Into the Storm

by Avi

  Mr. Drabble looked up. “Why then, sir, I suggest we practice a little of that right now.”

  “’Ow do yer mean?”

  “Why not stand up where you are, behind the table, while I act — you do recall that I am an actor? — while I act a guest, famished, of course, and you can serve me.”

  Mr. Grout nodded. “I can see that,” he said with some gravity. Standing, he removed his jacket.

  “Good!” said Mr. Drabble, standing himself and crossing the room. “I’ll act a man who has just come in from a storm. I’m wet, ragged, and hungry, eager for my ‘cakes and ale,’ as the bard put it. You’ll want to arrange the food a bit.”

  Mr. Grout gathered the plates of food before him. “All right now. ’Ere we go.”

  Mr. Drabble approached the table and bowed. “A very good evening to you, sir. Terrible weather we’re having.”

  “It surely is,” Mr. Grout replied uncertainly. “An’ wot can I do for yer, sir?”

  “I am very hungry, sir.”

  “Wot do I say then?” Mr. Grout asked as an aside.

  “Something along the order of, ‘Make yourself at home, sir. Eat whatever you desire.’ Then you offer all those plates to me.”

  “I’ve got it!” Mr. Grout said, and did as his friend suggested. In turn, Mr. Drabble resumed his seat, drew the food plates toward him, and began to eat ravenously.

  For a while there was no more talk. At last Mr. Grout asked, “Is there anything else I should be sayin’?”

  “You might inquire if I was enjoying myself, or if I’d had enough. Something of the sort. And … and if you were really generous, you might even suggest I take some away with me.”

  Eager to oblige, Mr. Grout followed his tutor’s directions. Accordingly, the actor stuffed his pockets with whatever food he could manage to hold.

  “You’ve done very well,” he enthused, pushing himself from the table, his stomach and pockets equally full. “You will make an excellent innkeeper.”

  “It’s ’ard to wait. The captain told us ’e’s ’opin’ to see land in a few days.”

  “Did he?”

  “Maybe sooner. I ’ope so, ’cause I’m wantin’ to start me new life, Mr. Drabble. Wantin’ it bad!”

  Hands over his bulging pockets, Mr. Drabble hurried back down to the steerage section. Both Maura and Patrick were on the platform and Bridy too, off in her corner.

  Mr. Drabble hauled himself halfway up the berth. “I bring good news, Miss O’Connell,” he said, keeping his excited voice low. “There are but a few days more of this voyage. Better yet, my pockets are full of decent food.”

  “Sure, that news is grand, Mr. Drabble. But where would you be getting food from?” Maura asked.

  “From my student, Mr. Grout.”

  “I can’t say I care for the man, Mr. Drabble, but I’m not too proud to take his food,” she said.

  “Can I have some for Laurence?” Patrick asked.

  “Ah, yes, the stowaway. For our sakes, I do hope he is not caught.”

  “Sure, but he hasn’t been caught yet,” Patrick replied with annoyance. “And you just said it’s only a few more days.”

  “Mr. Patrick,” the actor allowed with a quick glance at Maura, “I admire your loyalty.”

  “Well, I for one don’t think we should be talking about him,” Maura warned.

  Feeling rebuked, Mr. Drabble silently laid out the food he had brought. It consisted of bread, slices of meat, and a hardboiled egg.

  Patrick’s eyes grew large. “By the Holy Mother, it’s a feast,” he exclaimed.

  Mr. Drabble put a finger to his lips. “If you don’t keep your tongue tight, Mr. Patrick, you’ll be sharing it with the entire deck.”

  Maura took up the egg and beckoned to Bridy. “Come on then, Bridy. Here’s decent food.”

  The girl shook her head. Since her family had perished, she rarely ventured far from her corner. She neither cried nor spoke, even when addressed. She ate little. Her eyes were forever staring into a distant place as though she were engaged in private prayers. By her side she kept a small pile she’d saved of her family’s clothing. This she had folded neatly and often used as a pillow.

  “Faith, the poor girl hardly wants to live,” Maura confided to Mr. Drabble.

