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Authors: Cathy Gohlke
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and sleep awhile. When they call for tea, I’ll fill my pockets and bring all I can.”
Michael tore into the bread and biscuits as though he’d not eaten in a month. Owen lifted Michael’s feet to the bed and tugged his boots from his feet even as he ate, then pulled the red-and-white coverlet over him.
It was the most wondrous soft and clean bed Michael had ever lain upon, and he sank gratefully into the pillow, licking the last of the crumbs from his fingers and shirtfront. Whatever lay ahead, he could better face it now.
“Thank you, Mr. Owen. Thank you.” Michael was sincere, but a taint of panic rose in his heart. “Will ya be turning me over, sir?”
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
Michael tore into the bread and biscuits as though he’d not eaten in a month. Owen lifted Michael’s feet to the bed and tugged his boots from his feet even as he ate, then pulled the red-and-white coverlet over him.
It was the most wondrous soft and clean bed Michael had ever lain upon, and he sank gratefully into the pillow, licking the last of the crumbs from his fingers and shirtfront. Whatever lay ahead, he could better face it now.
“Thank you, Mr. Owen. Thank you.” Michael was sincere, but a taint of panic rose in his heart. “Will ya be turning me over, sir?”
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
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