Collision Course

  “And there are two ice warnings for the captain,” Alfie added, taking out the papers.

  “I’ll take those,” Lightoller said.

  Alfie held them away. “I believe the protocol is that they must be placed directly in the captain’s hands, sir.”

  Amused, Lightoller stepped aside, and Alfie approached the commodore of the line.

  “I know the speed has been impressive,” Mr. Ismay was saying as Alfie drew near, “but you know she can do better.”

  Captain Smith took the messages from Alfie, glanced at them briefly, and turned back to Ismay. “Yes, but should she do better?”

  “Well, of course she should!” Ismay exclaimed. “Don’t you want to see what she can do with those last two furnaces fired up? Naturally, I’m just a passenger, but I certainly do.”

  Captain Smith seemed to chew this over for a moment. Then he called to his second officer: “Mr. Lightoller, order the last two boilers lit. By all means, let’s see what she can do.”

  Alfie looked on in confusion. The two ice warnings were still in the captain’s hands.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RMS TITANIC

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912, 9:05 P.M.

  Still clad in the baggy coveralls, Paddy climbed to the top of the aft third-class staircase. In his hand he clutched a bouquet of exquisite white orchids.

  Sixteen-year-old Curran Rankin laughed at the sight of him. “Well, would you look at this? If it isn’t my onetime brother Patrick! Are you getting married with those flowers, Paddy?”

  “They’re for your ma,” Paddy grinned, “fresh from the first-class dining saloon. If it’s good enough for millionaires, it’s good enough for the sweetest lady who ever hid a fellow from a nosy sailor.”

  “Aw, she was glad to do it. What’s one boy more or less when she’s already got so many?”

  “Where is she now? In the cabin?”

  “Follow me.” Curran led him through the passageways of third class, past the Rankins’ cabin, moving steadily aft.

  “Where are we going?” Paddy wondered, noting that there were a lot of passengers in the corridors, all heading in the same direction. “Don’t tell me steerage has to ride on the propellers now.”

  Curran laughed. “Shhh. Don’t give the White Star Line any ideas. This way. I promise you’ll not be sorry.”

  They bustled up a crowded staircase and entered the third-class general room. That was where Paddy first heard the music — a tin whistle and a fiddle playing an upbeat Irish jig.

  By now the migration was more like a stampede, rushing across the room in an effort to reach … what?

  At last, Paddy burst into the open air of the aft well deck and into the heart of the largest party he’d ever seen. Hundreds of steerage passengers danced and stomped and clapped along with the music.

  Curran beamed at him. “We may not have their fancy champagne and waiters in monkey suits. But when it comes to having a good time, we could show those swells a thing or two.”

  Paddy held his bouquet high in the air to keep it from being crushed. Although the night was frigid, the heat generated by so many moving bodies kept the temperature comfortable.

  And the music! Not even in Belfast had he heard its like. It was the heartbeat of hundreds of tiny villages throughout Ireland, like his own in County Antrim. It was the sound of home.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He knew a moment of panic.

  How will I flee in this huge crowd?

  “Don’t look so pale, darlin’ — it’s only me!” Mrs. Rankin pulled him into a loving hug, thoroughly squashing the flowers between them. “Were those for me? Aren’t you sweet!” She held up the stems. “I’m sure they were lovely!”

  Paddy had to shout to be heard over the music and the noise of the crowd. “I wanted to thank you and make sure you didn’t get into any trouble because of me.”

  “Everything’s fine, Paddy,” she assured him. “Come on — dance with your ma.”

  Paddy shrank back. “I shouldn’t. The officers know I’ve been hiding in third class.”

  “Do you really think we’d let any stuffed-shirt English take one of our own?” she demanded. “Now I’ll have that dance.”

  Paddy gave in gracefully. His toes were beginning to tap, anyway.

  “We’re coming, Alfie!”

  Juliana struggled to keep pace with the young steward, who was towing both girls aft along the boat deck. “You don’t have to wrench our arms out of their sockets!”

