Into the Storm

by Avi

  “No cornmeal then?” Patrick asked with a rueful smile.

  “None at all.”

  Patrick, whose dinner had not been nearly so fine, looked away.

  “And the other young women here,” Maura went on, “they are all Irish too. Two from county Clare. A pair from Dublin, and I don’t know where else. Kind they are, and full of chatter. They work in the mills here. Operatives they call themselves. And didn’t they promise to tell me all I’ll need to know about what to do when I find employment myself.”

  Nathaniel came toward them. Maura looked up. “Mr. Brewster,” she said, “you’ve been kindness itself. A blessing on you.”

  Feeling awkward, the young man could only nod. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a handful of money. “Here’s the cash your father left, Miss O’Connell. It comes to almost five dollars.”

  Maura took the money and considered it. It seemed like a great amount, but she was not sure. “But Patrick,” she said, looking up, “surely he needs to pay you rent.”

  “It’s fine for the moment,” Nathaniel said. “It can wait. Your father and I had paid in advance. Besides, your brother was asking about work.”

  “Faith, Mr. Brewster, we’ll all be needing some of that.”

  “They work you long hours, Miss O’Connell. These days the first bell is at four-thirty in the morning. Evening bell doesn’t come till seven-thirty.”

  “These other girls do it, Mr. Brewster,” Maura said firmly. “How can I expect to do any less?”

  Nathaniel laughed at her earnestness. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “And what about me?” Patrick asked. “Can I be working there?”

  “I’ll take you along with me in the morning,” Nathaniel said.

  Shortly before nine, Nathaniel and Patrick left the Hamlyn house. “This way,” Nathaniel said. “The faster you walk, the less cold.” He strode off, hands deep in pockets. Patrick started to follow but paused when he noticed that there was a man standing across the street. By the house lights, he could only see that his hair was white, and he had a fringe of white whiskers.

  “Patrick!” called Nathaniel from down the street. “Come on now. It’s cold!”

  Patrick hurried along.

  At four-thirty in the morning the city bells rang. Patrick, asleep in his clothes with a blanket pulled over his head, failed to hear them. It took a severe foot shaking by Nathaniel to get him moving.

  “Come along, my friend,” the young man called cheerfully. “First bell. Four-thirty. Getting-up time.”

  Patrick sat up slowly and, with his knuckles, worked the sleep from his eyes. By the light of the candle, he could see his frosted breath. And when he set his feet upon the frigid floor, the chill made him recall his boots. He pulled them on gingerly, crunching down the newspaper wadding.

  Atop the cold stove Nathaniel sliced a loaf of bread, a piece of which he handed to Patrick. The remainder — along with a lump of cheese — he placed in a small sack.

  “You can eat it as we go,” he suggested. “Won’t be any breakfast until seven-thirty. I’m bringing enough for you too. Lunch at twelve-thirty. Evening bells come at half past seven. Can you remember all that?”

  Hoping he would, Patrick nodded.

  On the street, people were already hurrying by, filling the predawn darkness with sounds of shuffling feet. With heads bowed and hands deep in pockets or wrapped in shawls, they walked as if not fully awake. Some carried pails or sacks as Nathaniel did. Though most walked in twos and threes, few spoke. The cold wind was numbing.

  Patrick, limping by Nathaniel’s side, felt the large boots chafe but tried to ignore it. Now and again he bit into his bread and, from long habit, chewed slowly.

  “In case we miss each other at the end of the day,” Nathaniel said, “you’ll need to look sharp so you can find your way back on your own. Remember, our room is on Adams Street.”

  “Faith, I’ll know,” Patrick said, though he worried that in the darkness most of the houses looked very much the same.

  “Crow Street,” Nathaniel announced, making a left turn. Then, as he started over a footbridge, he continued, “We’re crossing the Western Canal. Almost there.”

  As they drew closer to the mill, the streets grew more crowded. Patrick noted that most of the walkers were women. From the way some wore their shawls, he was sure they were Irish.

  “Mr. Brewster,” he asked, “are there many Irish who work in the mills then?”

  “More and more.”

  “And do Americans like them?”

