THE TRUTH (SORT OF) ABOUT THE ICEBERG

Dear Reader,

You’ve probably heard about the Titanic—the “unsinkable” ship, that on its very first voyage. . .

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Yes, it’s a tragic tale. But stick with me here and throw what you know about the Titanic out the window. I’m going to tell you an altogether different story. I’ll stick to the facts as much as possible, however I’m also going to take some liberties[1]—because in that realm between truth and fiction, you’re going to learn what is hidden beneath the iceberg.

APRIL 9, 1912 (Six days before Titanic sinks)

CHAPTER ONE/MINNIE

There weren’t many places to hide in the cold, echoing corridors of London’s St. Vincent Home for Foundlings [2]. Still Minnie Porridge had discovered a tolerable spot, the closet where the nuns stored their cornettes. Minnie had shimmied her way behind the bird-like hats which were starched and bleached nearly to death. She pressed against the back wall with the pointy head coverings hanging like seagulls in flight all around her. She was all briars and brambles, twisted with nerves. Her knees pressed together so tightly, her bum was nearly numb.

A wee mouse joined her, twitching its whiskers. She could have sworn it asked, “Cheese please?” Minnie had been called barmy often enough that she supposed it was just her imagination. (And, truly she wasn’t supposed to swear.) She sighed as the mouse curled into her lap. Poor thing. Minnie knew what it was like to be hungry. Even if she had some cheese, she would have been too peckish to share.

She’d hunkered in the closet for three hours, a long time when you’ve missed lunch. (Which didn’t normally amount to much more than a watery cup of soup and a piece of rock-hard bread.) By this point her stomach had lurched past the usual hunger to a violent ache.

Minnie knew she was causing Sister Maria rather a lot of trouble, yet if she’d learned anything at St. Vincent’s it was that when you had nobody to take care of you, you had to care for yourself. She only needed to hide for going on two more hours.

The mouse nudged Minnie’s still fingers. She stroked his silky fur and sang,

“Close your eyes and sleep, in a dream so deep

Drift away, away, away

To a fragrant land, where there’s food at hand

Drift away, away, away

Where there’s no more longing to be belonging

Drift aw—"

Footsteps marched down the hall. Minnie hunched down behind the cornettes. Someone halted in front of the closet. Minnie shrunk back against the wall. The door flung open. The startled mouse darted into a hole in the floorboard. Blimey. There stood Sister Maria, her hands tucked inside her ample sleeves. “You can’t cheat providence Minnie. The train leaves for Southampton in two hours and you’ll be on it.”

“I don’t fancy leaving England.” The orphanage, although inhospitable and lacking in any hominess, was the only home Minnie had ever known. She wiped tears from her eyes. It was utter rubbish to cry. In St. Vincent’s it was like bleeding in front of sharks.

“Rules are rules. Now that you’re twelve, you’ll go somewhere with better prospects.”[3] Sister Maria sniffed.

“You don’t want me to go!”

Sister swiped tears away. “It’s hay fever.”

As dreadful as the foundling home was, Minnie had heard rumors that some of the foster homes were worse. She clutched Sister’s hand and looked into her gentle brown eyes. “I’m small enough to pass for ten, I am. Please don’t make me go.”

Sister wiped her thin hand over her weary face. “There’s nowt I can do about it. Our supplies are gutted. So what parliament wants, parliament gets.” Sister stood tall and folded her hands across her stomach. “I believe Canada will do you good.”

Canada. It was such a foreign name. She’d heard it was cold in winter. (Colder even than damp, chilly London.) And the family who was taking her in, what if they whipped her?

That wasn’t even Minnie’s biggest worry. She’d have to get there on a ship, which would take seven days to cross from Southampton, England, to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The thought made Minnie’s stomach clench even harder than when she hadn’t eaten all day. Minnie had quite a lot to be afraid of: hunger, which happened often. Bats that flew into the dorm at night . . .

The sea was more terrifying than all her fears put together (and multiplied by a million). The orphans whispered behind their hands that her father’s boat had shipwrecked the day she was born; and that a few weeks later bobbies on patrol found her mother’s clothes in a pile on the beach. They said her mum was never seen again. Sister said it was poppycock, that the orphans had nothing better to do than chinwag. But if the gossip was true, then everyone in her family had drowned.

Minnie reckoned that fate was in her blood.

Sister Maria had found five-month-old Minnie wrapped in a blanket with a note that said, “Minerva, Princess of the Sea.” Someone had abandoned her in a porridge pot on the steps of the orphanage. (Which is where she got her last name.)

Minnie supposed Porridge was better than the surname Pot.[4]

A few years gone, a rich benefactor had treated the orphans on a trip to the ocean. They first took the Underground subway, then boarded a motor bus with a winding staircase and open top. They were such a right rowdy lot, the nuns had to keep shushing them and forcing them back into their seats. When they got to the sea, the gulls dove and cawed. The air smelled like tar and salty rain.

The other waifs scrambled off the bus, still Minnie held back. Like a monstrous creature, the water clawed at the sand in thick, roiling waves. A whooshing sounded in her head, and her toes and fingers tingled as if someone was sticking pins in them. Each time the waves ebbed into the deep, it seemed they wanted to drag her with them.

