Into the Storm

by Avi

Mr. Drabble looked back. Maura, Bridy, and Patrick emerged. The actor peered down the steps. Wild flames surged up.

  “We’ll have to risk it this way,” he called. “Maura, take up the girl again. Stay close. Cover your nose and mouth. Keep your heads low. Try not to breathe the smoke! And for heaven’s sake, stay right behind me.” Dramatically, he gestured upward, cried, “‘O! who can hold a fire in his hand …?’” and started down.

  Maura, with a crying Bridy in her arms, came right after. Her eyes were tearing, her head dizzy with fear. Patrick, holding on to her skirt, followed closely.

  The walls of the stairwell were smoldering. The balustrade was too hot to touch. Sparks and stinging cinders whirled through the air.

  When they reached the first-floor hallway, Mr. Drabble cried, “Which way?”

  “I know,” Maura shouted. “Let me go first! You follow!” Still carrying Bridy, she slipped in front of him.

  Maura led now, groping slowly down the smoke-filled hallway toward the front door. Once, twice she looked back to see Patrick. As for Mr. Drabble, he had disappeared in the clouds through which flames shot like lightning.

  “We’re almost there,” she cried, her eyes streaming. It was no longer possible to see where they were going.

  Bridy, whimpering and trembling, pressed her face against Maura’s neck.

  Suddenly a figure stood before them. Maura halted in fear. It was Mr. Grout.

  “Give me yer hand,” he called.

  Maura complied, and he led them toward the door.

  Gasping for breath, their faces covered with soot, coughing violently, Mr. Grout, Maura, and Bridy stumbled out of the burning building and down the wooden steps.

  Members of the fire brigade — who had been fruitlessly tossing water from leather buckets at the house — gave way. The same mob that had been so angry now parted, making sympathetic murmurs. “Give them room. Let them pass!”

  The three sank down in the middle of the street. From out of the crowd first Nathaniel appeared, then Laurence.

  “Where’s Patrick?” Nathaniel asked.

  Maura started and looked around wildly. “Holy Jesus!” she screamed. “He must be still inside.”

  Laurence leaped up and raced for the building. Maura thrust Bridy into Nathaniel’s arms and followed. The fire-brigade members tried to hold the two back. They were able to restrain Maura, but the small boy darted under their grabbing hands. In one bound, he leaped through the doorway.

  “Patrick!” he screamed. “Where are you?” He tried to go forward. The intensity of the heat forced him back. Dropping to his hands and knees, he began to crawl. Halfway down the hall, he found his friend lying on the floor, unconscious.

  Gasping for air, Laurence grabbed Patrick by his shirt collar and began, by crawling, to drag him toward the door. Patrick’s shirt tore. Laurence, crying with exhaustion and frustration, rubbed his tearing eyes and tried to wipe the sweat and soot from his hot face.

  “Patrick!” he screamed. “You must move!” When no answer came, Laurence pushed the boy up to a sitting position. Then he bent over, wrapped his arms around his friend’s chest, and, bent double, started to haul him backward again.

  Straining with every small step he took, Laurence moved along the hall. He didn’t even know when he reached the door, but when he did, he all but fell out.

  Outside he was met by a weeping Maura and Mr. Grout. “Merciful Jesus,” she cried, “you found him! Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know,” said Laurence, crying and wheezing, trying to soothe his stinging eyes by rubbing them.

  A few people came forward — among them, Betsy Howard — and reached out for both boys. But it was Maura and Mr. Grout who carried them a distance from the burning building. There they laid them on the ground.

  Laurence, groggy, sat up. “Is Patrick all right?”

  “By the living Jesus,” Maura whispered as tears ran down her cheeks, “he’s alive, and didn’t you save him.”

  Suddenly Mr. Grout looked about. “But where’s Drabble?” he cried.

  Maura gasped. “Didn’t he come out?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s still in there!”

  Mr. Grout jumped up and raced for the house only to be confronted by members of the fire brigade. They blocked his way.

  “You can’t go in!” they shouted at him.

  “My friend’s in there!” screamed Mr. Grout, fighting desperately to get by. Six men restrained him. He could not get through.

