Promise Me This (9 page)

Owen shook his head. “Ease your mind, lad, and sleep awhile. I’ll not be turning you in, God bless you. But I don’t know what we will do, what we can do.” He dimmed the light. “We’ll talk later. I’ll be out in the general room. I’ve a letter to write to Annie before we reach Queenstown.”

Michael nodded, and it was the last he saw or heard. Even before Owen closed the cabin door behind him, Michael had fallen into a deep and much-needed slumber.

Owen closed the door. He made his way to the general room and, finding as quiet a spot as was to be found, sat down with his pen and tablet. He stared at the white enamel walls as if they might offer a solution.

Owen sighed.
What Pandora’s box have I opened? Will the authorities allow Michael into New York? What will become of him if they don’t?

And supposing they do let him enter America, dare I take him on to New Jersey? Will Uncle Sean and Aunt Maggie have room? Will they be willing to make room?
Owen shook his head just thinking of the audacity and trust of the lad.

At length a slow grin began in one corner of his mouth and worked itself into half a chuckle. Well, why wouldn’t it work? Michael would be an extra pair of hands, and God knew He had put the boy in Owen’s way time and enough. It was stumble over him again and again or pick him up and walk together.
What a sense of humor You have about You, Lord. I didn’t mean to be so daft. I’ll do all You show me for the lad.
It wasn’t exactly a prayer but more of a communion.

The room filled as those on deck were driven in by the cold of the darkening sky. Owen realized that the ship must have departed Cherbourg, though he’d not noticed when.

Queenstown, Ireland, would be the last port of call and his last opportunity to post mail before
Titanic
crossed the Atlantic. He had promised Annie a letter. Owen chuckled softly. There was so much more to write her now.

For the first time in years Michael dreamed of his mam and da. He was six again, and Megan Marie was a babe in their mother’s arms. Mam had spread an embroidered cloth over the summer grass, a picnic of cheese and jam and currant buns—Michael’s favorite in all the world. She was just pouring the tea when Da pulled off both his shoes, hoisted Michael upon his great shoulders, and charged down the bank of the River Shannon into the glistening water, both of them laughing and shouting at the top of their lungs for the joy of being alive and together in the late-afternoon sunshine.

Michael caught his mam’s twinkling eye and the sharp dimple in her left cheek. She tried to fuss at her men acting the fool, romping and splashing to high heaven, but she could not keep her mouth grim. Her laughter rang like church bells.

Megan Marie kicked up a fuss from her blanket in the sun, and Mam scooped her babe in one arm and hiked her skirt over the other. Gingerly she made her way down the bank, testing the water’s edge with her bare toes. Da dropped his tomfoolery in an instant. With Michael still on his shoulders, he waded through the current and swept his two favorite women into his arms and above the water. It was the happiest moment of Michael’s memory, one he’d long forgotten. To dream of it was bliss and peace, a gift beyond measure.

When Michael woke, the light in the room was still dim. A snoring giant of a man lay in the bunk across the narrow aisle. Two currant buns, a pat of butter and one of jam cupped in a folded paper, and a fine slab of cheese stowed between two slices of fresh bread, all wrapped in a napkin, sat atop Michael’s pillow. A mug of half-warm milk stood inside his boot. Wells, silent and sacred, gathered in Michael’s eyes.

He wondered as he ate where the good man Owen was and where he slept while Michael remained in his bed. But the wondering stopped before the last mouthful. Michael slept again, a warm and dreamless sleep, until morning.

“Michael, Michael.” Owen shook the boy’s shoulder gently. “You need to wake up, lad.”

Michael pried open heavy lids, then shielded his eyes against the lamp. “What, then? Mr. Owen?”

“I’m here, lad. I want you to wake up and wash. I’ll give you a clean shirt. They’ll be blowing the bugle for breakfast directly. You’re to take my meal ticket and go to the dining hall. I want you to eat your fill.”

“But that’s for you, Mr. Owen. I’ll not be taking your meal ticket.”

“You will if I say so, Michael Dunnagan. If you’re to be in my employ, I’ll want some meat on those bones. How do I know you won’t faint dead away in the middle of a job?”

