Into the Storm (20 page)

W
ith the Faherty clothing in one hand, a lighted candle in the other, Patrick made his way down into the bottom hold, passed through the cargo, then climbed the ladder into the luggage room.

“Laurence!” he called as he popped up through the open hatchway. “It's me, Patrick.”

“We're not moving,” Laurence said right away. “What's happened?”

“Faith, it's Boston Bay we're sitting in now. America. And we'll be going ashore tomorrow.”

To his own dismay, Laurence's first thought was that he would have only one more opportunity to search Mr. Grout's room for the money.

“Aren't you glad?” Patrick said when he saw the worried look upon his friend's face.

Torn between his twin desires, getting off the ship and the recovery of the money, Laurence hardly knew how to explain.

“But first,” Patrick rushed on, “in the morning there's to be an inspection. Only after that can we leave the ship.”

“If I have to,” Laurence said grimly, “I'm going to jump off and swim.”

Patrick laughed. “Look here,” he said, holding up the clothing. “You can go off as one of Bridy's brothers.”

“What do you mean?” Laurence asked.

“Sure now, you remember the girl who berths with us? The one who lost all her family to the fever?”

Laurence nodded.

“She's terrible sad and barely talks, her grief's so deep. All the same, she's willing to offer these to you. When you put them on, you can come up to steerage. That way, if anyone asks who you are, all you need say is you're her brother. The captain announced he wasn't going to admit anyone died coming over. Well then, he can't say you're not her brother without saying her brother's dead and gone, can he? Do you see that?”

Laurence laughed.

“I never saw you do that before!” Patrick cried with glee. “Go on now,” he said. “Put them on.”

Now excited, Laurence stripped himself of the clothing that Mr. Bartholomew had given him in Liverpool.

“There,” Patrick insisted, when Laurence was newly dressed, “you're looking a whole different person.”

“My shoes are tattered.”

“Faith, keep what you have. I've none at all. Now what we need do is find a way to cut your hair and smudge your face to hide that scar. Once I tell you what you should be saying to my sister, we can go up.”

“When?”

“Today. Soon.”

Once again Laurence thought about the money. He frowned.

“Laurence, haven't you just been saying you wanted to get off?'

“I do want to,” the boy said with a sigh of regret.

Two hours later Patrick led a nervous Laurence into the steerage area. Both Maura and Bridy were on the platform. Mr. Drabble too. Patrick hauled himself up. “Here's Laurence,” he whispered.

Maura crawled to the edge of the platform and looked down. The Faherty clothing, shirt and trousers both, hung upon Laurence's body like an old sack. His smudged face and his hair, crudely hacked by a knife Patrick had borrowed, gave him the appearance of the most ragged street urchin.

“By the Holy Mother,” Maura said to him, “from the
looks of you, you've traveled a greater distance than over the Western Sea.”

Mr. Drabble, by her side, agreed. “He certainly has changed much from Liverpool.”

Patrick gave Laurence a poke, the signal for him to speak as instructed. “Please, miss,” the English boy whispered haltingly to Maura, “for kindness' sake — may I stay with you?”

“As long as you understand, Laurence, that when you get off, you can come no farther. Our father will be there to fetch us, and we can't be asking him on your behalf.”

Laurence nodded.

“Miss O'Connell,” Mr. Drabble interjected with a surge of sympathy, “can you really abandon this boy on the dock?”

Maura's eyes flashed with anger. “Mr. Drabble, if you're so keen to feelings of kindness, why don't you take him with you when you go off?”

Accepting the challenge, the actor glared back. “That's exactly what I was going to propose,” he said, though he had not thought of it before. “What do you say, boy? Don't you think it would be better for you to go with me than to be abandoned?”

Laurence, not fully grasping what was happening, looked from Mr. Drabble to Maura, then back again to the actor. Finally, he glanced at Patrick.

Patrick nodded.

“Please, sir,” Laurence said, “if you'll have me, I'll go with you.”

“Of course I'll have you!” Mr. Drabble exclaimed, looking at Maura, not at the boy. “As the bard said, ‘My friends were poor, but honest.'”

Maura, thoroughly irritated, said only, “But I'm thinking, Laurence, in case you're asked, that you'll have to take another name. Yours is hardly Irish. Have you thought of one?”

Laurence shook his head.

