Into the Storm

by Avi

  “I intend to do what needs to be done. But again, let me assure you, Mrs. Shagwell, the Englishman shall be our salvation!”

  Mr. Grout, having made his harsh good-bye to Mr. Clemspool, walked off the Long Wharf content in the thought that he would never see his former partner again. Instead, he put his mind to learning how to walk on land again, and to finding the Liberty Tree Inn, the place recommended to him.

  As promised, the inn was not far from the end of the wharf. An old building, it had a sagging roof and many windows, none of which looked square. A sign bearing both name and emblem hung over its door. Mr. Grout took it as a good omen that he could actually read the word tree for himself.

  Upon entering, Mr. Grout found himself in a large taproom. A low ceiling of blackened beams, a bright fire in a wide hearth, floors of polished oak planks all helped to present a picture of cheerful warmth. Being so close to the docks, the Liberty Tree was a favorite place for sailors, both those just coming off voyages as well as those about to embark. It was crowded twenty-four hours a day and was so when Mr. Grout arrived. Benches and chairs, scattered liberally about, were almost all occupied.

  The first thing Mr. Grout did upon arriving was to take a room for himself and Mr. Drabble, making the arrangements with a rather unkempt, brusque fellow who stood behind the bar, dispensing food and drink.

  After quickly inspecting his third-floor room and finding it acceptable, Mr. Grout left his belongings, locked the door, then returned to the taproom. There, he ordered as large a meal as the house could provide and requested a table at the side, the better to observe the crowd.

  The meal, quickly served, began with stewed oysters, followed by a lavish plate of bacon, cod cakes, and beans and a loaf of bread, with a pitcher of ale to wash it all down.

  Once feasted, Mr. Grout settled back to make his first real observation of Americans. Some differences were immediately obvious. He heard it in the way people spoke — louder, more bluntly, and with greater excitement than they did back home. Such was the rowdy, energetic clamor that at first he believed the whole room was engaged in a heated debate.

  But the more Mr. Grout watched and listened, the more he realized he was witnessing the accepted way. Indeed, the men — and a few women — kept slapping one another on their backs, punching arms, even trading insults, though no one seemed to take offense. All was done in rough good humor. Mr. Grout was much amused.

  Those who were eating and drinking did so quickly, as if in a hurry robe off. Yet, when they had completed their meals, few moved to go but instead sat about and talked and argued as before, hawking and spitting into the brass spittoons scattered about the floor.

  As for the clothing people wore, there were many tattered slouch and wide-brimmed hats and dented derbies — as if tattered were the current style. Most men wore square-tipped boots and baggy jackets and had tied different-colored strips of cloth around thin necks. Shirts of wool had buttons only halfway down the chest. More faces bristled with mustaches and beards than in London. And those not bearded were not well shaved.

  Mr. Grout was quick to sense that he himself must appear quite different to the crowd. Though his boots were no longer shiny, his shoulder cape — with fur trimming on the collar — was hardly in keeping with his surroundings. Sure enough, there were those in the room who now and again cast a gaze upon him. It was no surprise then when at last a man did step forward and stood unabashedly before his table to scrutinize him. The man’s fringe of whiskers made Mr. Grout think of a picture of the sun, though this fellow’s flames were white, not fiery. Moreover, the man’s dark eyes, set beneath bushy black brows, seemed to challenge him.

  “Well, sir,” the man began, “you seem to be a stranger.”

  “I suppose I am,” the one-eyed man allowed, wondering at the aggressive air that emanated from the man.

  “My name is Jeremiah Jenkins,” the man announced. “What might be yours?”

  “Toby Grout.”

  “And from what part of the world do you hail, Mr. Grout?”

  “England.”

  “Our old enemy,” Mr. Jenkins said with an easy smile. “Newly arrived?”

  Other people in the room were now looking on and listening, but whether with amusement or hostility, Mr. Grout could not tell. “Just today,” he answered.

  “And ready to stay in America?”

  “I ’ope to do so if yer ’ave no objections.”

  Mr. Jenkins’s face darkened. He leaned forward. “Mr. Grout, sir,” he said, “I should like to know if you have any particular church persuasion?”

