Titanic

“Rudy?”

  I was answered with more silence.

  “Dammit,” I cursed to myself, feeling Anton’s notebook under my jacket. “What am I going to do with this?”

  There was one person aboard who might know where I could find Rudy. I went back to the purser to get the LaRoe’s stateroom number.

  “She’s a family friend,” I quickly explained, trying to sound casual.

  “Edith LaRoe and her daughter are on A-Deck,” Purser McElroy told me. I committed the number to memory and hurried there, hoping to catch Faye returning from dinner.

  Luckily, she answered on the first knock.

  “Where were you tonight?” she asked. Faye looked pale and weary. Her expression was tense, as if she could sense trouble brewing. “Your stepfather wasn’t happy that you were missing.”

  “Something more important came up,” I said. “I need to talk to Rudy.”

  “He said I wouldn’t be able to find him today,” Faye said. “He’s in hiding.”

  “What?” I responded, galled by such a statement. “It’s a ship. Where could he possibly hide?”

  “He has German associates aboard,” she said. “That’s all I know. Last night, he told me he was in danger, and to be careful who I trusted. The dark gentleman is onto him.”

  She was talking about Anton. I subconsciously tightened my grip on his notebook.

  Faye’s eyes grew sad. “I doubt I’ll ever see him again when we land,” she said. “He wasn’t like the other men in first class. He told me jokes—bad ones, but they made me laugh. At night, he took me out to see the stars.”

  Her posture stiffened a bit. “I might even say I was falling in love with him,” she told me. “But that would be pretty foolish, wouldn’t it?”

  “Faye, don’t cry,” I said. “I’m working with Rudy against Anton. He’s not going to get away with hurting us. In fact, I need your help, too.”

  I handed her the notebook.

  “Can you keep this for the time being?” I asked. “If Rudy comes back, please give it to him.”

  Faye’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she examined the cover, with its ominous-looking black fist. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Anton’s the financier of an underground terrorist group,” I said. “Rudy can use that notebook against him. It’s incredibly valuable.”

  “I’ll keep it safe with me,” she agreed. “And John, if you see Rudy, can you tell him to please come to me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I promise.”

  Now that the notebook was in safe hands, I had one more mission to complete. Unfortunately, it was one that had to wait until late tonight, when Charles was in a sound, liquor-induced sleep.

 

  Seven

  The clock was nearing eleven when I stepped out into the frigid night.

  The Boat Deck was deserted, save for a lone crewman on the night watch. As I walked toward the stern, I spotted another lonely figure standing at the railing, head down. I recognized the dark curls and the long brocade skirt instantly.

  “Mother!” I cried. “What are you doing out here alone?”

  She didn’t turn to look at me, although it was obvious she recognized my voice. “Not now, John.”

  I walked up to her and put my hand on her shoulder. Even in the darkness, I could see clearly that she was crying.

  “Charles received a telegram,” she said before I could ask. “He’s in the smoking room, of course, but the steward brought it to our stateroom. He’s to meet with his lawyer when we get to Cleveland. He wants a divorce.”

  I said nothing. I still didn’t want to reveal the conversation I’d overheard in Mr. Rathbone’s stateroom, although time was running out. I had to confront Charles and save Mother before the Titanic docked in New York.

  “Why would he divorce me?” Mother wept. “I don’t know if it’s because I’ve given him no more children, or because of my ailment…” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Or it’s because of neither,” I interrupted. “Mother, Charles is a bad man. I know it. Sadie knows it. You have to know that by now, too.”

  “But I need him,” she said.

  “No, you don’t,” I replied. “Bridget has a letter that will ruin him. If I have to, I’ll turn it over to the newspapers myself.”

  “Besides, I’m your son. I’ll always support you.”

  She hesitated, looking away with shame. “We’re husband and wife in name only,” she said. “Charles has had mistresses for years. Other men’s wives, daughters of friends…the maids.”

