Belfast since. But he’s gone away to sea—sort of.”
“Sort of—is he here? You followed him on Titanic , then?” Owen pushed.
“No.” Michael turned away in pain and frustration. He did not want to tell Owen he’d been bullied and beaten for years on end. He would not say aloud that he was no better than a wharf rat.
“They’ve Marconi operators aboard. We can send word wherever he is.”
“No!” Michael grabbed Owen’s sleeve. “I’m running away for good and all. I can’t go back. You don’t know what it’s like!”
Michael felt Owen stiffen and followed his eyes to the deck above, where Lucy Snape beckoned. But Owen turned, rubbing the late-day stubble on his jaw, and Michael knew he pretended not to have seen her. When Owen pulled Michael from the railing and led him toward a far stairwell, Michael followed meekly. Running would do no good, and hadn’t Owen just saved him—again? Still, he dared not hope.
“Suppose you tell me exactly what it is like, then. And suppose you begin by telling me your real name—the truth this time!”
They traveled stairwells and corridors until they reached the door of a third-class cabin.
“In here—my cabin.” Owen pushed open the door. “I share with a Swede—doesn’t speak a word of English. While he’s out, I want an explanation. From the beginning.” Owen closed the door and crossed his arms.
“Michael. Michael Timothy Dunnagan. That’s my name.”
Owen’s chin rose.
“God’s truth.”
Owen’s mouth formed a grim line. “I don’t know if you would recognize God’s truth if it jumped up and chomped your mutton. How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I’ll be sixteen on Michaelmas.”
“You don’t look a day over twelve, thirteen at best.”
Michael looked down. He felt the weariness of the world weigh upon his chest. Truth or lie, what did it matter? Owen would never believe him now.
Owen sighed. “So. Michael, is it? Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?” His tone had lost some of its gruffness.
“I was afraid,” Michael confessed. “Afraid you’d send for my uncle Tom, afraid you’d turn me over to the constable.”
“I’m thinking that’s where you belong.”
Panic fought pain for the upper hand in Michael’s chest. But he set his jaw.
Owen tilted his head. Michael knew he was being weighed in the balances.
“Did your uncle do this?” Owen traced a line across his own cheek to mirror the scar on Michael’s, an old scar, but long.
Michael felt the familiar heat run up his neck and looked away. A minute passed before he said, “Sometimes when he’s so drunk he can’t stand up in his shoes, he . . .” Michael couldn’t finish.
Still, Owen did not speak.
“Uncle Tom left Ireland on a trade. He as good as sold me to Jack Deegan. I didn’t know what to do. And then, at the last moment, I was helping load chairs on Titanic , and suddenly there I was, standing alone.”
Michael rambled on with his long and convoluted story of hiding in the lifeboat, of sneaking off the ship in Southampton, of climbing through a pub window in search of warmth from a drop of ale in a glass, and the greater blessing of fish heads discovered in the rubbish bin.
“You offered me food and a job, Mr. Owen. It was the best I’ve had since Mam and Da.”
“So you thought you would follow me to America?”
Michael shrugged helplessly.
“How did you get aboard?” When Michael looked away, Owen grasped his shoulder. “Answer me.”
Michael gasped, winced, and cringed.
“Are you hurt, lad?” Owen’s voice lowered.
Michael would not answer but felt the blood drain from his face; he swayed.
“Steady.” Owen guided him to the bunk. “Have you slept or eaten?”
“When I stayed with you.”
“That’s nearly two days, man! No wonder you’re off your kilter.” Owen dug through his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, spreading its contents of bread and cabin biscuits before Michael. “Eat these
“Sort of—is he here? You followed him on Titanic , then?” Owen pushed.
“No.” Michael turned away in pain and frustration. He did not want to tell Owen he’d been bullied and beaten for years on end. He would not say aloud that he was no better than a wharf rat.
“They’ve Marconi operators aboard. We can send word wherever he is.”
“No!” Michael grabbed Owen’s sleeve. “I’m running away for good and all. I can’t go back. You don’t know what it’s like!”
Michael felt Owen stiffen and followed his eyes to the deck above, where Lucy Snape beckoned. But Owen turned, rubbing the late-day stubble on his jaw, and Michael knew he pretended not to have seen her. When Owen pulled Michael from the railing and led him toward a far stairwell, Michael followed meekly. Running would do no good, and hadn’t Owen just saved him—again? Still, he dared not hope.
“Suppose you tell me exactly what it is like, then. And suppose you begin by telling me your real name—the truth this time!”
They traveled stairwells and corridors until they reached the door of a third-class cabin.
“In here—my cabin.” Owen pushed open the door. “I share with a Swede—doesn’t speak a word of English. While he’s out, I want an explanation. From the beginning.” Owen closed the door and crossed his arms.
“Michael. Michael Timothy Dunnagan. That’s my name.”
Owen’s chin rose.
“God’s truth.”
Owen’s mouth formed a grim line. “I don’t know if you would recognize God’s truth if it jumped up and chomped your mutton. How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I’ll be sixteen on Michaelmas.”
“You don’t look a day over twelve, thirteen at best.”
Michael looked down. He felt the weariness of the world weigh upon his chest. Truth or lie, what did it matter? Owen would never believe him now.
Owen sighed. “So. Michael, is it? Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?” His tone had lost some of its gruffness.
“I was afraid,” Michael confessed. “Afraid you’d send for my uncle Tom, afraid you’d turn me over to the constable.”
“I’m thinking that’s where you belong.”
Panic fought pain for the upper hand in Michael’s chest. But he set his jaw.
Owen tilted his head. Michael knew he was being weighed in the balances.
“Did your uncle do this?” Owen traced a line across his own cheek to mirror the scar on Michael’s, an old scar, but long.
Michael felt the familiar heat run up his neck and looked away. A minute passed before he said, “Sometimes when he’s so drunk he can’t stand up in his shoes, he . . .” Michael couldn’t finish.
Still, Owen did not speak.
“Uncle Tom left Ireland on a trade. He as good as sold me to Jack Deegan. I didn’t know what to do. And then, at the last moment, I was helping load chairs on Titanic , and suddenly there I was, standing alone.”
Michael rambled on with his long and convoluted story of hiding in the lifeboat, of sneaking off the ship in Southampton, of climbing through a pub window in search of warmth from a drop of ale in a glass, and the greater blessing of fish heads discovered in the rubbish bin.
“You offered me food and a job, Mr. Owen. It was the best I’ve had since Mam and Da.”
“So you thought you would follow me to America?”
Michael shrugged helplessly.
“How did you get aboard?” When Michael looked away, Owen grasped his shoulder. “Answer me.”
Michael gasped, winced, and cringed.
“Are you hurt, lad?” Owen’s voice lowered.
Michael would not answer but felt the blood drain from his face; he swayed.
“Steady.” Owen guided him to the bunk. “Have you slept or eaten?”
“When I stayed with you.”
“That’s nearly two days, man! No wonder you’re off your kilter.” Owen dug through his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, spreading its contents of bread and cabin biscuits before Michael. “Eat these
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