  Alfie did not let go of their hands. “I don’t want you to miss this,” he exclaimed, urging them to greater speed.

  “Miss what?” Sophie puffed. “What’s so wonderful that we have to choke down our dessert and make an Olympic dash the length of the ship?”

  “Humor me,” Alfie pleaded. “After an entire day at the beck and call of a tyrant like Mr. Masterson, I need something to make me smile. And some friends to share it with.”

  “I would expect you to have a little more sympathy for a poor cripple,” Sophie told him disapprovingly.

  Alfie’s face darkened. “Save your sympathy for someone who deserves it.”

  They passed beneath the fourth funnel and descended the companion stairs to the second-class promenade.

  A small crowd had gathered at the rail, but Juliana could not make out what they were watching. Spirited music played below, and she could hear the hubbub of many excited voices as well as the rhythm of stomping feet.

  At last, Alfie wormed his way to the overlook, drawing the girls with him. Beneath them, the aft well deck teemed with humanity — hundreds of passengers dancing and singing and celebrating. The crowd was so dense that not an inch of planking was visible. It was a blizzard of color and motion, all set to a sprightly beat.

  To say it was lively was an understatement. It was life. And if the clothes were more drab and less elegant than the fine fabrics and glittering jewels found in first class, the revelers made up for it with energy and enthusiasm.

  “I’m jealous,” Sophie murmured in awe. “First class paid all the money, and steerage is having all the fun.”

  Alfie beamed. “I knew you’d want to see it.”

  Juliana was bewildered. She had only observed members of the lower classes performing a function — storekeeper, chambermaid, hackney driver. She had never considered that Mrs. Musgrave, their housekeeper, had a life of her own apart from her duties to the Glamm family. Yet here were people precisely like that — hundreds of them — not performing any function at all. They were just enjoying themselves.

  Her eyes found one particularly agile dancer. Even though he was clad in heavy, soot-stained coveralls, his arms and legs moved with athletic grace and something close to joy.

  The other dancers noticed him, too, and stopped to watch, forming an ever-widening circle around him. The extra space lent wings to his feet, and he whirled like a top to the fiddler’s tune. His features were just a blur until the spin slowed, and …

  Sophie leaned forward, frowning. “Wait. Isn’t that —?”

  “Paddy!” Alfie rasped, horrified.

  “Why is he in the middle of that party?” Juliana mused. “He doesn’t know those people.”

  “He’s a very talented dancer,” Sophie commented, impressed.

  “I don’t care if he’s the King of Siam!” Alfie exclaimed. “He’s supposed to be in hiding! Why is he waving himself in front of the entire ship? Has he gone daft?”

  “He was always daft,” Sophie pointed out. “This is just the latest part of it.”

  Juliana turned to the young steward. “You have to do something about this, Alfie! I didn’t risk my reputation lying to protect him just to watch him hand himself over to the officers!”

  By the end of her speech, she was talking to empty air. Alfie was already sprinting for the superstructure and the nearest staircase.

  “Bless my soul!” came an all-too-familiar voice behind them. Major Mountjoy’s stomach pushed its way to the r
ail. “I asked myself: Mountjoy, what is the big attraction on the second-class promenade? But now that I see you two beautiful ladies here, my question has answered itself.”

  Juliana and Sophie exchanged an agonized glance. There were times when both girls were willing to be polite and humor Major Muttonchop. But this was not one of those times.

  They ran off after Alfie.

  “My word, where are you going?” the major called in dismay.

  “Down there!” Sophie tossed over her shoulder.

  Amazed, Major Mountjoy peered over the rail at the revelry in the well deck. “But — but — that’s steerage class!”

  The girls entered the superstructure just as Alfie disappeared down the steps. They followed at a heart-pounding pace, exiting where the music seemed the loudest. They ran out onto the well deck to be stopped by a solid wall of bodies.

  “Excuse me,” Juliana said formally.

