Into the Storm (7 page)

J
eb Grafton hurried up the shadowy narrow steps to the second floor of a tenement building on Howard Street. The stairwell walls were dirty, and the plaster so full of holes that in many places the cold night air whistled through. Though it was dark on the steps, the boy hardly looked where he was going. Excited, he paid scant attention to the babble that rang out from many directions in the building. Instead, he all but ran down the hallway and pushed against the door that let him into the place that he called his home.

It was a two-room apartment, one none-too-clean room behind the other. There was an old Franklin stove, but it was
small and gave but a meager measure of warmth. Not far from the stove a boy, a year old, sat on a thin blanket. He wore a tattered man's shirt — much too big for him — but nothing else, and the chill that set upon him could be seen in his raw red hands and blue lips.

There was a table and chair by the room's only window, which was boarded up. Such light as there was came from a candle set in a cracked dish.

Seated in the chair before the table was Jeb's father, Henry Grafton. Thin, scantly bearded, he wore an old army coat over his shoulders, a battered derby on his head, and a tattered muffler around his neck.

Mr. Grafton was reading a Lowell newspaper,
The People's Voice
, by the light of the candle. Now and then he glanced toward the back room, from which an occasional cough could be heard. When it came, he listened intently. When it subsided, he turned back to his reading.

He was still reading when Jeb burst in.

“Look!” Jeb cried. He had a great grin on his face as he showed off his coat.

“Where'd you get that?” his father asked.

“New friend.”

“Get it honest?”

The boy's face flushed. “What do you think?” he replied. “The fellah who gave it to me is so rich he just gives money away.”

“Who is he?”

“Mr. Jenkins. Jeremiah Jenkins.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Paid me money — good money — just to sit by a door and make sure no one barged into a meeting.”

“How much?”

“A whole half dime. And he says he'll hire me again.”

“To do what?”

“I don't know. But I bet he does.”

“What about the rest of today?” Jeb's father asked.

“Fair.”

Mr. Grafton held out his hand.

Ignoring it, Jeb came farther into the room and set his shoe-shine box down in a corner. “How is she?” he asked, nodding toward the back room, from which coughing had erupted again.

“Got through the day.”

“They speed the machines up again at the mill?”

“She didn't say.”

“I hate them mills,” Jeb said.

“Some are worse than others.”

“Then I hate the Shagwell Cotton Mill,” Jeb said decidedly. He crossed the room and sat on the floor next to the child. The youngster chortled and crawled onto his brother's lap. In response, Jeb opened his coat and drew the infant close, then wrapped him in his arms as well as the coat. “You read all day?” he asked his father.

“It fills the mind,” the man replied dryly.

“You could work.”

“That so?” Mr. Grafton asked. “Where?”

“I heard they were taking on at the Appleton Mill.”

The man shook his head. “Only Irish.”

“Mr. Jenkins wants to get rid of the Paddies.”

“Does he now? Well, they're hungry too, I suppose.”

“Not as hungry as us,” Jeb declared.

“I don't know,” Mr. Grafton said with an indifferent shrug. “I ain't never seen into a man's belly, but I expect they're all the same.” He tapped the newspaper. “Got a good yarn here, this week,” he said. “It's about a ship at sea in a storm.”

“Mr. Jenkins is a powerful man.”

'Cause he gave you a half dime? Pshaw!” Mr. Grafton read a bit more to himself before folding up the newspaper. “Look here, Jeb, let's see your money.”

Jeb smoothed down the child's curly hair, then gently put him aside, took off his coat, and wrapped it around him. From his pocket he drew out his earnings, went to his father, and dumped the money onto the table.

Mr. Grafton counted the coins carefully. “Twenty-five cents,” he said approvingly. “You did fine.”

“You could go to California,” the boy blurted out. “Find some gold for us. Not right that just me and her” — he nodded toward the inner room —” do all the work.”

“It costs money to go to California.”

“You could walk. Lots are.”

“Walk? Three thousand miles? Pshaw!”

Frustrated, Jeb grabbed the candle in its cracked saucer and, with his cap pulled low, crept to the doorway of the back room and looked in at his mother. Sarah Grafton sat on the bed, her back propped against the wall. A blanket was drawn around her. Her long black hair lay in disorder and contrasted sharply with her pale thin face. About her mouth Jeb saw specks of blood. Now and again she coughed, deep racking coughs, but she made no movement to suppress them.

Her son went to her side and sat on the bed. Mrs. Grafton looked at him with dark enormous eyes. “Jeb, darling, you mustn't go at him so,” she whispered. “It ain't his fault.”

“I know,” Jeb returned.

“Is it a nice coat you got?”

“Best in the world.”

She smiled. “I'll look at it later. I was just waiting up for you. But I'm tired. Go on now,” she said. “I'll be fine.” She closed her eyes.

Jeb watched her face — which was full of pain — for a while. Then he went back into the front room. “Do you think a doctor would come?”

Mr. Grafton shrugged. “To cure the cotton cough? Don't you think I've asked? The doctor, with his medicine, costs ten dollars. Have any notion where to get that?”

“I could ask Mr. Jenkins.”

“Maybe you should,” his father said. “Truth is, Jeb, they say the only cure is to get away from the mill.”

Jeb said nothing.

“Look here, son, I was turned off at the mill for objecting to the speedup. They've got my name down. Blacklisted. That's why I can't find work. Anywhere. If she got turned off too, where would we be?” He scooped up pennies and stood.
“I'll fetch some bread and tea. Maybe some milk. You stay home now, do you hear?”

A series of coughs came from the inner room. Father and son exchanged looks but no words. Mr. Grafton went out the door.