  “Was Bridget one of them?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she responded, weeping. “All I know is that he planned to fire her, and then she up and left one day. I was shocked. Sadie was so fond of her.”

  “And Charles didn’t give you any clues about why she left?” I asked.

  “No. He was very secretive about the whole affair,” she said. “He was secretive about Lake Erie Steel as well. He thinks I’m stupid, but I knew he was in trouble, and that he had something to hide.”

  I shook my head, wishing I’d known all of this long ago.

  “And in the meantime, he was becoming more and more entangled with Anton,” Mother said. “When Charles and I went to his Gallery, he had dark men—Serbs—gathered downstairs, plotting. I heard a rumor they plan to assassinate the duke of Austria!” She gasped and widened her eyes at the memory. “That was when I knew I couldn’t trust him. He was giving money to people called—”

  “The Black Hand.” I unwittingly completed the sentence for her, not thinking before I spoke it.

  Mother turned to me open-mouthed. “How did you know that, John?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “Listen, Mother, you can’t go back to Charles tonight. It’s dangerous.”

  “I have nowhere else to go,” she protested.

  “Yes you do,” I said. “I have someone to meet, but go to my room and wait for me.”

  There was no response.

  “Do you promise to go to my stateroom?” I repeated. I was more insisting than asking.

  She stared out at the ocean. Then, slowly, she nodded.

  “I’ll be back in an hour, maybe sooner,” I said. “Lock the door and stay away from Charles. If you see him coming, run away. Is that clear?”

  She nodded again.

  “Go back inside,” I said as I turned toward the second class stairs. “It’s too cold for you to be out here all night.”

  The second class stairwell was eerily quiet. Occasionally I’d hear laughter, or a slamming door somewhere within the hallway. But as the clock passed eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, most of the passengers were retiring to bed.

  The third class decks were more alive. Passengers wandered up and down Scotland Road. I listened to their conversations, hoping one of them might have word of Bridget.

  “Hey, man, come up to the lounge!” one steerage man shouted to another. “We’ve got a poker tournament going. It should last the whole night long.” Another man stumbled by, visibly drunk and trying not to trip over his well-worn boots.

  Finally, I made it to cabin F-28 and knocked on the door. I could see through the cracks that the lights inside were still on.

  Mary answered. “You again!” she said, before turning her head inside and whispering, “It’s John Conkling.”

  Bridget appeared in the doorway. This time, she was wearing a long black coat, the embroidered shawl draped around her hair. She smelled like the cold ocean air, and her hair was wind-tossed.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” I said.

  She stepped out in the hallway and shut the door behind her.

  “What are you doing here? I don’t have the letter,” she said. She clutched the shawl tightly with one hand. “Jim has it still.”

  “I’m not here for the letter,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

  She stared up at me with fierce green eyes.

  “You don’t un
derstand,” she said. “I can’t talk to you. Jim won’t allow it. He heard what happened the other night, when we stood out on the deck for a long time, talking. He says I’m not to speak to you until we get the money, and never again after that. My brother’s all I have.”

  “Please listen to me,” I said. “You and Jim are in trouble, and so am I. Charles is dangerous.”

  Her glare intensified. “Is this all a trick?” she asked. “You sneak down here, saying you’re doing Mr. Conkling’s dirty work, and now you say you’re afraid of him? You promised Jim the money. I told him he was wrong about you, and—”

  She cut herself off suddenly, refusing to finish her sentence.

  “And why do you call him ‘Charles’?” she asked instead. “Is that some rich man’s game you play?”

  “I call him that because he’s not my father,” I replied.

  “What?”

  “He’s not my father,” I repeated. “My father died a decade ago. And he was nothing like Charles. My mother lost one husband, and now Charles is planning to divorce her and leave her with nothing.”

  Bridget squeezed her eyes shut for a moment as if she were in pain. Then she grabbed my coat sleeve. “Good God, come this way, will you?” she demanded.

