Into the Storm (25 page)

T
he moment Mr. Jenkins stepped into the clothing shop, the proprietor popped up again. Tilting her head back, she saw who it was and grinned.

“It's Mr. Jenkins,” she cried, the tone of her voice containing just a hint of mockery. “Is the world still falling down?”

“Mrs. Brown,” he returned as he gestured with his thumb toward the door behind his back. “You've had some early business.”

“An Englishman with but one eye. I've got some glass ones, but he wasn't buying.”

“I don't care about his eyes. What did he want here?”

“Mr. Jenkins, you're the nosiest man in the world. But I think this country still has its liberties.”

“Some,” Mr. Jenkins acknowledged.

“Then I'm not obligated to tell you what he came for.”

“He was wearing new clothes when I first met him.”

“When you buy your clothes at the tailor shop, Mr. Jenkins, they're new. When you walk out with them onto the street, they're old.”

“I should just like to know one thing,” the man pressed. “Was it you or Mr. Brown he had business with?”

“You are the most suspicious man, Mr. Jenkins!”

“There's much to be suspicious about,” came the rejoinder.

“His business was with me,” Mrs. Brown allowed.

“That's all I need to know. Is Mr. Brown in?”

“Oh, yes. In his regular fever, scribbling away day and night.”

“I'd like to see him.”

“You know how to find him, Mr. Jenkins. You've been often enough.”

Mr. Jenkins proceeded though the stacks and piles of old goods as if he were working his way through a maze. When he reached the far end of a dingy corridor and came upon a small door, he paused and listened. What he heard was a continual scratching, as if a dog infested with fleas was trying to get rid of them. He knocked loudly.

“Come in!”

Mr. Jenkins entered a tiny room that consisted, in the main, of a large table. Upon it was a solitary spirit lamp and piles of handwritten pages. Behind the heaps sat a grizzled man not much bigger than Mrs. Brown. He had bleary eyes and a slit of a mouth. His tongue caused a bulge in his left cheek.

The man's right hand was dyed with blue ink up to the second knuckle of each finger so that the yellow of his flesh looked like a fingerless glove.

“Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Jenkins, “good morning to you, sir.”

“Is it morning?” returned Mr. Brown without looking up or ceasing to write for a second. “I've been working all night.” Even as he dipped his pen into his inkwell, his tongue slid across his mouth — momentarily popping out like a snake's — and pushed into his other cheek.

“I assure you it's morning.”

“You don't know what it is to live by deadlines, sir,” Mr. Brown said, putting aside one page, taking up a blank one, and continuing to write. “It's not for nothing they're called
dead
lines. When you reach the final line, sir, you are indeed dead. No wonder we're called ghostwriters.”

“Mr. Brown,” Mr. Jenkins said with impatience, “I need a speech written.”

“How was the last one I wrote for you?”

“Excellent.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.” The writer dipped his pen and shifted his tongue.

“I need this new one quickly.”

“Another deadline,” said Mr. Brown, still scratching out the words. “What's the subject?”

“The Irish immigration. Crime. Illness. Poverty. The Papacy. The decay of the republic. The protection of our children. The need for radical reform.”

“That's the one I wrote for you last time, Mr. Jenkins.”

“This one needs a call to action.”

“What kind of action?”

“Brimstone and fire. With a particular emphasis on fire.”

For the first time since Mr. Jenkins entered the room, Mr. Brown ceased writing to look up. “
Fire?
”

“Fire,” Mr. Jenkins repeated.

After dipping his pen, Mr. Brown returned to his writing. “I'm just composing another angry speech.”

“What about?”

“Raising taxes on goods coming in. Or is it … lowering taxes on foreign goods? It hardly matters to me. Ah, it's an angry time, Mr. Jenkins, a time of blame. I have an antigold speech. To be followed by a progold speech. A speech in defense of slavery. A speech against. I tell you candidly, sir, the best way to write speeches is in pairs. Write one, then write the other — point by point — in opposition. Saves time. I'll do yours for the usual fee. When and where?”

“Within two days. Send it to me care of the Spindle City Hotel in Lowell.”

“I'll have my usual advance, sir.”

Mr. Jenkins produced two dollars, which he flung down before the speechwriter. “Done.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Jenkins.”

Mr. Jenkins turned to go, only to pause and look back. Mr. Brown was still bent over his manuscript, tongue in cheek again, writing. “A question, sir,” Mr. Jenkins called.

Mr. Brown grunted.

