SAVE ALL WHO DARE THE EAGLE’S FLIGHT
Chapter Twenty

Stepping onto the dock was like taking a breath of fresh air. Living in New York City was like having that breath of fresh air knocked out of you.

Henry Noon, Bertha’s fiancé, ushered her off to Providence, Rhode Island the very night we docked, leaving the three of us to scrap and scrape for ourselves. It was a miserable existence in New York. Eugene, after working a number of odd jobs, finally settled with a position that offered very decent pay at the Otis Elevator Company. Maggie took up housekeeping for a well-to-do family while I worked as a hotel maid once more. It took months for us to pay off debts and buy most of what we needed. We never put money in a bank; there simply wasn’t enough to store in a place as important as a bank when the linings of our mattresses held our bills quite neatly.

I lived there for quite some time, with Eugene and Maggie. We became something like a family, albeit a strange one. I soon found that although I would gladly leave my job at the Sheffield Arms in favor of traveling, I knew that I couldn’t leave Eugene and Maggie to fend for themselves on their meager pay while there were still so many bills and debts to be paid off. Not to mention Eugene’s friend Jimmy, who called him often to ask if he could borrow a few bucks. Jimmy became a frequent caller at our flat.

We all have our little vices. After that great ship sank, many turned to the drink to take away their pain. Some turned to opium dens. I found my solace in laudanum. It was cheaper than a bottle of gin, mainly because it was used for medicinal purposes, and I often found myself crawling inside the bottle. It felt so good to enter that hazy world where I couldn’t feel or even think, but most importantly, I couldn’t remember. I forgot the stark white faces with frozen looks of horror etched on their haunting faces, the icy fire of the water.

Bertha was the one to find the bottle under my bed during one of her visits. She knew it wasn’t for medicinal purposes; if it was, I wouldn’t have hidden it. She could have yelled at me and probably should have—I know she should have poured the bottle down the drain. But what she did made me feel far worse. She put the bottle back under the bed and left me in my room without a word or even a glance. I threw the bottle out the window as soon as I trusted my shaky legs to get up. I haven’t touched laudanum since, although I suppose that goes without saying; the Harrison Narcotics Tax Act of 1914 restricted opiates, and now doctors are saying that it does not help pain at all and it is becoming rarer and rarer in prescriptions.

*****

In 1914, on my eighteenth birthday--the day that Jack had ordained as my birthday, anyway--I received a third class ticket to England onboard the Cunard steamer the Lusitania. I stared up at the beaming Dalys in shock. "I don’t…"

"Well, we finally scraped up enough money, the two of us," Eugene explained, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders. "We don’t have enough for us to go, nor can we leave right now, but you can."

After much protesting, I finally accepted it. I only had one request, though--for my destination to be changed from Southampton to Queenstown. I had been meaning for some time to go find Tommy’s family and tell them that I had been there during his death. I didn’t know how much comfort it would bring them, but I figured that now that I had a ticket, it was worth a try, at least.

Cunard Line wired the extra money back to me--a ticket to Queenstown cost less than a ticket to Southampton--and on February first, two weeks after my birthday, I walked up a gangplank for the first time in almost two years. This time, I was alone. I confess that I was terrified at times and I often stayed up past midnight, afraid the Titanic disaster would be repeated. We passed through the iceberg fields without any incidents at all and arrived in Queenstown perfectly on schedule.

Maggie and Eugene had written their families all over Ireland, asking if anyone could help me get from Queenstown to Boher, the town Tommy had claimed to live in. Some relatives readily agreed to do so after hearing that I had been with the Dalys on the Titanic. So I was met at the dock by two gawky teenage boys from the O’Connell family, who were second cousins to Eugene or something. They escorted me to the train station where I purchased a ticket to Boher. I got there the next afternoon. The town was small; its largest establishment was the pub. I could really see Tommy strutting down the streets, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he made his way to the pub.

Unfortunately, I had nowhere to go until I found out where the Ryans lived and I was trying to save my money for a steamer ticket; I didn’t know how long I would stay in Ireland, but I doubted it would be long enough to get a job. I set down my sack for a moment, trying to figure out what to do now. Quite a few people stared; from what I could gather, this was a small, everybody-knows-everybody town, and I was most definitely foreign to these parts. My best bet was to try the pub; if there was a place Tommy would frequent, that was it. So I hoisted my sack back over my shoulder and headed there. Not many men were inside; just a few old bums nursing beers. They were so hung over that they didn’t even look up as I made my way through the maze of rickety tables and chairs to the bar.

