Into the Storm

by Avi

“You’ll not suffer for anything you say,” Mr. Shagwell persisted. “You have my promise.”

  The woman looked at the mill owner’s gray eyes as if to judge the full measure of his words. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Please, sir, they’ve speeded up the machines again. They’re going much too fast.”

  Mr. Shagwell’s eyes filled with astonishment. His normally pale cheeks turned red. His mane of gray hair seemed to swell. “I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed.

  “And the air, sir. It’s impossible to breathe with all this cotton flying about. We need it fresher. If we could only open the windows, it’d be so much better.”

  “Are you suggesting that you know how to operate my mill better than I?” a now indignant Mr. Shagwell cried.

  Betsy Howard’s face grew ashen. “You asked me to speak, sir, and I’m just saying what’s true. We can hardly keep up. With the speed and the heat, it’s truly hard.”

  Mr. Clemspool tried to keep from smirking.

  “Complaints in front of a stranger,” Mr. Shagwell cried. “A guest! I’ll thank you to keep your comments to yourself next time.” So saying, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  As he passed the next station, Sarah Grafton was seized by another fit of coughing. Mr. Shagwell stopped and fixed his eyes upon her. “Mr. Osmundson,” he cried, pointing, “I want this girl turned off. Do you hear me? Right away! We can’t have sickness here. She’s contagious!”

  Sarah stared at Mr. Shagwell in horror. “Sir, please, you mustn’t….”

  Mr. Shagwell wheeled about. “Mr. Osmundson! Find a replacement for that girl. Immediately! Mr. Clemspool, this way, please. There’s more to see.” He marched off, Mr. Clemspool hurrying to keep pace.

  For a moment Mr. Osmundson gazed after the mill owner. Then he turned to Betsy Howard. “Oh, my dear, why ever did you say such a thing? You only provoked him. And look what you’ve gone and done to poor Sarah. Sarah, my dear,” he said, hastening to where she stood, dumbstruck. “I’m afraid you must go. There’s nothing I can do. I am … what can I say … terribly sorry.”

  Speechless, Sarah Grafton fell to weeping. Behind, her machines snarled, tangled, and began to snap threads.

  I do admire your willingness to work, Miss O’Connell,” Mrs. Hamlyn said as she guided Maura away from Cabot Street. It was seven-thirty in the morning. “But while it’s true we must all toil, you need to know mill life is not easy.”

  Maura wore one of the dresses from the pile of cast-off garments her landlady had provided. A too-large calico dress, it nonetheless felt clean and comfortable. Not so comfortable were the pair of high shoes she had selected. It had been a long time since Maura had worn shoes, and these were tight. Still, she was grateful to have them and walked as best she could, her shawl wrapped about her. Though nervous, she was excited, hardly minding the cold.

  “Faith, Mrs. Hamlyn, I’m sure I can manage,” Maura replied stoutly. “And by the Holy Mother, we have only the few dollars my father left us. We can’t be living on air.”

  “When you begin,” the woman warned, “they pay very little.”

  “In Ireland, mistress, a body is lucky to have any money at all.”

  “Just remember,” said Mrs. Hamlyn, “there are other jobs to be had here. In shops. Or as a maid.”

  “Please, mistress, I should like to do as my father did.”

  When they entered the Shagwell Mill courtyard, Maura saw many young women sitting, despite the weather, in the open air. They had napkins on their laps, and they were eating. A fewer number of men — sitting separately — were taking their food out of tin pails. There was an air of concentration upon the operatives’ faces, almost an urgency, that puzzled Maura.

  “They have only a half hour for breakfast,” Mrs. Hamlyn explained.

  The older woman went directly to the smaller of the brick buildings where a sign, MANAGER’S OFFICE, had been placed on the door. As she was about to knock, she cast an appraising eye over Maura. “You might just smooth your hair back from your face,” she said. “And straighten your dress.”

  Maura did as she was told.

  “If they ask you questions, say as little as possible,” the woman warned. Then she knocked.

  A boy answered. Though he wore a suit and a peaked leather cap, to Maura’s eyes he appeared to be no older than Patrick.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “My name is Mrs. Hamlyn,” the woman said. “I should like to speak to Mr. Farrington, please.”

