Into the Storm by Avi
With the expectation that he would soon have money in his pocket from his job with Mr. Jenkins — and that Mr. Drabble would be earning even more — Toby Grout requested a decent room from the man at the registration desk.
“Do you ’ave a gent by the name of Jenkins stoppin’ ’ere?” he inquired, once matters of accommodation had been settled.
“We do indeed, but I don’t think he’s in at the moment,” was the reply.
“When ’e does come, yer can tell ’im Toby Grout’s arrived and ready to work.”
“I certainly will.”
The room Mr. Grout took was rather small and, despite a window, quite airless. With four beds it looked more like a dormitory than a hotel room. The mattresses, stretched over rope webbing, were hardly more than thick blankets. The pillows were thin as doormats.
“Yer can take yer pick of the beds,” Mr. Grout urged Laurence. “Whatever yer want.”
Laurence chose one and sat on it.
“I’m goin’ to take meself a walk to see what I can do about findin’ Clemspool,” Mr. Grout announced. “Do yer want to come along?”
“I’ll stay here,” Laurence said, thinking he would rather go out on his own and start looking for Patrick.
“Suit yerself,” agreed Mr. Grout. “I suspect Drabble will be along after a while. Then we can celebrate ’is success.”
When Mr. Grout left, Laurence remained sitting on the bed, the first time since he had left the bottom hold on the ship that he’d been alone.
He took a deep breath. So many extraordinary things had happened to him. He thought of that time — how long ago it seemed! — in his father’s study, where he’d suffered his brother’s cruelty. He thought of his flight, his days in Liverpool, the long, lonely voyage. Yet here he was in America. That very day he had walked fifteen winter miles. He had become friends with a London thief. Truly, he was no longer what he had been. Then he thought about what Mr. Grout had promised — the return of his father’s money.
What would he do if they actually did get the money back from Mr. Clemspool? Would he return to England? Should he? Laurence had to acknowledge he had no answers. Instead, he thought about Patrick, happy to think his friend was not far away. And though he was eager to start looking for him, the long walk of the past two days, the excitement, had taken its toll. With a yawn, he lay down and fell into a sleep.
The Yorkshire, true to her reputation as the fastest ship in the North Atlantic fleet, had crossed the ocean in twenty-seven days, a near record. Sir Albert Kirkle, slouching over the quarterdeck rail, gazed across the bay at the city of Boston. From out of his greatcoat sleeves, his hands dangled as if they were marionette hands cut from their strings.
For the young lord it had been an excessively boring voyage. Even the constant good if chilly weather held no pleasure for him. While he had been keenly interested in the plentiful food available at the captain’s table, he had kept to himself. It was much too distasteful to explain the reasons for his voyage. He was also too lazy to lie about it.
Now, as Sir Albert contemplated the American city that rose before him, he felt the annoying obligation to concoct some strategy to find Laurence. After all, though Lord Kirkle said he was not to return to England without the boy, Sir Albert’s only reason for going to America was to make sure his brother did not return. No, he had no intention of sharing his father’s money with anyone.
But the United States was immense. No saying where Laurence actually was. It might be impossible to find him. That, mused Albert, was his great hope. How much better it would be if the boy disappeared on his own — without any assistance from him.
But, if assistance was what it required to keep the boy on this side of the Atlantic, assistance was exactly what he was prepared to give. And that meant finding Mr. Clemspool, since the man claimed he was holding Laurence. Furthermore, Sir Albert assumed that Clemspool would — for a price — be willing to do something about the boy.
Alas, Albert’s only clue to Clemspool’s whereabouts was the unfortunate letter that the proprietor of Brother’s Keeper had written to him and that his father had intercepted. Clemspool was reachable through a Mr. Ambrose Shagwell of Lowell, Massachusetts.
Albert wished he could avoid this Shagwell fellow entirely, but his father had seen the letter. If Lord Kirkle made contact with the American and discovered Albert had not called upon him … No, he must see the man.
