Into the Storm by Avi
Patrick, recognizing the voice, felt a surge of joy course through him.
“Laurence!” he exclaimed. “By the Holy Mother, you must help me!”
Laurence jumped forward, knelt, and began to untie his friend’s bonds.
Recovering his wits, Jeb said, “Who brought you here?”
“Wasn’t it some boys who caught me and dragged me,” Patrick answered as much to Laurence as to Jeb.
“Was it Nick?” asked Jeb. “Was it Tom? Are you Irish? That why they brought you here?”
Supported by Laurence’s steadying hand, Patrick, unbound, struggled to his feet. “Laurence,” he begged, rubbing his hands together for warmth, “get me away!”
“I will,” Laurence said. Holding on to his friend’s arm, he moved him toward the entryway.
“You’re not going till you tell me what’s happened,” Jeb threatened, moving to block their departure.
“He’s my friend,” Laurence replied. “I have to take him away from here.”
“Not till I know what’s going on,” Jeb said, refusing to budge.
Frustrated, Laurence took a stride forward and attempted to shove Jeb aside. Jeb resisted by grabbing Laurence’s arms. The boys tumbled to the ground. Patrick, seeing the way was clear, all but dived out of the shanty.
Laurence, meanwhile, managed to untangle himself from Jeb and jump up. Then he too bolted.
“Come on,” he cried to his friend, and led the way, running, toward the street. Patrick, his muscles cramped, limped after him as best he could.
Inside the shanty, a dispirited Jeb picked himself up and brushed himself off. Things had happened too quickly. Who was that tied-up boy?
Cautiously, he went outside. They had already fled. Feeling both anger and relief, Jeb slouched back into the shed and retrieved his shoe-shine box. Suddenly he remembered something: The English boy still had the key.
Where are we going?” Patrick gasped.
“I’m not sure,” Laurence cried, glancing back along the street. “We just better get away from that boy.”
Patrick halted. He had suddenly remembered Jeb from his first encounter with the boys who taunted him. “Do you know him?”
“Who?”
“That boy you were with. Is he your friend then?”
“Jeb? He’s a shoe-shine boy. He was teaching me the trade. I just met him yesterday. Patrick, I think we should go farther before we stop.”
Not until they had gone four more streets was Laurence willing to halt. “There,” he said. “I think we’re safe now.” Even so he checked to see if Jeb was following. Seeing no one, he asked, “Patrick, why were you there? Who tied you up?”
As quickly as he could, Patrick told Laurence how Nick and Tom caught him as he came out of the church, how he had been forced to go to the shanty, and about his awful night trussed up.
When the tale was told, Laurence said, “Did they really tie you up just because you’re Irish?”
“That’s the only reason they gave,” Patrick replied. “Faith, it’s the only reason anyone gives,” he added bitterly.
“It’s not fair,” Laurence said, and he glanced behind them again as if somehow the answer lay there. Then he said, “Is your father near?”
“Ah, Laurence, you never knew. He died.”
“Died!”
“We learned it the morning after you left us.”
“I’m … sorry,” Laurence whispered. “How did it happen?”
“His friend, Mr. Brewster, who came for us at the ship, told us. Said it was my father’s heart. Then the fellow brought us here.”
“Did Maura and Bridy come too?”
“To be sure. They’re in lodgings with a Mrs. Hamlyn. And a fine place it is too, Laurence. You can’t imagine how grand it is, with more food than a body can eat.”
Laurence grinned. “Are you staying there?”
Patrick shook his head. “Mrs. Hamlyn’s is only for gals, so I’m stopping with Mr. Brewster. But, Laurence, I need to know…. When I saw you enter that terrible place, it was like the coming of a saint. How did you get there?”
“Mr. Grout and Mr. Drabble brought me to Lowell. And, as I told you, that Jeb was teaching me how to shine shoes.”
“Well, whoever he is, the boy did me the favor of getting you there. And that Mr. Grout, is he the one Mr. Drabble was working for on the boat?”
