Into the Storm (27 page)

A
t eight that evening Patrick and Nathaniel knocked on Mrs. Hamlyn's door. A girl in a maid's uniform — white apron over a long calico dress — opened it. When Nathaniel explained who they were, the maid bade them step inside and go directly to the parlor.

The room was nearly full. Four young ladies sat talking in one corner. Another laughed on the sofa with a young man. Mrs. Hamlyn sat in her own chair at work with her needle. She spoke to no one, merely looking up now and again, then returning to her work. A fire in the hearth filled the room with warmth.

Maura sat with Bridy by her side.

When Patrick and Nathaniel came in, Mrs. Hamlyn welcomed them with a quick smile of recognition. The four young ladies also paused to look but soon resumed their conversation. While Nathaniel stopped to talk to Mrs. Hamlyn, Patrick hurried to his sister.

“And have you settled yourself?” she asked.

“It's a fair room,” he said. “And Mr. Brewster gave me Da's boots.”

Maura looked down at them. “Do they fit?” she asked, knowing perfectly well they did not.

“I've stuffed them with paper,” Patrick confessed. “But I have to tell you what happened,” he said, his face clouding. In a low, anguished voice, Patrick told Maura about his confrontation with the street boys. “I'm thinking they don't like the Irish here,” he finished.

“They're nothing but some bullyboys,” Maura assured him. “Look how kind Mr. Brewster's been. And Mrs. Hamlyn too.”

“Did she feed you some?” Patrick asked, not wanting to talk further about the incident.

“Patrick O'Connell, you cannot imagine how much she set before us,” Maura enthused. “There was bread and soup, as well as a kind of fish — such as I never heard of before — along with a boiled meat, potatoes, and cabbage. And they finished it all with the sweetest-tasting thing in the world. A pudding she called it. By the Holy Mother, we surely have eaten well, haven't we, Bridy?” The child nodded her head in sleepy agreement.

“No cornmeal then?” Patrick asked with a rueful smile.

“None at all.”

Patrick, whose dinner had not been nearly so fine, looked away.

“And the other young women here,” Maura went on, “they are all Irish too. Two from county Clare. A pair from Dublin, and I don't know where else. Kind they are, and full of chatter. They work in the mills here. Operatives they call themselves. And didn't they promise to tell me all I'll need to know about what to do when I find employment myself.”

Nathaniel came toward them. Maura looked up. “Mr. Brewster,” she said, “you've been kindness itself. A blessing on you.”

Feeling awkward, the young man could only nod. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a handful of money. “Here's the cash your father left, Miss O'Connell. It comes to almost five dollars.”

Maura took the money and considered it. It seemed like a great amount, but she was not sure. “But Patrick,” she said, looking up, “surely he needs to pay you rent.”

“It's fine for the moment,” Nathaniel said. “It can wait. Your father and I had paid in advance. Besides, your brother was asking about work.”

“Faith, Mr. Brewster, we'll all be needing some of that.”

“They work you long hours, Miss O'Connell. These days the first bell is at four-thirty in the morning. Evening bell doesn't come till seven-thirty.”

“These other girls do it, Mr. Brewster,” Maura said firmly. “How can I expect to do any less?”

Nathaniel laughed at her earnestness. “I'm sure you'll do fine.”

“And what about me?” Patrick asked. “Can I be working there?”

“I'll take you along with me in the morning,” Nathaniel said.

Shortly before nine, Nathaniel and Patrick left the Hamlyn house. “This way,” Nathaniel said. “The faster you walk, the less cold.” He strode off, hands deep in pockets. Patrick started to follow but paused when he noticed that there was a man standing across the street. By the house lights, he could only see that his hair was white, and he had a fringe of white whiskers.

“Patrick!” called Nathaniel from down the street. “Come on now. It's cold!”

Patrick hurried along.

A
t four-thirty in the morning the city bells rang. Patrick, asleep in his clothes with a blanket pulled over his head, failed to hear them. It took a severe foot shaking by Nathaniel to get him moving.

“Come along, my friend,” the young man called cheerfully. “First bell. Four-thirty. Getting-up time.”

Patrick sat up slowly and, with his knuckles, worked the sleep from his eyes. By the light of the candle, he could see his frosted breath. And when he set his feet upon the frigid floor, the chill made him recall his boots. He pulled them on gingerly, crunching down the newspaper wadding.

Atop the cold stove Nathaniel sliced a loaf of bread, a piece of which he handed to Patrick. The remainder — along with a lump of cheese — he placed in a small sack.

“You can eat it as we go,” he suggested. “Won't be any breakfast until seven-thirty. I'm bringing enough for you too. Lunch at twelve-thirty. Evening bells come at half past seven. Can you remember all that?”

Hoping he would, Patrick nodded.

On the street, people were already hurrying by, filling the predawn darkness with sounds of shuffling feet. With heads bowed and hands deep in pockets or wrapped in shawls, they walked as if not fully awake. Some carried pails or sacks as Nathaniel did. Though most walked in twos and threes, few spoke. The cold wind was numbing.

