Into the Storm Page 3

  Something ran over his foot.

  Involuntarily, Laurence screamed. The squeaking stopped abruptly. He knew then what the sound was. Rats.

  He decided he must find a permanent place to hide, somewhere he might sleep safe from men, and rats. First he made his way to the bow and located the crate in which Fred had stowed him aboard. For a brief moment he thought of climbing back in. But the notion was repugnant. He wanted nothing more to do with that box, ever.

  He wandered back among the barrels. Though many of them were taller than he, Laurence tried now and again to lift a lid. Not one of them budged. He tried some crates too but with no better results.

  Returning to the barrels, he set about checking each one, row by row, avoiding those along the aisles. After a full hour he found one whose lid was open a crack — hardly wide enough for his fingers. He pulled, but it would not give.

  Counting barrels by rows until he reached the aisle, Laurence searched out a stick to pry the lid open. Again by counting he found his way back to the barrel, eased the stick into the crack, and pulled down. With a sudden pop, the lid flew off.

  Excited by his success, Laurence hauled himself up the barrel side and fished inside with his hands. What he touched was straw. It smelled sweet and clean. Plunging his hand down into the straw, he felt some crockery, grasped it, and pulled out a teacup.

  One by one he removed the cups and saucers — he took out a hundred all together — and stashed them individually and in groups about the hold, behind timbers, into nooks and crannies, anyplace he thought would be out of sight. By the time he was done, he was able to crawl into the barrel itself, press the straw down, and sink upon a scratchy but pleasant-smelling soft cushion. He found it quite roomy, big enough to allow him to sit comfortably if he drew up his legs.

  Pleased with what he’d achieved, Laurence stood up and drew the barrel lid partway over the opening. It was easy then to maneuver the lid atop the barrel and, even as he squatted down, to pull it back as it had been. He could only hope it was not noticeably open.

  Sitting in total darkness, Laurence took from his pocket the last of his bread squares and began to suck on it — on the alert for worms. As he ate, his thoughts drifted, and he tried to remember — for it seemed so long ago — when it was that he had left his home. To his astonishment it was but three days past! Impossible. He counted the days again, and again. Three days…. Amazed, he shook his head.

  He thought then of his London house, where the rooms were so many. This is my room now, he said to himself, touching the side of the barrel. He made up his mind that each day the ship sailed, he would pretend the barrel was a different London room. He would start with his own room, recalling each and every object just as it had been … three days ago.

  He began by thinking about his bed in London. It was high. It was plump. It had lacy pillows…. By the time Laurence thought of the pillows, he was fast asleep.

  The two staterooms on the Robert Peel could be found beneath the quarterdeck, near the stern of the ship. The rooms had no windows, though in each a large overhead oil lamp provided sufficient light. The woodwork — of well-fashioned mahogany, satinwood, and maple — was replete with carved scrolls and capitals, some even edged in gold. A washstand with saltwater pump, a chest of drawers, a writing desk supplied with paper and ink, a sofa, and two beds, one on either side of the room, made up the furniture. Everything, including a rug, was bolted down.

  “I rather like it,” Mr. Clemspool announced as he sat on one of the beds and kneaded the soft mattress with his fleshy fingers. “But then I deeply believe that if he pays a fair price, a gentleman should expect something decent. Don’t you think?”

  Mr. Grout lay stretched out upon his bunk, feeling miserable. His stomach was still queasy. His head was dizzy. “It’s bloody small and crowded if yer asks me,” the young man said between clenched teeth. “I could ’ave done much better in London at ’alf the price. And I wouldn’t be pitchin’ and rollin’ neither.”

  “Ah, but, Mr. Grout, consider: Here you are, free from the restraints of your past. Far better than sitting in jail,” Mr. Clemspool suggested.

  “Beggin’ your pardon,” Mr. Grout said peevishly. “I wasn’t goin’ to no jail.”

  “Now, sir, let us not forget that money.” He looked slyly at his friend. “Where would you be, sir, without it?” The portly man smiled sweetly and looked about with a deadpan air. “I must confess,” he said, hastening to change the subject, “I do wish I’d had the time to gather my personal belongings.”

