Into the Storm

by Avi

  “Which means?” came the question.

  “I know nothing,” Mr. Jenkins exclaimed with triumph. “But the good joke is, my friends, we know a great deal. It’s merely that we’re saying nothing.”

  “And what do we know?” asked Betsy Howard.

  Mr. Jenkins allowed himself his broadest smile. “We know that in Lowell — and soon — we shall drive the Irish out. Not by words, but action!” Mr. Jenkins sat back and nodded to affirm the prediction.

  The meeting was over. Those who had sat around the table, listening to Mr. Jenkins, were gone, though the gentleman himself remained slumped in his seat. The room was perfectly quiet, save for the mournful rise and fall of the winter wind and the pinging sound of icy snow upon the windows. Now and again the candle hissed and sparked as it burned through a bit of corrupted tallow.

  Jeb Grafton waited nervously for the payment he had been offered for his guard duties. He was only hoping that the gentleman who’d done all the talking had not forgotten him.

  In his mind Mr. Jenkins was brooding over whether he had achieved anything with his small audience. There was so much to be done for his cause. At times he felt he was the only man dedicated to the momentous task. The news about Irish being taken on at the Shagwell Cotton Mill had caught him by surprise. No doubt it was only happening because Mr. Ambrose Shagwell had gone abroad. As soon as he returned, he needed to be informed of the treachery.

  Mr. Jenkins stared at the candle flame. The thought came to him of how fine a thing fire was, that it was a great purifier and thus a great power. How often fire was the weapon of the ancient gods. It all depended — Mr. Jenkins told himself — on how one used it.

  Jeb, wanting only to get home, stepped forward. “Mister?” he said.

  Mr. Jenkins turned in the boy’s direction. Seeing him, his dark thoughts lifted.

  “Please, mister, you said you’d pay me something for my guarding the door.”

  A smile came to Mr. Jenkins’s lips. “How much did we bargain for?”

  “You didn’t say.”

  Mr. Jenkins reached into the pocket of his vest. He selected one coin and held it out. “Here’s a half dime.” Jeb put the money into a pocket and headed for the door.

  “Boy!”

  Jeb stopped and looked back.

  “I’ll buy you some bread. Fetch up your box.”

  Mr. Jenkins squeezed the burning candlewick with his bare fingers. There was a momentary hiss, and the light was snuffed.

  Man and boy went into the oyster bar, a large room with a long bar counter and many tables. Paintings of horses, hunters, fish, and soldiers covered the walls. Because of the weather, only a few people were there.

  For a penny Mr. Jenkins purchased two pieces of stale bread from the barman. He flipped them to Jeb, who ate both hungrily.

  “Where do you live?” Mr. Jenkins asked the boy.

  “Howard Street.”

  “I’ll walk a ways with you. Get your coat.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “It ain’t bad,” Jeb insisted, pulling his cap lower over his eyes.

  Mr Jenkins contemplated the boy for a moment, then turned back to the barman. “Got any left coats?”

  “Always,” the man said.

  “A dollar if you give the boy one.”

  The barman measured Jeb with his eyes, then knelt behind his counter before coming up with a drab green coat with a torn collar and one seriously frayed cuff. He offered it to Mr. Jenkins, who in turned handed it to Jeb.

  The boy held back. “What do I have to do for it?” he demanded.

  Mr. Jenkins grunted. “I want to show you a house.”

  “What kind of house.”

  “An Irishman’s house,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with anger.

  Taken aback, Jeb stared at the man, but then shrugged, took the coat, and put it on. It was much too large for him, reaching far below his knees. He had to roll back the cuffs, and even so his fingertips barely peeked out. Nonetheless, he’d never had a coat of his own before.

  “Come on,” Mr. Jenkins said, pushing open the door.

  The moment they left, a man who had been sitting at a table nearby got up and quickly donned his own coat and hat. He hurried out, muttering a thanks to the barman.

  The barman shook his head.

