Into the Storm (41 page)

W
hen the seven-thirty bells rang at the Shagwell Cotton Mill, Maura fairly flew out of the yard and, all but running, raced for Mrs. Hamlyn's. Though her work at the mill had exhausted her, there was nothing that would keep her back. This time she paid no mind to her aches.

At her side trotted a grim-faced Nathaniel.

When they rushed into the house, they found Patrick, Bridy, Laurence, and Mr. Drabble in the parlor. Mr. Drabble was relating tales of the theater to an enchanted Mrs. Hamlyn. But no sooner did Maura burst upon them than he turned quite pale, stopped speaking, and rose to his feet.

“Patrick!” Maura called. Her brother jumped up and greeted her with a hug.

“By all the blessed saints, Patrick O'Connell,” she exclaimed as she returned his embrace, “you're forever being lost and found. Praise God you're safe.”

She greeted Bridy and Laurence, then nodded shyly to Mr. Drabble, who immediately flung himself into a bow.

Flustered, Maura turned to Mrs. Hamlyn. “Have you met Mr. Drabble then?” she asked. “He's an old friend who helped us much in Liverpool and on the ship.”

The actor beamed.

Then, at his sister's insistence, Patrick told the story of what had happened to him. All listened intently.

“And do you think,” Maura asked tearfully, “that those … hooligans … would have left you there to perish?”

“I don't know,” Patrick admitted.

“Thank God Laurence came to rescue you,” his sister said, turning to the English boy. “You have a faithful friend here, Patrick, and you must never forget him.”

Patrick looked into Laurence's eyes. But neither boy said a word.

“Mrs. Hamlyn, Mr. Brewster,” Maura went on, her hands clasped tightly together, “what's to be done? I don't know this country. I'm fearful those boys will be looking for my brother again.”

“I suppose they might,” Nathaniel agreed. “Mrs. Hamlyn, could you let the boy stay in the house — maybe in the basement — for tonight and maybe the next?”

“I think it could be done,” Mrs. Hamlyn replied. “It is a terrible thing that's happened. But the boy will be safe here.”

“You're more than kind,” Maura said.

Agreement was quickly reached. For that night, in any case, Patrick would stay in the basement. Laurence was invited to stay too. Mrs. Hamlyn would talk to her husband as to what might be arranged beyond that. She assured them he was on friendly terms with the Lowell police. They too might offer some advice.

Shortly thereafter Nathaniel excused himself. Though he said nothing about it, he was anxious to see if there were any of those boys lurking about his house. He promised to return as soon as possible.

Mrs. Hamlyn, her arms about Bridy's thin shoulders, took Patrick and Laurence into the kitchen.

Mr. Drabble and Maura were left alone.

For a moment neither spoke.

“Mr. Drabble,” Maura began finally, “I am owing you a deep apology. I spoke badly to you in Boston on the quay. There was no call for it. I was that upset.”

“Miss O'Connell, you don't have to make any excuse.”

“Our father has died.”

“Laurence told me. I offer my heartfelt sympathy.”

“Mr. Drabble,” Maura said softly while staring at the floor, “you were very kind to us.”

“Miss O'Connell,” the actor returned with a gentle, hesitant smile, “I could be even kinder.”

Without looking up, Maura shook her head. “Please, you mustn't speak of that.”

Mr. Drabble swallowed hard. “My dear … never?”

Maura lifted her eyes and looked straight at him. “Not at all.” Then she said, “Mr. Drabble, I'm willing to be your good friend. It can't be more.”

It was the actor who bowed his head this time. “There is, as the poet said, a ‘love that comes too late.'”

“Faith, Mr. Drabble, can't there be love in friendship too?” And she held out her hand.

After a moment, the actor took it, held it, suddenly folded himself over, and kissed it. “I shall honor thee forever,” he said, bowing, and with a straight back walked out of the house.

Maura let him go.

The regular meal was served for the boarders. There being no room at the table, Patrick and Laurence remained in the kitchen, where they ate, if anything, more than the others. At first they consumed their food in silence.

Halfway through their meal, Patrick put down his spoon. “Faith, Laurence, haven't I been thinking hard,” he announced.

Laurence, fearful about what might be said, stared into his plate.

