Into the Storm

by Avi

  Mrs. Faherty looked about.

  “I’m here,” Bridy said.

  Mrs. Faherty beckoned the girl to her side. Then she sighed. “Come now, Bridy,” she said, touching her daughter on the shoulder, “we’ll take a bit of a walk.”

  They went along the central aisle, then up the steps to the crowded main deck. There were the inevitable long lines for food, for the fireplace, for the privies. Ignoring them, Mrs. Faherty led the child into a corner, from which the quarterdeck rose. It was a gray, cloudy day, and seas were low. Now and again the sails above fluttered languidly.

  Bridy, knowing her mother had something to say to her but would speak only when she was ready, waited patiently, staring out at the waves.

  “Bridy, love,” her mother said at last.

  The girl looked around.

  “Faith now, are you still fairing well with that Maura O’Connell?”

  Bridy nodded.

  “And is she kind to you?”

  “She’s very kind,” Bridy said. “And, Mother, they do share their food with me.”

  “And her brother?”

  “He’s fine too.”

  “What about the other one, the Englishman?”

  Bridy considered a moment. “I don’t always understand the way he talks.”

  For a while Mrs. Faherty said nothing. Then she said, “Bridy, you need to know. Your father is doing poorly.”

  Bridy stared up at her mother.

  “Ailing. Not well at all,” her mother said. “But you mustn’t tell a soul. Begorra, I wanted you to know, but I’m also wanting it to be a secret. Can you keep it?”

  Bridy nodded.

  “Didn’t I hear a priest say once, ‘When an angel speaks, it’s silence you hear, ’cause it speaks to your heart and not to your ear.’ It was a fine thing to say.” Mrs. Faherty sighed, then went on. ’Cause most of what people like us hear is silence. Sure, isn’t it a great comfort to know it’s God who’s speaking so much to us.”

  Bridy pressed her face against her mother’s belly. “You’ll do fine, Bridy Faherty,” her mother said, squeezing her close. “Just fine.” Then she pushed the girl away. “Look at me, love.”

  The girl looked up.

  “You must keep away from us. Even from me who loves you so. You must. If it’s a sickness we’re having, you need to keep yourself clear of it. Stay with them, do you understand? You’ll be safer.”

  Bridy heard the words, but even as she gazed at her mother, she listened intently to the silence that followed. What she sensed was dread.

  This morning in the privy line Mrs. Faherty kept looking past Maura, fastening on the distant red dawn. “When a sky’s as wounded as that one,” she said mournfully, “there’s sure to be a storm sowing and sorrow reaping. Here’s a prayer that it comes after they give us our oatmeal portion.” She crossed herself.

  Before returning to the steerage deck, Maura looked out at the weather. The sky was indeed gray, ominous. The sea was up, and the waves high now, flicking foam. Wind whistled through the lines, and the ship plunged like a galloping horse.

  More and more steerage passengers were anxiously crowding the deck to wait for their rations of water and oatmeal. They carried a variety of pots, pans, and earthen jars.

  Worried that, if she and Mr. Drabble did not hurry, they would not get their portions, nor get to cook if a storm came, Maura hurried down to the steerage deck.

  Patrick and Mr. Drabble were awake, though still on the platform. Bridy was asleep.

  “Are they handing out water yet?” the actor asked Maura.

  “People are gathering now,” she informed him. “I was speaking to Mrs. Faherty. She thought today was the day for oatmeal.” Then she added, “They’re speaking of a storm.”

  “I had better get our provisions,” the actor said immediately. He found one of their sacks and emptied it of their belongings.

  “Go with him,” Maura told her brother. “You’ll be saving some time. I’ll join you soon.”

  The two went off, Patrick taking their can for water.

  Maura yawned. The thought of an almost empty platform proved irresistible. She climbed into the berth. For a while she was content to listen to the surging winds and the sounds of the ship responding with groans and creaks. Remembering the storm when they had crossed from Cork to Liverpool, she was grateful that this time they would be belowdecks. Maura whispered a prayer, made the sign of the cross, closed her eyes, and soon fell asleep.

