Unsinkable

  At last they left the staircase and Alfie escorted the girls into the baggage hold.

  Sophie surveyed the endless stacks of trunks and crates and whistled in amazement. “Who brought all this? The hatboxes alone would fill the Grand Canyon!”

  “We can hardly be expected to travel without the necessities of life,” said Juliana stiffly.

  Sophie laughed. “How many hats did you bring?”

  “Spring weather in New York can be unpredictable —”

  “How many?”

  “Eleven,” Juliana said defiantly — and then giggled.

  “And this is only first and second class,” Alfie put in, leading them through the maze of baggage. He stopped at a tower of crates secured by netting and reached in through the slats of one marked Galerie Gavroche, Montmartre, Paris. They waited as he drew out the scrapbook and placed it on the flat side of a trunk before them.

  Juliana was appalled. “You dare to rifle through people’s belongings?”

  “No, no! I found this! It must have fallen out of somebody’s luggage. Please — take a look.”

  The girls began a slow perusal of the heavy pages, their faces twisting with revulsion at the description of such grisly crimes.

  It dawned on Juliana first. “This is about the Whitechapel murders — the man they call Jack the Ripper!”

  Alfie nodded eagerly. “So you’ve heard of him.”

  “Of course,” said Sophie. “Even in America. Some stories are so awful that they never fade away. Especially since the Ripper was never caught.”

  “Exactly!” Alfie exclaimed. “This is his scrapbook. He’s aboard the Titanic!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Juliana. “He’s probably long dead. The murders stopped decades ago.”

  “Then how do you explain the scrapbook?” Alfie challenged.

  “Why would you have to?” Sophie reasoned. “This book is a record kept by some person who was fascinated by the killings. It could belong to anybody.”

  “I don’t think so,” Alfie said gravely. “The details written in the margins — only someone who was there could know these things. And there are” — he hesitated — “souvenirs.”

  Juliana was wary. “What sort of souvenirs?”

  “Look.” He leafed forward to reveal a square of fabric obviously cut with a knife. “This piece of cloth comes from Annie Chapman’s dress. I think the brown stain is old blood. It gets worse. There are” — he shivered — “human teeth. All displayed like it’s something to be proud of.”

  Sophie’s eyes were wide. “It still doesn’t prove that we’re dealing with Jack the Ripper. I admit it’s someone loathsome — with a sick mind, who admires a rampaging butcher enough to create a scrapbook in his honor.”

  “And this person is on board?” Juliana demanded. “Not in first class, certainly!”

  “Money doesn’t stop a man from being horrible,” Sophie reminded her gently. “Or a woman.” Equality in every way — Amelia Bronson’s motto.

  Juliana looked haunted. “Whether it’s the real Ripper or not, it’s frightening! Whose book could this be?”

  “I spend all my spare time down here, trying to learn exactly that,” Alfie promised. “It must have fallen out of a torn satchel or an open trunk. When I find which one, it’ll be tagged with a cabin number, and that’ll tell me the name. Then I can alert the captain, and have the monster thrown in the brig.”

  The girls stared at him.

  “Think of it,” he went on. “When we steam into New York with Jack the Ripper behind bars, this ship will be on the front page of every newspaper in the world!” His eyes were shining with excitement. “People will be talking about the maiden voyage of the Titanic a hundred years from now!”

  He was interrupted by a scraping sound. The wheel on the hatch to the fireman’s passage began to turn slowly.

  “Somebody’s coming!” Alfie rasped.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RMS TITANIC

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1912, 11:35 P.M.

  Alfie put a hand on each girl’s shoulder and lowered all three of them into the shadowed hiding place behind a stack of luggage.

  Juliana and Sophie hid their faces. But Alfie watched, barely daring to breathe, as a slender, compact figure stepped into the baggage hold. He saw the steward’s uniform first, before the newcomer turned and light fell on his face.

  Paddy Burns.

  Alfie’s first reaction was relief. This could just as easily have been Second Officer Lightoller on an inspection. Mr. Lightoller was a hard man, and the consequences would have been dire. What luck that the person who had stumbled upon them should be the one soul aboard this ship who dared not try to turn him in.

