Into the Storm (3 page)

T
he few oil lanterns dangling from the low ceiling cast a dull, smoky light, making it impossible to see for any great distance, What was visible were two long rows of platforms — forty-five to a side — set up like bunk beds, upper and lower. On the foot of each platform section a number was chalked.

These platform berths were built of soft and splintery wood and measured six feet by six, boxed in by wood strips so as to keep occupants and their possessions from tumbling out. Wooden braces — none too strong — ran from floor to ceiling to hold the platforms up. As for the space between bottom and top — where one might hope to sit up — it was hardly more than a few feet.

Patrick thought there must be two hundred passengers already jammed into the narrow area between the facing rows of berths. Goods were being passed about, sorted, tearfully lost, searched for, loudly found, then lost again. Unwieldy mattresses were being unrolled. Trunks were opened and rummaged through, their contents spewing forth as from horns of shabby plenty and further scattered by the constant rolling and pitching of the ship.

And the noise! Babies were crying, children squabbling, adults shouting to make themselves heard above the din. The air was close, stinking with the crush of too many people in a space too small with too little ventilation. Mr. Drabble could barely breathe.

“Keep going along! Keep going!” a sailor at the foot of the steps repeatedly cried. “Take yer berths. Four persons to each! Keep moving! Keep moving! Four persons to a berth.”

The newcomers struggled forward, loudly proclaiming this or that platform as the one assigned them and crawling in, whether others were there or not.

“Where are we to go?” Maura demanded of the sailor.

“What's yer number?” he cried.

“Seventy-four!”

“To the forward, lass!” he shouted. “And yer'd better be quick. Nothing lasts long here.”

Mr. Drabble exclaimed, “Do you mean to say, sir, that these open platforms are our berths, where we are expected to live?”

“Yer can live or die on 'em, for all I care, mate,” the sailor retorted. “It's yer place so yer can do wot yer likes. Now move yerselves or yer'll be trampled! There's a hundred or more behind yer.”

Propelled forward, Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble struggled through the crush of people. Each berth they passed was packed with occupants, pushing and jostling to establish themselves in some degree of comfort.

“Here's our number, “Mr. Drabble announced finally. Do you wish the top or lower berth?”

“Together?” asked a horrified Maura. Only minutes ago this man had shocked her nearly to death with his proposal.

Mr. Drabble glanced back. More passengers were pressing forward. “It's either me or someone else, Miss O'Connell,” he said.

Maura, furious at him, at herself, at everything, blushed to the roots of her hair. “Mr. Drabble, it's not decent!” she cried.

Then, embarrassed by her outburst, she turned away and stared back into the area toward the steps. Never in her wildest thoughts could she have imagined anything like this. She had considered Mrs. Sonderbye's house ghastly. The steerage deck was ten times worse.

S
omething crawled over Patrick's bare feet. Startled, he looked down just in time to see a brown rat scurry across the wooden floor and disappear beneath one of the lower platforms.

“Miss O'Connell,” Mr. Drabble urged with a nervous glance at the flow of newcomers. “If we don't choose quickly, we'll be pushed aside.”

Maura gave way. “The top, “she whispered.

“Up you go,” Mr. Drabble told Patrick. More than glad to leave the floor, the boy hauled himself to the higher berth. Once there, he looked down along the teeming deck only to see Mr. Murdock working his way through the crowd in their direction. Certain he was coming for him, Patrick, heart hammering, crammed himself into a far corner. As it was, the first mate pushed past, but Patrick was sure he looked right at him as if to say, “I know what you know.” It frightened him terribly.

“Patrick!” Maura cried. “Pay some mind!” She was handing up their few belongings. Then Mr. Drabble worked his way into the berth. He twisted about but did not try to sit. There was no headroom.

“Can I help you up, Miss O'Connell?” he said to Maura, his voice stiff with formality.

“No,” she replied, full of mortification. As she stood there, another Irish family arrived, a man, his wife, and two young children.

“Would you be holding this spot?” the man asked Maura, indicating the lower berth.

Maura shook her head.

“In you go then,” the man instructed his family. All four hastily squeezed in, leaving their two trunks and three sacks to block the aisle.

Another family appeared. It consisted of two boys, a girl, a large fleshy-faced man with a mop of curly hair, and a woman who seemed to be in charge. The woman's long, tangled gray hair and ragged dress hid nothing of her squalidness. Though her appearance was one of frailty, her fixed and sullen eyes revealed a ferocity that promised argument.

“How many would ye be having up there?” she demanded of Maura.

“The three of us,” Maura felt obliged to reply.

“And wouldn't you know that each berth is meant for four?” the woman cried shrilly as she pushed the small dirty girl forward. The girl, no more than eight, Maura thought, bore such a marked resemblance to the woman, it was clear she was her daughter. But it was fright not fierceness that Maura saw in her eyes.

“This will be yours then, Bridy Faherty,” the woman informed her bewildered child, indicating the top berth where Patrick and Mr. Drabble already were. “Get yourself in before someone steals that from us too.”

“But, madam,” Mr. Drabble tried to object, “we're already three.” To Maura's further embarrassment, he added, “And we are a family.”

“Begorra, you could be the queen's horse guards for all I care,” Mrs. Faherty snapped, her face flushed with anger. “There's to be four in each berth, and since we'll be berthing down a ways, the girl will be stopping here, thank you.” Without further ado she picked Bridy up and thrust her onto the platform.

The girl crawled into a corner opposite Patrick and shrank down.

Maura, seeing how frightened the child was, reached up and touched her hand.

