The gossip mill focused, normally enough, on upper management. Even before meeting him, Casey had already formed an opinion of the managing chairman, Lord William Pirrie, as a charismatic and powerful businessman who ran his company with an iron fist.
“Departments can’t do anything without ‘is approval.” (From a low-level foreman).
“He wants detailed reports every week.” (From Saxon Payne, the secretary).
“All that running around you’re doing? Goes right into a report for Pirrie.” (From Ham).
Micromanager, Casey sniffed disdainfully to herself. She knew better than to say anything aloud, though.
“He’s ambitious.”
“Happy as a lark when the king made him viscount.”
“Used to be Lord Mayor of Belfast.”
“Lost the ’06 run for Parliament. His position on Home Rule cost him.”
The family connection was something else the gossips made sure she knew about. Lord Pirrie was Tom Andrews’ uncle. Alexander Carlisle (Tom’s supervisor) was Lady Pirrie’s brother (and therefore, brother-in-law to Lord Pirrie) and all of them were cousins. It screamed of nepotism, but Pirrie and Carlisle had started in the company together and Tom had been through the normal apprentice program. They were all very good at their jobs.
Lord Pirrie spent a great deal of time at the company’s administrative headquarters in London, but he also had a home in Belfast. Casey had her first glimpse of him during her third week on the job. He was about sixty years old, rather short, attractive, with gray hair and beard, a forceful and talkative nature, and eyes that showed a happy temperament, which Casey decided made some sense. He was related to Tom Andrews, after all.
When they were in Belfast, both Pirries worked many hours at the shipyard. Casey never knew what Lady Pirrie did, but she often saw her working at a desk near Saxon Payne, Lord Pirrie’s secretary. The gossips let her know that Lady Pirrie had almost as much power as her husband. He seldom made a business decision without her.
Casey managed to keep her interactions with them to a minimum. She was introduced to Lord Pirrie on his first day back from London. He was quite friendly, shaking her hand and thanking her for being such a help to “Tommy.” After that, he pretty much ignored her.
But Lady Pirrie was intimidating. Entering Mr. Payne’s office one day, her arms full of reports, Casey came up short to find Lady Pirrie sitting at the polished oak desk, papers spread around her. A deep brown dress covered her large frame in soft folds, and her gray hair was piled on top of her head, held with a pearl clip. Matching pearls graced her neck, and rings glittered on her hands. Casey quickly bowed when Lady Pirrie glanced up at her.
“Excuse me, Ma’am. I have some figures to enter in the logbooks. I’ll just be over here.” She indicated the work table along the wall and started to turn, but Lady Pirrie’s voice stopped her.
“You’re the American, are you not?”
Casey turned back. “Yes ma’am. Casey Wilson, ma’am.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“My nephew has spoken quite highly of your work. That’s an honor for you; he’s not easily impressed.”
Casey flushed with pleasure and bowed again. “Thank you ma’am. I’m enjoying the work very much. The ships are a wonder.”
Lady Pirrie smiled softly. “I think they are, too,” she agreed, her voice kind, but then her demeanor changed and she was brisk and dismissive. “Well, carry on, Casey. I shan’t keep you from your work.”
Startled at the abrupt dismissal, Casey was nevertheless happy to avoid further conversation, and buried herself in the logbooks. In principle, her reasons for pretending to be a boy were justifiable, but every person she talked to increased her feelings of guilt.
~~~
Sam had warned her the shipyard was a dangerous place, but the danger did not always come from lax employment laws. Sometimes it came from nature, like when the fetch out on the Irish Sea was strong and fast, and Belfast would experience nearly gale force winds blasting through the channel and city toward the hills. The only thing to do during these days was to wrap up and hold onto your hat. Moving from one place to another took a lot of determination.
Casey was used to these days, the weather being one thing that didn’t change much from one century to another. But the shipyard was an open area, and even inside offices could be at the mercy of the elements, with the wind howling over machinery, through corridors, into sheds and workshops and offices. Out on the slips, the ships were tied up tight, swaying dangerously in all directions on their short tethers. Any material left loose would be sent flying through the yard, causing men to duck, or hastily jump out of the way.
