Shipbuilder

by Dotterer, Marlene

  He looked over her shoulder, checking what she had written. “Looks correct to me. What don’t you understand about it?”

  “Why it’s used,” she said, looking at him curiously. “I suppose the tonnage relates to how much room there is for lifeboats, and to the number of people the ship can carry. But why not just provide enough seats for each person the ship can carry? The other way seems so inefficient. Not to mention inaccurate.”

  Tom smiled thoughtfully, as he turned and leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Now that’s something that needs to change,” he said. “Knowledge has been increasing so quickly over the last twenty years or so, that rule-making bodies are struggling to keep up. It’s also true that a governing board is typically conservative and slow-moving.” He gave her a rueful look. “We’ve been lobbying for more lifeboats for a long time. For the most part, the board doesn’t see the need to change the rule, and until the rule is changed, the people who control the purse strings aren’t going to spend the money.”

  She shook her head. “It always comes down to money, doesn’t it?”

  He looked despondent. “Aye, Casey. It always does. But we keep hounding them. Eventually, they’ll come around.”

  “Not before a lot of people die,” she murmured, staring at her figures.

  “Oh, not necessarily,” he protested. “There are other ways of effecting rescues, you know. All the ships have the wireless now, and can call for help, if it’s needed. And the ships themselves are better built and more stable, more able to withstand the storms and other dangers. ‘Tis true that no ship is unsinkable, but we do everything we can to keep them afloat for as long as possible, if damaged.” He held out a hand. “No one wants people to die.”

  Casey stamped down on her nervousness. This was the first real opportunity she’d had to even begin to warn him and she didn’t want to blow it. “I was reading about the Great Eastern,” she began, and stopped when he raised both eyebrows in astonishment.

  “You were?” he asked. “Why?”

  She was puzzled. “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t realize you were that interested in this, that you’d be reading about it in your spare time.”

  She shrugged. “It’s your fault,” she told him, laughing at his expression. “You give me a job here and I find it’s fascinating stuff. So I start reading about ships.”

  He seemed amazed. “So what about the Great Eastern?”

  “Well, it seems that we don’t use even the technology we have available to build safer ships. The Eastern was built almost fifty years ago, with a complete double hull and watertight bulkheads that rose thirty feet above the water line. When she ran into a rock and had severe damage, she was still able to make it to harbor. Because of the double skin.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then held a finger up to indicate she should wait. He went into the drawing room and came back in a couple of minutes with a few rolls of plans. He spread them out on the table. “These are the early drawings for Cedric and Adriatic. I don’t know if you can read these well enough yet, but can you see the double hull? And here,” he pointed to a dotted line that ran the length of the ship, “this is the waterline. The bulkheads extend thirty feet up.” He pointed them out, then looked at her, quite seriously.

  “Every ship we design starts out with these. Our first design is always an engineer’s dream—the perfect ship, as near as we can make it. And every time, our first design is denied. It’s like a play. We all know our roles and we all play them.” He sounded surprisingly bitter. “You’ve seen the figures, Casey. Shipping is extremely competitive and the profit margins are almost nonexistent. The ship’s owners want a ship that will make them money. Shareholders want dividends. So we end up building a ship with features that sell: comfort, beauty, service. Safety is important, but it’s one place that owners feel we can cut corners and get away with it. Because we have gotten away with it, Casey.” He rubbed his hand gently over the plans. “There have been no major accidents in all this time. We’ve been lucky.”

  She watched him, uncertain. The situation troubled him, and she was about to make it much worse. If he was already doing everything he could, what more could she ask of him? Well, she could ask him to live. That was the bottom line.

  “Say there is a major disaster, with a large loss of life,” she said carefully. “Suddenly the public is outraged, and there are inquiries and trials and they begin demanding these features. I’m cynical enough to believe that the money would be there, in that situation. How can we convince them to spend the money before the disaster?”

  He looked at her in amazement, shaking his head. “Where did this come from?” he asked. “Of all the issues in shipbuilding you could investigate, why this one?”

