Ransom, having become bored, and having watched Declan write for hours in his journal, asked if he might not read more of the young man’s scribblings. “Unless you feel the entries too private.”
Declan readily gave up the journal, saying “There’s nothing private about it. Here you are, detective. For your perusal and occupation. Glad you’ve taken an interest.” He indicated Thomas lying on his prison bunk.
This while Thomas rolled his eyes and silently brooded, muttering and moaning, “It’s the death of our careers, Declan. And what do we have to look forward to? The street, the gutter, a pair of homeless beggars in grimy old Belfast—unable to break free, never to soar as was our previous destiny, and to think—”
“Oh, please do shut up, Tommie. You’re sounding like a bleedin’ parrot.”
Ransom smirked at this last remark and went instantly to reading aloud. He began at the beginning of Declan’s ink-splotched words to follow the timeline of
“The best laid plans,” began Declan, “repairs to the Olympic—due to the Hawke affair—slowed the work on
“Please do so, read on but in silence,” pleaded Thomas, holding his hands. “I’ve heard it all too often!”
With the reading material Declan had provided him, Alastair hardly noticed the hours passing as he read the journal. He sat in the alternating zebra shadows created by his cell window, painting him in the black and white pattern of a prisoner. The light and dark cut his features in two. He’d long before grown bored with the view from the window—an interior courtyard of the enormous Belfast Jailhouse and adjacent, requisite courthouse and other places housing city officials. He thanked God for Declan’s journal to keep his mind occupied. He read on:
September 20th 1911: Olympic with Captain Edward J. Smith—lately named captain to pilot
In parenthesis, Declan had later written in tighter script out in the margin: (re: Smith. Hope he doesn’t run into another ship!)
October 11: White Star officially announces new date for
January 1912: Sixteen wooden lifeboats installed on
British Board of Trade regulations say that
February 3:
March 1: Engineering crew begins to assemble in Belfast, some actually living on board the
March 25: Lifeboats are tested; swung out, lowered, and hoisted back into position under davits. Still think it madness to have so few for such a large number of staterooms and passengers.
March 31: Except for a few minor details in some passenger staterooms, the outfitting of
Although
April 1: Sea trials delayed due to high winds. (Ha! What? She’s unsinkable, right?)
Ransom stopped reading, suddenly stood from his bunk, and went to the bars separating him from the two interns, and wiped his eyes of fatigue. “Declan, lads, this is good news, the sea trials being delayed. But how did you learn of it?”
“The guard said so while you slept. They gave me the discarded newspapers to pad my bunk.” Declan lifted a copy of the Belfast Bugle he’d been using to soften his mattress. “Care to see it?”
Ransom felt a glimmer of hope flit though him. “If these fools around us come to their senses, we can still stop
“That’s not going to hold her up long, sir, and I fear no one is listening to the three of us.”
Thomas just groaned and added, “We’re doomed as far as our careers are concerned.”
“We’ve got to convince the authorities how dangerous this thing is,” countered Ransom. “We must make them think! To take us—well, you scientific lads seriously.”
“But how? They’re deaf to us!”
“Good luck with that,” replied Thomas, curling into the fetal position on his bunk.
“I’ve been in jails before, lads—and I’ve broken out of a couple in my day. There’s got to be a weakness we can exploit. Like this fellow who brought you the paper, Declan.”
“Quinlan? No, sir. He’s strictly by the book he is.”
The boys muttered and grumbled, disbelieving there was any chance here of escape. “It’s calm out today and look here!” Declan slapped the copy of the Belfast Times and began reading from the paper: “6AM sea trials begin anew.
“Let me see that.” Ransom reached through the bars separating them for the paper. Declan freely gave it up.
Ransom read aloud: “By 2PM officials expect that
“Trials’re expected to last less than a day,” Declan dejectedly added. “Be gone in the dark, she will.”
Thomas sat up and snickered. “How does your bloody obsession with that ship, Declan, help us now?” Thomas’ complaint hung in the air. “I for one am sick to death of hearing about that bloody, cursed ship! It’s all you talk about.” Thomas bounced off the bunk and paced the few square feet of his side of the cell.
Declan smacked his friend on the behind for his sudden tirade. “Once finished with the tests, Detective Wyland, she’s gone from here; Thomas, you hear me?”
“And good riddance I say!”
“And if there is a plague aboard… well?” badgered Declan, dropping onto his bunk now, looking deflated.
“And here we sit,” added Thomas. “It’s hopeless. The daft fools won’t listen to reason. How can Dr. Bellingham be so… so—”