  No one heard her, not even Sophie, who was right beside her. Sophie grabbed her friend by the elbow and plowed her way through the crowd.

  Never before had the daughter of the Earl of Glamford been subjected to such an experience — to be squeezed through a mass of people like frosting out the narrow opening of a cake decorator bag. It was Sophie who seemed to know exactly what to do in such painfully close quarters, probably from experience at her mother’s suffrage rallies. She moved with confidence, while it was all Juliana could do to keep from fainting.

  She could feel eyes upon them, some curious, some hostile. Their fine silks and velvets gave them away as anything but third class.

  When they finally pushed to the center of the throng, an appalling sight greeted them. A huge strapping Irish boy had Alfie in a headlock, and several others stood by, fists balled, poses menacing.

  “He’s not arresting me!” Paddy was shouting over the din. “It’s all right! He’s my friend!” He saw the girls standing in front of him. “What are you two doing here?”

  All Juliana’s uneasiness was turned instantly to anger by that question.

  “What are we doing here? What are you doing here? We’ve all risked our necks to protect you! And how do you repay us? You just about write your name on a banner and fly it across the smokestacks! Are you actually insane, or merely stupid?”

  Curran Rankin was highly amused. “Paddy, I never knew your mother was a rich English lady. How come you turned out so poor and ugly?”

  Paddy faced the two girls. “I’m safe here. Look around you. I’ve got an army! They were ready to throw Alfie in the drink just for wearing a White Star uniform!”

  “And how long will your army last if the officers come with pistols?” Sophie challenged.

  “I’ll hide,” Paddy promised. “Later. But for now I just want to have a little fun.”

  At those words, the fiddler started up again. Paddy grabbed each of the girls by the hand. “Come on, now. When are two fancy ladies going to have the chance to dance with a desperate character who’s two steps ahead of the coppers?”

  Before they knew it, Paddy was teaching them the Irish jig. Sophie had natural rhythm, and took to it immediately. But Juliana felt her years of dance lessons holding her back. The formal steps she’d been taught since she’d first learned to walk were not serving her here.

  Paddy read her mind. “There’s no wrong way to do it!” he shouted over the commotion. “Just let go!”

  Juliana wondered if that was even possible for the daughter of the seventeenth Earl of Glamford.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RMS TITANIC

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912, 10:10 P.M.

  Too much gaming.

  According to Elizabeth, Countess of Glamford, that was her husband’s biggest weakness.

  The earl knew this to be untrue. The problem was not too much gaming. It was too much losing.

  Weaving slightly, he stepped out of the first-class lounge and made his way to the boat deck for some air. If he could clear his head, perhaps he could go back for a few more hands. Maybe his luck was about to change….

  Belay that. Mountjoy was coming toward him, probably armed with a few million well-chosen words. If the earl allowed himself to be drawn into one of the man’s interminable stories, he’d never make it back to the lounge.

  He turned into the shadow of a tall ventilation outlet and pretended to be lighting a cigarette. The ruse failed.

  “Ahoy, Glamford,” the major called jovially. “A pleasant good evening to you.”

  “Mountjoy,” the earl barely acknowledged.

  “I must congratulate you, sir. You and the countess have raised a remarkable young lady. Her ability to interact with all classes of society does her — and you — great credit.”

  The earl’s eyes grew watchful. “My daughter? Juliana?”

  “At this very moment, she is in the aft well deck at a dance party.”

  “Mountjoy, what are you saying?” the earl exclaimed. “Nobody goes to the aft well deck! It’s in steerage!”

  “Exactly.” The major smiled. “All classes of society, including that one. Good night, your lordship. Sleep well.”

  No one had ever seen Rodney, Earl of Glamford move so fast. He rushed down the companion stairs to the second-class promenade. The spectators were lined up three deep at the rail, and he had to peer over heads to see the well deck below.

  The revelry and abandon was most distasteful. But what did one expect of the steerage?

  And then his eyes, panning the raucous scene, found his daughter.

