Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

Amazon author page: http://tinyurl.com/25r98ee
Copyright © 2010 Robert W. Walker
Two parallel books, thus two first chapters
ONE
Belfast, Northern Ireland, April 3, 1912:
Titanic; 1912 – The Curse of RMS Titanic – 2012
Sifted coal dust rained unseen over them, choked them. A fine shower of it fluttered about the men like a
million black fairies that insisted on entering them. The dark dust created of itself a ghostly, unruly smoke.
Despite how fine the black particles were, their helmet lights captured it as a sparkling array before their eyes.
“Black angel dust,” commented the taller man.
“Stuff always looks to me as if, you know, alive,” said the stouter of the two.
At the same time, the earth around them groaned and stretched, as if disturbed from slumber, just awakening.
Tim McAffey, mine superintendent, along with his assistant superintendent, Francis O’Toole, dared enter to
inspect the recent damage that had been left unattended for two months—this after the mine had sat unused for
two years previously. This fresh and somewhat minor cave-in had shut it down anew. Still the order was to get
Number 9 operational again at all costs.
At times like this, McAffey wondered why he’d ever become a miner. Then as the floating grave dust ahead of
them settled, he thought of the bonus promised if he did his job. He thought of home and family and food on the
table.
The day had ended with little to show for his efforts, so McAffey remained frustrated and upset. He knew
from experience it’d take days if not a week to get the men comfortable enough—even now after sixty days—
about reentering this section of the mine to even begin to clean up the mess where some timbers had given way.
“Hell, this amounts to a sneeze,” he said to O’Toole.
“Minor inconvenience at best,” agreed Francis O’Toole. “Thank God, no one’s been kilt this time by her; two
injured and off to hospital’s all.”
Still, men were superstitious; once an area underground shook with the slightest tremor, they bolted and often
refused to return unless the owners offered a bonus or other incentive. Two years previous, there’d been a god
awful mining accident the likes of which Belfast had never seen—twenty seven men killed in an instant. But that,
while in Number 9, was in another section quite aways from here. This most recent set-back was a minor one,
nothing of consequence beyond a six-foot high pile of rubble in the way of going forward to where it was believed
the finest iron ore ever seen lay waiting for harvest—in the shaft where the twenty-seven had perished.
“We’ve little choice, Francis, but to push on. Bosses signed a big contract with the White Star line. Provide
iron for three ships that’re between fifty-three and sixty-three tons.”
“Aye…building two more to match that monster Britannic we saw launched some time back. The three of
’em…” O’Toole shook his head. ..“they’ll be the grandest ships ever the world has seen.”
“This one they’re calling Titanic will be even larger than the first, I’m told.”
“She’s almost ready for launch, I ’ear.”
The talk of the British-owned White Star’s plans for a fleet of ships large enough to compete with the Seven
Wonders of the World had the two miners’ discussion turn to politics. “No matter a man’s politics or feelings
toward the British, Francis, White Star has brought a level of prosperity to Belfast sorely needed.”
“They’re calling this new one The Unsinkable Titanic, ’ave you heard, Tim?”
“Aye—and Belfast Iron’s a big part of her; a part of history now, Francis.”
“Getting the ore to the foundry and the shipyard, that’s all that matters—one more ‘Titanic’ to go.”
“Aye—the one called Olympic.”
“Hold on.” Francis stopped cold in his tracks and pointed with an unlit pipe, asking, “What ’ave we ’ear?”
asked Francis. He pointed to a darkened corner of the troubled shaft.