Maura felt a nudge. Bridy had come up by her side and had been staring at Laurence. “He could be John,” the girl suddenly said. “John Faherty.”

A surprised Maura looked at the girl. “Do you truly want the boy to take your brother's name, Bridy?” she asked.

Bridy nodded.

“Well then, Laurence, you're hereby christened John Faherty, and you can stay with us until we land.”

T
he sky was gray and the wind blustery when the medical inspectors — an older as well as a younger gentleman — arrived on board the
Robert Peel
in the early morning. Captain Rickles, Mr. Murdock, and Dr. Woodham were at the rail to greet them.

“Mr. Parker!” the captain cried hospitably to the older inspector. “Welcome aboard. A pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“Mr. Rickles, sir,” Mr. Parker returned as he shook the captain's hand, “a fair Boston morning to you. You've come in earlier than expected.”

The captain laughed. “A storm at your back will take you home, sir.”

“For those brave enough to ride them,” Mr. Parker said. “My new colleague, Mr. Holmes,” he added, introducing the younger man. Then, crisply, he asked, “Any sickness or deaths, sir?”

Captain Rickles turned to the doctor. “Dr. Woodham here has been our physician. He's the one to answer you.”

“A short report if you please, sir,” requested Mr. Parker.

Dr. Woodham smiled wanly. “The usual complaints,” he said, gesturing indifferently to the crowd of immigrants behind him. “An ill-prepared people for sea travel, sir. But, be that as it may, I can assure you nothing untoward occurred.”

“Delighted to hear it.”

Mr. Parker shook hands with Mr. Murdock. “And you, sir. I trust you're well.”

“Not complaining.”

“Any stowaways?” Mr. Parker asked with a wink. He turned to his partner. “Mr. Murdock is famous for sleuthing out stowaways.”

Mr. Murdock grinned. “Well yer might ask, sir. I thought I had one. But perhaps he jumped ship halfway over and fed the sharks. Otherwise yer can be sure I'll catch him when he tries to leave the ship. If so, I'll gain a cabin boy for the trip back to England.”

The inspectors laughed.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Rickles pressed, “would you care for some breakfast in my quarters before your inspection?”

“A pleasure, sir,” Mr. Parker accepted promptly, and the five men set off.

The steerage passengers, nervous about what was happening, remained on the main deck, exchanging rumor and gossip. It was of no help to them that on the forecastle and quarterdeck, sailors kept watch like guards.

“Do you think those sailors are looking at us?” Patrick asked Maura.

“I shouldn't think so,” Maura said, though she herself felt uneasy about Laurence's presence among them.

Once the captain's breakfast was enjoyed, the inspectors — accompanied by the doctor and first mate — made a quick check of the staterooms. Here, they were introduced to the first-class passengers, who thereafter were free to disembark. Their baggage would be sent on later.

To accommodate those departing, most of the immigrants were herded below. Laurence, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Grout, tried to stay on deck.

“Laurence,” Patrick whispered, “the less you're about, the safer it will be.” With reluctance, Laurence agreed, and he, Bridy, and Patrick went down to berth number seventy-four.

Up above, Mr. Shagwell led the departing passengers down the ship's ladder and into a steam lighter that had been signaled to come aside. Close behind came Mr. Clemspool, making considerable efforts to keep his face hidden. Then Mr. Grout stepped off. The captain saluted them all.

Observing the departure from the deck, Mr. Drabble waved his new hat after Mr. Grout.

“The Liberty Tree!” the actor called by way of reminder.

“I'll be there!” Mr. Grout assured him.

After the first-class passengers had disembarked, the medical inspectors, along with Mr. Murdock and Dr. Woodham, went to the steerage hold, where they found the air fresh, the deck scrubbed to whiteness. The few personal possessions remaining were clean and well ordered.

“My compliments to the captain, Mr. Murdock,” Mr. Parker said. “The ship's a credit to him.”

“I'll be pleased to tell him so, sir,” returned Mr. Murdock, saluting crisply.

“You may weigh anchor and take her in,” Mr. Holmes advised, “at your own pleasure and tide, sir. We'll be there to inspect the steerage passengers at dockside,” he added. The two inspectors soon departed.

Once again the captain addressed the crowd on deck. “We've been cleared to land. Those still above must go to your places below so the decks will be free. Have patience. You are almost there.”

