Into the Storm (11 page)

I
n the afternoon, Maura and Patrick left the steerage deck to go after daily provisions. Mr. Drabble was gone again, murmuring something to Bridy about giving a lesson. She was not sure what he meant but was content to be alone in the berth, full of idle thoughts.

She thought about Maura O'Connell, so strong and beautiful, so sure of herself. Bridy thought that if she ever grew up, she would like to be like Maura.

She gazed at the ceiling, the dark crisscrossing wooden beams. She felt the swaying of the boat, and while she knew they were going to America, she had no idea what America was, only that her mother said they would be happy there. Bridy was not sure she knew what being happy meant. Taking a deep breath, she wondered if she would ever know anything. So much seemed uncertain.

Deciding to ask her mother about America, Bridy made her way to her family's berth. Her father and two brothers lay asleep. Her mother was not there.

In the dull light, she studied her father's face. It was a face she loved: the heavy-lidded eyes, the soft cheeks, the curve of his lips. Though Bridy often sensed his disappointment — and knew how tired he most always was — she never knew his anger. Now, as she looked at him, she saw that his sleep was restless and that there was sweat on his brow.

Her brothers — fourteen-year-old Brian and fifteen-year-old John — were thinner, taller than their father. They were the best of friends, always together, whispering off in corners, full of private jokes. She loved them too.

Bridy reached over to stroke her father's brow. It was hot. At her touch, he opened his eyes, saw her, made a small grimace — Bridy was sure it was a smile — then dropped back into fitful sleep. Bridy let him be.

Half an hour later her mother returned. She stood at the foot of the bed and stared fixedly at her husband, unaware of Bridy sitting in the shadows. From the way her mouth was working, Bridy knew she was saying prayers. “Mother …,” Bridy spoke softly.

Mrs. Faherty looked about.

“I'm here,” Bridy said.

Mrs. Faherty beckoned the girl to her side. Then she sighed. “Come now, Bridy,” she said, touching her daughter on the shoulder, “we'll take a bit of a walk.”

They went along the central aisle, then up the steps to the crowded main deck. There were the inevitable long lines for food, for the fireplace, for the privies. Ignoring them, Mrs. Faherty led the child into a corner, from which the quarterdeck rose. It was a gray, cloudy day, and seas were low. Now and again the sails above fluttered languidly.

Bridy, knowing her mother had something to say to her but would speak only when she was ready, waited patiently, staring out at the waves.

“Bridy, love,” her mother said at last.

The girl looked around.

“Faith now, are you still fairing well with that Maura O'Connell?”

Bridy nodded.

“And is she kind to you?”

“She's very kind,” Bridy said. “And, Mother, they do share their food with me.”

“And her brother?”

“He's fine too.”

“What about the other one, the Englishman?”

Bridy considered a moment. “I don't always understand the way he talks.”

For a while Mrs. Faherty said nothing. Then she said, “Bridy, you need to know. Your father is doing poorly.”

Bridy stared up at her mother.

“Ailing. Not well at all,” her mother said. “But you mustn't tell a soul. Begorra, I wanted you to know, but I'm also wanting it to be a secret. Can you keep it?”

Bridy nodded.

“Didn't I hear a priest say once, ‘When an angel speaks, it's silence you hear, 'cause it speaks to your heart and not to your ear.' It was a fine thing to say.” Mrs. Faherty sighed, then went on. 'Cause most of what people like us hear is silence. Sure, isn't it a great comfort to know it's God who's speaking so much to us.”

Bridy pressed her face against her mother's belly. “You'll do fine, Bridy Faherty,” her mother said, squeezing her close. “Just fine.” Then she pushed the girl away. “Look at me, love.”

The girl looked up.

“You must keep away from us. Even from me who loves you so. You must. If it's a sickness we're having, you need to keep yourself clear of it. Stay with them, do you understand? You'll be safer.”

Bridy heard the words, but even as she gazed at her mother, she listened intently to the silence that followed. What she sensed was dread.

T
his morning in the privy line Mrs. Faherty kept looking past Maura, fastening on the distant red dawn. “When a sky's as wounded as that one,” she said mournfully, “there's sure to be a storm sowing and sorrow reaping. Here's a prayer that it comes after they give us our oatmeal portion.” She crossed herself.

Before returning to the steerage deck, Maura looked out at the weather. The sky was indeed gray, ominous. The sea was up, and the waves high now, flicking foam. Wind whistled through the lines, and the ship plunged like a galloping horse.

More and more steerage passengers were anxiously crowding the deck to wait for their rations of water and oatmeal. They carried a variety of pots, pans, and earthen jars.

Worried that, if she and Mr. Drabble did not hurry, they would not get their portions, nor get to cook if a storm came, Maura hurried down to the steerage deck.

Patrick and Mr. Drabble were awake, though still on the platform. Bridy was asleep.

“Are they handing out water yet?” the actor asked Maura.

“People are gathering now,” she informed him. “I was speaking to Mrs. Faherty. She thought today was the day for oatmeal.” Then she added, “They're speaking of a storm.”

“I had better get our provisions,” the actor said immediately. He found one of their sacks and emptied it of their belongings.

“Go with him,” Maura told her brother. “You'll be saving some time. I'll join you soon.”