Casey was dropping off supplies outside, and as she turned to go, a strange movement on the scaffolding caught her attention. Boards nailed onto a steamer had worked loose in the wind, sending men on the decks scrambling for safety. Artie Frost, a foreman fitter who was nearest the scaffolding, immediately pocketed his hammer and climbed eighty feet to the ripped apart section and began hammering the boards back into place.
But he slipped as the wind shook the scaffolding, losing his hammer, which fell in seeming slow motion into the water below. Casey saw the change that came over Artie as he suddenly froze in place, gripping the boards of the scaffold in panic. Everyone around noticed at the same time and the crew rushed to help him, holding the scaffold to balance it, and shouting encouragement to Artie to climb down. If he heard them, he gave no notice of it–he closed his eyes and hung on to the swaying scaffold as if stuck to a spider’s web.
Casey could not look away. Every part of her willed Artie to gain his equilibrium and climb down. Her horror increased when she noticed a figure dart out onto the slip to the bottom of the scaffold. Tom Andrews held onto the swaying partition and shouted up at his friend. Casey caught fragments of his voice, but not the words, as Tom gestured and gave instructions. It was doubtful that Artie, high on the scaffold, could even hear anything from the ground.
Tom removed his coat and began to climb. Every man (and woman) on the dock forgot to breathe, as Tom climbed higher, the gale furiously whipping around him as the scaffold continued to sway. Casey cringed as a board flew just inches past his head and a moment later, another board landed against his leg with a sold whap. He climbed, deliberate and steady, defying the wind. Although they couldn’t hear him, they could see he was talking to Artie the entire time.
He reached Artie, climbing until he was next to him, one arm firm around Artie’s back as he grasped the wooden slat on the other side of him. The watchers could see Artie’s white face, stark against his black jacket, eyes still tightly shut.
Tom said something and Artie shook his head–a firm, panicky shake. The conversation continued, but not for long as Tom, keeping an arm around Artie’s back, moved a foot between Artie’s feet and leaned back very slightly, into the wind.
The scaffold gave a great rattle, causing gasps of dismay from the men trying to hold it steady. Casey literally felt the blood drain from her face. She was probably just as white as Artie. The two men began to move, one foot down, as Tom moved his hands to help Artie maintain his grasp on the scaffold. Tom moved down another step–both hands and feet–and waited until Artie did the same, prying Artie’s fingers from the scaffold.
Step by step the two men made their way together down the scaffolding, as the structure swayed and shook. When they were about three-quarters of the way down, they paused and exchanged a few words. They saw Tom laugh suddenly, and he swung away to Artie’s right, glancing down, then up at the loose boards banging above them. They spoke a few more words, before Tom started back up the ladder. After a moment, Artie continued down. The assembled crew watched in dismay as Tom cautiously hurried up the swaying scaffold, apparently oblivious to the driving wind.
“Ah, damn,” Casey muttered in angry despair, wishing he had seen fit to come down with Artie, as the men around her raced to help Artie off the scaffold and out of the wind. She ke
pt her eyes on Tom, watching as he reached the boards and began hammering them into place.
Ham joined her after a minute, watching as the wind whipped the scaffolding around as if it were a spider’s web. The struggling figure holding onto the slats continued until the job was done, whereupon Tom slipped his hammer back into his pocket and began to hurry down the ladder. Casey started breathing again as Tom reached the relative protection of the dock wall. The crew below held the scaffold as steady as possible as he finished the last twenty feet and jumped to the deck. They surrounded him then, cheering and slapping him on the back as he sank to the ground. Casey and Ham reached him at the same time, Casey handing him his coat as he grinned up at them.
“Thanks,” he managed. “Think I’ll just sit here a minute. Solid ground and all that.”
The men laughed, and in a few moments they had cajoled him to his feet and moved en masse into the building. They plied him with hot tea and he joined a still-shaky Artie, who was working on his own cup.
