Into the Storm

by Avi

  On platform seventy-four in steerage Patrick lay wide awake. Most deck lamps had long ceased to burn. The area was shrouded in gloom. The creaks and groans of ship timbers mingled with the sighs and murmurs of restless sleepers.

  Two days had passed since he had looked for Laurence and not found him. His clash with Mr. Murdock had made him afraid to go below again. All the same, he kept thinking about his friend, wondering where he had been that time, wondering what he could be doing.

  Patrick had another worry. The evening before, another passenger had died of ship fever, bringing the total number of deaths to forty-four. The thought of Laurence being alone and sick deeply upset Patrick. What if Laurence had died? It would be on his head. Once that idea lodged in him, Patrick was resolved to seek out his friend.

  At the sound of the fourth bell, Patrick sat up slowly, taking extra pains not to disturb Bridy, who was sleeping restlessly on one side of him, or Mr. Drabble, on the other. Once up, Patrick reached over by Maura’s head and fumbled among the provision bags. When he found a moldy piece of bread, he drew it out and stuffed it in his shirt. Then he wormed his way down to the foot of the platform, swung over the rail, and slipped to the deck.

  Moving so as not to step on those who slept there, Patrick crept to the central stairwell. Quickly now, he went down the steps to the first cargo deck. There he found himself a candle. Though he neither saw nor heard anyone, he kept thinking that he hadn’t seen anyone the last time, and Mr. Murdock had been there in the dark.

  When he reached the ladder to the bottom hold, he halted to look and listen. Absolutely convinced it was safe to proceed, lighted candle in hand, he started down. Among the shadows of the confused mass of barrels and crates, he could see no sign of Laurence.

  Once on the cargo floor, Patrick leaned against the ladder to rest his aching foot. “Laurence,” he called in a whisper. He saw nothing, nor heard anything but familiar ship sounds.

  “Laurence!” he called again, louder. That time he heard a faint echo of his own voice — but no more.

  Crawling over and around the chaos of cargo, he inched his way to Laurence’s barrel. It was empty. Had Mr. Murdock found him? Had he thrown Laurence overboard as he’d vowed to do? Was Laurence lying sick somewhere?

  “Laurence!” Patrick called again, louder still. No answer came.

  The candle was burning low.

  Near the stern he came upon the ladder to the luggage room. He looked up and was just able to make out the hatchway.

  Patrick began to climb, then pushed against the door with his hand. It lifted. Moving higher, he eased the hatch completely open and stuck his head into the luggage room. Of Laurence he saw no sign. Still not satisfied, Patrick hauled himself up. The air in the room was musty. Trunks and cases lay strewn about.

  Patrick crawled onto one of the trunks, held the stub of the candle up, then turned slowly to survey the room. This time he saw Laurence.

  The boy was on his back, lying absolutely still upon a mound of clothing. His face was filthy, thin, his eyes closed. His hair had grown long and tangled. The canvas shirt and trousers Mr. Bartholomew had given him in Liverpool were in tatters.

  The hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck prickled. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he murmured, crossing himself. “He’s dead!”

  Patrick’s hand shook so the candle flame guttered out. For a while he did nothing, his heart was hammering so. But needing to know if Laurence was truly dead, he crept forward in the dark. When he thought he was close enough, he reached out. At his touch Laurence leaped up.

  “Laurence!” Patrick cried. There was no answer other than quick, agitated breathing. “It’s me, Patrick,” he said hastily.

  He heard a murmur. “You frightened me,” Laurence said.

  “Faith, I didn’t know what had happened to you, Laurence,” Patrick said, sighing. “I was afraid to come.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Murdock caught me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you there all the time?” Patrick asked.

  “I was waiting for you. But when I saw him coming, I had to hide in my barrel. I didn’t know how to warn you without giving myself away. What did he say? I couldn’t make anything out.”

  “Sure, they’re still looking for you. Have they been back?” Patrick asked.

  “I’m not sure. Most of the time I spend in this room. No one ever comes here. I only go down for water and some of that moldy bread.”

  “I thought you were dead,” Patrick said.

  Laurence sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were. That Mr. Murdock, he did kill my rat.”