  Mr. Grout, who could not recall the last time he’d attended a church service, was taken aback. “Why, I suppose I was baptized Church o’ England, not that I recalls it. Wot’s yer concern?”

  Mr. Jenkins, preferring to be the questioner, went on. “And did you come to America in hopes of getting employment?” he inquired.

  “I can pay me own way, if that’s wot yer askin’,” replied a puzzled Mr. Grout.

  Mr. Jenkins’s stern features relaxed. He smiled. “Considering what you say then,” he said, “you are welcome to the United States of America, Mr. Grout. I’m sure you’ll find your way.”

  “Decent of yer to allow it.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind my asking all those questions,” he said casually, “but there’s a reason for them.”

  “And wot might it be?” Mr. Grout asked.

  Mr. Jenkins merely pointed to one of his eyes, touched his nose, and, with his thumb and first finger, made a circle. “Avoid the Irish,” he warned with a knowing nod and grin. So saying, he backed away, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Mr. Grout stared after the man, trying to make some sense of what he had just heard and seen. Then he remembered: He had observed the exact same series of gestures from the hands of Ambrose Shagwell aboard the Robert Peel.

  Upon leaving word with the man at the bar that when his friend Mr. Drabble called he was to be directed to his room, Mr. Grout retired there himself.

  The room was little more than a grubby box with a window that, if one wanted to rub away the dirt — and Mr. Grout did not — allowed the occupant to observe the congested street below. There was space, barely, for a pair of narrow hard beds set against opposing stained walls, a chair with unsteady legs, and, between the beds, a small pine table, its surface covered with initials, dates, and avowals of love. From an oil lamp a wisp of smoke fluttered like a nervous ghost. While the room had none of the luxury of the stateroom on the Robert Peel, it did have a floor that neither heaved nor tilted. Hardly a wonder then that Toby Grout felt a vast satisfaction to be in sole possession of such a solid piece of earth.

  Full with his meal and at ease with himself, the one-eyed man removed his coat, flung it on the chair, and allowed himself the delight of stretching out upon one of the beds, hands beneath his head. Never before had he felt so free, so unburdened by his past. Quite quickly he gave himself over to daydreams and speculations as to what he might do with the rest of his life. Hadn’t he begun training as an innkeeper with Mr. Drabble? Surely he had a better knack for it than the fellow downstairs here. But first, before any new life could begin, he must return the money he’d stolen from that dead boy, Sir Laurence Kirkle. The thought brought him to his feet, eager to empty his traveling bag of the sinful bills.

  The packet, at the very bottom of his bag, was easy to find. Mr. Grout eyed it, hefted it, even sniffed it. Finally, and with great ceremony, he placed the packet at the table’s center and began to unwrap it. Only when he had reached the very core of the package did he discover that the money, the nine hundred pounds he had not spent, was gone. In its place he found a useless wad of stationery.

  Perfectly dumbfounded, Mr. Grout could at first only poke at it listlessly. Then, staggering, he collapsed on the edge of his bed. Mr. Clemspool, he was certain, had stolen the money.

  The mere thought caused the desperate man to swallow great drafts of air, clutch his fists till h
is knuckles whitened, and grind his teeth before at last he bellowed, “Scoundrel! Villain!” to the walls of his room. If only he could get his hands on the man!

  The next moment he rose up, tore down the steps and out onto the street, took one running step — and came to an abrupt, befuddled stop. He had no idea where to start a search in this vast country.

  Seething with frustration, Mr. Grout slunk back to his room and fell upon his bed, his fingers clawing at the thin greasy pillow like the paws of a kneading cat. There he lay, muttering profane oaths, cursing Matthew Clemspool.

  When his despair was at its deepest, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. They were all the money he had.

  When the wind dropped to nothing and the tide shifted, the crew of the Robert Peel took to the longboats and hauled the ship in by oar power. At the wharf Captain Rickles shook hands with Mr. Murdock, the ship’s bell rang, and the crew cheered. The voyage was over.

