With a loud caw, the seagull swoops in my direction, and the crewman wheels about.
Sod off, you screechy tattletale.
The crewman places a hand on the crane base to steady himself, then draws closer, his bloodshot eyes nearly pouring from their sockets. “Wh-where did you come from?”
I scramble to my feet, feeling a breeze through the tear in my skirt. The sleeve of my jacket collects around my elbow. I must look a fright.
Behind the crewman, the superstructure stacks up like the layers of a cake, at the top of which stands a man with a white beard and a proud bearing, the gold braids on his navy sleeves gleaming like bracelets. Even from fifty feet away, I recognize the face in all the brochures: Captain Smith, the king of this floating palace. He spreads his fingers against the rail and bends his gaze in our direction.
I squeeze a toe down on my panic, which, like a tissue-thin handkerchief in a strong wind, is in danger of cutting loose.
The crewman’s nostrils put me in mind of the double barrel of a gun. “I said, where did you come from?”
As the Chinese proverb goes, the hand that strikes also blocks. Straightening my hat, I put on the haughty look Mrs. Sloane used with inferiors, eyes hooded, nose tipped up like a seal’s. After months of assisting the tough old nut, I could do Mrs. Sloane better than she could. “My mother’s loins. And you?”
Someone utters a short laugh. Behind me, leaning against a staircase up to the forecastle, I recognize the slender American woman from the first-class gangway. A fresh cigarette dangles from her red mouth.
The crewman’s eyes narrow into slits. He points a thick finger at the cargo shaft. “No. I saw you come from the hatch. Else why’s your jacket torn like that?”
“Are you suggesting I climbed out from there?” I snort loudly. “I can’t even walk on this slippery deck without falling. Look, I have ripped my jacket.” I crook a finger at his bulbous nose. “You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck.”
Lookouts stationed in the crow’s nest halfway up the foremast peer down at us. I half expect them to start clanging the warning bell from their washtub-like perch. But then an officer emerges from a doorway under the forecastle, his boots jabbing the deck, and I forget all about the lookouts.
A noose of a tie hangs from a severe white collar, and a jury of eight brass buttons judge me from a humorless field of navy. A uniform like that could have me thrown off this boat for a final baptism. “Something the matter here?”
The crewman mops some of the sweat off his face with his sleeve. “Officer Merry. She climbed out of the hatch.”
Officer Merry folds a clipboard into his chest and glares at me. Shapeless eyebrows overhang a dour expression, perhaps caused by the pressure of living up to a name like Merry.
With my hand to my chest, I laugh, but in my nervousness, it sounds more like the honk of passing geese. “Of course I did. Right after I dropped in from my flying balloon.”
“Who are you?” asks the officer.
He will ask for papers. The ruse is up. My leg shakes, but I clamp down on it, forcing it into stillness.
“Should I call the master-at-arms?” asks the crewman.
“For goodness’ sake, I saw the whole thing.” The American with the cigarette sashays up from behind me, her suit as fitted as if it were sewn around her. I’d nearly forgotten about her. “She was just taking some air, same as me, and the poor thing stumbled but caught herself on the lip of that hatch. Lucky for you, she has good reflexes. An accident right before launch could hardly be good press.”
I try not to gape at her.
“Miss Hart. How nice to see you.” Officer Merry affects an air of pleasant surprise, which is as effective as trying to spruce up a plate of spoiled meat with a sprig of parsley.
Miss Hart begins pacing, moving as regally as the queen’s cat. “I must say, the layout of this ship is quite confusing. It’s a wonder you don’t have more people falling into the hatch. Obviously, you didn’t get a woman’s opinion on the design.”
Officer Merry stares, caught in the fluttering trap of her glamorous eyelashes. He clears his throat. “It was designed this way so that honored passengers such as yourself could enjoy their luxurious facilities without being disturbed.” He glances up at the navigating bridge and, noticing Captain Smith, throws him a quick salute. The captain nods and turns away. “We would not want people to get confused about where they should be.”
“So your answer is to confuse them further if they stray,” she says brightly. “Interesting.”
“You should be relaxing on the Promenade Deck, not down here with the third class. They are serving champagne. It’s a good time to meet your fellow passengers. We have several notable guests traveling with us.”
My ears get bigger. I learned from Mrs. Sloane’s list of “distinguished passengers” that Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart, part owner of the Ringling Brothers Circus, would be among those guests. When I received Jamie’s letter announcing that his crew was being transferred via the Titanic, I knew it was a sign that it was time for me to finally get our family back together. We’d dreamed of going “big-time” in a real circus ever since Ba showed us a poster of P. T. Barnum and Co.’s Greatest Show on Earth. We’d even choreographed an audition routine that we called the Jumbo, after the great circus elephant. Somehow, I aim to show Mr. Stewart that routine.
“Mother doesn’t care for my smoking.” Miss Hart taps her finger against her cigarette holder, and ashes drop. “But I am ready to return to my luxurious facilities. I trust you know a more direct route back to B-Deck.” She takes his arm, nodding toward a small staircase that leads to the superstructure. I can’t help wondering if she actually does know her way around.
“Pull the gangway,” barks a voice from somewhere in the distance, lighting a fire in me. I make a hasty exit toward the forecastle.
At last, it’s anchors aweigh.
Officer Merry’s gaze follows me, heavy as a boot on my back.
3
Descending a wide staircase under the forecastle, I find myself in the large room I passed while in the cargo shaft. Bright light from the open staircase gives the space an airy feel.
By the grace of God, I’ve landed on this stepping-stone, bringing me one step closer to America’s shores. But before I search for Jamie, I need the grace of the lavatory. My bladder feels like a dozen butchers are whacking it with meat pounders.
I remove my ridiculous jacket and glance about for somewhere to do my business.
The words “General Room” are marked in gold letters on the wall. Seems they could’ve come up with a more interesting name. Obviously, you didn’t get a woman’s opinion, I hear Miss Hart say in her mocking tone.