  It was hard to see outside. The velvet darkness swirled with snow. Street lamps were shrouded. Slick swatches of ice lay concealed underfoot. The wind blew down at a hard angle, insinuating snow into collars and shoe tops. As he and Mr. Jenkins walked, Jeb had to bow his head. Neither knew they were being followed.

  Cold as it was, Jeb was deeply engrossed in the pleasures of wearing the coat. Once, twice, he shifted his shoe-shine box, stole a grateful look at Mr. Jenkins, and decided he liked him.

  They trudged in silence. Now and again the man growled, “This way,” or, “Next turn.” Finally he said, “There,” and pointed across the street.

  Jeb wiped his eyes free of snow, which was fast changing to sleet. He saw a large house, its whiteness ghostlike in the night, windows glowing with the warmth of candlelight. As far as Jeb could make out, there was nothing new or fancy about the place — the kind dwelled in by better-off working people in Lowell. Jeb could only wish he lived there.

  “What about it?” he demanded, pulling his cap lower over his eyes.

  “That house,” Mr. Jenkins said, “belongs to an Irishman. I was born here, and I don’t have one. Do you live in a house like that?”

  Jeb shook his head.

  “Do you see that front room, the one on the left, the one with the fire?”

  Jeb looked at the room, then up at Mr. Jenkins. What he saw startled him. Despite the cold, the man’s deep-set eyes seemed to be smoldering with their own fire.

  “The man who owns that house,” Mr. Jenkins said, “that’s his room. His name is James Hamlyn, and he’s an Irishman. Jeb, how do you think an Irishman came to a house like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He took my job, that’s how. I used to work in the mills. Then there was an accident.” For a moment Mr. Jenkins could not speak. Then, with a trembling voice, he said, “That man in there was the cause. The accident was his fault. I couldn’t work anymore. But he got rich.

  “Do you know what he does with that house? He takes in boarders, Irish boarders. People who work in the mills. Do you have a father?” Mr. Jenkins suddenly asked the boy.

  “I guess I do.”

  “Where was he born?”

  “Up by Concord.”

  “Does he work?”

  “Not much.”

  “Because an Irishman or Irishwoman took his job. You can be sure of that. Jeb Grafton, you know my name. Jeremiah Jenkins. I can use a boy from time to time. Where can I find you?”

  “I’m on the street where you found me before. In front of the hotel. With my box. Prime spot.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll find you,” said Mr. Jenkins, and without another word he walked off, his broad back unyielding to the elements.

  Jeb watched him go until the man became lost in the whirling sleet. Then he turned and looked again at the house. He was quite sure he hated Mr. James Hamlyn too.

  James Hamlyn lay upon his bed, back propped up against two pillows. He was a small man with a small head and but a few strands of white hair dangling down the back of a scrawny neck. A white stubble frosted his chin and a certain sleepiness dimmed his gray eyes. Now and again he blew his nose — which had become quite red from a cold — and reached out to drink from a cup of honey-sweetened hot cider that had been set out for him on a side table. He hated having colds, and he was always getting them.

  On his bald head he wore a nightcap, its strings tied beneath his chin. An old muffler was wrapped around his neck, and though he was in bed with quilted blankets pulled high, he wore a jacket as well. On his lap lay a small book, which he glanced at from time to time, alternating the reading of
pages with the reading of the flames that danced in the fireplace. By force of habit he occasionally looked toward his feet. He had but one now, and even the one he had was useless.

  A quiet knock came at the door.

  “Come in.”

  A gray-haired woman, rather delicate in appearance, looked in upon him.

  “Yes, my dear?” Mr. Hamlyn asked his wife.

  “It’s your friend, the police captain, Mr. Tolliver. He’s come to call.”

  Mr. Hamlyn reacted with surprise. “Mr. Tolliver?”

  “He says it’s rather urgent.”

  “What hour is it?”

  “Past nine. And snowing.”

  Mr. Hamlyn sipped some of his hot cider, made a face, and said, “Best stir up the fire then, Mrs. Hamlyn.” His wife obligingly poked at the grate with an iron rod, then withdrew.

