Into the Storm by Avi
Dinner done, Maura made her way to the parlor, and at eight-thirty Nathaniel arrived, smiling. But the moment he saw Maura and Bridy, the smile vanished.
“Isn’t Patrick with you?” he asked.
“Patrick! To be sure,” Maura said, “I’ve not seen him since last night, when you left. I thought he’d be with you.”
“He was,” Nathaniel explained. “We went to the mill this morning, but they wouldn’t take him on.”
“No…. Why?”
“He’s too young, they told him, and … and … because he’s Irish.”
“They took me,” said Maura.
Nathaniel could only shake his head. “I thought he’d be in my room. He wasn’t.”
Maura closed her eyes. A wave of weariness engulfed her. “By the Holy Mother,” she said, “hasn’t he gone off like this before? No sooner did we reach Liverpool than he vanished. The same on the boat as well.”
“Do you think he’s all right?”
Caught between her great tiredness and worry, Maura hardly knew how to respond. What she did know was that she needed to rest. “Faith, Mr. Brewster, if I worried each time he did his mischief, I’d be having more lines on my brow than there are in a spider’s web.”
“And your job,” the young man said. “Was it very hard?”
“To be sure, I’ve never known such a day. I’m ready to sleep this moment.”
Nathaniel quickly came to his feet. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t be keeping you,” he said.
“You’re always kind,” Maura replied, standing herself. “When Patrick returns to you, you can give him a scolding from me, and tell him to come tomorrow evening sure.”
Mr. Clemspool found the way to Mr. Shagwell’s house with little trouble.
With his coat close about him, Jeb trudged behind, wondering about the job ahead when he was not wondering about this odd man.
“We can stop here,” Mr. Clemspool announced.
Jeb looked around. He recognized the neighborhood as an area where rich people lived, not a place he came often.
“Do you see that house?” Mr. Clemspool asked, pointing across the street.
By the light of the moon, Jeb saw a large stone building. Save for a few spots of candlelight behind first-floor windows, it was quite dark. “What about it?” the boy asked cautiously.
Mr. Clemspool had spent time pondering how best to explain what it was he wished Jeb to do, so as not to frighten him. “It’s a thief who lives there,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Jeb asked, alarmed.
“The kind of man who turns on you cruelly,” the Englishman said, his voice low with anger.
Jeb’s eyes grew wide. “He do that to you?”
“To make my point precisely — yes.”
“How?”
“He lured me into his house by pretending to be my friend. Then, when I had left my possessions in the room he provided, he insisted upon my immediate departure, thereby forcing me to leave behind what was my own. I don’t care for most of it. But I did lose something of particular value. A key.”
“What’s it for?”
“My most precious property. I shall give you ten dollars to get that key back for me.”
Jeb looked from Mr. Clemspool to the house. “What’s the man’s name?”
“Shagwell,” the Englishman spit out.
“Shagwell? Of Shagwell Cotton Mill?”
“The same.”
“I hate that man!” Jeb hissed. “He’s worse than a thief!”
Mr. Clemspool smiled broadly. “I’m delighted to agree with you.”
“How we going to get the key?” Jeb said with new enthusiasm.
The man glanced up and down the street. “Come with me,” he said, and started toward the house. Jeb stayed close.
Silently, they moved onto a narrow path at the side of the house. It led them into a yard, a blooming garden in warmer days.
Jeb studied the house. “Which window, mister?” he asked in a hushed voice.
Mr. Clemspool considered. “I believe it’s that one,” he said, indicating a second-floor window at one corner of the structure. From inside he had noticed that the window looked out upon a roofed extension of the house.
“Nothing to it,” Jeb whispered after taking it all in. “I can get there easy.”
“Can you?”
“See that barrel?” Jeb said, pointing to a large rain collector by a downspout at the corner of the house. “I’ll get on it, then climb to your low roof. From there I can reach that window in nothing flat.”