  “What’s it about?” came the response.

  Mrs. Hamlyn was determined not to be irritated. “I am seeking employment for this young lady.”

  The boy squinted up at Maura. “Irish?” he asked.

  “She is.”

  “Well, I don’t know. It’s not likely,” the boy advised. “I’ll go see if Mr. Farrington’s about.”

  “You must mention my name,” the woman said severely. “It’s Mrs. James Hamlyn.”

  The door slammed in their faces.

  Maura, recalling Patrick’s story about the boys who picked a fight with him because he was Irish, felt her stomach knot. “Faith, Mrs. Hamlyn,” she whispered, head bowed, “I don’t wish to be where I’m not wanted.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” the woman snorted. “He’s just a sassy boy. I don’t like such talk. Besides …”

  The door opened again. “He’ll see you both,” the boy said. “But only because it’s you,” he told Mrs. Hamlyn.

  Pressing her lips tightly to keep from speaking her thoughts, the woman stepped forward, touching Maura on the arm to encourage her to follow.

  They entered a busy office alive with the sounds of scratching pens and turning pages. Clerks, sitting on stools, worked on great ledgers.

  Without checking to see if he was being followed, the boy marched toward a door at the far side of the room, rapped on it, and held it open for the two women to pass. “Here’s Mrs. Hamlyn, sir.”

  The room was quite small and lined with piles of papers. A large desk, its surface exceedingly cluttered, stood in the center of the room. Behind the desk sat a man dwarfed by the crowded conditions around him. The look on his face was pinched. His eyes conveyed worry.

  When the women entered his office, the man stood up and leaned over his desk, hands down and splayed, rather like a bulldog taking a fighting stance.

  “Mrs. Hamlyn,” he said brusquely. “Good morning to you.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Farrington. I trust you are well.”

  Mr. Farrington shook his head. “Trying to keep our heads above water,” he said. “Not the best of times.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Well, well, that’s of no interest to a lady. How’s the mister?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “And what can I do for you today?” he asked.

  “This is Maura O’Connell. She’s a boarder at my house and is seeking employment. She is Irish,” Mrs. Hamlyn said firmly. “You might as well know from the first.”

  “Knew it from the moment you walked in,” Mr. Farrington snorted.

  “Is there any work to be had?” Mrs. Hamlyn asked.

  “Don’t know as to the weaving rooms…. How old are you, girl?” The question was directed at Maura.

  “Fifteen, Your Honor.”

  “Not educated, I suppose.”

  “I can read, Your Honor.”

  His look suggested doubt. “Can you read that?” he asked, pointing across the room at a wall poster.

  RULES TO BE OBSERVED

  BY THE HANDS EMPLOYED IN

  THIS MILL

  Listed below were twenty-one rules, each numbered.

  “I think so,” Maura replied.

  “Read number two,” Mr. Farrington snapped.

  Maura studied the poster and read, “‘Any person coming too late shall be fined as follows: for five minutes, two pennies; ten minutes, four pennies; and fifteen minutes, six pennies.’”

  “And the sixte
enth?”

  “‘The master would recommend that all their workpeople wash themselves every morning, but they shall wash themselves at least twice a week, Monday morning and Thursday morning, and any found not washed will be fined three pennies for each offense.’”

  “Good enough,” Mr. Farrington admitted. “Try number twelve.”

  Again Maura read: “‘All persons in our employ shall serve four weeks’ notice before leaving their position, but A. Shagwell & Company shall and will turn any person off without notice being given.’”

  “All right, that’s sufficient,” said Mr. Farrington. “You’re in luck. This morning an operative in the drawing section left suddenly because of illness. You can start right away at one dollar and fifty cents a week. You’ll work under Mr. Osmundson. Yes or no?”

  “Yes, please, Your Honor,” Maura said eagerly.

  “Mind, I only do it for Mrs. Hamlyn,” Mr. Farrington said severely, “not you. We’re not supposed to take on any more Irish. But I can make exceptions. Just make sure you read, learn, and act by the rest of those regulations. They’re posted about. What’s your name?”

