A Turn of the Wheel

by Cogwheel Press

The Stowaway

  Jennifer Eifrig, writing as Evelyn Grimwood

  As I touched the gleaming mahogany bulkhead to steady my gait, I could feel the rhythmic thrum-whoosh-thrum-whoosh of the ship’s engines, and I marveled how the mechanical din, ubiquitous in steerage and below, was so elegantly and effectively muffled on the first-class deck. Ahead of me, moving in my direction, was the chief cabin steward, the brilliance of the brass buttons against his white uniform a testament to the unrelenting standards of the company. I let my gaze meet his for the barest instant before looking down; I had learned, in my few weeks aboard the H.M.A.S. TYPHON, that the trick was to convey just the right amount of innocent subservience in order to keep unwanted attention, and suspicion, at bay.

  I kept walking forward, not altering my speed or length of stride, willing myself to truly be just another of the crew, anonymous and socially invisible. My eyes were fixed at a point something less than a yard off the floor, and my manner exuded professional servility.

  “Kincaid, a word.”

  It took a moment for my pseudonym to register. Damn. So much for avoiding attention. “Yes, sir?”

  The steward’s eyes shifted left to right before returning to meet my own. “In my office.” He strode onward, not bothering to wait for my acquiescence, and with a sense of foreboding I reversed course and followed him in silence.

  We traveled the length of the ship before turning right into an artfully concealed door, located just where the cabin began to curve inward at the vessel’s foredeck. From there we descended a set of stairs (a “ladder,” I reminded myself) to the crew’s quarters. We squeezed inside the tiny compartment that served as the steward’s office, and he shut the door. I stood aside to let him maneuver himself behind the little desk that raised and lowered from the bulkhead wall by means of a set of hinges and connecting chains, and remained standing.

  He perched himself atop a folding stool, and crossed his arms to regard me; I couldn’t decide if the expression on his moustached face was calculating or ominous. I willed myself to remain calm, but here, in this enclosed space, my fear was difficult to contain or conceal. I clenched and unclenched my hands, and could feel sweat starting to pool between my shoulders. It didn’t help that we were above the steering engines, whose steamy heat made the air moist and thick.

  “Well, sit down, boy, I’m not going to eat you.” The steward guffawed at his own joke, and jerked his head to indicate his trunk, the only flat surface in the compartment save the bunk.

  With what I hoped was appropriate reticence, I sat down and met his eye, a slight, impassive smile on my face. “How can I help you, Mr. Howard?”

  The steward chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. “I know what you’re up to, Kincaid,” he said. The pool of sweat turned into a freshet, and my stomach felt as though some lift operator had sent it crashing to the cellar. Mr. Howard chuckled again, and continued, “It’s perfectly obvious. As soon as we arrive in New York, you’re planning to disappear.”

  He wasn’t wrong, but I had a feeling he hadn’t seen the whole. My frozen brain began to thaw just a bit, like an icebox in July. “What do you mean, sir?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Obvious,” he repeated. “You’re punctual. You eat exactly your allotted rations, nothing more, nothing less, and never indulge in liquor with the rest of the crew. You’ve charged nothing to the ship’s store. In short, you’re towing the line, saving your pennies, and making damn sure there’s nothing the company can hold against you. The only ones as does that” – here he let his Midlands accent show – “are those that are looking to skip once we touch land. The rest of them are too lazy or greedy or shiftless or unimaginative.” He steepled his fingers and smiled indulgently. “Not that I blame you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “There’s little enough work for any of us lads, especially you Irishmen. If it’s not the farm, it’s the docks. Unless you fancy dying at the other end of a Pashtun rifle in Afghanistan, all in the name of empire.”

  “Or contracting hemorrhagic fever in Natal,” I whispered. The steward raised an eyebrow with mild interest, but didn’t ask questions. Damn, why had I remembered my brother aloud?

  “So, lad, I’m offering to help you.” Now it was my turn to look the question. “You know Higgins?”

  I did, at least by sight. He was a bit younger than I, with thin limbs, and asthmatic. “Yes, sir. Steward’s boy, first class. His bunk is aft of mine.”

  Mr. Howard nodded, and looked irritated. “Yes, well, I imagine he’s spending a lot of time there. Airsickness.”

  “I see,” I said slowly. Altitude sickness was a real danger for the crew and steerage passengers. Bottled oxygen, brand-new this year, was not to be wasted on anyone but the highest-paying customers. Higgins’s plight could be my own, although I had taken care to not overly tax my body while in flight, at least as much as I was permitted. “And what has this to do with me, sir?”

  Mr. Howard tut-tutted. “Bah, boy, use your brain. I can’t have Higgins in the first-class salon barfing up his socks or collapsing on the floor. It just won’t do, and the company will punish us for it. You’re a decent-looking lad, a mite small, but somehow you know which side of a plate is which, unlike the rest of the orangutans in this crew.”

  I remembered only the day before helping the self-same Higgins, when he’d dropped a tray of flatware and had trouble sorting out fish forks from fruit knives, and inwardly groaned.