“Clever boy,” Mr. Clemspool enthused, patting Jeb on the head. “Wonderful boy. I’m glad I have you with me.”
Jeb unbuttoned his coat. “Would you mind holding this?”
“A pleasure.”
“Just tell me where the key is.”
“Once you’re in the room, look for a small table next to the bed. The table has a drawer. Open the drawer and you’ll find a book. Inside the book’s cover lies a key.”
Mr. Clemspool held a ten-dollar bill up to the moonlight. “This will be yours,” he said, “when the key is mine.”
Jeb ogled the money for a moment, grinned, handed his coat to Mr. Clemspool, then turned back to the house.
After stuffing his cap into a back pocket, he hoisted himself onto the barrel. With his two hands on the cornice and with one kick of his leg, he levered himself up to the roof.
Mr. Clemspool looked on with satisfaction, then dropped Jeb’s coat on the ground. There was a clink of coins. Making sure Jeb had his back to him, the Englishman quickly checked the coat pockets, found the boy’s money, and took it out. Mr. Clemspool smiled. The boy’s efforts to reach the roof were so easy, Mr. Clemspool decided he would give Jeb only one dollar instead of ten. What’s more, he would use the boy’s own money.
Once on the roof, Jeb crept cautiously toward the window. When he reached it, he glanced back down at Mr. Clemspool, who waved his encouragement.
Jeb peered into the room. It appeared deserted. The window sliding up with ease, he stuck his head inside and looked about. Moonlight revealed just what Mr. Clemspool had described.
The boy slithered inside. Two steps took him to the table, where he opened the drawer. In it lay the book with the key exactly where it was supposed to be. All but laughing with delight at the trick he was playing on his family’s enemy, Mr. Shagwell, Jeb placed the key in a pocket, then scurried back to the window and searched below for Mr. Clemspool.
Seeing a man standing in the middle of the garden, he started to climb out. Suddenly he stopped and ducked back into the room. The man was not Mr. Clemspool!
“All right, Clemspool,” a voice called out. “Just stay where you are. It’s Tolliver, from the police.”
The next thing Jeb heard was the sound of running. “Stop, thief!” came a cry, followed by a blast of a whistle and more running.
Frightened, Jeb dived under the bed. There he lay, heart hammering, praying no one would come look for him.
Ten minutes later he was still hiding when the door to the room opened. Jeb saw the flickering light of a candle.
“He must have wanted to come in here,” said a voice.
“Well, Mr. Shagwell,” said another, “this Clemspool claims he only wanted his own possessions back. There, you see, the window is open.”
“I thought you said he didn’t enter the room.”
“I didn’t think he had.”
“Perhaps it was open before.” From under the bed, Jeb heard the sounds of the window being shut.
“Mr. Tolliver, sir, the man was a guest in my house. Fortunately, I was warned he was not to be trusted, and I ordered him to leave.”
“What can you tell me about the man?”
“Very little. Hardly know him.”
“You had him as a guest.”
“Business….”
“All well and good, sir, but do you want me to charge him or not?”
“I don’t think that’s necessa
“I’ll do so, sir,” returned Mr. Tolliver.
Taking the light with them, the two men left the room.
Jeb held still until he was quite sure the men were not coming back. Then he tiptoed to the window and opened it. In moments he worked his way to the end of the roof, jumped to the ground, and ran off.
Five blocks later he remembered he’d given his coat to Mr. Clemspool. With the money from the day in its pocket! His heart sank, and he all but burst into tears. He did consider going back but was too fearful of being caught.
Disgusted, he thrust his hands in his pants pockets. All he found was Clemspool’s key. He looked at it but in the darkness could make little of it. In a rage of frustration, angry at everything and everybody — not the least himself — Jeb trudged home.
Mr. Jenkins and Betsy Howard sat across from each other at a table in the crowded and smoky Cotton House Tavern. A small candle in a cracked cup provided a spot of light between them. “Thank you for hearing me,” Betsy Howard said.