  She smiled ruefully. “I have a vivid imagination. I watch that ship being built,” she gestured vaguely in the direction of Adriatic, “and I’m simply amazed at it. But I see these figures, and I see what’s not going into the ships. If I, as a customer, wanted to buy a ticket to America, I would know there’s more danger than is being admitted by White Star Line, or even by Harland & Wolff. And I would like to know there’s a seat on a lifeboat, if I need it.”

  He nodded, thinking about it. “What would it take to get those features? You already said it: public demand. Across the board, though. If I sat down with Bruce Ismay today, and convinced him to allow those features on his ships, it could bankrupt White Star. If they raised prices to cover the cost, people would go with another line. If they swallow the costs, they’ll never make it up.”

  “But they can use the extra safety in marketing, can’t they? If they talk about the features and what they mean, won’t people be willing to pay more?” Casey realized she was thinking of twenty-first century marketing techniques, but she thought it was worth a try.

  “Only in a perfect world, lad.” Tom looked apologetic. “Aye, some people will pay more, but most won’t. Most people, if it comes down to it, would rather take the risk, if given the choice. I’m afraid that even the paying public may need your major disaster before they are willing to pay for safety.”

  He touched her shoulder. “You can talk to people, write letters, maybe talk to a newspaper and see if they’ll write about it. The only way to begin changing public opinion is by first telling them about the problem.” He looked alarmed. “But I don’t think you, personally, should do anything. Do you have any idea what it would look like, if an employee of Harland & Wolff started a campaign like that? It would look like disgruntlement, like you were trying to harm the company. It could hurt you and us.”

