Into the Storm (18 page)

D
awn brought a cold, cloudless day. The
Robert Peel
was moving briskly forward. The air smelled sweeter than before. Though everyone could sense it, nobody could quite define what it was. “It's the smell of what's green and growing,” someone insisted. Others claimed it was the shore itself. Regardless, the emigrants were sure America was near. There had been ship fever. Now there was a fever for land.

Though it was still early, some fifty steerage passengers had assembled on the forecastle deck. For the past few days, they had gathered each morning in hopes of being the first to sight America. Some leaned over the billethead. Another stood on the capstan. Others climbed the ratlines. All were searching.

Patrick had taken himself into the bow. As the ship dipped and bobbed, it churned up a heavy spray. Though he was getting a thorough cold soaking, he did not care. If being the farthest forward enabled him to spy land first, he was determined to do it.

Even as he watched, a wave rose. He felt a slap across his face. Reaching up, he pulled at a swatch of seaweed. He was about to toss it away when he realized it was green.

Wildly excited, he scrambled back from the bow and held aloft the green strand. “Seaweed!” he cried. “Green seaweed!”

Two hours later America, the promised land, was seen low on the horizon. Ten people claimed to be the first to see it.

Shortly thereafter, all steerage passengers were ordered to assemble on the main deck. Captain Rickles, resplendent in
uniform and gloves, stood before the main mast and used his speaking tube to address them.

“We're fast approaching America!” he began. “When we reach Boston Bay, government health authorities will be inspecting the ship. If they learn we've had ship fever or that any passengers have died, they may not let you land. They could, indeed, send you back to England. If you are wise, you will say nothing if asked.”

An unhappy murmur came from the crowd, but no one spoke up loudly.

“So mind yourselves! If you tell them about the ship fever, it will be you who suffer the consequence.

“These authorities will also be checking for cleanliness. Anything foul or dirty must be thrown overboard. Mattresses, clothing, food, whatever is soiled must go.”

“But, Your Honor,” a man cried out, “it's all we have.”

“Nothing dirty will stay on my ship,” the captain replied sternly.

“Sure then,” came another plea, “and what happens if we don't throw the things out?”

The captain shrugged. “I told you, you'll be sent back to England.”

To these words no one responded.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “the steerage deck must be cleaned. This scouring will be done under the direction of Mr. Murdock and his crew. You are to follow his orders.”

Mattresses were the first to go overboard. Then came ragged clothing, shoes, boots. It was Mr. Murdock, acting as judge, who settled disputes as to what had to go and what might stay. More often than not he insisted that the article in question be jettisoned.

“Faith, Mr. Drabble, there'll be some who'll have nothing left,” Maura remarked after they had watched many passengers throw away most of their belongings. They themselves had just tossed the Fahertys' mattress into the sea. It broke apart instantly, its straw stuffing scattering on the water's surface like frightened minnows.

“Perhaps it's all for the best,” the actor said as he heaved his tattered jacket into the water and watched it slowly sink. The sight mirrored his emotions, for he dreaded the impending disembarkation. “It's a brave new world, Miss O'Connell,” he observed, placing hand on heart in his theatrical fashion. “Perhaps it's best not to carry old things and sentiments into it.”

Maura kept her eyes on the coastline. “For a promised land,” she said, “it doesn't have a look of beauty.”

“It's early in the year,” the actor reminded her, suppressing a sigh. “No doubt there are seasons here as at home. One must always think of spring, Miss O'Connell.”

“To tell the truth, Mr. Drabble, it's me da I keep thinking about. I'm wondering if he'll look different or know us at all. It's more than a year now that he's gone.”

“I assure you, Miss O'Connell,” Mr. Drabble observed, “no one who has seen you can forget you.”

When Maura made no response, he asked, “Do you know where your father has established your home?”

Maura wondered whether or not to answer the question. Then she said, “When he wrote to us in Ireland, bidding us come, he was living in a city called Lowell. That's where he found employment, though he did not say what he did.”

