Into the Storm

by Avi

  “My lord,” Mr. Pickler gasped, “I only beg to say —”

  “Go!” Lord Kirkle shouted. “Leave me!”

  Though it took every ounce of his willpower to keep from bursting into tears, there was nothing else for Mr. Pickler to do but turn toward the door. When he reached it, he paused and attempted to speak. Lord Kirkle prevented him.

  “You will be well paid for your trouble, Mr. Pickler. Double your fee. I will give you a good character if asked. Now remove yourself from my house. And do not return. Ever.”

  Mr. Pickler murmured a final, “My lord,” bobbed his head, and crept from the room.

  Lord Kirkle remained leaning on the mantel for a long while. Utterly wretched, he crossed to the corner of the room and pulled upon a braided rope. A servant entered.

  “Richards,” Lord Kirkle managed to say. “Is Sir Albert at home?”

  “I believe he is, my lord.”

  “I wish him here. At once.”

  A weary Lord Kirkle sank upon his chair, drew Laurence’s tattered jacket toward him, and buried his face in it.

  The door to the study soon opened. Sir Albert clumped in, a complacent smile upon his face.

  “My —,” he began to say, but stopped short when he saw his father’s anguished look. And the familiar jacket. Albert’s first thought was that Laurence had been found. Perhaps dead. It took all his strength to keep from smiling. “My lord …,” he tried again.

  Lord Kirkle stared at his elder son with bloodshot eyes. “Sir,” he said, his voice trembling, “I intend to ask you some questions. You had best answer me truthfully.”

  “Of … course, my lord,” Albert stammered.

  “Albert, does the name Matthew Clemspool mean anything to you?”

  Taken by surprise, Albert swallowed hard and squeezed his hands until his knuckles cracked. “I … I … am not sure.”

  “What does that ‘not sure’ mean, sir?” Lord Kirkle demanded. “Do you or do you not know him?”

  “Well, perhaps I have heard the name, but —”

  Lord Kirkle sprang from his chair so suddenly that Albert jumped back. “Have you had any dealings with this scoundrel?” his father demanded.

  “I don’t know that —”

  “I have been informed that this Matthew Clemspool helped your brother leave London and reach Liverpool, from which point the boy went to America as a stowaway.”

  Sir Albert gasped. “But, sir … what has that to do with me?” His knuckles cracked again.

  Lord Kirkle continued. “I have been further informed that Mr. Clemspool’s business is to involve himself in older-younger brother tensions on behalf of one or the other. It has been suggested, sir, that you and Mr. Clemspool have had business dealings.”

  “He’s a liar and swindler,” replied Sir Albert. “If you knew him as I do —”

  “Then you have dealt with him!” Lord Kirkle roared.

  “Well, yes, I suppose, in some —”

  “Do you admit, sir, that you conspired to have Laurence spirited away from London, that he might go off to America?”

  Albert gulped for air. “No, sir … not at all,” he stammered. “It wasn’t that. It was only to teach the nuisance his proper place. I had no intention of —”

  “Do you know what you have done?” Lord Kirkle shouted. “Do you?”

  “I didn’t do anything, my lord,” Albert whined. “Nothing. I swear I didn’t. I —”

  “Because of you, your brother is a beggarly stowaway on a ship for Boston. Alone! At the mercy of any and all! Quite possibly dead! And even if by some happy chance he does reach America alive, he will be lost to us — forever.”

  “I’ll … I’ll go find him,” Albert cried. “I will. I’ll leave right away.”

  “By God, sir!” Lord Kirkle shouted, his face contorted with rage. “You had best do exactly that! Consider yourself cut off from every penny you think is yours save what you need to bring your brother back. Do you understand me, sir? Find your brother! Now remove yourself from my sight!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go!”

  Sir Albert hurried from the room — and met his mother in the hallway. The small woman was looking alarmed. “What is it?” she asked. “The servants are saying something has happened.”

  “It’s Laurence.”

  “Has he been found?”

  “The fool has actually gone to America.”

  “America!”

  “And would you believe, Mama, the governor has asked me to fetch him back.”