  “She should be made to eat,” he said sternly, “or she’ll suffer the same fate as the rest of her family.”

  “You need to be kind to her, Mr. Drabble,” Maura urged. “But won’t you be eating any yourself?”

  “None for me, Miss O’Connell,” he said grandly, “I’ve already eaten enough. It’s all for you and yours.”

  “Truly, Mr. Drabble, you’ve been the saving of us again and again. You’ll be blessed in the hereafter, I’m sure.”

  “I’d rather be blessed now, Miss O’Connell,” he returned. Blushing at his own boldness, he hurried away.

  “What did he mean by that?” Patrick asked, looking after the departing actor.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Maura answered evasively. “Now here’s your food. Eat it and then get on with you. It’s the girl I need to be tending.”

  Patrick divided his food in half, ate one part, then carried away the rest, intent upon finding Laurence.

  Maura, alone on the platform with Bridy, considered the child. Her uncombed hair hung about her wan face like a ragged shroud. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth turned down. Now and again she rubbed her nose but made almost no other motions.

  “Bridy,” Maura coaxed softly, “the ones who eat resist the fever best, they say.”

  The girl stared at her with empty eyes.

  Maura gently touched her small fingers. They were rough and cold. “The Lord knows it’s been a terrible thing,” she said. “Surely, He’ll help you. But there’s no harm in taking comfort from me too. And sure, you have to eat.” Maura held up the egg.

  “But …,” the girl whispered, only to falter.

  Maura leaned closer. “But what?”

  “I don’t want to be living.”

  “Now, Bridy,” Maura said softly, “it’s a sin to say so. You know it sure as I. And didn’t I promise your poor mother I’d be a comfort to you and keep you well?”

  The girl only wiped her nose.

  “It’s not just an egg I’m offering.”

  Bridy looked at her. “What then?” she asked.

  “We’ll not cast you off, Bridy. You can be with us. Never a word need come from your lips, not unless you’re wanting to speak. But think of it, you can grow into something fine, an honor to them that brought you into God’s world.”

  Bridy made no reply.

  “And to tell you the truth, Bridy Faherty,” Maura continued, “it’s a friend of my own that I’m needing. Don’t you know but I’m scared to my soul about where we’re going as much as you. There’s many a tear that I’ve shed when none are looking.”

  The words made Bridy stare at Maura for a long while.

  “It’s the earth that needs to know you, Bridy,” Maura coaxed. “Not the sea.”

  A tear trickled down Bridy’s cheek. When Maura stroked it gently away, the girl trembled. Then she reached out and took the egg. It lay moonlike and smooth in the palm of her hand. “I never ate an egg,” she confessed.

  Maura reached over and cracked the shell, then peeled the egg. Crumb by crumb she fed it to the girl.

  Before getting onto the ladder that led to the cargo hold, Patrick wiggled his foot. Though it was still somewhat sore, and caused him to limp, it was not nearly as bad as it had been.

  He looked about to make sure he was not being observed. Satisfied he was not, he started down, this time not taking a candle.

  The stench was worse than ever. He wondered how Laurence managed to bear it, then he thought of the news: only a few days to go. That would surely cheer him.

  Upon reaching the foot of the ladder, Patrick waited and listened. The only light available came from the open hatchway above. When he neither heard nor saw anything susp
icious, he called, “Laurence!”

  There was no answer — but nothing unusual in that. Patrick knew that Laurence would appear from the direction he chose and at any moment he wanted. It was a game the English boy had not tired of playing. As far as Patrick could tell, it was one of the few pleasures Laurence had.

  Growing impatient, Patrick called again, and added, “I’m by the ladder!”

  A hand reached out and touched his shoulder. Patrick turned. “Lau —,” he started to say, only to realize it was not Laurence at all but a sailor. The man, grinning broadly, said, “Thought no one ever noticed, did you, laddie?”

  Speechless with shock, Patrick tried to break away. “Not yet,” a second sailor said. “Someone wants to talk to you. ’Ello!” he called. “We got ’im! ’E’s over ’ere.”

