Into the Storm (16 page)

I
n the Shagwell Cotton Mill of Lowell, Massachusetts, Sarah Grafton — along with other women operatives — was almost two hours into her day at the drawing machines. Her long black hair, parted in the middle, was pulled behind her neck in a bun. She had tied an apron over her skirt.

The room in which she worked was vast. Just below the high ceiling, leather belts flapped, looking for all the world like gigantic looped brown noodles. The power to move them came from canal water turning a huge wheel at the basement level. The belts rolled and twisted through pulleys and gears that in turn drove the smaller belts that dropped down to run the machines.

These machines — second carders, drawers, and double-speeders — twisted and pulled raw cotton into thick thread, rocking and shaking upon their metal and wooden legs with such violence and loud crashing that the entire wooden floor vibrated. Clouds of cotton specks floated in the air, making it hard for the operatives to draw a clear breath.

The room, moreover, had its windows nailed shut to keep the humidity high. This made the cotton pliable and helped prevent the fragile fibers from breaking.

Sarah Grafton's job was to take up four or five of the cotton strands from the carding machines — slivers they were called, each one thicker than her arm — and feed them into the drawing frames. These not only stretched the cotton slivers by means of a series of rollers, but gradually combined them into one finger-width cord, which was wound then onto large bobbins. Once full, the bobbins were taken to the double-speeding machines to make a finer thread for the looms on another floor. Each day Sarah Grafton was required to produce at least two hundred bobbins.

She worked standing, pacing up and down before the machines she was responsible for. Because the slivers kept breaking, she was continually obliged to stop the machine by pushing a heavy lever, then quickly twisting the broken ends of the sliver together. Then she started the machine again.

She also had to be sure the rollers worked at even speeds. To look away could mean disaster. The slivers would tangle or break or, worst of all, become lumpy. What was wanted was a single uniform cord spooled neatly on the bobbin.

For the most part, Sarah ignored her cough, though during the last five months it had deepened. But rarely did it keep her from coming to work in the predawn darkness. She could not afford to give in to it.

Behind her, striding up and down along the rows of drawing machines and their operatives, was Mr. Osmundson, the floor overlooker. He was making sure that the pace of the work was steady. A fat jolly fellow with a derby perched on the back of his head, he liked his operatives — girls he called them — and bestowed many a smile and word of encouragement upon them. If any of the machinery broke, he hurried to fix it. If he could not fix it, he called for help. And, if any of the women lagged at their work, he was there to remind them of their duty, calling out a rebuke as he saw fit.

“Sarah, my girl,” he shouted as he came down the line, “how are you today?”

“Fair enough,” she returned without looking around at him.

“And the baby?”

“He's got a new tooth.”

“I remember how that can keep you awake. Watch your third roller, darling. It's balking!”

Sarah leaped forward to make the adjustment.

“And your husband, has he found work?”

“He's all but given up.”

Mr. Osmundson shook his head in sympathy. “Once they've turned you off and marked you down, it's awful hard on a man. Look there! You've got a thick spot on sliver number two!”

Sarah, coughing, reached out and pulled at the sliver, her thin fingers deftly teasing the lump until it melted away.

“Your cough is no better, darling,” Mr. Osmundson called to her. “You need to take good care!” With that, he moved along to the next machine and chatted with Betsy Howard, the operative stationed there.

At seven-thirty the breakfast bell rang. As soon as it did, Mr. Osmundson threw the floor's main lever. Though the power belts still whirled above, all the machines slowed to a halt. On the instant, most of the operatives hurried toward the doors. They had no more than thirty-five minutes to eat.

Sarah did not leave with them. To save strength, she sat down on the floor, back propped against one of her machines. From the base of it, she took up a handkerchief, in which Jeb had wrapped her breakfast. The meal consisted of a piece of bread and a cold sausage. She ate slowly.

Betsy Howard came to sit next to her with her own small meal.

“How are you doing today, my dear?” she asked Sarah as she bit into her piece of meat pie and simultaneously began to brush the white cotton lint from her blouse.

“Good enough,” Sarah answered without looking around. No sooner did she speak than she coughed, then patted her mouth with her handkerchief. She inspected it.

“Blood?” Betsy asked softly.

Sarah shook her head. “Not yet,” she whispered.