The young lord had taken the trouble to learn that the city of Lowell was but a short distance from Boston, hardly more than an hour’s railway ride. First thing tomorrow, he supposed, he would have to go. How boring!
And how much do you make a day blacking boots?” Mr. Clemspool asked Jeb as the boy led him to the police station.
Jeb pulled at his cap and looked up at Mr. Clemspool suspiciously. “How come you want to know?”
“Because I wish to employ you.”
“Doing what?”
“To watch someone. But how much do you earn?” the Englishman asked impatiently.
Jeb pondered the question. That morning, just before he was supposed to go out onto the streets to work, his mother had come back from the mill with the terrible news that she had been turned off. Nothing her husband or Jeb could say or do would comfort her. When Jeb finally took up his shoe-shine box, he left with the dismal realization that he was the only one in the family who was bringing home any money.
“Come, come,” Mr. Clemspool pressed. “What do you earn, boy?”
Jeb, nervous about giving too high a figure, said, “I’ve made twenty-five cents.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Clemspool. “I will pay you” — he poked about in the air — “twenty cents for your time. But you must wait for me while I speak to the police. Do I make myself clear?”
“I guess so,” Jeb replied, trying not to show just how thrilled he was by the offer.
Jeb led Mr. Clemspool to a small nondescript brick building with little to suggest its function other than a sign over the dark green door:
LOWELL CITY POLICE
“Wait here,” Mr. Clemspool said.
“I will,” the boy promised.
It was a dingy room into which Mr. Clemspool stepped. Four oil lamps with smoky chimneys sat one each on four old, scarred desks. These were placed behind a wooden railing that ran around the room in the shape of a large U, effectively keeping callers, such as Mr. Clemspool, at bay.
Three of the desks were unoccupied. Behind the fourth sat Mr. Tolliver, reading a stack of mail. In his hands was a note from Mr. Hamlyn. Seeing Mr. Clemspool, he lowered it. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
“I need to speak to a police officer.”
The man nodded. “You are, sir. The name is Tolliver. I’m captain here. May I help you?”
“My name, sir, is Matthew Clemspool, recently arrived from London, England.”
“And welcome you are, sir.”
“I am the guest of Mr. Ambrose Shagwell.”
“Of Shagwell Cotton Mill Company?”
“I suppose he is,” said Mr. Clemspool with a show of indifference.
Mr. Tolliver sat a little straighter in his chair. “Very well, sir, how does this fact pertain to the police?”
“It is,” Mr. Clemspool allowed, “somewhat embarrassing. On the ship upon which I came to America, the Robert Peel, out of Liverpool, I found myself harassed by a fellow passenger. His name is Toby Grout.”
“What do you mean, harassed?”
“I’m sure you know how it is, sir. On the ship there was some card playing. This Mr. Grout, whom I assure you I never met before, swore he would have his revenge after losing some trifling sums of money to me. He is not — to make my point precisely — a gentleman.”
“And?” a puzzled Mr. Tolliver prompted again.
“Well, sir, he has followed me to your fair city, no doubt with the intent of doing me bodily harm.”
“Has he done you bodily harm?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Clemsp
“No doubt your Mr. Grout would have a different story.”
“Thieves and beggars usually do,” Mr. Clemspool acknowledged with an easy smile. “He did brag about being a thief in London.”
“Describe the fellow.”
Mr. Clemspool did so.
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“I certainly do. The Spindle City Hotel.”
Mr. Tolliver frowned, picked up Mr. Hamlyn’s letter, then put it down. “Ever hear of a man named Jeremiah Jenkins?” he inquired.
“I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“He stays there.”
Mr. Clemspool shrugged.
“Sir,” Mr. Tolliver said, “what exactly would you like me to do for you?”
“This Toby Grout is dangerous. I am concerned about my safety. I should like you to apprehend him.”
“Will you file an official complaint?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Tolliver offered a form to the Englishman. “Just fill this in, and I shall be able to proceed.”