The steam lighter spirited the first-class passengers swiftly to Boston's Long Wharf. As soon as they put feet on solid ground, Mr. Clemspool turned to Mr. Grout and held out his hand. “It's time for our farewells, sir,” he said. “Do you know where you will be going?”

Mr. Grout — the ground beneath his feet still seeming to heave like the sea — fixed his former partner with an angry eye. “Clemspool, if yer'd be good enough to tell me where yer goin', yer can 'ave me promise it won't be anywhere close.”

“Actually,” returned Mr. Clemspool with care, “I haven't made up my mind. It's a big country, sir. There will be room — to make my point precisely — separate rooms for us both.”

“There better be,” growled Mr. Grout. And with a scornful refusal of Mr. Clemspool's hand, he marched away, a bit unsteady.

Mr. Clemspool, a smug smile upon his cherubic face, watched him go. As the one-eyed man disappeared from
view, Mr. Clemspool put his hand into his coat pocket and touched Lord Kirkle's money. “Good-bye, Mr. Toby Grout,” he murmured. “And good riddance. May I never see you again.”

A
s soon as Mr. Shagwell made arrangements for his baggage to be sent on to his home in Lowell, he and Mr. Clemspool strode off, arm in arm. When they reached the end of the Long Wharf, Mr. Shagwell hailed a hansom carriage for the Barton Point Railroad Station, terminus for the Lowell & Boston Railway. The driver flicked his whip and off they went, the horse trotting briskly.

Hardly had they begun when Mr. Shagwell leaned out of the window and cried suddenly, “Stop!”

With a lurch the carriage halted.

“Just a moment, please,” Mr. Shagwell called to the driver. “Mr. Jenkins, sir!” he called out. To Mr. Clemspool he said, “An old acquaintance.”

Mr. Clemspool glanced at the man approaching the cab, noting only that he had white hair and a fringe of white whiskers.

“Mr. Shagwell, sir,” Mr. Jenkins exclaimed as he came up to the carriage. “I've been waiting for your return with some impatience.”

“Only just landed, sir,” Mr. Shagwell replied. “But I'm delighted to see you. Do you think you'll be in Lowell sometime in the near future?”

“It was my plan to be,” Mr. Jenkins informed him. “Big doings brewing there. Big things.” Then, with a glance past Mr. Shagwell's shoulder, where he dimly perceived Mr.
Clemspool, he added, “There are problems — urgent problems — about which I must speak to you.”

“All the more reason to visit me,” Mr. Shagwell said with a forced smile. “At our office, sir.”

Mr. Jenkins gave a knowing nod. “You can count on it,” he said, and stepped away from the cab.

Mr. Shagwell called up to the driver to resume. Once again they clattered off. “An important person,” Mr. Shagwell volunteered to Mr. Clemspool but gave no further information. The Englishman, though curious, made no inquiries of his own and dismissed the matter from his mind.

He contented himself by observing America through the carriage window. He was impressed by the quality of people's dress — varied and rich; the grand architecture — elegantly massive; the shops and stores everywhere. The city, moreover, was cleaner than London or Liverpool. To be sure, there was drabness to be seen, including a fair share of beggars — Irish perhaps. But by the time they reached the railroad station, Mr. Clemspool had little doubt that America was a place where a man with brains — such as himself — would have ample opportunity to prosper. Having money in his pocket all but ensured it.

The Lowell & Boston Railway terminus, a long shedlike structure, was crowded with travelers. Green, red, and silver locomotives blew off white steam. Black smoke poured from enormous urn-shaped funnels. Bells rang loudly. Rail carriages banged together.

Mr. Shagwell insisted upon buying the tickets at a dollar apiece and assured his guest proudly that the ride would take no longer than one hour and five minutes.

Once they started, Mr. Shagwell informed his guest how much better American railways were than the British variety. For his part, Mr. Clemspool was impressed and reassured by the similarities. As on English trains, there was much swaying and rattling, considerable smoke, and flying sparks from the engine smokestack. The biggest difference, the Englishman noted, was that the seats ran from carriage side to carriage side, rather than end to end.