  He held up a finger. “I’m serious about that, Casey. Forget I even made the suggestion. Let me keep working on it through inside channels, all right?”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  He smiled at her. “I promise I’ll work on it more.” He picked up the blueprint and started rolling it up. “I have a meeting. But thanks for your concern. You have very good ideas.”

  ~~~

  She couldn't shake the worry and remorse that she felt. She told Sam about the conversation, suggesting that perhaps he could approach a newspaper about the issue.

  "I'm reluctant to do that, Casey," he told her. "For one thing, I'm only one step removed from the situation. It would still look like a campaign of some kind. Why don't you give him a chance to see what he can do? We still have several years before Titanic sails."

  "Five," she said under her breath, then louder. "We have five years. He's been trying for years and hasn't made any progress. And based on our history, he doesn't make any progress in the next five years. I'm worried, Sam."

  "But he didn't have this conversation with you in our history. Maybe it will give him an impetus."

  Casey left the dinner table and went to stand at the window, staring at the street. "I want to tell him," she told the window.

  At the table, Sam sighed. "How do we do that?" he asked her. "Casey, right now, he respects you. He knows you're intelligent a
nd curious, and that you're interested in the ships. You go to him spouting about time travel and shipwrecks, and he'll be convinced you're crazy. You'll lose all the ground you've made with him."

  "We have our gadgets," she said, not turning from the window. "They convinced Riley."

  "Who promptly left town."

  She rested her forehead against the window, as if weary with the turmoil that boiled within her. "I can't let him die, Sam." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  He turned to look at her. She was still looking out the window, a small, thin girl, her short hair disheveled. As usual, she had changed into a skirt. Sam was glad that she still looked "normal" to him, although at times, it was beginning to look odd: her Edwardian clothes with the short curls, instead of the elegant up-dos all the women wore. Not for the first time, Sam wished he'd had a daughter, or just more experience with young women. What could he say that would help her?

  He went to stand next to her, also looking out the window. "I'd rather he didn't die, either, Casey. He was a real asset to this town, and he could've done so much more if he'd lived. He might even have been able to knock a peace agreement together. He had that kind of respect from both sides." He rubbed the windowsill thoughtfully, staring at his hands. "I just don't know how we tell him. We have to be careful, Case. We need to really think this through. Please don't do anything rash."

  She sighed. "Sam, I'm aware this does not involve just me. I won't do anything that we both don't agree to."

  He nodded, gazing at her in concern. She looked so pale, with those two high spots of red on her cheeks. "Casey, can I try to appeal to your logical side?" She closed her eyes as if in pain, but nodded. "Case, Tom Andrews is never going to love you." She jerked once and flushed, half turning away from him. "Wait, Casey, listen." He touched her shoulder. "Not just because he thinks you're a boy, although God knows what he'll feel when he finds out the truth. But he's gentry, Casey. They have their own ways of doing things and they rarely deviate. One of those things is who and how they marry. He's constrained by society. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't marry you. I'm just saying that you need to make your own choices for your life without hoping that he'll be in it. We can try to help him with Titanic. But can you understand why we need to be careful about telling him about us? I'm concerned that you want to tell him because of your feelings for him, not for any logical reason. Will you just think about it?"

  She didn't look at him, but after a moment, she nodded, and went to her room.

  Chapter 11

  November 1906

  Arms full of rolled up plans, Casey dashed along the lower catwalk of the gantry, shivering in the November cold. She'd just left Tom and several foremen on the gantry, and now she hurried to get the plans back to Ham so Mr. Carlisle had them for a meeting. As she rounded a corner, though, Trouble appeared, in the overbearing person of Mike Sloan. He stepped in front of her, holding up a hand to stop her headlong rush. She skidded to a stop, struggling to keep hold of the plans as several rolls tried to make an escape from her arms. She managed to glare at Sloan at the same time.

  "Can I help you with something?" she asked in annoyance. What a jerk!

  His slow grin made him look like a satisfied fox, knowing the hen was cornered. "It's almost lunch time," he pointed out, nodding back toward the platers' shed. "Wanted to ask you again to come to our meeting."

  "And again, no thank you," Casey replied, tossing a recalcitrant plan toward her shoulder and taking a step to continue past him.

  He moved to block her. "Thought you might reconsider," he said, looking her over with sharp eyes. "Seems like if you don't want trouble, you might consider meeting us halfway. Show a little concern for your soul."

  Casey stayed still, balancing on the balls of her feet. She answered with care. "I don't want trouble. My soul is feeling fine. I still don't want to go to your meeting."

  Again, he looked her over, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Boy like you has a lot of demons in his heart. Sooner you ask the Lord to heal you, the better off you'll be. Or is it," his voice softened dangerously, sending a chill down Casey's back, "maybe you're not a boy. If you're not, I'd say there's still a lot of demons in your heart, but they'd be different ones. Which is it, Casey?"