“Cotton cough. What you need is some fresh air. That's the only thing to make you better. Get out of the city somewhere, Sarah. Or go for that walk along the river. It's good air there.”

“Perhaps,” Sarah said. “On Sunday.”

“You can take your baby.”

For a while, the two women ate without speaking.

“I think there's been a speedup again,” Betsy said, keeping her voice low.

Sarah looked around. “I thought it was just me getting dull,” she said.

“It isn't you. Considering, I don't know how you can keep up.”

“Did you ask Mr. Osmundson?”

Betsy shook her head. “I've tried. He gave me a warning.”

“What kind?”

“Too much complaining will get me turned off. He was kind about it, but he meant it.”

“They wouldn't do that to you,” Sarah said. “You've been here five years. More than most. And you're too good.”

Betsy laughed grimly. “He said there's plenty an Irish girl to take my place.”

“That there is,” Sarah said. Finishing her meal, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “My boy Jeb hates the Irish. Goes on about them all the time.”

“I don't like them either.” Then Betsy Howard said, “Get some rest now,” and patted her friend on the arm. “Only five more hours till lunch bell.”

I
t was early evening. Partially hidden by the darkness, Jeremiah Jenkins stood across the street from James Hamlyn's house, staring at it as if his eyes alone could blast the structure to bits. But since his look could not accomplish the task, he brooded the more on his anger and his cause.

As the wind scattered the gray snow at his feet, he watched the mill girls and women passing by, returning from work.

With a grunt of frustration, Mr. Jenkins spit and trudged off to another, more affluent section of town, coming to a stop at a large stone structure of three stories with a steeply pitched roof. A grand columned door stood close to the ice-rutted street so that one could step directly from a carriage onto the stone front steps.

Mr. Jenkins climbed the steps and knocked sharply upon the door. It was opened by a serving girl in a simple brown dress, mobcap, and apron.

“Has Mr. Shagwell returned from England?” he inquired.

“If it please you, sir, he's not,” answered the young woman.

“Are you Irish?”

The woman smiled. “Only recently come over, sir.”

“Bloody hypocrite,” Mr. Jenkins mumbled.

“Would you be wanting the mistress?” the young woman asked.

Mr. Jenkins shook his head.

“I can only tell you the master is expected soon.”

“How soon?”

“It's not for me to be saying for certain, sir. Might you like to leave your card?”

“I don't have a card,” Mr. Jenkins said.

“You could be leaving your name, sir.”

“Just tell him Jeremiah Jenkins called. On urgent business.”

“I'll do so, sir. Mr. Jenkins.”

Angry, the man set off again, entirely unaware that Mr. Tolliver — as had become his habit — was following him.

M
idnight. The
Robert Peel
's sails fluttered and whipped in the wind. A salt spray — soft and cool like an angel's wings — floated across the deserted deck. High in the southwestern sky, the moon cast a golden road of light across the rolling waters, a road that ran directly from the ship to the edge of the sea and beyond. It seemed to be the road the
Robert Peel
was following.

The helmsman, his two large red-raw hands grasping the spokes of the great steering wheel, stared straight ahead along the moonlit way. The second mate rang the ship's bell eight times. Now and again he examined the compass with a lamp, gazed up at the sails and stars but found nothing to say to the helmsman.

The door from the steerage deck opened. A sailor emerged, looked about to make sure no one was watching, then beckoned to someone. Quickly he was followed on deck by four men carrying a long closed sack. They bore this to the bulwarks, where, in hasty unison, they hurled it into the sea.

Their task done, the sailors rubbed and blew on their hands for warmth, then hurried off to their forecastle bunks.

The helmsman, who had heard the splash, asked the second mate, “How many is that?”

The other man shrugged. “Thirty-two, I should think.”

The helmsman spit over his shoulder.

“I heard say a whole family went. First the father. His wife and two sons too. Just a young girl left.”

The helmsman shook his head and gripped the wheel spokes a little tighter. Save for the sound of the ship sliding through the sea with a consistent hiss, all was quiet again.

'O
w am I doin'?” Mr. Grout asked Mr. Drabble across the table. The two men were in the first-class dining room. After the lunch had been served, Mr. Drabble had been called there from steerage to give the young man another reading lesson. On the table were the cluttered remains of Mr. Grout's lunch: plates of meats, pickles, boiled eggs and assorted meat pies, bread, and drink.

