SAVE ALL WHO DARE THE EAGLE’S FLIGHT
Chapter Six

When I woke up the next morning, Emmy was helping Cora get dressed. She smiled up at my bed-tousled state. "Good mornin’, love! Did you sleep all right?"

"I slept wonderfully," I said truthfully, dropping onto the floor. We dressed and combed and pinned up our hair. Well, Cora didn’t have to; she was lucky to still be young enough to get away with loose hair. If I did that, people would think I was a very young and very scrawny prostitute. Bert had dressed earlier and gone on to breakfast. He was sitting with Jack and Fabrizio when we came to breakfast, which was, I might add, delicious. It had been so long since I had had real breakfast food for breakfast that I ate a little bit of everything.

"You eat like a pig," Jack noted, although his mouth was stuffed as well.

"I’m hungry," I managed to say, swallowing my food and taking a huge sip of orange juice. "And you’re not exactly pecking at your food, either."

"But I’m a man; men are supposed to eat like this," Jack argued. "Women are not."

"I wish I was a man sometimes," I muttered. And I did; I could have gotten away with a lot more if I was of the opposite sex.

"Well, you do kind of look like one." Jack pretended he was serious as he tilted his head, examining me.

I threw a piece of toast at him.

*****

At 11:30, we stopped in Queenstown, Ireland, to pick up some new passengers and to drop off some old ones. We would have stayed outside to wave at the crowds again, but it was taking a long time and we were starving. After a hurried lunch, Jack, Fabrizio, the Cartmells, and I all went out a little bit after one and watched. Finally, at 1:30, the ship was tugged out of the harbor. We waved as if we knew everyone down there. Someone played Erin’s Lament on their pipes; those pipes would later join the makeshift band at the steerage parties every night.

When the ship began to pick up speed, the Cartmells returned to the cabin to take a nap—the party the night before had worn them out. I followed Jack and Fabrizio as we raced to the bow of the ship. The three of us stood up on the railing, leaning over and looking down at the water breaking against the ship.

"Look, look, look!" I squealed, pointing down at the dolphins jumping up in front of us. I had seen dolphins before on the tramp steamers, but they never failed to fill me with a childlike wonder. We kept pointing them out to one another, even when the rest of us were already looking. We whooped a little bit as they jumped—it looked as if they were trying to urge the speeding ship to slow down and dive beneath the water with them.

"I can see that Statue of Liberty already! Very small, of course," Fabrizio joked, giggling at himself.

I stood carefully on one of the rungs of the railing and spread out my arms. The wind whipped against me and I laughed at the feeling of it. Looking down, it seemed as if there was no ship beneath me. "Look, I’m flying!"

Jack imitated me, spreading out his arms and letting out a whoop. "I’m the king of the world!" he bellowed, whooping and howling like a wolf.

Fabrizio and I imitated him, letting our arms sail and feeling the wind push against us. I’m sure we looked like fools, but at the moment, nothing mattered less. When we finally tired of pretending to fly, we went to the stern of the ship where most of the other third-class passengers were congregated. Jack and Fabrizio found what looked like two stools against the railing. I’m sure they served some sort of nautical purpose, but I didn’t particularly care; I wasn’t the one sitting on them. As there were no other seats, I perched on top of the railing, keeping my hands tight to it so as not to fall. I would have been better off standing; my backside was sore afterwards.

A scowling man about Jack and Fabrizio’s age sauntered over sometime later, leaning back against the adjacent railing and lighting up a cigarette. I didn’t notice him at first; I was too busy watching Jack draw Bert and Cora, the latter of whom was standing on the railing and leaning against her father’s belly as he explained how the propellers worked.

After awhile, Fabrizio and the other man began making small talk. I tried to pay attention to be kind, but really I wanted to watch Jack draw some more.

"This ship is uh…nice, eh?" Fabrizio asked the man.

"Yeah, it’s an Irish ship," the man said with a definitive Irish brogue. A note of pride resounded in his voice.