  “No one said yer ’ad to come,” Mr. Grout replied, still smarting from his companion’s remark about jail. “Yer might ’ave gone back to London and done wot yer do. It would ’ave saved me a pretty penny.”

  “Me? Go back? Not I,” Mr. Clemspool returned. “That investigator — Mr. Pickler — made it perfectly clear that he was going to bring an action against me.”

  “Fearful, are yer?”

  “To be frank,” Mr. Clemspool admitted, “it was not him I feared. It was Mr. Pickler’s employer.”

  “Which is why yer ’eadin’ for America.”

  Mr. Clemspool pondered the remark. Then, as much to himself as to Mr. Grout, he said, “But, to make my point precisely, perhaps I can strike back.”

  Mr. Grout raised himself on an elbow. “Wot’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Is it not worth considering,” Mr. Clemspool asked, examining the idea even as he proposed it, “how Mr. Pickler’s venerated employer would react to the knowledge that his rude cur of an eldest son endeavored to send his second son out of England … permanently?”

  Mr. Grout shook his head. “Wot was the boy’s name?”

  Mr. Clemspool considered. Then he said, “No harm in your knowing now. It was Sir Laurence Kirkle.”

  Mr. Grout sat bolt upright. “Kirkle!” he cried. “Of the government?”

  “The same,” returned Mr. Clemspool smugly.

  “Yer mad to touch that kind!”

  Mr. Clemspool plucked the air as if it contained an invisible harp. “He may rot at the bottom of a ditch for all I care.”

  “’Ere! Do yer think ’e’s dead?”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Mr. Clemspool said.

  “The dead can come back at yer,” Mr. Grout warned.

  “Nonsense. Anyway, I am engaged upon a greater purpose. My new life. I suppose I could inform the boy’s father or —” He stopped short, his mouth open, his fingers extended.

  “Or wot?” Mr. Grout asked. The talk of death and ghosts had unnerved him.

  Mr. Clemspool snatched at the air as if it held the very answer he was looking for. “Yes! Perhaps it would be better if I communicated with the older brother, Sir Albert Kirkle.”

  “’E the one who ’ired yer?”

  “He was, indeed. Yes, I shall write Sir Albert and say I have his brother with me.”

  “But yer don’t!”

  “Of course not, you fool! He’s in Liverpool, somewhere, thank goodness. But I will tell Sir Albert that I shall inform his father about his scheme — engaging me to dispose of Sir Laurence — unless he sends me a sum of money sufficiently large to cover my losses.”

  “Blackmail,” said Mr. Grout with a nod of his head.

  “Sir!” Mr. Clemspool returned with a withering glance. “I do not engage in illegalities like some I might mention. No, I am merely desirous of finding some means of defraying losses that have been brought down about my innocent head. It will be no more than what he owes me.”

  “One lump of money or a regular allowance like?”

  The question prompted a wide smile. “Mr. Grout, I do sometimes believe you can actually think! Indeed, it is always better to have a steady income. Such befits a gentleman.”

  “Gentleman! Who yer talkin’ about now?”

  “Me.”

  Mr. Grout pushed himself up from his bed and snatched up his hat. “I needs to look about,” he announced, and, somewhat unsteady, went out of the room.r />
  Mr. Clemspool was quick to follow.

  Mr. Grout groped his way up to the quarterdeck, to a room maintained for first-class gentlemen passengers. A small space, it contained little more than a U-shaped sofa — built into the walls — where passengers could smoke the cigars set out for them in a canister.

  Mr. Grout arrived with Mr. Clemspool at his heels. “Now see ’ere, Clemspool,” Mr. Grout said, his back braced against the wall and his one good eye fixed upon his companion, “yer do wot yer want in yer business. But I want nothin’ to do with it anymore. Messin’ ‘round with swells like the Kirkles ain’t smart. They’ve got ways to punch back that’s ’ot and ’eavy.”

  “Ah, Mr. Grout,” said Mr. Clemspool, sitting and selecting a cigar, “you are a callow youth. Much too timid!”

  “Me? Timid? Not by yer life. It’s just that I knows about live folks as well as dead ones and pays heed to both kinds.”

