Into the Storm (17 page)

B
efore getting onto the ladder that led to the cargo hold, Patrick wiggled his foot. Though it was still somewhat sore, and caused him to limp, it was not nearly as bad as it had been.

He looked about to make sure he was not being observed. Satisfied he was not, he started down, this time not taking a candle.

The stench was worse than ever. He wondered how Laurence managed to bear it, then he thought of the news: only a few days to go. That would surely cheer him.

Upon reaching the foot of the ladder, Patrick waited and listened. The only light available came from the open hatchway above. When he neither heard nor saw anything suspicious, he called, “Laurence!”

There was no answer — but nothing unusual in that. Patrick knew that Laurence would appear from the direction he chose and at any moment he wanted. It was a game the English boy had not tired of playing. As far as Patrick could tell, it was one of the few pleasures Laurence had.

Growing impatient, Patrick called again, and added, “I'm by the ladder!”

A hand reached out and touched his shoulder. Patrick turned. “Lau —,” he started to say, only to realize it was not Laurence at all but a sailor. The man, grinning broadly, said, “Thought no one ever noticed, did you, laddie?”

Speechless with shock, Patrick tried to break away. “Not
yet,” a second sailor said. “Someone wants to talk to you. 'Ello!” he called. “We got 'im! 'E's over 'ere.”

Mr. Murdock stepped out of the dark. He flashed his bull's-eye lantern into Patrick's face, blinding him.

“What's yer name?” he demanded.

Heart hammering, Patrick stammered, “P-P-Patrick O'Connell, Your Honor.”

“Who's this here Laurence yer've been calling to?”

“It's no one, Your Honor,” Patrick replied, desperately trying to recover his composure and think what to do.

“Don't heave that to me, Paddy boy. Of course it's someone. Yer've been seen coming down here any number of times. Have yer been taking care of someone?”

Patrick shook his head.

Mr. Murdock gazed at the boy. “What's that yer have in yer pockets,” he demanded.

Patrick said nothing.

The first mate called to one of the sailors, “Mr. Croft, empty them.”

The sailor took out a thick piece of bread and two slices of meat.

Mr. Murdock frowned. “That's too good for steerage folks.”

“Faith, Your Honor, it was someone who gave it to me.”

“Stolen, yer mean.”

“I didn't!” Patrick returned with indignation.

“That food was in the dining room,” the first mate insisted. “Where did you get it?”

“It was Mr. Drabble, Your Honor. It's him that's berthed with us. And isn't he teaching that Mr. Grout, who's a first-class passenger. It was him that gave it to Mr. Drabble, and he gave it to us.”

“Never mind that,” said the first mate, stymied by the plausibility of the explanation. “I want to know who it's for.”

“Myself, Your Honor. Sure, I was only being greedy and came to eat alone.”

Mr. Murdock cuffed Patrick on the side of the head. The blow frightened the boy. The sailor behind him held him
tight. “Yer telling nothing but lies, laddie,” the first mate cried. “When we left Liverpool, I found an empty crate up forward. I'm willing to bet my last penny yer bringing food to someone. Where's the man?”

“There is no man,” Patrick said stoutly.

“Answer quick, where's your father?”

“In Boston, Your Honor.”

“Mother?”

“Back in Ireland. She wouldn't come.”

“A brother?”

“Dead, sir.”

The first mate's eyes narrowed. “Who yer traveling with then?”

“It's my sister, Your Honor. Maura O'Connell. She's in the steerage.”

“Do you know, Paddy boy, what can happen to yer if I find that yer've been breaking the law?”

Patrick hung his head. “No, Your Honor.”

“All I need do is inform the captain. He can have yer tossed overboard. Or maybe keelhaul yer. Do yer know what that is?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Dragged from one side of the boat to the other, underwater. Or he could put yer in irons, for that matter, and bring yer back to Liverpool. What do yer have to say to that?”

Patrick swallowed hard and stared at the floor.

“Anything at all to say?” the first mate prompted.

“Nothing, Your Honor,” Patrick whispered.

Mr. Murdock looked about. “We're going to search every inch down here. If we find someone, I'll have yer tossed over if I have to do it myself. Yer understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Barkum,” the first mate shouted to another sailor. “Bring him along but hold him fast. Croft, do you have yer pike?”

Mr. Croft held up a long pointed stick. “All right then,” said the first mate. “Let's have ourselves a look.” He aimed his lamp along the long jumbled rows of crates and barrels.

“Laurence!” Mr. Murdock called out, “or whatever yer
name is. We know yer about. Just so yer understand, when we find yer — and we will — yer can join yer Paddy friend here when we toss him over.”

He began to pick his way down the central aisle, pausing at almost every crate and chest. Patrick, his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow, was pushed along after him. Now and again Mr. Murdock stopped. “Try that one,” he said to Mr. Croft. The sailor stepped over the crate and examined it closely to see if it had been tampered with. Finding nothing, they pressed on.