  But there were complications. He couldn’t let Juliana and Sophie learn that he was aiding and abetting a stowaway. That was a serious crime, far worse than sneaking two first-class young ladies down to the baggage hold.

  Sophie got his attention and mouthed the words, “Who is it?”

  “Another steward,” Alfie whispered. “Just stay hidden.”

  As they watched, Paddy prowled the hold, checking luggage tags. Alfie looked around, plotting a line of retreat through the canyons of baggage. It would be so much simpler if Paddy never learned they were there.

  The stowaway was only a dozen feet away and approaching, still checking tags.

  “Should we run?” Juliana murmured, scared.

  Alfie didn’t dare answer. Paddy was that close. It was too late for escape, or even a different hiding place. All they could do was stay frozen and hope for the best.

  Ten feet away. Then eight …

  At almost the same instant, a cold hand from each girl squeezed Alfie’s fingers. Paddy was almost upon them!

  And then he stopped short. A small knife appeared in his hand, and he sawed a hole in the netting securing the baggage in front of him. A few seconds later, he withdrew a small trunk from the pile and started away with it.

  “He’s stealing!” hissed Juliana in anger.

  “I’m sure he’s just fetching it for one of his passengers,” Alfie explained lamely. He knew this could not be true as surely as he knew that Paddy was no steward. What was the boy up to? He’d promised Alfie that he wouldn’t steal, but what was the word of a stowaway worth?

  Paddy set the trunk down in a clear spot under an electric light and began picking at the lock with the tip of his knife.

  In scarcely an instant, the padlock was open and the lid lifted. Paddy began to rummage through the contents, searching for … what? Money? Jewelry? Then, inexplicably, he shoved everything back inside and slammed the cover shut. With great effort, he heaved the trunk up on his shoulder and maneuvered it to the spiral staircase. He began an unsteady climb.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Juliana was on her feet. “We have to follow him!”

  Alfie stared at her. “Why?”

  “Because,” she replied primly, “it is the duty of every good citizen to take action in the face of lawlessness.”

  “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” Sophie put in uneasily.

  “I’m going to confront him,” Juliana insisted. “The next piece of baggage he steals could be mine. Or yours.”

  She started for the spiral stairs. Sophie was right behind her.

  With a groan, Alfie stuffed the scrapbook back into its hiding place and followed them. It was his fault the girls were here at all, and he couldn’t let anything happen to them. He couldn’t let anything happen to Paddy, either. Somehow, he had intertwined his fate with a group of strangers, and it was too late to untangle himself.

  Stealthily, they listened to the vibrations of Paddy’s footsteps on the metal stairs above them. Then, abruptly, the vibrations ceased.

  “He stopped,” Sophie whispered.

  Alfie shook his head. “That’s not it. He got off — at E Deck, I think.”

  The three sped up to E Deck. Alfie peered through the hatch just in time to catch a glimpse of Padd
y struggling down the passageway with his burden.

  Alfie made a snap decision. “This way,” he said, pointing in the wrong direction. His life would be so much simpler if he could get the girls back to their cabins. Then he could worry about what Paddy was up to.

  “No,” said Juliana. “I saw him. He’s down this passageway.”

  Resigned, Alfie led the girls along the narrow, unadorned corridor.

  “Where are we?” asked Sophie, scanning the stark white paint over plain metal fittings, rivets exposed.

  “Crew quarters,” Alfie whispered in reply.

  An open door revealed a double row of bunk beds. A buzz of male conversation spilled out into the passageway. But luckily, no one noticed them slinking by.

  Dead ahead, another passage crossed the ship abeam.

  “Which way should we go?” Sophie asked anxiously.

  Juliana hesitated uncertainly. From the port side, a cold draft blew relentlessly toward them. Almost as if —

  “Could a window be open down there?” she asked.

  They turned left, jogged around a bulkhead, and stopped in their tracks, gaping in amazement. The corridor wound past a staircase and widened into a small atrium — the reception area for boarding second-class passengers. A heavy hatch provided access to the embarkation gangway. It was wide open, and the black Atlantic sped by below.