  “A lot of people have died.”

  “How?”

  “They call it ship fever.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a dreadful sickness. You turn to nothing at all and just lie there, weak and with filth oozing from everywhere on your body.”

  “How many have died?”

  “They say forty-four,” Patrick said. “Here,” he added, remembering. “I brought some bread.”

  He felt the bread pulled from his hand, then heard sounds of Laurence eating rapidly.

  “How long have we been sailing?” Laurence asked.

  “I’m not sure. But people are saying it’s only a short time before we see the land, and when we —”

  “Patrick,” Laurence interrupted, “when we reach Boston, I want to go with you.”

  “Laurence, I don’t truly know if you can. I’ll have to ask my da. But how will you get off the ship in any case?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That Mr. Murdock will still be looking for you,” Patrick cautioned.

  Laurence closed his eyes and thought of the one-eyed man and his father’s money. He wished now he had searched another time, or at least looked harder. Perhaps he should look once more. But what if the money wasn’t there, or he just couldn’t find it? And what if he were caught looking when they were so close to America?

  “Patrick …,” Laurence said.

  “What?”

  “I’d rather die than hide anymore.”

  Dawn brought a cold, cloudless day. The Robert Peel was moving briskly forward. The air smelled sweeter than before. Though everyone could sense it, nobody could quite define what it was. “It’s the smell of what’s green and growing,” someone insisted. Others claimed it was the shore itself. Regardless, the emigrants were sure America was near. There had been ship fever. Now there was a fever for land.

  Though it was still early, some fifty steerage passengers had assembled on the forecastle deck. For the past few days, they had gathered each morning in hopes of being the first to sight America. Some leaned over the billethead. Another stood on the capstan. Others climbed the ratlines. All were searching.

  Patrick had taken himself into the bow. As the ship dipped and bobbed, it churned up a heavy spray. Though he was getting a thorough cold soaking, he did not care. If being the farthest forward enabled him to spy land first, he was determined to do it.

  Even as he watched, a wave rose. He felt a slap across his face. Reaching up, he pulled at a swatch of seaweed. He was about to toss it away when he realized it was green.

  Wildly excited, he scrambled back from the bow and held aloft the green strand. “Seaweed!” he cried. “Green seaweed!”

  Two hours later America, the promised land, was seen low on the horizon. Ten people claimed to be the first to see it.

  Shortly thereafter, all steerage passengers were ordered to assemble on the main deck. Captain Rickles, resplendent in uniform and gloves, stood before the main mast and used his speaking tube to address them.

  “We’re fast approaching America!” he began. “When we reach Boston Bay, government health authorities will be inspecting the ship. If they learn we’ve had ship fever or that any passengers have died, they may not let you land. They could, indeed, send you back to England. If you are wise, you will say nothing if asked.”

  An unhappy murmur came from
the crowd, but no one spoke up loudly.

  “So mind yourselves! If you tell them about the ship fever, it will be you who suffer the consequence.

  “These authorities will also be checking for cleanliness. Anything foul or dirty must be thrown overboard. Mattresses, clothing, food, whatever is soiled must go.”

  “But, Your Honor,” a man cried out, “it’s all we have.”

  “Nothing dirty will stay on my ship,” the captain replied sternly.

  “Sure then,” came another plea, “and what happens if we don’t throw the things out?”

  The captain shrugged. “I told you, you’ll be sent back to England.”

  To these words no one responded.

  “Furthermore,” he continued, “the steerage deck must be cleaned. This scouring will be done under the direction of Mr. Murdock and his crew. You are to follow his orders.”

  Mattresses were the first to go overboard. Then came ragged clothing, shoes, boots. It was Mr. Murdock, acting as judge, who settled disputes as to what had to go and what might stay. More often than not he insisted that the article in question be jettisoned.

  “Faith, Mr. Drabble, there’ll be some who’ll have nothing left,” Maura remarked after they had watched many passengers throw away most of their belongings. They themselves had just tossed the Fahertys’ mattress into the sea. It broke apart instantly, its straw stuffing scattering on the water’s surface like frightened minnows.