  “It’s a win-win, boy,” Mr. Howard continued, “you get some extra watches which I’ll note in my log, and the swells in first class get their dinner served and cleaned up proper-like. If the time’s in my log, the company will have to pay you, and you can claim experience when you're looking for work in New York.” He paused. “Unless you’re trying to join those Irish Republican radicals with the heathen name.”

  The freshet of sweat turned icy. “Clan Na Gael. No, sir. I’ve no business with politics.”

  He seemed to seek confirmation in my eyes, and I met his gaze steadily. “Then it’s settled,” he announced finally. “Pick up your duds from the galley.”

  Panic erupted in my brain as I thought of the sculpted silhouettes of the footmen’s livery. “Please, sir, you can’t be meaning me to act as footman?”

  His laughter echoed in the tiny compartment. “Nay, you silly lad, I wouldn’t let you as near it as China! You’ll be busboy and cabin steward, and stay well clear of the swells, or the company will have my hide. We can’t have it going round that this liner has Irish dockhands in first class. Although,” he reflected, “there are plenty of your countrymen as passengers there.”

  I inhaled slowly. “Really, sir?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Three bucks with Irish titles. No one you’d know,” he giggled. I’d forgotten how entertaining it was to belittle everything Gaelic. “So, what have you left to do on your watch?”

  “I’ve still got to tidy two cabins on the port side, plus attend to steerage.”

  Mr. Howard pulled his nickel-plated watch from his pocket and clicked it open. “Then I mustn’t keep you. Look smart about it, and be sure you’re in the first-class salon by six-thirty, scrubbed and ready. Dinner is served at seven.” He shut his watch, dismissing me.

  Heart pounding, I stood up from the sea chest, made a sketchy half-bow, and retreated back to the passage, where I rested my head on the bulkhead and closed my eyes. Was I ever in the suds. I’d tried so hard to be perfectly ordinary, that in fact I’d done the opposite and attracted attention. Damn.

  But I had no choice now, and I’d better be quick. I climbed the ladder back to the first class deck, walked aft past the first cabin, and knocked circumspectly on the next door, its polished brass plaque proclaiming it “B – Port.”

  “Come in,” said a feminine voice.

  I opened the door a few inches. “Steward’s crew, ma’am. I’m here to tidy up.”

  “Very well.”

  I entered, eyes down, and found t
he tiny closet where the sweeper was kept. I ran it over the faux Oriental carpet, emptied the bin into a paper sack, wiped down the miniscule sink, and made up the bed, all the while watching the plump dowager in dusky rose satin dressing her hair in front of the looking glass from the corner of my eye. She seemed to pay no attention to me, thank God. “All finished, ma’am. Do you require anything else?” I made sure there was a lilt in my speech that bespoke my origin. That alone should be enough to keep her at a distance.

  “No, thank you.” Her smile was polished and distant. Excellent. “Here,” she handed me a coin from the dressing table drawer.

  I bowed my head. “Have a pleasant evening, ma’am.”

  The next cabin was empty, making my work quicker. I headed down the ladder again, to the galley where I emptied the trash sacks and picked up two heavy, steaming kettles of water from the cook. These I carried aft to the steerage cabin, which was one big room with twelve bunks fixed to the floor and ceiling, two high, with a common dining table between rows. I set one kettle on a washstand fixed to the fore bulkhead, and made sure it was fitted properly into the iron safety clamp. The other I carried to a sort of kitchen dresser, and poured the contents into a large pot with a spigot, for the passengers’ tea. They watched me without comment, half of them lying down with airsickness, the others engaged in low conversation or plying the time with a desultory game of dominoes.

  I retreated to the galley with the empty kettle, and exchanged it for a trolley laden with plates and a giant pan of ham and potatoes. This I rolled back to steerage, rang a brass bell above the dresser to announce dinner, and proceeded to serve up portions until the pan was scraped clean. “I’ll be back later for your dishes,” I announced. “Cups for tea are in the cabinet. Don’t break any, or it’ll be charged to your fare,” I warned.

  “What about cream and sugar? We’ve had none this whole trip,” asked one man, whose expression was decidedly unfriendly.

  “That’s extra. If you want either, come to the galley. Cash only.” I backed the trolley out of the cabin, and returned it to the galley.

  The cook laughed when he saw the empty pan. “They might be sick, half of ’em, but the others are still hungry.”

  “Mr. Howard has asked me to help in first class tonight,” I replied. “Where do I find the livery?”

  The cook snorted. “Higgins is tossing up his bilge, eh? I saw that coming. Here,” he opened a cupboard next to the swinging half-door that separated the galley proper from the crew’s entrance, and handed me a clean white shirt with double-breasted brass buttons, and a pair of white gloves. “Mind you keep those clean,” he warned, “or you’ll be charged for the laundry fee.” I grimaced, since keeping the uniform spotless would be almost impossible, given the nature of the work.