The bartender was a typical cliché found in most books and films; brawny, muscular, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and, predictably, wiping a glass clean. I could have laughed at the quaintness of it all. He glanced up at me and raised one black eyebrow, looking only mildly surprised; I don’t imagine that much of anything surprises bartenders. "Can I help ye, lass?"

I set down my sack and leaned my forearms on the counter. He leaned back a bit as I did so; after two years in America and away from Europe, I had forgotten that most Europeans find Americans extremely forward. I leaned back until I was resting only my hands on the counter. "Excuse me, but do you know if there are any Ryans living here?"

He nodded, continuing his methodical wiping of the glass. "Aye, that I do; which one ‘r ye looking fer?"

I paused for a moment. "Well, actually, I’m not sure."

"Sit ‘er down, have a drink ‘r two," the bartender invited.

I shook my head. "No, thank you; I’m afraid I don’t have much money to spare. I’m saving some for a ticket to England, and I don’t even know if I’ll need money there or not."

"Then have a seat, at least," the bartender said, shrugging.

I obliged.

"Now, about these Ryans yer lookin’ fer…there’re several Ryans in these parts, some from different families," the bartender explained.

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Er…well…I’m looking for the immediate family of…of Tommy Ryan."

He stopped wiping the glass at this and looked at me queerly. "I’ve not seen ye before," he finally said.

I blinked, startled. "Er…well, no, I don’t imagine you have, as I’ve never been to Ireland before."

He still hadn’t resumed wiping the glass. "Well…the way I heard it—and me source isn’t known ter lie—ol’ Tommy was killed on the crossing ter America. Now, just what’s yer business, miss?"

I fiddled with a loose thread on my coat. "Well…I was on that crossing, too. The Titanic, I mean. And…look, I just want to meet Tommy’s family and…and tell them how their son died. It’s the least I can do for them."

Something in his eyes softened as he set down the glass. "Aye, lass; that would be a comfort ter Missus Ryan. Their farm is about, oh, three miles from here. Keep heading north."

I thanked him, hoisted my sack back over my shoulder and left the pub. After glancing at a weathervane atop the postal office and determining which way was north, I set out for the Ryan home. I walked along the dusty dirt road until I was out of the town. I hadn’t traveled like this in some time, but it came to me rather quickly; after what I judged to be roughly three miles, I came to a small brook at the trough of a hill. Upon deciding that the Ryan home couldn’t be too far away, I stopped to get a drink of water. I felt awakened after my short respite, and, deciding that I was unobserved, I grabbed my sack and ran up the hill on a whim. I paused for only a moment at the crest before running down the hill, laughing wildly. I came to a halt at the trough, panting and laughing. I rested against a wooden fence.

A younger-looking man had been some yards away from the fence, shoveling what I took to be presents left by the farm animals. He came forward slowly, his shovel over his shoulder and his gloves and boots covered in the stinky stuff. There was something undeniably familiar about him, something that caught my attention and held it. He leaned his shovel against the fence post and rested his forearms on the fence, grinning as he removed his gloves. "Yer not from around here, I take it?"

I shook my head, smiling and trying not to gag from the stench he carried. Poor fellow. "No, I’m not. I suppose I was very obvious. I wasn’t aware anyone was watching until a few moments ago, actually."

"Ah…American," he observed. "Never been meself, but I have kin there." He held out the hand not holding the grimy gloves. "Gabe Ryan. Don’t worry, me hands are clean."

I took his hand and shook it, my heart speeding up. "Angie Marshall. Ryan, did you say?"

He nodded, looking politely puzzled. "Aye, that I did."

I hesitated before speaking again. "Did you…did you have a brother named Tommy, by any chance?"

He looked floored, and I knew the answer before he even spoke. "I…ma’am, Tommy passed on two years ago. Ye must be mistaken."

"No, no, that’s the Tommy I mean. I’m sure of it," I insisted.

He shook his head. "Miss…Tommy never…he didn’t know any Americans. He went down on the Titanic. There are loads of Tom Ryans all over the place; ye’ve got him confused fer another."

"I’m sure there are, but I am referring to the Tommy Ryan who was on the Titanic," I said, trying to hold onto my patience. "I was there. I was on the ship with him. I saw him die. I came looking for his family, to…to tell them how he went so that you all could…I don’t know…have some peace in that, I suppose," I said lamely, realizing how pathetic I probably sounded.

Gabe Ryan gave me a hard stare for a long moment. Finally he said slowly, "Miss…I think ye’d better come with me."