  “You? But how can he expect that you …?”

  “Never mind. He’s asked, and of course I’ll go. Now excuse me. Duty calls,” he said sarcastically, “and I must prepare myself.”

  As Albert hurried on, all he could think was that he must do something and do it quickly. He knew well that his father preferred Laurence to him, knew that his father’s will gave his brother too much and him too little. Yes, he would go to America. He would find Laurence. But once he found him — if he found him — he would make sure his dear brother never came home.

  Dinner in the Robert Peel’s first-class dining room was done. The food had been more than ample: soup, fish, meat, potatoes, followed by a sweet. Of the regular diners, Mr. Clemspool, Mr. Grout, and Mr. Murdock were gone. Three remained, Mr. Shagwell, Captain Rickles, and the ship’s doctor, Mr. Woodham.

  The doctor was a young man, fresh from his licensing exam, on his way to America to make his fortune. Long curls fell about his ears and neck. Dressed meticulously in black waistcoat and ruffled cravat, he had discovered as part of his studies that a haughty demeanor was as important a part of his professional attire as anything else.

  Just as the captain was rising, Mr. Shagwell said, “A word with you, sir. Just a moment.”

  “By your leave,” the captain said, and sat.

  The doctor moved to go.

  “Do stay, sir,” Mr. Shagwell said. “I should value your thoughts too.”

  The doctor brushed away crumbs that had fallen on his waistcoat and resumed his seat.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Shagwell began, “this is a matter of some delicacy.” He settled his bulk more comfortably in his chair. “I need only tell you the subject’s money for you to understand.”

  The captain laughed good-naturedly. “Money is always delicate, sir.”

  “I’m glad you agree.” Mr. Shagwell picked up a fork, poked it gently against his fingers, laid it down, and said. “It concerns one of our fellow passengers.”

  The captain pulled at his red mustache but said nothing.

  Mr. Shagwell went on. “I am, sirs,” he said, touching his hand to his chest and dipping his head, “engaged in the manufacturing of cotton textiles. Mine is a most important mill.”

  “In what city, sir?” inquired the doctor.

  “Lowell, Massachusetts.”

  The doctor nodded as if he knew the place exactly.

  “You see, sirs, Mr. Clemspool has intimated to me that he is seriously considering funds — his funds — in my company. Naturally, I am interested. What, gentlemen, do you know of this Englishman?”

  The doctor leaned back in his chair and brushed a crumb from his sleeve. “English — as you’ve said. Very friendly fellow. Always asking questions. Somewhat prying. Seems to make his home in London with a business office in the City.”

  “Ah, the City …”

  “He did tell me he was going to America on matters of high finance.”

  “Do you know what exactly is his business?”

  “Seems to deal with the wealthy,” the doctor said. “Family matters and the like.”

  Mr. Shagwell placed his hands upon the table. “Did he say that?”

  “That’s what he told me too,” said the captain. “You will recall that two days ago we bespoke a ship….”

  “Going to England.”

  “Mr. Clemspool specifically requested we do so. He had a letter he wished sent to London. Said it concerned very important f
inancial matters.”

  “Did he?”

  “His very words.”

  “And, sir, did he say what the matters were?” asked Mr. Shagwell.

  “No, sir. But he impressed me with a sense of its urgency. And, sir” — the captain offered up a shrewd, knowing look —” the letter was addressed to Sir Albert Kirkle.”

  The doctor looked around. “Did you say Kirkle, sir?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you know the name?” the doctor asked Mr. Shagwell.

  The American shook his head.

  “One of the most important names in Her Majesty’s government.”

  Mr. Shagwell could not help but smile. “What you have said pleases me, Doctor,” he allowed. “It confirms my understanding of the man. Very much so. Gentlemen, I will make the best use of this information. I thank you.”

  Having slept fully clothed, Maura groped in the darkness for her shawl only to discover that Bridy had managed to wrap it around herself. She gave a brief tug, then decided to leave it with the child.