“You are a good student, Mr. Grout,” a hungry Mr. Drabble replied. Feeling as though he'd not eaten for weeks, he was distracted by the food. “And though you have a considerable way to go, you progress rapidly.”

“I'm wantin' to progress,” Mr. Grout said with solemnity. “I'm needin' to progress. I've been told to progress.”

“Have you now,” the actor said casually. “By whom?”

Mr. Grout looked about furtively. “Can yer keep a secret?” he asked.

“As well as any man,” Mr. Drabble returned.

Mr. Grout leaned across the table and fixed his one good eye on his teacher. “I've 'ad a vision,” he revealed in a hushed voice. “From the other side.”

Mr. Drabble drew back. “Why … what do you mean by that?”

“Right 'ere. On this ship. A spirit came to warn me of me sinful ways.”

Mr. Drabble, suddenly uncomfortable, pushed the hair out of his eyes. “It's nothing I should make sport of, Mr. Grout,” he cautioned.

The one-eyed man put a hand to his heart. “Mr. Drabble,
accordin' to me lights, yer gets these warnings but once. If yer don't 'eed 'em, yer doomed.”

“Then you had best heed it,” Mr. Drabble replied, having no desire to contradict his benefactor.

“I intend to,” Mr. Grout said loudly, as if he wanted the spirit itself to hear. “And yer a part of my 'eedin'. I've never 'ad much in the way of schoolin', not so much as yer little finger's worth, do yer know. But now … I can read some. Ship,” he proclaimed. Then haltingly but proudly he said the letters. “S-H-I-P. Is that right?”

“It is.”

“Yer've helped me, Mr. Drabble, and I'm thankin' yer. Sometimes I think I might set up as an innkeeper. I'd get to 'elp people that way. I can see meself lookin' rather decent dolin' out the victuals.”

Mr. Drabble looked up. “Why then, sir, I suggest we practice a little of that right now.”

“'Ow do yer mean?”

“Why not stand up where you are, behind the table, while I act — you do recall that I am an actor? — while I act a guest, famished, of course, and you can serve me.”

Mr. Grout nodded. “I can see that,” he said with some gravity. Standing, he removed his jacket.

“Good!” said Mr. Drabble, standing himself and crossing the room. “I'll act a man who has just come in from a storm. I'm wet, ragged, and hungry, eager for my ‘cakes and ale,' as the bard put it. You'll want to arrange the food a bit.”

Mr. Grout gathered the plates of food before him. “All right now. 'Ere we go.”

Mr. Drabble approached the table and bowed. “A very good evening to you, sir. Terrible weather we're having.”

“It surely is,” Mr. Grout replied uncertainly. “An' wot can I do for yer, sir?”

“I am very hungry, sir.”

“Wot do I say then?” Mr. Grout asked as an aside.

“Something along the order of, ‘Make yourself at home, sir. Eat whatever you desire.' Then you offer all those plates to me.”

“I've got it!” Mr. Grout said, and did as his friend suggested. In turn, Mr. Drabble resumed his seat, drew the food plates toward him, and began to eat ravenously.

For a while there was no more talk. At last Mr. Grout asked, “Is there anything else I should be sayin'?”

“You might inquire if I was enjoying myself, or if I'd had enough. Something of the sort. And … and if you were really generous, you might even suggest I take some away with me.”

Eager to oblige, Mr. Grout followed his tutor's directions. Accordingly, the actor stuffed his pockets with whatever food he could manage to hold.

“You've done very well,” he enthused, pushing himself from the table, his stomach and pockets equally full. “You will make an excellent innkeeper.”

“It's 'ard to wait. The captain told us 'e's 'opin' to see land in a few days.”

“Did he?”

“Maybe sooner. I 'ope so, 'cause I'm wantin' to start me new life, Mr. Drabble. Wantin' it bad!”

Hands over his bulging pockets, Mr. Drabble hurried back down to the steerage section. Both Maura and Patrick were on the platform and Bridy too, off in her corner.

Mr. Drabble hauled himself halfway up the berth. “I bring good news, Miss O'Connell,” he said, keeping his excited voice low. “There are but a few days more of this voyage. Better yet, my pockets are full of decent food.”

