Into the Storm (2 page)

O
n the quarterdeck Mr. Murdock, the first mate, assembled his stowaway search party: two sailors, Mr. Grout, and Mr. Clemspool. One sailor carried a long sharp stick, the other a heavy hammer. Mr. Murdock held a lantern.

“All right, gents,” the first mate began, “yer welcome to come along to search for stowaways if it's Captain Rickles's pleasure. I'm just warning yer to keep behind me and the lads. If we find someone, they're liable to be desperate. Yer'll want us to deal with 'em, not yerselves.”

“No need to worry about me, sir,” Mr. Clemspool replied heartily. The further the ship drew away from England, and Mr. Pickler, the more the man's cherublike face resumed its cheerful demeanor. “My friend, however, who cannot claim more than twenty years of life, is quite another matter.”

Indeed, Mr. Grout was finding the ship's motion most
upsetting. His stomach was queasy, and his face had turned a pasty white. As the
Robert Peel
pitched and rolled, he was continually reaching out for support. “Will this 'ere search take long?” he fretted.

“I wouldn't think so, sir,” Mr. Murdock told him, taking pleasure in the landlubber's uneasiness. “But yer welcome to step out at any time and go to yer stateroom. Just take yerselves a pull of fresh air before we go, 'cause we start in the bottom hold. And it's not particular pleasant there.”

F
rom inside the crate a weak and dazed Laurence blinked at the candle flame. His muscles were cramped. His stomach ached from hunger. His throat was parched. “Is that you, Patrick?” he beseeched hoarsely.

“Aye, it's me,” Patrick replied, much relieved to have found his friend. “And you, Laurence, are you all right?”

“I thought you'd never come,” the English boy managed to say.

“Didn't I tell you I would?” Patrick returned with pride, though as he spoke he looked nervously back over his shoulder.

Carefully, he helped Laurence from the crate. But the boy sank to the floor, too weak to stand.

“I'll be needing to put the boards back on,” Patrick cautioned. “Else for sure they'll know you've been in the box.” He set his candle aside and worked to shove the crate boards back into place.

“Now, Laurence,” he said, kneeling before his friend, “you must listen to me, because I can't be staying long. I don't know where we're to be yet so I can't take you with me. And faith,
I'm thinking it wouldn't be safe for you there. Maybe you'd best bide some time here.”

“Where?” Laurence asked, too numb, too confused to think for himself.

“I'm not sure exactly,” Patrick admitted. “You could try among the barrels over there. Only you'd best hurry, Laurence. They'll be searching for you.”

“For me?” whimpered Laurence.

“For any stowaways.”

The miserable boy stared into the murky darkness.

“Laurence, you must look at me and listen! I'm going now or my sister will be wondering where I am. You can hide yourself, can't you?”

“Patrick! Will you come back soon?”

“Don't you be worrying about that,” Patrick assured him as he retrieved the candle and backed away a few steps. “You can be sure I'll come as often as I can.”

“But —”

“Just hide yourself, Laurence!” Patrick whispered with urgency as he moved further into the dark. “Do you hear me? Hide yourself!”

Laurence struggled to his feet. “Patrick!” he called. But the Irish boy had disappeared, though where Laurence was not sure.

Enveloped by inky blackness, Laurence stood where he was, sensing little more than the ceaseless pitching and yawing of the ship. The motion made him disoriented. It was hard to grasp what was happening. “I'm going to America,” he said out loud. “To America,” he repeated as though trying to convince himself. Then he added, “I have no family. I've no money. My name is Laurence, and I —”

Suddenly he heard voices coming from above. Terrified of being caught, Laurence looked up and saw a beam of light cut down a ladder like a golden spike. Then he saw boots descending. Close to panic, he scrambled along the aisle in search of a hiding place.

I
magine people hiding in such a pestilential hole!” Mr. Clemspool exclaimed.

“But they do, “Mr. Murdock said as he swung his lantern beam about to illuminate the cargo.

The smell in the hold was so nauseating that Mr. Grout pinched his nose. “'Ow can yer find anyone 'ere?” he wondered as he gawked about. “More a place for ghosts than livin' people.” Nervously, he reached out and rapped his knuckles upon wood, then grasped the same timber to keep himself steady.

“Aye, ships do have ghosts,” Mr. Murdock solemnly assured him.

“They do?”

“It's a sailor's belief, sir, that ships are haunted by the souls of those who died trying to get on board. Not to mention those who drown during a voyage.”

“Lord 'elp us!” Mr. Grout cried. “Are yer speakin' the truth?”

The first mate tipped a wink to Mr. Clemspool, who in turn encouraged the teasing with a grin.

“'Course it's true!” Mr. Murdock insisted. “And yer had best be on the lookout for them, sir.”

In dread, Mr. Grout shut his one good eye.

“Now, gentlemen,” Mr. Murdock said, “to business. Stowaways always think themselves clever by trying something different. Except it's just those differences that help us find 'em. See these barrels here, gentlemen, stacked one atop the other? All neat and regular. Little likelihood of anyone being in 'em. Consider yerself.” He measured the large Mr.
Grout with gleeful eyes. “Yer could hardly get in one of 'em barrels, now could yer, sir? And if yer did,” he added ominously, “we'd never pry yer out alive. Regular bit of salt cod, yer'd be.”

Mr. Grout shuddered.

“No, sir,” the first mate continued, “what we do is look for what's irregular. Stowaways tuck themselves into corners, thinking they won't be noticed. We usually find 'em up forward or aft by the bread and spirit larders, where there's some open space. Yer'll see.”

