Marlene Dotterer - Shipbuilder

“You’re the American, are you not?”

Casey turned back. “Yes ma’am. Casey Wilson, ma’am.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“My nephew has spoken quite highly of your work. That’s an honor for you; he’s not easily impressed.”

Casey flushed with pleasure and bowed again. “Thank you ma’am. I’m enjoying the work very much. The ships are a wonder.”

Lady Pirrie smiled softly. “I think they are, too,” she agreed, her voice kind, but then her demeanor changed and she was brisk and dismissive. “Well, carry on, Casey. I shan’t keep you from your work.”

Startled at the abrupt dismissal, Casey was nevertheless happy to avoid further conversation, and buried herself in the logbooks. In principle, her reasons for pretending to be a boy were justifiable, but every person she talked to increased her feelings of guilt.

Sam had warned her the shipyard was a dangerous place, but the danger did not always come from lax employment laws. Sometimes it came from nature, like when the fetch out on the Irish Sea was strong and fast, and Belfast would experience nearly gale force winds blasting through the channel and city toward the hills. The only thing to do during these days was to wrap up and hold onto your hat. Moving from one place to another took a lot of determination.

Casey was used to these days, the weather being one thing that didn’t change much from one century to another. But the shipyard was an open area, and even inside offices could be at the mercy of the elements, with the wind howling over machinery, through corridors, into sheds and workshops and offices. Out on the slips, the ships were tied up tight, swaying dangerously in all directions on their short tethers. Any material left loose would be sent flying through the yard, causing men to duck, or hastily jump out of the way.

Casey was dropping off supplies outside, and as she turned to go, a strange movement on the scaffolding caught her attention. Boards nailed onto a steamer had worked loose in the wind, sending men on the decks scrambling for safety. Artie Frost, a foreman fitter who was nearest the scaffolding, immediately pocketed his hammer and climbed eighty feet to the ripped apart section and began hammering the boards back into place.

But he slipped as the wind shook the scaffolding, losing his hammer, which fell in seeming slow motion into the water below. Casey saw the change that came over Artie as he suddenly froze in place, gripping the boards of the scaffold in panic. Everyone around noticed at the same time and the crew rushed to help him, holding the scaffold to balance it, and shouting encouragement to Artie to climb down. If he heard them, he gave no notice of it—he closed his eyes and hung on to the swaying scaffold as if stuck to a spider’s web.

Casey could not look away. Every part of her willed Artie to gain his equilibrium and climb down. Her horror increased when she noticed a figure dart out onto the slip to the bottom of the scaffold. Tom Andrews held onto the swaying partition and shouted up at his friend. Casey caught fragments of his voice, but not the words, as Tom gestured and gave instructions. It was doubtful that Artie, high on the scaffold, could even hear anything from the ground.

Tom removed his coat and began to climb. Every man (and woman) on the dock forgot to breathe, as Tom climbed higher, the gale furiously whipping around him as the scaffold continued to sway. Casey cringed as a board flew just inches past his head and a moment later, another board landed against his leg with a sold whap . He climbed, deliberate and steady, defying the wind. Although they couldn’t hear him, they could see he was talking to Artie the entire time.

He reached Artie, climbing until he was next to him, one arm firm around Artie’s back as he grasped the wooden slat on the other side of him. The watchers could see Artie’s white face, stark against his black jacket, eyes still tightly shut.

Tom said something and Artie shook his head—a firm, panicky shake. The conversation continued, but not for long as Tom, keeping an arm around Artie’s back, moved a foot between Artie’s feet and leaned back very slightly, into the wind.

The scaffold gave a great rattle, causing gasps of dismay from the men trying to hold it steady. Casey literally felt the blood drain from her face. She was probably just as white as Artie. The two men began to move, one foot down, as Tom moved his hands to help Artie maintain his grasp on the scaffold. Tom moved down another step—both hands and feet—and waited until Artie did the same, prying Artie’s fingers from the scaffold.

Step by step the two men made their way together down the scaffolding, as the structure swayed and shook. When they were about three-quarters of the way down, they paused and exchanged a few words. They saw Tom laugh suddenly, and he swung away to Artie’s right, glancing down, then up at the loose boards banging above them. They spoke a few more words, before Tom started back up the ladder. After a moment, Artie continued down. The assembled crew watched in dismay as Tom cautiously hurried up the swaying scaffold, apparently oblivious to the driving wind.

“Ah, damn,” Casey muttered in angry despair, wishing he had seen fit to come down with Artie, as the men around her raced to help Artie off the scaffold and out of the wind. She kept her eyes on Tom, watching as he reached the boards and began hammering them into place.

Ham joined her after a minute, watching as the wind whipped the scaffolding around as if it were a spider’s web. The struggling figure holding onto the slats continued until the job was done, whereupon Tom slipped his hammer back into his pocket and began to hurry down the ladder. Casey started breathing again as Tom reached the relative protection of the dock wall. The crew below held the scaffold as steady as possible as he finished the last twenty feet and jumped to the deck. They surrounded him then, cheering and slapping him on the back as he sank to the ground. Casey and Ham reached him at the same time, Casey handing him his coat as he grinned up at them.

“Thanks,” he managed. “Think I’ll just sit here a minute. Solid ground and all that.”

The men laughed, and in a few moments they had cajoled him to his feet and moved en masse into the building. They plied him with hot tea and he joined a still-shaky Artie, who was working on his own cup.

Casey heard a voice in her ear. “Chalk up another one for the legend.” She turned to find Mike Sloan standing behind her, looking thoughtfully at Tom as the men continued a step-by-step breakdown of the rescue.

Sloan had backed off on invitations to his meetings, but lately he’d started a more insidious campaign. Casey knew that in many ways, an atheist was even worse than a Catholic. Sloan would have to address the issue eventually, but even she was taken by surprise when he began to mention scriptures in her presence relating to God’s hatred of men who engage in “unnatural acts.” Evidently, he had decided that Casey the boy, who was small and “pretty,” was homosexual. Ironic, but dangerous. She usually tried to avoid him, but now annoyance caused her to jump to Tom’s defense.

“Is that what you think he was doing? I didn’t notice you climbing up there to help Artie.” Her whisper was furious, but he answered mildly.

“Why, Mr. Andrews’ reputation is well-deserved, lad. Wouldn’t think to disparage him, not at all.” He started to turn away, but stopped, eyes narrowing as his gaze pierced her. “Don’t hurt the legend none, though. Makes you notice him, I guess.”

Casey flushed, closing her mouth against a retort that would only make things worse. Damn! Sloan had noticed her attraction to Tom, and put exactly the wrong spin on it. There’d be no good to come of that, she was sure.