Casey heard a voice in her ear. “Chalk up another one for the legend.” She turned to find Mike Sloan standing behind her, looking thoughtfully at Tom as the men continued a step-by-step breakdown of the rescue.
Sloan had backed off on invitations to his meetings, but lately he’d started a more insidious campaign. Casey knew that in many ways, an atheist was even worse than a Catholic. Sloan would have to address the issue eventually, but even she was taken by surprise when he began to mention scriptures in her presence relating to God’s hatred of men who engage in “unnatural acts.” Evidently, he had decided that Casey the boy, who was small and “pretty,” was homosexual. Ironic, but dangerous. She usually tried to avoid him, but now annoyance caused her to jump to Tom’s defense.
“Is that what you think he was doing? I didn’t notice you climbing up there to help Artie.” Her whisper was furious, but he answered mildly.
“Why, Mr. Andrews’ reputation is well-deserved, lad. Wouldn’t think to disparage him, not at all.” He started to turn away, but stopped, eyes narrowing as his gaze pierced her. “Don’t hurt the legend none, though. Makes you notice him, I guess.”
Casey flushed, closing her mouth against a retort that would only make things worse. Damn! Sloan had noticed her attraction to Tom, and put exactly the wrong spin on it. There’d be no good to come of that, she was sure.
~~~
"The thing is," she told Sam as she furiously chopped a cabbage for dinner that night, "despite the riots and other problems in Belfast, the workers at the shipyard get along pretty well."
Sam checked the cooking chicken. "I remember in history class–seventh grade or so–we did a section on Titanic and the shipyard. One of the things they told us was that Harland & Wolff had one of the fairest work policies in all Ireland. They didn't hire many Catholics, but the ones they had could work in safety, for the most part."
"It's true," Casey said. "Some of the Catholics and Protestants are friends with each other, at least at work. There aren't many who are like Mike Sloan, but it doesn't take very many to cause a lot of trouble. Sloan's a foreman. If he wants to make trouble for a Catholic worker, he can. And they let him hold these meetings at lunch time, where he'll get the workers riled up about something and blame the Catholics for it." She leaned against the counter and stared at the floor. "You can always tell when he's been doing that. It's real tense in the yard for a while. Usually after a few hours, everyone's back to normal–they start working together and forget about the issues. But it can be scary."
"And Sloan thinks you're gay?" Sam handed her the plates for the table, an eyebrow raised at her. "I could've told you something like that would happen."
She sniffed. "Gay, and interested in Tom Andrews. Can't I just tell him to mind his own business?"
Sam laughed. "Get real, Casey. Everybody these days knows" he put two fingers up in quotation marks, "that homosexuality is wrong. It's sinful. That's something the Catholics and the Protestants agree on." He tossed her the napkins. "No one would be on your side."
She caught the napkins, glaring at him. "What can he do about it? He can't prove it." But she looked worried. "If he starts spreading rumors, it could look bad for Mr. Andrews, though."
"Oh, I doubt he'd try that, Casey." Sam stared off into space, thinking. "I wonder if this guy is related to Thomas Sloan, who's a member of parliament. A very sectarian, bigoted MP. Hates Catholics; totally committed to the Protestant cause. If so, your Mike Sloan has a formidable position as a political influence in the yard. But he still depends on Lord Pirrie more or less approving of what he does. And Pirrie is an enigma when it comes to Home Rule. He's generally for it, if I remember my history right. But he waffles because he wants to advance in British society, and the British are obviously against it." Casey looked confused and Sam offered a brief smile. "Basically, Lord Pirrie will want to avoid action for or against a man like Sloan. So Sloan can get away with a lot. But I don't think he'd get away with slandering Lord Pirrie's nephew."
They sat at the table as Sam dished up the food. "You may be somewhat protected from Sloan by your working relationship with Andrews. Just try not to piss the guy off, okay? They do bad things to homosexuals in this era."
Casey nodded. "Okay."
"And try not to moon over Tom Andrews so much when you're at work. You have to remember, he thinks you're a boy."