Slowly, the search party wound its way through the confusion of cargo toward the stern of the ship. More than once Mr. Murdock was certain he'd discovered the hiding place. Each time he was proved wrong.

“Look there!” he suddenly whispered, pointing to a barrel. “That lid's not fully closed.” He beckoned Mr. Croft forward. The sailor moved cautiously.

Patrick, almost certain they had discovered Laurence's barrel, could barely restrain from shouting a warning.

But just as Mr. Croft drew close to the barrel, a large brown rat suddenly darted out of it.

“Rat!” shouted Mr. Murdock. “Get him!”

With a deft stroke Mr. Croft flung his stick and speared the rat, killing it instantly. Then he flipped the carcass into the bilgewater.

“That's one less stowaway,” Mr. Murdock said with a laugh.

Back they went to the bow. Once they reached it, and still had found no sign of Laurence, the first mate cursed profusely. “Let the Paddy go for now,” he said, and spit. “This place will be the death of us.”

Patrick was shoved away into the dark, so hard he tripped and fell.

“If I catch yer down here again, Paddy boy, I'll bring yer to the captain. Do yer hear me? Yer'll get a lashing then.”

Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Murdock turned about. With the two sailors he made his way to the central ladder and climbed out of the hold.

Patrick, on the decking, lay unmoving. Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal. Then he sat up. “Laurence …,” he called in a whisper. “Where are you?” There was no answer.

I
n Lowell, the main meeting room of Appleton Hall was full of people, mostly men but women too, including Betsy Howard. All were seated on long benches, eagerly awaiting the speaker. For the most part these were mill workers and shop owners. A few were dressed in their finest clothing, since the occasion was deemed a special one. Others in the audience, who had come directly from their work, were in rougher dress, spotted with bits and pieces of cotton and thread as if they had just come in from a snow flurry. Men wore their hats. Women still had their work aprons on.

At the back of the room stood Jeb and his two friends, Tom and Nick.

Gaslights were blazing, illuminating the picture of George Washington placed upon the speaker's podium. Red, white, and blue bunting ran from the stage to pillars on either side of the hall.

The hum and buzz of the crowd was stilled when a man in a dark frock coat and top hat walked to the podium, leaned over it, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to that great American, Mr. Jeremiah Jenkins.”

There was a round of applause as Mr. Jenkins strode forward. He placed his right hand upon the podium and, with his left, touched his heart and bowed slightly, just enough to show he appreciated his reception, but not so much as to
suggest he was in awe of it. Then he squared his shoulders, grasped one lapel of his jacket, looked upon the audience with a long penetrating gaze that seemed to bore into every person's eyes at once, and began to speak.

“My fellow Americans. We meet today in the birthplace of the American Revolution, Massachusetts. It is here that we struck a blow for liberty. It is therefore our special duty not just to defend that liberty, but to make sure that our children and their children enjoy it too.

“Here, in this great state, we still have some semblance of peace and plenty. It is ours to share. We must protect the rights of all but give privilege to none. This touches upon an issue that goes beyond the political parties. The issue, my fellow Americans, is immigration.

“Are you aware that most of the beggars in this state today are … immigrants? That most of the crimes are committed by immigrants? That the very health of our cities is endangered by immigrants? True, all true.

“And we are tired of hearing languages other than English upon our streets. Moreover, these foreigners lower the tone of American feeling. Their willingness to take low pay lowers the pay for true Americans.

“Here in Massachusetts, here in Lowell, we are particularly threatened by the Irish paupers being brought here by the boatload by our old enemy, England. Half the students in Boston schools are foreigners. I say, we do not want these immigrants!

“Yes, my friends, America must stand together against this tide of inferiors. Those of us in the majority — true Americans — should resist minority demands.

“We must exclude these foreigners from the electoral process. We must restrict citizenship, particularly for those whose allegiance to the Roman Church destroys the very foundation of our republican ways! It would be far better to send them back where they came from. Let England take them back. The lords of England should not be allowed to ship off these ignorant, filthy people to our golden shores!

“We are Americans. Not Europeans!

“And I say, if the government in Washington or in Boston cannot deal with this problem, the people of Lowell themselves should see to it and get rid of all immigrants!”

At this the audience rose up and applauded wildly.

The speaker, smiling grimly, went on.

O
n platform seventy-four in steerage Patrick lay wide awake. Most deck lamps had long ceased to burn. The area was shrouded in gloom. The creaks and groans of ship timbers mingled with the sighs and murmurs of restless sleepers.

Two days had passed since he had looked for Laurence and not found him. His clash with Mr. Murdock had made him afraid to go below again. All the same, he kept thinking about his friend, wondering where he had been that time, wondering what he could be doing.