  As I moved to leave, I jerked my thumb in the direction of the steerage cabin. “That lot is growing restless. One fellow was demanding cream for his tea.”

  Cook shook his head. “Everyone wants to make the crossing by air, especially in the winter, because it’s so much quicker. They don’t realize it’s so bloody cold until they’re on board, and find themselves stuck below decks for a week. And if the weather’s blowing gales, the trip ain’t much quicker than by sea. No icebergs, though,” he said, dismissing the inherent danger of air travel with a wave.

  “Just thought I’d warn you,” I said, and left. I carefully carried the snow-white livery forward, past the crew’s common area, to my own bunk, built like a pigeonhole into the bulkhead wall. As one of the greenhorns, and small to boot, I’d been assigned the bunk farthest forward, right at the ship’s prow, making it shorter than the rest. If this had been an ocean-going vessel, it would be more prone to tossing me out of bed as well, but so far I’d found that the H.M.A.S. TYPHON was fairly democratic in its movement: either it was smooth sailing or we were all fighting to keep our feet and our dinners, crew and passengers alike.

  I looked carefully up and down the passageway for observers before opening the curtain to my bunk, getting in, lying down, and drawing the curtain again. This was my only private space aboard the airship, whose tonnage was necessarily far smaller than an ocean liner. My hand closed over the butt of the pistol concealed under the thin, spongy mattress, and I relaxed a smidgeon.

  My watch was technically over, so no one would be surprised to find me sleeping. The crew’s quarters were always kept dim, since a third of the hands were asleep at any given time. I cranked the battery for twenty seconds, and then switched on the electric safety lamp my bunk was equipped with, its feeble yellow light turning the bunk’s interior into an eerie blend of half-shadow. I reached inside my uniform and located the key hidden there, and used it to open my small sea chest, lying at the foot of my bunk. I struggled out of my shirt, folded it neatly, and added it to the pile of clothing in the chest, counting to be sure that no one had stolen anything, before locking it again.

  I then proceeded to change into the first-class steward’s livery, a rather awkward operation since my bunk was less than three feet high and I couldn’t do more than slump upright. Most of the crew would change in the passageways, modesty being a luxury they didn’t seem to miss, but I couldn’t take the risk. As I wriggled into the sleeves and began fastening the double row of buttons, I touched the pouch concealed in my undergarment, just to reassure myself it was still there, and still held its contents.

  Eleven minutes later I was dressed and headed for the washroom. The shock of cold when I opened the door surprised me still. Here, when I touched the bulkhead, I was separated from the clouds above the Atlantic by mere inches of steel and steam-bent wood, and the thought continued to amaze and terrify me. I splashed frigid water on my face, wiped it with a bit of flannel I’d bought last-minute at the departure dock, and combed my short black hair with my fingers. The tiny round shaving mirror showed me my reflection; I still didn’t recognize myself.

  I exited the washroom, and saw other members of the crew heading toward the midships ladder; I joined their rank without comment, but felt their assessing stares. We ascended and trooped into the dining salon, making two orderly lines to await Mr. Howard’s instruction.

  He looked us up and down in a manner worthy of a parade drill sergeant, telling off one man for forgetting his gloves and scowling at the dullness of another’s brass buttons. Finally he addressed us all, “Right, you lot know what’s what. We’re five days into this crossing, and by the looks of the weather we’ve got two, maybe three, more to go.

  “Your job tonight is to keep the swells happy. Cook is sending up Christmas goose. Do your jobs right, and there’ll be some leftover for you. As you’ve noticed, Kincaid is filling in for Higgins.” Mr. Howard paused and let a baleful eye rove slowly over his crew. “I don’t want none of your teasing and trying to trip up the new boy. We don’t have time for that. First one I spot making trouble gets a black mark in my log.” The assembly muttered, and I felt a half-dozen pairs of eyes on me. A black mark meant no pay for the night. I continued to look straight ahead.

  Actually, I had been shocked into silence anyway by the sight of the six-foot-high fir tree bedecked with tinsel and glass baubles in the center of the salon. I knew about Christmas trees; they’d been the fashion in well-to-do British families for some years, thanks to the Queen’s German family, but they hadn’t caught on in Ireland to the same degree, and my father never permitted anything that smacked of English pretension in our ancient manor house while he was alive. Now that he and the rest of my family were dead, I had too many reasons to be sorrowful at Yuletide to deck the halls, anyway.

  Mr. Howard barked orders, and we got to work moving the round tables so that each had a view of the tree. He sent me to the galley, and I supervised the sending of trays of plated flatware up the dumbwaiter to lay the places. When the last of the napkins were folded and the bottles of Champagne set into their coolers at the center of each table, the clock in the cabin was just chiming six bells, or seven in the evening.