Mr. Jenkins shrugged. “There are some who care nothing for what women say. That’s not me.”
“I needed to tell you what happened today. You are speaking tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“I am. Tell me your news.”
The woman proceeded to tell Mr. Jenkins what had happened in the mill that morning, the turning away of Sarah Grafton.
With growing anger, Mr. Jenkins heard it all. “Did they replace her?”
Betsy Howard nodded. “A Paddy.”
“I knew it!”
“Then they asked me to teach her how to work the machines!”
“Insult to injury!” cried Mr. Jenkins. “Now,” he said, “do I have the name — Grafton — right?”
“Yes.”
“Does she have a boy? Blacks shoes?”
Betsy Howard nodded.
“I know him well.”
“Do you? I suppose he’s the only one in the family making money now.”
“Miss Howard, I promise you, I shall use all of this as an example at my meeting tomorrow. It’s exactly what people need to know. Make sure to be there. Big things will be happening.”
“What?”
Mr. Jenkins leaned forward and whispered, “Revenge.”
Betsy Howard looked into Mr. Jenkins’s eyes, then, feeling uncomfortable, stood up. “It’s near to curfew time,” she announced. “I have to be at lodgings.”
“I’d see you there, but I’m meeting someone else. Miss Howard, do come to the meeting.”
“I will.”
Twenty minutes later Mr. Grout appeared. As soon as he sat down, he said, “Look ’ere, Jenkins, I came to this city searchin’ for Matthew Clemspool. Yer promised yer’d tell me where I could find ’im.”
Mr. Jenkins looked at the Englishman slyly. “And I will tell you, sir. But not till tomorrow evening, when you will have completed your work for me.”
Mr. Grout grimaced. “I keep askin’ yer, wot kind of work is it?”
“It’s very simple, sir. Tomorrow evening I will be holding a meeting. At Appleton Hall. Eight o’clock. I shall be doing the speaking.”
“Wot’s the subject?”
“The dangers of immigration to this country. I’ll propose a call to action.”
Mr. Grout squinted his one good eye. “Wot kind of action?”
For a moment Mr. Jenkins said nothing. Then he hunched forward and, speaking in a low voice, said,” I want a demonstration outside a certain place.”
“Why?”
“It will do the most good there,” he said.
“And wot am I supposed to do?”
“You will lead the people to that place.”
Mr. Grout considered the man with suspicion. “That’s it?”
Mr. Jenkins smiled grimly. “That is it.”
Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, he said, “Here is the name of the street to which you are to guide the demonstration.”
Mr. Grout picked it up and, in the dim light, struggled to read the writing.
“Cabot Street,” coached Mr. Jenkins. And he repeated the name but held back the number. He was not sure he could trust this man.
“What you must do, young man, is during the day go and find that street. Then you’ll know how to lead the people there. But you must tell no one what you’re doing.”
“Why?”
“An unplanned event should look unplanned,” Mr. Jenkins allowed, then pointed to his eye and his nose and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
“Yer full of mystery, ain’t yer?” said Mr. Grout.
“I know nothing,” replied Mr. Jenkins with a grim smile. “But, sir, once the unplanned demonstration is over, you have my solemn vow I will tell you where to find your man. Thus, you will know something.”
Mr. Grout, not entirely happy with the conversation, left the tavern.
In contrast, Mr. Jenkins was happy indeed. Having arranged that Mr. Grout would lead the crowd to James Hamlyn’s address, he felt confident he could shed responsibility for any incident that occurred there. Let Grout carry the blame for what the American hoped would happen. The man was a foreigner.
Maura could hardly bear the tolling of the first morning bells. How she longed to stay in bed! But though her back, legs, and feet ached, she scolded herself for being lazy. Was she not in America with employment, earning money? “Thank you, Holy Mother,” she murmured.
Then and there she made a vow that she would ask Mr. Brewster where she could find her father’s church, so she might confess and take the sacrament. She must also ask the whereabouts of Da’s grave.