“Well then,” Mr. Drabble said, making an effort to sound casual, “perhaps I'll wend my way to this Lowell myself.” He glanced at Maura. “Unless, Miss O'Connell, you have some objections.”

“Mr. Drabble,” she replied, “they say it's a big country. I've no doubt but you'll go wherever it suits you. Surely, it's not for the likes of me to be telling you either here or there.” She turned and slowly walked away.

Mr. Drabble gazed after her longingly, afraid to ponder what he was sure would be a forlorn future.

Below them, on the steerage level, Patrick was on his hands and knees, using a large ballast stone to scour the floor with sand and seawater. The sanding brought up the natural whiteness of the wooden deck. For the first time in weeks,
there was freshness in the air, a feeling of cleanliness. Everyone sensed it.

Tired from his heavy labor, Patrick sat up, rested his arms, and considered Bridy, who was working nearby. Not far from her side she'd set down the bundle of her family's clothing. She carried it everywhere.

“You can allow yourself some rest, Bridy,” Patrick suggested. The girl, without looking at or speaking to him, paused in her work.

“Faith,” Patrick said, “but it is all looking better, don't you think?”

Bridy made no comment. Instead, after a brief rest, she resumed work as doggedly as before.

Not to be outdone, Patrick bent over his stone and continued his scouring too. As he labored, he thought about the problem uppermost in his thoughts: how to get Laurence off the boat. With another glance at Bridy, an idea struck him.

M
r. Grout sat on his stateroom bed, arms folded over his chest. He had already packed his carpetbag in eager preparation for his arrival in Boston. Mr. Clemspool stood before the small washstand mirror, shaving with a straight-edge razor.

“Yer 'ave any notion as to where yer'll go when we get to land?” Mr. Grout asked.

“I'm not exactly sure, Mr. Grout,” Mr. Clemspool replied with a flourish of his razor. “I need to see which way my prospects lie.”

“Just so yer knows that once we're in Boston, yer on yer own.”

With one finger, Mr. Clemspool pushed the tip of his nose up, the better to shave over his lip. “Casting me off, are you?”

“Clemspool, yer one of them dogs that always lands on yer feet.”

“I could not agree more, Mr. Grout. Besides, our partnership has not flourished recently. Granted, you have been kind to me —”

“Glad yer know so.”

“Kind to me,” Mr. Clemspool continued, “with other people's money.”

“Yer do go on about that, don't yer?” Mr. Grout said sullenly.

Mr. Clemspool sneered. “It was you who had a ghostly visitation, not I.”

“It was a warnin',” Mr. Grout insisted hotly, “that I intend to 'eed. I'll just keep a bit of that money to get me started. The rest goes back to that dead boy's family.”

“You do know, don't you, that Lord Kirkle has no need of it?” Mr. Clemspool said with annoyance.

“All I know is that I took it from 'is boy and that there boy is dead.”

“You don't know that for certain.”

“I saw 'is ghost!”

Mr. Clemspool laughed. “Mr. Grout, to make my point precisely, you are a fool.”

Mr. Grout fixed the man with his glittering eye. “Clemspool, I don't want to 'ave anything to do with yer in America.”

“Nor I you,” Mr. Clemspool said brightly. “Save for one thing.”

“Wot's that?”

“Never forget I know where you got your money.”

A furious Mr. Grout leaped up.

“Touch me,” Mr. Clemspool warned while coolly holding the razor before him, “and you will find yourself in great difficulty.”

“If I was me old self, I'd be thrashing' yer easy,” cried Mr.
Grout. “But yer'll get off 'cause I'm tryin' to progress.” So saying, he left the stateroom, banging the door behind him.

Mr. Clemspool gave a grunt of satisfaction, then quickly put aside his razor, locked the door, and immediately began to search among Mr. Grout's possessions. It was in the carpetbag that he found a small package wrapped up in a sheet of London newspaper. Smiling broadly, Mr. Clemspool unfolded the wrapping, saw that inside was indeed Lord Kirkle's money, and hastily put the package in his own pocket.