  “You’re still worried about those boys, aren’t you?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Your father was a worrier.”

  “Was he?”

  Nathaniel smiled at the memory. “He didn’t have many laughs.”

  “But, Mr. Brewster, I’m still wondering if Americans like us here.”

  “I suppose we all came from somewhere,” Nathaniel said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But you can always find a mean one if you look under enough rocks. I just hope that …”

  “Hope what?” Patrick asked when Nathaniel didn’t complete the sentence.

  “That it’ll be all right.”

  Ten minutes later, Nathaniel halted. “There it is, the Shagwell Cotton Mill Company. Not as big as some of the others in town, but big enough.”

  Patrick gazed with wonder. With so many windows lit up, the huge building made him think of a beast with multiple eyes. He thought of Cork and the statue of St. George and the dragon. Here was a gigantic dragon indeed.

  “The gates will be opening soon,” Nathaniel told him.

  Sure enough, bells began to ring. “Second bell,” he said. “We’d better move.”

  As they drew closer, Patrick became aware of a great wall surrounding the mill and a pair of iron gates — fifteen feet tall — that were swinging open. The crowd surged forward.

  “I’ll log in,” Nathaniel explained, “then we’ll speak to the overlooker.”

  “And what’s the overlooker?”

  “The floor boss.”

  They passed through the gates. Patrick could see that the mill consisted of two dark brick buildings. The bigger was six stories high. The other building was but two.

  “I’m working on the first floor,” Nathaniel said, gesturing toward the larger building. “Unpacking cotton and getting it ready for the carding.”

  “Would that be where my father worked?” Patrick wondered.

  Nathaniel nodded. “At the carding machines.”

  Patrick crossed himself.

  “Come on now,” Nathaniel urged again. “If I’m late, they’ll dock me.”

  “Dock?”

  “Cut some of my pay.”

  “And do you mind me asking, Mr. Brewster, how much you earn?”

  “Four dollars a week.”

  “Then it’s a rich country, I’m thinking.”

  Nathaniel laughed.

  Along with other men — no women here — they went inside.

  “Brewster!” Nathaniel called to a man who stood by the door, checking names off in a ledger book.

  The interior of the building was illuminated with glowing gas lamps. The hot white light revealed large bales of cotton standing among many wheelbarrows. Next to these were rows of men — not talking, not moving, but waiting. Patrick thought of the sailors on the Robert Peel, how they were never still.

  Atop a two-foot-high wooden platform stood a man wearing a derby, green vest, and baggy trousers. Rolled-up sleeves revealed bulging muscles. While one hand kept stroking his bushy mustache, the other held a large pocket watch at which he was staring.

  “The overlooker,” Nathaniel whispered to Patrick as they approached. “Mr. Mosscut, sir,” Nathaniel called.

  The man glanced up quickly, only to return to his watch. “Yes, Brewster. What might I do for you?”

  “Got a boy who’s looking for work.”

  Another glance. “How old?”

  Nathanie
l looked at Patrick for the answer.

  “Twelve, if it please Your Honor.”

  Hearing the sound of the Irish accent, Mr. Mosscut grimaced. Eyes still on the watch, he shook his head. “We’re not taking on any more Irish, Brewster.”

  “Mr. Mosscut,” Nathaniel pleaded, “it’s Gregory O’Connell’s son. He just came over.”

  The overlooker took another look at Patrick, more kindly than before.

  “Sorry, Brewster,” Mr. Mosscut said gruffly. “Orders from above.” He checked his watch and suddenly shouted, “Commence work!” Even as he spoke, bells rang.

  The men on the floor began to pull apart the bales, loading large clumps of cotton — like armfuls of dirty clouds — onto the barrows.

  “Mr. Mosscut …,” Nathaniel said.

  “Mr. Brewster, in another minute you’ll be docked.”

  Patrick looked up at Nathaniel.

  Nathaniel, at a loss for words, shook his head. Then he said, “You better go home. I’ll be there tonight after seven-thirty.”

  Patrick, brokenhearted, didn’t move.

  “Go on now,” Nathaniel said sadly. “You can’t stay, lad. You heard Mr. Mosscut. It’ll only bring trouble. Can you find your way back?”

