Into the Storm (10 page)

W
onder where them two Paddies got away to,” Nick Boswell said as he and his two companions — Jeb Grafton and Tom Pelkerton — pushed their way into the ramshackle shanty that was, for them, a kind of haven.

The three had built it from discarded bits of wood in the corner of a yard not far from Adams Street. There was barely enough room for them all. Aside from a bottle with a candle stuck in its neck, there was little more than rubbish about: a rope, candle ends, two other bottles, and, when the boys were there, their shoe-shine boxes.

“We'll get them another time,” Tom said. He was a thick-set thirteen-year-old boy with a face almost babyish in its roundness and soft features. Having picked up Mr. O'Connell's tattered muffler from the alleyway, he now flung it into a corner.

“Think they
were
Paddies?” asked Jeb.

“Had to be,” Nick assured them as he lit the candle in the bottle, “or they wouldn't have run.” Though Nick was shorter than Jeb, he was the toughest, ready to take on anyone. But then all he did was done with certainty, his speech, his way of walking, his willingness to use his strength to get what he wanted.

“I wish we had got 'em,” Tom said, pulling his box close to the candle and sitting on the top of it.

“What would we have done with them?” Jeb asked.

“I'll tell you,” said Nick. “Remember the one we got last week?”

The other boys grinned.

“I suppose he was sorry he tried to slip by us,” Nick went
on. “Bet you most anything he's still soaked and shivering.” He laughed.

At the memory, Jeb trembled, drew his coat up to his neck, and stared into the flame.

“Make anything today?” he asked Nick.

“Hard when it snows,” Nick replied. “Just fourteen cents.”

“I got ten,” Tom said.

Jeb looked up. “I did better than that,” he bragged. “Got me twenty-four cents.”

The boys grew thoughtful. “How's your ma?” Tom asked Jeb.

Jeb stared hard at his friend — as if to make sure how the question was meant, kindly or nosily. Then he shrugged.

“They say it's worst in winter,” Tom offered with sympathy.

“Suppose….”

The reminder of illness silenced them. It was Jeb who said, “I saw Mr. Jenkins again.”

“The one who gave you that coat?”

Jeb nodded. “I did up his boots. He gave me a dime.”

“He's something,” Nick said with ill-disguised envy.

“What'd he say this time?” Tom asked.

Jeb stayed quiet for a while, enjoying the attention of the others. “He's waiting for someone to come back.”

“Who?” Nick demanded.

Jeb stared into the candle flame, biding his time.

“Come on, tell us!” Tom cried, cuffing Jeb's shoulder.

“Ambrose Shagwell, that's who,” Jeb said.

It took a moment for the name to sink in. “The man who owns the Shagwell Cotton Mill?” Nick asked.

Jeb grinned.

Tom whistled. “They friends?”

“Close as anything,” Jeb said.

Tom leaned in toward the candle. “Hey, Jeb, do you think he could get us regular jobs?”

“I suppose he could … if I asked,” Jeb bragged.

“Well then, why don't you ask?” Nick demanded.

“'Cause I'll do it when I'm good and ready,” Jeb replied.

“Well, maybe he could get your father a job,” Tom said after a moment. “Or mine.”

“He could. Sure thing,” Jeb assured him.

Nick's eyes narrowed. “They got Irish working there at Shagwell's.”

“So what?” Jeb said. “They're everywhere.”

“I'm just saying —”

“Mr. Jenkins is planning on something, something big.”

Tom's eyes grew wide. “What kind of big?”

Though Jeb did not know, he smiled knowingly all the same. “I'll tell you when I want to, that's what. And the thing is, I'm going to help him. And when I do, that's when I'll ask about getting jobs. Get my mother some medicine. Get my father money to go to California —”

“California!” Nick cried.

“Sure, to lay his hands on some of that gold. It's there, isn't it? And all you have to do is get there and put it in your pocket. And people say it's a lot warmer than this place is.”

Nick let forth a low whistle. “You'll be doing fine then, won't you?”

Jeb grinned and nodded.

Tom said, “If you want me to help Mr. Jenkins, just say the word. I'll be there.”

“Me too,” said Nick. “Sure thing.”

Jeb smiled. “I'll talk to him. He's my friend.” And he drew his coat about himself a little tighter.

L
aurence? Laurence? Are you there? It's me, Patrick.” His voice echoed through the darkness, becoming lost in the creaks and groans of the continually shifting ship.

Hearing no answer, Patrick moved lower, trying to see through the shadowy light dispelled by the single candle he carried. Six days had passed since he had last visited Laurence. Each time he'd started to come, he'd seen Mr. Murdock lurking about and had to retreat. This time he was sure no one was watching.

When he reached the floor, he called again.

“Over here,” came a soft answer.

Candle before him, Patrick made his way along the central aisle toward the sound of the voice. Suddenly, a hand gripped his ankle. Patrick dropped the candle. The flame, hitting bilgewater, went out with a hiss. What remained was the smell of smoke and wax. The only illumination came from the hatch high above.

Heart pounding, Patrick looked down. A ghostlike Laurence was lying on the floor between two barrels. He was grinning.

“Faith, you scared me,” Patrick said.

“I had to be sure it was you,” Laurence replied as he pulled himself up. Patrick could see that his hair was a tangle, his cheeks pale. The clothing that the minister had given him in Liverpool was filthy and torn.

“Men come down here every day,” Laurence said. “They take up bread or spirits or other things. And I've seen the first
mate twice. From the way he prowls about, I'm pretty sure he's looking for me.”