Minnie had bolted away from the water until Sister Maria (her cornette flapping like wings in the wind) caught her. On the next beach outing, the patron told Minnie to stay behind. She didn’t mind a bit since cleaning the lavatories was better than feeling that tingle and weird, heady whooshing.

Minnie shook her head to clear the memories. Still, the idea of being near the water made her want to scamper again. And it would be even more terrifying to be on the water, far from shore, with the swells clutching at the keel. The thought alone made her want to heave up Jonah[5]. She gulped down the bile in her throat.

Sister Maria lifted Minnie’s hand. She turned it so it caught the light. “Maybe your new family will learn to love you despite your . . . oddities.” Sister made a choking sound. “I pray you’ll be one of the fortunate ones.”[6]

APRIL 9, 1912 (Six days and counting)

CHAPTER TWO/ROY

Maybe there were worse names than Pomeroy Archibald Fernsby, the Second[7], but John Johnson sure as hay couldn’t think of one. For the last year his cobbled-together family worked their way from the United States to Europe taking advantage of anyone and everyone. He’d already pretended to be Luke Christian, Sam Carson and Quinn O’Reilly—whatever fit his uncle’s current con game.

Now they’d finally stashed enough money to get back to America—at least to New York. But there was still plenty to do if they were going to get all the way to Missouri.

It was close to impossible remembering to answer when Uncle Fred and Aunt Martha addressed him as Pomeroy. Mostly because he hated the name with a fierceness that made him want to kick a hole in a wall. It conjured up visions of yippy little dogs whose breed names sounded like a sneeze. Or a cuss word—maybe worse yet, some snotty kid in a sailor suit who’d never played in a pile of dirt or swung an axe.

Pomeroy was glad it wasn’t his real name, but he was irked that he was actually wearing a sailor suit. He’d argued for days that no twelve-year-old would be caught dead dressed like he was. But his aunt insisted the clothes were necessary to put their plan in motion. He was nearly as tall as his uncle and might as well have been a sausage stuffed into a seersucker casing.

As part of his uncle’s new scheme, Fred and Martha were now going by Pomeroy, the first, and Eloise—so they’d sound like fancy-pants Americans. Go ahead and call manure perfume, it’d still stink—but not nearly as much as having to pretend they were his parents. In all the other cons they’d played the orphan card since it got so much sympathy.

They bumped along in a carriage they’d hired to drive three miles to a farm outside Southampton, England. His aunt said. “You must remember to call us ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’.” She rapped on his forehead with her knuckles. Roy flinched. “Do it even in your mind. It’ll make it more natural. And really, it’s close enough to the truth.”

Roy’d rather be using his mind for other things—like reading a book or going back to school.

Father added, “We’re looking to snag a purebred. It’ll be our ticket to getting in with John Jacob Astor. That guy’s got more money than a forest has leaves.[8] He’s got this Airedale he dotes on.”

The last thing Roy wanted was some hoity toity dog. Just over a year ago there’d been a gangly mutt named Buddy who’d left a hurt in Roy deep as a well and wide as a cornfield.

When they got to the small plot of land, Roy inhaled the smell of earth and animals. It was neat but shabby, and reminded him so much of his farm in Missouri that his throat ached. He missed the days when it was just him, Ma, and Pa. Before his aunt and uncle had shown up with their pockets turned inside out, begging for a place to live.

Mother elbowed him and hissed, “Pomery, at least pretend that you’re interested.”

“Yes, Mar—mother,” he added when his uncle narrowed his eyes. “Mother. Yes, Mother.” Since he had to remember to use their new names, the least they could do was call him Roy—especially since he wore the stupid sailor suit.

“You’ll find no other pup this fine,” a farmer said. His oilcloth breeches and apron made a hollow rustling sound as he led a six-month old puppy around on a rope. It was white with tan spots—and long fringes of fur swung with each step. “Named him Briny since we canna keep this one out of the water. Rather swim than hunt any day, he would.”

Briny stopped in front of Roy, splayed his front legs and stuck his rump high into the air. He wagged his tail so fast you almost couldn’t see it. Mother nudged Roy again. He refused to look into the pup’s soft brown eyes--he couldn’t ever love another dog after Buddy.

“Sure, and he’s a wee bit older. Which is why I’m only asking ten pounds,” the farmer said.

Roy gulped. That’s as much as most farmers make in a month.[9]

He’s well trained,” the farmer said. “You’ll nowt find such a bargain anywhere else.”

“Six,” said Father.

The farmer scowled. “He’s got the nicest disposition I’ve ever seen in a dog. Nine.”

“Seven.”

“He’ll nowt go for less than eight.”

Father stuck out his newly-manicured hand and the man shook it. Mother took bills out of her pocketbook and handed them over. The farmer tucked them into his breeches without counting them—not that it would have mattered. Roy was sure Mother had shorted the kind farmer at least one pound. Poor man didn’t know that wasn’t the worst of it.

