Paddy grunted his acknowledgment and moved on. It was risky to mingle with White Star employees. But only the dead could lie still in a closed box day and night. There were personal necessities that could not be shut off with a switch: eating, drinking, going to the water closet. And the most urgent need of all — to do something, anything, to keep from going barmy.
With the crew scouring the passenger areas for the stowaway, this was the place for Paddy — below the waterline, in the Titanic’s working guts.
More firemen gathered around, the dipper passed from mouth to mouth. They were tough, these stokers, even by Belfast standards. But their work was tougher still, shoveling quantities of coal that stretched to infinity, feeding a ship that was as insatiable as it was unsinkable. The members of the black gang were almost pathetically grateful for a draught of water and a small respite from their back-breaking labor.
As Paddy scanned his ash-covered customers, he was surprised to find a familiar face. The man was older, his eyes deeper-set, the soot of dozens of boiler rooms etched permanently into the lines of his skin. But the features were Alfie’s.
“You’re Alfie’s dad!” Paddy blurted without thinking.
At the mention of his son, John Huggins softened instantly. “You know my boy?”
“He saved my life, he did,” Paddy replied readily. It was a fact. Without Alfie, Paddy would have been thrown overboard by Gilhooley and Seamus.
John Huggins’s pride glowed right through the layers of caked-on black. “Do tell, lad.”
Paddy grew wary. The more he said, the more questions he would invite. A fugitive needed to be invisible — not the center of attention.
He hefted his bucket and banged the dipper against the side. “Water!” he barked. “Who needs a drink?”
More stokers swarmed, and Paddy was able to melt into the crowd. He worked his way aft, through the hatches that accommodated the Titanic’s watertight doors, and eventually found a ladder up and out.
He slumped against the bulkhead and slid down to the deck, bucket and all. What a relief to be out of that fiery place! The most luxurious ship in history, yet the biggest luxury was simply being able to breathe.
A familiar voice reached him from the far end of the passageway. “Five hundred nineteen miles! Are you certain, Joseph?”
Paddy jumped up, chagrined. In his relief at escaping the searing heat of the boiler rooms, he’d neglected to ensure that no crew members were around. He looked over to see Mr. Thomas Andrews himself, the Titanic’s architect, embroiled in conversation with one of the engineers.
“That was the official number, from noon Friday to Saturday,” the engineer was saying. “You’ve built us a right racehorse, sir.”
“That would make our speed” — Andrews performed the calculations in his head — “a hair better than twenty-one knots. And with two fires yet to be lit.”
All at once, his eyes fell on Paddy. “Why, hello.”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” Paddy ducked his head and took a step back toward the access ladder to the boiler rooms.
“Have no fear, lad,” the designer said kindly. “I’ll not be reporting you for shirking your duty. I know the heat of the furnaces as well as any man. To take a wee break to cool off the burning of the skin — that’s no crime.”
There was a quality to Thomas Andrews that was nothing short of amazing. Here he was, the most celebrated shipbuilder in the world, a successful man with vast responsibilities. Yet he always had time for the lowliest greaser or scullery maid. Back in Belfast, he had patiently taken time to answer the questions of two ragged street urchins. He had even challenged Daniel to design a way to sink his unsinkable ship.
Through the coveralls, Paddy tapped his breast, and felt Daniel’s folded drawing there. Now was the perfect opportunity to show it to the very audience it had been created for. But then Paddy would be arrested as a stowaway. Besides, what good could it possibly do for poor Daniel, who was already dead?
Mr. Andrews peered at Paddy in sudden interest. “Have we met before?”
Paddy hurriedly lowered his eyes. “Engine crew, sir.” He held up the bucket. “I bring water to the men.”
The designer nodded, frowning. “Funny, I thought I knew you from somewhere else.” And he and the engineer disappeared around the corner on the way to other urgent business.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RMS TITANIC
SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912, 2:50 P.M.
