Unsinkable (9 page)

“Trophies!” Alfie rasped in horror. “Souvenirs of the people he’s butchered!”

“Are you saying there’s a murderer aboard the
Titanic
?” Paddy asked in amazement. “Who could it be?”

“The Whitechapel murderer was never identified,” Alfie replied, his voice filled with dread, “but his nickname is well known across England.” He let out a tremulous breath. “Jack the Ripper.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PORT OF CALL: QUEENSTOWN

T
HURSDAY,
A
PRIL
11, 1912, 11:35
A.M.

Ireland.

Now that he had Alfie sneaking him food, Paddy resolved to pass the voyage in hiding. But he couldn’t resist the chance to come up to the second-class promenade and take in the sight of the land of his birth.

How beautiful it looks!

In truth, it was not very beautiful. A misting rain and low overcast sky washed its green into a wet, dirty gray. And anyway, Queenstown was hundreds of miles away from Paddy’s village in County Antrim. To an Ulster boy, Cork, the southernmost county, might as well have been in England or even America.

So how did he explain the empty space where his heart was supposed to be? Why were his eyes filled with a moisture that had nothing to do with the rain? Why did this alien place feel like home?

Like Cherbourg, Queenstown’s harbor was too shallow for a large ocean liner. Paddy squinted at the mass of passengers packed aboard the tender that chugged slowly toward the anchored
Titanic.
Even from this distance he could make out the worn cloth coats and caps, the carpetbags in drab beiges and browns. Alfie had told him that no first-class passengers would be boarding at Queenstown, and only a handful of second class. The rest of the group — more than a hundred strong — was steerage.

Maybe that was why Queenstown seemed so familiar. These were poor people.

Like me.

He felt an almost irresistible urge to get off this floating palace. The impulse made no sense. Ireland meant poverty and hunger, having to steal to survive. How could he choose that over a dream ship filled with millionaires and equipped with luxuries he’d never even known existed?

Maybe that was the problem. The
Titanic
was too big, too rich, too perfect. There was something wrong with that. It wasn’t real. He’d been wrestling with the uneasy feeling ever since Southampton, when the enormous ship had sucked the
New York
into a near collision.

Now, seeing Ireland within reach again, the solution suddenly seemed simple. If he could stow away aboard the mighty
Titanic,
he could surely sneak onto the little tender that was bringing out the last contingent of passengers.

He was Irish. Ireland was where he belonged. When the small ferry unloaded its human cargo and went back to Queenstown, Paddy Burns intended to be on it.

His feet began to move almost of their own accord. He was being carried toward home by a force he could no longer resist. Before he knew it, he was stepping onto the elevator to E Deck, where the new passengers would be coming aboard.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” the lift operator commented pleasantly.

“And you’ll not be seeing me again,” Paddy replied. It no longer mattered if he was identified as an imposter. What could they do? Put him off the ship? He was putting himself off.

“Good luck to you, then. A word of advice. If you’re really leaving us, you’d best change out of the uniform or they’ll hound you to the ends of the earth.”

Paddy laughed. “They can try.”

If Alfie Huggins was an example of White Star material, Paddy had nothing to worry about. The young steward seemed a nice fellow, but it hadn’t been very hard to blackmail him into protecting a stowaway. A few months in the neighborhoods of Belfast provided more education than all the schools in England.

Poor Alfie wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds on Victoria Street. He was too absorbed in a series of crimes from twenty-four years ago to worry about what might be coming around the corner to clobber him right now. Jack the Ripper aboard the
Titanic!
What next?

Paddy navigated the E Deck passageway and reached the gangway just as the tender was tying up. He already had all his worldly possessions — the suit on his back and Daniel’s drawing. Too bad he couldn’t have managed a few fat purses from first class. That would have kept him in meat pies for a long time. But he couldn’t risk missing the tender.

His plan was simple: He would pose as a White Star employee escorting the Queenstown passengers ashore, and he would simply never come back.

He melted into the group as the gate was lowered and the stewards began welcoming the new arrivals.

He saw the bodyguard first — a very tall, rough-looking man with impossibly broad shoulders and a broken nose that wandered all over his face. Next, the houndstooth cloak appeared, and above that, cold, cruel eyes deep set in a stone countenance.

The blood drained from Paddy’s body and settled in his trembling feet.

Kevin Gilhooley, the man who had killed Daniel.

The man who wanted Paddy dead.

The irony was shattering. To escape this monster, Paddy had sailed from Belfast to Southampton to Cherbourg to here. Yet all this time, Kevin Gilhooley had been traveling by rail across Ireland to embark on the very same ship.

The man’s eyes locked on him, and widened in surprise and recognition.

In that instant, the
Titanic
disappeared, and Paddy was back on the streets of Belfast, where the only thing that mattered was staying alive.

He fled. Through passageways, anterooms, and salons he dashed, up and down companion stairs, past unadorned iron hatches and opulent entrances. Behind him, he felt the pursuit in the form of heavy, pounding
footfalls. But he also heard it — shouted instructions between Gilhooley and his henchman.

“He went that way!”

“Don’t let him get away!”

How can the
Titanic’s
reception party allow two thugs to run rampant all over the ship, threatening a crew member, even an imposter?
he wondered as he ran. The answer was obvious. Stewards were trained to cater to the whims of millionaires and the fears of hopeful emigrants. That sort of treatment did not work well with a gangster like Gilhooley. His ilk did as they pleased. And if someone stopped them, it was usually someone even bigger, stronger, and meaner.