  Maura tried to see through the cold, dank gloom of the steerage deck. Her feelings of claustrophobia had grown greater. Everyone reeked with the sour stench of sweat, filth, and tobacco. Maura sighed. Hadn’t someone said there were at least thirty more days to sail?

  As quietly as possible, she lowered herself to the floor. The wood planking chilled her bare feet. When she stepped into the central aisle — clotted with people’s possessions — she sensed other people stirring. Sure enough, women and girls were making their way to the steps that would take them to the main deck and then the forecastle deck above it. Since the privies afforded so little privacy, the women preferred to use them at night or just before dawn. They lined up silently, avoiding one another’s eyes.

  On deck, the ship’s bell rang twice, sounding hollow and bleak. Lanterns, one on the forecastle deck, another at the stern by the wheelhouse, provided the only dull light. The two small safety lamps on the ratlines on either side of the ship were useless. Here and there icicles hung from the lines. The only hint of the day to come was a thin yellow streak of sky in the east.

  Maura looked across the dark ceaseless waves. Though they had already met one ship — and, apparently, even exchanged letters — the empty vastness of the sea frightened her. She often worried if they would truly get to land again.

  Aloft, she saw the shadowy forms of sailors going about their work amid spars and sails, chipping away the ice. They seemed to Maura like ghosts among the clouds. Others were stoking up the steerage fireplace on the forecastle.

  Maura craned her neck to see if the privy line was moving, only then realizing that the woman just before her was Bridy’s mother. Not since she had placed her daughter on their platform had the two spoken.

  Feeling the need to talk, Maura reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder. “Morning to you, mother,” she whispered.

  The woman made a half turn, saw who it was, and nodded. “And to you,” she said curtly.

  Refusing to be put off, Maura said, “I need to be saying your daughter’s no trouble at all. She’s as sweet a soul as ever was.”

  “You’re kind to say so,” the woman replied, softening. “And hasn’t she been telling me you share provisions with her. May the blessing of the Holy Spirit be upon your kindness.” The woman crossed herself.

  “Kindness is never extra,” Maura replied.

  “It’s the saintly way,” the woman agreed. Then, after a moment, she said, “Perhaps, mistress, it’s an apology I should be making to you. I’d no intention of being harsh when we first set her in your berth. Begorra, it was all I could do to keep my wits. It’s not just the girl, but her brothers too. And my husband, poor soul, is ailing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Maura said.

  “Our name is Faherty, you know,” the woman said. “From Blarney, not all that far from Cork.”

  “My name is Maura O’Connell. We’re from county Cork too. Kilonny, which was tumbled.”

  “God give you comfort, Maura O’Connell,” said Mrs. Faherty.

  For a while neither woman spoke. Finally Mrs. Faherty turned to Maura. “If I’d known how hard this voyage would be, I’m not so sure I’d have come.”

  “In truth,” Maura said, “my mother chose not to.”

  “Then is it just your husband you’re traveling with?”

  Maura blushed. “He’s not my husband,” she said.

  “Ah,” Mrs. Faherty said, speaking kindly and without any hint of censure, “but it’s hardly fit for unwed girls to be traveling this way. Where is your father then?”

  “In America,” Maura explained. “He sent us the money to come. From Lowell, Massachusetts.”

  “May heaven speed all,” Mrs. Faherty whispered crossing herself.

  As they waited for the privies, Maura explained how she came to be traveling with Mr. Drabble. For her part, Mrs. Faherty related how she and her family came to emigrate. “It was the landlord who paid for our going. By the Holy Faith, it was either that or perish.”

  “And what made you choose to go to Boston?” Maura asked.

  The woman smiled grimly. “Wasn’t it more the case of the ship choosing us. Sure, the first one we had tickets for never sailed. The second neither. We took the one we could. In the name of Jesus, I don’t suppose it matters as long as it’s to America. Aren’t they saying it’s the land of promise. Food so plentiful no one starves. Full of decent employment and wages as well as honest places to live for the asking. Surely a paradise on earth.”

  “And have you no family there at all?” Maura asked.

  “In faith, we’re all we are.”

  Silently, Maura thanked God that her father was waiting.