“Where do you hide?” Patrick asked.

“I've fitted up a barrel. It's perfectly dry. I'll show it to you if you'd like. It's over here.”

They cut around three rows of barrels. “Here it is,” Laurence said.

Patrick looked about. “Where?”

Laurence giggled. “You can't tell, can you?” He lifted the lid of his barrel. Patrick saw it was empty save for some straw.

“That's my home,” Laurence said with pride.

Patrick said, “What do you do all day?”

Laurence shrugged. “I've counted the barrels lots of times. Sometimes I sing songs or try to recall things I've read. Or I try and think of all that's happened. Other times I just sit and remember my family.”

“Laurence,” Patrick said, “you never did tell me of them. Or why you had to run away. Faith, was it something to do with the mark on your face?”

Laurence touched his cheek. “I have to forget all that,” he said softly.

“Oh.” Patrick emptied his pockets. “I brought you some food,” he said. “Bread and cooked rice.”

As Laurence reached for the food, he asked, “How many days have we been traveling?”

“This is the seventh day.”

“It feels like a month,” Laurence said. “Where do you stay?”

“Ah, Laurence, you never saw such a place for noise. Sure, it's crowded beyond belief and terrible dirty.”

“Is it warm?”

“Cold. And rats, Laurence. I've seen a lot of them.”

“They're down here too. Once I read in a book about sailors taming them.”

“Faith, I wouldn't.”

“I should like to try. It would mean company. I've been leaving some food near where I think one comes. I call him Nappy, for Napoleon…. Patrick,” Laurence said, abruptly changing the subject, “could I come visit you?”

“Wouldn't risk it,” Patrick warned. “You said yourself they were looking for you.”

Laurence sighed.

After a moment he asked, “What place are we going to?”

“Boston.”

“Is that a country?”

“A city, I think. My father will meet us there.”

“What's he like?”

“Faith, not a big man. Nor one for smiling or singing songs. Nor can he read, not like Maura or me. For all of that he's a God-fearing, kindly soul.”

“Patrick?”

“What?”

“When we get to America, can I go with you?”

For a moment Patrick was silent. Then he said, “The thing is, Laurence, I'm sure my sister is to marry that Mr. Drabble. I'm not so fond of the man,” Patrick confessed. “And I don't know what all of that will bring.”

“Patrick …?”

“What's that now?”

“Why did you leave Ireland?”

“Sure, you know of the terrible times there.”

Laurence shook his head.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I would have thought everyone knew. It's something truly bad. When we had all but nothing, Da left for America to find work. And then didn't he do fine enough to send for us? Ah, Laurence, it must be a grand country. The promised land they call it.”

Laurence wondered what Patrick would say if he knew his father owned land in Ireland. Then he reminded himself he had nothing to do anymore with any of that.

“Laurence,” Patrick said after a while. “I had better go.”

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“You know I'll try. But I can't always.”

Laurence said, “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“I wasn't frightened. Not really.”

“It was just something to do.”

“I'm sure. Look for me then.”

“I will.”

Patrick made his way back down the center aisle of the hold, found the ladder, and began to climb up. “Bye!” he called.

“Bye,” Laurence echoed. For a moment, he just stood in the dark. “I am like poor Robinson Crusoe,” he said, remembering his favorite book at home. “Just the same.”

I
n Liverpool, England, Sir Albert Kirkle, tall hat in hand, leaned over the quarterdeck railing of the packet ship
Yorkshire
and watched Irish emigrants board below him.

He was angry at his father and at Laurence. Why couldn't his brother simply have accepted the fact that he
was
a younger brother? Why should he be forced to go find him and deal with him in America? As was his habit, Albert squeezed his knuckles so hard they cracked. Let them all go hang!

For a while he studied the people filing on board. It made him think of a parade of beggars. That he should even be close to such people disgusted him.

As Albert looked on, he observed a hansom carriage race up to the quay. The carriage bore the royal insignia, an indication that its mission was government business. A man in livery leaped out, holding a portfolio. He scanned the
Yorkshire
, then began to push his way through the crowd, which gave way before him. When he reached the gangway, he conferred with the sailors on guard, showing them the portfolio. He was allowed to pass through immediately. Albert presumed he was watching the delivery of a government document, some
matter of diplomacy, no doubt. It made sense: The
Yorkshire
, Captain Bailey commanding, had a reputation for being the fastest ship in the North Atlantic trade.

He turned away and allowed his thoughts to drift elsewhere but soon felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the man with the portfolio.

“Sir Albert?” The man saluted him.

“Yes.”

The man bowed and held out the portfolio, which bore the stamp of the government. “A message from Lord Kirkle.”

Albert started. He held out his hand. Perhaps Laurence had returned on his own. Upset by the possibility, Albert opened the portfolio. Inside were two letters. The first was from his father:

Albert hastily looked at the second letter. It was the one Mr. Clemspool had written to him. Not only did it make him blush, it was a disappointment to learn that his brother was alive. Nonetheless, he paid particular attention to the last part of the note.

“Will there be any reply? the messenger inquired of Albert.

“You may tell his lordship that I'm much obliged to him.”

As the messenger went off, Albert wondered where Lowell, Massachusetts, was. It did not matter, he would go there. He would find Laurence and make sure the boy did not come back. As he mused, he suddenly had a thought: What, he wondered, had happened to all the money that had been taken?