I look wildly about for a ruse to distract everyone. Maybe someone is carrying a firearm and I can somehow get him to fire it into the sky. Right. And then maybe a flock of flamingoes will fly in from Africa and a marching band will appear.
Another rat sniffs around my boot, its tail worming behind it. I begin to kick it away but stop. I don’t like rats, but they don’t give me hysterical fits like they do Mrs. Sloane’s daughter-in-law, who boxed my ears when she found one in the pantry. Of course, after this, they might.
Retreating to the train depot a few paces away, I put my back to the wall and tie the ribbons on my black hat tight. Mrs. Sloane gave the hat to me, saying its short brim made her look like a garden hoe. I pull a tin of milk biscuits from my handbag and set the handbag on the ground, wishing the joy of its contents—mostly traveling supplies—to the beggar who finds it. I empty the tin along the wall, crushing the biscuits with my foot.
The dockworkers push the car in place, and the crewman waves his arms. “Stop. Set the brake! Lash it now. Smartly!”
Come on, biscuits, work your buttery charms soon.
The men work quickly, lashing the wheels to the platform.
Of course, when you need a rat, there is none to be found.
Panic jabs at my heart. I abandon my post, searching the dark corners of the quay for the loathsome creatures. After several minutes of scurrying around, I spot a couple of rats feasting on a sausage—at least I hope it’s a sausage. Something sour rises in my throat. I’ve done more repulsive things, but for the life of me, I can’t think of a single one.
Slowly, I lower myself, flexing my fingers. Before any more doubts seep in, I snatch a fat one by its scruff. “Got you.”
It wiggles and hisses, red eyes glaring, probably oozing poison and disease. Grimly, I hang on, my lips peeled in disgust. I hurry back toward the hoisting platform, casing the dock for a mark. I’ll have to find someone with an open purse or a large pocket. A woman with pin curls stares openmouthed at the foremast staking the ship’s bow, the hood of her old-fashioned cloak pulled back from her short neck.
Forgive me, ma’am, for what I’m about to do, and know that it is for a good cause.
I duck behind a bunch of men with long beards and burgundy caps heading her way. My rat jerks in my grasp. With light steps, I sneak up to the woman, and while saying a prayer, I release the rat into her open hood.
In four strides, I return to the platform, which has already started to rise.
“Stand back, folks.” The crewman walks the perimeter of the platform, enforcing a two-yard margin. If my rat doesn’t do his ratty thing soon, it will rise too high for me to scale.
The woman doesn’t scream. Have I chosen that one-in-a-million mark who isn’t scared by a rat down her back? Should I take a chance and climb on anyway, hoping to God that everyone blinks at the same time?
A scream that could separate the soul from one’s body tears through the crowd.
At last!
The crewman glances toward the woman and the commotion forming around her.
I rush forward and hook my hands over the edge of the platform, which has lifted to waist level. Climbing onto it from the side closest to the water, I scoop up my skirts, praying my added weight won’t topple the whole thing. I imagine myself light as a bird, the way I do when we walk the rope.
I flatten myself and roll under the car. But something is wrong. Something has caught me. My jacket! The back of my sleeve has snagged on a nail. I sharply yank my shoulder, and I hear the fabric rip. Then I scoot under the car, trying my best to melt into the rough wood.
The platform sways, and seagulls caw as they fly by. I heave in air. The scents of motor oil and my own fear fill my nose. At any moment, I expect the platform to stop. I listen for exclamations, or constables blowing whistles.
But the platform continues its ascent. So far, no one is yelling, except for my unfortunate victim. God save her from the plague. I press my cheek to the wood. From what I can see, no one is looking at me.
Then I see her. A child around five years old with stringy yellow hair and eyes as wide as planets is pointing at me.
I’m just an illusion, kid. Forget what you saw.
The steady pull of the crane snatches her from my view. New worries flood my mind as the platform swings over the Titanic’s well deck, ready for its descent into the cargo hatch. What if the shaft to the Titanic’s belly does not feature a wall ladder on which I can escape? I’ll need to exit before reaching the storage area in the bowels of the ship, where surely men will be waiting to unload the car.
The platform slows as it nears the hatch, and my stomach turns loops. Glimpsing a crewman, I shrink back. He could see me if he thought to look under the car.
His face glistens with sweat and wonder as he walks the length of the platform, taking in the vehicle. “She’s a looker. The French know how to make ’em. Thirty-five miles an hour—can you believe it?”
I close my eyes and hold my breath, as if that could hide me from view. Even my blood stops pumping.
He completes his circuit. “Bring her down.”
The grinding of a motor and the clink of a chain unspooling herald my descent into the jaws of destiny. Sounds echo off the shaft closing around me, and the light changes.
Rolling out from under the car, I scramble to the edge of the platform and look wildly around for a ladder. It’s on the other side. My wet fingers slip against the glossy car frame as I swing myself into the seat and scoot across. To my horror, before I can grab a rung, the wall ends.
The platform descends at a walking pace past a room with benches and tables filled with passengers—third class, by the looks of them. Some stare at me dropping from the ceiling, still clinging to the car seat. Nearby, a uniformed crewman chats with a woman, his back to me. Can’t get off here. I hold my breath and wait for the platform to pass from view.
At the next level, the shaft becomes enclosed once again. I step up onto the seat, then grab the center chain. Clenching my boots around the chain, I use my legs to propel myself up, trying to climb faster than my stage is falling. The crane brakes, giving me a few precious seconds to scale higher, the chain digging into my hands. Then on it goes, rumbling to life again. I inch up, cursing my skirt for impeding my progress. Sweat blinds me. My limbs scream in anguish. I pass the large room. If anyone notices me, no one protests.
At last, the ladder appears and I hoist myself high enough to place my foot on a rung. Grabbing the ladder, my skirt tears, but at least I’m no longer headed down. I rest, catching my breath.
Then I climb, rung by rung, until sunlight kisses my face.
I peek over the framed opening. Forty feet away by the base of the crane, the sweaty crewman who had admired the Renault has pulled back his navy beret and is looking up at a seagull. No one else is on the well deck. I imagine myself as invisible as the breeze, then hook a leg over the edge. As quietly as possible, I roll onto the pine deck.