“Sure, that news is grand, Mr. Drabble. But where would you be getting food from?” Maura asked.

“From my student, Mr. Grout.”

“I can't say I care for the man, Mr. Drabble, but I'm not too proud to take his food,” she said.

“Can I have some for Laurence?” Patrick asked.

“Ah, yes, the stowaway. For our sakes, I do hope he is not caught.”

“Sure, but he hasn't been caught yet,” Patrick replied with annoyance. “And you just said it's only a few more days.”

“Mr. Patrick,” the actor allowed with a quick glance at Maura, “I admire your loyalty.”

“Well, I for one don't think we should be talking about him,” Maura warned.

Feeling rebuked, Mr. Drabble silently laid out the food he had brought. It consisted of bread, slices of meat, and a hardboiled egg.

Patrick's eyes grew large. “By the Holy Mother, it's a feast,” he exclaimed.

Mr. Drabble put a finger to his lips. “If you don't keep your tongue tight, Mr. Patrick, you'll be sharing it with the entire deck.”

Maura took up the egg and beckoned to Bridy. “Come on then, Bridy. Here's decent food.”

The girl shook her head. Since her family had perished, she rarely ventured far from her corner. She neither cried nor spoke, even when addressed. She ate little. Her eyes were forever staring into a distant place as though she were engaged in private prayers. By her side she kept a small pile she'd saved of her family's clothing. This she had folded neatly and often used as a pillow.

“Faith, the poor girl hardly wants to live,” Maura confided to Mr. Drabble.

“She should be made to eat,” he said sternly, “or she'll suffer the same fate as the rest of her family.”

“You need to be kind to her, Mr. Drabble,” Maura urged. “But won't you be eating any yourself?”

“None for me, Miss O'Connell,” he said grandly, “I've already eaten enough. It's all for you and yours.”

“Truly, Mr. Drabble, you've been the saving of us again and again. You'll be blessed in the hereafter, I'm sure.”

“I'd rather be blessed now, Miss O'Connell,” he returned. Blushing at his own boldness, he hurried away.

“What did he mean by that?” Patrick asked, looking after the departing actor.

“I'm sure I don't know,” Maura answered evasively. “Now here's your food. Eat it and then get on with you. It's the girl I need to be tending.”

Patrick divided his food in half, ate one part, then carried away the rest, intent upon finding Laurence.

Maura, alone on the platform with Bridy, considered the child. Her uncombed hair hung about her wan face like a ragged shroud. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth turned down. Now and again she rubbed her nose but made almost no other motions.

“Bridy,” Maura coaxed softly, “the ones who eat resist the fever best, they say.”

The girl stared at her with empty eyes.

Maura gently touched her small fingers. They were rough and cold. “The Lord knows it's been a terrible thing,” she said. “Surely, He'll help you. But there's no harm in taking comfort from me too. And sure, you have to eat.” Maura held up the egg.

“But …,” the girl whispered, only to falter.

Maura leaned closer. “But what?”

“I don't want to be living.”

“Now, Bridy,” Maura said softly, “it's a sin to say so. You know it sure as I. And didn't I promise your poor mother I'd be a comfort to you and keep you well?”

The girl only wiped her nose.

“It's not just an egg I'm offering.”

Bridy looked at her. “What then?” she asked.

“We'll not cast you off, Bridy. You can be with us. Never a word need come from your lips, not unless you're wanting to speak. But think of it, you can grow into something fine, an honor to them that brought you into God's world.”

Bridy made no reply.

“And to tell you the truth, Bridy Faherty,” Maura continued, “it's a friend of my own that I'm needing. Don't you know but I'm scared to my soul about where we're going as much as you. There's many a tear that I've shed when none are looking.”

The words made Bridy stare at Maura for a long while.

“It's the earth that needs to know you, Bridy,” Maura coaxed. “Not the sea.”

A tear trickled down Bridy's cheek. When Maura stroked it gently away, the girl trembled. Then she reached out and took the egg. It lay moonlike and smooth in the palm of her hand. “I never ate an egg,” she confessed.

Maura reached over and cracked the shell, then peeled the egg. Crumb by crumb she fed it to the girl.