  Patrick nodded, turned, and limped out of the building. Once beyond the gates he stopped, looked back, wiped his eyes of tears. He dreaded the thought of spending the day in a windowless room on Adams Street. Instead, he turned toward the chilly center of Lowell.

  Patrick soon found himself staring down into a channel of fast-running water some fifty feet wide. It looked like a canal, but he was not certain. Clumps of ice floated by. Alongside the water stood a few spindly trees that, in the dim gray dawn, looked like a row of emaciated spirits. Broken branches lay scattered on the ground. Not far off was a small footbridge.

  Patrick wondered if it was the same bridge he’d crossed with Nathaniel earlier. Fairly certain it was not, he sat down on the bank, drew up his knees, and hugged himself to ward off the chill, then stared absentmindedly into the churning current. Wishing there was more light, he decided to wait until the sun rose.

  A splash made him look up. Across the way a boy was tossing stones into the water. As he looked through the gloom, Patrick, with a start, realized the boy was the largest of the trio — Nick — who had pushed him about the night before at Mr. Brewster’s house.

  Not wishing to provoke a skirmish, Patrick chose to ignore the bully. Perhaps the boy would not recognize him. Only when a second stone landed even closer, splashing him with icy water, did he involuntarily jerk his head up.

  Nick grinned. “Just wanted to give you a bath,” he jeered. “When was the last time you had one?”

  Patrick’s anger flared. “Leave me alone!” he cried.

  “There’s some rocks on your side,” the boy challenged from across the canal. “Or are you too weak to reach me?”

  Wanting no part of any fight, Patrick stood and began to back off.

  “Running away?” Nick called as he started for the footbridge.

  When Patrick realized that the boy intended to come after him, he turned to run. But his large boots hampered him greatly and prevented him from moving fast.

  Nick pursued him, pausing to pick up rocks and hurl them. One struck Patrick’s shoulder.

  Ignoring the pain, Patrick cut down what he thought was a street, only to come up against a bend in the canal. There was no bridge here to escape over. Fearful of being trapped, he spun about and started back just as Nick appeared around the corner.

  The instant Nick realized that Patrick had no place to go other than into the canal itself, he slowed, grinning tauntingly. “Thought you’d get away, didn’t you?” he sneered.

  Patrick retreated.

  “Now you have to fight. That or take a swim. Hope you know how to, Paddy boy. It’s cold in there.”

  Patrick kept inching back, checking to see how much space there was between him and the canal. When he reached the edge, he halted.

  “Come on,” Nick challenged, fists up, ready to brawl. “You can do something, can’t you? Fight or swim.” He sauntered closer.

  Trapped, barely thinking of what he was doing, Patrick lowered his head and charged, butting Nick in the chest. Taken by surprise, Nick reeled backward. Grimacing with pain, he gasped for breath.

  “Leave me alone!” Patrick cried, too angry to be aware that he had gained the momentary advantage.

  “Dirty Paddy!” Nick shouted. He edged forward again, but more cautiously, keeping his distance by circling around Patrick.

  Heart pounding, Patrick moved the opposite way so that the boys reversed positions. Now it was Nick who had his back to the canal.

  “You were lucky, that’s all,” Nick jeered. “Lucky. Come on, try that again. Come on. I dare you.”

  Patrick, fists up, panting, inched toward Nick.

  “That’s it,” Nick said. “Come on, take your licking. Come on!” He threw a punch, but it didn’t land.

  Patrick, trying what had worked before, lowered his head and charged once more. Though this time he took a few blows, he managed to strike Nick again. The boy staggered backward, tottering on the edge of the canal. When Patrick made another feint, Nick recoiled, lost his balance, and fell head over heels into the canal with an enormous splash.

  “Help! Help!” he cried as he flailed about in the water. “I can’t swim. Help!”

  Patrick turned, saw a branch on the ground, and snatched it up. Flinging himself down at the canal bank, he extended it toward Nick. The boy grabbed it and, with Patrick holding on, struggled toward the edge of the canal.