  Soon after four o’clock Mr. Parker and Mr. Holmes reappeared on deck, even as the steerage passengers were ordered up from below. There, with a mix of eagerness and alarm, they gawked at the city of Boston. A multitude of houses packed close — and many a church spire breaking the monotony — it appeared to cluster around a hill upon whose summit stood a golden-domed structure.

  Though none of the immigrants murmured a word, there was a general feeling of disappointment. Clearly, Boston was smaller than Liverpool and larger than Cork — but not all that different from either city. The golden dome excepted, it did not have the look of paradise.

  The O’Connells, however, had little interest in the city, so intent were they on finding their father. Standing above the bowsprit, Patrick was sure he saw Gregory O’Connell twice. “Da!” he cried, and, “Da!” only to be disappointed each time.

  “Passengers will assemble in orderly fashion by the steps,” Captain Rickles announced. “Take all your possessions with you. Once you have disembarked, you will not be allowed back on board. Mr. Murdock will release you.”

  With much scurrying and confusion, a long line formed. Some pushed to the front. Some lingered. Regardless, they passed one by one onto the swaying steps that led them to the wharf. But before they reached it, all passed through a gaunt-let composed of watchful sailors, Mr. Murdock, and finally the medical inspectors.

  Maura organized their group. Mr. Drabble went first. Then came Bridy, Laurence, Patrick, and finally Maura herself. They wore what they owned. Mr. Drabble was the only one who carried something of value, his newly acquired hat and his tattered volume of Shakespeare, which he clung to as if it were a private anchor.

  The line moved forward slowly. As it did, Maura watched Mr. Murdock study each and every face. She herself hardly knew where to look, at Laurence, who was right before her, or down on the dock, where she kept expecting her father to appear.

  Mr. Drabble could think only of his imminent departure from Maura. Glum and quiet, the actor was passed through the inspection point with only a nod from the first mate.

  Bridy came next. Mr. Murdock gazed at her with a show of kindness and even rested a hand upon her thin shoulder, then pushed her past the medical inspectors. The child twisted about to see that Maura was still coming.

  Laurence, heart pounding, tried to keep his face averted. It was taking all his willpower not to clamber onto the bulwark and make a leap for freedom. Indeed, he had made up his mind that if the first mate attempted to hold him, he would make a run for it.

  Mr. Murdock looked down at him. His brow furrowed; then he frowned. “Here now!” he barked. “Who’s this scar-faced boy?” He stuck out one of his large hands to keep Laurence from moving forward.

  As Mr. Parker and Mr. Holmes studied him, Laurence, despite his bold intentions, froze with fear.

  Suddenly, Bridy turned and took hold of his sleeve. “It’s me brother, John Faherty,” she said, and yanked Laurence along after her.

  Mr. Murdock opened his mouth to say something before catching Mr. Parker’s inquiring eye. Turning red-faced, he merely watched as Laurence hurried down the steps with the girl. He was so flummoxed, he barely paid attention to a grinning Patrick and a much relieved Maura.

  The passengers — feeling stiff and awkward after so many days upon a continually pitching and yawing ship — found it difficult to adjust to the stationary wharf. Not that anyone was afforded the luxury of remaining still for long.

  All seemed in chaos about them. Amid carts and wagons, mounds of boxes, crates, and barrels, some people embraced in grand reunions while others tried to assemble large families and what goods they still possessed. Runners — as in Liverpool — darted here and there, cajoling newcomers into lodgings. There were even baggage grabbers, thieves attempting to steal from the bewildered immigrants.

  Mr. Drabble, attuned to his role as leader, shepherded the O’Connells to a relatively clear space. “‘Oh brave new world, that has such people in’t!’” he quoted in a burst of enthusiasm. But while he meant to speak triumphantly, the phrase sounded hollow.

  Laurence kept gaping about at everything, signs, people, buildings. But all he could think of was that he was at last free of the ship. “I am in America,” he kept murmuring.

  Bridy clung to Maura’s shawl, but the older girl hardly noticed. She and Patrick were searching eagerly for some sign of their father.

  Abruptly a young man appeared before them. “Can I help you find a lodging, folks?” he cried. “I know the best. The cheapest.”

