Now get back to your parents and be quick about it!”
Michael had raced to the deck, mingling with third-class passengers, just in time to stare into the purple face and fists of Uncle Tom, stranded opposite the gangway.
Breathless, Michael stumbled back into the cheering throng, clutching both arms to stop the tremors running the length of his limbs. But now I’m sailing—and Tom Auld is left standing on the docks of England. Michael shook his head and drew a breath, intent on steadying his nerves, unable to fathom the luck or the wonder of it—to be rid of his uncle forever.
As he wove through the jumping, waving crowd, a sharp cracking broke the revelry on ship and dock. A thousand heads swiveled toward the commotion. Sturdy lines from the ship New York snapped free of their moorings in its sudden struggle with the portside backwash from Titanic ’s gigantic propellers.
Titanic , ordered full astern, turned its mighty bow slightly but was too slow to steer quickly from the path of the smaller ship. A cry swelled from the docks.
Michael couldn’t see, but he could imagine that the heavy, snapping lines from the New York had lashed among the crowd, and he winced to think of the sting.
He could not hear the directions of the ship’s officers, but the clamor and gasps of passengers ran the length of the ship. Most stepped back, but a few surged forward, craning their necks far over the railings.
“She’s broken loose! She’ll smack us broadside!” A young man swore.
“A collision,” whimpered a woman from the deck above Michael, “and we’re not even clear of port!”
“Don’t be an alarmist, Isabella,” the man beside her chided. “She’s only drifting. They’ll pull her out before she hits.”
“But that ship is headed straight for us!” And she was. The smaller ship looked like a match coming to strike Titanic ’s stone.
Michael squirmed a path across the deck in time to see a small tug toss its lines to the seamen of the New York . The first line snapped again, but the second held and the little tug valiantly pulled the New York from Titanic ’s path, with only feet to spare. A collective cheer went up from the deck. Whistles and waves from ships and shore responded.
“A bad omen, that,” a man on the deck above Michael vowed. “A bad omen, indeed.” He turned to the woman beside him. “Do you love life?”
“I love it!” she responded.
“Then get off this ship at Cherbourg. That’s what I’m going to do.”
The man moved along the deck, and Michael could hear no more.
But a woman beside him took up the pace, speaking to no one in particular. “I overheard a man, a respectable gentleman, say this very morning that God Himself could not sink this ship!”
Michael stepped back. The pit of his stomach churned. He didn’t know if he believed in omens or premonitions, but he knew better than to challenge the abilities and sovereignty of the almighty God.
Titanic had not cleared Southampton Water before her passengers’ heads turned to better hear and see the ship’s bugler as he roamed the decks, bugle lifted.
“‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!” shouted a boy not much older than Michael on the deck above.
“The call for midday meal.” A woman Michael took to be the boy’s mother linked his arm. “Have your ticket at the ready, Teddy. No ticket, no seating!”
Passengers hurried to separate themselves into decks and dining halls according to class, eager for their first meal aboard the lavish ship. Michael, having no ticket and careful to avoid running into Owen, sauntered a few steps behind a group of seasoned travelers who remained on deck, sentimentally pointing out the disappearing sights until they’d passed the Isle of Wight.
Michael wondered, a bit surprised, if leaving England was the best plan, after all. But he’d cast his boat upon the sea and could not pull it back.
“Rice soup, corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, and, oh—that tasty
Michael had raced to the deck, mingling with third-class passengers, just in time to stare into the purple face and fists of Uncle Tom, stranded opposite the gangway.
Breathless, Michael stumbled back into the cheering throng, clutching both arms to stop the tremors running the length of his limbs. But now I’m sailing—and Tom Auld is left standing on the docks of England. Michael shook his head and drew a breath, intent on steadying his nerves, unable to fathom the luck or the wonder of it—to be rid of his uncle forever.
As he wove through the jumping, waving crowd, a sharp cracking broke the revelry on ship and dock. A thousand heads swiveled toward the commotion. Sturdy lines from the ship New York snapped free of their moorings in its sudden struggle with the portside backwash from Titanic ’s gigantic propellers.
Titanic , ordered full astern, turned its mighty bow slightly but was too slow to steer quickly from the path of the smaller ship. A cry swelled from the docks.
Michael couldn’t see, but he could imagine that the heavy, snapping lines from the New York had lashed among the crowd, and he winced to think of the sting.
He could not hear the directions of the ship’s officers, but the clamor and gasps of passengers ran the length of the ship. Most stepped back, but a few surged forward, craning their necks far over the railings.
“She’s broken loose! She’ll smack us broadside!” A young man swore.
“A collision,” whimpered a woman from the deck above Michael, “and we’re not even clear of port!”
“Don’t be an alarmist, Isabella,” the man beside her chided. “She’s only drifting. They’ll pull her out before she hits.”
“But that ship is headed straight for us!” And she was. The smaller ship looked like a match coming to strike Titanic ’s stone.
Michael squirmed a path across the deck in time to see a small tug toss its lines to the seamen of the New York . The first line snapped again, but the second held and the little tug valiantly pulled the New York from Titanic ’s path, with only feet to spare. A collective cheer went up from the deck. Whistles and waves from ships and shore responded.
“A bad omen, that,” a man on the deck above Michael vowed. “A bad omen, indeed.” He turned to the woman beside him. “Do you love life?”
“I love it!” she responded.
“Then get off this ship at Cherbourg. That’s what I’m going to do.”
The man moved along the deck, and Michael could hear no more.
But a woman beside him took up the pace, speaking to no one in particular. “I overheard a man, a respectable gentleman, say this very morning that God Himself could not sink this ship!”
Michael stepped back. The pit of his stomach churned. He didn’t know if he believed in omens or premonitions, but he knew better than to challenge the abilities and sovereignty of the almighty God.
Titanic had not cleared Southampton Water before her passengers’ heads turned to better hear and see the ship’s bugler as he roamed the decks, bugle lifted.
“‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!” shouted a boy not much older than Michael on the deck above.
“The call for midday meal.” A woman Michael took to be the boy’s mother linked his arm. “Have your ticket at the ready, Teddy. No ticket, no seating!”
Passengers hurried to separate themselves into decks and dining halls according to class, eager for their first meal aboard the lavish ship. Michael, having no ticket and careful to avoid running into Owen, sauntered a few steps behind a group of seasoned travelers who remained on deck, sentimentally pointing out the disappearing sights until they’d passed the Isle of Wight.
Michael wondered, a bit surprised, if leaving England was the best plan, after all. But he’d cast his boat upon the sea and could not pull it back.
“Rice soup, corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, and, oh—that tasty
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