  “Perhaps it’s all for the best,” the actor said as he heaved his tattered jacket into the water and watched it slowly sink. The sight mirrored his emotions, for he dreaded the impending disembarkation. “It’s a brave new world, Miss O’Connell,” he observed, placing hand on heart in his theatrical fashion. “Perhaps it’s best not to carry old things and sentiments into it.”

  Maura kept her eyes on the coastline. “For a promised land,” she said, “it doesn’t have a look of beauty.”

  “It’s early in the year,” the actor reminded her, suppressing a sigh. “No doubt there are seasons here as at home. One must always think of spring, Miss O’Connell.”

  “To tell the truth, Mr. Drabble, it’s me da I keep thinking about. I’m wondering if he’ll look different or know us at all. It’s more than a year now that he’s gone.”

  “I assure you, Miss O’Connell,” Mr. Drabble observed, “no one who has seen you can forget you.”

  When Maura made no response, he asked, “Do you know where your father has established your home?”

  Maura wondered whether or not to answer the question. Then she said, “When he wrote to us in Ireland, bidding us come, he was living in a city called Lowell. That’s where he found employment, though he did not say what he did.”

  “Well then,” Mr. Drabble said, making an effort to sound casual, “perhaps I’ll wend my way to this Lowell myself.” He glanced at Maura. “Unless, Miss O’Connell, you have some objections.”

  “Mr. Drabble,” she replied, “they say it’s a big country. I’ve no doubt but you’ll go wherever it suits you. Surely, it’s not for the likes of me to be telling you either here or there.” She turned and slowly walked away.

  Mr. Drabble gazed after her longingly, afraid to ponder what he was sure would be a forlorn future.

  Below them, on the steerage level, Patrick was on his hands and knees, using a large ballast stone to scour the floor with sand and seawater. The sanding brought up the natural whiteness of the wooden deck. For the first time in weeks, there was freshness in the air, a feeling of cleanliness. Everyone sensed it.

  Tired from his heavy labor, Patrick sat up, rested his arms, and considered Bridy, who was working nearby. Not far from her side she’d set down the bundle of her family’s clothing. She carried it everywhere.

  “You can allow yourself some rest, Bridy,” Patrick suggested. The girl, without looking at or speaking to him, paused in her work.

  “Faith,” Patrick said, “but it is all looking better, don’t you think?”

  Bridy made no comment. Instead, after a brief rest, she resumed work as doggedly as before.

  Not to be outdone, Patrick bent over his stone and continued his scouring too. As he labored, he thought about the problem uppermost in his thoughts: how to get Laurence off the boat. With another glance at Bridy, an idea struck him.

  Mr. Grout sat on his stateroom bed, arms folded over his chest. He had already packed his carpetbag in eager preparation for his arrival in Boston. Mr. Clemspool stood before the small washstand mirror, shaving with a straight-edge razor.

  “Yer ’ave any notion as to where yer’ll go when we get to land?” Mr. Grout asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, Mr. Grout,” Mr. Clemspool replied with a flourish of his razor. “I need to see which way my prospects lie.”

  “Just so yer knows that once we’re in Boston, yer on yer own.”

  With one finger, Mr. Clemspool pushed the tip of his nose up, the better to shave over his lip. “Casting me off, are you?”

  “Clemspool, yer one of them dogs that always lands on yer feet.”

  “I could not agree more, Mr. Grout. Besides, our partnership has not flourished recently. Granted, you have been kind to me —”

  “Glad yer know so.”

  “Kind to me,” Mr. Clemspool continued, “with other people’s money.”

  “Yer do go on about that, don’t yer?” Mr. Grout said sullenly.

  Mr. Clemspool sneered. “It was you who had a ghostly visitation, not I.”

  “It was a warnin’,” Mr. Grout insisted hotly, “that I intend to ’eed. I’ll just keep a bit of that money to get me started. The rest goes back to that dead boy’s family.”

  “You do know, don’t you, that Lord Kirkle has no need of it?” Mr. Clemspool said with annoyance.

  “All I know is that I took it from ’is boy and that there boy is dead.”

  “You don’t know that for certain.”