  On the main deck Mr. Drabble and Patrick found apprehensive passengers pointing off to the east, watching the swelling waves rise and fall with ever-increasing force. As soon as the water, food, and fireplace were made available, lines formed. They could see that people were nervous. Mr. Drabble sought Patrick’s hand, but the boy pulled away, turning to where water was being distributed below the main mast. There, two sailors stood next to a barrel they had hauled up from the hold. They were using a bucket to dole out meager portions.

  At the other side of the deck, another sailor was scooping out measured rations of oatmeal from a huge sack.

  “Make sure you get your full share,” Mr. Drabble called after Patrick. “If that storm comes, who can tell when we’ll get our due again.”

  Patrick joined the water line. There was the inevitable jostling and pushing. Every time the ship lurched, someone lost his footing and often his place.

  Slowly, Patrick moved forward in the line. He could smell the water now, laced as it was with vinegar to keep it drinkable. Patrick hated the taste.

  The wait seemed endless. The sailors were taking delight in teasing the passengers by doling out the water even more slowly than was their custom. Patrick, trying to be patient, passed the time by listening to those about him.

  “And didn’t one of the crew tell me it was a big storm brewing,” he heard a man say.

  “How big?”

  “That he wouldn’t foretell. Nothing to worry about, says he. Said we’d be perfectly safe in steerage, and to thank our particular saints we weren’t down in the bottom hold.”

  “Small mercies,” said the other man, casting a wary look at the scudding clouds.

  Patrick thought at once of Laurence. If the hold was an unsafe place to be in a storm, shouldn’t he warn his friend? He looked up. Sailors — more than usual, he thought — were climbing the lines and beginning to reef in sails. Captain Rickles was barking orders over an increasingly loud wind.

  “Come on, Paddy boy,” a voice suddenly growled into his ear. “Move yerself.”

  Patrick, who had not been paying attention, realized he was at the head of the line. He stepped forward, holding his can before him.

  The sailor, a grizzled old man with few teeth, dunked his wooden bucket into the water barrel, then drew it up.

  “Hold you can out farther, won’t you!” he shouted.

  Patrick stretched forward.

  Unexpectedly, the sailor flipped his bucket over. The water gushed out so quickly, the force of it knocked Patrick’s can to the deck. His water portion flowed away. Enjoying his joke, the sailor laughed loudly, as did his companion. Patrick hands and wrists soaked, stood helplessly.

  “Away with you, Paddy boy,” the sailor cried. “Yer had yer portion. There’s a line behind you.”

  “But, You Honor, I …,” Patrick tried to protest. Before he could say more, one of the sailors kicked him aside. Angry, Patrick retrieved his can and scuttled across the deck to find Mr. Drabble.

  The actor was incensed to hear the boy’s story. “You’re going to have to handle things better, Mr. Patrick,” he scolded. “Your sister and I can’t always be looking after you.”

  Handing over the oatmeal he’d received, he took the water can from Patrick. “Take the meal down,” he instructed. “Once there, you can rid it of worms. I’ll fetch the water.”

  Patrick, already upset by the sailor’s treatment, resented Mr. Drabble’s words. Who was he to be scolding and ordering him about? Even if he was to become Mau
ra’s husband, the man had no right to be lording it over him. Patrick decided to complain to his sister.

  When he reached their platform, however, Maura was asleep. Bridy was awake, but he had no wish to talk to her. For a time Patrick remained by his sister’s side, hoping she would get up, rehearsing what he would say. But Maura slept on, and the tossing of the ship grew more turbulent.

  Feeling he must warn Laurence about the storm, Patrick set off for the bottom hold. He stopped, took a fistful of oatmeal, and thrust it in his pocket.

  Certain he hadn’t been observed, Patrick started down the steps. Suddenly, the ship shuddered. It was as if a great hand had grasped the vessel and shaken it. Patrick almost lost his footing, but he reached the level below. As usual, he took up one of the wall candles and brought it to the head of the ladder.

  The ship heeled once, twice. Patrick held tight, his heart thumping. After a moment he peered down the ladder again into nothingness. It made him want to turn back.

