Declan Irvin slapped his best friend and colleague, Thomas Coogan on the shoulder where they stood amid the bustle and excitement of the Red Lion Pub in a back alleyway deep inside Belfast’s most notorious district. Declan pointed to a table in the back of the crowded ale house.
It’d been twenty hours since Coogan’s uncle, Anton Fiore, had been seen or heard from. At home, Anton’s wife, Thomas’ favorite aunt who’d kept the two young interns from starving these many months, sat weeping and terrified something awful had happened to Anton. She’d expected him home as usual when young Thomas and Declan had slipped past curfew at the teaching hospital where they were in residence doing their work for Queens University, to make their way to the Holland and Wolff shipyards to meet Anton.
For two years now while enrolled at Queens, the boys had watched in fascination as the largest seagoing vessel on the planet was being built; they’d seen the hull fashioned from Belfast iron ore laid and tested. Between classes and studying anatomy and physiology and an array of mathematical and scientific curricula, the young men had seen the ship go from a skeletal marvel to the most wondrous and largest man-made object in the world. It marked their time as residents here in the city and helped make that time fantastically exciting.
The sprawling shipyards were situated relatively close to the Mater Infirmorum Hospital grounds where they were in residence, and only the night before, Uncle Anton as Thomas called the shipyard watchman who had early on learned of his nephew’s fascination with all things
“Should like?” Declan had echoed. “Absolutely we should like, right, Tom?”
“If you’re sure you won’t get into no trouble, Uncle.”
“Bah! I’ll see to it you good fellas have as grand a tour as that Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews.” Anton winked and flashed his signature Cheshire cat grin.
“Ahhh, yes, the owner and the architect!” declared Declan, taking Anton’s surprise away. “Sorry, sir… I have studied the
“Well—those muckety-mucks’ve had their tour!” Anton laughed and it sounded like bells ringing.
Declan Irvin felt he had been adopted by Thomas’ aunt and uncle. They were wonderful people and wonderful with one another, as well and good to be around. But now the old gentleman had disappeared without a trace, and Aunt Fiore was destitute without him. Much to Declan’s chagrin, they had lost any chance of seeing the inside of
There would be no other chance; the all but finished ship was to be launched the following day or so. Thereafter, the only way to see her was by ticket or signing on as a maid, purser, crewman, or stoker. Last chance to see her interior ballroom and state rooms, the rumored pools, spas, and the gymnasiums for first, second, and third class as well as reading and smoking rooms, cafes, lounges, saloons and bandstands, and multiple promenades. Last chance to walk her topmost deck, to look down from such a height from her bridge. How he wished to see all her shining brass fittings and teakwood floors.
Declan knew he couldn’t afford even a third-class ticket. Nor could he afford the time away from medical school to get a job waiting tables or stacking deck chairs aboard
At first Declan had been angry at the turn of events—frustrated and annoyed. After all, Thomas had assured Declan that it was all set. Then just before midnight when they’d slipped curfew at the dormitory and arrived at Anton’s office, they found the small shack empty and Anton very much absent. For Declan, it resulted in a dashing of excitement, and for Thomas a gnawing fear beyond any disappointment that’d seeped into Declan’s heart. Where Declan was a devoted fan of all things
Meanwhile, Thomas, who by now had lost all interest in the ship, was going on about his missing uncle. At the time, Declan assumed the old fellow had just been talking, or that he’d gotten his nights mixed up and had ambled home, but Thomas found his uncle’s watch still on his desk, and it was a time piece he’d never leave behind.
It was the first they’d begun to truly worry, and the worry only grew with the ticking of Anton’s pocket watch when Thomas confided that his Uncle Anton had promised the watch to him upon his death.
And so with each tick-tick-tick of the second hand, it played on their nerves like a constant drip. They’d waited for him, imagining him on his rounds even without his watch! But he did not return.
About then, Declan’s disappointment had gotten the better of him. “Your uncle set the time and his job is one of schedules, so where is he?”
“I don’t know!” Thomas replied.
Eventually, they had gone toward the ship and its gaping cargo hold, calling out Fiore’s name as they went. Thomas made a mantra of it, calling, “Uncle… Uncle Anton! Uncle, where’n Hades are you?”
“Where the deuce could he be?” Declan added again. “He’ll be sacked for this if they find us here.”
“You there!” shouted a man from the topmost deck of
Unable to see the man’s face, Thomas shouted back, “Is that you, Uncle?”
“It’s not Anton’s voice,” Declan assured Thomas.
Thomas realized this too and added, “Who’re you? Where’s my uncle, the watchman at the yards?”
“Tuttle!” shouted the man far overhead. “Pinkerton Agent, and I’m armed along with five other able men! Now shove off.”
“Bluffing,” Declan muttered to Thomas; Declan then shouted up to Tuttle. “Where’s the shipyard watchman —Mr. Fiore?”
“Brought you Pinky’s on and fired him, haven’t they?” asked Thomas.
“I’ve no clue! Likely left his post for a dram at the nearest pub.”
Two other Pinkerton agents sporting long guns materialized at the railing beside Tuttle. “Can’t trust Black Irish or any Paddy for that matter!” said a second agent from on high.
A third added, “It’s why we’ve been called on in the first place!”
“You take that back!” shouted Thomas, shaking a fist at Tuttle and the others. “My Uncle Fiore is not a Black Irish; fact is he’s French mostly, and he’s never left his post unattended! Takes it serious, he does!”
“We’ve reason to believe he’s aboard, Agent Tuttle,” added Declan.
“Not ’board
“Then you must’ave seen the old watchman leave for his rounds—which direction did he go in?” pleaded Declan. “He could be hurt. Tell us which way’d he go so we might locate him.”
“Save your breath. He’s not the least bit interested, the bastard.” Thomas pulled his best friend away and the moment their backs were to Tuttle, the agent shouted for them to hold on, making them turn and again crane their necks to the light of the lantern far above.
“Hold on,” repeated Tuttle. “The watchman staggered off hours ago complaining of having gotten hold of some bad oysters, he said. Sick as a dog, he was, all bent over.”
“We’ll take his watch to the house for him then,” Thomas told Declan, the watch reflecting the lantern light even from this distance.
But on arriving at this witching hour to the Fiore home, they learned he’d never come home, and soon the hours brought on daylight and still no sign of Anton. It was then that they’d gone to the Belfast Police who so far as Declan could tell offered little hope and less help. Thomas pleaded until they turned him over to the Chief of Constables but to no avail so far as Declan could tell.
However, Thomas came out of the police department stationhouse with having been told of an eccentric American who’d come to Belfast to set up shop as a private detective. Someone had taken pity on Thomas, apparently, and had told him he might be in need of this man’s services.
After discussing the matter and finally getting Thomas’ aunt to take some laudanum and get some sleep, they’d gone searching for this man rumored to get results, this American-Irish named Alastair Wyland.
And now they’d found him this April afternoon at a card game with several rough-looking characters here inside the Red Lion Public House.
“Three,” said one man with a scar across his left eye, asking for more cards.
“Two,” announced another—a fellow with missing fingers on one hand.