For a while Jeb remained motionless. Then he turned to his brother and gathered him up on his lap once more. The baby laughed and wave his hands in glee.

“I hate them Irish,” Jeb whispered into his brother's small ear. “I hate them. But that Mr. Jenkins said he'd do something. And I'm going to help him. Won't that be grand?”

I
n one corner of his small room, Mr. Jenkins knelt before a shrinelike assemblage upon a low table, a cluster of multi-colored ribbons, silk flowers, and seashells. In its very corner was a Daguerreotype of a dead boy's face: Mr. Jenkins's son.

As he stared at the image, the man clasped his hands together, not in prayer, but in a tight fist. “Revenge …,” he whispered over and over again. “Revenge….”

A
ll during his first night on the
Robert Peel
an uproar of singing and coughing, groaning and weeping and praying had interrupted Patrick O'Connell's sleep. On one side of him, Bridy Faherty tossed restlessly. On the other side stretched Mr. Drabble, one arm dangling down from the platform, long legs twisted awkwardly. His breathing was loud.

The family below them never seemed to quiet. Even the sound of people scratching — lice, no doubt — had irritated the boy. Everything on the platforms — people and possessions — shifted and stirred constantly.

Patrick dozed. When he awoke again, both Maura and Mr. Drabble were gone. With a spurt of resentment, he recalled the scene he had witnessed earlier, the actor on his knees before his sister. Sure, but she'll be having less time for me, he thought.

Then he considered Bridy. She was at the opposite end of the berth now, hunched against a post, staring at him. “Bridy Faherty,” he asked, “how old would you be?”

“Eight,” she whispered, so low he almost could not hear her.

“You need not be fearful of me,” he said. “I'll not do you any harm.”

The girl said nothing.

“Well then, did you see where my sister or that Mr. Drabble went?” he asked.

Bridy shook her head.

“Wouldn't it be fine if they were getting some food,” he said.

When the girl gave no further response, Patrick thought of Laurence. His friend must be famished!

Lowering himself to the floor, Patrick made his way to the central stairway, then down to the first cargo hold. Just as he started toward the open hatchway, Mr. Murdock loomed before him.

The boy jumped back in fright.

“Where do you think yer going?” the first mate demanded.

“Just looking about, Your Honor,” Patrick stammered, afraid to raise his eyes.

“Look at me when yer speak,” Mr. Murdock snapped, jerking up Patrick's chin. “Yer allowed on the steerage deck, the main deck, and the forecastle deck. Nowhere else. Go poke where yer allowed,” the officer growled. “If I catch yer out of place again, I'll break your neck. Get on now!”

Patrick turned, ran to the steps, and hurried back to their berth. But seeing that neither his sister nor Mr. Drabble had returned, he again left the steerage deck.

The main deck was crowded. People were milling about or silently watching the sea. Some were in line for the two privies available to the steerage passengers. Set on the forecastle deck and enclosed on but three sides, they afforded little privacy.

Yet another line led to the fireplace, the only cooking space made available to the emigrants. It consisted of a metal grill surrounded by bricks stacked loosely on three sides of a brick-and-mortar floor. Ashes and smoke spewed onto anyone near it. Regardless, the line of passengers waiting to cook on the fireplace lasted all day and into the night. Now and again people did try to slip into the line or bully their way forward. Then harsh words and fists erupted.

When Patrick saw neither his sister nor Mr. Drabble on either of the lines, he took himself up to the forecastle deck. Near the billethead he spied the actor deeply engaged with his gentleman student, Mr. Grout.

Patrick watched them from a distance, glad that the actor was not with his sister. But he did wish he knew where she was.

From the height of the forecastle deck Patrick was able to look across to the quarterdeck at the aft section of the ship. It was there he saw his sister. She was not alone. A gray-haired gentleman was talking to her. Two sailors stood near as though on guard. Immediately, Patrick recalled what the first mate had just told him, that steerage people were not allowed there.

Worried, he watched. From the way Maura's head was bowed, her hands tight together, he sensed she was in trouble.

He hurried down from the forecastle deck, ran across the main deck, then dashed up the steps toward his sister.

“Here now,” a sailor barked, trying to keep him from coming closer. “Get off with you!”

Deftly, Patrick darted around him and reached his sister's side. She gave him a quick glance, lifting a hand in warning.

“And who is this?” the man who had been talking to her demanded. It was Ambrose Shagwell.

“He's my brother, if it please Your Honor,” Maura said.

The man grunted. “Another one going where he's not wanted. Well, you can repeat what I've been telling you, that you Irish are making a mistake coming to America.”

Maura looked up. “It was our father who sent for us, Your Honor.”

“Your father!” the American scoffed. “He shouldn't be there either. Take my advice, girl, and board the first boat back home. You'll be better off — and good riddance.” Mr. Shagwell turned on his heels and walked away.

“All right now,” one of the sailors said harshly, “get along. The two of you. And don't come back.”

Maura turned stiffly and led Patrick down the steps. Neither spoke a word. Only when they reached the main deck did her brother say, “And what was that all about?”

Maura said nothing at first. Instead, she leaned over the bulwark and stared out at the waves.

“Maura …,” Patrick pressed.

“I was just wandering,” she said at last. “Faith, no one told me we weren't allowed up there. Then that wretched man
stopped me, and didn't he make me listen to his ugly sermon.”

“Did he do you any harm?” Patrick asked, studying his sister's face.

Maura jerked her head to toss her hair out of her eyes. “Not a bit,” she said. “Sure, but he's just a stupid man with no courtesy about him. I don't intend to pay it any mind. And neither should you. It'll take more than that to stop us.”