“I’d never!” Michael vowed. “I’m a good worker, sir!” And then Owen’s words seeped into Michael’s sleepy brain. “Your employ, sir?”

Owen smiled. “You are a good worker, lad. And we’ll talk more about your employment, if the Americans let you into New York. Ellis Island’s not particularly noted for its ease on immigrants—let alone stowaways. But now I want you to eat and I want this bunk. We’ll take turns for meals and sleep and won’t annoy our Swedish friend lest he complain to the steward. So step lively.”

Michael scrambled from the bunk. “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

“You’ll like the breakfast,” Owen whispered. “There’s rashers and eggs and potatoes in their jackets.”

Michael felt his eyes grow in their sockets. “And tea, sir?”

“All the tea in China,” Owen laughed. “Eat and drink your fill, God bless you. If you’re able, slip some bread and cheese in your pocket for later. But if the waiters mark their eye upon you, don’t try it. Don’t draw attention to yourself. If anyone asks your name, give them mine.”

“But you’ll be hungry, sir.”

“I’ll be sleeping. Wake me when you spy Ireland’s shore. I’ll not want to miss that. I’ll take the midday meal. Now, take this ticket and be off.”

Michael was halfway through the door when Owen called him back. “You must wash and change your shirt first. You look every bit the stowaway you are.”

“But—”

“No buts, Michael. Do as you’re told.” Owen pulled a spotless shirt from his pack.

“Yes, sir.” Michael’s heart sank.

“What’s that on the bottom of your shoes?”

“Me shoes?” Michael looked down. “It’s cork, sir. To make me taller.”

Owen shook his head. “I don’t think I want to know any more. Pull it off. It looks sloppy.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael pulled the cork from his shoes without a moment’s hesitation, but changing his shirt was something altogether different. How could he manage with Owen there? Michael kept his back to the sleeping Swede, marking a fierce stance toward Owen.

The room was too small to maneuver with two of them standing, so Owen sat on the bunk to remove his shoes. When he glanced up, he looked beyond Michael to give the boy his privacy.

But the mirror above the washstand drew his eye. Orange and yellow bruises and variegated scars—those healed over white and those half-raw still an angry red—crossed and crossed again the length of Michael’s back. Owen turned away, both because the bile rose in his throat at such a sight and because he knew the boy had done all he could to hide them. He would not shame Michael.

Owen lay on the bunk with his face to the wall, knowing he could not look on the boy without pity. He feigned sleep as Michael scrubbed. When he heard the door of their cabin close, Owen opened his eyes. He was tired and had looked forward to a good long sleep. But now he slid to his knees, locked his hands across the bunk, and poured out his heart to almighty God, beseeching on behalf of his young friend, begging for wisdom.

Half an hour went by as Owen prayed. When he stood, he understood exactly what the Lord would have him do, though he could not see the outcome. Owen pulled his journal from his bag and began to write.

Michael roused Owen late in the morning as the gray-green mountains of Cork rose ever so surely from St. George’s Channel.

“I’ve wanted to see these shores since I was a lad.” Owen drank in the shoreline with a delight Michael could not understand. “My father longed to return to his home in County Clare. He talked of taking Mother and me before Annie was born. And he wanted us to see the Cliffs of Moher. He talked and talked of them, high and sharp and glistening in the sunlight. But it never came to pass. I envy that you know this land, Michael.”

But Michael knew nothing of the Cliffs of Moher and could not muster a kindred enthusiasm for Ireland.

Titanic
stopped her engines and anchored a good two miles from the Queenstown shore. She waited as tenders, loaded mostly with third-class passengers, chugged toward her. Sellers of Irish lace and linen, of pipes and canes and shawls were allowed aboard to hawk their wares. Women and even men from first class pored over the craftsmanship and never blinked at the laying down of pounds and dollars, enough to keep Owen and Michael in food and shoes for months.

“Ah,” Owen whispered, “I’d like to get some of that Irish lace for Annie and a woolen shawl for Aunt Maggie . . . something delicate for Lu—” He stopped.

Michael looked at him quizzically. “Lucy? Do you mean the sergeant major?”

Owen blushed but did not answer; it was the first time Michael had seen any sign of embarrassment in his friend. He looked at his shoes, then leaned farther out over the railing, his face turned from Michael.