"It’s English, no?" Fabrizio asked, clearly surprised. I was also surprised; I had thought that, since the ship made berth in Southampton, it was an English ship. Well, doesn’t that make sense? And the ship did read Liverpool on the stern, which was most definitely not an Irish place.

"No! Fifteen thousand Irishmen built this ship! Solid as a rock; big Irish hands," the man said indignantly.

"But then why did it make berth in Southampton?" I asked carefully; I didn’t want to offend him more than he already seemed to be.

"They all make berth in Southampton, lass. White Star Line ships are more often than not built in Ireland. This one was made in Belfast at the Harland and Wolff shipyard," the man said proudly. "Me brother helped build it. I saw it once, back before they dressed her up a good bit."

"But that’s stupid. We just came to Ireland today," I protested, feeling a bit foolish as I persisted in my argument.

The man laughed. "Lass, those limey idiots don’t want such a fine ship to make berth in Ireland. They hate us; think we’re worse than mutts. Nah, they just want us to build it and then make us the last stop before America. That’s why the White Star Line headquarters are in Southampton."

"Oh," I said quietly. I’d never been to Ireland and I had known very few Irishmen in all my time, so I wasn’t aware then of the scorn some English folks felt towards Irish folks and vice-versa. I know now; heaven knows I’ve dealt with more than enough proud, English-hating Irishmen since then.

Two stewards walked by then, walking some dogs. I had seen a steward scoop up a dog’s droppings with a handkerchief earlier that day; apparently, they only walked them on the third class deck. I suppose they didn’t want to upset the first class or even the second class passengers with a dog’s bodily functions; a lady might faint at the sight or something.

"Ah, that’s typical; first class dogs come down here to take a shite," the man said bitterly, dragging on his cigarette.

"Ah, it let’s us know where we rank in the scheme of things," Jack said teasingly, speaking for the first time in awhile. Apparently, he was finished with his sketch of Bert and Cora, for he had closed up his sketchbook and was focusing fully on our new acquaintance.

"Like we could forget?" the man asked wryly. He smiled and held out his hand, first to Jack. "I’m Tommy Ryan."

"Jack Dawson."

"Angie Marshall."

"Fabrizio."

"Hello," Tommy said after shaking each of our hands. He nodded at Jack’s sketchbook. "Do you make any money with your drawings?"

When a beat passed without Jack’s answering, I turned to look at him. Jack was staring ahead, and we looked around to see what had caught his attention. After a moment, I spotted it, and let me tell you, I feel no remorse in calling her an it. She was a finely-dressed first class girl with flaming red hair pinned up pristinely and a light green dress bedecked in lace. I had laced women like these into whalebone corsets and pinned up and taken down their hair at the hotel in Paris. I knew their type; filthy rich and vain as Narcissus. I couldn’t see why Jack found her so appealing.

"Ah, forget it, boyo," Tommy said, laughter coming into his voice. "Yeh’d as like have angels fly out yer arse as get next to the likes of her."

Fabrizio and I laughed at this. Fabrizio waved his hand in front of Jack’s face, but still he stared, entranced. I was growing jealous, but I laughed to save face.

"Oi, lover-boy," I teased, poking Jack in the head, "wanna put your eyes back in your head?"

"Huh?" Jack asked. Really, I was starting to get annoyed with him. She was just another first class porcelain doll and one that he couldn’t have. My suspicions were confirmed when a swell who was most likely her husband or her fiancé came out of nowhere and grabbed her arm roughly. There was an unpleasant-looking exchange between them before she pulled loose and stalked off. He swung his hat around, obviously disgruntled, before following her a moment later. I didn’t think he would have the upper hand for very long; her type always turned into the nagging type after a few years.

"What were we talking about?" Jack asked, shaking his head like a wet dog.

"Mr. Ryan here asked you if you made any money with your drawings," I reminded him patiently, trying to blow a flyaway curl out of my face and failing miserably; my breath was no match for the wind. I grabbed it and shoved it back.

"Oh. Uh, yeah, I charge ten cents apiece, and sometimes people buy ‘em," Jack said to Tommy, glancing down at his sketches.