“I don’t know,” Laurence said, suddenly unsure how much he wanted to tell Patrick. He looked down the street again. “Maybe we shouldn’t be going to your home.”
“You’re right,” Patrick agreed. “Those boys know I’m staying on Adams Street. They might come after me again.”
“Can you go to your sister’s?”
“It would be best,” Patrick replied. He started off.
Laurence held back as he tried to decide if he shouldn’t first tell Mr. Grout what he had learned from Jeb, that Clemspool was in Lowell. But then he reminded himself that Albert was lurking and decided he’d rather stay with Patrick.
For a while the two boys walked in silence. Finally, Patrick said, “Sure, Laurence, you told me who brought you to Lowell. But you haven’t said a word as to the why. Was it so that Mr. Drabble could court my sister?”
“He didn’t say so to me.”
“Then why?”
Laurence glanced sideways at Patrick. Though he wanted to tell his whole tale, he felt great uneasiness as to what his friend’s reaction would be. Nervously, he said, “Mr. Grout is looking for some money.”
“Is he now? What do you mean?”
“It was … money that was … stolen.”
“Stolen? Lord forbid. Who was it taken from?”
The word me caught in Laurence’s mouth. He could taste it. But he could not get it past his lips.
Patrick, sensing something was wrong, stopped and contemplated Laurence.
Afraid to meet Patrick’s questioning eyes, Laurence finally said, “It was taken from … me.” He spoke so softly it was difficult for Patrick to hear.
The Irish boy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not understanding.”
“Patrick,” Laurence stumbled on, “it was money … I … stole. In London.”
“Faith, I remember now.” Patrick nodded with grave understanding. “In Liverpool — on that queer church boat — wasn’t that minister fellow saying you ran away from home? And weren’t all those people looking for you? Was it all about money then?”
Upset, Laurence started to walk away. Patrick hurried to catch up. “Was it a great amount?” he asked.
Heart heavy, Laurence had to stop again. “A … thousand … pounds.”
“A thousand pounds!” Patrick cried in disbelief. “Go on now! You’re talking daft! That’s the coin of kings and queens. And, sure, in Liverpool you had nothing like.”
Laurence felt as if he were dying. His eyes were full of tears. “It was taken from me.”
“Was it that runner Toggs?”
Laurence shook his head.
“Who then?”
“Mr. Grout.”
“Mr. Grout!” Patrick exclaimed. “Laurence, you have me spinning! Didn’t you say he’s the one you’re with?”
Laurence nodded. “He’s trying … to get the money back from the man who … took it from him.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Patrick muttered. “You’re living a tangled tale. Where in the name of Saint Patrick himself did you get that kind of loot?”
Laurence closed his eyes.
“Surely now, Laurence,” Patrick pressed, “you can trust me. Haven’t we become like brothers? Faith, I’ll never tell a blessed soul.” He made the sign of the cross to show how seriously he took the vow.
“I took it from my father,” Laurence blurted out.
“Your father!”
“Yes….”
“Holy faith, Laurence,” Patrick said with wonder even as he took hold of his friend’s sleeve, “from the look of you, I’d never have thought. But where would the likes of a fat
“He … owns … land,” Laurence stammered.
“Land?”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
“Places…. In Ireland.”
“Ireland,” Patrick echoed, and his hand fell away from Laurence. He stepped back. “Laurence, there’s something else you’re fearing of telling me, isn’t there?”
“Yes….”
“What is it?”
“My … name.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s Laurence … Kirkle,” the boy said as though ashes filled his mouth. “Sir … Laurence Kirkle.”
“Kirkle,” Patrick repeated.
Laurence nodded.
“By all the saints,” Patrick whispered. “Are you saying then … it’s the same Lord Kirkle who owns … the land of … Kilonny?”
“I think so …,” Laurence replied bleakly.
Patrick’s eyes grew wide with dismay. “What makes you think so?” he asked.
“Before I ran away I … saw a paper on my father’s desk — with that name on it.”