&nb
sp; During the whole of the dinner preparations I felt I was being watched. At first I assumed it was the crew, assessing me, looking for weaknesses, but on the whole they seemed to accommodate my presence among them with little prejudice. Now, as I stepped into my appointed place in the corner and did my best to impersonate a wax effigy, I detected a different prickle on my neck. I cast a look left and right just as the first-class passengers streamed into the salon, exclaiming over the tree and already well into their cups, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  I shook myself mentally. Now I needed to be on my best behavior as a busboy, and to keep my wits about me. I recognized the three Irish lords right away, and knew immediately that something was not right about them. In their white ties and stiff collars they looked oddly cautious. Had this been a voyage of pleasure, they would have been gay and laughing, flirting with all the pretty women, and enjoying the Champagne. They ate, and drank, and smiled, but their subdued manner told me this trip was a serious matter.

  I managed to survive the night, adroitly switching places with another busboy so that I wouldn’t have to clear the Irishmen’s table and risk them spotting me. The dowager who’d tipped me earlier recognized me, and this time a genuine smile crossed her wine-flushed cheeks. She squeezed my hand as I took away her dessert plate, and I heard her call me “that pretty Irish boy” to her tablemates as I left.

  I counted the last of the flatware back into the trays, said goodnight to Cook, and headed forward to my bunk. I’d been awake for sixteen hours and my nerves were frayed; no surprise I was jumpy, but I kept hearing soft footsteps and seeing shadows moving in the passage. I heard Higgins’s labored breathing in the bunk aft of mine, and began to worry that I, too, was succumbing to the airsickness.

  Just as I reached my bunk and leaned forward to move aside the curtain, I felt a cool jab in my back and heard a voice whisper in my ear, “Don’t cry out, or I’ll stick you so quick you won’t have time to make amends with God.” A hand slid across my mouth. “Move. Ladder. Now.”

  A veritable cascade of emotion swept through me: fear, of course; surprise that I’d been caught flatfooted; relief, that my captor’s accent was not Irish but unmistakably American; curiosity as to who he was and what he could possibly want with me. I was inches from my pistol, but the point of whatever blade he held was already penetrating my uniform and scraping the concealing layers underneath. I had to hope, if I survived this encounter, that I’d be clever enough with a needle to mend the tear.

  I nodded silently, and backed away from the bunk. I held my hands at shoulder height, and slowly rotated to face my captor, who moved the straight razor he held to my neck and continued to cover my mouth. With my eyes I asked the question, left or right? He jerked his head to my right, and I let him frog-march me to the forward ladder that led to the observation deck.

  He had to let me go in order to make the climb, for this was a true ladder, not the shipboard name for a set of stairs. We emerged into the freezing, deserted observation compartment at the extreme front of the airship’s hull, lined with glass windows that looked out into nothing but dark clouds.

  “A stowaway?” I whispered in disbelief. No one stowed away on an airship; it was too dangerous, the conditions outside of the crew and passenger compartments too cold and lacking in air to survive, and the chance of detection within too great. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Same as you, I think.” He tucked the razor into his belt, and I noted that it bore the company’s mark. As cabin steward, I’d probably be blamed for nicking it. That made me mad.

  “And what is that?”

  “A body on the run, trying to reach New York undetected, for reasons best kept to ourselves.”

  He had a point.

  “I’ve been watching you since Southampton. Seems to me we’re in a position to help each other.”

  “By getting me in trouble?” I indicated the razor. “My wages will be docked for that. I don’t count that as help.”

  He laughed softly, and moved closer. The only light came from the emergency lamp on the bulkhead wall, powered by the ship’s electrical generator. A good gaslight or kerosene lamp would have been much brighter, but open flames aboard an airship were strictly forbidden. By the paltry amber glow I saw that he was young, maybe a year or two older than I, and pale, with sickly dark circles under his eyes. I could see blue veins in his neck, and sensed his desperate hunger and thirst.

  “You’re starving,” I said aloud.

  “Near enough to it.” He was so close now our noses nearly touched.

  I willed myself to remain calm, and meet his eyes. “You should have thought about that before coming aboard. How have you managed to survive, anyway?”

  He laughed again, brief and bitter. “I’m – different from other men. Stronger.”

  “Not strong enough, apparently.” I took in his pallor, his haunted eyes, the coolness of his hand as he tipped up my chin to stare directly at me, and a new, more primal fear supplanted the constant anxiety of failing in my mission. I gasped. “You’re neamh-mairbh.” The cursed ones. The walking dead.

  He moved away. “That’s one of the names.”

  It was very hard to find my voice. “I can’t give you what you really need.”

  “Nor would I take it, especially from the likes of you. I’m not that far gone.” Yet. The unspoken syllable hung in the air between us.

  I really didn’t know what to do; no protocol exists to cover such a situation. Had my brother Jonathan been alive, I’m sure he would have counseled me to murder and not think twice, but like the stowaway – I no longer thought of him as my captor – I wasn’t that far down the path to Hell. Yet. And his eyes – they were soft, gentle, still human. “I can bring you food, water, and warmth, for a fair exchange.”

  “Are you in a position to bargain?”

  “I can holler.”