  Moments later there was another knock. Instead of waiting for a reply, Mrs. Hamlyn reopened the door and ushered in the man known as Mr. Tolliver. He was a big burly man with broad shoulders and a large expanse of chest and waist. The look on his face was carefully guarded, and his generous mustache — which curled down along his fleshy cheeks until it curled up again to merge with thick sideburns — served him as a mask. He wore a jacket that was somewhat too small for him and a vest likewise, from the pocket of which dangled a chain with a number of seals. The man’s hands were plunged deep in his pockets, and as he stood considering Mr. Hamlyn with shrewd eyes, he rocked slightly back on his heels.

  “You’re looking well, Mr. Hamlyn,” the police captain said in a robust voice.

  “Then you’re either blind or a liar,” Mr. Hamlyn replied gruffly with something of a smile about his thin lips. “Is the weather out there bad?”

  “Not very pleasant, sir. An icy snow, maybe two or three inches.”

  “Then there’s some comfort in being forced to lie abed,” Mr. Hamlyn said. “A man without legs hasn’t much fun on ice, Mr. Tolliver. But the storm keeps the thieves in too, I suppose.”

  “That’s a fact, sir. Your thief is like your ordinary person. Prefers to go about his work in good weather.”

  “But I’ll warrant you didn’t come to talk about the weather, Mr. Tolliver. Pull up a chair by the fire and unburden your mind.”

  Mr. Tolliver set the chair near the fire but close to the foot of the bed. Instead of speaking, however, he tilted the chair back and thrust both hands again into his pockets as if he might find his thoughts there.

  Finally he said, “Sir, does the name Jeremiah Jenkins mean anything to you?”

  Mr. Hamlyn’s eyes widened. He cocked his head to one side. “Mr. Tolliver,” the man in bed began, “I need to know whom I’m talking to. Is it Mr. Tolliver of the Lowell police? Or is it Mr. Tolliver, Jim Hamlyn’s old friend?”

  “Can’t it be both?” the man replied.

  “I suppose it can. Why don’t you lay the case out before me. Then I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Very well,” agreed Mr. Tolliver, and he sprang from the chair and paced about, hands in pockets.

  “Mr. Hamlyn, sir, it’s a delicate situation. Mr. Jenkins is a troublemaker. But the fact of the matter is, to the best of my knowledge, he has not committed any crime.”

  “To the best of your knowledge.”

  “But” — Mr. Tolliver paused in his pacing to rock back on his heels —” I do know he’s stirring up something, some secret society.”

  “The country is full of them,” Mr. Hamlyn replied.

  “True, true. It’s our way here in America. But this one, sir, is aimed full out at the Irish, and aims at nothing less than shipping them all back home.”

  “All?” Mr. Hamlyn said with a snort.

  “All.”

  “And how does he intend to do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Mr. Hamlyn stared into the fire. “Jeremiah Jenkins is a deeply unhappy man,” he said. “Worse, he’s ready to blame anything and anybody for his own failings. Would you like to know what happened?”

  “I would, sir.”

  “At the mill where he and I worked, he appeared one day with his son. A child. A sweet-looking lad. It’s not generally permitted. But exceptions are made…. That day I allowed the exception.”

  Mr. Hamlyn closed his eyes at the painful memory. “Anyway, along about midday an overhead pulley belt slipped. Though rare, it does happen. A serious accident resulted. The boy, who had been playing about the machines, was killed. Jenkins became half-mad with the loss. It turned his hair white. What’s more — since I was the overlooker and allowed the boy to be there — he blamed me for being the cause.”

  “Were you?”

  “No. And when I tried to extricate the boy, I lost the use of my legs.”

  For a moment Mr. Tolliver said nothing. Then he said, “He’s a good friend of Ambrose Shagwell’s.”

  “Is he?”

  “Mr. Shagwell gives Jenkins money.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Shagwell likes to keep his operatives nervous. Agitated. I believe that’s Mr. Jenkins’s job.”

  “When I had problems with him,” Mr. Hamlyn continued, “he tried to raise up the other operatives — this was at the Boott Mill — and I had to turn him out. Do you know what he began to accuse me of?”

