Into the Storm (28 page)

P
atrick soon found himself staring down into a channel of fast-running water some fifty feet wide. It looked like a canal, but he was not certain. Clumps of ice floated by. Alongside the water stood a few spindly trees that, in the dim gray dawn, looked like a row of emaciated spirits. Broken branches lay scattered on the ground. Not far off was a small footbridge.

Patrick wondered if it was the same bridge he'd crossed with Nathaniel earlier. Fairly certain it was not, he sat down on the bank, drew up his knees, and hugged himself to ward off the chill, then stared absentmindedly into the churning current. Wishing there was more light, he decided to wait until the sun rose.

A splash made him look up. Across the way a boy was tossing stones into the water. As he looked through the gloom, Patrick, with a start, realized the boy was the largest of the trio — Nick — who had pushed him about the night before at Mr. Brewster's house.

Not wishing to provoke a skirmish, Patrick chose to ignore the bully. Perhaps the boy would not recognize him. Only when a second stone landed even closer, splashing him with icy water, did he involuntarily jerk his head up.

Nick grinned. “Just wanted to give you a bath,” he jeered. “When was the last time you had one?”

Patrick's anger flared. “Leave me alone!” he cried.

“There's some rocks on your side,” the boy challenged from across the canal. “Or are you too weak to reach me?”

Wanting no part of any fight, Patrick stood and began to back off.

“Running away?” Nick called as he started for the footbridge.

When Patrick realized that the boy intended to come after him, he turned to run. But his large boots hampered him greatly and prevented him from moving fast.

Nick pursued him, pausing to pick up rocks and hurl them. One struck Patrick's shoulder.

Ignoring the pain, Patrick cut down what he thought was a street, only to come up against a bend in the canal. There was no bridge here to escape over. Fearful of being trapped, he spun about and started back just as Nick appeared around the corner.

The instant Nick realized that Patrick had no place to go other than into the canal itself, he slowed, grinning tauntingly. “Thought you'd get away, didn't you?” he sneered.

Patrick retreated.

“Now you
have
to fight. That or take a swim. Hope you know how to, Paddy boy. It's cold in there.”

Patrick kept inching back, checking to see how much space there was between him and the canal. When he reached the edge, he halted.

“Come on,” Nick challenged, fists up, ready to brawl. “You can do something, can't you? Fight or swim.” He sauntered closer.

Trapped, barely thinking of what he was doing, Patrick lowered his head and charged, butting Nick in the chest. Taken by surprise, Nick reeled backward. Grimacing with pain, he gasped for breath.

“Leave me alone!” Patrick cried, too angry to be aware that he had gained the momentary advantage.

“Dirty Paddy!” Nick shouted. He edged forward again, but more cautiously, keeping his distance by circling around Patrick.

Heart pounding, Patrick moved the opposite way so that the boys reversed positions. Now it was Nick who had his back to the canal.

“You were lucky, that's all,” Nick jeered. “Lucky. Come on, try that again. Come on. I dare you.”

Patrick, fists up, panting, inched toward Nick.

“That's it,” Nick said. “Come on, take your licking. Come on!” He threw a punch, but it didn't land.

Patrick, trying what had worked before, lowered his head and charged once more. Though this time he took a few blows, he managed to strike Nick again. The boy staggered backward, tottering on the edge of the canal. When Patrick made another feint, Nick recoiled, lost his balance, and fell head over heels into the canal with an enormous splash.

“Help! Help!” he cried as he flailed about in the water. “I can't swim. Help!”

Patrick turned, saw a branch on the ground, and snatched it up. Flinging himself down at the canal bank, he extended it toward Nick. The boy grabbed it and, with Patrick holding on, struggled toward the edge of the canal.

He reached it, found a footing, and began to haul himself out of the water. As soon as Patrick saw Nick was out of danger, he withdrew an even greater distance.

Thoroughly soaked and shivering, Nick, having clambered back to the bank, took a menacing step toward Patrick. “You dirty Irish fighter,” he cried, “I'll get you for this. See if I don't.”