Pen in hand, Mr. Clemspool set down what he had told the policeman, to wit, that he was being followed and harassed by a dangerous English brute. After signing it and handing the paper over, he took his leave.
Mr. Tolliver gazed after him, then examined the complaint. It all seemed suspicious to him. An Englishman — an associate of Mr. Shagwell, or so he claimed — complaining, in Lowell, about a petty London thief? This Mr. Grout had not yet done anything. Mr. Clemspool’s story was hard to believe. Yet, Mr. Tolliver thought, there must be something here. This Clemspool fellow would bear watching.
The police captain reached for the rest of his morning’s mail and noticed a particularly elegant envelope addressed to “The Lowell Police Headquarters.” He opened it and unfolded an embossed piece of fine paper upon which was engraved:
THE EMBASSY OF THE COURT OF ST. JAMES
A short note followed:
To the police of the city of Lowell, Massachusetts
Gentlemen,
I have the honor of conveying a message from Lord Kirkle (of Her Majesty’s government) to you. He desires any and all information pertaining to one Mr. Ambrose Shagwell, an American in the manufacturing trade, and Mr. Matthew Clemspool, a British citizen, newly arrived.
In particular he is seeking information about his runaway son, Sir Laurence Kirkle, aged eleven. These men may be implicated in his flight.
Any assistance you may provide in regard to these matters would be gratefully received.
It was signed by the British ambassador.
Outside the police station Jeb was waiting.
“Very well, young man,” Mr. Clemspool said to the boy when he had drawn him away from the police station, “listen well. There’s a boy staying in that hotel —”
“The Spindle City?”
“Exactly.”
“I need to have that boy watched. You shall be the one to do it and keep me informed about him. Can you do that?”
Jeb considered the man. “You going to pay me?”
“Of course I shall! And well too.” The Englishman fished in his pocket, drew out some coins, and gave Jeb a twenty-five-cent piece. “Here’s some payment in advance.” He went on to describe Laurence as he had seen him on the street. “Do you think you can recognize him?”
Jeb, excited by the promise of making more money, asked, “And you say he’s got a mark on his cheek, here, right?”
“You are a smart boy,” Mr. Clemspool said, patting the boy on the shoulder. “Go back to that hotel entrance. If he comes out, stick with him. If he remains within, I shall want to know that too. It’s most important you get with him and find out what he’s doing here in Lowell.
“Now I shall come by the hotel entrance at eight this evening. You will give a full report. Do you understand all this?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Good. Do as I ask and you will continue to be well paid. Young man, consider yourself lucky to be in my employ.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mr. Matthew Clemspool, gentleman, from England. Can you grasp the importance of that?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Clemspool, I can.”
After watching Mr. Clemspool go off, Jeb looked at the coins he had received with pleasure and relief. Maybe his mother could feel a little better now. Committed to earning lots more, he headed back to the Spindle City Hotel and Laurence.
As for Mr. Clemspool, he had fully recovered his confidence. The police would deal with Mr. Grout. And as for Laurence, he would take care of the brat himself.
Indeed, Mr. Clemspool was so confident — striding resolutely along — he had not the slightest notion that Mr. Tolliver was following him.
Toby Grout, having left Laurence in the hotel room, made his way down to the hotel lobby. Once there, he searched for Mr. Jenkins but found no trace. He did inquire again at the main desk, yet gained no further information as to the man’s whereabouts.
So Mr. Grout put his mind to what he considered more important business, the finding of Clemspool. And for that, he needed to find Ambrose Shagwell.
The attendant — a young man with his hair slicked down — asked, “That the Mr. Shagwell who owns the mill?”
“’E did say ’e ran a mill ’ere in Lowell,” Mr. Grout acknowledged. “So I suppose it’s ’im.”
The young man examined Mr. Grout with some amusement. “And what might be your business with him?” he could not resist inquiring.