Alfie was well acquainted with the baggage hold. In the many hours he had spent there, searching for the source of the Jack the Ripper scrapbook, he had learned the locations of most of his passengers’ luggage. It was the work of but a few moments to find the Bronson trunk and open it with the shiny metal key Mrs. Bronson had provided.
He lifted the lid. There was surprisingly little clothing for two first-class ladies. Instead, the majority of the space was taken up with large bundles of printed pamphlets, brochures, and posters blazoning the slogans of the suffrage cause. VOTES FOR WOMEN NOW! declared one. Another proclaimed: 2ND CLASS CITIZENS NO LONGER! There were also handbills advertising rallies all across England featuring Amelia Bronson. No wonder Sophie’s mother had crossed the ocean just to make a few speeches. She was her movement’s shining beacon.
He removed an armload of literature and locked the trunk again. That was Alfie’s errand in the hold — to fetch a selection for Mrs. Bronson. Before returning to the upper decks, he slipped under the netting that secured the Astors’ luggage. “Paddy, are you awake?” he whispered. “I’ve brought you some bread.”
He eased open the lid of the linen trunk and peered inside. The outline of Paddy’s compact frame was evident in the fine fabric. The stowaway himself was nowhere in sight.
It was not a great shock — no one could be expected to spend days on end lying in a steamer trunk. But it was worrisome just the same — for Paddy’s sake and also for Alfie’s. If the stowaway were to be caught, Mr. Lightoller’s first question would likely be, “Who has been helping you?”
Alfie found Mrs. Bronson on the enclosed promenade on B Deck, seventy vertical feet above her luggage. There she stood, resplendent in purple, white, and green, in the company of her daughter and Juliana.
“The pamphlets you wanted, ma’am,” he panted, out of breath from the climb.
“Thank you, Alfie. I’m sure the major will find these very enlightening.”
“The major?” Sophie was amazed. “These are for Major Muttonchop?”
Her mother nodded. “He specifically asked for them.”
“You’re fooling yourself. His interest in suffrage is nothing more than a ploy to ensnare you to listen to his war stories, his hunting stories, his school stories, and everything else that’s happened to him since he graduated from the cradle.”
“I’d like to read one,” Juliana ventured timidly.
Mrs. Bronson beamed at the prospect of a new recruit. “May you never know the humiliation that your mother and grandmother continue to endure,” she said, handing over a selection of leaflets.
“If I were you,” Sophie offered, “I wouldn’t show those to your father. His lordship doesn’t strike me as the suffrage type.”
“In that case, definitely show them to your father,” her mother countered. “You cannot expect real change unless you’re willing to shake things up a bit.”
Sophie sniffed. “Is that why you spend so many of your nights in prison cells?”
The suffragist was untroubled. “A prison cell is far more agreeable to me than the ridiculous, unnecessary comforts of this ship — if it means I’m getting attention for the cause.”
“The one in London had rats,” her daughter reminded her with a shudder.
“There are worse things than rats, Sophie. Pigheaded men who are keeping half the population as second-class citizens come to mind.”
“Excuse me.” Junior Steward Tryhorn approached the group and took Alfie aside. “He wants you,” he said in a low voice.
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Alfie smiled apologetically at the three ladies and turned his attention to the newcomer. “He? Who?”
“Masterson. He asked for you by name.”
Alfie’s heart sank into his boots. This was it, then. If Mr. Masterson had sent for him, the purpose was surely to denounce him to one of the officers. His future as a White Star Line employee — and Da’s crewmate — was over.
“Where is he?” Alfie asked finally. “Was there anyone with him? Mr. Lightoller, perhaps?”
“He’s in his stateroom,” Tryhorn replied. “He rang for a steward, and when I arrived, he was his usual charming self. He threw me out and demanded you. The old rotter!”
“You’re the lucky one,” Alfie groaned. “I have to deal with the man.”
The irony of it was enough to make him weep. He was about to be condemned and ruined by Jack the Ripper!
He sighed. “All right, I’ll go. But if you don’t hear from me, send out a search party.” He faced Mrs. Bronson, her daughter, and Juliana once more. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, Mr. Masterson requires my attention.”
