Into the Storm (24 page)

N
athaniel Brewster's words fell like a clap of thunder. “Died!” Patrick and Maura cried in unison. They stared at the young man in disbelief.

“I'm … terrible sorry,” he stammered, “to be bringing such … awful news.” He reduced his hat to a crumpled ball.

“But … how could that be?” Maura asked, unable — unwilling — to absorb the words.

“The doc said his heart failed him. To tell the truth, miss, long as I knew him he'd never been all that healthy. And homesick, well, something pitiful. And I guess too he was all worn out by the mill work. I reckon he'd want you to know that … he … died with a priest.”

“Were you his particular friend?” Patrick managed to ask.

Nathaniel bobbed his head. “Guess I was. We worked and lodged together. A decent fellah, your father.” He looked shyly at Maura. “Never stopped talking about you…. All of you. Why, when he first took on sick, he made me promise I'd come down to meet you. I took the day off. I guess your ship came in early, else, sure as shooting, I'd have been right here. I'm terrible sorry.”

“Faith then, Mr. Brewster,” Maura said, her voice quivering with emotion, “it's a kindness you came at all.”

“But where — begging your pardon, miss — where's your mother?”

When Maura did not answer, Patrick whispered, “She … she did not come.”

“And your brother …?”

Patrick shook his head.

Feeling altogether helpless, Nathaniel said, “It's a powerful sad thing.”

For a long moment no one spoke. Then the young man broke the silence. “Miss O'Connell,” he said, “if you're wanting, I could take you to Lowell.”

Maura, in tears, and unable to think of any other place, could only nod. As she did, she reached out and took Bridy's hand.

“I've money enough to go by railroad,” the young man said.

“We've never been on one before,” Patrick whispered.

“Where are your belongings?”

“We have none,” Maura said. “Nothing at all.”

“What about shoes?” he asked.

Maura shook her head.

Embarrassed, the young man stared off into the distance and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he said, feeling more and more tongue-tied, “if you follow, I can show you the way.”

Maura did not move. “Mr. Brewster,” she said, “you need to know we have no money.”

“Don't worry about money, miss,” Nathaniel replied. “I've enough. And your father left some. It's up in Lowell. I guess I just thought you'd want to go there, else I would have brought it. Soon as I can, I'll get it for you.”

The railway station was an hour's walk from the wharf. Maura barely saw the city or felt the cold. Bridy, clinging to her arm, and fearful about what might happen, had eyes only for her protector. Patrick stared mostly at the frigid ground.

At one point, Nathaniel turned to the boy. “Is it the cold that's making you limp?”

Patrick shook his head. “An accident on the ship.”

Nathaniel said no more.

Once at the station, Nathaniel paid for the tickets, then guided his charges to the proper railway-carriage seats. It was much warmer there. The O'Connells and Bridy sat upon one bench. Nathaniel sat right behind. Though it was forty minutes before they began to move, no one said a word.

Nathaniel was having a difficult time. Ever since Mr. O'Connell had died, he'd dreaded the moment he would have to deliver the news to the family. Now that he had, he was convinced he'd done it wretchedly. Maura, he thought, must think him a clumsy oaf.

In fact, Maura was not thinking about Nathaniel at all. Her grief was too overwhelming. And she felt enraged. How could her father call them to an unknown world and not be there to guide them? What was she to
do
?

Despite his sorrow, Patrick was diverted by the train ride. The constant noise, the swaying of the carriage fascinated him. They were moving at an incredible speed, twenty-five miles an hour, or so Nathaniel had whispered into his ear. Not only did the thought make Patrick's heart race, he was dizzy with the sights that passed so quickly before his eyes. This was the America he had dreamed about, full of new and wonderful things.

Yet the stations they stopped at were hardly more than wooden platforms. The occasional house he saw was rather small and spare, not at all what he had expected. Fields were barren and appeared to be mostly mud. Patches of gray snow lay everywhere. There were few trees. Nothing was green. Nothing looked alive. Was this, he wondered, truly the promised land?

L
aurence lay still, listening. When he heard the sound of the others breathing, he shut his eyes and shifted about so as to face into the room but appear as though still asleep. Then he opened his eyes just enough to see.

Stretched out on the bed across from him was Mr. Drabble. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape.

Laurence peeked at the door. Sitting against it — blocking it — was the London thief, Mr. Grout. He too was asleep, his head thrown back, arms crossed over his chest, the patch slightly askew over his blind eye. Even in sleep he looked menacing.

All Laurence could think of was escaping. Then he realized
why
Mr. Grout was sleeping against the door: to make certain that he, Laurence, could not flee. With an angry twist he faced the wall again.

Mr. Drabble was the first of the men to awaken. He moved slowly, stiffly, stretching his arms, yawning many times. He swung his long thin legs carefully to the floor. Then he sat, motionless, bent forward, cupping his head in his hands, a glazed look in his eyes. Finally, he lifted his head and squinted across the room. Laurence was gazing right at him.

“Ah, yes … Laurence,” the actor said in a whisper. “I trust you slept well.”

Laurence offered no reply.