  He reached it, found a footing, and began to haul himself out of the water. As soon as Patrick saw Nick was out of danger, he withdrew an even greater distance.

  Thoroughly soaked and shivering, Nick, having clambered back to the bank, took a menacing step toward Patrick. “You dirty Irish fighter,” he cried, “I’ll get you for this. See if I don’t.”

  Nick did take a few steps but quickly gave up.

  Patrick, feeling much safer, headed down one street, then another. He wanted to see his sister, to tell her everything about this morning. Suddenly, he stopped. Would Maura even be at Mrs. Hamlyn’s house now? Wasn’t she seeking work herself? He didn’t want to upset her, not now.

  Hoping she was having better luck than he had, he turned down a third street.

  You might want these,” Mr. Shagwell told Mr. Clemspool. He held out two balls of white cotton.

  “And what shall I do with them, sir?”

  “I suggest you put them in your ears. If you’ve never been in a mill before, you can’t imagine the noise.”

  “Do you wear them?” Mr. Clemspool asked.

  Mr. Shagwell smiled. “I’m used to it.”

  “Then I’m sure I won’t need them either.”

  “As you wish, sir. Now step this way.”

  To begin the tour, Mr. Shagwell led his guest into the courtyard. There, he explained how the cotton was shipped from the southern states to Lowell. “Once it’s here, sir, the process is quite simple. The cotton is broken up and cleaned. Then it’s turned into thread. The thread is woven into cloth. The cloth is shipped to the world, as far away as China.

  “We do it all in vast quantities, sir, with great numbers of operatives working in one place. The Lowell system. We are justifiably famous for it.”

  “And is all this — are all these people — under your control, sir?” Mr. Clemspool asked, truly impressed.

  “Each and every one of them! Come along now!”

  The mill owner led the Englishman onto the first floor of the large building where the cotton was being unloaded. Mr. Clemspool watched the bales being broken up, after which masses of cotton were worked through carding machines that cleaned the fibers and drew them out into thick slivers.

  “Now, sir,” said Mr. Shagwell, “I’ll show you where the crude thread is made.”

  They moved to the second floor. Here, the
air was humid and the noise of the clacking machinery so tumultuous that Mr. Clemspool felt compelled to shield his ears with his hands. Mr. Shagwell offered the cotton balls again.

  Mr. Clemspool shook his head and looked about.

  Overhead power belts raced in a continual whir. Other belts looped down like elastic arms to power the machines. He watched a woman move back and forth among the machines, darting — or so it seemed — into their very midst to make adjustments.

  While Mr. Shagwell and Mr. Clemspool were so engaged, the overlooker, Mr. Osmundson, approached and doffed his derby. “Good morning, sir,” he shouted to Mr. Shagwell over the din. “Gratifying to see you, sir!”

  “Mr. Osmundson, this is Mr. Clemspool. A visitor from England.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Mr. Shagwell said, “Show us your best operative, Mr. Osmundson.”

  “That would be Betsy Howard, sir. Follow me.”

  The three men made their way among the machines.

  “Here she is, sir,” said Mr. Osmundson with pride. “Your best.”

  Betsy Howard was overseeing three machines. Now and again she lifted a full bobbin off one and placed it in a wooden box.

  “She can’t talk much, sir,” Mr. Osmundson said into Mr. Clemspool’s ear. “Too busy.” The overlooker sidled up behind her. “It’s Mr. Shagwell, sweetheart. With a guest.”

  Without stopping her work, Betsy Howard peered over her shoulder, saw who it was, and flushed.

  Mr. Shagwell beckoned Mr. Clemspool closer. “How long have you worked here?” Mr. Shagwell asked his operative in a loud voice.

  “Five years, sir.”

  Mr. Shagwell turned to Mr. Clemspool. “Do you see how loyal the operatives are?” He turned back to his operative. “And have you any complaints?” he asked her.

  There was no reply.

  “Speak up,” Mr. Shagwell urged. “Our visitor from old England needs to know what a free country this is.”

  Betsy Howard glanced from Mr. Shagwell to Mr. Clemspool to Mr. Osmundson. The overlooker, beaming, nodded. She heard Sarah Grafton, at the next station, cough harshly.