Free Shipbuilder by Marlene Dotterer Page A

caught by an extremely brave lad who hoisted it to the hammering team. They worked in a quick and rhythmic pattern, never slowing or pausing to rest. As they continued on their tour, Ham told her the riveters were like the gods of the yard. They had the respect and admiration of every worker in every department.
    Part of Ham's job was to collect orders and schedules from each department. This would be Casey's biggest responsibility, because if Ham could eliminate the running around from his own duties, he'd be free to get to those duties left hanging. It meant that Casey was going to have to quickly learn her way around, and how to find the correct person in each department from whom to collect the paperwork.
    It's just too bad, it occurred to Casey a few minutes later, that I don't know all about the future. I would've figured out a way to avoid this conversation.
    The problem had started when Ham brought her into the plating department and hailed the foreman, a tall, lanky man with greasy hair and a handlebar moustache. His name was Mike Sloan and he'd taken a full half-minute to carefully look Casey over, his expression suspicious and haughty. He was the first person she'd met whose greeting was not a welcome.
    "American?" was his disbelieving comment when Ham introduced her. "Seems like everyone in Ireland is tryin' to go to America. Why are ye here?"
     Casey wanted to glance at Ham for reassurance, but instead, she matched Sloan's glare with a firm expression and a lifted chin. "Came to live with my guardian when my parents died." She didn't offer more information.
    His stare was intense. "Are ye Catholic or Protestant, Casey?"
    Her jaw dropped and "What?" escaped her before she could remember that his question, while confrontational and troublesome, was normal for this time and place.
    Ham coughed into his hand, and Sloan's eyebrows climbed up his forehead as Casey snapped her jaw shut. "'Tis an easy question, lad," Sloan told her, his voice slightly milder.
    She glared. "Protestant," she admitted, wondering what he'd say if she said "atheist, " which was closer to the truth. But she'd been in Ireland long enough to know the response to that, even in the twenty-first century: " Aye, but are ye Catholic Atheist or Protestant Atheist? "
    "Protestant" must have been the right answer, as Sloan's expression morphed into one of agreeableness, and he clapped Casey on the shoulder. "Good ta meet ye, lad! Ye might be wantin' to come to one of our meetin's at lunch time, here in the plater's shed. Meet more of the men that way."
    For some reason, it sounded ominous. "What kind of meeting?"
    "E-van-gel-ical meetin'," Sloan stood straight and proud as he said it, reminding her uncomfortably of a TV evangelist. "Read some scripture, pray a bit, talk about things."
    Casey felt her face twitch, but she tried to sound calm. "Ah. I probably won't be interested, but thank you for inviting me." She glanced at Ham, who was standing unhelpfully silent at her side. "So I see Mr. Sloan to collect the plater reports?"
    Ham pushed his glasses higher on his long nose and nodded. "Aye, he'll be the one." His tone gave Casey no hint to what he was thinking or what was expected of her, but he gave Sloan a curt nod. "Thank ye, Mike. I'll be sending Casey around on his own in a couple of days."
    Sloan gave a wave of his arm and stepped back to his work as Ham turned to go. Casey hurried after him, uncertain if she should say anything.
    After a few seconds, he glanced at her, looking apologetic. "Don't worry about the meetings. He'll probably ask ye a few more times, but most of the men don't attend. Mr. Andrews would never make anything like that mandatory."
    Casey stopped, feeling sick to her stomach. "Does Mr. Andrews attend those meetings?" If she sounded incredulous, it couldn't be helped. The thought of that kind and happy man thinking of ways to discriminate against Catholics was more than she could comprehend. But Ham shook his head.
    "Lord