“It's all right,” she said softly. “It's the same for us all. But you need not fear. We'll soon be getting to America, where all will be fine.”

T
hough Laurence was pretty sure that the stowaway search party had gone above decks, he was afraid to stand up and stretch himself. Suppose the searchers came back? As it was, he remained crouched down between two barrels, listening intently, all the while aware of the taste of blood from his bitten lip.

After ten more minutes he cautiously raised his head and looked about. By the light of the open hatchway above, he gazed at the cargo. It seemed endless, row upon row of crates, boxes, barrels. There was also a considerable amount of litter, sticks, staves, and blocks of wood. Moreover, the entire hold was so terribly foul, with such a ghastly stench, the rasping and grating of wood timbers so irritatingly incessant, that Laurence hardly knew what to cover first, his eyes, his ears, or his mouth.

Growing bolder, he began to roam. At the stern of the boat he found a room with a door partially ajar. Curious, he pulled the door open. Though he could see nothing, he smelled the distinct sweet smell of bread. It was strong enough to make his stomach growl.

Feeling his way, Laurence entered the room and banged into something hard. Groping blindly, he felt what seemed to be stacks of small, light, and very hard squares of wood. Was it what he'd seen before? Wood blocks? He couldn't tell. He picked one up and sniffed it. It was something breadlike. Once again his stomach growled. Laurence put the square to his mouth and tried to bite into it. It was as hard as a rock.

Convinced that no matter how hard it was, he'd nonetheless found bread, Laurence took a few of the squares and continued wandering through the dark, eating — or trying
to — as he went. Bit by bit, the bread softened, until at last he was able to break off a piece. He felt something wiggle. It was a worm. Hastily he plucked it out. Though it made him queasy to eat, he was so hungry, he did anyway. The bread had a sour taste and gritty texture. He continued to eat, finding and throwing away two more worms before he gradually consumed an entire square. Having eased his hunger a trifle, he began to work on a second.

The more he ate, the thirstier he became. Harking to the continual sound of water sloshing below his feet, he lay down and pushed his fingers between the planking. When his fingertips touched wetness, he pulled back his hand, eager to suck at the moisture. The smell proved so offensive he could not.

His thirst now raged. Feeling desperate, he began to search for another source of water. Midships he came upon two great metal tanks very much taller than he was, as well as wider. He had no idea what they were. As he groped his way by, his hand drew across the surface of one. It was cool and wet. When he sniffed his fingers and sensed nothing bad, he licked the moisture off. The taste of water! Excited, he pressed both hands flat against one of the tanks, then hastened to lick more from them. He tried again along another part of the tank and licked the water off. He smiled, recalling his sister's cat washing herself. Twenty minutes later his thirst was slaked.

Continuing to explore, Laurence came upon a narrow ladder leading up into darkness near the stern of the ship. He wondered what would happen if he climbed it. But he thought of the searchers and refrained.

As he stood there, he heard a high-pitched squeaking noise. It was different from the sound the ship timbers made. And it came from first one place, then another.

Something ran over his foot.

Involuntarily, Laurence screamed. The squeaking stopped abruptly. He knew then what the sound was. Rats.

He decided he must find a permanent place to hide, somewhere he might sleep safe from men, and rats. First he made his way to the bow and located the crate in which Fred had
stowed him aboard. For a brief moment he thought of climbing back in. But the notion was repugnant. He wanted nothing more to do with that box, ever.

He wandered back among the barrels. Though many of them were taller than he, Laurence tried now and again to lift a lid. Not one of them budged. He tried some crates too but with no better results.

Returning to the barrels, he set about checking each one, row by row, avoiding those along the aisles. After a full hour he found one whose lid was open a crack — hardly wide enough for his fingers. He pulled, but it would not give.

Counting barrels by rows until he reached the aisle, Laurence searched out a stick to pry the lid open. Again by counting he found his way back to the barrel, eased the stick into the crack, and pulled down. With a sudden pop, the lid flew off.

Excited by his success, Laurence hauled himself up the barrel side and fished inside with his hands. What he touched was straw. It smelled sweet and clean. Plunging his hand down into the straw, he felt some crockery, grasped it, and pulled out a teacup.

One by one he removed the cups and saucers — he took out a hundred all together — and stashed them individually and in groups about the hold, behind timbers, into nooks and crannies, anyplace he thought would be out of sight. By the time he was done, he was able to crawl into the barrel itself, press the straw down, and sink upon a scratchy but pleasant-smelling soft cushion. He found it quite roomy, big enough to allow him to sit comfortably if he drew up his legs.

Pleased with what he'd achieved, Laurence stood up and drew the barrel lid partway over the opening. It was easy then to maneuver the lid atop the barrel and, even as he squatted down, to pull it back as it had been. He could only hope it was not noticeably open.

Sitting in total darkness, Laurence took from his pocket the last of his bread squares and began to suck on it — on the alert for worms. As he ate, his thoughts drifted, and he tried to remember — for it seemed so long ago — when it was that
he had left his home. To his astonishment it was but three days past!
Impossible.
He counted the days again, and again. Three days…. Amazed, he shook his head.

He thought then of his London house, where the rooms were so many. This is my room now, he said to himself, touching the side of the barrel. He made up his mind that each day the ship sailed, he would pretend the barrel was a different London room. He would start with his own room, recalling each and every object just as it had been … three days ago.

He began by thinking about his bed in London. It was high. It was plump. It had lacy pillows…. By the time Laurence thought of the pillows, he was fast asleep.