  “Drabble!” he cried at the house. “Do yer ’ear me! Find yerself an exit!”

  Mr. Jenkins had reached the top floor. “I know you’re hiding, Hamlyn!” he shouted. “I know you are!”

  He stormed into one and then the other of the upper rooms. He found no one.

  Bellowing with rage, Mr. Jenkins ran crazily back to the steps.

  “You can’t get away from me, do you hear, Hamlyn!” the man cried. “I’ll find you!” And he descended into the inferno.

  From their neighbor’s window, Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn watched as their house became engulfed. Their boarders stared with horror. Mrs. Hamlyn, covering her ears to veil the sound of the roaring flames, again and again sobbed the words “‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust….’”

  “Stand back!” the police and members of the fire brigade kept shouting. “Stand back!”

  Slowly, they pushed the crowd — blinking in awe at the heat and light — away from the spectacle. Never once did Mr. Grout, Maura, or Nathaniel take their eyes from the building.

  Flames — like serpent tongues — licked out from the windows of all three stories. Patches of red appeared upon the roof. Black smoke obliterated the stars.

  With a sudden roar, the Hamlyn house seemed to expand like a balloon. Then a moaning, sucking sound filled Cabot Street, and the building collapsed upon itself.

  Betsy Howard buried her face in her hands.

  Presumably, Jeremiah Jenkins had perished. His body was not found. As for Mr. Drabble, his was discovered in what had been the parlor. It was the surmise of Mr. Tolliver that, trying to get out, the actor had taken a wrong turn in the smoky darkness and had been trapped.

  Maura wept by his body. Standing just behind her, Toby Grout wept too.

  Patrick provided particulars to the police captain about who Mr. Drabble was and where he came from. Nathaniel offered his address on Adams Street if any more information was needed.

  So it was that he, Maura and Patrick, Bridy, Laurence, and Toby Grout gathered sadly before his small stove in the room on Adams Street.

  Maura, eyes full of tears, spoke of Mr. Drabble’s many kindnesses since they had met in Liverpool. Mr. Grout spoke of how smart the actor had been and what a patient teacher. Patrick talked of the man’s bravery.

  As he spoke, a soft knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. Tolliver again.

  He nodded solemnly to all, then, pointing to Laurence, he said, “Young man, I need to speak to you.”

  “Me?” Laurence asked with a quiver of nervousness.

  “If you will be so good as to step outside.”

  “You can speak here. These are my friends.”

  Mr. Tolliver considered. “All right,” he said. “This evening we arrested any number of people over what happened. Among them were two Englishmen. Their names are” — the police captain consulted a piece of paper from his pocket — “Matthew Clemspool and Albert Kirkle.

  “The officer who took them in claimed they were brawling. But when I spoke to them, they said it was nothing but a family dispute. And that you, young man, were the cause. Do you know anything about them?”

  “They’re thieves,” Mr. Grout said immediately.

  “I was asking this boy, sir.”

  “Right. And ’e can tell you ’oo they are better than I can.”

  “Do you know them?” Mr. Tolliver asked Laurence again.

  “Maybe,” Laurence said.

  “I know it’s very late,” said Mr. Tolliver. “But if
you could come along with me to the jail, I could sort this matter out.”

  “May I take someone with me?”

  “Don’t know why not.”

  Laurence turned to Mr. Grout.

  Mr. Tolliver brought them to the jailhouse in his own carriage. Holding a lamp, he led them down the stone hallway to the same cell Mr. Clemspool had occupied earlier.

  Albert lay asleep on the floor. Mr. Clemspool slept also but sitting on the bench. Their clothing was soiled and, in Mr. Clemspool’s case, somewhat torn. Their hands and faces were smudged with dirt.

  Mr. Tolliver banged on the cell bars.

  Mr. Clemspool blinked at the light. When he saw who it was, he reached over to poke Albert. The young lord woke with a start, saw Laurence, and jumped up.

  “There you are! You took your time, didn’t you?”

  Laurence stared at him.

  “Well, go on then, tell this foolish policeman that you and I are brothers, that this is all a family quarrel. Then we can leave this disgusting place.”