"He’s really good," I added, trying to hide the flush that came up.

Jack shrugged. "I’m not bad," he conceded.

"Show him," Fabrizio urged. Before Jack could react, Fabrizio had snatched Jack’s sketchbook from his lap and displayed it to Tommy. Tommy agreed that Jack was "a ruddy good artist" and said that if he had had any money or any use for a drawing, he would have bought one. I guessed that was high praise coming from someone like Tommy Ryan; now I know it was.

"So, is that why yer goin’ to America? More opportunities, yeh think?" Tommy asked, dragging on his cigarette again.

Jack grinned. "Actually, we won our tickets in a very lucky poker game."

"I watched," I volunteered.

"Yeah," Jack sniggered, taking his sketchbook back from Fabrizio. "Angie can’t play poker to save her life."

"I’m a damn sight better than you at blackjack," I pointed out heatedly, my face growing red as the three men laughed at my inability to play poker.

"Eh, that’s true," Jack conceded, a victorious smirk still on his face. "But you’re pitiful at poker, which is why you weren’t playing it yesterday."

I pursed my lips, folding my arms over my chest. I couldn’t exactly argue with this.

"Wait, wait; this was yesterday?!" Tommy asked, sounding extremely delighted.

I nodded, rolling my eyes. "Yes. And of course Jack, being the ass he is, had the game going on until the ship almost left without us."

"I’m telling the story here," Jack interrupted as Tommy hooted with laughter. "So, anyway, we were in a pub and we got into a game of poker with these two Swedes. So one of them—"

"Sven," Fabrizio volunteered.

"Sven," Jack agreed, "threw two third class tickets for the Titanic into the betting pool. His cousin—"

"Olaf," Fabrizio supplied again.

"Olaf wasn’t too happy about that," Jack said, chuckling as he remembered Olaf’s livid expression when Sven had pulled out the tickets. "So, they all had nothin’, including Fabrizio, but I had a full house, so we won, of course."

"Hang it a moment," Tommy cut in. "You said there were two Swedes, but there’s three of yeh."

"I’m getting to that," Jack said patiently, obviously enjoying his story-telling and the interest of his audience. "So, the bartender told us that the Titanic was leavin’ in five minutes."

Tommy whistled in amazement. "Shite," he muttered, puffing away on his cigarette.

Jack nodded. "Yeah. So we ran for it and just barely made it. They were pulling down the gangplank when we got there. Then this pansy of an officer asks us for our tickets, but I held onto ‘em. I guess he thought there were three instead of two, because he let us go on in."

Tommy raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. "Cor. ‘Twas that easy, was it?"

We all nodded.

"He looked kinda young; I think this was his first voyage or something. But of course we almost got caught after that." I threw a sharp glance at Jack, who rolled his eyes.

"The quartermaster checked our tickets and didn’t see Angie’s. We almost got caught. Almost. But we didn’t, right, Angie?"

I scowled at him.

"So, what did yeh do then? I mean, yeh couldn’t have stayed in a room with a load of men," Tommy asked me, something in his look telling me he would have found it very amusing if I had stayed in a room with a load of men.

"You see that little girl with her dad over there?" I asked him, nodding towards the Cartmells.

"Aye," Tommy answered, puffing on his beloved cigarette again. He would need a new one soon.

"They sat with us at dinner last night and let me sleep in their cabin," I said primly, smoothing out my skirt.

Tommy’s eyebrows rose again. "Lady Luck’s paid yeh a visit, I see."

I grinned. "So it would seem."

We talked with Tommy until the bugles rang, announcing the start of first class dinner. We could hear them from the poop deck--considering that the dogs "took a shite" there and that it was where third class passengers were kept, the name seemed very fitting--so when the bugles rang, we headed to the dining room for our own dinner. We probably got ours earlier, too; knowing first-class ladies--and once you dress them, you know them well enough--they would take at least an hour to get dressed and whatnot.

Tonight, Tommy joined us for dinner. He pulled up an extra chair from where the Gunderson cousins were sitting and dug in with the Cartmells, Jack, Fabrizio, and me. Bert convinced Tommy to tell us about his family, most of whom lived in County Tipperary.