  “Maura O’Connell, Your Honor.”

  “All right, Maura, on your way out, speak to the door clerk. He’ll sign you on and give you a pass. Report to the overlooker, Mr. Osmundson. Second floor of the mill.” He sat down and gathered up some papers, making it perfectly clear he was done with them.

  After saying good-bye to Mrs. Hamlyn — and hearing some further kindly advice — Maura made her way apprehensively to the second floor of the large building. In her hand she clutched the note she’d been given in the manager’s office that would introduce her to the overlooker.

  She felt excitement as well as fear. Here she was, her first full day in Lowell, and she would be earning money for herself, Patrick, and Bridy! Life was going to get better. Suddenly glad, Maura smiled.

  But when she stepped onto the second floor, her smile withered. Before her — in a room far bigger than she’d ever seen before — ranged row upon row of clacking, churning machines. The noise was staggering. Ceilings were laced with whirling power belts of gigantic proportions. The floorboards upon which she stood trembled. The air was so hot and cloudy, she found it hard to breathe.

  How, she asked herself, could she exist, much less work, in such a place? What did she know of machines, she who had never worked with any machine before, ever?

  When a wave of nausea swept through her, Maura squeezed her hands so tightly, her nails bit into her flesh. The pain served to steady her.

  From somewhere — Maura did not see him coming — Mr. Osmundson appeared.

  “Can I help you, sweetheart?” he cried, his voice loud enough to be heard over the noise.

  Maura, incapable of speech, presented the note she’d been given with an unsteady hand. Mr. Osmundson read it.

  “New operative, eh? Maura O’Connell,” he said, looking her over. “Irish, I suppose?”

  Feeling uncomfortable, Maura nodded even as she stared at her feet.

  The overlooker started to frown but caught himself and smiled. “Well, you’re needed. The girl you’re replacing got ill, poor thing. Ever work in a mill before, sweetheart?”

  Maura managed to shake her head.

  “Nothing to it,” Mr. Osmundson said. “The other girls will be happy to teach you. I’ll put you next to the best. My Betsy. Come along, my dear.”

  Full of fear, Maura followed, passing among rows of machines, painfully aware of the eyes of the other operatives appraising her.

  “All right, my dear,” cried Mr. Osmundson as he approached Betsy Howard’s station. “Here’s Maura O’Connell, Sarah’s replacement.”

  Betsy Howard glanced at Maura over her shoulder. Brief as the look was, Maura caught the unmistakable glint of anger in the woman’s eyes. The girl shivered.

  Mr. Osmundson, noticing nothing, said, “Betsy, darling, it’ll be your job to teach Maura what she needs to know. Maura, Betsy is the best girl we’ve got. Mind her, and you can’t go wrong. Step over here, my dear,” he called to Maura. “These three machines are yours.”

  Maura, avoiding Betsy Howard’s hostile eyes, stood helplessly before one of the drawing machines assigned to her. With its rollers and wires, its seemingly random strands of cotton poking out here, there, everywhere, it was so incomprehensibly complex, she felt humiliated. Tears came to her eyes. Wanting to run, she looked about.

  To the right and to the left, young women seemed to know what they were doing, though what it was Maura had not the slightest idea. One or two of them — those nearest — turned from their machines and looked at her now with friendly faces. One went so far as to smile and nod. Somehow, Maura managed a small smile in return.

  The realization that women were doing all the work on the floor gave Maura a spark of hope. If they could do it, might not she?

  There was a tap on her arm. Betsy Howard was by her side.

  “Look here, Miss Paddy,” she said sharply, “you’re replacing as good a friend as ever lived. Turned off because I was stupid enough to open my mouth. Her only fault was being ill from this air.” She made a gesture that encompassed everything in the huge room.

  “And you’re Irish, aren’t you?” the operative went on. “So you might as well know, I don’t like Paddies, and I don’t intend to like you either.”

  “Yes, miss,” Maura whispered, caught up in a swirl of shame and fury all at once.

  “The first thing you need to know is there’s no place for a soft voice here. Now let me show you how this goes.” She moved toward the first machine.