“Holy Jesus,” a shocked Patrick murmured. “Laurence, does the name Mr. Morgan mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“He’s your father’s agent. Him that collects the rents. And a cruel man, Laurence. Something awful. He drove us — and many others — away. And always he was doing it in your father’s name. There’s blood on Morgan’s hands. Buckets of it. And didn’t those hands work for your da.”
Laurence, crying now, gazed at Patrick. “I didn’t know.”
“And didn’t that Morgan have the soldiers shoot at me? And didn’t he want to throw me in jail? Laurence, I have to know. Why did you leave your home?”
“It was my brother, and my father, they … didn’t treat me well.”
“That mark on your face,” Patrick said. “It was new when I met you. Was it that?”
Laurence nodded.
“And who was the one who did it?”
“My brother,” Laurence said. “But my father let him. And Patrick,” he added, “my brother is here, in Lowell. You have to help me.”
“By all that’s sacred,” Patrick replied with the utmost gravity, “I’m not so sure I should.”
Patrick,” Laurence pleaded, “I didn’t have anything to do with Ireland or your Mr. Morgan, and I —”
“Sir Laurence Kirkle,” Patrick said bitterly, “how can you be my friend while your father’s a great enemy?”
“I’m not your enemy,” Laurence cried. “I just helped you, didn’t I?”
Patrick looked away.
“And you helped me in Liverpool,” Laurence pressed, “and on the ship.”
They walked on. A silent Patrick stared straight ahead. Laurence kept stealing glances at him. After some ten minutes the Irish boy stopped. “Laurence,” Patrick said, facing him, “that money you’re looking for … by the Holy Mother, don’t you see? Some of it must have come from Kilonny!”
“But I don’t have it,” Laurence cried. “And it wasn’t me who took it from your village!”
Patrick ran his fingers through his black hair. “I hardly know what to be saying,” he admitted. “But I suppose you need not worry. Didn’t I swear I wouldn’t be telling your tale? I can’t be going back on my oath. For now, it’s my sister I need to be talking to, and over there is the house she’s lodging at. Do you want to come along or not?”
“Will you still be my friend?”
“I have to be thinking about it,” Patrick replied.
“Then I guess we should go,” said a disappointed Laurence.
As they drew nearer to the Hamlyn house, they saw Bridy on the front steps. As soon as she saw Patrick, she ran toward him gladly.
“There you are, Bridy,” Patrick called to her. “Look who I found on the streets.”
Bridy gazed up at Laurence and smiled shyly.
“And what were you doing out here?” Patrick asked.
“I’m watching,” the girl said.
“Are you now. For what?”
“It’s my job,” Bridy said solemnly. “Mr. Hamlyn wants me to watch for someone.”
“Then you’re being helpful,” Patrick said with amusement. “Do you know if Maura is in?”
“I think she’s still working.”
All the same Patrick knocked on the door. It was the housemaid who answered. “Please, miss,” Patrick said, “I’m Maura O’Connell’s brother, Patrick. I need to be speaking to my sister. It’s something urgent.”
“Just wait a bit then,” the young woman said, shutting the door. Within moments it opened again, and Mrs. Hamlyn looked out. “Master Patrick,” she said. “I am glad to see you. Your sister was worried about you.”
“Can I be speaking with her then?”
“Oh, no. She’s at the mill. Is there something the matter?”
“I’m in a kind of trouble, mistress.”
“Trouble?” the woman asked. “What kind?”
Patrick explained what had happened to him. “You see, I’m afraid to go to Mr. Brewster’s rooms,” he said when he’d told it all. “And I need to be talking with my sister.”
Mrs. Hamlyn, having listened to the story with sympathy, gave a sigh of regret when Patrick was done. “I’m sorry about what occurred,” she said. “It’s nothing but wickedness. And I think you’re right. It wouldn’t be wise to roam the streets if those boys are looking for you. Besides, you need something to eat. You must be famished and cold. You can wait here until your sister returns.”
“Did she go off looking for work?”
Mrs. Hamlyn smiled. “She’s been employed at the Shagwell Mill.”
