Authors: Gordon Korman
In this manner, Seamus brought him up the staircases and companionways of second class. Gilhooley opened the heavy door and ushered them into the cold wind and brilliant sunshine of the boat deck.
“Take a look around, boy,” the gangster invited. “So much beauty in the world! A great pity it is that you’ll not be here to enjoy any of it.”
And look around Paddy did — with growing desperation. They were in the aftermost part of the boat deck, behind the fourth funnel, overlooking the stern. The area was deserted. He could make out a few hardy figures braving the wind far forward in the first-class section, and there were steerage passengers below in the aft well deck. But second class was lazy today, lingering in their cabins or finishing breakfast in the dining saloon.
Gilhooley’s voice was as cold and cruel as the bite of the wind. “Do it, Seamus.”
Now Paddy did struggle, although he knew it would be to no avail. Seamus dragged him toward the rail and grasped him under the arms in order to heave him up and over the side.
The instant his mouth was free, Paddy began to scream for help. Gilhooley tried to muzzle him, but Paddy bit down hard on the gangster’s fingers. Gilhooley’s bellowing was almost as loud as Paddy’s, and the angry man lashed out, striking the frenzied boy repeatedly in the face. Paddy recoiled, tasting blood, but kept on shouting.
He was aware of his feet leaving the deck as Seamus
lifted him high. He saw the rail below him and knew that next would come the long fall, followed by a splash into icy black water. Reaching down, he clamped both hands onto the bar and held on.
If they want me in the sea, they’re going to have to break all my fingers!
Gilhooley pounded at those small fists, but Paddy steeled himself and clung tightly. The pain was unimaginable, but the alternative was death. At the same time, he kicked out, landing a solid blow into Seamus’s belly. With a cry of outrage, the henchman unleashed his full force. Paddy felt himself swing up and over. He was off the ship, clinging fiercely to the rail, nothing but thin air between him and the Atlantic.
In that wild instant, Paddy was no longer involved in the struggle, but merely a spectator.
How long can that boy hold on?
he wondered in a strangely detached manner.
Not very long at all. He was in agony, bone-weary, and his fingers were so cold ….
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RMS
TITANIC
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 8:55
A.M.
A large, leather-bound ledger swung out of nowhere and caught Seamus full in the face. The bodyguard staggered backward, blood pouring from a large nose that had been shattered yet again.
“Help!”
Alfie bellowed, waving the cargo manifest to keep Gilhooley at bay.
The gangster’s eyes narrowed with rage at the young steward. “You’ve made a grave mistake, laddie—”
But at that moment, running feet rattled the deck. Stewards and seamen converged on the spot from all directions.
“Call the master-at-arms!” Alfie shouted. He reached through the rail and grasped Paddy by the wrist. Try as he might, he lacked the strength to heave the smaller boy back aboard.
Crew members swarmed the spot, taking hold of Gilhooley and Seamus. Two sailors pulled Paddy up and over the side, setting his feet on the deck.
“Are you all right, son?” asked the older of the two.
In answer, Paddy turned tail and sprinted along the boat deck, leaving his rescuers staring after him, openmouthed. They had saved his life, and he was grateful, by God. But he was still a stowaway aboard this ship. And Paddy Burns had a talent for shifting his attention from one problem to the next with lightning speed.
He hurdled the gate into first class and hoisted himself onto the broad metal grid. As he scrambled across, he looked down on the stained-glass dome that covered the aft Grand Staircase. Jumping to the deck, he dodged his way through cranes and equipment, and raced forward, now on the starboard side.
He heard shouts behind him, and pounding footfalls. Sure, he thought bitterly,
two gangsters just tried to throw a fourteen-year-old boy overboard, but the White Star Line’s chief concern is capturing me!
There was no way he could hope to elude sailors on their own ship. He had to hide.
Now.
He tried several doors along the superstructure — all locked. His eyes fell on the line of covered lifeboats. It would have to do.
He climbed up to the nearest one and slipped under the tarpaulin. Furtively, he peered out to check for pursuit.
The sailors had not appeared yet. But he was not entirely alone. There at the rail, staring straight at him, was the fancy girl with the diamond eardrops — the one who had looked at him with such contempt. There could be no question that she’d seen him — and also no question that she would turn him in. He was doomed.
He caught sight of the pursuers then and, coming from the opposite direction, a single imposing figure in an officer’s uniform. Lightoller. Paddy ducked out of sight and secured the cover around the lifeboat.
“Report!” the second officer barked.
“We’ve got two in custody,” a sailor called back. “A right nasty pair of cutthroats! They tried to throw the boy overboard!”
“Who’s the boy?” Lightoller asked.
“A stowaway, we think. He was that anxious to get away.”
Lightoller turned to Juliana. “I’m sorry to trouble
you, miss. Did you see this boy? I believe he’s wearing a steward’s uniform.”
Paddy’s heart sank. Well, here it was, the end of the road. He had been saved — but only to be delivered into the hands of the White Star Line. He waited for the girl to expose his hiding place.
“Yes, I did, Mr. Lightoller,” he heard Juliana announce. “He was heading forward, toward the wheelhouse.”
Paddy sat up in shock. Had the girl somehow overlooked him? No, impossible. She had watched him climb into this very lifeboat. Their eyes had met — he could still feel the sting of her scorn and disapproval….
“Are you absolutely certain?” Lightoller persisted. “I came from that way myself, and I didn’t notice anyone.”