  “And I can either slit your throat and disappear, or if by some chance help should appear I can blow your cover to smithereens with a word. I imagine that might be damned inconvenient for you.” He smiled to indicate he had the upper hand in this negotiation. “But sure, let’s talk deal. What do you want?”

  I resisted the temptation to land him a facer. “This morning at one bell – that’s eight-thirty – the TYPHON will rendezvous with the mail ship HESPERA to refuel and send along the passengers’ letters and telegrams. I need to send a telegram to New York.”

  The neamh-mairbh cocked an eyebrow. “So, send one.”

  I rolled my eyes in response. “Don’t think you’re so clever. Telegrams cost sixpence, and have to be sent by the ship’s officer. I can pay, but I don’t want anyone to know I’ve wired.” This was the part of my plan I’d lain awake every off-duty watch and pondered. It would be easy enough to slip in an extra telegram form with those I collected from the passengers and delivered to the ship’s mail office. Procuring the damn form was the trouble. “I want you to take a form from the mail office, put the money in the bursar’s box and mark the ledger so that the accounts match, and bring it to me before first watch.” I fished in my trousers pocket for the coin the dowager had given me earlier. “Here.”

  I watched him ponder the risk, evaluate the payoff, and make a decision. He took the coin. “What do I get in return?”

  “In about two minutes, the ship’s bell will ring eight times. That means my watch is over, and I can come to the galley to eat my evening rations. I’ll get you food and drink. Meet me back here in half an hour. Then you can bunk with me to get warm.”

  I think it was really the prospect of thawing his frozen limbs that made him agree. I gave him directions to the mail office, and told him to be sure there were no signs of forced entry. “What makes you think I can get in undetected?” he asked.

  “Because you’ve been haunting this ship for nigh on a week, and none save me has noticed,” I replied. “Somehow you’ve hidden yourself properly. I imagine you have abilities.”

  He snorted like
Cook, and in the glow of the emergency light he looked human, vulnerable. “In half an hour, then,” he whispered, and moved away into the darkness. It was eerie how quickly he disappeared, leaving me alone and freezing in the Atlantic night air, just as I heard a far off ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting.

  I descended the ladder as quickly as I could, ran to my bunk, unlocked my sea chest, and extracted a woolen jumper that I’d bought from a fisherman’s wife just outside my home village. This I pulled over my livery to protect it, and then I joined the throng of dogwatch crew heading to the galley for our evening meal.

  As promised, it was leftover Christmas goose, served in broth with carrots and potatoes. I drank the broth and ate the vegetables, saving the meat in the tin mug I’d brought along for the purpose. I pocketed my rock-hard bread, and scraped the smidgeon of butter I’d been given into the cup. Probably most of the crew seated at the gimbaled table with me noticed, but as it was common practice to sneak food for later, I likely blended in more than not. I filled one of the ship’s mugs with tea, and as soon as was possible to avoid suspicion, left the common room and strolled in the direction of my bunk.

  There, I made a show of pulling off the jumper as if I were turning in to sleep, while the rest of the crew, ranking higher, filed aft to their own bunks. Behind my curtain I changed shirts, layering on a flannel undershirt, and counted five minutes before sneaking off in the direction of the forward ladder.

  The neamh-mairbh appeared out of shadow on the observation deck like a ghost. “So?”

  I handed him the tin cup and mug of tea. “All I could do,” I apologized, as if I were back home welcoming a guest to the family table. “And here, put this on.” I offered the woolen jumper.

  He gave back the food and pulled on the jumper as if his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. I noticed his body was shivering, and his skin looked paler and bluer than before. Had he been another man, he’d be dead for sure, and days ago, probably. Once attired, he grabbed the tea, poured it down his parched throat, and gobbled the bits of meat like a hungry dog. “You first,” he said, and put his hand under my shoulder, propelling me toward the ladder.

  I crept below, peered down the passage, and drew aside my bunk curtain. I grabbed my scrap of flannel, cake of soap, and my Wisdom toothbrush from my sea chest and went to stand in line for the use of the washroom; Higgins followed, and I felt his baleful glare on my back for a full ten minutes. When I returned to my bunk the curtain was drawn.

  I hesitated, and then got into bed.

  I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since my brother and I were young, and never one this cramped. I lay on my side, facing the passage, so I couldn’t see the man hidden behind me, but I could feel his breath on my neck. I thought about my pistol; had he found it? Did I dare reach for it?

  “I’ve got your damn telegraph form,” he whispered in my ear, so softly it felt as if the words went straight into my mind.

  “Did you mark the ledger?”

  “I did. I charged it to Cabin C-Port. They’ve sent the most wires this trip.”

  “Smart.” I felt a rush of gratitude. I was used to threats and intimidation, but not thoughtfulness. Perhaps it was his quick thinking, or perhaps because I felt sorry for him, or maybe because I was so damn lonely, I realized that I had somehow come to trust this man.

  He must have sensed my thoughts in some preternatural way, for he breathed, “We’re square,” and slid my pistol across my thigh into my waiting palm. “This will do you more good in your britches than your bed. God in heaven, you’re warm.”