  But, reminding himself that he must warn Laurence — then retreat — Patrick gathered himself and began to descend. He hated the ladder.

  The deeper he went, the louder the grinding and groaning of the ship. Halfway down he held out the candle in hopes of seeing his friend. He saw nothing but the confusion of cargo.

  “Laurence!” he called. The name echoed up and down the hold. “Laurence!” he cried again, louder. Was Laurence playing his hiding game? Not now, Patrick prayed.

  He descended a few more rungs. Unexpectedly, the ship gave a violent heave. Patrick was swung wildly about. Without thinking, he grabbed for the ladder with the hand that held the candle. The flame guttered out.

  Before he could catch his breath, the ship pitched in yet another direction. This time the hatchway door above — with a reverberating bang that sounded like a pistol shot — slammed shut. Alarmed, Patrick scrambled up the ladder and pushed against the hatchway. It would not budge.

  Bursts of lightning shattered the sky. High winds sliced through the lines, making them hum. Thunder came next, pummeling the ears.

  The sailors reacted speedily by whisking away water casks and the oatmeal sack. In a matter of moments the fireplace fire was doused with buckets of seawater.

  “All passengers below!” bellowed Captain Rickles from his place before the mizzenmast. “All passengers below!”

  Like a stiff broom, an icy rain swept the decks of the ship, all but pushing the emigrants down the stairway to the steerage deck.

  “Shorten sail!” the captain cried through his speaking tube as he tried to make himself heard above the howling wind and thudding waves. “Stand by to take in royals and flying jib! Take in mainsail and spanker!”

  The sailors wrestled with the heavy rain-soaked sails, struggling to reef them in before the wind gusted again. Enormous waves began to smash broadside against the Robert Peel. With each blow the ship shuddered, pitching and yawing wildly.

  As the last frantic passenger tumbled down the steps into steerage, sailors leaped to the doors and hatches, slammed them shut, then secured them tightly with ropes so as to keep the interior decks from flooding. Anything on the main deck not tied down would be quickly washed away.

  On the steerage level, the rain beat a tattoo against the ceiling. The hanging lamps gyrated, some so wildly that they guttered out. The shifting and tilting of the ship set trunks, pots, food, water to flying.

  The emigrants crouched down upon their platforms and the floor planking, clinging to their possessions. Some became sick. Many began to cry, to pray. If they kept their eyes open, they saw, even through the gloom, the increasing havoc and destruction all about them. If they closed their eyes, they heard sudden shrieks and moans and could only imagine the worst: that they were about to sink.

  A drenched Mr. Drabble was one of the last to get down the steps. When he reached the platform, he found Maura alone with Bridy. The girl was clinging to a platform post with two hands, crying for her mother, who, tending to the rest of her family down the way, could not come. Maura struggled to keep the child calm.

  As soon as she saw Mr. Drabble, Maura called, “And where is Patrick?”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Maura moaned. “I never saw him. Do you think he could still be up on deck?”

  Mr. Drabble shook his head. “They sent everyone below.”

  Ignoring Bridy’s whimpers, Maura scurried off the platform. “I’ll be worrying till I find him,” she declared.

  But by the time Maura reached the central stairway, she had seen no sign of her brother. Feeling compelled to search further, she pushed her way back into the aft section of the deck.

  Again she told herself that she need not worry, that Patrick would turn up safe and sound as he always had. But in spite of her own assurances, she kept thinking the worst, that he was on the deck.

  She struggled back to the central steps. Upon reaching the top, she pushed against the door, but it remained shut. First she knocked on it, then she pounded. No one came. In desperation she threw herself against the door. It still would not give. The realization dawned on her that they had been locked in. Had the crew abandoned them? It could not be, she told herself. It could not. She slumped on the top step, buried her face in her hands, and began to pray.

  When a sudden plunge of the ship knocked her off the step, she knew she must return to their berth. Should she inform the others below that the door was locked? If she did, she was certain to cause a panic. She decided to say nothing.