  “I saw ’is ghost!”

  Mr. Clemspool laughed. “Mr. Grout, to make my point precisely, you are a fool.”

  Mr. Grout fixed the man with his glittering eye. “Clemspool, I don’t want to ’ave anything to do with yer in America.”

  “Nor I you,” Mr. Clemspool said brightly. “Save for one thing.”

  “Wot’s that?”

  “Never forget I know where you got your money.”

  A furious Mr. Grout leaped up.

  “Touch me,” Mr. Clemspool warned while coolly holding the razor before him, “and you will find yourself in great difficulty.”

  “If I was me old self, I’d be thrashing’ yer easy,” cried Mr. Grout. “But yer’ll get off ’cause I’m tryin’ to progress.” So saying, he left the stateroom, banging the door behind him.

  Mr. Clemspool gave a grunt of satisfaction, then quickly put aside his razor, locked the door, and immediately began to search among Mr. Grout’s possessions. It was in the carpetbag that he found a small package wrapped up in a sheet of London newspaper. Smiling broadly, Mr. Clemspool unfolded the wrapping, saw that inside was indeed Lord Kirkle’s money, and hastily put the package in his own pocket.

  Mr. Grout, seething, leaned upon the quarterdeck rail and stared glumly at the New England coastline. To be called a fool! Someday he should like to show Clemspool who was the fool. As he calmed down, however, he had to acknowledge that it was time to think out some plan of action for himself.

  The first thing he decided he’d do upon landing was sell his fine London clothing and dress himself as the person he really was. Then he would search for honest work. Once established, he would send as much of the stolen money back to Lord Kirkle as he could afford and work hard to pay off the rest. To begin he needed to find a lodging.

  “Yer there, laddie,” he called to a passing sailor, “wot’s a place to stop in Boston?”

  The sailor touched his hat in deference. “The Liberty Tree is good enough for the likes of me, sir. She’s a cozy inn, snug off the Long Wharf on Commerce Street, not far from the cu
stomhouse. Only it might not do for you, sir.”

  “It’ll be fine for me,” Mr. Grout assured him, and he began to pace the quarterdeck, the better to focus on his future.

  While doing so, he noticed Mr. Drabble leaning over the bulwark on the main deck below. The actor’s expression was desolate. Feeling sympathy, Mr. Grout went down to him.

  “There yer be,” he cried as he clapped a hand on Mr. Drabble’s shoulder. “Yer seem to be a terrible moody piece.”

  Mr. Drabble shrugged. “I must confess, sir, I was speculating about what will happen to me when I reach land.”

  “Were yer?” Mr. Grout said. “I was worryin’ the same meself. We’re as like as two brothers.”

  “You are more kind than I deserve,” Mr. Drabble said in his best melancholy tones.

  “Yer and yer gal have no place in mind then?” Mr. Grout inquired.

  Mr. Drabble blushed red and swallowed hard. “I — I — I am afraid, sir,” he stammered, “she is not, as you would have it, my gal.”

  “Ain’t she?” said Mr. Grout, surprised. “I was thinkin’ she was.”

  “Though it was she who provided my passage, our being together has been no more” — the actor’s voice faltered — “no more than a bit of sunshine in an otherwise cloudy life. Or, as the bard put it, ‘the short and the long of it’ is … she has … rejected me as a husband.”

  “Then she don’t know ’er right mind,” Mr. Grout assured his friend. “’Ow could she think of refusin’ a fine-speakin’ man like yer?”

  “It’s not for me to say, sir,” Mr. Drabble replied sadly.

  “’Ow many times ’ave yer asked for ’er ’and?”

  “It was but once. Yet, I can assure you, Mr. Grout, that once was sufficient to decide my fate. She was most emphatic.”

  “Look ’ere, Drabble,” Mr. Grout exclaimed, “yer ’ave to go at it again.”

  “Why?”

  “Askin’ once don’t do. These gals need to be convinced yer in earnest.”

  “But, Mr. Grout,” Mr. Drabble cried in despair, “she’s to be met by her father. Then off they go into the wilds of someplace called Lowell. I shall never see her lovely face again!” Tears filled his eyes.