  I didn’t answer, for I was too keenly focused on the feeling of him spooned along my back, every part of him greedily absorbing my body heat. I squeezed the butt of the pistol in anticipation – of what? I didn’t know. I felt antsy, awake, nervous, unsatisfied.

  Again he seemed to sense my mood, for he whispered, “Sleep, young ‘un, we’ve got to both survive another day.”

  I awoke alone, barely in time for my next watch, which began at four-thirty sweeping out the galley mats and proceeded upwards to the first-class deck. I gathered the shoes left outside the cabin doors for polishing, and collected the passengers’ mail and telegraph orders, giving the stack from Cabin C-Port an extra glance. Sure enough, there were several telegraph orders addressed to New York, and I slipped my own in among them. I delivered the lot to the third officer, who took them with a curt nod. “Stop lingering about, Kincaid. We’ll get the passengers’ cables where they need to go. You have business elsewhere.”

  I did, a daily appointment with a mop and bucket, and left without comment. Once the port and starboard first-class washrooms were swabbed, I went back below to swap my cabin boy’s white apron for that of ship’s shoeblack. Through the whole of my watch my gaze darted left and right, into corners and dark places, looking for my erstwhile bunkmate, but I never saw him. Once the sun was well up I imagined he’d stay hidden wherever he was, and I’d see him no more till after dusk.

  A bell tinkled in the galley. Cook called, “C portside is ringing, Kincaid.” I swore silently, dropped the boots I was polishing, and did my best to wipe my hands clean on a rag. “Don’t forget the damn apron, boy!” I untied it, dropped into onto the bench, and ran up the ladder as quick as safety would allow.

  Above, I knocked on the door of Cabin C-Port, and it opened a few inches to reveal one of the Irish lords I’d recognized the night before. I kept my face bland. “You rang, sir?”

  He blinked as if trying to place me. “Yes. Has the post been sent?”

  “I collected all the letters and wire forms myself, sir. We haven’t met the mail ship yet, but I expect we will shortly.”

  “Oh.” A pause, another speculative glance. “Bring any post for us directly, will you? And the newspapers. All of them.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He laid a hand on my arm as I turned to leave. “Have we met before, my boy? Which is your county?”

  “I’m told I have a common face, sir, as my father had acquaintance throughout Waterford.”

  He cracked a smile and let me go, and I was forced to rejoice at escaping. As I retreated in the direction of the galley, I felt the ship’s engines slow, and the docking gear descend. We had rendezvoused with the HESPERA.

  There was a flurry of activity on the engine deck, much shouting of orders and scrambling to obey. Docking with the mail ship was tricky in the best of weather, and this morning a very fresh breeze was blowing milky clouds that looked as though they’d be darkening into thunderheads in a few hours. The TYPHON tugged and twisted against the giant hook and cable that tethered her to the HESPERA, like a balky jenny.

  At one point I heard the first mate screaming instructions to the third officer, whose job it was to descend the cable and oversee the transfer of mail, supplies, and fuel. The deckhands shouted encouragement, and the handover was completed in near-record time and we were once again under our own steam, fighting the headwinds to New York. I swiped my blacking brush over the last shoe, cleaned up, and headed to the mail office. I sorted the post and wires into the little boxes in the salon, but I delivered copies of the Oceania Mail, the Trans-Atlantic Post, and New York-Hibernia Express to Cabin C-Port, sliding them under the door to avoid another face-to-face encounter.

  At the end of my watch I was entitled to breakfast, but during the night another of the steward’s crew had taken ill, and I was forced to work a second shift in steerage and the first-class salon. It was after noon when I finally got to eat, at which point I remembered my bunkmate. “Sir,” I approached the cook, “I’ve worked doubles twice in twenty-four, and got chivvied out of breakfast. Could you see your way to maybe giving me an extra helping at luncheon?”

  “You’re a cheeky bastard, Kincaid,” he scowled, but he held me back while the rest of my watch finished their meal and left the common room. “Here ya go, boy, but don’t make a habit of askin’. I’m to tell you, Mr. Howard wants you to help with the swells’ dinner once
again. Now go flop before someone else nabbles you.”

  I pocketed what I could, and carried the rest away in my tin mug once again. We weren’t allowed extra rations, but I knew that none of the crew would complain if I kept pulling double shifts. I headed to the observation deck, which was empty to the December winds, and casually set the mug below the wooden bench that rimmed the bulkhead. I stuffed a thick slice of cheese into a crevice nearby, and then slowly consumed a slightly shriveled apple. I tossed the core overboard through an open porthole, and retreated to the relative warmth of my bunk.

  I was unconscious within minutes, and slept through fitful dreams until I became aware of the glow of the crank-powered safety lamp. Judging from the weak light filtering through the curtain, I guessed it was about four in the afternoon. My next watch began at six-thirty.