"Well, me sister Elsie and her husband live in New York. I have a brother working on a steam liner, and then I’ve got nine other brothers and sisters in Boher," Tommy explained.

"You have eleven brothers and sisters?" Cora asked, agape.

Tommy nodded solemnly. "Aye. And a few nieces and nephews runnin’ about. In fact, me sister Pippa just had her first lad a few months ago, Luke."

"Why aren’t any of them with you?" I asked, thoroughly interested in a man who had eleven siblings. That was the kind of thing you heard of but never saw for yourself.

Tommy swallowed a great mouthful of fish before talking. "Most of the ones old enough to go are girls, so they’re either about to get married or are already married and have kids to watch out fer. Pippa was goin’ to come; her husband’s in Chicago. But the doctor said she wasn’t strong enough, so she had to stay behind. The older brother I told you about works on a steam liner. I have another older brother, Ronnie, but he swears he’ll never leave Ireland fer as long as he lives."

Tommy spent the rest of dinner describing his various brothers and sisters. I admit that I couldn’t keep up with all of them, but I don’t think anyone else did, either. Tommy probably knew that we couldn’t keep up with all of them, for once he was finished, he turned the topic to our stories.

The Cartmells were simply on their way to a new life in the States. Bert had been sacked, as had a number of his friends, and Bert had heard from his cousin that America was the place to be. So the Cartmell family had packed up their belongings and treated themselves to three tickets for the RMS Titanic.

Jack, Fabrizio, and I, of course, had won the tickets. We spoke briefly of our travels in Italy, France, Spain, and eventually to England, but our story did not last for long; dinner was being finished and the party was beginning. I felt a rush of excitement as those with instruments gathered together and struck up a tune. The bagpipes now joined the band, improving the overall harmony of the music. The giddiness was infectious; soon, the tables had been pushed back to allow room for dancing and everyone was moving to the beat in some way.

Tommy Ryan danced, and not badly, I might add. I say this because for a solid hour he swore that he couldn’t dance and that he would just watch us dance. After dancing one dance each with Jack, Fabrizio, Bjorn, and Olaus Gunderson, I plunked myself down at the seat beside him and begged and pleaded until he surrendered and let me pull him out to the dance floor.

"I warn yeh, lass, I’ll step on yer feet," he shouted over the din, putting one hand on my waist and grasping my own hand with the other.

"I’ve danced with the worst of the worst!" I assured him, my feet starting before my mind could really register that I was dancing.

It was true; I had danced with the worst of the worst. Some of the immigrants in London could simply not dance. I had the bruises and blisters to prove it. But Tommy could dance. He wove his way through the other dancers so that we never even touched any of them. He kept his eyes on his feet most of the time, but I didn’t mind; I was having too much fun whirling about to engage him in any kind of conversation.

When the dance was over, I was out of breath and laughing so hard I almost had to lean against Tommy for support. Instead, I grinned up at him. "You liar! You said you couldn’t dance!"

"I only dance if I have to. I’d thought yeh might leave me alone, but yeh didn’t," Tommy shouted over the noise, leading the way back to the table.

I crossed my arms over my chest as he sat back down, lighting up a cigarette. "That’s it, then? You’re just going to sit back down and not dance anymore?"

Tommy thought for a moment before saying, "Aye, that’s about right."

I huffed, but before I could pester him anymore, Bjorn Gunderson came out of nowhere, pulling on my hand.

"You dance, eh?" he asked.

So of course I danced with him. Bjorn, I might add, was quite a dancer. Few men have achieved making me feel as weightless as I do when I dance with Jack, and Bjorn was one of those few men. He gabbled to me in Swedish and I chatted in English, and although we couldn’t understand a blasted word the other was saying, we laughed about it and kept up our conversation. I know it sounds utterly insane, dancing and talking with someone who can’t understand a word you’re saying and speaks to you in a language you don’t understand, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world at the time.