Patrick grinned. “I’m glad to know it,” he said.
Mrs. Hamlyn drew open the door to allow the boy to enter. Laurence, not sure what to do, remained standing below the steps.
“And who is this?” Mrs. Hamlyn asked.
Patrick looked back. “His name is … Laurence, mistress.”
Mrs. Hamlyn scrutinized the boy before her. “Where does he come from?” she said, finding him scrawny and dirty.
“He came to America on the same ship we did.”
Mrs. Hamlyn pursed her lips. “He’s very ragged. Is he from Ireland too?”
“England.”
“But a friend of yours?”
Laurence and Patrick looked at each other.
“Is he?” Mrs. Hamlyn asked again.
Patrick said, “He saved my life, twice.”
“Did he? Then he must be a good friend indeed. I presume he knows your sister.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Then perhaps he could deliver a message from you to her. I’m sure she’d like to know you’re all right. And he might tell her to come home immediately after work. Are you willing to go?” she asked Laurence.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fine. I’ll give you directions. As for you, Patrick, you must stop here. It will be safer. Miss Bridy, will you be coming in too?”
“No, please,” the girl replied, cozy in the secret she shared with Mr. Hamlyn. “I need to be watching.”
Mr. Clemspool had spent an insufferable night. First he had been thrown out of the Shagwell house. Then he had been arrested by Mr. Tolliver as a common thief for attempting to rob the mill owner. Next he had been booked at the police office, taken to jail, and locked in a cell that was not just dingy and dirty but rancid with the stench of all the common prisoners who had been kept there.
Even so, the cell was not the worst of it for Mr. Clemspool. Far worse was his belief that the bank key remained in the drawer of the bedside table — or with that boy from the street! Just the possibility that he had lost access to all that money was enough to drive him into a perfect frenzy.
When he interrogated his jailer about his rights as a free-born Englishman, he was told that he could be free in two days, not before. Mr. Clemspool hastened to point out that, for an earlier
The jail keeper, a grizzled fellow with a bulky, sagging pear-shaped body, merely guffawed and walked away.
Swearing many a foul oath against the man, Mr. Clemspool took to the cell’s wooden bench, which the jail keeper had insisted was the bed.
That night, the sole proprietor of Brother’s Keeper, Ltd., tossed and turned so that he slept little. By breakfast time — breakfast consisting of boiled coffee, stale bread, and a sinewy pull of cold beef — Mr. Clemspool was reduced to muttering, “Bloody all Kirkles!” in a rage, desperately desiring to wring their collective aristocratic necks like so many chickens set for a stew.
Midmorning, Mr. Clemspool was pacing up and down his cell, fuming and focused principally on Laurence. As far as Matthew Clemspool was concerned, the boy was the cause of all his problems! Bad enough in England. Here he was in America, blighting him again….
A clanging on his cell door startled Mr. Clemspool. “You’ve got a visitor, mister,” the jail keeper announced through the bars. “Says he’s a friend!”
“A friend!” Mr. Clemspool exclaimed, wondering who in the world might be coming to his aid. “Who is it?” he asked. “The British ambassador?”
“He wouldn’t give his name. Want to see him or not?”
“I suppose I do.” Mr. Clemspool hastened to smooth down his few licks of hair and put on his jacket. But hardly had he the chance when who should walk in but Sir Albert Kirkle.
“I’ve left the door open,” said the jail keeper to Albert. “Just shut it when you leave.”
A disbelieving Mr. Clemspool stared at the young man. He even stretched his plump fingers into the air and made a feeble attempt to brush away the dream that he presumed Albert was.
“Didn’t think it would be me, did you?” the young lord began, finding great amusement in Mr. Clemspool’s astonishment. He smirked and squeezed his hands until his knuckles cracked.
“Is it you?” Mr. Clemspool returned nervously, wondering if he had, perhaps, lost his mind as so many did who suffered lengthy prison stays.
“It’s me, all right.”
“But … but why — how — are you here?” Mr. Clemspool stammered.