Into the Storm (23 page)

Y
er see, sir,” Mr. Grout began in a low, halting voice, “I was born maybe twenty years ago. In London, snug in the molderin' shadow of Newgate Prison.

“I 'ad lots of brothers and sisters, younger and older. None of us knew where the next feed might be comin' from. Yer see, me father and mother were both mud larks.”

Mr. Drabble gave his friend a puzzled look.

“Mud larks goes into the Thames River, in London, yer know, winter and summer, gropin' and feelin' for things in the mudflats. Coal bits, old iron, rope, copper nails if yer lucky. Which they sells. It don't bring but farthings and ha'pennies, though once me father found a silver thimble. The best year, that were. But yer can believe we was always fightin' and scrapin' over wot we 'ad.

“Now,” Mr. Grout continued, “when each of us tykes got to be nine years or such, me father 'eaves us out — boys and girls both — to live or die. ‘Go muck fer yer own lives,' he says, givin' us 'is kiss an' 'is boot all in one blow. Me mother 'ad no say. She were a mute anyway.

“I did find me life, which was fightin' for prizes. Terrifyin' Toby they calls me. I was that fierce. That's 'ow I lost me eye. I was maulin' Brawlin' Billy Bathwait when he slams me with a stake.

“Well, sir, yer can't fight much with one eye. And I couldn't find 'onest work for any price. Not wantin' the workhouse, I took to street thievin'. Me grift was an old man's disguise. After a while I meets up with this Clemspool.”

“Your friend?”

“Clemspool ain't no friend of mine!” Mr. Grout cried so loudly that Mr. Drabble, with a glance at Laurence, had to remind him to keep his voice low.

“Clemspool runs a business for rich boys that don't like their own brothers. Brother's Keeper he calls it. For money — pots of it — 'e'll nab yer brother, older or younger, 'e don't care. Maybe once a week 'e'd point them out to me on the street. I'd snatch 'em and bring 'em to 'im. Then 'e'd ship 'em out. To India. West Indies. Australia. America. Places yer can't get back from.

“One night, when I'm out on me own grift, I prigged a lot of money from that there boy.” He pointed to Laurence.

“How much?”

Mr. Grout hesitated. “A thousand pounds,” he whispered.

“A
thousand
!” Mr. Drabble cried in astonishment, and turned to look at Laurence again.

“Truth to tell, 'e's a young lord.”

“A lord!”

“I thought me luck 'ad turned. But me luck had Clemspool bein' paid to send that very boy to America. Only the boy escaped, and somehow 'e got on board the same ship we did. Then I thought 'e'd gone dead, 'cause I was certain I saw 'is ghost rising up out of the floor on that ship.”

“Mr. Grout, I assure you, if this is the boy you are speaking of, he's very much alive.”

Mr. Grout shook his head. “I 'ardly know wot to believe. I thought 'is ghost came to make me repent me ways, which I swore to do. Only now, if 'e ain't dead, I say, what's to be done?”

Mr. Drabble placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. “Mr. Grout,” he murmured, “as the poet said, ‘Some rise by sin,' but I do believe repentance is the nobler path to redemption.”

Mr. Grout looked earnestly at his friend. “And do yer think, Mr. Drabble, truly, I can be forgiven all the wickedness I've done?”

“The Bible teaches us so, sir. And does not the bard confirm this in the line ‘When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down, and ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live'?”

“I don't understand that, Mr. Drabble. To tell the truth, I never do when yer talks so. All the same, the sound of it soothes me wonderfully.”

“Sir,” Mr. Drabble asked gravely, “what happened to that money?”

“Some of it went into these very togs I'm wearin'. Other bits went to pay me way to America. And for Clemspool too. But just this afternoon, before you came, I discovered that same villain stole all nine hundred or so pounds remainin'!”

“Heavens above! Are you sure?”

“Somehow, Mr. Drabble, you believe in me goodness. Well, I believe in that man's wickedness.”

“You say the boy comes from a noble family. What is his true name?”

Mr. Grout pondered the question for a time but finally shook his head. “Yer don't want to know. It'll only bring a fear on yer.”

Mr. Drabble, so strangely fixed by the man's one bright eye, let the question drop by nodding his understanding that he was not to pursue the matter. “Mr. Grout,” he said, “what do you intend to do now?”

“Thing is,” Mr. Grout confessed, “I don't 'ave a penny. I'm shamed to ask, but do yer 'ave any of wot I paid yer?”

“I do,” Mr. Drabble assured him. “And since you were kind to me, there's no reason not to be the same to you. The more so if you truly desire to change your ways.”

“I do. Makin' just one exception.”

“And what is that?”

“I'm goin' to find Clemspool.”

“But how?”

“First I was in such a fit, I didn't know wot to do. Then I got to thinkin' 'ard. Clemspool made a friend on that boat. Name of Shagwell. An American. Said he came from a place called Lowell.”

“Lowell!” Mr. Drabble caught his breath.

“It's slim pickin's, but I'm 'opin' that Shagwell fellow might know where Clemspool went.”

