Into the Storm

by Avi

  “Out of where?”

  “The house. It’s full of ’em.”

  A much relieved Mr. Clemspool retreated toward the carriage. “It’s to get rid of foreigners,” he told Albert.

  “But Laurence is not a foreigner,” his brother objected. “He’s English.”

  Mr. Clemspool started to say something but turned back to the house. “That Jeb did say he was in there.”

  “What a confounded nuisance!” Albert declared. “Now you can see for yourself what an insufferable bore my brother is. I tell you, he’s not worth all this bother.”

  “Sir, I intend to get that key.”

  “Oh, hang the key!” Albert bleated. “I don’t like any of this. I want to go back to Boston.” He squeezed his knuckles until they cracked. “I want to go home!”

  “Do you wish to lose the boy now? Or that money? This is fine. The crowd will flush him out, and then we’ll pounce on him.”

  Albert, with considerable reluctance, stepped out of the carriage.

  Mr. Tolliver had been able to round up only three policemen, one of them the old jail keeper. He had also commandeered a wagon and instructed the startled farmer — whose wagon it was — to get the policemen to Cabot Street fast. With a nod, and calling upon his horses to do their utmost, the fellow snapped his whip in the air, and the wagon rattled away down the rutted and poorly lit streets of Lowell. There was nothing for the policemen to do but hold on anxiously.

  But at Cabot Street Mr. Tolliver’s heart sank. The cries, the flames of torches, the palpable anger of the protesters alarmed him. All he could think of was a nest of churning poisonous snakes.

  He ordered the driver to urge the horses and wagon directly into the crowd in hopes it might intimidate them. “Right in front of the house, if you can,” he cried.

  The farmer did attempt the maneuver, but the mob was packed too tightly and was, moreover, determined not to give way. The wagon could go no more than a few feet before being forced to stop.

  “There aren’t enough of us to do anything but contain them and keep things from getting worse,” Mr. Tolliver told his men, shouting to make himself heard over the tumult. “No point in agitating further. But arrest anyone provoking violence. Bring them back to the wagon.” Truncheons in hand, the three policemen waded in among the people.

  “This is the Lowell police,” Mr. Tolliver shouted through cupped hands. “You will cease this riot! This is the police! Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest!”

  So great was the noise, only a few in the crowd even heard the warning. Some of them edged away a foot or two. And all the while new people kept arriving.

  When Mr. Jenkins saw the wagon and realized it was a policeman shouting from its seat, he became incensed. How dare the police offer help to foreigners!

  He surveyed the angry people about him with feelings of pride. Had he not created this mob out of his own will? Was it not he alone who commanded them? Was not this boy — like his boy, who had so cruelly perished — devoted to him?

  “I know nothing!” he shouted at the police, and shook a fist. He would show them what he knew. No police force in the world could stop him.

  “Give me that,” he cried, snatching the flaming torch from Jeb’s hands. Startled, the boy watched as Mr. Jenkins broke from the crowd and strode toward the house, the torch held high. “Follow me if you dare!” he shouted above the din. “We’ll show these Paddies what we’re all about!”

  Only Jeb followed him.

  Mr. Tolliver heard the man’s cry and looked about. When he saw Mr. Jenkins — torch in hand, advancing upon the house — he leaped from the wagon and strove to make his way through the crowd.

  Aghast, the police captain saw Mr. Jenkins whirl the torch around his head and with all his might fling it like a javelin. His aim was accurate. The torch — burning like a comet — flew through the window into Mr. Hamlyn’s room.

  The sound of the crashing, shattering glass brought a gasp from the crowd. One moment the air had been full of boisterous cries. The next, people suddenly stilled to watch an orange glow in the room blossom like a flower. In moments, fingers of flame spiked up. From the crowd, as if in one voice, there arose an “Ahhh! ” Now those in the mob stood in passive, shocked silence as they absorbed what was happening.

  Horrified, Jeb cried, “You set … the house afire!”

  “Revenge!” Mr. Jenkins shouted with a terrible smile. “Revenge!”

  Jeb stared at him, seeing him for the first time, a man consumed by hate. It filled him with fright. Muffling a cry, the boy turned and fled and did not stop until he reached home.