Patrick had another worry. The evening before, another passenger had died of ship fever, bringing the total number of deaths to forty-four. The thought of Laurence being alone and sick deeply upset Patrick. What if Laurence had died? It would be on his head. Once that idea lodged in him, Patrick was resolved to seek out his friend.

At the sound of the fourth bell, Patrick sat up slowly, taking extra pains not to disturb Bridy, who was sleeping restlessly on one side of him, or Mr. Drabble, on the other. Once up, Patrick reached over by Maura's head and fumbled among the provision bags. When he found a moldy piece of bread, he drew it out and stuffed it in his shirt. Then he wormed his way down to the foot of the platform, swung over the rail, and slipped to the deck.

Moving so as not to step on those who slept there, Patrick crept to the central stairwell. Quickly now, he went down the steps to the first cargo deck. There he found himself a candle. Though he neither saw nor heard anyone, he kept thinking
that he hadn't seen anyone the last time, and Mr. Murdock
had
been there in the dark.

When he reached the ladder to the bottom hold, he halted to look and listen. Absolutely convinced it was safe to proceed, lighted candle in hand, he started down. Among the shadows of the confused mass of barrels and crates, he could see no sign of Laurence.

Once on the cargo floor, Patrick leaned against the ladder to rest his aching foot. “Laurence,” he called in a whisper. He saw nothing, nor heard anything but familiar ship sounds.

“Laurence!” he called again, louder. That time he heard a faint echo of his own voice — but no more.

Crawling over and around the chaos of cargo, he inched his way to Laurence's barrel. It was empty. Had Mr. Murdock found him? Had he thrown Laurence overboard as he'd vowed to do? Was Laurence lying sick somewhere?

“Laurence!” Patrick called again, louder still. No answer came.

The candle was burning low.

Near the stern he came upon the ladder to the luggage room. He looked up and was just able to make out the hatchway.

Patrick began to climb, then pushed against the door with his hand. It lifted. Moving higher, he eased the hatch completely open and stuck his head into the luggage room. Of Laurence he saw no sign. Still not satisfied, Patrick hauled himself up. The air in the room was musty. Trunks and cases lay strewn about.

Patrick crawled onto one of the trunks, held the stub of the candle up, then turned slowly to survey the room. This time he saw Laurence.

The boy was on his back, lying absolutely still upon a mound of clothing. His face was filthy, thin, his eyes closed. His hair had grown long and tangled. The canvas shirt and trousers Mr. Bartholomew had given him in Liverpool were in tatters.

The hairs on the back of Patrick's neck prickled. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he murmured, crossing himself. “He's dead!”

Patrick's hand shook so the candle flame guttered out. For a while he did nothing, his heart was hammering so. But needing to know if Laurence was truly dead, he crept forward in the dark. When he thought he was close enough, he reached out. At his touch Laurence leaped up.

“Laurence!” Patrick cried. There was no answer other than quick, agitated breathing. “It's me, Patrick,” he said hastily.

He heard a murmur. “You frightened me,” Laurence said.

“Faith, I didn't know what had happened to you, Laurence,” Patrick said, sighing. “I was afraid to come.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Murdock caught me.”

“Yes.”

“Were you there all the time?” Patrick asked.

“I was waiting for you. But when I saw him coming, I had to hide in my barrel. I didn't know how to warn you without giving myself away. What did he say? I couldn't make anything out.”

“Sure, they're still looking for you. Have they been back?” Patrick asked.

“I'm not sure. Most of the time I spend in this room. No one ever comes here. I only go down for water and some of that moldy bread.”

“I thought you were dead,” Patrick said.

Laurence sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were. That Mr. Murdock, he did kill my rat.”

“A lot of people have died.”

“How?”

“They call it ship fever.”

“What's that?”

“It's a dreadful sickness. You turn to nothing at all and just lie there, weak and with filth oozing from everywhere on your body.”

“How many have died?”

“They say forty-four,” Patrick said. “Here,” he added, remembering. “I brought some bread.”

He felt the bread pulled from his hand, then heard sounds of Laurence eating rapidly.

“How long have we been sailing?” Laurence asked.

“I'm not sure. But people are saying it's only a short time before we see the land, and when we —”

“Patrick,” Laurence interrupted, “when we reach Boston, I want to go with you.”

“Laurence, I don't truly know if you can. I'll have to ask my da. But how will you get off the ship in any case?”

“I don't know.”

“That Mr. Murdock will still be looking for you,” Patrick cautioned.

Laurence closed his eyes and thought of the one-eyed man and his father's money. He wished now he had searched another time, or at least looked harder. Perhaps he should look once more. But what if the money wasn't there, or he just couldn't find it? And what if he were caught looking when they were so close to America?

“Patrick …,” Laurence said.

“What?”

“I'd rather die than hide anymore.”