“As much as I think I should, I can't be your enemy. I can't. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there's been too much life between us. I'm thinking,” he said, “we should be forgetting about what happened beyond the Western Sea.”

“I want to,” Laurence managed to say.

B
y seven forty-five the meeting-room floor of Appleton Hall had been swept clean and the hall's flaring gaslights lit. The stage was draped in red, white, and blue bunting that was a bit frayed at the edges. There was, however, one new banner — provided by Mr. Jenkins himself — which he had attached to the wall behind the podium. It proclaimed
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL
!

Mr. Jenkins had also provided, near the front entrance of the hall, a stack of seven pitch torches, ready for lighting.

As soon as they could, an impatient crowd of fifty surged into the hall and arrayed themselves in seats scattered here and there about the room. Only one person was brave enough to take a chair in the front row. That was Betsy Howard.

The audience was varied: mill operatives, women and men both, shopkeepers, businessmen. Even Mr. Tolliver was there, though he stayed toward the back and sat low in his seat so as not to draw attention to himself.

Not far from the policeman slouched Jeb Grafton. Full of anger and resentment, he felt robbed by Mr. Shagwell, bullied by Mr. Clemspool, tricked by Laurence. Nothing was going right. Nobody cared about him or his family. If only there was something he could
do
. Maybe he could talk to Mr. Jenkins and ask for help in getting his father a job…. Jeb looked toward the chair on the stage.

Mr. Jenkins's rumpled suit and flaring whiskers gave him the air of an embattled warrior. On his lap he fingered the speech that Mr. Brown had written for him, hoping it would be strong enough for his audience.

As he studied the crowd, he now and again nodded
solemnly to someone he knew — like Betsy Howard. But the one he kept searching for, Mr. Grout, had yet to appear. He had hoped to speak to him privately. Mr. Jenkins was growing concerned. Time was running out.

More people arrived. There were now about one hundred in the hall. And finally — to Mr. Jenkins's great relief — Mr. Grout arrived.

As soon as the speaker saw him, he put all caution aside and immediately stood, walked to the edge of the stage, and beckoned. A number of people in the audience swiveled about to see who merited such special attention. Even so, it took a moment for Mr. Grout to realize it was he being summoned. Feeling self-conscious, he made his way to the stage.

Mr. Tolliver, remembering Mr. Clemspool's description at the police station, recognized the one-eyed man immediately. That he appeared to have a connection to Jenkins interested the policeman mightily. He wished he knew what that connection was. Unable to hear anything from so great a distance, he had to be content with intense watching.

“I'm glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Jenkins, holding out a hand, which Mr. Grout felt obliged to take. “I was beginning to think you wouldn't come.”

“I almost didn't,” Mr. Grout admitted.

Mr. Jenkins raised his dark eyebrows questioningly.

“I found Clemspool on me own.”

Mr. Jenkins frowned. “Does that mean, sir, you won't perform the service you agreed to?” he asked.

“I said I would, didn't I? And the new Toby Grout keeps 'is word, don't 'e?”

“I should think you would,” Mr. Jenkins said in as pleasant a voice as he could manage. Then he squatted down and — so no one in the audience could observe what he was doing — drew forth a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Grout.

“No! Don't look at it now,” he cautioned. “Put it away. You don't want people to see. But when you return to the back of the room — where I should like you to be for my speech — you can look at it. I've written the number of the house on
Cabot Street where the demonstration must be held. You can read, can't you?” he suddenly asked.

“'Course I can,” Mr. Grout said with pride. “I've been workin' at it too.”

“Excellent. And you remember the name of the street?”

“Cabot, isn't it?”

“Correct. Do you know where it is? How to get there?”

“Went there this morning.”

“You do keep your word,” acknowledged Mr. Jenkins with a wily smile. “Now all I ask is that you cry out the full address at the appropriate moment, then lead the way to that place.”

“'Ow will I know when to make the cry?” Mr. Grout asked.

“When I pound my fist — like this — on that podium, three times in a row, that will be your signal. Not once or twice, sir, but
three
times.” Mr. Jenkins mimed three strokes.

“I get it,” Mr. Grout assured him, “though I can't see why yer can't do this all yerself.”

