Read Online Promise Me This by Cathy Gohlke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Gohlke
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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
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
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