Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 George ran as fast as he could down the hall. He heard shouting behind him, but he didn't stop until he was back on B deck, safe again in first class. A steward hurried past him with a stack of clean towels. "Good evening, sir," he said. George nodded, out of breath. Nothing could happen to him up here, he knew. So why was his heart still pounding? It was the ship, he realized — that thundering noise. That shaking in the hold. Had a boiler exploded? Had a steam pipe burst?

An eerie silence surrounded him, and George's heart skipped a beat as he realized that the engines had been turned off. The quiet rumbling had stopped. Just outside, George heard people talking loudly. Did they know what was happening? George went out onto the deck and walked over to the small crowd of men. Most were still dressed in their dinner tuxedos and puffing on cigars. They were standing at the rail, pointing and laughing at something happening on the well deck, one level below. What was so funny? George squeezed between two men and looked over the rail. At first he was sure his eyes were playing tricks. It looked like the well deck had been through a winter storm. It was covered with ice and slush. A bunch of young men in tattered coats and hats were pelting each other with balls of ice, roaring with laughter like kids having a snowball fight. "What's happened?" asked a man who'd walked up behind George.

"The ship nudged an iceberg!" said an old man with a bushy mustache. He didn't sound worried. An iceberg! "Is that why they've stopped the engines?" said the new man. "Because of some ice on the deck?" "Just being cautious, it seems, following regulations," said the older fellow. "I spoke to one of the officers. He assured me we'll be underway any moment. Hey there!" he yelled down to the young men below. "Toss some of that ice up here!" One of the gang picked up a piece of ice the size of a baseball. He threw it, but the man with the bushy mustache missed. George reached out and made a clean catch with one hand. The crowd cheered. George held up the ice and smiled. Then he held it out to the man. "Keep it, son!" he said. "There's plenty for everyone." The piece of ice was heavier than George had expected. He sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. It smelled like old sardines!

More ice balls came sailing up from below, and the men jostled to catch them. Their laughter and cheers rose up around George, and the fear he'd felt in the baggage hold faded away. From up here, on the deck of this incredible ship, George felt powerful. Nothing could hurt him on the Titanic. Not a meteor falling from space. Not a giant squid. Not the scar-faced man. George squinted out into the distance, hoping to see the iceberg, but the sea faded into darkness. His teeth were chattering now. It was so much colder than it had been at dinnertime. He wanted to be back in bed, curled up under his fancy first class sheets and blankets. The corridor was still quiet as George crept toward his suite. As he was letting himself in, he stepped on something that made a crunching sound under his boot. At first George thought that it was ice or a piece of glass. But when he picked up his heel, he saw that the carpet was covered with yellow crystals.

George smiled. It was just one of Phoebe's lemon drops. George let himself in, easing the door shut. Phoebe's bed curtains were closed. The light under Aunt Daisy's door was off. George quickly changed into his pajamas and climbed into bed. Yes, he was safe, he told himself. He tried to go to sleep, but as the minutes ticked by, his mind got restless. It hit him that his knife was gone, forever, and the total silence of the ship seemed to press down on him. Why hadn't the engines started up again? He lay wide awake, listening and wondering. It was almost a relief when he heard someone knocking on their door.