  Someone in the crowd shouted, “Fire brigade! Get the fire brigade!” A half dozen of those who had been yelling anti-Irish slogans now peeled away and began to race down the street.

  Mr. Tolliver, in pursuit of the arsonist, broke through the front line of the crowd. “Mr. Jenkins,” he shouted. “You are under arrest!”

  Mr. Jenkins turned to see the police captain striding toward him. Infuriated, he hastened to the window of Mr. Hamlyn’s room and looked in, desperate for proof that he had destroyed his enemy. But the flames and smoke were already too thick. Using the back of his hand, Mr. Jenkins punched out what remained of the window. Then he hoisted himself up and crawled into the room.

  Flames were creeping up the walls, causing the wallpaper to curl down in yellowish ribbons. Bedclothes were smoldering. Burning wood snapped and popped. Areas of the floor seemed to be boiling with low blue flames. Mr. Jenkins could hardly breathe for the smoke, could hardly see. But one thing was clear to him: Mr. Hamlyn was not in the room.

  Swearing violent oaths, Mr. Jenkins wrenched the bedroom door open and slammed it behind him.

  The hallway was dim, deserted. Snatching a candle from the wall, he plunged toward the back of the house in search of the basement.

  Frightened but spellbound, Patrick and Laurence were watching through the parlor windows when they heard the crash of breaking glass.

  “What’s that?” Laurence asked.

  “Faith, I don’t know. It came from across the hall.”

  The boys ran out of the parlor.

  At the far end of the hall, Mr. Jenkins loomed up only to disappear into the dimness. The boys had no idea who he was.

  Instead, they tried the door opposite, Mr. Hamlyn’s room. The handle was hot. Patrick pushed the door open and looked inside. The room was ablaze.

  “Holy jesus!” Patrick cried, leaping back and bumping into Laurence. “The house is burning!” He shoved the door shut; then both he and Laurence ran to the front door. It was locked.

  Outside Mr. Hamlyn’s burning room, Mr. Tolliver stood by the smashed window, trying to see in. He was afraid to move, afraid not to. His mind roaring, he slowly hoisted himself up and crawled through the window into the billowing smoke.

  Mr. Hamlyn was not there, but neither could he see Jeremiah Jenkins. Eyes smarting from the smoke, Mr. Tolliver went to the bedroom door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway and looked about. Sick to his stomach and fearful of the worst, he saw — dimly — movement at the far end of the hall. He began to move toward it, heart pounding.

  By the time Mr. Grout and Mr. Drabble found their way to Cabot Street, the acrid stench of burning pitch was heavy in the night air. Torches cast a speckled light over a mob of ruddy and perspiring faces. Angry cries kept ringing out: “Down with the Irish. Throw the foreigners out! America for Americans!” Behind the anger there was also a certain glee as people, laughing, egged one another on.

  “What is it?” cried the actor. “What is this?”

  “Keep behind me, Mr. Drabble. I’ll try to get us closer so we can find out.”

  Mr. Grout, using his broad shoulders and strength to shove aside those who blocked his way, pushed into the crowd. Even so, the going was difficult.

  “Mr. Grout,” cried the actor. “Look! It’s Mr. Clemspool! And Laurence’s brother too.”

  “Where?”

&
nbsp; “There! You see! On the other side of the mob.”

  “Mr. Drabble, is Laurence in the ’ouse?”

  “He was when I left.”

  “Then those rascals must be tryin’ to get ’im. We ’ad better get to ’im as well as yer love! Come on!”

  The two men broke through the crowd and rushed up to the house. “There’s a fire inside,” cried Mr. Drabble. He struggled with the knob of the front door but could not turn it. After banging hard on the door to no avail, he gave an imploring look to Mr. Grout.

  “Keep to one side. I’ll get it,” said the one-eyed man. So saying, he hurled himself forward, shoulder low. Though the door cracked, it did not give entirely. Shaking off the shock, Mr. Grout stepped back, braced himself, and heaved himself at the door a second time. With a shriek of splintering wood, it fell in.

  Mr. Grout stumbled into the dim hallway, where he heard a cry of astonishment. “Mr. Grout! Mr. Drabble!”

  It was Laurence and Patrick being herded forward by Mr. Tolliver.

