Promise Me This by Cathy Gohlke Page A

from his lip. “She’s beginning to list.”
    Michael shook his head. He knew such a ship should not list. It was as though his body understood that a nightmare brewed, but his brain refused to listen.
    Owen pushed wide the cabin door.
    Michael watched as anxious men and women gathered and filled the white enameled hallway, holding sleepy small children towing stocking dolls and blankets, and some with babes swaddled in shawls across their chests. They mingled, some half-dressed in nightgowns, others in thin or woolen wrappers or layers of day clothes, coats upon greatcoats.
    Michael stood with great effort and stared as if from a distance. He might have laughed at the odd combination of worn brogans at the end of hairy legs peeking from nightshirts. He might have chuckled at the congregation of woolen and flannel sleeping caps pulled low over ears if not for the frantic current that sped through their owners’ speech. Mixtures of English and Gaelic, of French and of languages Michael did not know filled the shrinking air. He could not understand their questions, their prattle, but fear and confusion communicated clearly in every language.
    “Gather your wits, Michael!” Owen had layered his warmest clothing and was trying to tie something round Michael.
    Michael looked down to see life belt straps bandaged across his chest—the same canvas-covered life belts that armored the huddled mass of men, women, and children outside their door. The fog in his brain thinned. He tugged, ripping at the life belt even as Owen tied him in. But Owen’s strength of purpose was no match for Michael’s fury.
    “I’ll not wear your life belt! I won’t, Owen!” Michael pulled free of his friend and jerked the belt over his head, shoving it back into Owen’s chest.
    “You must, Michael!” Owen stood close and spoke low. “ Titanic ’s hit a berg. I stopped alongside a crewmen’s stairway and overheard two officers. She’s making water fast. The mail hold is already awash. They’ve moved the mail higher, but it’s no good. The water keeps coming. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
    Michael shook his head as though the shaking could stop time. No, not now—not this!
    “They’re calling for women and children above deck. They’re loading first class into lifeboats now. Women and children only, Michael!”
    Owen pulled Michael by the sleeve, and Michael let himself be threaded through the crowd of third-class passengers until they reached the nearest stairwell. But the stairs were packed and blocked by something or someone ahead that Michael could not see.
    “What is it?” Owen grabbed the shoulder of the man ahead of them. “What is the holdup?”
    But the man shook his head at Owen and repeated again and again, “No Engleesh. No Engleesh.”
    “They won’t let us through!” an Irishman behind Michael shouted to those still crowding the passageway behind him. “Is it locked? Is the gate locked?” he demanded.
    “I can’t see,” Owen shouted. “We can’t stand here waiting.” He turned Michael round, then pushed past him. “Come!”
    Michael followed as Owen elbowed and plowed their way back through the thickening crowd. By the time they reached their cabin corridor, water had begun to puddle round their feet as if someone had overflowed a bath.
    “He’s gone,” Michael said of the Swede as they passed their cabin door. But Owen did not pause, and Michael, the fog in his head finally gone, trailed his friend through a maze of corridors.
    But they could not outrun the freezing water. The icy puddle had grown to a rising creek and seeped through the soles of their shoes. They reached the general room from an angle new to Michael. Steerage passengers by the dozens clustered anxiously, apparently waiting for direction; they huddled, talking, kneeling, praying through rosaries.
    Owen dragged Michael on, twisting and turning through corridors until they reached another stairwell, then shoved him up