  “No.”

  “Of being Irish.”

  “Are you?”

  “I was born in Ireland. Came here when I was two.”

  “Mr. Hamlyn,” the police captain said, “if all the man is up to is talk — no matter how foul — it’s no concern of mine. But if there is anything else …”

  “You’d like to know.”

  “I would, sir.”

  “And how might I, from where I now lie, be of use to you?” Mr. Hamlyn asked.

  “The man’s in Lowell — tonight. He was holding a meeting at the Spindle City Hotel. A secret meeting.”

  “Hardly a secret if you know of it, Mr. Tolliver.” Mr. Hamlyn laughed.

  “I’m a collector of secrets,” replied his friend with the utmost seriousness.

  “What do you think might happen?”

  Mr. Tolliver considered. “Violence, sir. Violence.”

  “In any particular direction?”

  Mr. Tolliver paced again, hands in pockets. Suddenly he stopped. “Well, sir — you might wonder why I should be visiting you at such a time. The truth is, I followed Mr. Jenkins from the hotel. A boy was with him. Mr. Jenkins made his way through the snow, sir, to this house.”

  Mr. Hamlyn sat up. “This house!”

  “Across the street anyway. And, sir, I believe he pointed to this very room.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s an answer I have yet to learn, Mr. Hamlyn. But I am determined to find out.”

  Jeb Grafton hurried up the shadowy narrow steps to the second floor of a tenement building on Howard Street. The stairwell walls were dirty, and the plaster so full of holes that in many places the cold night air whistled through. Though it was dark on the steps, the boy hardly looked where he was going. Excited, he paid scant attention to the babble that rang out from many directions in the building. Instead, he all but ran down the hallway and pushed against the door that let him into the place that he called his home.

  It was a two-room apartment, one none-too-clean room behind the other. There was an old Franklin stove, but it was small and gave but a meager measure of warmth. Not far from the stove a boy, a year old, sat on a thin blanket. He wore a tattered man’s shirt — much too big for him — but nothing else, and the chill that set upon him could be seen in his raw red hands and blue lips.

  There was a table and chair by the room’s only window, which was boarded up. Such light as there was came from a candle set in a cracked dish.

  Seated in the chair before the table was Jeb’s father, Henry Grafton. Thin, scantly bearded, he wore an old army coat over his shoulders, a battered derby on his head, and a tattered muffler around his neck.

  Mr. Grafton was r
eading a Lowell newspaper, The People’s Voice, by the light of the candle. Now and then he glanced toward the back room, from which an occasional cough could be heard. When it came, he listened intently. When it subsided, he turned back to his reading.

  He was still reading when Jeb burst in.

  “Look!” Jeb cried. He had a great grin on his face as he showed off his coat.

  “Where’d you get that?” his father asked.

  “New friend.”

  “Get it honest?”

  The boy’s face flushed. “What do you think?” he replied. “The fellah who gave it to me is so rich he just gives money away.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Jenkins. Jeremiah Jenkins.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Paid me money — good money — just to sit by a door and make sure no one barged into a meeting.”

  “How much?”

  “A whole half dime. And he says he’ll hire me again.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know. But I bet he does.”

  “What about the rest of today?” Jeb’s father asked.

  “Fair.”

  Mr. Grafton held out his hand.

  Ignoring it, Jeb came farther into the room and set his shoe-shine box down in a corner. “How is she?” he asked, nodding toward the back room, from which coughing had erupted again.

  “Got through the day.”

  “They speed the machines up again at the mill?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “I hate them mills,” Jeb said.

  “Some are worse than others.”

  “Then I hate the Shagwell Cotton Mill,” Jeb said decidedly. He crossed the room and sat on the floor next to the child. The youngster chortled and crawled onto his brother’s lap. In response, Jeb opened his coat and drew the infant close, then wrapped him in his arms as well as the coat. “You read all day?” he asked his father.

  “It fills the mind,” the man replied dryly.

  “You could work.”

  “That so?” Mr. Grafton asked. “Where?”