After a prayer, she made the sign of the cross, then got up, trying not to wake Bridy.
In haste now — for the room was dark and cold — Maura slipped on her new clothing and tight shoes, washed her face in the cold-water basin, then bent over Bridy and brushed a soft kiss on her brow. For this, she was rewarded by the girl reaching up and hugging her around the neck.
“Are you awake then?” Maura murmured.
“Yes,” Bridy replied drowsily.
“I’ll be going off to the mill now and will return when day is done,” Maura told her. “Will you be finding yourself something useful to do?” she asked.
“I’ll watch the house for Mr. Hamlyn,” Bridy said.
Maura, not really understanding what the girl was talking about, merely replied, “Sure, that will be fine.”
While swallowing a quick cup of hot tea and a piece of warm buttered corn bread, Maura told Mrs. Hamlyn that her brother had disappeared.
“You must be worried about him,” the woman said.
“Faith, mistress, I am and am not,” Maura explained with a rueful smile. “You can’t believe how often the boy’s gone off, but he never fails to come back safe and sure. And truth to say, mistress, last night I was too exhausted to be looking for him. But if he does come to your door, I’d be grateful if you’d tell him I expect a visit from him tonight.”
Mrs. Hamlyn promised she would, and Maura left the house in the company of one of her sister boarders.
“Please, Miss Polly,” she said to her companion, “can you explain the meaning of all those bells again?”
At the Spindle City Hotel, Mr. Drabble, too troubled to sleep, also rose from his bed when the first bells rang. Leaving a sleeping Laurence and Toby Grout, he crept out of the room and onto Merrimack Street. There, the cold, dark, and deserted street helped him indulge the illusion that he was the only person in the world. As well as the most wretched.
Mr. Grout had found work. So had Laurence. But not him. Perhaps, he thought, it was better to have been rejected than to have looked foolish before an audience. No, he wished that he had a role, any role.
His thoughts drifted to his love for Maura. “‘Let thy love be younger than thyself …,’” he murmured, quoting from his adored b
He regretted now having left his volume of Shakespeare by the canal. The more he thought of it, the more he wanted it back. Glad to have some goal in mind, he set off — head bowed, hands deep in pockets — through the gloomy streets.
A few people passed. Mr. Drabble supposed they were going to the mills. Shivering, he envied them. Then the notion struck him that perhaps he might apply for a mill job. Not only would it provide necessary money, but he would, at least, then be able to stay in the same city as Maura.
The idea so appealed to him, he stopped meandering and studied the other predawn passersby. It was while watching them that he thought he saw Maura. His heart tumbled. The clothing this woman wore was quite different. But her tall, straight way of walking and the brown hair that flowed down her back were much like Maura’s. And when, by the light of a street lamp, the actor saw that the shawl wrapped about her was dark red, he became certain it was his beloved.
Maura — presumably — had found work. Why else would she be about at such an hour? His first impulse was to cry out her name and rush to her side. She was walking, however, with another young woman, and from time to time the two exchanged words. The thought that Maura might rebuke him again — and in front of a stranger — was more than he could bear.
Besides, Mr. Drabble told himself, what could he say of his achievements? Nothing. Better to see where she went.
Accordingly, he fell in behind her, but not so close that she might notice. Never losing sight of her, he saw her turn in at the gates of the Shagwell Mill.
He knew he could wait for her — the whole day, if necessary — for he assumed that it was here that she had been fortunate enough to find employment. Or he could return to the street where he’d first seen her. She must live near there with her father, he thought. Mr. Drabble was certain he would recognize the man.
With renewed energy, the actor retraced his steps. Some minutes later he found Cabot Street. And there he spied Bridy, emerging from a doorway. She too was in a new dress. With a shawl wrapped about her, she sat on the top step and looked right and left along the street, sending Mr. Drabble ducking into a doorway.