  In that section of Lowell, Massachusetts, known as the Acre stood many a three- and four-decker wooden building. These leaned one against the other like sleepy folk who know that if one falls all will fall. At the curb, dirty snow lay in piles.

  After their day’s work, Gregory O’Connell and Nathaniel Brewster moved slowly toward one such structure. The younger man all but guided the older around a street lamp, whose blue flame hissed feebly against the gloom.

  Suddenly, Nathaniel said, “Hold it.”

  Mr. O’Connell stopped and looked up. Ten yards before them, they saw three boys. They were standing side by side, effectively blocking the way, their shoe-shine boxes at their feet.

  Mr. O’Connell peered at them through the darkness. “And what may they be wanting?” he asked Nathaniel.

  “I’m not sure,” Nathaniel replied. “They don’t have a pleasant look, though.”

  “If you’re Irish,” one of the boys called out, “you might as well learn that no Paddy can pass this way.”

  “Hooligans,” Nathaniel said under his breath.

  “But … what do you mean to do?” Mr. O’Connell whispered.

  Before Nathaniel could answer, a snowball splattered the ground not far from them. The first was quickly followed by another, then another. One struck Nathaniel on the chest. It felt like a rock.

  “Out of America!” one of the boys called.

  Mindful of Mr. O’Connell, Nathaniel grabbed his companion’s sleeve. “We’d best go this way,” he urged, and all but dragged the man down an alleyway.

  More snowballs followed at a faster rate.

  As they hurried along, Nathaniel turned to see the boys coming after them. “Run!” he cried to Mr. O’Connell.

  The two men scrambled down the alley. Mr. O’Connell lost his muffler. “Over here!” Nathaniel panted, ducking into a recessed and shadowy doorway. Struggling for breath, Mr. O’Connell followed. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he gasped, “I —”

  “Shhh!” Nathaniel warned. The boys’ footsteps grew louder. The two pressed their backs against the wall. The boys raced past them.

  When the sound of their footfalls grew dim, Nathaniel poked his head out. The way was clear. “Come on now,” he said to Mr. O’Connell in a low voice. “W
e better move before they return.”

  The man remained where he was. “You’ll need to … to be … needing to give me … another moment,” he breathed. “My heart’s aflutter.

  Anxiously, Nathaniel waited, all the while checking up and down the alley to make sure the boys had not returned.

  “Now why … should they be doing that?” the older man asked, his pulse still racing.

  “They’re nobodies,” Nathaniel replied. “You don’t need to pay them any mind. Can you walk now?”

  “Faith, I think so.”

  “Let’s get you home.”

  Upon reaching Adams Street, Nathaniel checked again for followers. Satisfied none were there, the two entered the back door and began to climb the poorly lit stairs. Every few steps, Mr. O’Connell paused to catch his breath.

  “Go on,” he urged his companion. “You needn’t be waiting for me.”

  “I’m in no rush,” Nathaniel insisted. He was watching his friend’s face with increasing concern.

  At the third floor Mr. O’Connell halted yet again. Despite the cold he was sweating. Gently, Nathaniel took his arm. The older man made no resistance. Together, they shuffled through the dark hallway until they reached their room. Once inside, Nathaniel lit the single oil lamp.

  It was a small cold room without windows. The walls were covered with peeling paper of some muddy color. The only decoration was a faded hand-colored religious print Mr. O’Connell had nailed up over his bed.

  Other than the beds there was no furniture. A wooden box under Nathaniel’s bed held the men’s few possessions. Against the rear wall stood a small iron stove, a tumbled supply of sticks, and a few lumps of soft coal.

  Exhausted, Mr. O’Connell subsided onto his bed. Perspiration stood on his brow. After remaining motionless for a long while, he struggled to remove his boots. Not having the strength to do it, he uttered a deep sigh and lay back.

  Nathaniel glancing quickly at his friend, strove to build a fire so as to bring some warmth into the room and make their dinner.

  “Faith,” Mr. O’Connell murmured, “I’m thinking there are more people in this whole house than in all of Kilonny.”