  “Rest, young ’un,” came a thrilling whisper in my ear. “You’ve got time yet.” My pulse quickened, and I felt not fear, but excitement. I rolled toward the interior of my bunk to face the stowaway. His skin was just as pale, but the blue veins had faded, and his eyes were lively, black and glittering and dangerous. “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  We were already only two inches apart, but I moved closer, and reached my hand to stroke his hair. “How much longer do you have? Before the curse consumes you?”

  He sighed in exasperation, and then did exactly what I’d wanted: he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me, not gently, but with fierce possession. “You Irish, you’re so superstitious. It’s a disease. Nothing supernatural about it.”

  “How long?” I repeated.

  He kissed me again, moving his mouth to my neck where his tongue flicked my pulsing vein. “Not long. I’ve fought it for half my life now. After this trip…” His voice trailed off, but his lips didn’t stop teasing my lips, my ears, my jawline.

  “Half your life? How old are you?” I wondered, breathless.

  “Old enough.” He drew away and now his eyes looked hunted. I never broke his gaze, and finally he said, “We were the federals’ secret weapon. The Rebs never had a chance against us; all we needed was to infect a few, and the contagion spread like wildfire. They were starving, anyway, and once some had the new hunger, they turned on each other, and spread it more. Those who tried to resist went mad, deserted, or were shot by their own men. It was always a numbers game; the President knew it, and made a deal with the devil. After the war, we disappeared. Anyone who didn’t was hanged as a spy or deserter, no one the wiser.”

  Good heavens, that was nearly twenty years ago. “Where did you go?”

  He shrugged, as best he was able in such a confined space. “Europe, mostly. I had this idea maybe I’d be welcomed among my own kind. The disease came from the old world, but the funny thing was, they weren’t keen to have a new breed of carriers. I ended up back where I’d started, more or less, working for the federals since the Department of Justice was established in ’71. That’s how I came to be at the Southampton docks, trying to catch Jonathan Connor’s gang sending money and instructions to Clan Na Gael.” He paused. “And that’s when I spotted you.”

  I lay absolutely still, and spoke not a word. My feet went ice cold, and I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. I knew he could, too. “You do know that the HESPERA keeps a log of all the wires sent from this ship?” When I still didn’t answer, he said, directly into my ear, “You’re playing a deadly game. Please tell me why I shouldn’t hand you over to those lads in Her Majesty’s intelligence service, currently residing in Cabin C-Port.”

  This information surprised me. “I thought they were Fenians.”

  He put his hand on my cheek and turned my face so that our noses touched, and stared directly into my eyes. It was hard to focus at that distance, and I felt dizzy. “Saying that did a lot to convince me you really are as innocent a babe as I want to believe,” he said. “What are you trying to do?”

  I closed my eyes, really feeling as though I’d vomit, but I mirrored his hand on my cheek. “My countrymen think Jonathan Connor was a martyr. I can tell you my brother was an arrogant, selfish bastard who sold me for a dream of an Ireland that never existed. My father’s family is old, older than the Normans, older than Bloody Henry, older than Union, and they survived them all. Somehow that led Jonathan to think he had a right to be more important than he was. He joined the Connaught Rangers after he ran afoul of local politics, and when he came home in a coffin everyone said it was so sad, another example of what England does with Ireland’s sons. Funny, they don’t seem to care as much about the daughters.” I paused to swallow. “He sent me a letter from Natal, to tell me he’d been supporting the radicals, and that I was honor-bound to continue after he was dead. I burned his letter and thought no more of it, until a bomb exploded in London on the anniversary of Jonathan’s death, and the Clan signed my name to a notice in the Post claiming responsibility.”

  My neamh-mairbh lover exhaled softly. “Making you Britain and America’s most wanted cabin boy.”

  “Aye.” I stiffened in remembered anger. “The Clan demanded money – a lot of money – to retract the claim. I’m supposed to meet them in New York. I wired ahead to warn the authorities.”

  “Then you should watch your back.” He said no more, but made good use of the remaining time before I had to rise, wash, dress, and report for duty.

  Dinner in first class was a merry affair, as this was supposed to be our last before arrival in New York the following day. The captain joined the passengers, resplendent in his dress uniform, and ordered Mr. Howard to unlock the ship’s symphonium and clear the floor for dancing. The two other busboys and I did so, and Mr. Howard dimmed the electric wall lights before fussing with the Christmas tree for a while. When he finally flicked a switch and stood away from it, the room gave a collective gasp of delight, for the garland of glass baubles encircling it was aglow with red and green lights. I noticed that they flickered in time with the rhythm of the ship’s generator, whose vibration I could feel in my toes. With a last glance back at the Irish lords, I exited the salon to finish my watch helping Cook clean up the galley.

  I felt an arm twist round my neck and a hand cover my mouth before I walked two steps. “Gotcha,” whispered a London voice. It was Higgins. A burning jolt of fire leaped through my body, and I twitched like an epileptic before everything went black.

