me with the pleasure of a dance!”
The image of being steered around the dance floor backing away from that ample belly nearly caused Juliana to laugh in the gentleman’s face. She looked over at Sophie, and saw that the American girl was having the same struggle.
Perhaps the daughter of an earl and an American deportee had something in common after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RMS TITANIC
T HURSDAY, A PRIL 11, 1912, 8:25 A.M.
The heat was unimaginable.
Every time Alfie climbed down the ladder to the orlop deck, he was surprised anew that his memory of it was not half the reality. Twenty-nine boilers 15 feet high, a total of 162 fireboxes, blazes raging. That was what it took to propel the Titanic, the largest moving object ever built by man. Added to the temperature was the earsplitting sound of machinery as the steam drove the engines that turned the enormous triple screw that propelled the ship.
It was a crowded place, too. Alfie always had a difficult time locating his father in this roaring hive of activity, the fiery realm of the Titanic’s “black gang.” It took more than 150 stokers to keep the boilers going, and they all looked alike — shirtless and black from head to toe with coal dust and ash. Da had been working at this on one ship or another for more thantwenty years. No wonder his voice sounded like gravel. He must have had a pound of sludge in his lungs.
Another stoker put a grimy hand on Alfie’s shoulder and pointed to one of the double-ended furnaces. “Your pa’s over there,” he rasped.
John Huggins smiled and beckoned. Even here, the closest thing to an inferno Alfie could imagine, his father was always glad to see him. Whatever ill luck that had already happened and might yet befall him, there was that to hang on to. Being loved was no small matter.
“Aren’t you on shift, boy?” Alfie’s father asked.
“Mrs. Willingham has a shawl that she’s especially fond of,” Alfie explained. “And I’ve been sent to the baggage hold to dig it out of her trunk.”
John Huggins spat into the roaring firebox. “Especially fond of!” he repeated in disgust. “I’m sure she’s got seventeen more in her stateroom. It’s a blessing to be working class. Money makes you soft in the head.”
Alfie laughed. “Then I must have the hardest head of anybody. They’re paying me three pounds ten for the entire voyage.”
His father jammed his shovel into the bin and came away with a scoopful of smoldering, smoking coal.
Alfie was alarmed. “Your bin is on fire!”
“Easy, lad,” his father soothed. “That happens when you’re working with coal. You’re supposed to keep it well watered, but some of the younger blokes just wet the top of the pile and don’t worry about what’s down below.”
“But fire at sea?” Alfie persisted.
“That’s not fire, lad.” He indicated the relentless flames inside the furnace. “That’s fire. Now, you’d best be off. Can’t keep a rich lady waiting for her favorite wrap.”
Alfie left his father and continued on his errand, passing through Number 6 Boiler Room. As he ducked through the hatch, he imagined the heavy watertight door that would clatter down at the flip of a switch by Captain Smith. Down here, it was easy to visualize the sixteen sealed compartments that made the ship unsinkable.
A delicious coolness washed over him as he entered the fireman’s passage forward of Number 6. A thermometer on the bulkhead read 88 degrees, but the improvement was measureless.
It took all his strength to open the heavy iron hatch to his left. Trunks, boxes, and luggage were piled nearly to the ceiling, secured in place by thick netting — the worldly goods of more than sixhundred first-and second-class passengers. It would surely take half the night to find Mrs. Willingham’s belongings. And by then, some other fancy-pants would no doubt send him on his next mission — after a watch fob or a makeup mirror this time.
He yanked open the hatch to his right, hoping against
The image of being steered around the dance floor backing away from that ample belly nearly caused Juliana to laugh in the gentleman’s face. She looked over at Sophie, and saw that the American girl was having the same struggle.
Perhaps the daughter of an earl and an American deportee had something in common after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RMS TITANIC
T HURSDAY, A PRIL 11, 1912, 8:25 A.M.
The heat was unimaginable.
Every time Alfie climbed down the ladder to the orlop deck, he was surprised anew that his memory of it was not half the reality. Twenty-nine boilers 15 feet high, a total of 162 fireboxes, blazes raging. That was what it took to propel the Titanic, the largest moving object ever built by man. Added to the temperature was the earsplitting sound of machinery as the steam drove the engines that turned the enormous triple screw that propelled the ship.
It was a crowded place, too. Alfie always had a difficult time locating his father in this roaring hive of activity, the fiery realm of the Titanic’s “black gang.” It took more than 150 stokers to keep the boilers going, and they all looked alike — shirtless and black from head to toe with coal dust and ash. Da had been working at this on one ship or another for more thantwenty years. No wonder his voice sounded like gravel. He must have had a pound of sludge in his lungs.
Another stoker put a grimy hand on Alfie’s shoulder and pointed to one of the double-ended furnaces. “Your pa’s over there,” he rasped.
John Huggins smiled and beckoned. Even here, the closest thing to an inferno Alfie could imagine, his father was always glad to see him. Whatever ill luck that had already happened and might yet befall him, there was that to hang on to. Being loved was no small matter.
“Aren’t you on shift, boy?” Alfie’s father asked.
“Mrs. Willingham has a shawl that she’s especially fond of,” Alfie explained. “And I’ve been sent to the baggage hold to dig it out of her trunk.”
John Huggins spat into the roaring firebox. “Especially fond of!” he repeated in disgust. “I’m sure she’s got seventeen more in her stateroom. It’s a blessing to be working class. Money makes you soft in the head.”
Alfie laughed. “Then I must have the hardest head of anybody. They’re paying me three pounds ten for the entire voyage.”
His father jammed his shovel into the bin and came away with a scoopful of smoldering, smoking coal.
Alfie was alarmed. “Your bin is on fire!”
“Easy, lad,” his father soothed. “That happens when you’re working with coal. You’re supposed to keep it well watered, but some of the younger blokes just wet the top of the pile and don’t worry about what’s down below.”
“But fire at sea?” Alfie persisted.
“That’s not fire, lad.” He indicated the relentless flames inside the furnace. “That’s fire. Now, you’d best be off. Can’t keep a rich lady waiting for her favorite wrap.”
Alfie left his father and continued on his errand, passing through Number 6 Boiler Room. As he ducked through the hatch, he imagined the heavy watertight door that would clatter down at the flip of a switch by Captain Smith. Down here, it was easy to visualize the sixteen sealed compartments that made the ship unsinkable.
A delicious coolness washed over him as he entered the fireman’s passage forward of Number 6. A thermometer on the bulkhead read 88 degrees, but the improvement was measureless.
It took all his strength to open the heavy iron hatch to his left. Trunks, boxes, and luggage were piled nearly to the ceiling, secured in place by thick netting — the worldly goods of more than sixhundred first-and second-class passengers. It would surely take half the night to find Mrs. Willingham’s belongings. And by then, some other fancy-pants would no doubt send him on his next mission — after a watch fob or a makeup mirror this time.
He yanked open the hatch to his right, hoping against
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