  Maura closed her eyes briefly, crossed herself, and followed the woman.

  After a good night’s sleep, Bridy had washed herself with cold water, then dressed in the clothing Maura had selected for her. Old though it was, the girl had never had a finer dress.

  Downstairs she was treated to a breakfast of Indian bread, tea, savory sausage, and beans. Happily full, she wrapped herself in a shawl and went outside to sit on the wood front steps.

  It was a bright day and, though cool, considerably warmer than the day before. The Hamlyn house, situated on the northern side of Cabot Street, was bathed in sunlight. From time to time, as Bridy sat playing with her fingers or singing snatches of tunes, people passed by. Sometimes they greeted her, sometimes not. When they did, the girl responded with a shy, friendly greeting of her own.

  Bridy did think of her parents and her brothers, but already she’d begun to sense that they belonged to a life that was gone. A certain vagueness about them had crept like mist into her mind. Though still uncertain exactly where or what America was, she accepted that she was there. Maura was near, wasn’t she? And Maura had become the most important person in her life, the one whom Bridy loved and trusted.

  After an hour or so of sitting and dreaming, Bridy realized that someone was standing between her and the sun. She looked up.

  It was Mr. Jenkins.

  “Do you live here?” he asked, speaking calmly so as not to alarm the girl.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Bridy whispered.

  “And are you a guest of Mr. James Hamlyn?”

  Bridy was not at all sure she understood the question.

  “I won’t harm you, girl,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Just tell me who you are and what business you have with Mr. Hamlyn.”

  Bridy hardly knew what to say.

  “I had a child your age,” the man informed her. “And so I say to you, beware of James Hamlyn. Indeed, my dear, you must give him a message from me. Can you do a simple thing like that?”

  Bridy nodded.

  “Good girl. Tell him that Jeremiah Jenkins came to call. Tell him that I haven’t forgotten. That he shouldn’t forget me or my child. Can you repeat what I just told you?” he asked.

  “What?” Bridy whispered tremulously.

  “Give Mr. Hamlyn that message.” Mr. Jenkins attempted to smile.

  “Mr. Jer —,” Bridy stammered.

 
; “Jeremiah,” the man coached.

  “Jeremiah Jenkins,” Bridy managed to say.

  Word by word Mr. Jenkins led her through the complete message two more times. “Now please tell the man exactly what I said. But, my dear, because I like children, I urge you to get away from this house. It’s a bad house.”

  With that said, Mr. Jenkins strode off.

  Bridy, upset and puzzled, watched him go. She was not at all sure what he had said, much less what the words meant. She knew Mrs. Hamlyn, of course, but also knew she’d gone off with Maura. As for Mrs. Hamlyn’s husband, she had no knowledge of him at all.

  It was the housemaid who found Bridy crying in the hallway.

  “And what would be the matter with you, missy?” the young woman inquired kindly. “Are you fretting for your sister now?”

  Bridy shook her head.

  “Then what is it, pet? You can tell me, I’m sure.”

  “It was a man …,” Bridy sobbed.

  “What kind of man?”

  “He was asking for … Mr…. Hamlyn.”

  “For the master?”

  Bridy nodded. “He said I should be telling him something.”

  “Well then, so you can. Nothing to be afraid of at all. He’s a kindly man, though he must stay in his bed with his affliction. Come now, I’ll take you to him.” Giving her hand to the child, the servant led Bridy along the hallway, then knocked softly on a door.

  Hearing a “Yes,” she poked her head into the room and explained who Bridy was and why they were calling.

  “There! You’re welcome to go on in, my dear. And don’t you worry none now.” The maid led the frightened girl into the room.

  Mr. Hamlyn was sitting up in his high bed. To Bridy, he looked very strange in his nightcap, jacket, and gloves.

  “Here’s the girl, Your Honor,” the housemaid said.

  Mr. Hamlyn looked down. “Come along closer, my dear,” he called. “There’s nothing to be afraid about, my girl. It’s just that I can’t get out of bed.”

  The maid gave Bridy a gentle shove forward. Bridy took two steps but stopped.

  “All right now,” Mr. Hamlyn said, “be good enough to tell me what this message was.”