  Paddy knelt there, the lid of the trunk flipped back. He was pulling trousers and shirts out of it and flinging them overboard into the sea.

  “Stop that!” Juliana commanded.

  Paddy looked up, but the pace of his tossing never slackened. “Begging your pardon, miss, but see to your own plate.”

  Sophie was genuinely intrigued. “Very well — so you’re not stealing. But what are you doing? Why would you risk arrest by taking some poor person’s belongings only to drop them into the ocean?”

  A darkness passed over Paddy’s face. “This is no ‘poor person.’ He’s a heartless assassin, he is. This stuff belongs to the gangster who killed my best friend. At least it used to.” A ghost of a smile flashed across his young features as he flung some fine linen underwear into the night. “Now it belongs to the fish.”

  “Why should we accept the word of a thief?” Juliana demanded.

  In answer, Paddy reached into the trunk and produced a large black pistol.

  Both girls retreated behind Alfie.

  “Come on, Paddy,” the young steward urged. “Put that down.”

  “I’ll do better than that, I will.” Paddy tossed the weapon out the open hatch.

  “You called him Paddy,” Juliana accused breathlessly. “You know him!”

  “Well, uh, yes, but —”

  “When were you planning to share that with us?” Sophie demanded.

  “Paddy isn’t a member of the crew, strictly speaking,” Alfie mumbled.

  “What is he, then?” Juliana asked scornfully. “A stowaway?” Alfie’s shamefaced look told the whole story. “He is! You’re harboring a stowaway!”

  Paddy looked at her defiantly. “How easy it is for you to point your finger at me, standing there in those fine clothes with a good dinner in your belly. And I’ll wager those eardrops are real diamonds!”

  Juliana’s hands flew to her ears.

  “You’re right,” said Sophie, almost kindly. “Neither of us has lived your life. Why don’t you tell us about it?”

  “Not much to tell, is there?” Paddy replied stiffly. “I had every right to walk away from a stepfather who mistook my face for a punching bag. Daniel and I may have been hungry in Belfast, but we looked after each other. Did we steal? That we did, because starving to death was the only other choice. And I’d be right there still, happy with my lot, if Kevin Gilhooley hadn’t killed Daniel and tried to kill me, too.” He smiled grimly. “The fact that Gilhooley had a ticket on the same ship I stowed away on — well, I guess that’s just what they call the luck of the Irish.”

  Soft-hearted Sophie was liquid with sympathy, but Juliana’s expression remained stone.

  “And you expect us to believe someone who jettisons a man’s property and leaves him without a change of clothes to put on his back?”

  “Oh, no, miss,” said Paddy in mock seriousness. “I would never be so hard-hearted.” From the open trunk, he produced a snowy white dress shirt — the sole item remaining — and spread it out on the deck in front of him. Then, from his back pocket, he pulled a shiny Waterman fountain pen. Squeezing the rubber reservoir and dragging the nib across the fabric, he wrote a single word in indelible black ink. At last, he held up the garment to show the others:

  MURDERER

  He fluttered the shirt to dry the ink, then folded it neatly and placed it back in the trunk.

  Alfie rushed over and closed the hatch. “Paddy, you’re daft!”

  Paddy turned to Juliana. “Well, fancy lady, I suppose you’ll be wanting to report me to the captain now. Alfie knows where to look for me. Then they’ll throw me in the brig, and Gilhooley can come and kill me at his leisure.”

  He hefted the trunk, which weighed almost nothing now, and walked past them into the depths of E Deck.

  Sophie turned pleading eyes on her friend. “Julie, you mustn’t turn him in! It could cost him his life!”

  Alfie regarded her in trepidation. It was hard to judge what the girl might do. Certainly, anything that harmed Paddy would damage him as well. Juliana didn’t seem like a cruel person. But she was so mired in the world of lords and ladies that she had no idea of the hard choices ordinary people had to make.

  Finally, Juliana spoke. “I wish to return to my stateroom, please.”

  “Promise you won’t tell!” Sophie persisted.