By the time Bjorn and I both decided to sit down--four dances in a row were starting to wear us out--Jack and Fabrizio were sprawled over in their chairs, pouring the dark beer into their mouths and lamenting over sore feet. Bjorn gestured wildly until I finally understood that he was going to get more beers, leaving me with Jack, Fabrizio, and Tommy. Even though we had just met him, we were getting along wonderfully with Tommy. Jack had danced for a bit with Cora and a pretty, dark-haired Irish girl, and Fabrizio had found the pretty blonde from the day before.

"What’s her name?" I asked him, my voice growing hoarse as I tried to speak over the ruckus.

Fabrizio shrugged, looking somewhat guilty. "I do not a-know! I do not a-think she a-speaks English. I just held out my a-hand and asked her to a-dance and she a-came with a-me."

"Didn’t you try to talk to her while you were dancing?"

The incredulous look on Fabrizio’s face made me feel embarrassed.

"Well, I’m only saying, me and Bjorn talked the whole time, and we can’t understand each other!" I protested, trying to seem less stupid.

"But we were a-right beside the music," Fabrizio explained.

"Oh," I said, nodding. They were loud so that everyone could hear them; being right next to them must have made conversation nigh impossible.

"Where is she now?" I asked, glancing around for the blonde girl.

"Her papa came," Fabrizio sighed. Judging from his tone of voice, her father was none too happy about her dancing with a strange boy she didn’t even understand. Of course, he couldn’t be blamed. "What about you?" he continued. "Are you a-having fun?"

I grinned. "Can’t you tell?" I gestured to my appearance; a sheen of sweat was most likely glistening on my face and causing my blouse to stick to me. Thousands of curls had escaped from my plait and were also sticking to me with sweat. I could feel my red face and my heart pulse in my ears. "And you?"

Fabrizio nodded. "Sì, I am having a good time!"

"Hey, Angie," Jack shouted. "I think it’s time you try one of these." He was holding out a cigarette.

"Yeh’ve never tried one before?" Tommy asked disbelievingly.

I shook my head dolefully as I took the proffered cigarette. "Nope. I’m only sixteen."

Tommy snorted. "Lass, I started smokin’ at fourteen."

"Yeah, and I bet you drank whiskey from the cradle," I retorted.

Tommy threw back his head and laughed at this. I had heard this kind of remark made about Irish folks once before and was a little surprised to see that it didn’t faze him; if something as simple as a ship and its place of berth offended him, I had thought that surely this comment would do the same. But he just grinned and said, "Aye, that’s right. Now, lemme see yeh smoke yer first stick."

I felt all eyes at the table on me as Jack lit it and smirked at me. I inhaled the bitter smoke, all of my senses freezing for a moment…and coughed up a lung. It was disgusting! I can see why Tommy smoked them and possibly why Fabrizio smoked them; really, Italian whiskey is the most awful and bitterest stuff you’ll ever taste. But why normal people smoked them was and still is beyond me. I heard the table erupt in laughter. I think I even heard someone pound the table with their fist because they were laughing so hard.

"I can’t breathe," I gasped, dropping the cigarette. My vision was beginning to blur, so I didn’t see who, but someone pushed a glass of beer in front of me. I drank it down greedily, trying to rid my throat of that putrid taste. When I was able to see again, Bjorn was smoking my cigarette. Everyone was still red-faced and shaking from laughter.

"That was the most revolting thing I have ever tasted. And I’ve tasted a lot of revolting things," I announced, which only made them laugh harder. I was beginning to get frustrated. "How do you smoke those things?!"

"’Cause we’re not pansies, that’s why," Tommy snorted.

I didn’t have a comeback for this.

After awhile, Jack pulled out a deck of cards, which Fabrizio, Tommy, Bjorn and I all looked at with interest. "The game, gentlemen, is blackjack. Angie, you’re not allowed to play."

I huffed. "And why not?"

"Because he knows yeh’ll kick his sorry arse at it." Tommy laughed. "Let her play, Jack. I want to see this fer meself."

Jack groaned. "All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you."

I smirked as Jack dealt the cards.

Chapter Seven
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