Nick did take a few steps but quickly gave up.

Patrick, feeling much safer, headed down one street, then another. He wanted to see his sister, to tell her everything about this morning. Suddenly, he stopped. Would Maura even be at Mrs. Hamlyn's house now? Wasn't she seeking work herself? He didn't want to upset her, not now.

Hoping she was having better luck than he had, he turned down a third street.

Y
ou might want these,” Mr. Shagwell told Mr. Clemspool. He held out two balls of white cotton.

“And what shall I do with them, sir?”

“I suggest you put them in your ears. If you've never been in a mill before, you can't imagine the noise.”

“Do you wear them?” Mr. Clemspool asked.

Mr. Shagwell smiled. “I'm used to it.”

“Then I'm sure I won't need them either.”

“As you wish, sir. Now step this way.”

To begin the tour, Mr. Shagwell led his guest into the courtyard. There, he explained how the cotton was shipped from the southern states to Lowell. “Once it's here, sir, the process is quite simple. The cotton is broken up and cleaned. Then it's turned into thread. The thread is woven into cloth. The cloth is shipped to the world, as far away as China.

“We do it all in vast quantities, sir, with great numbers of operatives working in one place. The Lowell system. We are justifiably famous for it.”

“And is all this — are all these people — under your control, sir?” Mr. Clemspool asked, truly impressed.

“Each and every one of them! Come along now!”

The mill owner led the Englishman onto the first floor of the large building where the cotton was being unloaded. Mr. Clemspool watched the bales being broken up, after which masses of cotton were worked through carding machines that cleaned the fibers and drew them out into thick slivers.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Shagwell, “I'll show you where the crude thread is made.”

They moved to the second floor. Here, the air was humid
and the noise of the clacking machinery so tumultuous that Mr. Clemspool felt compelled to shield his ears with his hands. Mr. Shagwell offered the cotton balls again.

Mr. Clemspool shook his head and looked about.

Overhead power belts raced in a continual whir. Other belts looped down like elastic arms to power the machines. He watched a woman move back and forth among the machines, darting — or so it seemed — into their very midst to make adjustments.

While Mr. Shagwell and Mr. Clemspool were so engaged, the overlooker, Mr. Osmundson, approached and doffed his derby. “Good morning, sir,” he shouted to Mr. Shagwell over the din. “Gratifying to see you, sir!”

“Mr. Osmundson, this is Mr. Clemspool. A visitor from England.”

The two men shook hands.

Mr. Shagwell said, “Show us your best operative, Mr. Osmundson.”

“That would be Betsy Howard, sir. Follow me.”

The three men made their way among the machines.

“Here she is, sir,” said Mr. Osmundson with pride. “Your best.”

Betsy Howard was overseeing three machines. Now and again she lifted a full bobbin off one and placed it in a wooden box.

“She can't talk much, sir,” Mr. Osmundson said into Mr. Clemspool's ear. “Too busy.” The overlooker sidled up behind her. “It's Mr. Shagwell, sweetheart. With a guest.”

Without stopping her work, Betsy Howard peered over her shoulder, saw who it was, and flushed.

Mr. Shagwell beckoned Mr. Clemspool closer. “How long have you worked here?” Mr. Shagwell asked his operative in a loud voice.

“Five years, sir.”

Mr. Shagwell turned to Mr. Clemspool. “Do you see how loyal the operatives are?” He turned back to his operative. “And have you any complaints?” he asked her.

There was no reply.

“Speak up,” Mr. Shagwell urged. “Our visitor from old England needs to know what a free country this is.”

Betsy Howard glanced from Mr. Shagwell to Mr. Clemspool to Mr. Osmundson. The overlooker, beaming, nodded. She heard Sarah Grafton, at the next station, cough harshly.

“You'll not suffer for anything you say,” Mr. Shagwell persisted. “You have my promise.”