  Mr. Murdock stepped out of the dark. He flashed his bull’s-eye lantern into Patrick’s face, blinding him.

  “What’s yer name?” he demanded.

  Heart hammering, Patrick stammered, “P-P-Patrick O’Connell, Your Honor.”

  “Who’s this here Laurence yer’ve been calling to?”

  “It’s no one, Your Honor,” Patrick replied, desperately trying to recover his composure and think what to do.

  “Don’t heave that to me, Paddy boy. Of course it’s someone. Yer’ve been seen coming down here any number of times. Have yer been taking care of someone?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  Mr. Murdock gazed at the boy. “What’s that yer have in yer pockets,” he demanded.

  Patrick said nothing.

  The first mate called to one of the sailors, “Mr. Croft, empty them.”

  The sailor took out a thick piece of bread and two slices of meat.

  Mr. Murdock frowned. “That’s too good for steerage folks.”

  “Faith, Your Honor, it was someone who gave it to me.”

  “Stolen, yer mean.”

  “I didn’t!” Patrick returned with indignation.

  “That food was in the dining room,” the first mate insisted. “Where did you get it?”

  “It was Mr. Drabble, Your Honor. It’s him that’s berthed with us. And isn’t he teaching that Mr. Grout, who’s a first-class passenger. It was him that gave it to Mr. Drabble, and he gave it to us.”

  “Never mind that,” said the first mate, stymied by the plausibility of the explanation. “I want to know who it’s for.”

  “Myself, Your Honor. Sure, I was only being greedy and came to eat alone.”

  Mr. Murdock cuffed Patrick on the side of the head. The blow frightened the boy. The sailor behind him held him tight. “Yer telling nothing but lies, laddie,” the first mate cried. “When we left Liverpool, I found an empty crate up forward. I’m willing to bet my last penny yer bringing food to someone. Where’s the man?”

  “There is no man,” Patrick said stoutly.

  “Answer quick, where’s your father?”

  “In Boston, Your Honor.”

  “Mother?”

  “Back in Ireland. She wouldn’t come.”

  “A brother?”

  “Dead, sir.”

  The first mate’s eyes narrowed. “Who yer traveling with then?”

  “It’s my sister, Your Honor. Maura O’Connell. She’s in the steerage.”

  “Do you know, Paddy boy, what can happen to yer if I find that yer’ve been breaking the law?”

  Patrick hung his head. “No, Your Honor.”

  “All I need do is inform the captain. He can have yer tossed overboard. Or maybe keelhaul yer. Do yer know what that is?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Dragged from one side of the boat to the other, underwater. Or he could put yer in irons, for that matter, and bring yer back to Liverpool. What do yer have to say to that?”

  Patrick swallowed hard and stared at the floor.

  “Anything at all to say?” the first mate prompted.

  “Nothing, Your Honor,” Patrick whispered.

  Mr. Murdock looked about. “We’re going to search every inch down here. If we find someone, I’ll have yer tossed over if I have to do it myself. Yer understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Barkum,” the first mate shouted to another sailor. “Bring him along but hold him fast. Croft, do you have yer pike?”

  Mr. Croft held up a long pointed stick. “All right then,” said the first mate. “Let’s have ourselves a look.” He aimed his lamp along the long jumbled rows of crates and barrels.

  “Laurence!” Mr. Murdock called out, “or whatever yer name is. We know yer about. Just so yer understand, when we find yer — and we will — yer can join yer Paddy friend here when we toss him over.”

  He began to pick his way down the central aisle, pausing at almost every crate and chest. Patrick, his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow, was pushed along after him. Now and again Mr. Murdock stopped. “Try that one,” he said to Mr. Croft. The sailor stepped over the crate and examined it closely to see if it had been tampered with. Finding nothing, they pressed on.

  Slowly, the search party wound its way through the confusion of cargo toward the stern of the ship. More than once Mr. Murdock was certain he’d discovered the hiding place. Each time he was proved wrong.

  “Look there!” he suddenly whispered, pointing to a barrel. “That lid’s not fully closed.” He beckoned Mr. Croft forward. The sailor moved cautiously.