  There was something about his brash and patently false cheerfulness that made the O’Connells as well as Mr. Drabble think instantly of Ralph Toggs.

  “Be off with you!” the actor replied with furious indignation.

  Startled by such vehemence, the young man shrugged and spit upon the ground. Muttering, “Filthy Paddies,” he went off to corral another group of immigrants.

  “Runners here too,” Mr. Drabble said with disgust.

  The day edged into dusk. The air grew chill, the wood of the wharf slick with mist. Dockside lamps were lit. Though the Robert Peel was still being unloaded of cargo, most of the immigrants had long dispersed. But Mr. O’Connell had yet to appear.

  “Have you considered what might have happened to your father, Miss O’Connell?” Mr. Drabble asked.

  Maura was so upset, she could only shake her head.

  Patrick, wishing the actor would leave them, said, “He’ll be here soon.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Mr. Drabble replied, wanting with all his heart to be a comfort to Maura. The possibility that he might still be needed was impossible to resist. “You need not worry, my dear,” he offered. “I’ll not abandon you.”

  Maura bridled. “Mr. Drabble,” she snapped, “now that we’re here, there’s no need for you and Laurence to be lingering on. I don’t doubt but you want to go off for yourselves.”

  Turning pale, Mr. Drabble snatched off his hat and executed one of his deepest bows. “Miss O’Connell,” he said in a trembling voice, “do you think I would leave you in such a parlous situation? How could I? Not after all we’ve gone through together.”

  The gallantry of the man only irritated Maura more. “In faith, Mr. Drabble,” she cried, “you shouldn’t concern yourself. My father will be here soon. Haven’t I said there’s no need of you!”

  Mr. Drabble drew back. “Miss O’Connell,” he managed to say, “I have no wish to offend you by my presence.”

  As tears flooded his eyes, he turned to Laurence. “Very well, my boy,” he said in a breaking voice, “it’s time for us to make our final farewells. ‘Parting is such sweet …,’” he began to recite, only to have his voice crumble with emotion. Incapable of further speech, and pressing his volume of Shakespeare to his heart, the actor turned about and attempted to walk away with as much composure as he could muster.

  Laurence, suddenly confronted with this abrupt leave-taking, looked to Patrick with dismay. “G-G-Good-bye,” he stammered.

  “Laurence,” Patrick replied, �
��you mustn’t forget we’ll be in Lowell.”

  Though Laurence was desperate to say something more, he found no words to speak. All he could do was turn and run after Mr. Drabble.

  Maura, watching the two go off, felt her heart plummet. “Mr. Drabble!” she blurted out. “Sure, I didn’t mean —” Remorseful, she ran a few steps after him. “I was not myself, Mr. Drabble. You must forgive me!”

  The actor’s pride had deafened him. Unswerving, he continued to march off the wharf.

  Maura made her way quickly back to Patrick and Bridy. Fighting tears, she drew her shawl tightly about her. “We’ll wait right here,” she said, “where Da will find us.”

  Laurence hurried after Mr. Drabble. Once, twice, three times, the boy glanced back at Patrick, the only person in the world he considered his friend. He would have given anything to stay with him. But Laurence had nothing to give, and Mr. Drabble, propelled by his humiliation, was striding rapidly off.

  For his part, the actor kept asking, How could Maura have been so cruel, so ungrateful? He hardly knew which he felt more, grief or fury. And now that he was in America, a terrible question beat against him: What was he to do? He had not the slightest idea.

  Before them lay the crowded city of Boston. Both Mr. Drabble and Laurence stared at it. Gas street lamps were glowing. Candles and lanterns gleamed from countless windows.

  “Where are we going?” Laurence asked.

  Mr. Drabble looked down at him, trying to comprehend not just the question, but the person who had asked it. Why is this boy with me? Mr. Drabble fretted, deeply regretting that he’d brought him along.

  “Do we have a place to go?” Laurence wondered aloud.

  Mr. Drabble, to cover his confusion, mumbled, “A friend …” Turning, he gazed upon the great numbers of people rushing by, all of whom — in his eyes — seemed to know exactly where they were going. He was certain that he alone — in all the world — was lost.