actually, when he thought about it, the entire ship was new and still smelled of paint. As he made his way to the kitchen, a new smell filled his nose: baked goods straight from the oven.
Excited to start the day, Gil poked his head in and spoke so Baker Joughin wouldn’t be startled.
“Reporting for duty, sir.” Dressed in white pants, with a crossover white jacket, Gil didn’t resemble the filthy young man from the day before.
“Ah, yes. Pardon me? What was your name?” Joughin gestured to his head in forgetfulness.
“Oh, yes, sir. Gil Tierney,” he supplied with his hands clasped behind his back. This was the moment his future would change, for better or for worse.
“How old are you, fiston?” Joughin finished stirring and began to wash his hands. Wringing them dry on his apron, he walked over to the shelf that housed the bakery’s books.
Seeing Gil’s quizzical look, he translated. “Son, how old are you? I need to document you so they will pay you when we dock in America.” Pulling out a book with a pencil holding his place, he glanced up, waiting for Gil’s response.
“I was born about 17 summers ago to my mam.” Gil struggled as he spoke, nervous his age would make the baker send him packing.
“Seventeen it is then.” Penciling in the information, he closed the book and winked. “Now that you are officially a crew member of the RMS Titanic, I suppose we should officially put you to work.”
Chapter 2
Wednesday, April 10, 1912
The Lambert family was just waking in the town of London to begin their long journey to the port of Southampton to board what was being advertised as the “unsinkable ship."
Millie Jean was so excited to return to America after being sent over to work with a missionary board that coordinated the work they had been doing, sending people from England and other places throughout the world.
Five years was too long to wait to see family and friends. Letters had continued to cross the Atlantic, but to Millie Jean, Virginia was home.
Gently shaking her daughter’s shoulder, Millie spoke with uncontained enthusiasm.
“Wake up, Lillian. We start the last part of our journey today. Just a few hours and we’ll be on the most wonderful ship ever created to carry us to America again.”
Fourteen-year-old Lillian groaned and rolled away from her mother’s hand. She didn’t want to go back to America. It was something she remembered from vague memories and descriptions. Mostly, her mother spoke of her home only when she received a letter, but as the years went on, the names became vague. They were strangers who had lives that were not a part of their own.
Leaving Lillian to her snores for a few more minutes, Millie Jean set out her traveling outfit on the chair. Brushing her brown hair, the memories of home returned as if from yesterday.
Going to the market with the servants. Attending church on Sunday’s to look at the dresses being worn, designed by the most elite dressmakers. Being able to afford servants who would cook a delicious meal without ruining one’s hands.
Charleston, Virginia was a bustling city, but not nearly as large as London. All these years in this miserable town and she still had to carry a map in her handbag to make sure she and the children didn’t get lost.
Pinning her hair as she twisted it into the newest style, Millie Jean supposed she would have wilted away if they hadn’t made the decision to return home.
The ladies of London had treated her horribly, acting like she was beneath them just because her husband was working with the church. In Charleston, landing a pastor of such a prestigious church would have given a lady certain social standings in society. To be asked to head an overseas office had been thought to be a position of respect, but nothing worked the same in this terrible place.
A knock interrupted Millie Jean’s pity party.
“Millie, dear. Are you awake? Are you both about ready?”
Hearing her father’s voice urged Lillian out of
bed quickly. Taking the dress laid out by her mother, she flew out of her nightgown and slid the dress over her slowly developing body.
Sticking out her tongue at her mother’s choices in dressing her so childishly, Lillian opened the door to her father, Richard, and her older brother, Samuel, or Sam as she loved to tease him with. Standing next to each other in the doorway, the resemblance between them was uncanny.
Both men were tall, over six feet, with dark blond hair and handsome green eyes set in two faces of differing ages. Sam was still growing at the almost adult age of seventeen, while his father had a few lines forming to show his departing youth.
The slight wave to their hair seemed to give them a devilish quality, which was thoroughly embraced by Samuel, while his father had chosen commitment to his marriage. The longer they stood next to each other, the more pronounced their differences became. Richard had a slight twinkle in his eye, while Sam was scowling at the inconvenience of waiting for Lillian to tie her shoes.
“Hello, Papa. All done,” Lillian declared, bouncing up to place a kiss on his cheek.
“Really, dear. Must you make such a show of affection to your father? It is so vulgar for a pastor’s daughter, so beneath you.” Millie Jean admonished as she made a sweep through the room, making sure their personal effects were packed properly.
Not expecting a response, Millie Jean placed her hat on, pinning it in place and turning to check out their appearance before they went downstairs to their coach.
“Yes, well, I believe this is the best one can hope for after sleeping in such accommodations.” Brushing past her children, she took her husband’s arm to begin the walk downstairs.
“My dear, anyone of importance who would take note of our appearance is still in their beds, snoring from the same accommodations we have just received. So I don’t suppose it will matter in the least if anyone sees us this morning.”
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