  The stench of people’s sickness was overpowering. With almost no light she had to grope her way back to the platform.

  “Did you find him?” Mr. Drabble called.

  Maura shook her head. Then, once again, she began to pray.

  Faintly, as though from a great distance, Patrick heard the cries from steerage as the Robert Peel’s timbers moaned and groaned in twisted agony. So severe was the ship’s movement that a barrel broke free, careened wildly across the central aisle, struck a post, and shattered, spewing its contents in all directions.

  Patrick, barely able to stand, fell to his knees. “Laurence!” he shouted over the tumult. There was no answer. “Laurence!” he fairly screamed. “It’s me, Patrick.”

  “I’m here,” came a faint reply.

  “I’m by the ladder,” Patrick called. “I can’t see.”

  “Stay where you are,” Laurence replied. “I’ll come to you.”

  Staring hopelessly into the absolute darkness, Patrick propped himself against the ladder and waited, breathing hard. When he least expected it, he felt the touch of a hand. He jumped. “Laurence?”

  “What is it?” Laurence asked. “I keep hearing shouts from above. Why is the ship moving so wildly?”

  “It’s a storm,” Patrick explained.

  But Laurence only said, “Did you bring me anything to eat?”

  Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled out as much oatmeal as he could. “Here,” he said.

  Laurence found Patrick’s hand, cupped it in his, and gathered up the food. Dry and uncooked as it was, he pushed the oatmeal into his mouth.

  The ship lurched heavily. From a distance panicky cries rose and fell. Then something else closer at hand broke loose and smashed. Patrick jumped, recollecting suddenly the sharp crackling sounds of Mr. Morgan’s soldiers shooting at him back in Kilonny the day they left.

  “Laurence,” he gasped, “we need to be getting ourselves away from here.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t I hear a man say that during the storm it would be worst down here. It’s why I came to warn you. By the blessed Saint Martin, it’s come on fast.”

  “Lots of things have been breaking loose,” Laurence said. “Barrels keep smashing.”

  To Patrick, Laurence’s voice seemed unnaturally calm. It was almost as if he didn’t care.

  “Back there,” Laurence went on, “a whole chest of dishes broke to bits. It did sound awful.”

&n
bsp; “That’s what I’m telling you, Laurence, you have to find a safer place.”

  “But won’t they discover me?”

  “Sure but there must be somewhere to hide you that won’t be as bad as down here,” Patrick said.

  “Where?” Laurence asked eagerly.

  “I’m not sure,” Patrick admitted. “That hatch above is shut and jammed. Maybe someone closed it. I couldn’t lift it at all.”

  “There is another ladder,” Laurence said. “To the rear.”

  “Where does it go?”

  “I don’t know. But do you think it’s safe?”

  “Laurence, it can’t be worse than this. Do you think you can find that ladder now?”

  “I think so.”

  “Go on then,” Patrick said. “Better give me your hand. I can’t see a thing.” Groping for Laurence, he found his friend’s arm.

  Laurence led the way down the littered aisle. Twice, Patrick stumbled.

  When they were halfway along, the ship gave a tremendous shudder, and Patrick lost his grip. Behind them, a barrel broke free, rumbled down the aisle, and struck Patrick from behind. With a scream he fell.

  “Patrick!” Laurence cried.

  “I’m … here.” Patrick breathed. “I can’t move.” The barrel had come to rest atop his foot, pinning him down. “Get it off!” Patrick pleaded against the searing pain. “Get it off!”

  Laurence fumbled through the dark. Once he found Patrick, he threw all his weight against the barrel. He could not move it.

  “Please!” Patrick implored.

  Laurence tried again. As he did, the ship heaved. The combined movement was enough to shift the barrel, causing it to rumble on down the aisle.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the leg hurts bad,” Patrick whimpered.

  “Can you move at all?” Laurence asked.

  Patrick dragged himself forward. “I need your hand.”

  Clinging to Laurence, Patrick managed to pull himself up. But when he put weight on his right leg, a bolt of excruciating pain shot through him. “Holy Mother,” he managed to say. “It’s something truly bad. Where’s the other ladder?”