Holding his lantern before him, Mr. Murdock led the way down the central aisle between the rows of cargo. Now and again he nodded to one of his crew and pointed to a box or bale. The sailor either banged the box or poked a staff deep into it. But though they tried many times, no one was found.

When they went as far forward as they could, the first mate suddenly gave a snort and pointed to an upright crate standing quite isolated in the bow. Its position had the look of irregularity even to Mr. Clemspool's and Mr. Grout's unpracticed eyes.

Grinning broadly, Mr. Murdock beckoned to the sailors. They hastened forward and crouched at either side of the crate.

The first mate gave a curt nod, reached out, took hold of one of the crate's slats, and yanked. The board clattered to the floor. All five men leaned forward to see what was inside.

It was empty.

“By God,” Mr. Murdock swore with rage. “
Someone
was here. And whoever he is, he's on board somewhere. Don't yer fear, gents. I'll get him. And when I do, I'll make him jig to a lively tune.”

Laurence, crouched deep among rows of barrels amidships, heard every word. To keep himself from sobbing, he bit hard into his lower lip.

M
r. Drabble could not help himself. While Maura was caught up in her thoughts and worries, he had gazed at her intently, smiling broadly from time to time. Miss Maura O'Connell was the angel who had dropped through the miasma of Mrs. Sonderbye's basement and led him out of loathsome Liverpool toward the promised land. Without her, the actor was convinced, he would have perished. Indeed, it was far more than gratitude that he felt toward her: In a matter of days he had fallen in love with her.

The idea of loving Maura thrilled him. Was not he a gifted actor? Was not she a heroine? Was not her rescue of him the stuff of great drama? So he believed.

Here they were embarking on an epic voyage — the play. Here they were on a ship — a stage. There were the passengers — the audience. Here was his leading lady — Maura. Was not he — Horatio Drabble — destined to play the role of devoted lover? Was not loving this young woman the part he'd prepared himself for all his life? To each of these questions Mr. Drabble answered a resounding “Yes!”

Now, as the ship sailed toward the Western Sea — the second act of the play — he felt compelled to speak the lines fate had written for him.

“Miss O'Connell,” he called gently.

Maura, hearing her name, turned.

Even as she did, Mr. Drabble gathered up one of her hands in both of his and embraced it with his long fingers. Solemnly, he pressed the hand to his lips, kissed it — then allowed himself a prodigious sigh.

Maura was shocked.

“My dear Miss O'Connell,” Mr. Drabble began again, his face suffused with a pink glow that heightened the intensity of his brown eyes, “though we've known each other but a short time, it has been long enough for me to discover your great virtues. The bard expressed it far, far better than I ever shall when he said, ‘Love goes toward love.' May I, even as we set upon this voyage together, beg your permission to extend it through the rest of our lives?”

Maura looked at him incredulously.

Oblivious, Mr. Drabble smiled sweetly and went on. “What I am suggesting, my dear Miss O'Connell, in humbler words, is this: Will you bestow upon me the honor of your hand in marriage?”

Maura's reaction shifted from shock to offense. How could this man — all but a stranger — speak to her, a girl alone, in such a way? But a stab of guilt quickly followed her sense of affront. What had she done to encourage this man? The answer was immediate and clear. She had allowed herself to become too familiar.

In fright, she snatched her hand away and pressed it against her throat as if to feel her words as she spoke them. “Mr. D-D-Drabble,” she stammered, “you must not say such things. You mustn't! If we're to be friends at all — and you've been a generous one — you cannot address me so. I'm but fifteen years of age. I'll not hear it!”

Mr. Drabble sank to his knees. “Shakespeare's Juliet,” he reminded her, “was a mere fourteen.”

“By the Holy Mother, Mr. Drabble, I'm afraid I don't know this Juliet you're speaking of, and besides —”

Maura's words were interrupted by a voice that rang out across the deck.

“Attention! Attention!” As one, the crowd of emigrants turned to see Captain Rickles addressing them through his speaking trumpet.

“My first mate,” the captain announced, “has informed me that there's a stowaway upon this ship. I warn you: Do not aid this person! If you do, it will go as hard on you as on him when he's found, as he surely will be.

“But we are well off, and there will be no more green seaweed till we reach America! For now, all is in readiness for you to go below. Once there, you will be permitted to claim your berths. We expect orderly behavior. There's room for all.”

The captain's words galvanized the crowd. The emigrants snatched up their belongings and began to surge toward the steps that would take them below.

Maura turned back to Mr. Drabble. The actor, still upon his knees, was gazing up at her as if he had not heard anything she or the captain had said.

“Please, Mr. Drabble,
please
…,” Maura begged in an agonized whisper, “you must get up! I'll not think of it again, nor, I beg, will you. Please!”

Maura felt a pull on her arm. It was Patrick.

“And where have you been?” she demanded, the harshness of her voice masking the great relief she felt that her brother was by her side again.

Breathless from rushing up from below, Patrick could not speak. He could only shake his head.

“Are you ill?” Maura asked, instantly alarmed.

“It's the rolling of the ship,” he gasped.

A trembling Mr. Drabble pulled himself to his feet. “Miss O'Connell,” he managed to say in a voice barely above a whisper, “we had best go below ourselves.”

Patrick looked from his sister to the actor. Though he had come too late to hear their exchange, he had seen the man on his knees and observed his sister's great agitation. Neither one would look at the other.

He's asked her to marry him, Patrick thought with dismay, and she's accepted. Even if he had had the courage to inquire about it — which he did not — there was no time to do so. They gathered up their bundles and joined the crowd surging toward the entryway, the same that Patrick had used before. Slow as their descent was, the trio at last stepped upon the steerage deck, where they were to live during the long weeks of the voyage. What they beheld made them gasp in astonishment.