Titanic: April 1912 by Kathleen Duey Read Free Book Online Page B

him.
    Gavin’s cabin door was shut. He shoved it open, sending up a little spray of water. Wallace’s trunk was open. He had been here and gone. Harry often stayed late in the galley, watching the pastry cooks start the next day’s croissants or piecrusts.
    â€œAre we going to die?”
    Gavin spun around to see a boy of about eight or nine peering into the open door. He carried a ­bundle of books under one arm. His face was so eager, so frightened, that Gavin forced himself to smile. “Of course not. Didn’t anyone tell you about the Titanic?”
    The boy nodded. “My da says she’s the biggest ship ever built.”
    â€œAnd the safest,” Gavin told him, wondering how big a lie he was telling. “Where’s your family?”
    The boy pointed down the corridor. “Mum is packing up.”
    â€œTell her to hurry,” Gavin said. “That way, if we have to change ships, you can be near the head of the line. Tell her a steward told you that,” Gavin finished.
    The boy nodded once, then disappeared. The instant he had gone, Gavin jerked open his own trunk. He dug through the clothes, pulling on his sweater. He lifted out his second-best shoes, carefully setting them on the berth to keep dry as he grabbed his wallet and the small photograph of his family from the trunk. He stuffed a clean pair of socks into each shoe, then tied them together. He slung them over his shoulder, sliding his wallet into his trousers and the photo into his shirt pocket. Then he turned, the icy water splashing around his feet.
    Halfway down the passage, Gavin realized that the water was deeper. It had risen almost to his ankles in the few minutes he had been in his room. He hurried as fast as he could, stepping around people who refused to get out of his way, shouting at everyone to get up to the boat deck as quickly as possible.
    A woman with a scarf tied tightly over her hair stood weeping, leaning against the wall. Gavin spoke to her, motioning, trying to get her to understand she had to go upward. She shrugged, answering in a sad voice in a musical language.
    Gavin took the woman’s hand, pulling her toward the stairs. She came with him, almost without resistance. As she did, she stopped crying. Tears wet her cheeks as she followed him, sloshing through the cold, deepening water.
    Gavin led her through the crowd, wishing he could ask her if she had family or companions on the ship. The instant the thought came to him, he remembered. If her cabin was here in the bow, it meant she was married. Unmarried people in third class were segregated—men in the bow, women in the stern.
    Gavin stopped. “Where’s your husband?” he said, slowly and distinctly. The woman tilted her head, obviously puzzled. “Your husband,” Gavin repeated. He pointed at a couple making their way past, gesturing at the man. “Husband.”
    The woman seemed to understand him this time. She said a few words in her own tongue, lifting her hands palms up. She made a trailing, circular gesture, then pointed at the stairs ahead of them. Gavin started off again, the woman close behind him.
    It was harder to get through the passages now. More and more people were trying to get themselves and their belongings above decks. The main stairways were a tortuous crush of people.
    â€œKatya!”
    The man’s voice was so close that Gavin whirled to face him. The woman began talking, a jumble of words. The man clasped Gavin’s shoulder, smiling into his face. “Spaciba. Spaciba!”
    Gavin could only nod as the man guided his wife away, his arm tightly around her shoulders. Then the crowd closed in, and Gavin couldn’t see them. A thick odor of wet cloth, sweat, and stale air enclosed him as he fought to make his way upward.
    On D-deck, Gavin stumbled aside, breaking free, his spare shoes bouncing against his shoulder as he darted down a corridor that led away from the third-class