As they traveled, Mr. Shagwell provided Mr. Clemspool with an array of facts concerning Lowell. How the Merrimack River provided all the power for the many textile mills by means of an elaborate system of canals, and the resultant cleanliness of the city, which all could enjoy. How, at last count, Lowell had reached a population of thirty-two thousand people. How it was not just the first but the most important manufacturing center in Massachusetts. How the — as he called it — “Lowell system” of good relations between workers and factory owners was the envy of the manufactory world. How the textiles produced were the best in the universe.

All these facts and fifty more Mr. Shagwell poured into Mr. Clemspool's ear. The Englishman acknowledged all he heard with the briefest response and, in fact, paid very little attention. His mind was bent upon learning how he could best make use of his talkative host.

After considerable thought, Mr. Clemspool decided the best scheme would be to promise — not give — Shagwell his money. Any amount. But he would do so only when the mill owner gave him public backing for a business of his own. What the business was didn't matter. With public backing from such an important man, Mr. Clemspool had no doubt he could get others to invest. Once enough capital had been raised, he would take the money and go off. America was vast, and he would have his fortune.

In Lowell, there was little time to see more than a glimpse of the large redbrick mills before Mr. Shagwell secured yet another cab. The ride was brief, the American apologizing for the rush by explaining he'd been away from home for some months and was eager to return. “Home,” he said, “after all, is home.”

Mr. Clemspool was quick to agree with this sage sentiment.

His host chose to knock at his own grand front door. It was quickly opened by a serving girl. Mr. Shagwell introduced himself as the master of the house.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the flustered girl said with a blush, “I had no idea it was you, sir. Mistress employed me but
recent. If you please, sir, I'll be getting her now.” She fairly fled from the door.

Mr. Shagwell, muttering something uncomplimentary about Irish servants, urged Mr. Clemspool into the best parlor, a large perfectly square room with striped wallpaper and a rug of a vivid floral pattern. A rose-colored horsehair sofa, two chairs, and a tea table graced the room, as did some framed prints of birds upon the walls. Over the fireplace was hung a stern-faced portrait of a pale man dressed in a black suit.

Within moments of their arrival, Lavinia Shagwell hurried into the parlor and embraced her husband with cries of delight. She was a woman in her middle years, buxom, with rows of dark ringlets — like tassels — hanging to either side of a wedge-shaped face. Her long taffeta dress was black, set off with white lace at wrists and neck.

There were many exchanges such as: “My dear Mr. Shagwell — so soon — I hope you are well — and yourself, Mrs. Shagwell — all's well here — here is Mr. Clemspool — just from England — our guest — a pleasure, I'm sure — no, mine — to make my point precisely, I'm touched by your hospitality — be at home — your room — dinner at seven — I'm much obliged.”

It was only later, when Mr. and Mrs. Shagwell were alone, that a more serious conversation took place.

“Well, Mr. Shagwell,” his wife began, “I must know immediately, did things go well?”

“My dear,” he returned bluntly, “my London ventures came to naught. The truth is, Mrs. Shagwell, unless I can raise forty thousand dollars quickly, all will be lost.”

Mrs. Shagwell sank into the nearest chair as if she had been struck. “Mr. Shagwell,” she gasped. “What are we to do?”

“Mr. Clemspool,” was the answer.

“Who is he? And why did you bring him here at such a time?”

“
Because
of the time, Mrs. Shagwell. This Mr. Clemspool—

I met him on the returning ship— is an investor. He represents the Kirkle family, a very important name in England. Mr. Clemspool is looking to invest Kirkle money here in America.”

“Will he invest in you, Mr. Shagwell?”

The mill owner smiled with satisfaction. “I don't doubt it at all. And, once he has invested his money, I shall pump it into the ledgers, then sell the mill before the debts are paid. Let the buyer beware. We shall walk off with a handsome profit. Yes, Mrs. Shagwell, this man shall be our salvation. He admires me greatly. In short, we must do everything in our power to lead him that way. He is not a very bright fellow. Quite easily led.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“I have more than one friend,” Mr. Shagwell informed his wife. “Indeed, I spoke to Mr. Jenkins in Boston.”

“Mr. Jenkins?” cried his wife. “Mr. Shagwell, the man is most unfortunate.”

Her husband sniffed. “Perhaps. But he has his uses. In any case, I am hoping to see him soon. Just in case.”

“Mr. Shagwell, you must be careful.”

“I intend to do what needs to be done. But again, let me assure you, Mrs. Shagwell, the Englishman shall be our salvation!”