  Mr. Clemspool waved his unlit cigar grandly. “You need not worry, sir. I have no intention of being dependent on you.”

  “Don’t yer?”

  “You, sir, are — to make my point precisely — beneath me.”

  Flushing with anger, Mr. Grout pushed himself away from the wall. “Just don’t forget —”

  At that instant the door was flung open, and another man entered. His top hat, greatcoat, and silk muffler proclaimed him a gentleman. Moreover, though he was not tall, his considerable bulk and a mane of flowing graying hair helped give him a look of authority. His face was square with a firm chin and smooth, waxen cheeks, rather like the sculptured head of an ancient Roman. Of smile there was none. As for his eyes, they were small, gray, and set together closely, giving him a hard, disdainful expression.

  The newcomer nodded briskly to Mr. Clemspool and Mr. Grout as he rubbed his hands vigorously to create some warmth. “I fear I shall be chilled until home comes into view,” he announced in an American accent. “The sea air cuts to my bones.”

  “I am sorry to hear it, sir,” Mr. Clemspool allowed.

  “I hate these voyages,” the main informed his listeners, as if they needed to know his mind, “as you must. But when you have as many responsibilities as I do, you are in demand. A man’s business is his own. I trust my mother, sir, but no one else’s. No doubt you’ve come to the same conclusion.”

  “I certainly have,” Mr. Clemspool hastened to say as he rose and offered his hand to the stranger. “Mr. Matthew Clemspool of London. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  “Ambrose Shagwell,” the man announced as he shook the proffered hand so hard it was all Mr. Clemspool could do to keep from crying out. “You must be the other first-class passengers. My home is in Lowell, fairest city in the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the United States of America. Engaged in the manufacture of cotton textiles. And you, sir?”

  “Not in any particular business, sir,” replied Mr. Clemspool, waving his hand airily. “I am sailing to America to see what might engage me. That’s to say, I have large funds at my disposal.”

  Mr. Grout snorted at the man’s boldness.

  The American, however, cast a newly appreciative eye upon Mr. Clemspool. “You are an investor then.”

  “I am, sir,” returned Mr. Clemspool with a nod that seemed to imply much.

  “With large funds, you say?

  Mr. Clemspool plucked at the air. “Do you consider fifty thousand a lot?”

  Not only did Mr. Shagwell extend his hand to Mr. Clemspool a second time, his grip was quite tender.

  “You are more than welcome to America, sir,” he said. “We have room for men of enterprise. Just understand that our ways and means are advanced and distinct from yours. Seek to impose Old World ways upon us, and we shall have trouble. America first and always!” Mr. Shagwell concluded, pointing to one of his eyes, then his nose, and with the same hand shaping his thumb and first finger into a circle. Finally, he nodded portentously, as if these signs held some significant meaning.

  Mr. Clemspool, though puzzled, chose to ignore them. “I’m not here to dispute you, sir,” he returned with an engaging smile.

  “Well then,” Mr. Shagwell enthused, “our friendship shall flourish. But you, young man,” he said to Mr. Grout, “I don’t have the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “Toby Grout,” a baleful Mr. Grout replied.

  “Also in business?”

  “Nothin’ in particular.”

  “I hope, Mr. Grout, that you’re not one of these lazy, ill-educated fellows who come to my country merely to gawk. We do not appreciate laziness there. Hard, honest work has made us great. Hard, honest work will make us greater.”

  “Excellent philosophy,” Mr. Clemspool applauded. “Mr. Grout will be indebted to you for your advice.”

  “Happy to be helpful,” Mr. Shagwell said. “But I was taking my walk about the deck. I intend to do so three times a day regardless of the weather. Gentlemen, since we three constitute the first-class passengers, I trust I shall see you at the captain’s table. Good day.” So saying, he left the room.

  The moment the door shut Mr. Clemspool laughed.

  “I don’t see wot’s funny,” Mr. Grout complained. “Sayin’ yer ’ave fifty thousand! Yer ’ave nothin’!”

  “Give me a man who has nothing but answers,” Mr. Clemspool observed, “and I shall show you a man who has no questions. I enjoy doing business with a man like that. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to find that Mr. Drabble and fix up them readin’ lessons as ’e promised.”