I was more than happy to oblige. I climbed to the top of the fence and swung my legs over, dropping down on the springy ground below. Gabe Ryan picked up his shovel again, resting it on his shoulder once more, and led the way briskly through the field of stinky piles. A small house came into view; I thought it was miraculous that such a small house could have ever housed fourteen people. Before I had time to marvel, however, we were at the front porch and walking through the creaky door. I heard two Irish voices arguing off to the side; a few moments later, a short, skinny boy stormed out of the room and into where we were standing.

"What’re you at, Harry?" Gabe asked suspiciously.

"Nothin’!" the boy named Harry protested. "Ma can’t keep her hair on because I outgrew my last dress; it’s not my fault!"

Dress? Why on earth would a boy have a dress? It dawned on me then that Harry was not, in fact, a he. Yes, there were some signs of femininity, albeit not many. She had a hard face for a girl and a flat chest. Not that I was judging; I’ve never had much to brag about. She carried herself like a boy and sounded something like a boy and her short hair and britches gave her the appearance of a boy, but she was a girl. She eyed me suspiciously. "Who the hell ‘r you?"

"Watch yer mouth!" Gabe warned. "Go on! Shoo!"

Harry glared at him, gave me another suspicious look, and stormed out of the house.

"Me sister," Gabe said apologetically. "She’s…always like this."

If this was Tommy’s little sister, I wondered what on earth the rest of his sisters were like.

A woman came out of the room off to the side, and judging by the apron covering her unmistakably plump torso and the hands that she was wiping off on the apron, I took the room to be the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was falling out of a bun and her body showed evidence of having birthed twelve children. She looked surprised as she took me in; poor though I was, I still retained American dress, which was noticeably different from Irish dress. That and I was a total stranger.

"Who’s this?" she asked.

"This is Angie Marshall, Ma," Gabe explained. "She…she said she was with Tommy on…on the Titanic."

Mrs. Ryan gave me a hard look not unlike Gabe’s. "Oh?" She gave me a once-over. "Ye haven’t made me a grandmother again and now ye expect money, do ye?"

"What—no, nothing of the sort!" I assured her hastily, wishing to dispel that notion as quickly as possible.

"I hoped not," Mrs. Ryan said bluntly. She hadn’t moved from her place and I was too terrified to move from mine. Had I made a mistake in coming here? I had no idea that Tommy’s family would be so…harsh. That, and I hadn’t expected to be judged as a…well…trollop.

"Look, I can see I made a mistake in coming here," I began, moving towards the door. My ticket over here had been for nothing; it was wasted. "I just wanted to meet Tommy’s family, and I had thought that maybe you would have wanted to hear how he died from a first hand account, but—"

"Ye saw him?" Mrs. Ryan cut across me. "Then why aren’t you dead, too?"

I took a deep breath. "Well, he didn’t die in the water, ma’am—"

"They told me he had."

"They were wrong," I said, starting to get a little annoyed. "I saw him. He was shot!" I felt guilty at her shocked expression, but I saw no other way to inculcate what I was trying to say. "Ma’am, Tommy was shot by an officer, who then killed himself. I was there. It was a quick death; painless. He never touched the water. I wish I could say the same for others."

Mrs. Ryan backed up a little, her hands to her heart. "My boy…he never suffered?"

I shook my head. "I doubt he felt anything; he was dead before he was caught."

Mrs. Ryan gazed at me for a moment, her look searching. Finally, she said, "Gabe…why don’t ye go finish yer work in the fields?"

"But Ma—" Gabe began.

"Go."

Gabe scowled but complied. The moment the door had slammed shut behind him, Mrs. Ryan motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. "Sit down," she instructed, gesturing to the table. I obliged and she sat across the table from me. "Now. Angie, was it?"

I nodded. "Yessum."

"Supposin’ you tell me about my son."

And so I did. I found it amazingly easy to talk to Mrs. Ryan about the Titanic; easier than I had ever thought. I hadn’t spoken of it for quite some time, and even then it had been with fellow survivors. I found myself pouring out the tale of how I had stowed away on the Titanic after Jack and Fabrizio had won third class tickets. I related how I had met the Cartmells and how they had let me stay in their cabin. My voice caught when I brought up Tommy, but she patted my hand sympathetically and urged me to go on. I summed up the Ship of Dream’s maiden voyage, finally getting to the sinking. That was by far the hardest part. No matter what I said, nothing seemed to even remotely describe what I was trying to say. But I think she understood.

Mrs. Ryan looked proud when she learned that Tommy had rattled the gates for as long as he did; she told me that he had always been like that. I made sure to emphasize the fact that Tommy helped me onto a lifeboat and had been some small source of comfort despite only knowing me a few days. I spoke of Fabrizio, too, but I knew that she wanted to hear about Tommy, so I spoke mostly of him. It was hard to talk about Tommy’s death; that particular moment had haunted me more than much else of what I saw that night. I think the only thing that haunted my dreams more than Tommy’s demise was the image of the chalk white faces of women and children who had not gotten to a boat in time.

