Unsinkable (13 page)

Others would have panicked, but not Paddy Burns. He was used to living by his wits. “I’m waiting to escort a young lady to breakfast, sir.”

Lightoller frowned. “I didn’t ask what you’re doing. I asked for your name.”

“Junior Steward Alfie Huggins,” Paddy replied readily.

“John Huggins is a fireman on the black gang,” the coveralled man supplied. “His boy’s a steward.
And I’ll tell you, Mr. Lightoller, he’s not Irish like this one.”

Paddy was off and running before the second officer had a chance to react. He ducked inside the ship’s superstructure and scampered down the forward first-class staircase. He could hear running feet at the top of the steps, along with Lightoller’s voice: “Alert the bridge!”

Paddy got off at C Deck and snaked around the corner in a first-class passageway. He darted out to the promenade, sidestepped a young child playing with a hobbyhorse, and pounded aft, drawing stares from the handful of passengers on their way to breakfast. A companion staircase brought him down to D Deck, but no lower. The
Titanic
was laid out like a maze, designed to separate the three classes of service. It was easier to move from deck to deck than from fore to aft. Luckily, Paddy had been aboard before the ship had even taken on crew. He had used that time well, anticipating that a stowaway would need escape routes.

He paused, listening for signs of pursuit, and then found another staircase that led to E Deck. There, he made his way to Scotland Road, the longest passageway aboard. It was filled with crew, bustling this
way and that as the largest ocean liner in the world began her day. Since he was in uniform, too, he blended right in.

Walking now, he moved briskly astern, marveling at the
Titanic’s
sheer length. It would have been a stroll of a full sixth of a mile, had he not climbed back up to D Deck via a maintenance ladder. Now he was in the second-class part of the ship. Nobody was chasing him anymore, he was pretty sure. But if Lightoller had notified the bridge that he was pursuing a young imposter in a steward’s uniform, it was probably a good idea to avoid crew members as the word had a chance to spread. The intraship communications were the most modern in the world, with telephones in all main sections. News would travel quickly.

Running once again, he shot past the galley, bypassed the hospital, and was moving at a fast pace when he reached the reception room of the second-class dining saloon. So intent was he on the main entrance that he never noticed the door that was opening right in front of him.

The collision was so sudden, so shocking, that it took his breath away. Muffins and hot tea flew in all directions. A silver tray hit the floor with a
clanging sound, punctuated by the crack of breaking dishes.

“Mind where you’re going, you little —”

Paddy looked up into a glowering face with a misshapen nose that had been broken many times.

It was Seamus, Kevin Gilhooley’s bodyguard.

CHAPTER TWENTY

RMS
TITANIC

F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 8:30
A.M.

The huge man grabbed Paddy by his thin shoulders. The boy struggled, but could not break loose. Paddy’s street instincts came to the fore, and he bit down hard on the henchman’s wrist.

With a cry, Seamus let go. Paddy snatched up the teapot and broke it across his assailant’s knees. This brought about more howling, along with some well-placed curses.

A waiter appeared in the main entrance. “Sir, I beg you! There are ladies in the dining —”

Another man appeared. Kevin Gilhooley.

Paddy fled as if he’d been shot from a cannon. Gilhooley shoved the waiter aside, knocking the man off his feet, and gave chase, Seamus hot on his heels.

Paddy’s mind worked furiously. Was there anyone aboard this ship who wasn’t after him?

There had been little hysteria in his escape from
Mr. Lightoller, but now Paddy’s legs were fueled by raw fear. The tender mercies of the second officer seemed pleasant compared with what these two thugs had planned for him. They had murdered Daniel in cold blood, and Paddy was about to be next.

He scampered down the corridor past second-class cabins, dancing around a steward pushing a coffee cart. All at once, Paddy whirled around and gave the trolley a shove, sending it rolling toward his pursuers.

With a crash, the gangsters barreled into the cart, knocking it over and sending cups and saucers everywhere.

“Hey!” the steward exclaimed in outrage.

The two thugs ran right over him, leaving him dazed on the carpeting.

Running hard, Paddy risked a glance over his shoulder and was shocked to find Gilhooley and Seamus only a few strides behind. How could he ever get away from two men who plowed like steam-powered road rollers over all obstacles, human or otherwise?

E Deck! If he could get back to Scotland Road, he’d be safe. The Gilhooleys might be willing to trample a lone steward, but they could never attack him in a passageway teeming with sailors.

I’ll be exposing myself to arrest by the White Star Line, but at least I’ll have my life!

He leaped down the companion stairs, expecting to enter the busy thoroughfare favored by the crew. Instead, he found himself in a narrow corridor of more second-class staterooms. What was going on? Had he gotten confused and landed on the wrong deck?

He squinted at the cabin door. E-87. This was E Deck, all right. Where was Scotland Road?

Heavy footfalls rattled the companion stairs. His pursuers were almost upon him!

Paddy looked around desperately. Only one door was open — the second-class barbershop.

He raced past the bewildered shopkeeper and leaped into a barber’s chair, sending it spinning. As it swung past the counter, Paddy reached into a bowl, coming up with a large dollop of shaving lather. He smeared the cream over his face with one hand while pulling a towel over his clothes with the other.

The barber stared in amazement. “Lad, I don’t know what you think you’re —”

Paddy looked up with terrified eyes and breathed a single word:
“Please.”

A second later, Gilhooley and Seamus roared down the passageway.

The barber must have understood. He stepped in front of the chair, shielding Paddy from the doorway. Picking up a straight razor, he pretended to shave his “customer.”