She just stuck her tongue out at him.
Chapter 10
September–October 1906
Casey dashed past the Number Seven slip, with a stack of logbooks for the office. She met up with Tom at an intersection. His grin grew wider as he shifted the machine parts in his hands, tucked some rolled plans under an arm, and handed her a few sheets of paper. "You're on the way to the office, aren't you?" he asked hopefully. "Just drop these on my desk. I'll get to 'em later."
"Sure," she replied, following his example and placing them in a pocket. That kept them from getting mixed in with her other stuff. She paced alongside him as he made his way past the slip. "I've got a quick question," she told him and he nodded as she jumped into some recent confusion about the figures from the plating shed. He was in the middle of clearing up her confusion when he went silent, lifting his head and looking around quizzically.
Suddenly, he tossed the rolls and parts at her, ran down a path and disappeared around a corner of boxes. Puzzled, she followed, and stopped in astonishment at the intersection. He was tearing through a gang of men, all of them scrambling in haphazard panic to get out of the way, as he did a credible imitation of a jig, running this way and that, knocking over tea kettles, cups, and tins of tea and sugar. Cries of consternation could be heard as several men tried to claim their crockery before it broke, some slipping in the spilled water. Tom stopped then, arms akimbo, as he regarded the dismayed gang with unforgiving sternness.
“Heating your tea water already! It’s five minutes before horn-blow! I’d like to know where the honor is in stealing time from your employer!” His glare took in each man individually, but none of them seemed willing to attempt an answer, as they looked down and mumbled a bit, most offering shamefaced apologies. One of them glared at a pale-faced youth peaking from behind a plating machine. “Ye was supposed to keep a look-out and warn us if ‘e came through!”
The boy nodded enthusiastically, eyeing Tom with awe. “Aye, I was looking. But ‘e didn’t come that way, like usual. He slipped in the back, sneaky as you please!”
“Aye,” said another, “and came tearin’ through here like a racehorse, hittin’ every bit of our mess!”
They all agreed with admiring head shakes. Tom grinned, confident they’d gotten the point. “Becker!” he roared, spying the men’s supervisor coming up the path. “Five minutes off the break for these men. They’ll have to drink their water cold, this morning! And make sure they wait for that horn from now on!”
Becker lifted an arm in acknowledgment, waving the men back to work, as Tom turned to Casey, his face split in a happy grin.
He started grabbing back his papers. “Thanks for catching all that, lad. Good reflexes!”
She handed him back the rolls, shaking her head at him in mock consternation. “You had entirely too much fun with that. Sir.”
The grin turned into a laugh as they continued on their way. “Aye, well, I’ll tell you. Becker and I have been suspecting something of the sort was goin’ on, but we could never catch them. That’s why I went around back this time. Worked like a charm!”
His laugh was always infectious, and Casey joined in for a moment, then she shook her head. “But you just docked them five minutes instead of something harsher. That was kind of you.”
His smile remained in place, but he looked at her earnestly. “They’ll have to clean up that mess on their break, too, you know. But I don’t think it’s necessary to treat people harshly. I started here as an apprentice and I worked in all these departments. I know the work is hard, and it’s tempting to take it easy or skip a step. But for their own safety, we have to maintain discipline. A supervisor should build his men up, while making sure they learn self-discipline. Those men are all good workers, and their crime was mild. It’s important to me what a person’s intention is, too. I’m always willing to give someone another chance so long as they meant no real harm.” He shrugged a bit. “Provided they didn’t cause any real harm, of course.”
The smile came back in full force. “So there’s your Andrews lecture for the day, lad. Ye bore it well.” He tipped his hat at her and took off down another path. After a moment, Casey resumed her hurried pace to the drawing office, feeling some real hope that Thomas Andrews might–might–understand about, and maybe forgive her for, her own crime.
~~~
In the office later that day, Casey turned from the tonnage projections she was working on. “Have I picked up the wrong formula for figuring the number of lifeboats?” she asked Tom. “It seems wrong.”
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