Page 23 - Titanic: The Untold Tale of Gay Passengers and Crew

Titanic 9

We parted company and I cruised out on my own, slowly
strolling down the catwalk, eyeing the sailors and laborers,
growing bolder with each step, stopping, staring, eye-to-eye,
measuring my choice. Titanic was like half of Noah’s ark:
there was one of every kind.
A hand pulled on my trou sers. I looked down at a blond
lad with the face of an orphaned an gel. “Take me, sir. Only
one quid.”
“No one told me anyone charged by the ‘pound’ down
below,” I said.
“I do, sir.”
He was a ragamuffin cabin boy. His confident smile told
me he usually received what he asked for.
“All right then, first tell me how big you are.”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Fourteen inches? My! My! Then you are worth
something.”
“No, sir. Fourteen years. Next month.”
“Sorry, my boy. I’m looking for beef not chicken.”
“I need the money for my sick mother back in Liverpool.”
“You have the stench of an orphanage about you.”
“Nossir. I mean, yessir, but I seen you above deck and
you looked...”
“Like a mark.”
“Yessir. You all look, forgive me, sir, like marks to a lad
like me.”
“Here.” I laid a sovereign in his soft hand. “The money’s
for you, not your mother, isn’t it?”
“Who else, sir? My mother’s been dead long since I was
born. Eighteen years ago.”
Of legal age, but selling his wares as a “young boy,” off he
ran into the darkness. I wondered at the justice in the world