  I came to in darkness, hands bound and freezing, and it took the noise of the ship’s engines to tell me where I was: in the baggage compartment forward of the engine room. It was so cold in here that I could feel my breath condense and freeze. I toppled over the mountains of trunks and valises and sacks, and crawled as best I could in the direction of the noise; at least the bulkhead nearest the engines would carry some residual heat. I didn’t bother trying the steel door to the passage; I knew it would be locked from the outside.

  I have no idea how long I sat there; it felt like forever, until the hatch squealed and opened wide enough to admit a sliver of light and Higgins’s thin form. He shut it again, and struck a match to light the lantern he was carrying; I eyed it warily, hoping the spark wouldn’t set the entire vessel ablaze.

  He crouched in front of me and held the lantern to illumine my face. “Yep,” he said with a satisfied smile, “I see it now.” He chuckled. “When Mr. Howard hauled me out of bed this afternoon, he told me you’d been poaching my wages. He also told me to help you by tidying the first class cabins and blacking the shoes. The blokes in C-Port left a stack of newspapers in the bin. When I spread them out to do the boots, you’ll never guess whose face was looking up at me.”

  It was an easy riddle, actually. “Jonathan Connor’s.”

  He laughed. “Ha, you’re quick. He’s been dead for more than a year, but I knew I’d seen that face before. Took me a bit, but I puzzled it out. You tried to swindle me out of my pay this trip, but I fancy the five hundred pound reward I’ll collect for catching Jon Conn
or’s sister will make up.”

  The air moved behind him. “I can pay you more,” I said, “lots more.”

  Higgins sat back on his haunches, skeptical. “Oh, really? Why do I feel you’re bluffing?”

  “I’ve got a sack of my mother’s gems, more than a thousand years old, hidden in my corset. They’re yours if you let me go.”

  I knew he’d never do so, but his curiosity was piqued. He reached for my torso with his free hand, and as he did an angry, cold, hungry vampire emerged from the shadows. He sank his fangs into Higgins’s exposed neck with such pent-up ferocity I had to look away. Higgins screamed and dropped the lantern, which rolled with an unlucky lurch of the ship toward a pile of wooden crates filled with Seville oranges.

  I toppled toward them, trying to smother the flames with my body, but was only partially successful. By the time I looked back, Higgins’s spent form was prone on the floor, and the neamh-mairbh was loosening the ropes on my wrists with a marlinspike. He pulled the pistol from my trousers and handed me Higgins’s pocket Faradic in exchange. “Go!” he ordered. “Save the ship and the people aboard while there’s still time.”

  I hesitated, wanting to say goodbye, but his eyes were still burning like the growing flames. In saving me, he’d sacrificed his humanity. I ran, sobbing like the green girl I was so recently, weeping for the lives and futures that had been expended in a pointless struggle for one small nation’s destiny.

  My screams of “Fire!” sounded the alarm immediately, and all hands fell in to help. All night, we fought the blaze with everything we had, emptying the ballast tanks and drinking reserves, even dousing the smoldering luggage with the dregs of Cook’s morning coffee for good measure. The atmosphere seemed to sense our need, and about dawn the long-threatening skies opened and drenched us with icy rain and sleet. The captain ordered a drop in altitude, and the officers herded the passengers, first class and steerage alike, into a miserable huddle on the observation deck, ready to be packed into the lifeboats, should the ship be lost.

  So it was that the TYPHON entered New York harbor, crippled by the loss of electrical steering, but the captain’s skill kept us from crash landing. When the passengers had been safely evacuated, the crew did its best to secure the vessel and resume the routines of disembarkation. With the Irish lords gone, I felt marginally safer, but I knew the real danger was when I stepped off the ship. Would Clan Na Gael be waiting for me? Or the American police?

  I reported to Mr. Howard for the last time, turning in my ruined livery and settling my account. He handed me my pay in American currency. “Sure I can’t change your mind, Kincaid? You saved us all last night. Who would have thought Higgins would be mad enough to try to rob the baggage hold, and fool enough to set it ablaze? I could use a man like you.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, Mr. Howard, but I’ve got business in New York. If it doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll see you again.”

  He nodded. “The TYPHON will be in port awhile by the looks of it. Come back if you want.”

  I stepped off the gangplank and onto American soil. No one paid me any attention. Somewhere out there, I knew, were a gang of men who wanted my money and my name, but for now I was alive, free, and possessed of a secret fortune. I could live as either a man or a woman as I chose. For a brief, precious time, I had known what it was to be protected and valued. I was almost happy, if I ignored that gaping hole in my heart.

  I followed a knot of people to a steam-powered omnibus, paid my fare with the unfamiliar coins, and sat near the door. I didn’t care where I went, but drank in the city’s vibrancy and bustle and enthusiasm as we moved through the streets. Finally, when I spotted a sign in a window saying, “Rooms to Let,” I stood up and lugged my sea chest off the bus.

  As I stood in the darkening street, a strong hand closed on my arm. “Can you love a dying man?”

  Tears, this time of joy, filled my eyes. “I already do.”