“Italians in steerage. Naturally,” Antica joked as they descended the narrow stairs into the bottom of the ship that held the boiler room, the coal carriage, and the crew cabins. The temperature rose as the men went deeper into the ship. The smell of oil and coal burning in the furnace wafted through the passageway.
Savattini led the men into the first cabin at the foot of the stairs, farthest from the boiler room. They were housed below the waterline, so there would be no light or fresh air. The portholes were sealed shut. They placed their luggage on the cots and began to remove their jackets and ties against the heat.
“Four men in a room built for two.”
“That’s about right.” Piccolo reclined on a cot.
The men had grown close at Warth. They shared information, bread, and shaving soap. The unlikely quartet had spent time discussing their options, even though as prisoners, they had none. The men’s trepidation about the transfer had exhausted them. The tight quarters and the heat made them drowsy. They lay on their cots, barely an inch between them. It was not yet evening but sleep was their only reprieve from their suffering. But too much sleep made a man soft, Savattini reminded them. They woke to the sound of a sentry shouting.
“Captain has given permission for prisoners to go up on the deck.”
Savattini stood in the doorway and peered down the passageway. Every cabin was filled with prisoners. If the men stepped out into the hallway at the same time, there would be gridlock. Savattini called out, “Gentlemen, let’s begin with the cabin closest to the boiler. Latrine is at the end of the companionway. Stairs take you up to the deck. Let’s do this in an orderly fashion.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” one of the Britalians shouted out. The men laughed and followed Savattini’s suggestion. As the cabins emptied out, Savattini saw boys as young as sixteen and men as old as seventy file past.
“Now we’re dead last to get up to the deck,” Piccolo complained.
“We are building goodwill. Trust me. We’ll need it later,” Savattini told them.
“What I’d give for a cuppa Mazawattee tea,” Antica said. “Hot. Proper tea in a Lady Carlyle cup and saucer.”
“I’d rather have a beer.” Piccolo swabbed the sweat off his face.
“My mother taught me, when it’s hot, don’t think cool, think hotter and then you’ll cool off,” Antica offered.
“Go on,” Savattini said. “Dream.”
“I’ve got my tea. A sweet trolley arrives with a tower of biscuits, sandwiches, and chocolates. I pick up the little silver tongs and help myself to a sugar-dusted brioche. Pot of fresh butter churned that morning to dress it. I close my eyes and inhale the steam from the teacup. Madagascar. Sri Lanka. The islands,” Antica mulled.
McVicars entered their cabin. “Well, well, well. The west end Glaswegians!”
“McVicars! You old dog!” Antica stood to greet his old friend.
“How did you find us?”
“I saw you on the list,” McVicars said cheerily, but when he took in the cramped berth, his heart sank. He could not stand fully upright in the cabin; he slouched as he spoke to them. This was no way to treat human beings, no way to treat his friends.
“Ettore Savattini.” A man McVicars didn’t recognize extended his hand toward him.
“He’s our new friend,” Antica explained. “Ma?tre d’ at the Savoy Hotel.”
“I wish we could offer you better accommodations here.” McVicars shook his hand.
“They are acceptable. And we thank you for checking on us.”
“Look how handsome you are in your merchant navy uniform, Captain,” Antica exclaimed.
“I’m first mate this go-round. Captain in memory only, I’m afraid.”
McVicars poked his head out into the hallway, checking right to left. The line to the latrine and up to the deck flowed steadily. He closed the door.
McVicars opened his jacket and from the interior pockets produced a sleeve of biscuits, a hunk of cheddar cheese, and two pasties—half-moon-shaped meat pies stuffed with potato and onion, baked in a crust, and wrapped in cloth. The men passed the food around. McVicars reached behind and produced a flask of whiskey from his back pocket. He put his finger to his lips.
“You’re a saint!” Antica whispered. “I don’t have the constitution for the sea any longer. A shot of whiskey will help settle my stomach.”
“When you take that shot later, toast your old friend. I’m a married man now,” McVicars told him. “Married the Cabrelli girl.”
“Auguri! I met her at the convent at Christmas. Bellissima.”
“She told me about it.” McVicars had the notion that feeding the Italians would please Domenica. He rummaged through his pockets and produced a stick of butter. “For your bread in the morning. Don’t let anyone know that you have it. I’ve seen mutinies for less. They serve coffee and plain rolls for breakfast. The coffee is strong but there’s plenty of cream to cut it. The butter helps on the rolls. I will get you moved above the waterline. Give me time.”
Savattini clapped his hands together and rubbed them as he schemed. “Will you tell them I can cook?”
“What’s your best dish?”
“All of them. Eggs. Potatoes. Roasts. Spaghetti! I just need a little water and flour.”
“I will alert the galley crew, sir.” McVicars looked out into the corridor. “I must go.”
“John, can you tell us where they’re taking us?” Antica gripped McVicars’s arm.
McVicars patted Antica’s hand to reassure him. “Canada. Seven to ten days in the crossing. Sometimes these tubs take longer, so don’t hold me to it.”
The Italian faces fell into despair.
“Now, now. Don’t fret. I’m on board.” McVicars smiled. “There will be more biscuits! And I will get you out of here.” John McVicars left the men better than he found them.
* * *
“I will sleep well tonight,” Mattiuzzi admitted as he savored his last bite of the meat pie. “The pasty is the pride of Scotland.”
“They are quite good,” Savattini admitted. “I wish I would have visited the Highlands. I worked seven days a week. I never left London.”