Mr. Jenkins smiled. “I assure you, it's merely an old speaker's trick. It will be better coming from the audience. Much more dramatic than if I were to do it.

“And, sir, I can assure you further, no harm will come of it. Oh, yes, I did say I'd pay you. You've found your man. Excellent. Shall we then say five dollars for your efforts tonight?” he asked casually.

“That's a lot.”

Mr. Jenkins reached into his jacket pocket and partly removed a wallet for Mr. Grout to see. “You need not fear. I have the money with me. Now get on with you to your place.”

Mr. Grout paused. “There's not goin' to be any trouble, is there?”

“Of course not,” replied the man with a bland smile.

Mr. Grout studied Mr. Jenkins's face for a moment, then put the paper into his pocket and returned to the back of the room.

As he passed Mr. Tolliver, the policeman — wishing he knew what had passed between the two men — shifted around casually, the better to consider Mr. Grout.

Mr. Jenkins, meanwhile, rose, took up his speech, and approached the speaker's podium. “I should like to call this meeting to order,” he announced loudly. Mr. Tolliver turned back to the stage. The audience quieted. The only sounds were the shifting of feet and an occasional cough.

With elaborate ceremony, Mr. Jenkins spread his speech before him, looked out over the crowd, cleared his throat, and began.

“My fellow Americans, we have come together during a moment of great crisis in the history of our republic. A crisis for us. A crisis for our children.” In a voice laced with anger, Mr. Jenkins cited the numbers of immigrants who had been coming to the United States — most of them, these days, from Ireland. He called them ignorant, debased. He spoke of their religion with contempt, a danger to republican institutions.

Mr. Grout, listening, began to feel uncomfortable with the speaker's wrath. He hoped Jenkins would calm himself.

Instead, Mr. Jenkins grew more belligerent, referring to the increase in crime and poverty and illness, which, he claimed, was all the fault of these same immigrant Irish paupers. “And what happens when they arrive?” he asked loudly. “They take our jobs. And yet” — he pointed to the banner behind him — “we are supposed to be equal!”

“That's true,” someone in the audience called.

Mr. Jenkins, dramatically putting aside his written text, continued at a high pitch. “I shall give you but one example of injustice brought to my attention by one of the noblest citizens of Lowell, a woman who has labored long and hard in the cotton mills.

“When this woman had occasion — expressly at the urging of the owner — to speak of affairs in the mill, she politely, humbly, protested the lack of good air and the enforced speedup of the machines.”

“She was right too,” someone was heard to murmur.

“This so outraged the mill owner that, in a fit of pique and to brandish his own power, he turned away a woman operative — one Sarah Grafton — whose only crime was that she suffered the cotton cough!”

The story brought an angry stir from the audience. Jeb, who had been paying only scant attention, nearly jumped out of his seat when he heard his mother's name. Now he gawked at Mr. Jenkins with nothing less than adoration.

As for Mr. Grout, the more he heard, the more convinced he became that Mr. Jenkins was trying to stir up trouble. He began to ask himself what he should do.

The speaker went on: “Who was this hardworking native-born American woman replaced with? An indolent, ignorant Irish girl who accepted less pay for more work!”

There were a few hisses from the audience. Someone cried, “Unfair!” Another, “Treachery!”

Returning to his prepared speech, Mr. Jenkins went on. “But there are some so-called citizens of Lowell who make a profit by bringing in these Irish immigrants, taking them into their homes, and taking that same pay that should be yours.”

At the back of the room, Mr. Grout reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper Mr. Jenkins had given him. Carefully, he unfolded it, shifting around in the gaslight so he could read the writing. It read,

 

87 Cabot Street

 

As was his way, Mr. Grout read the words slowly, murmuring out loud to himself to make sure he understood them. He did so once, twice. Vaguely, he sensed that he had seen the address written elsewhere but could not quite place where. He turned back to listen to Mr. Jenkins.

“If we are to drive these people out of the city — and thus secure our rights, liberties, and sacred privileges” — here Mr. Jenkins banged the podium with his fist two times, bringing Mr. Grout's attention into sharp focus — “then we must
do
something! It is our children we must protect!”

There was some applause from the audience.