“But, Mr. Grout,” the actor said sternly, “I am bound to ask: Do you intend to do Mr. Clemspool some harm?”

Mr. Grout grimaced. “I'd like to. I would. Only as I swore a sacred vow to change me ways, I won't. But I do want that money so I can 'and it back to that there boy. As for Clemspool, I'm goin' to let the whole world know 'e's a scoundrel!”

“Well then, sir,” Mr. Drabble said, “as we have become friends, we shall go together to this place called Lowell. The boy too.”

F
or Maura, Patrick, and Bridy, it was a long night huddled together, attempting vainly to keep warm, on the Long Wharf. None slept well, Maura hardly at all. More than once she found herself wishing they were on the ship.

Suppose their father did not come. Maura had never considered such an appalling possibility before. How could she have? All they'd endured was for the sake of this reunion.

How long, Maura asked herself, should they wait on the wharf for him? One day? Two? What if he came on the third? What if he'd never received Father Mahoney's letter informing him of their sailing? Might it not be better then for them to go to Lowell, the place from which Da had written? But where was Lowell? How did one get there? Could one walk?

No, Maura told herself firmly, Da would come. To think otherwise was a sin. Yet as the hours passed, the impossible seemed more and more likely.

Maura wished she had not sent Mr. Drabble off the way she'd done. Had he not — for all his faults — helped them often? He'd deserved better.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the girl prayed silently, help us in our hour of need.

Feeling pangs of hunger, she checked to see how much money she still had. What, she wondered, would a few English pennies buy in America? Very little, she supposed. “Oh, Da,” she cried out softly, “where are you!”

From time to time she looked at Patrick and Bridy, both, for the moment, sleeping. She told herself that — no matter
what — she would care for them. They were in America. There was no going back.

As the sky brightened to gray, Patrick stirred, opened his eyes, stretched, and looked about. They were the only ones on the wharf. “Has there been any sign of Da at all?”

“Not yet,” his sister replied, struggling not to give voice to the panic she felt.

“Maura,” Patrick asked in a low voice, as if there was danger in speaking too loudly, “what would you be thinking happened to him?”

Trying to sound hopeful, Maura dredged up a bit of a conversation she had overheard. “Sure, but someone on the ship was saying that storm blew us in sooner than expected. Maybe that's all it is. You mustn't be doubting, Patrick O'Connell, not for a moment. He'll be coming along today, tomorrow latest. There's naught to do but stay where we are. As for being hungry, sure, we've been that before.”

“Is there nothing to eat then?” her brother asked.

“This is all we have,” Maura said, holding out the English pennies in the palm of her hand. “I'm thinking we'd better see what the day brings before we use them. You might get some more sleep.”

“I'm tired of sleeping,” Patrick complained.

“Well then, you sit and watch. For my part, I could use some rest.”

Though too tense to really sleep, Maura lay down and closed her eyes. Here was, in any case, a way to escape Patrick's painful questions.

The boy took measure of where they were. Nearby, floating quietly, lay the
Robert Peel
. The once bustling ship was deserted. Puffed-up gulls strutted about as if claiming ownership.

Boston lay in shadow. Only the golden dome at the crest of Beacon Hill caught the early light, creating the illusion of fire. In the air there wafted a smell of bread baking. Patrick's stomach churned.

The sky brightened to blue. Patrick began to see a few people — they looked like dockworkers — straggle onto the
wharf. One of them caught Patrick's attention. He was ambling along, hands deep in his pockets, as if he had all the time in the world. At first Patrick thought him old — he progressed so slowly — but as he drew nearer, Patrick realized he was a young man. Moreover, the way he was dressed — loose jacket, baggy trousers, blue cloth tied about his neck, cap perched on the back of his head — suggested nothing of either sea or docks.

The fellow seemed to be looking for something. When he reached the
Robert Peel
, he halted, yanked his hands out of his pockets, turned hastily, and began to survey the wharf.

Patrick realized that the young man was now staring right at them. He wished he'd turn elsewhere.

Instead, the young man drew nearer, inching toward them a few steps at a time, pausing, turning about only to come on again.

Patrick gave a poke to Maura. She sat up instantly.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There's a man staring at us,” Patrick whispered.

Maura looked for herself. He had not been on the ship, of that she was sure. But then the young man gave a start of recognition, took a step back, whipped off his cap, and, with what appeared to be a great effort, moved closer. Not for an instant did he take his eyes from Maura.

“I … I beg your pardon.” He spoke haltingly, crushing his cap in his hands and swallowing gulps of air. “Are you … are you … Miss Maura … O'Connell?”

“To be sure I am,” she replied warily. “But … but … how did you know?”

“My name,” the young man announced, “is Nathaniel Brewster. I'm … I'm bringing news of Gregory O'Connell.”

Maura and Patrick leaped up. “That's Da!” Maura cried, her voice loud enough to wake Bridy. “And where is he?”

Nathaniel squeezed his hat nervously, looked at the O'Connells, looked away, looked again at Maura. “Miss O'Connell,” he began again, only to falter. “I'm … afraid I have tell you that … some four weeks ago … your father … Mr. O'Connell … poor fellah … I fear he died.”