Shipbuilder (30 page)

But she had to do something with the plans. She couldn't face fixing them; she didn't want to look at them. An idea began nibbling at her mind. After thinking about it for several weeks, she made a phone call. Then, on a conveniently windy day in November, with her head covered beneath her cloak, she walked alone through the streets, clutching a satchel, until she reached a Catholic church. This was a dangerous plan. But she could think of nothing else.

Inside, she paused and gazed at the elaborate beauty surrounding her. It really did evoke a sense of mystery or worship. A priest was coming her way and she stepped to meet him. "Good morning," she said, wondering if he expected a ritual greeting of some kind. "I have an appointment with Father McCarrey."

"Aye, welcome. I'll take ye to his office." The priest was young and polite, gesturing with a hand to have Casey follow him down a side aisle and through a door in the back. Father McCarrey's office was in a building connected to the main church by a long corridor, windowless, but with large overarching beams every twenty feet or so. He greeted her with that kind, dignified air she associated with clergy of all types, and she let him take her cloak and usher her to a comfortable chair in his office. He took the chair's mate, instructing his secretary to bring tea, then looked at her, fingers together and eyes twinkling.

"It's not often I get a Protestant visitor, Mrs. Andrews. Not planning on converting, are ye?"

She laughed in surprise. "No sir, I'm not. I don't have much interest in religion at all. I'm afraid I'm the bane of my husband's family."

"Well then," he leaned back in his chair, "Ye said on the phone ye wanted to discuss a gardening plan for the Catholic areas."

She nodded, licking her lips nervously. "You see, I'm in a bit of exile because of it." He raised his eyebrows and she tried to explain what had happened at the meeting, without getting into the history she had with Sloan. At the end, she picked up her satchel and pulled out the ripped pieces of the plan, looking up to catch the blink of surprise from Father McCarrey when he saw the pages. His expression was sad.

"Ach, lass. What a dreadful thing to do." He reached for the plans and moved to his desk, spreading the pages out and reassembling them. Casey sipped her tea and waited.

"What is it you're hoping for, Mrs. Andrews?" He spoke respectfully, looking at her from his spot behind his desk.

She went to stand in front of his desk, gazing at the pages, before touching a finger to the largest section. "I want to give them to you." Her gaze went to his face. "I want you to start your own horticultural society among the Catholics and engage them in this work."

He sighed. "Lass, the Catholic people are poor and struggling. Building gardens is for the rich."

Her brows lowered in puzzlement. "I know they're poor, Father. Yet, they're able to pay for grand church buildings. Gardens are an act of worship just as great. Better in fact, because they nurture the land and provide food, if you plant the right things."

He stared at her a moment, pursing his lips. Then he nodded, once. "All right. I'll see what I can do. I think you're right about it." He looked back down at the plans. "This is very generous of you. These plans are a work of art."

She nodded. "Thank you. I'll be happy to help any way that I can."

"I'll be in touch," he told her.

Chapter 32

June–November 1910

The workforce had more than doubled at the shipyard. Tom found it increasingly difficult to be as personally involved with them. He liked the men who built his ships, but he missed the easy camaraderie they used to have. Now there were thousands of workers he didn't even know.

Still, he had friends, and after lunch with George Cummings, he walked with him to the engine works. George was giving him a step-by-step report on North Down's latest cricket match, which Tom had missed, and they paused beside the foundation for one of
Olympic’s
huge boilers. "Taylor smashed it over, but I was out for a duck!" George shook his head as he retold the story. "We really needed you, Tommy. The whole season will be shot if you don't make it."

"Can't let that happen," Tom agreed, removing a report from a pocket and scanning it. "Jamie’s walking well now, and he'll need to start learning right away how to play the game." He held up a finger in mock seriousness. "I promise he'll only observe for the first few years. Too short for the team, I s'pose."

They both laughed, continuing on to George's office, going over the report Tom held. "We'll need to have that new hydraulic machinery installed by the end of the year. It's going to help immensely with the riveting; I want to have it available once
Olympic
is launched."

"It's on order," George started to explain, when a shout interrupted him. They peered over the catwalk, looking down on the boiler room floor. Two men were arguing and it was turning violent. The smaller man was a foreman; they could hear him explaining about an infraction and what it had cost the company. The bigger man kept shouting about his pay being docked, and he began shoving the foreman with quick, short jabs, pushing him against a spare boiler. By the time Tom and George reached the floor, the bigger man was swinging, a blow landing severely on the foreman's stomach.

Tom threw his coat into George's arms, reached for the fellow and landed an upper cut right on his jaw. The guy fell against a boiler and Tom stepped back, raising his fists in readiness as the man struggled to his feet. But George and a few others grabbed him just as he began a roaring lunge at Tom. His glare remained fixed on Tom, but he gave in to the men holding him, his jaw the only thing moving. Tom dropped his fists. "See him to the gate. We don't need troublemakers."