“Sir, do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in words, Mr. Jenkins, and the power of words.” For the second time Mr. Brown paused in his work and looked up. There was something about Mr. Jenkins's face — the fringe of white whiskers, the angry eyes — that caused the writer uneasiness. “And you, sir, is there anything
you
believe in?”

“Jeremiah Jenkins, that's who.”

“Mr. Jenkins, sir, the pen
is
mightier than the sword.”

“But fire,” returned Mr. Jenkins, “is mightier still. It can consume all words.”

M
r. Drabble insisted that they travel on foot rather than by railroad.

“We don't have money to spare,” he reminded Mr. Grout, “and one day more will make no difference in our quest.”

“Wot's the laddie say?” Mr. Grout said, turning to Laurence.

“I'd like to walk,” Laurence said. After the long confinement on the ship, the thought of being in the open air appealed to him. “I want to try out my boots.”

“It's a done thing then,” a grinning Mr. Grout announced.

By seeking directions from a variety of people, they made their way out of Boston, first by bridge over the Charles River to Cambridge, then by dirt roads northwest toward Lowell.

The air was clear but cold, encouraging them to travel along at a fairly steady rate. In the afternoon they found shelter
in an abandoned cowshed and had a lunch of bread, cheese, and cider purchased in a small town on the way.

With a sigh, Mr. Drabble became engrossed in his volume of Shakespeare. As he read, he ran a finger along the text, now and again closing his eyes as he committed a passage to memory.

Laurence, alternating between hugging himself to keep warm and eating, gazed out at the meadow before him, a sight he had never experienced. Remnants of snow spotted the ground. A bright red bird — he did not recognize it from anything he had seen at home — landed on a bush, cocked an eye at him, then flew away.

Mr. Drabble began to nod. Before long, his head drooped, and though he still kept his precious book upright in his hands, he was soon fast asleep.

Mr. Grout, meanwhile, watched Laurence with wonderment, telling himself yet again that the boy was not only alive but only a foot away. When he realized that the actor was slumbering, he tapped Laurence's arm.

“Laddie,” he said, speaking in a rough whisper, “seems to me that yer and I need to 'ave a bit of a chat.”

“There's nothing to talk about,” Laurence said primly, and turned back to the meadow.

“Now see 'ere, laddie, all I'm sayin' is that we'll 'ave to find some understandin' if we're goin' to be together a spell.”

Laurence ignored him.

“I did get yer some boots, didn't I?” Mr. Grout said.

Laurence shrugged, though he was, in fact, delighted to have them.

“The thing is,” Mr. Grout continued earnestly, “I'm truly 'umble and regretful about me takin' all that money from yer back in London. It was me old self, not wot I am now. Why, if I'd known we two were goin' to be in this 'ere strange land such as we are, why, I wouldn't 'ave done the deed even if it meant gettin' me bad eye turned right.”

With some discomfort Laurence wondered what the man would say if he confessed that he himself had stolen the money.

“And it's true I took yer for a ghost,” Mr. Grout allowed, “though yer not one, as I can now see perfectly well. But yer did get me to renounce me sins, which I'm thankful for. The point is, I'm goin' to work 'ard to get all that money back to yer.”

Laurence turned. “How can you do that?” he asked.

“Look 'ere, laddie, I think the name Clemspool might mean something to yer.”

“Clemspool!” Laurence cried out in alarm.

“Shhh!” Mr. Grout said, gesturing his thumb toward Mr. Drabble. “Clemspool is the one 'oo prigged yer lolly. Took it from me.”

“But … he was in England,” Laurence stammered.

“No more. 'E's in America now.”

“
America!
” Laurence's mouth dropped open. “Wh-Wh-Where?” he sputtered.

“I don't know, and it's a big place, this America. But, laddie, I swore a vow to find 'im, and when I do, I'll get the money and give it back to you.”

“Will you … really?”

Mr. Grout touched his heart. “I swear. So yer mustn't be fearful of me. Thing is, I'd like us — us two — to be workin' together to find that villain. All I'm askin' is for yer to find the 'eart to give me a chance to make decent. Wot do yer say, laddie?”

Laurence gazed at Mr. Grout. There was an earnestness, a forthright manner in the words that Laurence could not deny. “Does … does Mr. Clemspool really have the money?” he asked.

“As sure as there's a nose on me face.”

“And is he truly here … in America?”

“Came on the same boat.”

“He did?”

“Same stateroom.”

Suddenly Laurence remembered his search for the money in the stateroom. There
had
been two people there. “And can we really, truly get the money back?”

“If we don't, it won't be for want of tryin', laddie.”