“Take along a chair and a whip,” Mrs. Bronson advised darkly. “That’s a nasty piece of work if ever I met one.”
Sophie was shocked. “Mother! What an unkind thing to say!”
“It’s not unkind if it’s the truth. I see the way that man looks at me — at all women. He hates us.”
“I admit that he’s not the nicest person aboard,” Sophie conceded. “But it can’t be easy to be him. He’s probably in pain every time he tries to walk.”
“I understand suffering,” Amelia Bronson replied. “Woman-hatred is a separate matter. It is the product of a sick mind. Don’t turn your back on him, Alfie dear.”
As he trudged up the companion stairs to A Deck, Alfie wondered how seriously he should take Mrs. Bronson’s warning. She certainly had an instinct for the evil that emanated from Mr. Masterson. After all, Jack the Ripper was the most notorious woman-hater of all time.
And now he has every reason to be angry with me….
Of course, the man was old and crippled now. But his upper-body strength was nothing short of miraculous. Alfie would do well to stay alert behind the closed door of stateroom A-17.
That door appeared before him, and he knocked lightly.
“Enter,” came a gruff voice. “What took you so long? You had a more pressing engagement?”
Alfie stepped inside, making sure to leave the stateroom door open. “How may I help you, sir?”
Masterson sat in an overstuffed armchair, his crutch close at hand. He looked up defiantly. “I require your assistance to get on with my day.”
The wave of relief nearly knocked Alfie flat. For some reason, this disagreeable old beast did not intend to turn him in for his rudeness earlier on. There was only one thing that didn’t make sense.
“Steward Tryhorn is assigned to you, sir. He is more than capable of seeing to your needs.”
“That ninnyhammer?” the old man scoffed. “He can barely see to his own needs. I want you.”
Alfie swallowed hard. “I had the impression that you found my service unsatisfactory.”
“You’re not paid to form impressions,” Masterson growled. “Still, you’re the only person on this gilded barge with any backbone. I like that.”
Alfie shut his eyes for a brief dizzy moment. To be liked by Jack the Ripper! Oh, what would Mum say?
“Thank you, sir. I’m happy to be able to be of assistance.”
The old man laughed. “No, you’re not. You’d like to take my crutch and beat me over the head with it. Admit it. You think I don’t know I’m a cantankerous old louse? You try dragging yourself around on two gammy legs and see how sunny your disposition is.”
Alfie began tidying the nightstand, straightening pill bottles and laying out fresh handkerchiefs. It helped not to be looking at Masterson directly. It was hard to carry on a conversation while gazing into those hooded cobra eyes.
“Might I ask you, sir,” Alfie ventured, “how long you’ve had this regrettable condition? Have you always been thus?”
“No, not always, more’s the pity. Many years ago, I was a strapping young lad going about my business. I don’t even remember what spooked that horse — some say lightning. The passengers in the carriage were both killed. They were the lucky ones. I was crushed under the wheels. Spinal damage.”
“You were the lucky one,” Alfie said seriously. “You have your life.”
“You call this a life, boy?” Masterson spat. “Twenty-four years ago, I was doing important work! Accomplishing something! Without it, I’m less than a man.”
Important work! The words chilled Alfie to his core. Could Jack the Ripper have looked upon his killing spree as a mission? If it hadn’t been for that carriage accident, the grisly Whitechapel murders might have continued!
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he managed at last. “But you do have your visit to America to look forward to. That should be pleasant.”
“This is no pleasure trip, boy,” Masterson barked. “I’ve been in correspondence with a doctor in New York who thinks he can cure me!”
Silent horror whispered over Alfie. “Cure you?” he echoed faintly.
“I have hopes,” Masterson admitted. “Of course, I am no longer young. But to be me again, to be free of this prison of my own body! If America could give me this gift, there is nothing I would not offer in return!”