Tom turned away, as the workers dragged the man through the building, following directions from George. The foreman was still leaning against the boiler, barely recovered from the hit to his stomach. Tom joined him and together they sank to the floor, each catching his breath.

"Thank you, Mr. Andrews," the man said, shaking his head in shame. "I couldn't have done that."

"Aye, well." Tom rested his head against the boiler and gingerly rubbed his knuckles. "We don't usually hire supervisors on their ability to fight." He gestured toward the Administration Office. "Can you go let 'em know what that was about? You'll have to file a report."

"Aye," was the answer. "I got it all written down. He's a careless sort. Broke some expensive equipment just because he didn't want to follow the procedures. He was pretty blatant about it, too."

Tom nodded and stood, reaching down to help the smaller man to his feet. "See to it, then. And thank you for pursuing the matter. We've got too much to do to let a lazy worker get away with trouble." He watched as the man headed over to George's office and reflected that this kind of thing was happening more often. He was afraid they were losing control.

He had just returned to his office when the emergency klaxon went off, with the signal that a man was down. Tom's shouted "Dear God, not again!" blended with cries of dismay from the drawing office. Other shouts or groans could be heard from outside the office, as thousands of men reacted to what was the third emergency of the month, on the heels of one in May. All had ended in death.

Tom wondered, for a moment, if the angry worker had done more violence. He would almost prefer that, but as he raced through the drawing office, he knew it would make no difference. They had to get this workforce under control. He glanced toward George's office, but no. Men were looking outside, toward the ships.

Toward
Titanic
.

Tom ran to the yard. Men cleared a path for him as he pushed his way through the crowd. He didn't have to go far. On the deck, just a few feet from the ship, a small group was gathered around a body. Tom faltered at the sight of blood and flesh scattered around the victim, and his last steps were slow. There was no reason to hurry.

"John Kelly." The name was supplied by the foreman as Tom knelt next to him. "He fell from the slipway."

Tom stared at the body. "He's just a lad."

"He were nineteen, sir."

Tom glanced up to see the owner of the choked voice. Another lad, blinking rapidly through free-falling tears, stood twisting his cap. The boy didn't look at Tom. "We started workin' here the same day. His Ma always let me stay for supper."

Tom stood and put an arm around the boy, turning him away from the body. He saw a couple of men coming with a stretcher. "What's your name, lad?"

 "Danny O'Connor, sir."

"You can take the day off, Danny. Go home, if you need to. Or..." Tom paused, glancing toward the men approaching.

The boy noticed them, and swallowed hard, swiping a sleeved arm across his face. "I'd like to stay with 'im, sir, if I may. I... I should be there when 'is Ma finds out."

Tom nodded, patting the lad's back. He had to swallow hard himself, to clear the ache in his throat, so he could give orders. Lord Pirrie insisted that all accident victims be taken to the hospital, even if they were dead. Tom helped them get the body onto the stretcher--a miserable job, but the men who would have to clean off the deck would have an even harder time. George was taking charge of that part of things, so Tom went to get one of the firm's cars, kept on site for emergencies.

On the way, he spotted Ham. "Call Casey for me, will you? Ask her to meet us at the hospital." He hated to get her involved. She was five months pregnant, and he knew this would greatly upset her. But she would be furious if he left her out, and in truth, she was a real help. She would be there to talk to the mother, help with other children or with cooking--whatever needed to be done. He couldn't imagine how he'd gotten through these situations before marrying her.