  “There you are, laddie!” cried a joyful Mr. Grout when he saw Laurence.

  “Patrick,” Mr. Drabble shouted, “where’s Maura?”

  “I don’t know,” the all but breathless boy replied. “We saw some man back there, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else about at all.”

  “Who was this man?” Mr. Tolliver demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Get these boys out!” cried the police captain to Mr. Grout. Then Mr. Tolliver raced back down the hallway.

  “Tell me where Maura’s room is!” Mr. Drabble demanded of Patrick.

  “It’s at the top,” the boy replied. “But I don’t know exactly where or if she’s there.”

  “Show me the steps!”

  “This way!” Patrick cried.

  Laurence started to follow only to be restrained by Mr. Grout. “Laddie,” he called, “yer’ve got to get out of ’ere.”

  “I have to go with Patrick!” Laurence pleaded.

  “Don’t yer worry. Drabble can attend. We need to get out before yer burn like a cinder.”

  Mr. Tolliver had run to the end of the hallway only to be confronted by a closed door. He yanked it open and looked into the kitchen. One glance told him no one was there. He retreated quickly.

  To his left was another door. He pushed it open and saw that it led to the outside. He wondered if Mr. Jenkins had gone out. But where was James Hamlyn?

  He opened the door at the opposite side of the hall. He saw steps leading down, to the basement presumably. It was dark. Knowing Mr. Hamlyn’s infirmities, the captain didn’t think the man would be there. In haste, he shut the door and ran out of the house through the back door.

  In the yard, Mr. Tolliver looked at the neighbors’ houses and saw people staring out of windows at the fire. Perhaps Mr. Hamlyn was in one of the houses. He ran to check.

  He needed only moments to find the Hamlyns and their boarders safe in the neighbor’s house. “Is everyone out?” he demanded.

  “I’m not certain,” Mrs. Hamlyn replied. “There were two sisters at the top and two boys in the basement. They’re not with us.”

  Mr. Tolliver tore back to the front of Eighty-seven Cabot Street.

  “Is anyone still in there?” he asked an onlooker.

  “I don’t know,” the man answered.

  Mr. Tolliver looked about. Mr. Grout was kneeling by Laurence. The boy was sitting on the ground.

  “I don’t care wot yer want to do,” the one-eyed man was telling the boy, “yer to keep away from the building.” The next moment Mr. Grout leaped up and dashed back into the house in pursuit of Mr. Drabble.

  Mr. Tolliver grabbed two onlookers and pulled them into position before the house. “Don’t let anyone else in there!” Mr. Tolliver commanded. “They’ll be killed!”

  Inside, Patrick and Mr. Drabble had reached the steps. “Where are we?” the actor asked. Smoke eddied about their feet.

  “Maura’s room is up there somewhere,” Patrick shouted.

  “For the love of God, boy, hurry!” Flipping the hair out of his face, taking the steps three at a time with his long legs, the actor tore up the stairwell. Suddenly he stopped and turned, blocking the boy’s way. “Patrick!” he cried. “Get yourself out of the house!”

  “But …”

  “Do it!” the actor shouted. “It’s too dangerous here!” Without waiting, Mr. Drabble continued up.

  For a moment Patrick watched him go, then — albeit reluctantly — he headed back toward the first floor. There, he saw a twist of flame poke out from beneath a door like a cat’s paw. Even as he watched, the wooden floor near the doorway darkened. Tongues of fire leaped to the steps. Heart beating madly, Patrick turned. He had to warn Mr. Drabble.

  On the second floor, Mr. Drabble shouted, “Maura! Are you about? Where are you?” Receiving no reply, he ran up and down the hallway, opening and shutting doors. Finding no one, he headed for the floor above. By this time, Patrick was back, just a few steps behind him.

  “Mr. Drabble! Mr. Drabble,” he called.

  The man ignored him. “Maura!” he shouted. He found her behind the second door. “Thank God!” he cried. “Quickly! Quickly!”

  Maura sat on the bed, arms tight around a wide-eyed Bridy on her lap.

  “Mr. Drabble!” she said with surprise. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “The house is ablaze,” the actor shouted. “You must get out!”