  We went up the same flight of stairs we had taken two nights ago to the third class deck. Bridget didn’t talk until we stepped outside, with not a soul around to overhear us.

  “I want to know why you’re here,” she said. “You know Jim has the letter, and you’ll not be seeing it until he has the money in his hand. I tried to reason with him, but he would hear none of it.”

  “Charles isn’t going to give you the money,” I said, sucking in a deep breath. I might as well tell her now. “I overheard a conversation between him and his manservant. He said he’s going to get that letter, even if he has to kill for it. I think he means it. He’s already tried to poison my mother.”

  “He’s already tried to what?”

  “Please, I don’t want you to panic,” I continued. “I don’t know what Charles has planned for you, but get word to Jim not to meet with him under any circumstances. I’ll warn Jim myself, if it comes to that.”

  “We have to tell him now,” she said, her voice insistent.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s been in the lounge all night with Patrick, and Brendan and Barry.” She paused, remembering the way the boys had pummeled me on Friday. “Maybe I should go alone.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’ll tell him everything. I’m in the same danger from Charles that both of you are,” I said. “I’m not what he hoped for, even though he desperately wanted a son.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t make one with another woman, then,” Bridget said.

  I straightened my back. I thought of what Mother had told me on the Boat Deck.

  “Why did you run away from his house?” I asked. “Were you his mistress?”

  “Good God, no,” she replied. “But he tried. Oh, he tried. One night, while I was cleaning up after supper, he came up behind me and put his hands here.” She placed her palms on her lower back. “…He tried to kiss me. But I wanted nothing to do with him, and I told him so. He cursed at me and called me nasty words. He told me I was ungrateful.”

  Bridget shook her head with revulsion.

  “After that, he threatened to fire me,” she said. “Jim is the one who told me I had to leave; told me not to let Mr. Conkling use me like that. Not even for a decent wage and a roof over my head.” Her eyes glistened, and she hung her head for a moment.

  At last, she said, “I knew you weren’t his.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mr. Conkling’s,” she replied. “I knew from your portraits you didn’t look like him, not in the slightest. But it was something else, too, when I saw you coming down the stairs to the lounge. You’re not like him.” She looked up at me and loosened the shawl around her hair.

  “And I never will be,” I said.

  I put his hand on her waist. I didn’t think before I did it, but to my surprise, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she tugged gently on my jacket to bring my face level with hers, and her lips grazed mine.

  “What’s this?”

  Bridget and I spun around to find Jim standing on the deck, for once looking more shocked than angry. And for the first time, he was alone. Patrick and Barry were out of sight.

  Jim was clutching a brown package in his left hand.

  “Jim!” Bridget hissed, pulling away from me. “What are you doing here?”

  He was flabbergasted. “I’m here because we were supposed to be meetin’ here!” he exclaimed. “You convinced me to hand this over so you could get our cash.”

  “I don’t have it,” I said.

  “What do you mean you don’t have it?” He turned to Bridget. “What did I tell you? Conkling sent his boy down here to sweet-talk you and get the letter without sparing a dime for it. And now look at you. Are you kissing him? Bridie, you’re a fool.”

  I put my hands in the air. “Please, Jim, don’t get angry at her.”

  “Shut up,” Jim snapped. “The deal’s off. This letter will go to the New York papers as soon as we land.” He waved the package around for me to see. “Bridie, come with me.”

  She froze.

  “Bridie, get over here now,” he repeated forcefully.

  I grabbed Bridget around the waist as Jim stepped closer to us. For a moment I thought I felt the Titanic begin to turn. But it must have been my head spinning. If Charles didn’t kill me first, I was sure Jim would be honored to do so.

  “Get your filthy hands off of her!” Jim ordered. “Conkling, I’m warning you.”

  He reached into his pocket. When his hand emerged, I could see the moonlight glinting on the knife as he flipped the switchblade open.

  “Stop!” Bridget shrieked.