Mr. Drabble pushed his hair out of his face, yawned again, and extended his hands before him, wiggling his fingers to limber them. He glanced at the sleeping Mr. Grout.

“You need have no fear of him,” the actor said. “He'll do you no harm. You know me for an honest man — he and I intend to care for you.”

“I don't believe you,” Laurence threw back.

With a pained look Mr. Drabble held up his hands in protest. “But I assure you, it's true.”

“He stole from me.”

Mr. Grout stirred. He rubbed his face, shook his head, adjusted his eye patch, then glanced over to find Laurence glowering at him.

“'E's still 'ere,” the one-eyed man exclaimed.

“Mr. Grout, sir,” the actor said, “I believe this boy does not trust you.”

The one-eyed man turned to Laurence. “Well,” he said to Mr. Drabble, “that's all right, 'cause I'm fearful of 'im.”

“Perhaps he has the greater reason.”

Mr. Grout pondered this, then nodded. “I can see that. But 'e don't 'ave to. Not now. I wouldn't 'arm him. Not a 'air on 'is 'ead. I'll swear to that.”

“There, you see,” Mr. Drabble said to Laurence. “You have his word.”

“He's a thief!” Laurence spit out, and indignantly turned his back on both men.

After a moment Mr. Drabble said, “Mr. Grout, sir, may I propose a plan?”

“It'd be a kindness if yer did, Mr. Drabble. I can 'ardly think to any measure.”

The actor nodded. “Well, sir, you indicated that you desired to trade your clothing in for something better suited to your nature. May I suggest you do so now. It will bring us some money to pay our bill here. And some breakfast, if you please. Then I think we should hurry on to Lowell.”

“And 'ow,” Mr. Grout asked, “does the young gent —” He paused to correct himself. “'Ow does the laddie feel about that?”

“You might ask him yourself, sir.”

“I don't feel proper about that. It's going to take time for me to get used to 'im being wot 'e is, if yer get me meanin'.” The one-eyed man rose to leave.

“Mr. Grout,” Mr. Drabble called. “You must take the hat too.”

“I gave it to yer.”

“We need the money.”

“Yer right there.” Taking the hat and his traveling bag, Mr. Grout stepped into the hall, saying, “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Mr. Drabble sat back on the bed, hands clasped before him. He looked about vacantly, now and again glancing at Laurence.

Laurence rolled over, eyes open just enough to see that the door was no longer barred. He calculated how good his chances were for a successful dash to freedom.

But just as he was about to move, Mr. Drabble gave a grunt. “Mr. Laurence,” he said, “I really don't think you
should leave us. Besides, I need to ask you some questions. Perhaps, with Mr. Grout gone, it will be easier for you to answer.”

Frustrated, Laurence rolled over again and closed his eyes.

“My friend Mr. Grout informed me that, in London, he took a great sum of money from you. Surely, Mr. Laurence, such a large sum — one thousand pounds — could not have been yours. Am I correct?”

Laurence's heart sank. Would he
never
be free of what he had done?

Mr. Drabble sighed. “You will recall that you and I met in Liverpool. You were being pursued by half the city because — I presume — you had committed some terrible crime. I understand now. The money.”

Laurence still gave no reply.

“I wish to inform you — as Mr. Grout tried to last night — that he no longer has the money he took from you. It was stolen from him.”

Laurence turned quickly and looked at the man.

“All three of us desire to go to Lowell. You to see your friend Patrick, I suspect. Mr. Grout has pressing business there — and I too — of a personal nature. If we go together, it would be best. On the other hand, if you were to take flight, where would you go? What would you do? May I humbly suggest you would be better off
with
us.”

Laurence pondered Mr. Drabble's words. What troubled him most was the reminder that if he ran off, he would be alone. He'd had quite enough of that. And he did want to find Patrick. “I'll go with you,” he said finally.

M
r. Grout, traveling bag in hand, top hat upon his head, stepped from the Liberty Tree Inn onto the streets of Boston. Despite the early hour, stores were opening and streets were crowded, not just with those who, frowsy with recent sleep, were hurrying to work, but with shoppers too. Newsboys were hawking papers. Carts and wagons were on parade. How good it was, Mr. Grout told himself, to be on land! He even smiled at the policemen in blue frock coats, leather stars on their chests, sauntering by on patrol.

Mr. Grout paused frequently to note the signs everywhere — on placards, on windows, on walls — and found satisfaction in picking out letters and reading the words:
Flour. Fish Dealers. Fire Brick Clay.
In many shopwindows he read,

 

HELP WANTED
NO IRISH NEED APPLY!

 

“'Ere there,” he said, taking hold of a man who was passing by, “can yer tell me where I can trade in me clothing?”

“A rag shop?” the man said, annoyed by Mr. Grout's restraining hand.

“Yer might say.”

“There's one around the corner.”

Mr. Grout thanked the fellow and soon came upon a small wooden building. The shop bore a sign:

 

THINGS AND WORDS EXCHANGED

 

Wooden cowbells announced his entry with a noisy clatter. The interior was dim and chaotic with great mounds of clothing rising from the floor like ash heaps. From low rafters — so low that Mr. Grout had to remove his hat — hung a multitude of pots, pans, and kettles. Candlesticks, shovels, books, horse whips, and braces were piled about at random.