  "This conversation is over," she replied, her voice almost sounding calm. She turned back to the slips, where she knew there were a lot of people, but came up against a human bulk whose name escaped her. A glance to her left and right revealed similar bulks waiting patiently. She turned back to Sloan and tried to sound threatening and bored. "Not a good idea, Sloan."

  He ignored her comment and spread his arms in an attempt to look reasonable. "Prove it to us, Case. Prove you're a boy and we'll let it go, for now. Just drop 'em quick-like. Don't need more than a glance, do we?"

  Fear hammered at her chest. She could take on a couple of them, but never all four. Her only hope would be to make a lot of noise and hope there were people close enough to get here fast. Unfortunately, Sloan had picked his place well. They were in a fairly isolated part of the yard.

  "I'd never give you the satisfaction, asshole," she said in a low voice. All her muscles tensed as she prepared to drop the plans and start with a swift kick to the guy behind her, when a mild voice, moving toward them, broke into the tableau.

  "What's the problem, here?"

  Fire burned through Casey as she closed her eyes in despair. Tom Andrews! Sure, she needed someone to come along, but why him?

  The goons all looked at each other innocently, and Sloan shrugged, shaking his head. "No problem at all, Mr. Andrews, sir. Almost time for horn-blow, we was just discussing the meeting."

  Tom's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained mild. "Wait for horn-blow, please. You are all still on the clock." His chin jerked at Casey. "Ham is waiting for those plans, Case. Get a move on, please."

  "Yes sir." She was past Sloan in a nanosecond, nearly running to the safety of the drawing office. Whatever happened behind her, she didn't care to know.

  She tried to slow herself as she dashed into the room, not wanting to bother the men working at the tables. She moved quickly to the back office, dropping the plans on Ham's desk as he turned from the filing cabinet.

  "Thanks Case! I was wondering where you were." He peered at her. "You okay?"

  "Yeah, fine," she muttered, turning to her desk, her whole body shaking. She pulled out the inventory sheet and some pencils, trying to look busy. Her shaking hands dropped the pencils everywhere but into the cup on her desk, causing a breathless, and nearly silent, "fuck!" to escape her as she tried to pick them all up. If Ham heard that, she could be in real trouble, but he said nothing.

  The lunch horn blew just as the shadow of doom fell across her desk. Tom said, "Case," and gestured toward his inner office. She gave up on the pencils and, without looking at him, walked past him into the office.

  "Have a seat," he said, sitting himself.

  With great effort, she moved to obey, clenching her hands to stop the shaking. Tom looked at her in concern.

  "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

  Her voice shook. "Just scared. I'll be all right in a few minutes."

  He hesitated, then got up, turning to the sideboard along the wall, and poured some water into a glass, coming around his desk to hand it to her. "Take your time. Take some deep breaths."

  She did, feeling the first stirrings of anger begin to take the place of fear. Damn that Sloan! Now she was in trouble, and she wasn't the one who caused the problem! No, she told herself without mercy, you're just the one going around pretending to be someone you're not. How much had Mr. Andrews overheard? And what had Sloan told him?

  His concern still showing, he sat back down and watched her, giving her a minute before speaking. "Casey, Mike Sloan is a troublemaker. Always has been. Don't think at all that I believe you were the cause of that problem, back there."

  A relieved laugh escaped her in a gasp and she nearly spilled the water, looking at h
im for the first time. "I appreciate that, sir. Whatever I'm guilty of, it has nothing to do with Sloan."

  His eyebrows rose and he sat back in his chair, as if inviting her to continue.

  She stared at him a moment. This had to end. She couldn't keep lying to him. "Mr. Andrews," she started, then stopped, not sure what to say first. She heard her dad's voice, If you're really confused, start at the end. Or at least, the middle. Makes you figure out what's important and what's not.

  "My contract is up in a couple of months, isn't it?" she asked.

  His eyebrows climbed higher, but he nodded. "Middle of January."

  It was painful to look at him and Casey glanced at the water glass, then placed it with deliberate slowness on the desk. "I wanted to finish out the contract and not leave you in a lurch, but," she hesitated, "maybe I should resign now."

  He shook his head. "That's unacceptable, Casey. I told you, Sloan's a troublemaker. I can't let him run off a good worker just because he objects to his religion."

  "Religion?" Casey blinked in surprise. "Is that what he told you?"

  Tom pursed his lips, looking at her thoughtfully. "He said you told him you'd decided to convert to Catholicism. He was trying to talk you out of it."

  Casey surprised herself by laughing. "Converting?" she repeated, shaking her head. "I've sometimes been accused of looking for trouble, but I'd have to be suicidal to say something like that to Sloan."

  Tom laughed a little, too. "Well, that's what I thought, too. So you're not converting to Catholicism?"

  "Not even close!"

  Now Tom just looked bewildered. "So what's it about?" He suddenly held up both hands, forestalling her answer. "I'll tell you, normally I'd drop this. It doesn't do any good, usually, to get too involved in the workers' personal issues. As long as people are steady, they can have all the disagreements they want. But I get the impression you're really frightened. I don't like to see that. If you need help, you need to say so."

  She looked at her hands, silently asking her father what the next step was. He had no answer, beyond the obvious one. Tell him the truth.