“And I say to you, my friends and fellow native citizens, the time for action is now! And it must be
severe
action.” Once again he banged the podium twice.

Mr. Grout, now convinced the speaker was stirring up the
people to no good, braced himself. Though he knew he had promised to cry out, he was beginning to feel it was the wrong thing to do.

“We must set an example,” Mr. Jenkins went on, “lest every Sarah Grafton in Lowell be pushed aside by ignorant Irish immigrants!”

The audience cheered and clapped wildly.

The speaker began to shout. “We need to take our cause to the streets! Who among you can suggest a likely site for showing these foreigners that we mean business, that they are not welcome to America? Anyone? Shall someone be brave enough to speak of such a place?” So saying, he banged his fist on the podium
three
times.

With a start, Mr. Grout drew in his breath and readied himself to stand when suddenly he remembered where he had seen the Cabot Street address before. When he did, his stomach seemed to roll over. He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out Mr. Drabble's note.

 

Where Maura O'Connell lives:
87 Cabot Street

 

“Who can suggest such a place?” cried Mr. Jenkins, looking straight at Toby Grout.

His great hands trembling, Mr. Grout compared the two pieces of paper, the one from Mr. Jenkins, the one from Mr. Drabble, and read for himself that the address was the same. Horrified, he looked up and stared, speechless, at the speaker, who once again struck the podium three times.

The full import of what might happen now burst upon Mr. Grout. As soon as it did, he turned and ran from the meeting.

From the stage, Mr. Jenkins saw Mr. Grout race away from the hall. Furious, he was just about to cry out the address himself when Jeb Grafton leaped to his feet.

“I know where to go!” the boy shouted. “It's where James Hamlyn lives. He's a Paddy who lets other Paddies live with him!”

Mr. Jenkins was thrilled. “And where is that?” he cried with fervor.

“Eighty-seven Cabot Street, that's where!” Jeb shouted.

“Eighty-seven Cabot Street!” echoed Mr. Jenkins. “Let us bring our protest there! Eighty-seven Cabot Street!” he shouted again. So saying, he leaped off the stage, strode up the aisle, gathered up the torches, and headed out into the street.

A large part of the audience — cheering and yelling — followed him. Quickly, he distributed six torches among them and lit the seventh. Soon all the others were burning brightly, revealing the excited faces of people swept up in mob action.

“Let's show those Irish what trueborn Americans can do,” Mr. Jenkins shouted. “You, boy,” he cried to Jeb, who had pushed his way to the man's side. “Lead us to Eighty-seven Cabot Street!”

Wild with enthusiasm, Jeb started off.

Mr. Tolliver, to his own chagrin, found himself taken by surprise. For a moment he thought he might be able to charge into the crowd, apprehend Mr. Jenkins, and defuse the situation. But he perceived that the crowd was already overwrought. They would never let him take the speaker. Instead, Mr. Tolliver wheeled about and began to run toward the police station.

The crowd streamed off into the night, calling to one another to keep up their angry spirits. Now and again someone darted from the mob, accosted a startled onlooker, and tried to drag him along for the march.

Jeb, in the front of the crowd, with Mr. Jenkins at his side, cried, “That was my mother — Sarah Grafton — you were talking about, sir.”

Mr. Jenkins had been consumed with thoughts of at last having his revenge against Mr. James Hamlyn. And when he looked at Jeb, he was overwhelmed by a vision of his own boy marching by his side. In a rush of emotion, he thrust the flaming torch into Jeb's hand. “Hurry on!” he cried. “Faster!”

 

Upon leaving the meeting, Mr. Grout headed straight for the Spindle City Hotel. He found Mr. Drabble lying on his bed,
boots off, gazing vacantly into the air with a look of gentle melancholy. A small candle — like some votive memorial — glowed feebly by his side. It was as if the actor were performing the final scene in a tragic play.

“There you are,” he intoned languidly when Mr. Grout burst in.

“Yer gal, she's in the way of trouble!”

Mr. Drabble's theatrical air dropped away like a cast-off cloak. “Why, what do you mean?” he cried, springing to his feet.

“Wot does this read?” Mr. Grout demanded, thrusting Mr. Drabble's own note into the actor's hands.