I had stopped at the Scottish officer’s suicide; I did not think that Mrs. Ryan would care about the rest of the story, but she asked me after I had gone silent, "And what happened after that? How did ye get off? And yer friend Fabrizio…what became of him?"

And so I told her the rest of the story. I recalled aloud how Fabrizio had had to pull me along and then how I had suddenly lost him. I remembered the wave sweeping me away and how it had literally carried me to the lifeboat that I clung to. When I said this, Mrs. Ryan made the sign of the cross and said, "Praise Jesus, that be a miracle if ever I heard of one."

When I had finally told my tale and ended with living with Maggie and Eugene, my voice was hoarse from talking for so long and my throat was dry. Mrs. Ryan made tea and I drank the warm liquid gratefully, savoring the feeling as it smoothed over my parched throat.

"I’m sorry fer mistrustin’ ye earlier, Angie," Mrs. Ryan said gently. "It’s only just that…well, Tommy…he…he had gotten inter trouble with more than a few lasses in his life…"

"I can see that," I said, smiling a little.

"Oh, aye," Mrs. Ryan said, returning the smile warmly. "He had quite a way with women. Although I’ll never understand why; he could be so sour!"

I smiled again; that sounded like Tommy, sure enough.

Mrs. Ryan cleared her throat, fingering her collar and her expression turning solemn. "I know that yer not a mother yet, Miss Angie, so I know ye can’t understand, but…ye’ve set my heart at rest more than you can possibly imagine by bringin’ me word of my son’s death. It…it helps me, in a manner of speakin’, to know just how he died. I’ve often wondered…how it happened. Ye’ve put my mind at ease now, lass."

I nodded and looked down; no, I couldn’t know how Mrs. Ryan felt. After all, I had never had any family at all that I knew of, let alone a fully grown son. After a few moments of contemplative silence, I rose, thanked her for the tea and for allowing me to talk to her, and I prepared to go. One thing led to another, and before I knew what was happening, I had agreed to stay on with the Ryans for awhile.

Life with the Ryans was quiet, simple, and utterly perfect. They gave me relatively simple chores to do and I almost felt like I was part of the family, if only briefly. Nora, the third child and the oldest one to remain in Ireland, already had a brood of children and bore a strong resemblance to her mother; she visited every Sunday and helped cook. Ronnie was the most stubborn and mule-headed man I ever met; he had unruly hair and beard and never apologized if his opinions offended anyone; nevertheless, he was always good for a laugh. Lilly was a little older than I and had a jovial husband, Kieran, and a little baby, Donald. She was as sweet as could be and I never knew her to dislike anyone.

Joe was my age, but he was hardly ever at home; he frequented the pub in his quest to prove his maturity, as many boys his age do. Harry I have already mentioned; she could have very easily passed for a boy. Harry also had one of the dirtiest mouths I’ve ever heard; I know she got it from her brothers. Other than her sailor mouth and her deep cynicism, she was all right. Matthew and Mark were younger boys who particularly enjoyed pranks; we often found worms in our broth or frogs in our beds and shoes. I screamed one morning when I got out of bed and stepped on a dead rat that they had planted there. Other than this, they were decent boys.

And then there was Gabe. He was always very gruff, but I like to imagine that I grew on him, even just a little bit. Gabe was—is—so like Tommy. I’ve often wondered if the only reason I made an effort to befriend Gabe was because he reminded me of Tommy. He once asked me the same thing. I told him I didn’t know. I still don’t know, actually.

After a few months I felt that I had imposed on the Ryans long enough and decided to go. I left early in the morning; I hate good-byes. Gabe was already up and walked with me to the edge of the property. He promised to give a message to his family, and then we both turned away and walked on, not looking back.

I sneaked onto a train by myself; the first time I had ever done so. It felt strange to not have to pull up Jack or Fabrizio; it was as if no time had passed at all since I was a girl and they were alive. At Queenstown, I argued with a captain and convinced him to let me work on his tramp steamer that was headed to Southampton. I have to confess that I bawled like a baby; the city was just as I remembered it. The White Star Line headquarters building gave me chills, as did the pub Jack had won the tickets in. I didn’t go in there.

Instead, I took out a carefully-folded slip of paper and read it through several times, trying to impress the funny street names and the number into my head. I approached a constable and asked him where I might find the street--which I later discovered that I had mispronounced horrifically.

Chapter Twenty-One
Stories