But as the day went on, through all the painful confusion of helping the shocked mother deal with doctors and paperwork and funeral arrangements, another thought kept intruding. A thought that made him reel with fury and betrayal. But he blocked it off until he could get home and talk to Sam.

~~~

It was after ten before Tom and Casey limped into the house, having stayed with Mrs. Kelly until they were sure she was well taken care of. Casey had helped with the younger children until Mrs. Kelly’s sister arrived. The usual grapevine had made sure that all relatives and neighbors were aware of the tragedy, and by dinner, many of them had gathered at the Kelly home, bringing food and the comforting tumult of company.

Sam was waiting up for them in the parlor with his latest journal opened in his lap. He was staring into the empty fireplace, making no attempt to write. He looked up as they entered the room.

Tom stared at him a moment, fighting the rage he’d kept back all day. “Did you know?” he asked hoarsely.

Beside him, Casey started, caught unaware by his question. Sam returned the stare, not saying anything. Tom took another step toward Sam.

“Three this month, four in just two months. That has to be mentioned somewhere. Did you know these people were going to die, Sam?”

Sam was shaking his head, but he looked oddly guilty. “No. My god, Tom, no, I didn’t know.”

Tom took another step, hands clenched. “God damn it, Sam. This is not all just about me. It’s not all just about the sinking. People
die
, Sam, building these ships. If you know these things, you have to tell me. We have to stop everything we can.”

“I should have known.” Sam rubbed his face, wearily. “I’ve been sitting here trying to remember. I know it was told us at some point. And the memorial lists each person who died during construction, but I don’t remember the names. God help me, I should have known.”

“Stop it.” Casey stepped between them, near tears. “Both of you, stop it. Tom, Sam’s been trying to remember everything he can. Do you seriously believe he could have known this and not said anything?”

Tom’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. “Not deliberately. But we’ve got to do better. What else goes wrong with these ships? What else can we fix?”

“Labor issues, maybe?” She was suddenly angry and Tom stepped back as she rounded on him. “What’s wrong here is the upper-class notion that workers are expendable resources. Management doesn’t have to provide a safe environment, or living wages, because there are always more workers ready to replace the ones who die. Harland & Wolff does better than a lot of companies, but they don’t come close to the right environment. You want to provide safety training for workers? Training they take during work hours and get paid for? Extra safety equipment provided by the company? Safety procedures that are audited and everyone has to follow? Worker’s compensation for injuries or deaths? Giving them time to do their jobs safely instead of rushing to meet a schedule? Want to talk about asbestos? In twenty or thirty years, people are going to start dropping dead because of their exposure to it. Do you want to fix that?”

Stung, Tom looked from her to Sam. “Is that what we need to do? Is that what the company does in the future? All those things?”

Sam held out a hand as if to placate both of them. “Look, this is stuff it takes decades to accomplish. Casey, we can’t single-handedly tear down the social structure and rebuild it in our own image. You said it yourself. Harland & Wolf is way ahead of other companies with its safety practices. Give them credit, Case.” He rubbed his forehead. “So much of this is industry specific, too, and we tend not to think of dangers until they happen. This is exactly why the
Titanic
sank. A failure of imagination. Not imagining the dangers that could occur and providing a way to survive. It was before your time, Casey, but do you know about the fire in the Apollo space capsule in the sixties? Something as simple as a handle to open the door from the inside could have saved those men’s lives. But no one thought of it.”

“Even when they know, they ignore it if it costs too much,” she said bitterly. “They didn’t change the O-rings on Challenger. They didn’t do anything about the foam shedding on Columbia. Even these
Olympic
-class ships are going out without a double hull. All management decisions, made even though they knew of the dangers.”

Tom winced, but said nothing. Silence gripped them all, by turns accusatory, guilty, and hopeless.

Casey jerked suddenly with a spasm, reaching around to rub her back. Tom wilted as he watched her, pregnant and weary, but still full of passion. He took her in his arms and she slipped her own around him, hugging him tenderly. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m going to put you to bed. You’ve done too much today.”

She nodded, let go of him to drop a kiss on Sam’s head, and went to bed.

~~~

Work did not slow down, and on a late evening in August, Tom left the administration building to head home at last. Nine o’clock, and he had to be back before six in the morning. He was scrambling to have
Olympic’s
shell complete in time for the October launch date. There was a point in every ship’s development when he despaired that it would ever get done by the deadline. If one more vendor called him to ask for an extension…

He paused as a figure approached him, peripherally aware that there were a few other figures keeping out of sight in the shadows to his side. He was somewhat relieved to see it was Mike Sloan approaching. Trouble then, but not anything he wouldn’t live through.

“Mr. Andrews, do ye have a minute?” Sloan stood stiffly, with an offended air.

Tom thought of the figures waiting out of sight. “I suppose I do. What can I do for you, Mike?”

“Were ye aware, sir, that your wife has been visiting a Catholic church?”

Tom’s face scrunched in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about? I assure you we spend our Sundays together.”

But Sloan shook his head. “Not services, sir. During the week day. People noticed her a couple of times going into St. Patrick’s. Always alone, she is.” Sloan moved a step closer to Tom, who stood rooted to the spot. “Now I won’t suggest she’s working for Home Rule or anything like that. But she meddles, and if you’re honest sir, you’ll admit that. If ye weren’t already aware of it, we think it might be a good idea if you remind her of her place. For her safety, sir.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the man. “You’re coming to me with hearsay about my wife? You’ve no real proof it was even her. You call her a meddler? You are the meddler, Mike, never leaving people to live in peace.”

“There’s people willing to say it was her, sir.”

“I don’t care, Mike. You can come up with fifty people who’ll say what you want them to. Casey would not do something like that without discussing it with me. And my family, Mike,” Tom pointed a finger at him, “is not under your jurisdiction. You will not tell me what rules my family may or may not follow. Is that clear?”