The woman looked at the mill owner's gray eyes as if to judge the full measure of his words. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Please, sir, they've speeded up the machines again. They're going much too fast.”

Mr. Shagwell's eyes filled with astonishment. His normally pale cheeks turned red. His mane of gray hair seemed to swell. “I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed.

“And the air, sir. It's impossible to breathe with all this cotton flying about. We need it fresher. If we could only open the windows, it'd be so much better.”

“Are you suggesting that you know how to operate my mill better than I?” a now indignant Mr. Shagwell cried.

Betsy Howard's face grew ashen. “You asked me to speak, sir, and I'm just saying what's true. We can hardly keep up. With the speed and the heat, it's truly hard.”

Mr. Clemspool tried to keep from smirking.

“Complaints in front of a stranger,” Mr. Shagwell cried. “A guest! I'll thank you to keep your comments to yourself next time.” So saying, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

As he passed the next station, Sarah Grafton was seized by another fit of coughing. Mr. Shagwell stopped and fixed his eyes upon her. “Mr. Osmundson,” he cried, pointing, “I want this girl turned off. Do you hear me? Right away! We can't have sickness here. She's contagious!”

Sarah stared at Mr. Shagwell in horror. “Sir, please, you mustn't….”

Mr. Shagwell wheeled about. “Mr. Osmundson! Find a replacement for that girl. Immediately! Mr. Clemspool, this way, please. There's more to see.” He marched off, Mr. Clemspool hurrying to keep pace.

For a moment Mr. Osmundson gazed after the mill owner. Then he turned to Betsy Howard. “Oh, my dear, why ever did you say such a thing? You only provoked him. And look what you've gone and done to poor Sarah. Sarah, my dear,” he said, hastening to where she stood, dumbstruck. “I'm afraid you must go. There's nothing I can do. I am … what can I say … terribly sorry.”

Speechless, Sarah Grafton fell to weeping. Behind, her machines snarled, tangled, and began to snap threads.

I
do admire your willingness to work, Miss O'Connell,” Mrs. Hamlyn said as she guided Maura away from Cabot Street. It was seven-thirty in the morning. “But while it's true we must all toil, you need to know mill life is not easy.”

Maura wore one of the dresses from the pile of cast-off garments her landlady had provided. A too-large calico dress, it nonetheless felt clean and comfortable. Not so comfortable were the pair of high shoes she had selected. It had been a long time since Maura had worn shoes, and these were tight. Still, she was grateful to have them and walked as best she could, her shawl wrapped about her. Though nervous, she was excited, hardly minding the cold.

“Faith, Mrs. Hamlyn, I'm sure I can manage,” Maura replied stoutly. “And by the Holy Mother, we have only the few dollars my father left us. We can't be living on air.”

“When you begin,” the woman warned, “they pay very little.”

“In Ireland, mistress, a body is lucky to have any money at all.”

“Just remember,” said Mrs. Hamlyn, “there are other jobs to be had here. In shops. Or as a maid.”

“Please, mistress, I should like to do as my father did.”

When they entered the Shagwell Mill courtyard, Maura saw many young women sitting, despite the weather, in the open air. They had napkins on their laps, and they were eating. A fewer number of men — sitting separately — were taking their food out of tin pails. There was an air of concentration upon the operatives' faces, almost an urgency, that puzzled Maura.

“They have only a half hour for breakfast,” Mrs. Hamlyn explained.

The older woman went directly to the smaller of the brick buildings where a sign,
MANAGER'S OFFICE,
had been placed on the door. As she was about to knock, she cast an appraising eye over Maura. “You might just smooth your hair back from your face,” she said. “And straighten your dress.”

Maura did as she was told.

“If they ask you questions, say as little as possible,” the woman warned. Then she knocked.

A boy answered. Though he wore a suit and a peaked leather cap, to Maura's eyes he appeared to be no older than Patrick.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“My name is Mrs. Hamlyn,” the woman said. “I should like to speak to Mr. Farrington, please.”

“What's it about?” came the response.

