Into the Storm (12 page)

B
ursts of lightning shattered the sky. High winds sliced through the lines, making them hum. Thunder came next, pummeling the ears.

The sailors reacted speedily by whisking away water casks and the oatmeal sack. In a matter of moments the fireplace fire was doused with buckets of seawater.

“All passengers below!” bellowed Captain Rickles from his place before the mizzenmast. “All passengers below!”

Like a stiff broom, an icy rain swept the decks of the ship, all but pushing the emigrants down the stairway to the steerage deck.

“Shorten sail!” the captain cried through his speaking tube as he tried to make himself heard above the howling wind and thudding waves. “Stand by to take in royals and flying jib! Take in mainsail and spanker!”

The sailors wrestled with the heavy rain-soaked sails, struggling to reef them in before the wind gusted again. Enormous waves began to smash broadside against the
Robert Peel
. With each blow the ship shuddered, pitching and yawing wildly.

As the last frantic passenger tumbled down the steps into steerage, sailors leaped to the doors and hatches, slammed them shut, then secured them tightly with ropes so as to keep the interior decks from flooding. Anything on the main deck not tied down would be quickly washed away.

On the steerage level, the rain beat a tattoo against the ceiling. The hanging lamps gyrated, some so wildly that they guttered out. The shifting and tilting of the ship set trunks, pots, food, water to flying.

The emigrants crouched down upon their platforms and
the floor planking, clinging to their possessions. Some became sick. Many began to cry, to pray. If they kept their eyes open, they saw, even through the gloom, the increasing havoc and destruction all about them. If they closed their eyes, they heard sudden shrieks and moans and could only imagine the worst: that they were about to sink.

A drenched Mr. Drabble was one of the last to get down the steps. When he reached the platform, he found Maura alone with Bridy. The girl was clinging to a platform post with two hands, crying for her mother, who, tending to the rest of her family down the way, could not come. Maura struggled to keep the child calm.

As soon as she saw Mr. Drabble, Maura called, “And where is Patrick?”

“I thought he was with you.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Maura moaned. “I never saw him. Do you think he could still be up on deck?”

Mr. Drabble shook his head. “They sent everyone below.”

Ignoring Bridy's whimpers, Maura scurried off the platform. “I'll be worrying till I find him,” she declared.

But by the time Maura reached the central stairway, she had seen no sign of her brother. Feeling compelled to search further, she pushed her way back into the aft section of the deck.

Again she told herself that she need not worry, that Patrick would turn up safe and sound as he always had. But in spite of her own assurances, she kept thinking the worst, that he was on the deck.

She struggled back to the central steps. Upon reaching the top, she pushed against the door, but it remained shut. First she knocked on it, then she pounded. No one came. In desperation she threw herself against the door. It still would not give. The realization dawned on her that they had been locked in. Had the crew abandoned them? It could not be, she told herself. It could not. She slumped on the top step, buried her face in her hands, and began to pray.

When a sudden plunge of the ship knocked her off the step, she knew she must return to their berth. Should she
inform the others below that the door was locked? If she did, she was certain to cause a panic. She decided to say nothing.

The stench of people's sickness was overpowering. With almost no light she had to grope her way back to the platform.

“Did you find him?” Mr. Drabble called.

Maura shook her head. Then, once again, she began to pray.

F
aintly, as though from a great distance, Patrick heard the cries from steerage as the
Robert Peel
's timbers moaned and groaned in twisted agony. So severe was the ship's movement that a barrel broke free, careened wildly across the central aisle, struck a post, and shattered, spewing its contents in all directions.

Patrick, barely able to stand, fell to his knees. “Laurence!” he shouted over the tumult. There was no answer. “Laurence!” he fairly screamed. “It's me, Patrick.”

“I'm here,” came a faint reply.

“I'm by the ladder,” Patrick called. “I can't see.”

“Stay where you are,” Laurence replied. “I'll come to you.”

Staring hopelessly into the absolute darkness, Patrick propped himself against the ladder and waited, breathing hard. When he least expected it, he felt the touch of a hand. He jumped. “Laurence?”