  “At once,” said the daughter of the seventeenth Earl of Glamford.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  RMS TITANIC

  FRIDAY, APRIL 12, 1912, 8:05 A.M.

  Black lines floated through Paddy’s mind … pencil lines?

  A long shape sharpened into focus — the Titanic! This was Daniel’s sketch!

  Yes, Patrick, Daniel’s voice resounded in his head. And you’d best take a good look at it.

  Do you think an hour ever passes that I don’t? Paddy challenged. What does it mean? Help me, Daniel! I’m not clever like you!

  Look harder! Daniel commanded. You’re clever enough to put your fingers on the purse of any man in Belfast! You have to open your mind.

  I can’t!

  “Open it!”

  The sharp words cut right into Paddy’s dream, punctuated by loud banging. He shifted his position in the front seat of the motorcar. It may not have been luxury accommodations for the swells in first class, but he had slept in worse places.

  “Hush, Daniel,” he murmured.

  “Open!” roared the voice.

  Suddenly, the automobile door was yanked wide, and Paddy tumbled out onto the floor of the cargo hold. He lay in a heap, blinking sleep out of his eyes, trying to focus on the sailor glaring down at him.

  The man was older, red-faced, with an air of command. And definitely angry. “What are you up to, boy? Catching forty winks while the rest of us do our jobs?”

  “N-no, sir!” Paddy stammered, his mind working furiously on an explanation of what he might be doing in the front seat of a Renault automobile in the cargo hold. Obviously, he wasn’t catnapping on the job — he had no job. But the truth was even worse!

  You’re a brainless one, Paddy Burns! You should have known that you might slumber late after last night’s adventure!

  “I’ll have you on my report for this!” the outraged sailor stormed. “You’re not fit to wear that uniform!”

  You have no idea, Paddy thought, quaking inwardly.

  The tirade continued. “The company will dock your pay, just see if they won’t. What’s your name, boy?”

  Paddy hesitated. Should he flee? A quick survey of the hold revealed two other seamen. Could he outrun all three …?

  Suddenly, one of the younger men b
egan to curse.

  The senior sailor wheeled on him. “You keep a civil tongue in your head!”

  “Sorry, Chief. But we forgot to bring the cargo manifest.”

  The chief launched into a string of expletives far more colorful than the first, his angry words echoing throughout the hold and the lower decks. At last, he barked, “What are you waiting for? Go up to the quartermaster’s office and get it. And be swift about it! We’re already behind schedule, and the morning has barely begun!”

  Paddy sensed his opportunity. “I’ll fetch it for you, sir!” he offered quickly.

  The red face turned back to Paddy. “You?”

  “To make up for” — he gestured toward the car — “that.”

  The chief produced a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Go. Run!” He turned back to his men, muttering, “The whelps they hire on these days! Barely out of their mothers’ arms!”

  Paddy dashed to the spiral staircase and pounded up the metal steps, grateful to leave the chief and his crew behind. The life of a stowaway, he was beginning to realize, became increasingly difficult as the voyage went on. The Titanic wasn’t due in New York for five days. How would he ever keep himself hidden for so long? Especially with Kevin Gilhooley and Seamus on board.

  His mind whirled as he hurried along. Why am I rushing so? I don’t have to bring him the cargo manifest or anything else! The devil with him! The devil with all of them!

  Yet the more he thought of it, the more it made sense to complete the errand. The last thing he wanted was for that crew chief to complain about a mysterious young steward sleeping in the cargo hold. That would set off alarm bells all around the Titanic. Paddy’s life was hard enough without a ship-wide search for the boy who was impersonating a crew member.

  Somehow, he had to find the quartermaster’s office and bring the chief what he needed. But how was he to do that? The Titanic was a huge floating city, with nine decks, scores of passageways, and hundreds of rooms and compartments. He couldn’t wander the halls pleading for directions. That would be as suspicious as sleeping in the motorcar.

  Alfie! He would find Alfie, and his protector would tell him what to do. Even if the junior steward didn’t know where to find the quartermaster’s office, at least he could ask without drawing attention to himself.