Mrs. Hamlyn was determined not to be irritated. “I am seeking employment for this young lady.”

The boy squinted up at Maura. “Irish?” he asked.

“She is.”

“Well, I don't know. It's not likely,” the boy advised. “I'll go see if Mr. Farrington's about.”

“You must mention my name,” the woman said severely. “It's Mrs. James Hamlyn.”

The door slammed in their faces.

Maura, recalling Patrick's story about the boys who picked a fight with him because he was Irish, felt her stomach knot.
“Faith, Mrs. Hamlyn,” she whispered, head bowed, “I don't wish to be where I'm not wanted.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” the woman snorted. “He's just a sassy boy. I don't like such talk. Besides …”

The door opened again. “He'll see you both,” the boy said. “But only because it's you,” he told Mrs. Hamlyn.

Pressing her lips tightly to keep from speaking her thoughts, the woman stepped forward, touching Maura on the arm to encourage her to follow.

They entered a busy office alive with the sounds of scratching pens and turning pages. Clerks, sitting on stools, worked on great ledgers.

Without checking to see if he was being followed, the boy marched toward a door at the far side of the room, rapped on it, and held it open for the two women to pass. “Here's Mrs. Hamlyn, sir.”

The room was quite small and lined with piles of papers. A large desk, its surface exceedingly cluttered, stood in the center of the room. Behind the desk sat a man dwarfed by the crowded conditions around him. The look on his face was pinched. His eyes conveyed worry.

When the women entered his office, the man stood up and leaned over his desk, hands down and splayed, rather like a bulldog taking a fighting stance.

“Mrs. Hamlyn,” he said brusquely. “Good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Mr. Farrington. I trust you are well.”

Mr. Farrington shook his head. “Trying to keep our heads above water,” he said. “Not the best of times.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“Well, well, that's of no interest to a lady. How's the mister?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“And what can I do for you today?” he asked.

“This is Maura O'Connell. She's a boarder at my house and is seeking employment. She is Irish,” Mrs. Hamlyn said firmly. “You might as well know from the first.”

“Knew it from the moment you walked in,” Mr. Farrington snorted.

“Is there any work to be had?” Mrs. Hamlyn asked.

“Don't know as to the weaving rooms…. How old are you, girl?” The question was directed at Maura.

“Fifteen, Your Honor.”

“Not educated, I suppose.”

“I can read, Your Honor.”

His look suggested doubt. “Can you read that?” he asked, pointing across the room at a wall poster.

 

RULES TO BE OBSERVED
BY THE HANDS EMPLOYED IN
THIS MILL

 

Listed below were twenty-one rules, each numbered.

“I think so,” Maura replied.

“Read number two,” Mr. Farrington snapped.

Maura studied the poster and read, “‘Any person coming too late shall be fined as follows: for five minutes, two pennies; ten minutes, four pennies; and fifteen minutes, six pennies.'”

“And the sixteenth?”

“‘The master would recommend that all their workpeople wash themselves every morning, but they shall wash themselves at least twice a week, Monday morning and Thursday morning, and any found not washed will be fined three pennies for each offense.'”

“Good enough,” Mr. Farrington admitted. “Try number twelve.”

Again Maura read: “‘All persons in our employ shall serve four weeks' notice before leaving their position, but A. Shagwell & Company shall and will turn any person off without notice being given.'”

“All right, that's sufficient,” said Mr. Farrington. “You're in luck. This morning an operative in the drawing section left suddenly because of illness. You can start right away at one dollar and fifty cents a week. You'll work under Mr. Osmundson. Yes or no?”

“Yes, please, Your Honor,” Maura said eagerly.

“Mind, I only do it for Mrs. Hamlyn,” Mr. Farrington said severely, “not you. We're not supposed to take on any more Irish. But I can make exceptions. Just make sure you read, learn, and act by the rest of those regulations. They're posted about. What's your name?”

“Maura O'Connell, Your Honor.”