  As the cry escaped her mouth, the Titanic began to tremble and groan, as if we were running aground. I knew Bridget and Jim felt it, because they stopped talking, looking around for the source of the strange noise. Then, almost as soon as we’d noticed it, the ship began to vibrate. Jim’s knife clattered on the deck.

  “What the—”

  All of a sudden, I saw a white mountain coming right for us, so massive it towered as high as the Boat Deck.

  “Watch out!” I cried, jerking Bridget backward from the rail. She lost her footing.

  Chunks of ice crashed onto the deck. The mountain sailed by and took the sickening grinding noise with it.

  “Christ Almighty, that was an iceberg!” Jim exclaimed.

  I remembered the ice notices Harold Bride, the wireless operator, had delivered to the captain that morning. Captain Smith had dismissed him. He even mentioned that Bruce Ismay wanted to increase our speed.

  Within moments, the Titanic glided to a dead stop. The ship swayed in the ocean as the engines died. We had become accustomed to hearing the gentle hum of the ship, day in and day out, since we boarded. Now it was alarmingly quiet.

  The door to the deck burst open. My heart jumped. Charles! God, no!

  Instead, it was a steerage man standing in the doorway. “What was that?” he called. “We just felt a jolt up in the lounge. It knocked our beers clear off the table.”

  Jim waved his hand around at the deck. “Iceberg,” he replied gruffly.

  “Really, now?” the man called back. “Well that’s a sight you don’t see every day. I’ll have to tell the boys to come out and have a look.”

  Bridget looked down at the chunks of ice around her boots.

  “Why are we stopped?” she asked.

  The steerage men began pouring out onto the deck, excited to see what had caused the jolt. They began kicking ice back and forth playfully. Some picked them up and threw it to each other, playing catch.

  “Let’s go,” Jim said to Bridget a third time. “Conkling had his chance. The letter’s ours now.”

  “So keep the letter,” I said. “Give
it to the papers if you want. I’m not working with my stepfather anymore, and Lake Erie Steel means nothing to me now.”

  “Is that the truth?” he said, staring at me skeptically.

  “I have nothing to gain from lying.”

  “Hey Jim, how about some football?” another voice interrupted.

  It was the redhead Patrick. He nudged a chunk of ice with his foot, watching it glide in Jim’s direction. Then he pointed at me. “Hey, what’s that first class nancy-boy doing here?”

  “Not now, Pat,” Jim said impatiently. He turned back to Bridget. “I’m going back to my part of the ship to see what’s going on,” he said.

  Then he pointed at me.

  “And you,” he said. “Walk her back to her room. And just in case you turn out to be a good liar, I’m taking this.” He held up the envelope.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. A steward was on the deck now, corralling the men back inside. We followed them toward the doors.

  “I’ll come back to the stern to find you,” Jim said to Bridget at the top of the third class stairwell. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Whatever the crew tell you to do, do it. Don’t wait. If they send you up top, go.”

  Bridget bit her lip and nodded. Then they parted ways.

  There was no commotion on F-Deck. In fact, all of the doors were shut. If any of the women had noticed the jolt, it wasn’t enough to stir them from bed.

  Mary and Brendan were coming down the hallway, grinning and looking lighthearted.

  “Bridget!” Mary called. “Where did you go?”

  “Don’t ask,” Bridget replied sullenly.

  “Do you know why we’re stopped?”

  “Well, we just brushed by an iceberg,” Bridget replied. “The deck’s covered in ice. I don’t know why they killed the engines, though.”

  Both of the girls looked up at me for reassurance.

  “They’re probably making sure everything is in order down below before we keep going,” I said, having no idea whether it was true.

  A stern-faced woman rounded the corner. Bridget and Mary cringed.

  “Oh Lord, here comes the matron,” Mary muttered. “We better get movin’.”

  The matron began pounding on doors, flinging open the ones that were unlocked. “Everybody up!” she called inside the rooms. “Everyone get up and put your lifebelts on.”