  Patrick, almost certain they had discovered Laurence’s barrel, could barely restrain from shouting a warning.

  But just as Mr. Croft drew close to the barrel, a large brown rat suddenly darted out of it.

  “Rat!” shouted Mr. Murdock. “Get him!”

  With a deft stroke Mr. Croft flung his stick and speared the rat, killing it instantly. Then he flipped the carcass into the bilgewater.

  “That’s one less stowaway,” Mr. Murdock said with a laugh.

  Back they went to the bow. Once they reached it, and still had found no sign of Laurence, the first mate cursed profusely. “Let the Paddy go for now,” he said, and spit. “This place will be the death of us.”

  Patrick was shoved away into the dark, so hard he tripped and fell.

  “If I catch yer down here again, Paddy boy, I’ll bring yer to the captain. Do yer hear me? Yer’ll get a lashing then.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Murdock turned about. With the two sailors he made his way to the central ladder and climbed out of the hold.

  Patrick, on the decking, lay unmoving. Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal. Then he sat up. “Laurence …,” he called in a whisper. “Where are you?” There was no answer.

  In Lowell, the main meeting room of Appleton Hall was full of people, mostly men but women too, including Betsy Howard. All were seated on long benches, eagerly awaiting the speaker. For the most part these were mill workers and shop owners. A few were dressed in their finest clothing, since the occasion was deemed a special one. Others in the audience, who had come directly from their work, were in rougher dress, spotted with bits and pieces of cotton and thread as if they had just come in from a snow flurry. Men wore their hats. Women still had their work aprons on.

  At the back of the room stood Jeb and his two friends, Tom and Nick.

  Gaslights were blazing, illuminating the picture of George Washington placed upon the speaker’s podium. Red, white, and blue bunting ran from the stage to pillars on either side of the hall.

  The hum and buzz of the crowd was stilled when a man in a dark frock coat and top hat walked to the podium, leaned over it, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to that great American, Mr. Jeremiah Jenkins.”

  There was a round of applause as Mr. Jenkins strode forward. He placed his right hand upon the podium and, with his left, touched his heart and bowed slightly, just enough to show he appreciated his reception, but not so much as to suggest he was in awe of it. Then he squared his shoulders, grasped one lapel of his jacket, looked upon the audience with a long pe
netrating gaze that seemed to bore into every person’s eyes at once, and began to speak.

  “My fellow Americans. We meet today in the birthplace of the American Revolution, Massachusetts. It is here that we struck a blow for liberty. It is therefore our special duty not just to defend that liberty, but to make sure that our children and their children enjoy it too.

  “Here, in this great state, we still have some semblance of peace and plenty. It is ours to share. We must protect the rights of all but give privilege to none. This touches upon an issue that goes beyond the political parties. The issue, my fellow Americans, is immigration.

  “Are you aware that most of the beggars in this state today are … immigrants? That most of the crimes are committed by immigrants? That the very health of our cities is endangered by immigrants? True, all true.

  “And we are tired of hearing languages other than English upon our streets. Moreover, these foreigners lower the tone of American feeling. Their willingness to take low pay lowers the pay for true Americans.

  “Here in Massachusetts, here in Lowell, we are particularly threatened by the Irish paupers being brought here by the boatload by our old enemy, England. Half the students in Boston schools are foreigners. I say, we do not want these immigrants!

  “Yes, my friends, America must stand together against this tide of inferiors. Those of us in the majority — true Americans — should resist minority demands.

  “We must exclude these foreigners from the electoral process. We must restrict citizenship, particularly for those whose allegiance to the Roman Church destroys the very foundation of our republican ways! It would be far better to send them back where they came from. Let England take them back. The lords of England should not be allowed to ship off these ignorant, filthy people to our golden shores!

  “We are Americans. Not Europeans!

  “And I say, if the government in Washington or in Boston cannot deal with this problem, the people of Lowell themselves should see to it and get rid of all immigrants!”

  At this the audience rose up and applauded wildly.

  The speaker, smiling grimly, went on.