Alfie’s mind raced. What would it mean if Mr. Masterson were to be cured and suddenly turned loose upon the city of New York? Would he resume the “important work” that had ceased twenty-four years ago because of his accident? Would America begin to have its own Whitechapel murders?
“In fact,” the old man went on, “I have a message for my American doctor for you to take to the Marconi room.” He handed Alfie a folded note. “See that this is sent immediately.”
As Alfie ascended into the brilliant sunshine of the boat deck, he cradled the paper in his trembling hands as if it were an explosive device.
A message from Jack the Ripper!
Barely daring to breathe, he opened the page and peered at the contents.
Arriving Titanic Wednesday. Expect office visit Thursday, poss. Friday. Masterson
Alfie was almost disappointed. It was just a man confirming an appointment.
Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling that, by sending the Marconigram, he would be aiding in the rebirth of the dreaded Whitechapel murderer.
Yet he had no choice but to do it. Mr. Masterson would expect to see the receipt from the Marconi company.
Oh, Mum, if you only knew what your son has gotten himself into!
Aboard the Titanic, even the wireless room looked luxurious, with dark paneling and thick, elegant carpets. Although the tables were cluttered with transmitters and receivers, they were ornate French pieces of the highest quality.
Normally, only one operator at a time manned the equipment. But today, both Jack Phillips and Harold Bride were busy sending messages, their fingers working furiously, tapping out Morse code. Neither noticed Alfie in the doorway.
He cleared his throat. “I have a Marconigram from Mr. Masterson in A-17.”
“It’ll have to wait,” said Phillips without looking up.
Alfie shuffled uncomfortably. “Mr. Masterson is not the sort of gentleman who waits patiently. Or quietly.”
Bride indicated an enormous stack of messages skewered on a metal spike marked outgoing. “Every well-heeled toff aboard this ship wants to make sure his well-heeled friends and business associates know that he’s on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. When the Astors and the Guggenheims and the Strauses and all the others have had their expensive say, your Mr. Masterson will have the privilege of spending too much money to communicate very little to someone very far away.”
Tight-lipped, Alfie impaled his message on the spike. Mr. Masterson wouldn’t like this. “Will you deliver the receipt?”
“Oh, certainly!
” snorted Bride. “We’ve got loads of time for that. That’s the part where I stick a mop handle up my trousers so I can swab the deck while I’m running!”
“Don’t mind him,” Phillips said. “He doesn’t like being overworked unto death.” He held out a handwritten sheet to Alfie. “Listen, old man, will you take this message to the bridge for me? All ice warnings have to go to the captain directly.”
Alfie read the time notation. “This is from three hours ago!”
“Well, this one’s fresh,” put in Bride, handing over another sheet.
Alfie scanned it. “How much ice is out there?”
Phillips shrugged. “Could be the same berg being reported by two different ships. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. April’s the time for ice. The Arctic gets warmer, the glaciers calve — it happens every year.”
There was a sudden series of pops. Sparks flew, electricity sizzled. A billow of smoke engulfed the equipment.
Bride cursed. “Not again!”
His partner waved a sheaf of Marconi forms in an effort to clear away the cloud.
“I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping tonight,” Phillips groaned. “It’s going to take hours to put this back together.” He turned to Alfie. “Go! And tell them the wireless is down again.”
Alfie took the short walk forward to the bridge.
Fourth Officer Boxhall was at the wheel. Also present were Mr. Lightoller, Captain Smith, and J. Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the White Star Line.
Lightoller noticed the young steward first. “And you are —?”
“Alphonse Huggins, sir.”
The second officer’s heavy eyebrows rose. “Huggins, is it? So you’re the one the stowaway mentioned. How might you explain that he knew your name?”
“Maybe he saw it on a crew manifest,” Alfie suggested timidly.
Lightoller grunted. “And what’s your business on the bridge, Huggins?”
“Trouble in the Marconi room,” Alfie reported. “Mr. Phillips said it will take several hours to repair.”
The second officer emitted a short mirthless laugh. “If men were meant to communicate across oceans, the good Lord would have given us louder voices.”