“I do want it back,” Laurence said.

Mr. Grout grinned and extended his hand. “Now, laddie, a shake of the old 'and is the proper way to do business. Give me yers so we have a deal.”

After a moment's hesitation, Laurence put out his small hand. Mr. Grout took it into his two large ones and squeezed it gently and gratefully. “Me repentance is gettin' better minute by minute. 'Cause now we're partners.”

T
he O'Connells reached Lowell by midday. The station was smaller than the one in Boston, but a greater sense of order and decorum was everywhere in evidence. Young women were to be seen in considerable numbers, their long aproned skirts sweeping the ground. They moved about in groups of three and four, arms linked as they shared animated conversation. Even those alone walked briskly, heads held high, eyes bright and lively. Maura saw that these young women were very much bolder and more independent than she.

Men, fewer in number, were dressed in black frock coats, dark trousers, and boots. Almost all wore hats. Beards and mustaches were clearly fashionable. To Patrick's eyes, each and every one of the men looked rich. His bare feet embarrassed him.

Nathaniel guided his charges out of the station and into the cold but sunny day. The first thing they saw was a channel of water spotted with bits of thin ice.

“That's the Merrimack Canal,” Nathaniel informed them. “Lots of canals in town. It's waterpower that runs the mills. Down there,” he said, pointing along a wide street upon which
stood many brick buildings, “is Dutton Street. Fine homes. There's Saint Anne's Church. Used to be all mill operatives had to go there. Not so anymore. Your father went to Saint Patrick's. I'll be happy to show you where it is.

“There's the City Hall. Along that way you can see Lawrence Mill, Merrimack Mill, Boott Mill. Big, aren't they?”

Not a quarter of a mile away — in the direction Nathaniel indicated — stood a great mass of huge redbrick buildings. Their height fairly blocked out the rest of the world.

“Lowell folks are always bragging they've got ten mills here,” Nathaniel continued. “Claim more than ten thousand people work in them.”

“Did my father work in one of those?” Maura asked softly.

“Not those. We were over to the Shagwell Cotton Mill, out by the Swamp Locks and Pautucket Canal,” he said, pointing south. “I'm still there. But I don't think you'll want to work there,” he said.

“Mr. Brewster,” Maura said, determined that the young man should know the worst, “by the Holy Mother, you don't seem to understand our situation.” She pushed her hair away from her face and turned her blue eyes squarely upon him.

Nathaniel, both fascinated and a little frightened by those eyes, felt obliged to take off his hat. “Only if you want me to know, miss,” he said shyly.

“Mr. Brewster, as I told you, by God's truth, we have nothing in our pockets,” Maura said. “Just a few pennies. We were believing our father had become rich and would be caring for us.”

Nathaniel glanced away. “Well,” he finally replied, “your father wasn't rich. Not by a long shot. Oh, sure, he had some dollars saved up. And don't you doubt but I'll get them to you quick. But, no, he wasn't rich.”

“We don't know a thing about America, Mr. Brewster,” Maura cried. Though she tried to hold them back, tears came.

Bridy, looking from Nathaniel to Maura, clung to Maura's arm.

Nathaniel held up his hands as if to shield himself from Maura's distress. “Look here, Miss O'Connell, I found a place
where you can stop, an independent boardinghouse not far from here. Eighty-seven Cabot Street. It's run by a good woman by the name of Mrs. Hamlyn. Her husband's around but bedridden. She takes in Irish girls.”

“What kind of place is it?” Maura asked, recalling Mrs. Sonderbye's.

“A respectable place, Miss O'Connell,” the young man assured her. “I wouldn't suggest any other.”

“And what of my brother?” Maura asked. “Would he be staying there too?”

“Afraid it's just women there. But he can stop with me. It's where your father stayed. Nothing fine, mind. But it'll do. Not far from Mrs. Hamlyn's.”

“How far?”

“Maybe a quarter mile.”

“And Bridy?” Maura asked.

“You'll have to speak to Mrs. Hamlyn about the girl. She was expecting your mother, but I can't think it'll be a problem.”

Maura closed her eyes. Though Nathaniel looked and acted as if he were honest, some of what he said reminded her of the way Ralph Toggs talked in Liverpool. Was he just the same? Then Maura reminded herself that he was, after all, her father's friend. Besides, what else were they to do?

She opened her eyes. Patrick, Bridy, and Nathaniel were looking at her, waiting for her decision.

“Mr. Brewster, if you'd be good enough, I'll do what you're suggesting.”