Patrick, limping by Nathaniel's side, felt the large boots chafe but tried to ignore it. Now and again he bit into his bread and, from long habit, chewed slowly.

“In case we miss each other at the end of the day,” Nathaniel said, “you'll need to look sharp so you can find your way back on your own. Remember, our room is on Adams Street.”

“Faith, I'll know,” Patrick said, though he worried that in the darkness most of the houses looked very much the same.

“Crow Street,” Nathaniel announced, making a left turn. Then, as he started over a footbridge, he continued, “We're crossing the Western Canal. Almost there.”

As they drew closer to the mill, the streets grew more crowded. Patrick noted that most of the walkers were women. From the way some wore their shawls, he was sure they were Irish.

“Mr. Brewster,” he asked, “are there many Irish who work in the mills then?”

“More and more.”

“And do Americans like them?”

“You're still worried about those boys, aren't you?”

Patrick nodded.

“Your father was a worrier.”

“Was he?”

Nathaniel smiled at the memory. “He didn't have many laughs.”

“But, Mr. Brewster, I'm still wondering if Americans like us here.”

“I suppose we all came from somewhere,” Nathaniel said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But you can always find a mean one if you look under enough rocks. I just hope that …”

“Hope what?” Patrick asked when Nathaniel didn't complete the sentence.

“That it'll be all right.”

Ten minutes later, Nathaniel halted. “There it is, the Shagwell Cotton Mill Company. Not as big as some of the others in town, but big enough.”

Patrick gazed with wonder. With so many windows lit up, the huge building made him think of a beast with multiple eyes. He thought of Cork and the statue of St. George and the dragon. Here was a gigantic dragon indeed.

“The gates will be opening soon,” Nathaniel told him.

Sure enough, bells began to ring. “Second bell,” he said. “We'd better move.”

As they drew closer, Patrick became aware of a great wall surrounding the mill and a pair of iron gates — fifteen feet tall — that were swinging open. The crowd surged forward.

“I'll log in,” Nathaniel explained, “then we'll speak to the overlooker.”

“And what's the overlooker?”

“The floor boss.”

They passed through the gates. Patrick could see that the mill consisted of two dark brick buildings. The bigger was six stories high. The other building was but two.

“I'm working on the first floor,” Nathaniel said, gesturing toward the larger building. “Unpacking cotton and getting it ready for the carding.”

“Would that be where my father worked?” Patrick wondered.

Nathaniel nodded. “At the carding machines.”

Patrick crossed himself.

“Come on now,” Nathaniel urged again. “If I'm late, they'll dock me.”

“Dock?”

“Cut some of my pay.”

“And do you mind me asking, Mr. Brewster, how much you earn?”

“Four dollars a week.”

“Then it's a rich country, I'm thinking.”

Nathaniel laughed.

Along with other men — no women here — they went inside.

“Brewster!” Nathaniel called to a man who stood by the door, checking names off in a ledger book.

The interior of the building was illuminated with glowing gas lamps. The hot white light revealed large bales of cotton standing among many wheelbarrows. Next to these were rows of men — not talking, not moving, but waiting. Patrick
thought of the sailors on the
Robert Peel
, how they were never still.

Atop a two-foot-high wooden platform stood a man wearing a derby, green vest, and baggy trousers. Rolled-up sleeves revealed bulging muscles. While one hand kept stroking his bushy mustache, the other held a large pocket watch at which he was staring.

“The overlooker,” Nathaniel whispered to Patrick as they approached. “Mr. Mosscut, sir,” Nathaniel called.

The man glanced up quickly, only to return to his watch. “Yes, Brewster. What might I do for you?”

“Got a boy who's looking for work.”

Another glance. “How old?”

Nathaniel looked at Patrick for the answer.

“Twelve, if it please Your Honor.”

Hearing the sound of the Irish accent, Mr. Mosscut grimaced. Eyes still on the watch, he shook his head. “We're not taking on any more Irish, Brewster.”

“Mr. Mosscut,” Nathaniel pleaded, “it's Gregory O'Connell's son. He just came over.”

The overlooker took another look at Patrick, more kindly than before.

“Sorry, Brewster,” Mr. Mosscut said gruffly. “Orders from above.” He checked his watch and suddenly shouted, “Commence work!” Even as he spoke, bells rang.

The men on the floor began to pull apart the bales, loading large clumps of cotton — like armfuls of dirty clouds — onto the barrows.

“Mr. Mosscut …,” Nathaniel said.

“Mr. Brewster, in another minute you'll be docked.”

Patrick looked up at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel, at a loss for words, shook his head. Then he said, “You better go home. I'll be there tonight after seven-thirty.”

Patrick, brokenhearted, didn't move.

“Go on now,” Nathaniel said sadly. “You can't stay, lad. You heard Mr. Mosscut. It'll only bring trouble. Can you find your way back?”

Patrick nodded, turned, and limped out of the building. Once beyond the gates he stopped, looked back, wiped his eyes of tears. He dreaded the thought of spending the day in a windowless room on Adams Street. Instead, he turned toward the chilly center of Lowell.