Free Promise Me This by Cathy Gohlke

wall, knowing he could not look on the boy without pity. He feigned sleep as Michael scrubbed. When he heard the door of their cabin close, Owen opened his eyes. He was tired and had looked forward to a good long sleep. But now he slid to his knees, locked his hands across the bunk, and poured out his heart to almighty God, beseeching on behalf of his young friend, begging for wisdom.
    Half an hour went by as Owen prayed. When he stood, he understood exactly what the Lord would have him do, though he could not see the outcome. Owen pulled his journal from his bag and began to write.

    Michael roused Owen late in the morning as the gray-green mountains of Cork rose ever so surely from St. George’s Channel.
    “I’ve wanted to see these shores since I was a lad.” Owen drank in the shoreline with a delight Michael could not understand. “My father longed to return to his home in County Clare. He talked of taking Mother and me before Annie was born. And he wanted us to see the Cliffs of Moher. He talked and talked of them, high and sharp and glistening in the sunlight. But it never came to pass. I envy that you know this land, Michael.”
    But Michael knew nothing of the Cliffs of Moher and could not muster a kindred enthusiasm for Ireland.
    Titanic stopped her engines and anchored a good two miles from the Queenstown shore. She waited as tenders, loaded mostly with third-class passengers, chugged toward her. Sellers of Irish lace and linen, of pipes and canes and shawls were allowed aboard to hawk their wares. Women and even men from first class pored over the craftsmanship and never blinked at the laying down of pounds and dollars, enough to keep Owen and Michael in food and shoes for months.
    “Ah,” Owen whispered, “I’d like to get some of that Irish lace for Annie and a woolen shawl for Aunt Maggie . . . something delicate for Lu—” He stopped.
    Michael looked at him quizzically. “Lucy? Do you mean the sergeant major?”
    Owen blushed but did not answer; it was the first time Michael had seen any sign of embarrassment in his friend. He looked at his shoes, then leaned farther out over the railing, his face turned from Michael.
    “You’re sweet on her, Mr. Owen!” It was a statement of fact and a great astonishment to Michael. Try as he might, he could not catch Owen’s eye.
    “Yes, I’m glad to see these shores. Father pined after Ireland, I think—second only to his pining for my mother, once she died.”
    Michael was not about to let Owen change the subject. “You are sweet on her!”
    Owen hesitated. “I met Mrs. Snape and her parents in Southampton. She is a fine lady and a good mother to her young daughter.”
    “The sergeant major is married ?”
    “Widowed,” Owen said simply. He turned with unaccustomed sharpness to Michael. “Her name is Mrs. Snape, Michael, and you are to speak of her and to her with the utmost respect, should your paths cross again.”
    “Yes, sir.” Michael feigned humility even as a grin crept across his face.
    Owen saw it and gave a good-natured, gentle jab to the boy’s arm. “You’ve seen through me, lad.”
    “Are you courting her, then, sir?”
    Owen sighed. “If she’d have me. Not that I have anything to offer her—not yet.” He straightened. “But I will. If hard work and determination can make such a thing happen, I will.”
    They stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching the loading of new passengers—perhaps 150 or so—onto Titanic . They saw hefty bags of mail exchanged, and with it Owen’s letter to his sister.
    Finally Titanic ’s three deep whistles sounded. The tenders, carrying their hawkers and mail and those few passengers bound for Ireland, cast off. Titanic ’s starboard anchor was raised.
    “Good-bye, sweet Annie,” Owen said.
    “Good-bye, sweet Megan Marie,” Michael whispered in turn.
    “And who is Megan Marie?” Owen grinned at Michael. “The lady of your heart, young sir?”
    Michael felt his blood drain. He didn’t