M
r. Grout, seething, leaned upon the quarterdeck rail and stared glumly at the New England coastline. To be called a fool! Someday he should like to show Clemspool who was the fool. As he calmed down, however, he had to acknowledge that it was time to think out some plan of action for himself.

The first thing he decided he'd do upon landing was sell his fine London clothing and dress himself as the person he really was. Then he would search for honest work. Once established, he would send as much of the stolen money back to Lord Kirkle as he could afford and work hard to pay off the rest. To begin he needed to find a lodging.

“Yer there, laddie,” he called to a passing sailor, “wot's a place to stop in Boston?”

The sailor touched his hat in deference. “The Liberty Tree is good enough for the likes of me, sir. She's a cozy inn, snug off the Long Wharf on Commerce Street, not far from the customhouse. Only it might not do for you, sir.”

“It'll be fine for me,” Mr. Grout assured him, and he began to pace the quarterdeck, the better to focus on his future.

While doing so, he noticed Mr. Drabble leaning over the bulwark on the main deck below. The actor's expression was desolate. Feeling sympathy, Mr. Grout went down to him.

“There yer be,” he cried as he clapped a hand on Mr. Drabble's shoulder. “Yer seem to be a terrible moody piece.”

Mr. Drabble shrugged. “I must confess, sir, I was speculating about what will happen to me when I reach land.”

“Were yer?” Mr. Grout said. “I was worryin' the same meself. We're as like as two brothers.”

“You are more kind than I deserve,” Mr. Drabble said in his best melancholy tones.

“Yer and yer gal have no place in mind then?” Mr. Grout inquired.

Mr. Drabble blushed red and swallowed hard. “I — I — I am afraid, sir,” he stammered, “she is not, as you would have it, my gal.”

“Ain't she?” said Mr. Grout, surprised. “I was thinkin' she was.”

“Though it was she who provided my passage, our being together has been no more” — the actor's voice faltered — “no more than a bit of sunshine in an otherwise cloudy life. Or, as the bard put it, ‘the short and the long of it' is … she has … rejected me as a husband.”

“Then she don't know 'er right mind,” Mr. Grout assured his friend. “'Ow could she think of refusin' a fine-speakin' man like yer?”

“It's not for me to say, sir,” Mr. Drabble replied sadly.

“'Ow many times 'ave yer asked for 'er 'and?”

“It was but once. Yet, I can assure you, Mr. Grout, that once was sufficient to decide my fate. She was most emphatic.”

“Look 'ere, Drabble,” Mr. Grout exclaimed, “yer 'ave to go at it again.”

“Why?”

“Askin' once don't do. These gals need to be convinced yer in earnest.”

“But, Mr. Grout,” Mr. Drabble cried in despair, “she's to be met by her father. Then off they go into the wilds of someplace
called Lowell. I shall never see her lovely face again!” Tears filled his eyes.

“My friend, yer should follow 'er there and keep courtin' 'er,” Mr. Grout advised. “She'll 'ave to come 'round when she sees 'ow well you do.”

A ray of hope touched Mr. Drabble's heart. “Do you really think so, Mr. Grout?”

“I know so.”

The actor considered. Mr. Grout's idea was attractive to him. Besides, Maura had not expressly forbidden him to go to Lowell. If he were there, he might try to win her anew. “Very well then, Mr. Grout, I'll take your advice and go to this Lowell, wherever it is.”

“Yer do so,” Mr. Grout agreed. “And if we're to be chums, I'll go along. I intend to see yer through with it all.”

“You are more than kind, sir.”

“Now see 'ere, Drabble, when I gets off this ship, I'm 'eading for a place they call the Liberty Tree. It's supposed to be decent. I'll wait for yer there.”

“Mr. Grout, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Drabble with true enthusiasm, “never have I had a better friend!”

Much pleased by the remark, Mr. Grout removed his hat and set it on the actor's head. “There yer are, Mr. Drabble. A token of me friendship. It looks better on yer than it does on me any day of the week.”