“All right, Maura, on your way out, speak to the door clerk. He'll sign you on and give you a pass. Report to the overlooker, Mr. Osmundson. Second floor of the mill.” He sat down and gathered up some papers, making it perfectly clear he was done with them.

After saying good-bye to Mrs. Hamlyn — and hearing some further kindly advice — Maura made her way apprehensively to the second floor of the large building. In her hand she clutched the note she'd been given in the manager's office that would introduce her to the overlooker.

She felt excitement as well as fear. Here she was, her first full day in Lowell, and she would be earning money for herself, Patrick, and Bridy! Life
was
going to get better. Suddenly glad, Maura smiled.

But when she stepped onto the second floor, her smile withered. Before her — in a room far bigger than she'd ever seen before — ranged row upon row of clacking, churning machines. The noise was staggering. Ceilings were laced with whirling power belts of gigantic proportions. The floorboards upon which she stood trembled. The air was so hot and cloudy, she found it hard to breathe.

How, she asked herself, could she exist, much less work, in such a place? What did she know of machines, she who had never worked with any machine before,
ever
?

When a wave of nausea swept through her, Maura squeezed her hands so tightly, her nails bit into her flesh. The pain served to steady her.

From somewhere — Maura did not see him coming — Mr. Osmundson appeared.

“Can I help you, sweetheart?” he cried, his voice loud enough to be heard over the noise.

Maura, incapable of speech, presented the note she'd been given with an unsteady hand. Mr. Osmundson read it.

“New operative, eh? Maura O'Connell,” he said, looking her over. “Irish, I suppose?”

Feeling uncomfortable, Maura nodded even as she stared at her feet.

The overlooker started to frown but caught himself and smiled. “Well, you're needed. The girl you're replacing got ill, poor thing. Ever work in a mill before, sweetheart?”

Maura managed to shake her head.

“Nothing to it,” Mr. Osmundson said. “The other girls will be happy to teach you. I'll put you next to the best. My Betsy. Come along, my dear.”

Full of fear, Maura followed, passing among rows of machines, painfully aware of the eyes of the other operatives appraising her.

“All right, my dear,” cried Mr. Osmundson as he approached Betsy Howard's station. “Here's Maura O'Connell, Sarah's replacement.”

Betsy Howard glanced at Maura over her shoulder. Brief as the look was, Maura caught the unmistakable glint of anger in the woman's eyes. The girl shivered.

Mr. Osmundson, noticing nothing, said, “Betsy, darling, it'll be your job to teach Maura what she needs to know. Maura, Betsy is the best girl we've got. Mind her, and you can't go wrong. Step over here, my dear,” he called to Maura. “These three machines are yours.”

Maura, avoiding Betsy Howard's hostile eyes, stood helplessly before one of the drawing machines assigned to her. With its rollers and wires, its seemingly random strands of cotton poking out here, there, everywhere, it was so incomprehensibly complex, she felt humiliated. Tears came to her eyes. Wanting to run, she looked about.

To the right and to the left, young women seemed to know what they were doing, though what it was Maura had not the slightest idea. One or two of them — those nearest — turned from their machines and looked at her now with friendly
faces. One went so far as to smile and nod. Somehow, Maura managed a small smile in return.

The realization that women were doing all the work on the floor gave Maura a spark of hope. If they could do it, might not she?

There was a tap on her arm. Betsy Howard was by her side.

“Look here, Miss Paddy,” she said sharply, “you're replacing as good a friend as ever lived. Turned off because I was stupid enough to open my mouth. Her only fault was being ill from this air.” She made a gesture that encompassed everything in the huge room.

“And you're Irish, aren't you?” the operative went on. “So you might as well know, I don't like Paddies, and I don't intend to like you either.”

“Yes, miss,” Maura whispered, caught up in a swirl of shame and fury all at once.

“The first thing you need to know is there's no place for a soft voice here. Now let me show you how this goes.” She moved toward the first machine.

Maura closed her eyes briefly, crossed herself, and followed the woman.