“Oh, yes,” was Juliana’s reply. “He was running very fast. Perhaps he crossed over to port, and you missed him.”
Paddy could not believe his ears. This rich girl, who had more wealth dangling from one ear than he could ever hope to touch in a lifetime, was
protecting
him!
Why would she help him? No — this went far
beyond
help. She was lying to an officer, risking serious trouble. Aiding a stowaway was a
crime!
“Perhaps he did,” came Lightoller’s voice again, although he did not sound convinced. “This way, men.”
Paddy heard more running feet and then quiet. A moment later, a soft voice called, “Are you all right?”
He peered up at her. The judgment was gone from her eyes, but her expression did not seem friendly. She looked stunned, as if taking Paddy’s side had been even more bewildering to her than it had been to him.
“Thank you for not turning me in, miss.”
“Those men almost killed you,” she said in horrified amazement.
Paddy tried to smile. “We Belfasters are a friendly lot.” He began to swing his leg over the side. “I’ll be on my way —”
“You’ll stay right where you are!” she countered in a sharp whisper.
“I’ll
tell you when it’s safe to come down.”
Paddy sat back in the curved bottom of the boat, hugging his knees to his chest. Quite an eventful morning, even by the standards of a Belfast street lad — nearly murdered, and then nearly arrested by his rescuers. And now this — a helping hand from the last person he’d ever imagined would offer one.
He patted his jacket, feeling Daniel’s drawing against his heart. He would have given everything he had — which was nothing, mind you — to be back with his old friend in their abandoned print shop.
Yet a fellow can find support and kindness in this pitiless world. It’s out there — even aboard a shipload of millionaires.
You just had to look hard enough.
Still, Paddy knew his position was precarious. There was something about that Mr. Lightoller — the hardness of his expression, the unyielding steel of his eyes. The second officer would never rest until the stowaway had been captured and brought to justice.
He shifted, trying to fall into a comfortable position. Considering the size of the ship, the lifeboats were a lot smaller than he’d expected.
Yet, oddly, there didn’t seem to be very many of them ….
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RMS
TITANIC
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 9:25
A.M.
The
Titanic’
s brig consisted of two small cells adjoining the office of the master-at-arms on E Deck.
It took Master-at-Arms Thomas King and four able seamen to escort Kevin Gilhooley and his bodyguard to what would be their quarters for the remainder of the voyage. Seamus alone, his long crooked nose dripping blood onto a sweater that had once been cream-colored, required no less than three men to force him inside and slam the gate.
Nor did the Belfast gangsters come along quietly. Down five decks and across half the length of the ship they struggled, blustered, and cursed, drawing horrified looks from three classes of passengers and an assortment of stewards and maids. Both prisoners were bruised and battered from their scuffle. Gilhooley gangsters were notoriously tough, but so
were English sailors. And the crew held an overwhelming advantage in numbers.
“Why are you protecting that little scum?” Gilhooley raged as King locked the cell door. “A thief, he is. A common pickpocket!”
“I saw no thievery,” King said severely. “The crime I witnessed was attempted murder most foul. And I’ll see you hang for it, or I never sailed salt water.”
“Does the name James Gilhooley mean anything to you?” the gangster persisted. “My brother runs Belfast, including the shipyards. If a true seaman you are, you’ll face him eventually.”
The master-at-arms was not intimidated. “And if that day comes, I’ll tell him his brother got what he deserved for trying to throw a defenseless boy over the rail. Ah, there you are, Matherson —”
A tall, gaunt sailor entered the office carrying a small trunk.
“I took the liberty of sending for your luggage,” King informed his prisoners. “You two look a disgrace — which is how hooligans are supposed to look, I suppose. But since we’re destined to be together in this office for the rest of the crossing, I aim to clean you up a bit.” He accepted the trunk and frowned. “Rather light, isn’t it?”
He popped the latch, removed the lone shirt, and held it up for the prisoners. The ink-dabbed message stood out against the gleaming white linen:
MURDERER
Gilhooley shook the gate of the cell, howling like a madman. “You blithering fool, can’t you see I’ve been robbed? What kind of ship are you running where miscreants put their mitts on a man’s property and deface it with lies?”
“I see no lies,” King replied evenly. “And the only miscreants are behind bars.”
“My brother will hear about this!” Gilhooley bellowed. “I demand to send a wireless! Fetch me a form from the Marconi room!
Now!”
“The Marconi facilities are for paying customers only.”
“I’ll pay,” seethed Kevin Gilhooley, glaring at the master-at-arms through eyes that were barely slits. “And someday, so will you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BELFAST
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 3:50 P.M.
Donovan’s Bar and Grill on Victoria Street had not had a working kitchen since the turn of the century — ever since the restaurant had become headquarters for James Gilhooley and his organization. It was from this nerve center that the gangster oversaw a criminal empire that controlled the Belfast shipyards and beyond.
Many messengers came and went at Donovan’s, but this one was greeted with suspicion. He was not one of the usual runners employed by Gilhooley. He was a representative of the Marconi Company, which sent, received, and delivered wireless communications. Thanks to Mr. Marconi’s astonishing new invention, Morse code messages could be forwarded from ship to ship to ground station, reaching anywhere in the world in mere hours. It was just another
way that the world had changed for the better in this incredible twentieth century.
“It’s from the
Titanic
,” the courier announced.