In the farthest recess of the room, appearing like a mole seeking fresh air amid the mounds, a woman, her long pointy-chinned face wreathed by a mass of gray hair, lifted her head. Tiny spectacles sat close to the tip of her nose, so that she seemed to be staring at the floor.

“And what can I do for you, sir?” the woman inquired.

“It's me clothes,” Mr. Grout told her. “I got 'em in London. Only they're too good for the likes of me. Wot I'm needin' is something closer to me true person.”

The woman tilted her head back so she could appraise his garments. “Ten dollars and twenty-five cents,” she offered.

“Including what I've got in 'ere?” Mr. Grout asked, holding up his traveling bag.

“Depending on what you have,” replied the woman, “I might go to twelve.”

“I'll be wantin' stuff in exchange.”

“Whatever you want, it's here. Even some glass eyes,” she added with a blatant wink. “All you have to do is find them.”

Grinning, Mr. Grout offered his traveling bag to the woman, who took it into exceedingly large hands. No sooner did she do so than she disappeared as though diving down a hole. The next moment she popped up again.

“Thirteen dollars even,” she said. “And you can help yourself to a complete outfit.”

Instead of immediately accepting, Mr. Grout asked, “Do you know 'ow far a city called Lowell is from this 'ere Boston?”

“Thirty, forty miles.”

“'Ow do yer get there?”

“A long day's walk or a short hour by railroad.”

“Wot's it cost by railroad?”

“A dollar.”

“Then I'll take yer offer,” Mr. Grout said.

“Done is done,” the woman said, and once again ducked out of sight.

Pawing among the piles, Mr. Grout readily found trousers, shirt, jacket, and hat. Newly clothed, he offered the woman his London attire. She took it all and in turn handed him the money promised. “You do look more yourself,” she told him.

Pleased, Mr. Grout glanced at a cracked mirror on the wall and agreed that now he did seem more like a man capable of bullying his way down any street.

“Wot about some boots for a boy?” he asked, recalling the tattered shape of Laurence's shoes and wanting to make some gesture of friendship.

“What size boy?” inquired the proprietor.

“About this 'igh.” Mr. Grout held his hand as close to Laurence's height as he could recall.

“Piles of children's boots over there.” The woman indicated them with a general flap of her large hand.

After finding a pair that he thought would do for Laurence, then negotiating a price and paying, Mr. Grout returned to the street.

Hardly had he stepped from the door when Jeremiah Jenkins accosted him.

“Well, sir,” Mr. Jenkins called in friendly greeting, “you've cast off your foreign look.”

Mr. Grout nodded. “More meself, yer mean.”

A flash of suspicion crossed the older man's face. “Not looking for work now, are you?”

The Englishman shook his head. “I'm just 'eadin' for Lowell.”

Mr. Jenkins's eyes lit up. “And why Lowell, sir, if I may ask?”

“I'm lookin' for a man there.”

“To take his job?”

“Mr. Jenkins, yer do 'ave a nervous worry about jobs, don't yer?”

“Do you have children, sir?”

“Not one.”

“If you were a native-born American, sir, and had lost your job to a foreigner, you'd worry about such things.”

“It's not an American I'm lookin' for,” Mr. Grout assured him. “And if I took anythin' from 'im, it'd only be the money 'e took from me.”

“What's the man's name?”

“Clemspool, Matthew Clemspool, from England like meself and nothin' but a fraud and a cheat. The greatest scoundrel and swindler in the world.”

“Clemspool, eh? I shall remember the name. And, indeed, I expect to be in Lowell myself this day,” Mr. Jenkins allowed, “so I'll be on the lookout for him.”

“Searchin' for work, Mr. Jenkins?” Mr. Grout asked lightly.

Mr. Jenkins smiled grimly. “I have my work.”

“Which is wot?”

“There's to be big doings in Lowell, sir,” said Mr. Jenkins with a mysterious nod. “Big doings.” Once again he pointed to his eye and his large nose and finally made a circle with thumb and forefinger.

Mr. Grout shrugged, turned, and started off.

Mr. Jenkins watched him go. Suddenly a splendid idea struck him. It made him grin. “Mr. Grout!” he called.

Toby Grout stopped and looked back.

The American hurried up to him. “Mr. Grout, sir, in Lowell I shall be staying at the Spindle City Hotel and Oyster Bar. May I suggest you stop there. I think I could find a quick and easy job for you.”

Mr. Grout beamed. “'Ere now, Mr. Jenkins, are yer offerin' me money?”

“You don't appear to have much.”

“Yer couldn't be more right. And are yer offerin' enough to live on?”

“For a short time.”

“I'm not exactly yer native.”

“You're not a papist, Mr. Grout, and you don't intend to take one of our jobs. That's to your account. As for me and my
business in Lowell, I believe I can offer brief employment. Keep it in mind,” Mr. Jenkins said, tapping Mr. Grout forcibly on the chest. With that, he entered the old-clothes shop.

There now, Mr. Grout said to himself, there is luck and work to be found in America!