“Yer might say ’e’s an old friend of mine, that’s what,” the one-eyed man said with the utmost seriousness. “Where can I find ’im?”
“At his mill, I suppose,” came the reply. “Not far from the Swamp Locks and Pautucket Canal.”
After getting more specific instructions, Mr. Grout set off and reached the mill gates in a short time. The size and noise of the mill not only took him by surprise but made him uneasy. Perhaps he had misjudged Mr. Shagwell. Perhaps the man was as important as he’d claimed. Mr. Grout began to wish he had not exchanged his London clothing.
Then he recalled his vow to retrieve Laurence Kirkle’s money and acknowledged that there was little choice except to press on.
He found the mill yard an exceedingly busy place. Many workers — women and men both — passed to and fro, and each and every one of them, or so it seemed to Mr. Grout, was intent upon some duty or other. He hailed the first man to come near him. “’Ere now, can yer tell me where I can find a Mr. Ambrose Shagwell?”
The man looked up at Mr. Grout. “The owner?” he asked.
“That’s ’im.”
“You might look in the office building,” the man said, indicating the smaller of the brick structures.
After thanking the man, Mr. Grout went directly to the building indicated. Seeing but one door, he knocked. A boy looked out. When he saw Mr. Grout, he scowled.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“If yer don’t mind, laddie, I’m lookin’ for a Mr. Shagwell.”
“And who are you?” the boy asked in such a tone that it was perfectly clear he did not think Mr. Grout was much.
“I’m a friend of ’is.”
“You and George Washington!” the boy scoffed.
“Just give ’im me name, laddie,” Mr. Grout said menacingly. “Grout. Toby Grout.”
The boy was not impressed. “He can’t be bothered.”
“Can’t ’e now?”
“No,” the boy said, and shut the door in Mr. Grout’s face.
Vexed and rather nonplussed, Mr. Grout tried to decide what to do. Perhaps he could discover where Mr. Shagwell lived. It might be easier to see him there. In the meantime he made up his mind to return to the hotel and search out Mr. Jenkins. Yet when he reached the hotel, all he found was a note:
Meet me at the Cotton House Tavern.
Hurd Street. 8 P.M. J. Jenkins
Feeling hungry after all hi
Well, sir,” said Mr. Shagwell, “you lost no time in coming.” In his office the mill owner was sitting behind his massive desk, fingers linked over his bulky stomach as he leaned back in his chair the better to consider Mr. Jeremiah Jenkins.
Mr. Jenkins nodded. “You’ve been away too long, Mr. Shagwell,” he said. “I’m not so sure you know what’s been happening at your own business.”
The mill owner gestured amiably toward a chair. “Then you must tell me.”
Mr. Jenkins took the proffered chair, then bowed his head as if gathering strength for what he needed to say. After a few moments he looked up. “Mr. Shagwell, sir,” he began, “talk is all very well in its place. But people need to see something that will demonstrate our power.”
“Ah, sir, you’re always in a hurry,” Mr. Shagwell returned.
Mr. Jenkins shook his head. “While you were gone, sir, Irish have been taken on at your mill.”
Mr. Shagwell stopped smiling. He opened his hands as if to show he held nothing secret. “As you said, I have been away.”
“But now that you’re back, I presume you’ll put a stop to it.”
Mr. Shagwell ran his fingers through his mane of gray hair, thrummed them, and said, “I may or I may not, sir. My business associates have had reasons —”
“Hang your reasons!” Mr. Jenkins burst out. “You’re betraying your own countrymen. What about the Order of the Star-spangled Banner and your oath to that organization?”
“Keep your voice down, Mr. Jenkins,” the mill owner urged, then continued after a thoughtful pause. “Sir, secret oaths are all well and good. But the crucial fact is, the mill’s earnings are down —”
“So is the price of cotton.”
Mr. Shagwell struggled to maintain his temper. “It is. But because of increased competition from other mills, I am under constant pressure to cut costs. To be more efficient. Increase the rate of production. Lower wages.”