The two went off, Patrick taking their can for water.

Maura yawned. The thought of an almost empty platform proved irresistible. She climbed into the berth. For a while she was content to listen to the surging winds and the sounds of the ship responding with groans and creaks. Remembering the storm when they had crossed from Cork to Liverpool, she was grateful that this time they would be belowdecks. Maura whispered a prayer, made the sign of the cross, closed her eyes, and soon fell asleep.

On the main deck Mr. Drabble and Patrick found apprehensive passengers pointing off to the east, watching the swelling waves rise and fall with ever-increasing force. As soon as the water, food, and fireplace were made available, lines formed. They could see that people were nervous. Mr. Drabble sought Patrick's hand, but the boy pulled away, turning to where water was being distributed below the main mast. There, two sailors stood next to a barrel they had hauled up from the hold. They were using a bucket to dole out meager portions.

At the other side of the deck, another sailor was scooping out measured rations of oatmeal from a huge sack.

“Make sure you get your full share,” Mr. Drabble called after Patrick. “If that storm comes, who can tell when we'll get our due again.”

Patrick joined the water line. There was the inevitable jostling and pushing. Every time the ship lurched, someone lost his footing and often his place.

Slowly, Patrick moved forward in the line. He could smell the water now, laced as it was with vinegar to keep it drinkable. Patrick hated the taste.

The wait seemed endless. The sailors were taking delight in teasing the passengers by doling out the water even more slowly than was their custom. Patrick, trying to be patient, passed the time by listening to those about him.

“And didn't one of the crew tell me it was a big storm brewing,” he heard a man say.

“How big?”

“That he wouldn't foretell. Nothing to worry about, says
he. Said we'd be perfectly safe in steerage, and to thank our particular saints we weren't down in the bottom hold.”

“Small mercies,” said the other man, casting a wary look at the scudding clouds.

Patrick thought at once of Laurence. If the hold was an unsafe place to be in a storm, shouldn't he warn his friend? He looked up. Sailors — more than usual, he thought — were climbing the lines and beginning to reef in sails. Captain Rickles was barking orders over an increasingly loud wind.

“Come on, Paddy boy,” a voice suddenly growled into his ear. “Move yerself.”

Patrick, who had not been paying attention, realized he was at the head of the line. He stepped forward, holding his can before him.

The sailor, a grizzled old man with few teeth, dunked his wooden bucket into the water barrel, then drew it up.

“Hold you can out farther, won't you!” he shouted.

Patrick stretched forward.

Unexpectedly, the sailor flipped his bucket over. The water gushed out so quickly, the force of it knocked Patrick's can to the deck. His water portion flowed away. Enjoying his joke, the sailor laughed loudly, as did his companion. Patrick hands and wrists soaked, stood helplessly.

“Away with you, Paddy boy,” the sailor cried. “Yer had yer portion. There's a line behind you.”

“But, You Honor, I …,” Patrick tried to protest. Before he could say more, one of the sailors kicked him aside. Angry, Patrick retrieved his can and scuttled across the deck to find Mr. Drabble.

The actor was incensed to hear the boy's story. “You're going to have to handle things better, Mr. Patrick,” he scolded. “Your sister and I can't always be looking after you.”

Handing over the oatmeal he'd received, he took the water can from Patrick. “Take the meal down,” he instructed. “Once there, you can rid it of worms. I'll fetch the water.”

Patrick, already upset by the sailor's treatment, resented Mr. Drabble's words. Who was he to be scolding and ordering him about? Even if he was to become Maura's husband, the
man had no right to be lording it over him. Patrick decided to complain to his sister.

When he reached their platform, however, Maura was asleep. Bridy was awake, but he had no wish to talk to her. For a time Patrick remained by his sister's side, hoping she would get up, rehearsing what he would say. But Maura slept on, and the tossing of the ship grew more turbulent.

Feeling he must warn Laurence about the storm, Patrick set off for the bottom hold. He stopped, took a fistful of oatmeal, and thrust it in his pocket.

Certain he hadn't been observed, Patrick started down the steps. Suddenly, the ship shuddered. It was as if a great hand had grasped the vessel and shaken it. Patrick almost lost his footing, but he reached the level below. As usual, he took up one of the wall candles and brought it to the head of the ladder.

The ship heeled once, twice. Patrick held tight, his heart thumping. After a moment he peered down the ladder again into nothingness. It made him want to turn back.

But, reminding himself that he must warn Laurence — then retreat — Patrick gathered himself and began to descend. He hated the ladder.

The deeper he went, the louder the grinding and groaning of the ship. Halfway down he held out the candle in hopes of seeing his friend. He saw nothing but the confusion of cargo.

“Laurence!” he called. The name echoed up and down the hold. “Laurence!” he cried again, louder. Was Laurence playing his hiding game? Not now, Patrick prayed.

He descended a few more rungs. Unexpectedly, the ship gave a violent heave. Patrick was swung wildly about. Without thinking, he grabbed for the ladder with the hand that held the candle. The flame guttered out.

Before he could catch his breath, the ship pitched in yet another direction. This time the hatchway door above — with a reverberating bang that sounded like a pistol shot — slammed shut. Alarmed, Patrick scrambled up the ladder and pushed against the hatchway. It would not budge.