wanted was for that crew chief to complain about a mysterious young steward sleeping in the cargo hold. That would set off alarm bells all around the Titanic. Paddy’s life was hard enough without a ship-wide search for the boy who was impersonating a crew member.
Somehow, he had to find the quartermaster’s office and bring the chief what he needed. But how was he to do that? The Titanic was a huge floating city, withnine decks, scores of passageways, and hundreds of rooms and compartments. He couldn’t wander the halls pleading for directions. That would be as suspicious as sleeping in the motorcar.
Alfie! He would find Alfie, and his protector would tell him what to do. Even if the junior steward didn’t know where to find the quartermaster’s office, at least he could ask without drawing attention to himself.
He reached the forecastle, squinting in the bright sunlight. Blinding, it was. What a difference from the clouds and drizzle of Ireland and England — especially on the lofty decks that were reserved for first class. At this hour, Alfie might be delivering morning coffee and chocolate to the staterooms, or helping in the dining saloon. Paddy hoped he could run into the fellow without too much delay.
Sure enough, he spied Alfie atop up on the boat deck. And Alfie spied him — even from this distance, he could see the dismay on the young steward’s face. Alfie hurried down the companion stairs, and Paddy started forward to meet him in the well deck.
“Paddy, have you lost your mind?” he hissed. “What are you doing out here?”
“I have to find the quartermaster’s office.”
“No, you don’t!” Alfie rasped. “You have to disappear until we reach New York!”
“We have a bigger problem.” In a low voice, Paddy recounted the story of how he was discovered sleeping in the Renault.
Alfie was horrified. “They found you? Now they know there’s a stowaway on board!”
Paddy shook his head. “They think I’m just a steward who got caught kipping on the job. And they’ll keep on thinking it as long as I bring them what they want — which is the cargo manifest. Now, where’s the quartermaster’s office?”
“The cargo manifest isn’t something you can pick up and walk away with like a salt mill from one of the dining saloons,” Alfie argued. “It’s a record of everything aboard the ship. The Americans have to approve it before they let us unload. Do you think the quartermaster will just hand it over to the likes of you?”
Paddy bristled. “Well, I’ve no choice but to try, haven’t I?”
Alfie thought it over. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“Did I miss the ceremony where you were promoted to captain?” Paddy demanded. “That looks like a steward’s coat you’re wearing, same as the one on my back. Why should they give it to you and not me?”
“I’m the one who can prove that he works for theWhite Star Line,” Alfie reasoned. “Who knows, I might have to sign for something so important.”
“I’m not ignorant,” Paddy said belligerently. “Daniel taught me well. I can write my name — or anybody else’s!”
“But my name is the one on the complement of crew.” It was Alfie’s turn to be angry. “Do you think this is fun for me, Paddy? To abandon my passengers, lie to the quartermaster, and gamble my job to save your neck? I’m trying to help you! The least you could say is thank you!”
Paddy backed down, chastened. “You’re right. Thank you, Alfie.”
“We’ll be sharing a cell in the brig if this doesn’t work,” Alfie said nervously. “Wait here, and try to look like you belong. If anybody asks, you’re fetching bouillon for your passengers.”
“Bouillon?” Paddy repeated. But Alfie was already gone.
Paddy took a step back and did his best to fade into the background. What was bouillon? Obviously some fancy thing the swells enjoyed. Part of being poor, he reflected, was that you didn’t even know what you were missing.
He thought of the two first-class
Somehow, he had to find the quartermaster’s office and bring the chief what he needed. But how was he to do that? The Titanic was a huge floating city, withnine decks, scores of passageways, and hundreds of rooms and compartments. He couldn’t wander the halls pleading for directions. That would be as suspicious as sleeping in the motorcar.
Alfie! He would find Alfie, and his protector would tell him what to do. Even if the junior steward didn’t know where to find the quartermaster’s office, at least he could ask without drawing attention to himself.
He reached the forecastle, squinting in the bright sunlight. Blinding, it was. What a difference from the clouds and drizzle of Ireland and England — especially on the lofty decks that were reserved for first class. At this hour, Alfie might be delivering morning coffee and chocolate to the staterooms, or helping in the dining saloon. Paddy hoped he could run into the fellow without too much delay.
Sure enough, he spied Alfie atop up on the boat deck. And Alfie spied him — even from this distance, he could see the dismay on the young steward’s face. Alfie hurried down the companion stairs, and Paddy started forward to meet him in the well deck.
“Paddy, have you lost your mind?” he hissed. “What are you doing out here?”
“I have to find the quartermaster’s office.”
“No, you don’t!” Alfie rasped. “You have to disappear until we reach New York!”
“We have a bigger problem.” In a low voice, Paddy recounted the story of how he was discovered sleeping in the Renault.
Alfie was horrified. “They found you? Now they know there’s a stowaway on board!”
Paddy shook his head. “They think I’m just a steward who got caught kipping on the job. And they’ll keep on thinking it as long as I bring them what they want — which is the cargo manifest. Now, where’s the quartermaster’s office?”
“The cargo manifest isn’t something you can pick up and walk away with like a salt mill from one of the dining saloons,” Alfie argued. “It’s a record of everything aboard the ship. The Americans have to approve it before they let us unload. Do you think the quartermaster will just hand it over to the likes of you?”
Paddy bristled. “Well, I’ve no choice but to try, haven’t I?”
Alfie thought it over. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“Did I miss the ceremony where you were promoted to captain?” Paddy demanded. “That looks like a steward’s coat you’re wearing, same as the one on my back. Why should they give it to you and not me?”
“I’m the one who can prove that he works for theWhite Star Line,” Alfie reasoned. “Who knows, I might have to sign for something so important.”
“I’m not ignorant,” Paddy said belligerently. “Daniel taught me well. I can write my name — or anybody else’s!”
“But my name is the one on the complement of crew.” It was Alfie’s turn to be angry. “Do you think this is fun for me, Paddy? To abandon my passengers, lie to the quartermaster, and gamble my job to save your neck? I’m trying to help you! The least you could say is thank you!”
Paddy backed down, chastened. “You’re right. Thank you, Alfie.”
“We’ll be sharing a cell in the brig if this doesn’t work,” Alfie said nervously. “Wait here, and try to look like you belong. If anybody asks, you’re fetching bouillon for your passengers.”
“Bouillon?” Paddy repeated. But Alfie was already gone.
Paddy took a step back and did his best to fade into the background. What was bouillon? Obviously some fancy thing the swells enjoyed. Part of being poor, he reflected, was that you didn’t even know what you were missing.
He thought of the two first-class
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