  Laurence said nothing.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Albert cried, squeezing his hands so tightly, his knuckles cracked.

  Mr. Clemspool grunted. “I suspect the boy is not sure he wants to recognize you.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” Albert shrieked. “Of course he recognizes me. I’m his older brother. The future Lord Kirkle.”

  Mr. Clemspool grinned. “He’s not, to make my point precisely, very fond of you, sir.”

  “But I’m his brother!” Albert protested. “His devoted brother.”

  “What’ll ’appen if the boy says nothin’?” Mr. Grout asked Mr. Tolliver.

  Rocking back on his heels, the police captain, hands deep in his pockets, felt the British ambassador’s letter. “Not much. They’ll stay here for a week. Maybe less. Disturbing the peace. This fellow escaped from jail early yesterday morning. But he was already due to be let out.” He shrugged. “They’ll be warned to leave the country. Long as they do and promise not to come back, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Mr. Tolliver looked from Albert to Laurence. “Are you brothers?” he asked Laurence.

  After a moment the boy said, “No.”

  Albert blanched. “What do you mean no?” he cried in shock. “Once a brother, always a brother! Anyone knows that.” He clutched at the bars. “For heaven’s sake, Laurence, tell him so. Clemspool, tell him that bit from the Bible you like to quote. Of course he knows me!” Albert shouted. “What’s more, he stole money from our father. He’s a thief. He’s the one who should be here!”

  Mr. Tolliver bent over Laurence. “What’s your name then?”

  Laurence considered Albert coldly. Grimly, he said, “I don’t know who he is. My family died on the ship coming over. My name is John Faherty.”

  “Good enough for me,” Mr. Tolliver said.

  “That’s a lie!” squawked Albert. “An absolute lie!”

  “Laurence! Laurence is his name,” Mr. Clemspool shouted as the boy began to back away. “Read your Bible. Genesis. Chapter four. Verses five through nine. Cain and Abel. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Read it and learn!”

  In the carriage that Mr. Tolliver had provided for their return to Nathaniel’s room, Laurence and Mr. Grout were silent for a time.

  Finally, Mr. Grout said, “Do yer know wot that Clemspool told me yesterday afternoon?”

  Laurence shook his head.

  “’E said that all that money was put in a bank. And that unless ’e found some sort of a key to it, it would stay there — forever.”

  Laurence turned, his eyes wide. “A key?” he said.

  “Right. From a bank ’ereabouts. Something like a Mannibeck … Merrimack. But then ’e always was one for makin’ up stories.”

  Laurence reached into his pocket, pulled out the key, and held it out for Mr. Grout to see.

  In spite of himself, the one-eyed man grinned.

  Later, lying on the floor of Nathaniel’s room, staring into the darkness, Laurence whispered, “Patrick, are you awake?”

  “Faith, I can’t sleep either. Too much has happened.”

  “I told my brother I didn’t know him. Can … can I be your brother?”

  Patrick hesitated only a moment. “Faith, I’m proud to have you for that. But will you go back to London?”

  “I’m not yet sure. What would I be there?”

  In another corner Nathaniel murmured to Maura, “You must know, Miss O’Connell, I … I loved you even before I saw you. It was your father’s way of talking.”

  Maura shook her head. “You mustn’t say that. It’s not my dear da’s words that should do the wooing,” she said gently. “I’d rather be cared for … for what I am myself.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “I’ll not say more. But I will tell you what I think I’m going to do.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I’m going to California to search for gold.”

  “And do you think, Nathaniel Brewster, you’ll find it?”

  “I do. But it won’t be as fine as what’s here,” Nathaniel said with a shy smile. “Maura O’Connell … will … will you … wait for me to come back?”

  Maura was silent.

  “Will you?”

  “You’re a fine young man, Mr. Brewster. I can only say I’ll not forget you.”

  Neither Maura nor Nathaniel went to work that day. Instead, she made the suggestion that Nathaniel should fetch the money from the bank. Laurence was only too willing to let the young man do it.