The farmer smiled and handed the puppy over to Father. Briny bared his teeth and let out a low growl.

The farmer rubbed his head. “I’ve ne’er seen him act like that.”

Father tossed the rope at Roy. “Nothing to worry about. He’s for my son. A boy needs a dog.”

Roy growled deep in his chest like Briny just had. Father knew Buddy had been his best friend—his only friend really after he’d gotten the news about his parents. But that had meant nothing to Father.

The farmer patted Roy’s shoulder. “Right they do. Nothing like a pet to teach life’s lessons.”

The leash hung limply in Roy’s hands. Haven’t I already learned enough of those?

The farmer waved goodbye, then Father, Mother, Roy, and the quivering puppy climbed into the carriage. Briny laid his muzzle on Roy’s lap and whined. Roy petted the pup without looking at him. As the carriage rattled back to Southampton, he remembered Buddy’s panicked face when they had driven the wagon away from their Missouri farm without him. Buddy chased after them for nearly two miles, before collapsing in the road and howling.

Tears filled Roy’s eyes.

Father grimaced. “Aw c’mon, you’re not crying about that mutt again. Do your part and we pull this off, it’ll be the last con. Trust me.[10] And when we get to the States, I’ll get your farm back. You never know, your old mutt might still be there.”

Roy hated conning, especially farmers who were just trying to make a living—but if it got him back to Missouri, back to his old life and his best furry friend . . .

He’d do it.

APRIL 10, 1912 (Five days and counting)

CHAPTER THREE/MINNIE

The ticket seller shrugged his shoulders. “The cancellation’s got nowt to do wit’ me. Wit’ the strike they’re short of coal.”

Sister Maria fingered her rosary beads. “We can’t wait a week. I don’t have enough money to pay for food and lodging.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to take that up with God.” He picked his black teeth with a splinter.

“There must be another ship going to America,” Sister Maria said.

“Now that you mention it, there’s the Titanic.” He sneered. “I doubt you have enough quid for that. You might get a few lads or lassies on the New York. But they’ll be steerage and expected to work.”

Until this point Minnie had stood like a drooping sunflower. She hadn’t slept in days since every time she closed her eyes, she had nightmares about sailing on the ocean. And she was tuckered out from taking the Underground subway, then a train to Southampton. Her hands and feet tingled, and her head seemed too heavy to hold up. Yet now she brightened. Surely Sister Maria would let her stay the week, then maybe even longer. Maybe while they waited, Minnie could find a placement in Southampton as a laundress or scullery maid.[11] Anything would be better than getting on a ship. Minnie folded her hands like she was praying and smiled up at Sister.

(Begging was also better than getting on a ship.)

The ticket seller narrowed his eyes. “Either way you sail, you’d best beware of the Growlers.”

Sister glowered.

“Those big blimey burgs. They love to eat the cold flesh of young ‘uns.”

The blood drained from Minnie’s face.

“Boo, gotcha.” He laughed a cackling sound, like a murder of angry crows.

Sister chewed her lip. “So how many can we get on the New York?”

The bloke pulled out a long sheet of paper. “Manifest says they’ve got berths for two lads and one lassie.”

Sister glanced at the five faces who were being relocated. They were the “left behinds”—passed over time and again by adoptive parents. Minnie had come right close to finding a forever home. (Twice.) When she was two, a handsome couple came to inspect her, but backed away when they got a gander at the scaly skin on her hands and arms. At age five she’d been lined up with other hopefuls, but got passed over when she tripped another girl. Minnie had good reason, the waif had smeared bird poop on her only dress after Minnie talked to a robin who’d flown into the dorm.[12] Being rejected was bad enough. It was bloody awful when it wasn’t even her doing.

The left behinds were a rag-tag bunch dressed in stodgy grey, yellow, and brown plaid wool cloth that had been donated by a local merchant unloading unpopular stock. He claimed it was charity. (Minnie was clever enough to know better.) The Sisters had tried to make the fabric fashionable, but it was too stiff and ugly. It was also far too stuffy for mild weather.

[1] A lot actually.

[2] This was a term applied to deserted infants who were “found.” Sadly it also meant their parents were “lost.”

[3] Yep, this was actually a thing—the Society for the Suppression of Juvenile Vagrancy through the reformation and emigration of children. Not exactly pithy, although oddly specific.

[4] That’s debatable.

[5] No one knows how big Jonah actually was – but nonetheless, you gotta feel sorry for that poor whale.

[6] More than 130,000 orphans left England for America, Canada, and Australia. Few of them were fortunate.

[7] Again, debatable.

[8] He was the richest man in the world and spent nearly $30,000 in today’s money for his Titanic tickets. Probably not the wisest investment.

[9] Today this is equivalent to 250 Big Macs. Or 143 books about the Titanic. Including this one.

[10] Never trust anyone who says, “trust me.” Trust me.

[11] Scullery maids did all the hard work in the kitchen. Sometimes they even had to clean the chamber pots of other servants. Before toilets these were big bowls that people did their, ahem, business in. I know, yuck.

[12] She was simply answering its question about which window was open.