Unsinkable (2 page)

“Mr. Andrews, sir” — Daniel was nervously worshipful — “is it true that the fourth smokestack is a fake?”

The shipbuilder looked surprised, and then he smiled. “Does the heart of an engineer beat inside that thin chest? Wherever did you hear about that?”

Paddy spoke up. “Daniel reads, Mr. Andrews. He even taught me a little.” Daniel’s interest in books and newspapers had bewildered Paddy at first. Why risk arrest to steal something that couldn’t put food in your belly? Now he saw that Daniel’s passion for reading was a hunger just as urgent as an empty stomach. Paddy didn’t understand it — not yet, anyway. But he knew it to be true.

“Impressive,” Andrews approved. “Well, boys, the fourth smokestack is not connected to the boilers, but you could hardly call it a fake. It provides ventilation. And, of course, it is a recognizable feature of both the
Titanic
and her sister ship, the
Olympic
.”

Daniel’s thin, pale face was almost alight with interest. “And she’s truly unsinkable?”

The shipbuilder chuckled. “Anything made of metal has the potential to sink. But see if you can understand this:
Titanic’s
hull is divided into sixteen compartments. At the touch of a single button on the bridge, the captain can close watertight doors, sealing those compartments from one another.” He paused. “She can remain afloat with any four of those sixteen compartments flooded. It’s safe to say that no one can envision an accident that would do more damage to her than that.”

“I can!” Daniel exclaimed eagerly.

Andrews’s eyes widened. “Do tell.”

“Well, I — I don’t know it right now, sir,” Daniel stammered in embarrassment. “But if you’ll give me a little time, I’m sure something will occur to me.”

The shipbuilder seemed amused, but also intrigued. “It might at that,” he agreed with a smile. “And if it does, I should be very interested to hear it.”

“He can do it, too!” Paddy put in. “Daniel’s really smart!”

Andrews’s smile grew wider. “Then I shall direct my staff that if a Master Daniel and companion should come calling, they are to be brought to me at once.”

The guard at the gate blocked the boys’ way. “Be off, you two!” he shouted. “And stop bothering Mr. Andrews!”

The shipbuilder made a point of shaking both boys’ grubby hands. “It’s all right, Joseph,” he said. “We were discussing business.” He tipped his bowler hat to them. “Gentlemen. I trust we’ll meet again.” And he disappeared into the bustling yard.

Paddy and Daniel stood there long after he was gone, astonished that such a great man had treated two street lads with kindness and respect.

CHAPTER TWO

LONDON

F
RIDAY,
M
ARCH
29, 1912, 11:45
A.M.

Piccadilly Circus was always one of the busiest areas of London. But today, busy was an inadequate description. Hundreds of horse-drawn carriages and automobiles powered by gasoline, steam, and electric motors were locked at a standstill in the roundabout. Klaxons honked, bells rang, and angry drivers and coachmen bellowed their frustrations at top volume. The traffic extended up the five main streets that fed the circle, especially choking crowded Regent Street. The cacophony of protest grew louder and louder. No one was going anywhere.

The cause of this huge disruption to London life was perched on the pedestal of the statue of Eros at the center of the roundabout. Mrs. Amelia Bronson of Boston, Massachusetts, the famous American suffragist, was holding a rally in the place where she
knew it would draw the most attention. Her strident voice, directed by a large cone megaphone, rose above the general din.

“Votes for women!”
she thundered, provoking a chant from the mass of female humanity, resplendent in the colors of their movement: purple, white, and green.

“Votes for women!”
they shouted back, making the air ring with their demand.

“Move out of the road, you shameless baggage!” bellowed a lorry driver.

Other cries echoed his sentiments, their words not so polite. London saw its share of political activism for a wide variety of causes, but not from women, who were expected to be obedient and demure. The “suffragettes” were considered unfeminine, rebellious, and even immoral. The crowd was growing ugly.

Fourteen-year-old Sophie Bronson reached up and tugged at the hem of her mother’s dress. “Mother —” she said in a low voice. And was ignored. “Mother —” A little louder.

“Not now, Sophie. Things are escalating.”

“I know they are,” her daughter replied. “This isn’t like Boston or Hartford or Providence. You can feel the rage in the air!”

“That rage is the tool men use to cling to an outmoded system where half the population is kept as second-class citizens!”

“Mother, you know as well as I do that most of
this
rage is from people who only wish to get on their way past Piccadilly Circus.”

Sharp whistle blasts bit into the chill air.

“Here come the police!” Sophie exclaimed. “You’re going to be arrested again!”

“I’m counting on it.” Amelia Bronson beamed. “I didn’t journey all the way to England to be ignored by the papers!”

Sophie groaned. “Then everything they say about you will be true. You really
are
a radical foreign agitator.”

“I am what I need to be for the good of our movement” was Amelia’s stalwart reply.

The bobbies came upon the throng — dozens of them, arresting the women en masse, shouting and shoving them roughly.

Amelia Bronson jumped down from the pedestal, held her arms out in front of her, and declared, “Go ahead, clap me in irons! Show the world and your own wives and your own mothers how you hate women!”

“Got nothing against women, mum,” said one
constable in a strained voice. “It’s American troublemakers what gives me a problem.”

He made to shackle her wrists, and a large Englishwoman ripped off his helmet by the chinstrap and began beating him with it. The constable wheeled on her and brought his truncheon down on the top of her head.