  She was dancing. No, that term was far too civilized to describe it. She was a frenzy of movement, her head thrown back, her hair coming down loose and flying. The expression on her face was pure enjoyment — one might even call it bliss.

  For a young woman of her birth and station, it was completely unacceptable.

  The American was with her — Sophie — equally misbehaving, although that mother of hers would probably find this socially progressive. Both Juliana and Sophie were hanging off the arms of a boy in dirty work attire. And at close quarters all around them — touching, even — were these persons! Emigrants! Foreigners! And who knew what else!

  Words failed him. How could the White Star Line permit such a thing? Aboard the premier ocean liner on the face of the earth, a gentleman should not have to worry about protecting his daughter’s reputation!

  He stormed back up to the boat deck and collared the first White Star uniform he encountered.

  “What kind of ship are you running here? Steerage is in full chaos and riot, and young girls are being lured to take part in immoral dancing and revelry!”

  The poor assistant pantryman had only come for some air before going to bed. The last thing he’d expected was to be set upon by an irate nobleman. He stood there, speechless, his ears blistered, as the earl raged on.

  “May I be of some assistance, your lordship?” came a quiet voice at his elbow.

  The earl wheeled and found himself face-to-face with Second Officer Charles Herbert Lightoller.

  “Yes, you may! There is a scene of anarchy and debauchery taking place in the aft well deck!”

  Lightoller smiled deferentially. “The steerage passengers have few comforts, and very little to entertain them. We try not to begrudge them their little parties, however vulgar they may appear to us.”

  “Little parties?” the earl exploded. “I’ll have you know that my young daughter has been practically kidnapped and forced to take part!”

  The second officer’s face grew grim. “Understood. I shall return her to your stateroom at once.”

  He descended to the second-class overlook and peered down at the whirling dancers. He found Sophie and Juliana almost immediately. Their colorful evening wear made them two lilies in a hayfield.

  Pity, he thought briefly, to interrupt their youthful fun. But if the earl said it was inappropriate, why, so it was.

  His eyes fell on the two girls’ dance partner — the slight figure in coveralls whose swift movements made his fe
atures just a blur.

  The song ended; the dancers stopped. And the boy’s face finally came into focus.

  Lightoller bristled. It was the stowaway.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RMS TITANIC

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912, 10:25 P.M.

  Paddy Burns was remembering what it was like to be happy.

  It was the speed that made it work, he decided. As if his constant motion could unwind all the bad luck that had befallen him — the poverty of his family, the brutality of his stepfather, the squalor of his street life in Belfast, the murder of his best friend by the Gilhooleys, and his life as a hunted animal aboard the Titanic. None of it could touch him as long as he kept moving.

  He danced on winged feet, twirling the girls as the steerage passengers thronged around, stamping their boots and clapping. Even Alfie, whose face was pinched and anxious, was bobbing his head in time with the music.

  The stomping rhythm broke first. The crowd began to struggle and then part. Second Officer Lightoller bulled through the dancers, flanked by two able seamen.

  Sophie spotted them first. “Paddy — run!”

  Before Paddy could react, Lightoller’s fist locked onto his wrist. Struggle though he might, Paddy could not break the steel grip.

  Juliana did the only thing she could think of. With a cry of “I feel faint!” she threw herself forward, trusting the second officer’s chivalry.

  He did not fail her. He released Paddy and caught her sagging form just before she hit the deck. When he looked back again, Paddy was gone.

  After that, the chaos was complete. The revelers stood back to open an escape route for Paddy, but closed ranks for the second officer and his men, blocking them at every turn. No one physically interfered with them, but the third-class passengers would not make way, no matter how loudly Lightoller bellowed.

  Paddy scrambled out of the well deck via a steep companionway and looked around. From the rail, a heavy line stretched overhead — one of the guy wires anchoring the after mast. Breathing a silent prayer, he shinnied up the taut rope and dropped down to the second-class promenade, well behind the spectators watching the party below.