  There was not the slightest problem. Nathaniel showed the key to the teller, who led him to the vault, indicated the locked boxes, and left him alone. Nathaniel opened the box, took out all the money, handed in the key, and walked out to the street.

  For a long moment Laurence looked at the bills and small change, then put them all in his pocket and held them tightly until he returned to Nathaniel’s room.

  Mr. Grout could now arrange for Mr. Drabble’s funeral. Laurence insisted.

  The service was held the next day in a small cemetery on the edge of Lowell. Mrs. Hamlyn was expressly invited by Maura.

  The narrow pine box — upon which the actor’s volume of Shakespeare had been placed — was lowered into the earth. Mr. Grout spoke the final words. “’E was a good man,” he said, “and a friend with a ’eart wider than ’e ’imself was. ’Ere’s ’opin’ God blesses ’im.”

  When the funeral was over, the mourners repaired to a restaurant on Merrimack Street. There was very little talk, but when the table was cleared, Laurence stood up. “I have to say something,” he announced in his small voice. He nodded to Mr. Grout. From his pockets the one-eyed man took a number of envelopes.

  “I have all this money from my father. I shouldn’t have taken it. But I can’t give it back now. It needs to be used.” He slid one envelope to Mrs. Hamlyn.

  “That’s a thousand dollars to find another house.”

  He handed another envelope to Maura. “There’s two thousand dollars to help you and Patrick and Bridy make your way in America.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Maura gasped.

  “The rest is for Mr. Grout, Mr. Brewster … and me. We’re going to California. And when Mr. Grout and I have made back all the money I took from my father, we’re going to take it to him. Mr. Brewster will keep his own fortune and can do what he wants with it.”

  Nathaniel glanced across the table at Maura. She was holding Bridy on her lap and stroking Patrick’s hand. She lifted her tearstained face briefly, looked into Nathaniel’s eyes, then turned back again to gaze at Laurence.

  Mr. Clemspool and Sir Albert stood upon the quarterdeck of the clipper ship Good Fortune. They did not face each other but gazed separately at the New England coast fast fading behind.

  “See here, Clemspool,” said Sir Albert, “we need to buck each other up. I’m going to tell my father that Laurence died. You’ll have to give evidence, you know.”

  “As long as you testify tha
t I had nothing to do with his going to America.”

  Albert hesitated. Then he said, “Of course.”

  Mr. Clemspool, noting the hesitation, winced. All he said, however, was, “Then we should get by.”

  “Jolly well too,” returned Albert, though there was little conviction in his voice. “What’s my father going to do, disown his only son and heir? Cause a scandal? Not him.”

  Mr. Clemspool, saying nothing, stared glumly at the undulating sea.

  “Well then,” Albert pressed, “you should be glad to be going home.”

  “Sir, considering the way things have transpired — being obliged to flee England, forced out of America — well, sir, I am not, to make my point precisely, altogether pleased.” So saying, he turned upon his heels and walked off toward his steerage berth.

  Not long after, Maura, Patrick, and Bridy stood on the well-lit platform of the Lowell & Boston Railway station in Lowell. From the rear deck of the last car, Laurence, Mr. Grout, and Nathaniel smiled down at them.

  Suddenly the train’s whistle shrieked, causing Bridy to press her hands to her ears. Great clouds of smoke and steam blew forth. With much clanging, the train began to pull out. “Good-bye! Good-bye!”

  Patrick, Bridy, and Maura waved back.

  In silence the three walked out of the station and into the chilly dimness of the predawn air. Bridy was anxious to return to their new home — Mr. Brewster’s old room. Patrick kept wishing he could have gone west, but he knew that he needed to stay with Maura. They would make a new life. And hadn’t Maura told him that with the money Laurence had given them she would continue working, but he could go to school as well as look after Bridy. Though Patrick did wonder how long it would be before the others came back from the west and what adventures might befall them, he was excited by the thought of school. Who knew what might become of him!

  For her part, Maura thought of her mother alone in Ireland. She would write her a letter, telling her about Da’s death and all that had happened. She thought too of Nathaniel Brewster and what he would be like when — and if — he returned. How would she be, by that time, herself?