Sophie had resolved to stay out of the fray. Back at home in Boston, her father had assigned her such duties as keeping her mother out of prison and bailing her out of jail. But when Sophie saw the blood running down the face of the suffragist who had tried to defend Amelia Bronson, a red haze descended over her vision. She attacked the constable, leaping onto his back and wrapping her arms around his head. Her arrest followed hard upon.

Later, in the horse-drawn paddy wagon, Sophie was forced to endure the further humiliation of criticism from her mother as the prisoners all sat chained together by the ankles.

“Sophie, I’m very disappointed in you. You know better than this.”

Sophie stared at her mother. “You were arrested, too!”

“That was necessary for us to get the publicity we require for our movement,” Amelia Bronson lectured.
“It was a calculated decision made long before that policeman arrived on the scene. What you did was dangerous and unnecessary. It added nothing to the cause. And it will be very difficult for you to post my bond when you, too, are in a cell.”

Sophie shut her eyes and held her tongue. To the rhythm of the hoofbeats on the cobblestones, she counted the days until April 10, when she would finally get her mother out of England. She could never have imagined how difficult it would be to keep Amelia Bronson free of trouble without Father on hand. The only thing that kept her going was the anticipation of the exciting trip home. In less than two weeks, they would be sailing on the newest, largest, and most spectacular ship in the world, the RMS
Titanic.

CHAPTER THREE

SOUTHAMPTON

S
UNDAY,
M
ARCH
31, 1912, 9:40
A.M.

Posters of the
Titanic
adorned all four walls in the offices of the White Star Line — every conceivable image, from photographs of the shipbuilding process, through artists’ renditions of glorious ballrooms and dining saloons, to advertisements boasting of the luxury brand of soap used in the first-class water closets.

With the maiden voyage a scant ten days away, the place hummed with activity. People thronged the third-class ticket desk in search of last-minute passage, and the chatter of different languages filled the air as foreigners struggled to make themselves understood.

At the opposite end of the building, White Star officials were hiring hordes of waiters, stewards, maids, and laundry and kitchen workers. The
Titanic
offered features that had never been dreamed of on other ships. Employees were required to perform dozens of onboard functions, like trainers for the gymnasium and attendants for the swimming pool and Turkish bath. When the great ship set sail on April 10, she would carry nearly nine hundred crew members, most of whom would have nothing to do with the nautical operation of a ship.

One visitor, though, had business completely unrelated to the pride of the White Star Line. He was the youngest person in the office, thin and round-shouldered, practically swimming in a worn overcoat with patched elbows and frayed cuffs.

Fifteen-year-old Alfie Huggins stood at the paymaster’s wicket with his certificate of birth unfolded on the counter.

“According to company records,” said the clerk, looking down at him through thick glasses perched on the end of his nose, “your father’s pay goes to” — he squinted at the ledger in front of him — “Sarah Huggins.”

“That’s my ma,” Alfie explained, pointing out the name on the certificate.

“Well, just send her around and she can sign for the money.”

Alfie’s face fell. “I can’t.”

“Why not? Is she ill?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone? You mean dead?”

“Gone. And she’s not coming back.”

It was a tough thing to admit. Who knew why his mother had married his father in the first place? John Huggins was a stoker for the White Star Line. His wife was dreamy and silly and romantic, and her husband was away at sea all the time, leaving her with a young son to raise.

“And what’s your name again?” the clerk prompted.

“Alfie — Alphonse.” He indicated the paper once again. Ma was exactly the kind of person to name her only child after the hero in one of the French penny novels she loved so well.

And where is she now?
he wondered wistfully. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to stay mad at her for deserting him. For some reason, he pictured her crossing the continent on an exotic and glamorous train. The truth was probably more like a milliner’s shop in London, trimming hats with artificial flowers and braid. Whatever it was, he hoped she was happy.

The clerk’s voice interrupted his reverie. “I’m sorry, lad. Your name isn’t anywhere on these instructions. I can’t pay you.”

Alfie swallowed hard. “But how am I to feed myself, sir? I have no money at all.”

The clerk was sympathetic but firm. “It says here that your pa is signed on to the
Titanic.
Several of the
Olympic’s
engine crew are laying over in Belfast until the new ship is ready to sail. He should be here on Wednesday.”

Three days! Alfie’s heart soared. Of course, he would be proper hungry by then. But at least Da was coming home.

Still, if he was now part of the
Titanic’s
crew, he’d be gone again — Alfie checked one of the posters — on April 10.

And this time I’ll be alone like a dog in the street.

His eyes fell on the line of hopefuls waiting to be interviewed for the
Titanic
jobs.

When the solution came to him, it seemed so obvious it was a wonder he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

How do you stay with a seafaring father?

By sailing the same seas on the same vessel.

He folded up his certificate and stuffed it far into his pocket. Now all he had to do was lie a little about his age ….

CHAPTER FOUR

BELFAST

T
UESDAY,
A
PRIL
2, 1912, 3:30 P.M.

It had once been a printer’s shop — the ink-stained tables, metal rollers, and loose type attested to that. But to Paddy and Daniel, it was home.

This was not due to the comforts — there were none. It was because the missing bricks in the wall outside provided the footholds to climb to the fire stairs, which rendered convenient access to the loose board covering what had once been a window. The Palace Gate, they called it. The shop was no palace, but it was shelter from cold and damp weather. And it was a place of their own, which was more than two destitute street youths had any right to expect.