Angry voices reverberated outside. “The little worm couldn’t have gone far!”

Paddy shut his eyes and did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He prayed.

And then the two men were in the shop, filling it with their presence.

“A nasty little whelp in a ship’s uniform,” Gilhooley called to the barber. “Which way did he go?”

“I saw no such person,” the barber replied stiffly.

With a grunt, the gangster stepped out of the shop. All at once, Seamus grabbed his boss by the shoulder and pulled him back inside, indicating the mirror opposite the barber chair. There, from a mass of shaving lather, peeked the familiar face of a young boy.

Paddy was out of the seat in a flash, his sole hope a swan dive through the narrow space between the two thugs. He very nearly made it.

Seamus wrapped strong arms around Paddy, preventing all movement. It was impossible even to struggle. He cast a threatening look back at the terrified barber. “I’ll be remembering how helpful you were.”

Kevin Gilhooley addressed his victim. “Lovely day for a funeral, eh, boy?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

RMS
TITANIC

F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 8:45
A.M.

The cargo manifest was the biggest, bulkiest, heaviest, most unwieldy book that Alfie could have imagined. It took all his strength to lug it up the spiral stairs to where he’d left Paddy. How the smaller boy was going to manage to get it down to the cargo hold was a mystery.

He reached the forepeak, and then headed aft to the well deck, where Paddy was waiting.

Only Paddy wasn’t waiting. He was gone.

Calm down, Alfie told himself, laboring to control his breathing. He’s probably just hiding from one of the officers. It’s a good thing. It means he’s got some sense.

“Paddy,” he called softly. “You can come out now. It’s just me.”

No answer.

“You can come out now. I’ve got the book.”

He waited. Come on, Paddy. You said you were in a hurry!

Something was wrong. Alfie pondered his options. He could take the manifest down to the hold and hand it over. But what if the crew chief realized that this young steward didn’t match the one he’d found in the car? Would that set off some sort of investigation?

Even more distressing, where
was
Paddy — and what trouble might he be getting into at this very moment? Trouble for Paddy meant trouble for Alfie, too. He had to find the boy. But where would he even begin to look aboard the largest moving object on the face of the earth?

The boat deck, he decided. At least from higher up, he could see more of the ship. If Paddy was topside, he would be visible from there. It wasn’t much to go on, but at least it was something.

As he started up the companion stairs, he spied Sophie at the rail on the arm of Major Mountjoy. Sophie’s eyes locked on Alfie’s, sending a message of pure desperation.

“Alfie!” she called with high-pitched enthusiasm. Noticing the cargo manifest under his arm, she exclaimed, “You brought my book from the library! I’m anxious to begin reading it at once!”

“I say!” the major announced jovially, reaching for the leather-bound volume in Alfie’s arms. “I must see what reading material has this exquisite young lady so entranced!” Alfie tried to hold back, but the portly major wrenched the book from him and began to leaf through it.

“Bless my soul!” the major exclaimed, staring at a bill of lading for three thousand tins of Norwegian sardines. “I confess that I do not comprehend what interests the young people have these days.”

“Sardines are — all the rage in New York this season,” Sophie ventured.

“Ah, yes. Your American fashion tastes,” the major blustered. “Like that Turkey Trot one hears so much about. Well, I’ll leave you to your reading, my dear.” He sketched a bow that was remarkably low considering the size of his stomach, then waddled off.

Sophie smothered her laughter. “Oh, thank you, Alfie. What is that book?”

“The cargo manifest. Paddy needs it. Have you seen him?”

“Paddy?” She frowned. “What’s he doing up here?”

Breathlessly, Alfie filled her in on the details. “I left him on the well deck, but he’s not there anymore. I’m afraid he’s gotten himself caught.”

“I’ll help you look for him,” she decided. “We’ll split up and meet back here. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“Thanks.”

Alfie crossed over to starboard, and Sophie headed aft on the port side, gingerly trying doors and peering into every nook and cranny. As she passed through the shadow cast by the first towering smokestack, the brisk air became even colder, and she hugged her arms to her sides.

“Sophie!”

Juliana sat up in her deck chair, waving and beckoning. “What is it?” she called, noting her friend’s furtive manner. Then, dropping her voice: “It’s Major Muttonchop, isn’t it?”

“Have you seen Paddy anywhere?” Sophie blurted.

Juliana’s smile disappeared abruptly. She looked away from Sophie and gazed out over the Atlantic. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe he hasn’t had the advantages you’ve had, but he’s a
person,
Julie!” Sophie said crossly. “And he could be in trouble.”

Juliana was unsympathetic. “If he’s in trouble, it’s thanks to his own lawless behavior, which started the moment he stowed away aboard this ship! Frankly, I
find it mystifying that you insist on becoming involved with this criminal and his problems. It’s none of your affair, and it’s unsavory for you to be entangled in this tawdry drama — all in an attempt to protect someone who does not deserve even one second of your attention, much less your protection!”

Sophie regarded her intently. “Julie, I like you a lot. But I just can’t be friends with someone so heartless.” And she ran off, continuing her search for the hapless Paddy.

Kevin Gilhooley had chosen his bodyguard well. The brute strength of the man called Seamus was nothing short of superhuman. What appeared to be a friendly arm around Paddy’s shoulders was as powerful as a yoke of iron. And the large hand that covered the boy’s mouth pressed down with enough force to smother all sound. Never before had Paddy felt so entirely under the physical control of another. He did not entertain thoughts of escape. It was all he could do to breathe.