  “Do so, Mr. Grout. You heard what that Shagwell fellow said. In America, laziness is not appreciated.”

  For his part, Ambrose Shagwell, striding around the quarterdeck, speculated if this man Clemspool were not the answer to his great problem, his pressing need for money. He rather thought he was.

  At the bowsprit of the Robert Peel, a thin spray of sea blew upon Mr. Drabble’s forehead like a cooling hand. This was a considerable blessing, since the actor’s whole mind still burned with Maura O’Connell’s rejection of his proposal. To add insult to his sense of injury, she was now bestowing much attention upon Bridy — the girl who had been foisted on them. The actor, feeling jealous, had left the steerage to go up on deck.

  The despondent man entertained the idea of throwing himself into the waves and thus ending his misery. Though the gesture suited his mood, he was not so wretched as to believe that such an act would inspire love in Maura. Even if it did, how could he rejoice in it at the bottom of the sea?

  Instead, Mr. Drabble thought about his life. He was willing to acknowledge that he had been a failure in England. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Maura had refused him for exactly that reason. Or was it because that runner, Toggs, had knocked him down so easily at Mrs. Sonderbye’s? Oh, why hadn’t he put up more of a fight? Because, he told himself, he was a coward.

  Perhaps, the actor mused, he should have remained in Liverpool. There, at least, he’d earned a few pennies. It was a kind of living. What could he possibly do in America?

  A line from Hamlet crept into his head: “When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.” The words soothed him. Emboldened, he recited other lines from Shakespeare. The more he spoke, the better he felt. Soon he was emoting in his most flamboyant manner, extending his hands and arms, presenting his profile to the wind until, when he was finished, he felt obliged to take a deep bow. To his surprise he heard applause. He turned. There was Mr. Grout.

  “Bravo!” the man cried. “Yer in as fine a voice as ever.”

  “I am happy to see you, sir,” Mr. Drabble returned, though he was, in fact, not overjoyed to have company. There was something comforting in reciting tragic lines to an uncaring wind.

  “Practicin’ for yer American performin’?” Mr. Grout asked.

  The actor smiled grimly but was unable to resist someone’s interest in him. “Mr. Grout, sir, I confess I don’t know exactly what I shall do i
n America.”

  “Can’t say I know wot I’ll do meself,” agreed Mr. Grout. “Right now I’m feelin’ sick with the way the ship heaves. It’s all I can think of.”

  “Surely your friend can provide some relief.”

  Mr. Grout snorted. “My friend — if yer want to call ’im that — ain’t concerned with much but ’imself. Wot I need is to strike out on me own.”

  “Going alone,” Mr. Drabble agreed, “is the fate of mankind.”

  “I still want yer to be teachin’ me some readin’. It might ’elp.”

  “Mr. Grout,” Mr. Drabble exclaimed with weariness, “you must not place me too high in your esteem. I am nothing — no more than the lowest of low.” He bowed to demonstrate the fact.

  “To tell the truth,” Mr. Grout said, “I’m glad to ’ear it.”

  “Why is that? asked Mr. Drabble, who, though eager for sympathy, was grieved to be taken as deserving of his own doleful estimation.

  “’Tween yer and me, Mr. Drabble, I’m not so ’igh as yer might think. Someday I might tell yer all I’ve got to answer for. Avoid the dead and take wot yer can of the livin’. That’s me way. So if yer thinks yerself low, why, I’m low too, which is reason enough we could be comrades.”

  Mr. Drabble extended his hand warmly. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, sir.”

  “Just don’t forget I still wants those readin’ lessons. I can pay for ’em too. And I’d rather give the money to yer than some other people I know.”

  Matthew Clemspool stood before his stateroom desk and removed a sheet of paper from the pile in the drawer. How much, he asked himself, should he reveal to Sir Albert about what had happened to his brother? After some deliberation, he decided indeed to claim that he had Sir Laurence with him. So what if it were a lie? Sir Albert expected the boy to be on his way to America. That had been the assignment from the start, after all.

  After dipping his pen in the blue ink and trying to accommodate his hand to the rolling of the ship, Mr. Clemspool wrote: