Into the Storm (19 page)

M
r. Clemspool — Lord Kirkle's money deep in his pocket — hastened to the smoking room. Once there, he helped himself to a cigar, lit it, extended his legs, and
waited. He was considering giving the money to Mr. Shagwell for safekeeping. It might be wise.

He did not have to wait long. Ambrose Shagwell appeared just as he had done every morning, eager as always to regale Mr. Clemspool with tales of his prosperous Shagwell Cotton Mill Company.

“The captain has informed me we should be in Boston by tomorrow,” the American announced when he came in.

Mr. Clemspool waved away the smoke from his cigar. “I'm looking forward to it.”

For a moment the two men sat in silence. Then Mr. Shagwell said, “Mr. Clemspool, do you expect to be visiting Lowell in the near future?”

“I have no particular objections,” returned Mr. Clemspool casually, “saving that some important Boston bankers are hoping to meet with me and —”

“Never mind Boston bankers,” Mr. Shagwell interrupted. “You should visit Lowell first. It offers the best hospitality. Indeed, sir, if you would be willing to be a guest in my house, I'm sure we could make you very comfortable. You could consider it your home. I'll show you about our mill, and you may see for yourself what a thriving enterprise looks like.”

Mr. Clemspool took pains to suppress a smile. “Well now,” he allowed, “you take me completely by surprise. Are you sure …?”

“I'll not hear it otherwise. Come,” Mr. Shagwell pressed, “say that you will.”

“I should certainly like to,” Mr. Clemspool said in his most nonchalant fashion. “You've made it sound most attractive, both as a place to visit and” — he stroked his invisible harp with plump fingers — “as an investment.”

“I'll admit,” Mr. Shagwell said, “that we've had our troubles with too many Irish of late. Increase in crime, disease, filth … not to mention their deplorable religion. A sad business, sir. Not like the American worker. But they present one advantage. They take less in wages. It keeps the others in line. But, of course …” Here Mr. Shagwell pointed to his eye and
his nose and made the figure of a zero with his thumb and first finger.

“No doubt …,” Mr. Clemspool agreed, still wondering, but not asking, what the gestures meant.

“Very well then, Mr. Clemspool, when we reach America,” Mr. Shagwell said, “it will be my great privilege to escort you to Lowell.”

Mr. Clemspool offered up his best smile. “To make my point precisely, it shall be
my
very great pleasure.”

“And if what you see makes you desire to risk —”

“I will take it,” Mr. Clemspool said emphatically. “You may have little doubt about
that
.”

Mr. Shagwell frowned. “I do have one small question.”

“Please, sir.”

Mr. Shagwell arched his eyebrows so high, they almost turned into question marks. “Your young traveling companion … Mr. Grout …”

Mr. Clemspool laughed lightly. “Pay not the slightest attention to him, sir. I took him along as a means of — what shall I say … education. The cousin of a distant relation. But I hasten to assure you, sir, once we reach Boston, Mr. Grout and I go our separate ways. No, sir, I would not for a moment think of allowing him access to your home.”

Mr. Shagwell bowed slightly. “I admire your judgment, Mr. Clemspool. I do.”

“And I, sir,” Mr. Clemspool said, “admire yours. Indeed, I look forward to a profitable partnership.”

“In Lowell,” Mr. Shagwell added.

“In Lowell,” Mr. Clemspool agreed.

As Mr. Clemspool extended one hand to Mr. Shagwell, his other hand clutched Lord Kirkle's money. It was perfectly clear to him that the American coveted the cash. Good! thought Mr. Clemspool. The more Mr. Shagwell sought it, the easier it would be for him to swindle money from the American.

M
r. Clemspool — in his nightshirt — lay rigid upon his stateroom bed beneath his blankets. Though it was nearly midnight, he was too anxious to sleep. He had stashed Lord Kirkle's money under his pillow. Every few minutes he gave the packet a squeeze to make sure it was still there. Even so, there were moments he wished he'd put the money in a better hiding place.

Mr. Clemspool took consolation by telling himself that a loss of sleep was but a small price to pay. Once he got away with the money, he would be a rich man. And when Sir Albert Kirkle began to make payments, he'd be richer yet.

That thought set him to musing about how Sir Albert had received his letter. With a sigh, Mr. Clemspool acknowledged that, after all, Sir Albert was yet another unpleasant young person, not to be fully counted upon. Indeed, there were times Mr. Clemspool felt that the young people of the world were causing all his problems. He recalled the boys of the Lime Street Runners Association in Liverpool. He had paid good money for their assistance to find Laurence. What did he get? Nothing!

“Am I my brother's keeper?” he murmured. “No, absolutely not.”

The ceiling lamp had been turned low, not off. Mr. Clemspool preferred it that way. It enabled him to make sure Mr. Grout remained asleep. For though the one-eyed man looked asleep, Mr. Clemspool could not be sure. Mr. Grout could be cunning.

Mr. Clemspool propped himself up on an elbow, the better
to contemplate the man. Deciding to check, he swung his legs out from under the blankets.

No sooner did he do so than he heard a noise, a click. He listened intently. Again! It was the door. He waited. Sure enough, the door edged open.

Mr. Clemspool's first instinct was to cry out an alarm. But his curiosity made him hold back. Noiselessly, he swung his legs back upon the bed and pulled the blankets over his head but arranged them so he could peek out.

The door opened wider. Certain that someone was about to enter, Mr. Clemspool held his breath. Sure enough, a head appeared around the door and looked inside. All Mr. Clemspool could see was that the person was quite small. Immediately he decided it was one of those beggarly Irish children he'd noticed among the steerage passengers. The thieves! he thought contemptuously.

Constraining his anger, Mr. Clemspool watched and waited. The young person stepped fully into the room. He looked in Mr. Clemspool's direction, thereby illuminating his face. What Mr. Clemspool saw caused his heart to all but explode: The intruder was none other than Sir Laurence Kirkle!

At first the man thought he was dreaming. He pinched one hand to make sure he was not. As it was, he needed every bit of his willpower not to move.

Laurence, having looked in Mr. Clemspool's direction, now turned to Mr. Grout. When he saw the face, he stood absolutely still, staring.

Mr. Clemspool's mind raced, trying to comprehend how Sir Laurence could be in his stateroom. Dimly, he recollected that in Liverpool Sergeant Rumpkin spoke of the possibility of Laurence's seeking to stow away. And had not the
Robert Peel
's first mate — Mr. Murdock — insisted from the first day of the voyage that there was a stowaway on board? Though Mr. Grout had believed the boy he had seen during the storm was a ghost, it must have been Laurence — alive! So here he was — Sir Laurence Kirkle himself!

Nearly in a panic, Mr. Clemspool wondered, Should I seize the boy? Ignore him? Cry an alarm? All these thoughts
thundered through his brain while Laurence continued to gaze at Mr. Grout's face. But before Mr. Clemspool could make up his mind, Laurence began to search under Mr. Grout's bed, in his boots, and finally in his traveling bag. To Mr. Clemspool's astonishment, he saw the boy open the bag, put his hand inside, and rummage through it. The effrontery! He's looking for the money, Mr. Clemspool thought, and reached gingerly under his pillow to reassure himself that it was still there.

Tiptoeing to the desk, Laurence opened its drawers. Then he turned again toward Mr. Clemspool's bed. Under the covers, the man held his breath. His limbs trembled from tension.

Laurence moved to the door only to pause, look about, and — to Mr. Clemspool's intense irritation — return to make a second foray into Mr. Grout's traveling bag.

At last, and with a sigh, the boy stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him silently.

Only when he heard a click did Mr. Clemspool dare to move. He threw back the covers and sat up. His mind was a whirl. What should he do? One fact stood out clearly: In a matter of hours he would be disembarking in Boston. What was to be gained by taking hold of the boy now? Nothing. He was sure Laurence did not know he was on the ship. Good. Let the boy focus all his attention on Grout. As for himself, Mr. Clemspool decided that
his
energy must be directed toward keeping out of Laurence's sight.

But there was one other thing Mr. Clemspool realized he must do. Removing the packet from under his pillow, he carefully unwrapped it. After placing the money back under his pillow, he looked about for a substitute, at last recalling the notepaper in the desk drawer. He wrapped a stack of this in the same London newspaper Mr. Grout had used for the real money. When he was done, Mr. Clemspool was quite sure it looked like the original. This new packet he placed in Mr. Grout's traveling bag.

At the sound of eight bells, and resolved upon his next steps, Mr. Clemspool sought and found some sleep — his hand still clutching the money.

I
t was close to ten in the morning when the
Robert Peel
's anchor splashed down off Governor's Island in Boston Bay. Within the hour, a revenue cutter with a spanking blue hull and new white sails brought word that government medical authorities would make an inspection of both ship and passengers the following morning. If all went well, first-class passengers would be allowed to leave immediately, taken off by a coastal lighter. Steerage passengers would wait to disembark at the Long Wharf in Boston.

By early evening the cleaning of the vessel was complete according to Mr. Murdock's stipulations. The
Robert Peel
seemed a new ship, clean and bright. To celebrate, Captain Rickles ordered extra helpings of bread and rice and as much vinegar water as remained. Even the sailors took on a more kindly manner, chatting amiably with passengers they had so recently mocked and abused.

That night the air was cold, but full of the sweet scent of earth. The moon, at three-quarters, brought sparkle to the water, while across the bay the city seemed alive with light.

Though the hour grew late, the deck remained crowded as the immigrants feasted their eyes on their future.

“Doesn't Boston look to be a fine place,” Patrick said to Maura as the two gazed at the city from behind the bulwark. “I heard some folk saying it would be hard choosing from all the work they'd be offered, when the food is there for the bending down and picking up. But tomorrow we'll be there ourselves.”

“We will,” Maura agreed.

“Do you think Da is there now?” Patrick asked.

“Faith then, if he's not, he's fast approaching,” his sister assured him.

“Would he be walking there from that Lowell, the way we did to Cork, do you think?”

Maura smiled. “If he's rich enough,” she suggested, “he might have a horse and cart.”

Patrick laughed at the pleasure of it. Then he said, “Maura, I was wondering if we'll need to tell him about Mother right off.”

Her smile faded. “I think so,” she said sadly.

Patrick looked at his sister. “Maura,” he asked, “will you tell him you're going to marry Mr. Drabble?”

Maura, blushing, tossed the thick brown hair away from her eyes. “And why,” she demanded fiercely, “should I be saying that?”

“Faith then, isn't it so?”

“Patrick O'Connell, if you're going to call yourself my brother, I'll thank you to know there's not a bit of truth to that!”

“Isn't there?”

“And if that's what you've been believing the whole voyage, you've altogether lost your senses. Marry Mr. Drabble! Saints look down! Not at all!”

A pleased Patrick turned his eyes on Boston again. When he sensed his sister was calm, he said, “Maura, there is something else I've been worrying about. It's the boy. Laurence. We need to help him get off the ship.”

Maura sighed. “Patrick O'Connell, you're a plague of questions and thoughts this night, aren't you?”

“You can't imagine the terrible time he's had,” Patrick pressed, “being in all that dark and filth for so long. We can't leave him, can we, Maura, with him coming so far?”

“Faith, didn't the boy choose to come himself?”

“But wasn't I the one who offered him Mother's ticket?”

Maura sighed. “It's many a time I wish you hadn't.”

“Maura,” said Patrick, “I did think of a way to help him off.”

“Did you?”

“Bridy is coming with us, isn't she?”

“That she is. To be sure, I made a vow to her poor mother that I'd take her on.”

“I'm glad you did,” Patrick said quickly. “But here's my notion. Let Laurence go off as one of her brothers.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Maura gasped. “Here's Bridy's grief so great she hardly says a word, but you're all for saying her brother's alive!”

“But don't you see?” Patrick persisted. “The captain said we weren't to say anyone died. Well then, there's Laurence to prove that a brother of Bridy's is alive indeed.”

Though she tried to restrain herself, Maura smiled. “Patrick O'Connell, you could slip the heel off an English soldier's boot as he goes marching by.”

Patrick grinned.

She studied her brother's face. “Why do you care so much for the boy?”

Patrick thought for a moment. “Maura, do you remember that statue of Saint George in Cork, the one slaying the dragon?”

“I do.”

“It's as though this Laurence was being chased by a nest of dragons, and I'm the one to slay them. And surely,” he added, “if I were so miserable and poor, you'd want someone to do the like for me, wouldn't you?”

Maura stared across the bay. “If I say yes and the boy comes off, will you be asking anything more?”

“No.”

“And you'll promise not to go begging Da to have him come with us?”

“I did think of that,” her brother admitted.

“By the holy saints! Isn't there the news of Mother? And we're bringing Bridy. How much can we be asking of himself?”

“But he's rich, Maura!”

“I'm only asking if it's fair, Patrick, and the boy being English at that.”

“And I'm just wanting to get him off.”

“Very well,” Maura said after a while, “to that I can agree. But it's to Bridy Faherty you should be applying now.”

When Patrick found her, Bridy was sitting alone on the platform berth. He hauled himself up. “Bridy …,” he began.

The girl, as mournful as ever, turned around to face him.

“I'm needing to ask you something,” Patrick whispered. “You know we'll be in Boston tomorrow, don't you?”

Bridy's gaze was steady.

“Do you remember my friend Laurence?” Patrick asked. “That English boy? The one that kept me from being swept into the sea during the storm? Can you recall him at all?”

Bridy nodded.

“Then you know he's a poor, unfortunate creature, with nothing but rags on his back and all alone like you. So I was wondering, Bridy, if you'd be willing to let him pretend to be one of your brothers? That way, you see, he could get off the ship. But only if you don't object.”

Bridy shut her eyes.

“Faith, Bridy,” Patrick pleaded, “if he doesn't get off, he'll die. And sure, we've had enough of dying, now haven't we?”

Without a word the girl brought the pile of her family's meager clothing forward. For a long time she gazed at it. Patrick waited patiently.

Bridy offered the clothing to him. “He can wear these,” she said softly.

“For sure, Bridy Faherty, the gods will talk to you,” said Patrick.