“What is it?” Laurence asked. “I keep hearing shouts from above. Why is the ship moving so wildly?”

“It's a storm,” Patrick explained.

But Laurence only said, “Did you bring me anything to eat?”

Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled out as much oatmeal as he could. “Here,” he said.

Laurence found Patrick's hand, cupped it in his, and gathered up the food. Dry and uncooked as it was, he pushed the oatmeal into his mouth.

The ship lurched heavily. From a distance panicky cries rose and fell. Then something else closer at hand broke loose and smashed. Patrick jumped, recollecting suddenly the sharp crackling sounds of Mr. Morgan's soldiers shooting at him back in Kilonny the day they left.

“Laurence,” he gasped, “we need to be getting ourselves away from here.”

“Why?”

“Didn't I hear a man say that during the storm it would be worst down here. It's why I came to warn you. By the blessed Saint Martin, it's come on fast.”

“Lots of things have been breaking loose,” Laurence said. “Barrels keep smashing.”

To Patrick, Laurence's voice seemed unnaturally calm. It was almost as if he didn't care.

“Back there,” Laurence went on, “a whole chest of dishes broke to bits. It did sound awful.”

“That's what I'm telling you, Laurence, you have to find a safer place.”

“But won't they discover me?”

“Sure but there must be somewhere to hide you that won't be as bad as down here,” Patrick said.

“Where?” Laurence asked eagerly.

“I'm not sure,” Patrick admitted. “That hatch above is shut and jammed. Maybe someone closed it. I couldn't lift it at all.”

“There is another ladder,” Laurence said. “To the rear.”

“Where does it go?”

“I don't know. But do you think it's safe?”

“Laurence, it can't be worse than this. Do you think you can find that ladder now?”

“I think so.”

“Go on then,” Patrick said. “Better give me your hand.
I can't see a thing.” Groping for Laurence, he found his friend's arm.

Laurence led the way down the littered aisle. Twice, Patrick stumbled.

When they were halfway along, the ship gave a tremendous shudder, and Patrick lost his grip. Behind them, a barrel broke free, rumbled down the aisle, and struck Patrick from behind. With a scream he fell.

“Patrick!” Laurence cried.

“I'm … here.” Patrick breathed. “I can't move.” The barrel had come to rest atop his foot, pinning him down. “Get it off!” Patrick pleaded against the searing pain. “Get it off!”

Laurence fumbled through the dark. Once he found Patrick, he threw all his weight against the barrel. He could not move it.

“Please!” Patrick implored.

Laurence tried again. As he did, the ship heaved. The combined movement was enough to shift the barrel, causing it to rumble on down the aisle.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the leg hurts bad,” Patrick whimpered.

“Can you move at all?” Laurence asked.

Patrick dragged himself forward. “I need your hand.”

Clinging to Laurence, Patrick managed to pull himself up. But when he put weight on his right leg, a bolt of excruciating pain shot through him. “Holy Mother,” he managed to say. “It's something truly bad. Where's the other ladder?”

“This way.”

They inched along. Every time Patrick put his foot down, the pain seemed to explode.

“Here it is,” Laurence finally announced.

Patrick reached out and touched a ladder. It was considerably smaller than the central one.

“Where do you think it goes?” Patrick asked.

“I don't know. Will you be able to climb?” Laurence asked.

“Faith, I'd better. I'm not staying here,” Patrick replied. He was breathing hard, trying to keep from crying.

Laurence said, “Let me go first.”

“You?”

“I think I'd better.” Without waiting for a response, Laurence reached up and began to climb. Patrick, following, put his good foot on the bottom rung and hauled himself up. Then he tried the hurt foot. The pain had not eased. “Don't go too fast,” he called.

Gradually, the two boys worked their way up, now and again pausing for the ship to desist in its wild tossing.

Laurence knew he'd reached the ceiling only when he banged his head against it. “I'm at the top,” he yelled down.