Paddy hustled through the third-class dining saloon, rows of long tables, the decor pleasant but spare and severe. The passageway continued for a distance, ending at a half-gate, used aboard ship to divide classes of service.

Paddy leaped over it without stopping. As soon as his feet touched down, he was aware of the plush carpeting. The paneled walls and subtle lighting told the rest of the story. This part of the deck saw first-class traffic.

The swimming pool, Paddy remembered. It’s around here somewhere.

He slipped through an elegant door marked
TURKISH BATH
and was amazed to find himself in a gorgeous room that looked like an Arabian palace. Lounge chairs lined the dark walls, and a few men
reclined, wrapped in huge thirsty towels. Two of them even had towels over their faces. It was a scene of total pampering and relaxation, the kind only a true swell could afford.

The attendant acknowledged Paddy with a nod, and then stepped into the adjoining steam room.

Gruff, angry voices sounded in the passageway outside. His pursuers were almost upon him!

Paddy did the first desperate thing that came to his mind. He jumped onto the nearest unoccupied lounge chair, buried himself from head to toe in warm Turkish towels, and prayed that the attendant hadn’t counted his customers when he’d gone next door.

A moment later, the hatch burst open and Gilhooley and his man stormed into the bath.

“He’s not in here!” the bodyguard growled. “This is some kind of posh bathhouse!”

“The devil he’s not!” Gilhooley roared. He grabbed at the nearest wrapped figure and yanked the towel clean off.

“How dare you, sir?” came an outraged, authoritative voice.

At that moment, the attendant came back into the room and took in the scene. “Please, sir! Don’t you know who this is? It’s Colonel Astor! He’s not to be disturbed, nor is anyone in my care!”

“There’s a thief on board!” the bodyguard growled. “We followed him to this part of the ship.”

“You are mistaken, I’m sure,” the attendant said stiffly. “This part of the ship is for
gentlemen.”
The word clearly excluded them. “If you do not leave at once, I shall have to call the master-at-arms.”

The henchman pulled himself up to a full six feet and four inches. “You do what you must. I can break two necks if necessary.”

Gilhooley held him back. “Easy, Seamus. This is a ship. The little rat has nowhere to run. We’ll find him soon enough. And when we do, he’s going over the side.”

Paddy lay beneath the towels, barely daring to breathe.

As Gilhooley and his man left, Paddy heard the voice of John Jacob Astor once again. “Well done, Joseph,” the wealthiest of the wealthy praised the attendant. “I shall mention your handling of this situation when I dine with the captain this evening.”

Amen,
thought Paddy. But now he faced another problem. The Turkish bath that had saved him was now his prison. He couldn’t very well leave without being noticed. Yet it was more important than ever for him to get off the ship at this last port. Once they headed into open ocean, there would be no
escape. He would be trapped on board with two Gilhooley gangsters. And then surely he would never see New York.

He needn’t have worried. After a few minutes, a voice in his ear whispered, “Come with me — not a sound.”

Paddy got out from under the towels. Colonel Astor and the other gentlemen were either covered up or dozing. He followed Joseph through the steam room and onto the deck of the swimming bath.

“I’m not going to ask what you took from those brutes,” the attendant told him in a low voice.

Twelve pounds,
Paddy thought dismally. Would that he’d never reached his hand inside that cloak! Aloud, he said, “A long, sad story, it is.”

Joseph did not press him further. “Stay clear of those two,” he advised before returning to his very important customers. “They look more than capable of turning their threats into reality.”

Paddy made no reply. All his attention was focused on the porthole closest to him. It showed the departed tender halfway back to Queenstown Harbor.

He was too late.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PORT OF CALL: QUEENSTOWN

T
HURSDAY,
A
PRIL
11, 1912, 1:30 P.M.

Captain E. J. Smith, Commodore of the White Star Line, the finest and most experienced master of any ship on the high seas, stood ramrod straight on the bridge of the
Titanic.
His eyes were not on Queenstown, but on the open Atlantic. That was the style that had made him a legend — focus exclusively on the path ahead. It made no difference where one had been, only where one was going.

The ocean was reassuringly calm, as if in tribute to his final crossing. Captain Smith was retiring after taking the
Titanic
on her maiden voyage. It was fitting that his last command would be a memorable one.

“All right, Mr. Lightoller,” he addressed his second officer. “Weigh anchor.”

Suddenly, a very young seaman rushed onto
the bridge, all agitation. “Sorry, sir! I tried to stop them —”

Kevin Gilhooley and his huge henchman, Seamus, elbowed their way into the captain’s presence.

“Captain, you have a criminal among your crew!” Gilhooley accused.

“What I have,” Smith said sternly, “are two passengers who have not been invited onto the bridge.”

“I told them, sir! They wouldn’t listen —”

“At ease, Mr. Loomis,” said the captain, always under perfect control.

Kevin Gilhooley was not accustomed to having his requests ignored. “Did you not hear me, Captain? I said one of your crew is a thief! I saw the boy not half an hour ago! I demand that you assemble the contingent and allow me to identify him.”

The captain grimaced. “I do the demanding on this vessel, sir.”

Standing behind Mr. Lightoller, Thomas Andrews, designer of the
Titanic,
spoke up for the first time. “Allow me to make the introductions, Captain. I live in Belfast, so I’m familiar with this man’s family. They are involved in a number of activities that are — shall we say — frowned upon by the authorities.”