  Needing no further words, Maura caught up Bridy’s hand and ran into the hallway. Patrick came to her side. With a free arm, she drew him close, then let him go.

  “Down the steps,” Mr. Drabble cried. “All of you! Down the steps!”

  “But you can’t,” Patrick shouted. “They’ve already caught fire!”

  “All of them?”

  “The ones near the first floor.”

  “We’d still be better off on the second,” the actor shouted, and galloped down. Patrick and Maura — holding the terrified Bridy close — hurried after.

  Mr. Jenkins, candle in hand, found the basement cluttered with boxes and old furniture. For a while he just stood there, hoping to hear a sound. When he heard nothing, he began to thrash about wildly, turning everything over. But of James Hamlyn he found no trace.

  Wildly frustrated, he climbed back to the first floor. “Hamlyn!” he thundered through the thickening smoke. “Hamlyn, I know you’re here….”

  Outside, before the house, a rather dazed Laurence looked around, trying to get his bearings. Scores of faces were staring at him.

  “Who is he?” someone asked from the crowd. “What was a boy doing in there?”

  Then a voice cried, “Laurence!”

  Laurence turned. There at his side were Albert and Mr. Clemspool. The boy tried to escape only to have Mr. Clemspool snare him by the collar while Albert gripped one of his arms. They began to drag him through the crowd away from the house.

  “The key!” Mr. Clemspool shouted, trying to shove his hand into one of the boy’s pockets. “The key!”

  Laurence resisted by twisting wildly. “Let me go! Let me go!” he cried. Struggling fiercely to free himself, he struck out and hit now Albert, now Mr. Clemspool.

  The man was forced to pull away his hand. Albert ripped off his top hat and began to whack his brother with it repeatedly.

  Finding the brawl diverting, some of the crowd of onlookers completed a ring about the combatants and cheered them on.

  One of the policemen broke through the ring. “Break it up!” he cried. “Break it up! No brawling!”

  Albert restored his crumpled hat to its proper place and drew himself up. “Look here, chap, who do you think you are?” he demanded.

  “The Lowell police, that’s who! Here now!” he cried, pointing right at Mr. Clemspool. “I had you in jail this morning, didn’t I? And you,” he said to Albert, “helped him escape.” Using his truncheon, he knocked Albert’s hat off.

  When Mr. Clemspool realized
the man was the jail keeper, he dropped his grip on Laurence and made a desperate effort to break through the crowd and flee. Albert tried another direction. The jeering crowd, however, would not let either Englishman escape.

  Laurence, seizing his chance to get away from his brother and Mr. Clemspool, squirmed through the circle of onlookers.

  Nathaniel Brewster had run to the middle of Lowell only to find the police station deserted. Anxiously, he hurried back to Cabot Street and pushed his way to the forefront of the crowd in search of Maura. Smoke was now billowing from the building.

  “Have they got everyone out?” he asked an onlooker.

  “Don’t know,” said Betsy Howard. “But if not, that’s where they’ll be staying.”

  Nathaniel turned back through the crowd in hopes of finding one of his friends.

  In the hallway, Mr. Grout called, “Drabble! Where are yer?”

  A door along the hallway flew open. Mr. Jenkins loomed like an apparition through the rolling heat.

  “’Ere!” cried the one-eyed man. “It’s yer! Look wot yer done!”

  Giving no reply, Mr. Jenkins bolted down the hallway and charged up the steps. Flames licked at his heels.

  “Drabble!” Toby Grout shouted, his words nearly swallowed by an ominous crackling noise behind him in the hall. “Where are yer?”

  Horatio Drabble, with Maura, Bridy, and Patrick, had fled into one of the boarders’ rooms on the second floor. Once there, Maura yanked open a window and looked down to the ground.

  “It’s too far to jump,” she exclaimed.

  She heard a loud clanging noise. The fire-brigade wagon, pulled by its fifteen members, was turning into the street.

  “We’ll have to try the steps,” Mr. Drabble shouted. He broke from the room. As he did, Mr. Jenkins appeared, rushed up to him, and stared madly into his face.

  “Where’s Hamlyn?” he shrieked.

  Mr. Drabble could only shake his head and step back. Mr. Jenkins roared away, opening and shutting doors.