“Faith now, see if you can find a hatchway,” Patrick told him.

Laurence stretched up and felt about until his fingers touched what he thought was a trapdoor. “I found it!” He gave it a shove. Though very heavy, the trap rose slightly. “It moves!” he cried.

“Get it open!”

Moving higher on the ladder, Laurence bent his head forward so that his back came up against the hatchway. Then he pressed down on both legs even as he pushed his back up. The hatchway lifted. Twisting awkwardly, almost falling, he shoved the door with all his strength.

“I've got it upright,” he hollered to Patrick. “I'm going to see where it leads.”

T
oby Grout lay stretched upon his stateroom bed in awful misery. One large hand gripped the bed frame; the other covered his good eye. Now and again he groaned.

In contrast, Mr. Clemspool sat on his bed, his round, rosy face completely relaxed as he observed his roommate with
detached amusement. “I trust you've heard what Mr. Murdock said?” he asked.

“I couldn't eat,” Mr. Grout returned. As far as he was concerned, the only valid question to be asked was, Would death come by the sinking of the ship, or by the sinking of his stomach?

Mr. Clemspool went on. “He insisted this was just an ordinary storm, that it will last a few days, but it will make the voyage go faster. May I therefore suggest, sir, that you pull yourself together.”

“Yer do wants to plague me, don't yer?” Mr. Grout groaned.

His companion laughed.

“Ain't no shame in sayin' I'm sick!” Mr. Grout cried. “I'm frightened too,” he added as the ship heaved in such a particularly wrenching way that the ceiling lamp swung over his head like a decapitating ax. “I don't like it. Yer don't 'ave to keep tryin' to make me worse.”

“Mr. Grout, you should save your fears for something worthy, like the ghost of a sailor rising from the sea. Mr. Murdock informed me it happens during storms.”

Mr. Grout pushed himself up on an elbow. “Did 'e?”

“To make my point precisely, sir — you are an ignorant man. I should think you are rich enough to get that tutor of yours to teach you some proper religion.”

“I just knows wot to be fearful of!”

“You could be worse off,” Mr. Clemspool taunted. “You could be with all those ignorant Irish down below. You'd be at home with them.”

Mr. Grout, feeling yet another wave of nausea rise within him, fell back on his bed.

“
My
only complaint about this storm,” Mr. Clemspool went on, “is that it keeps me cooped up with you.”

The ship took a sudden drop, as if into a crevasse. Mr. Grout leaped up in terror.

“You need to be as calm as I am, sir,” Mr. Clemspool suggested scornfully. “Like a gentleman.”

“I needs to get away from yer, that's wot I need,” Mr. Grout declared. “I'm goin' into the galley. Anywhere would be better than 'ere.” When Mr. Clemspool only laughed again, Mr. Grout, feeling both wretchedly sick to his stomach and furious, hurried out of the stateroom, slamming the door behind him.

The gallery way was deserted. Overhead, on the quarterdeck, beat the unceasing rain. From below, as though from a great distance, rose the frightened cries from steerage.

The gloominess of the galley, the distant shouts, the tumultuous, incessant rocking of the ship, all convinced Toby Grout that his death from drowning was foredoomed.

Desperate for peace of mind, the one-eyed man staggered along on wobbly legs, bracing himself against the walls each time the ship heaved abruptly. The more he thought of the fact that he was caught in a raging storm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, the greater became his dread.

Why am I 'ere? he kept asking himself. Then the frightening thought occurred to him that perhaps the storm was aimed at
him
! Was not that how God dealt with Jonah when the man had sinned?

Just to contemplate his criminal past made Mr. Grout quake. Images of his criminal life on London streets careened through his mind. A fit of remorse gripped him, shook him. In particular, he fastened on the way he had come by the money in his cabin now, the money that had brought him to this point of suffering. That thought in turn reminded Mr. Grout of the London boy he had robbed in the street. He began to wonder — with a deepening sense of guilt — what had happened to him. Perhaps he was dead. The idea of it made Mr. Grout tremble.