Into the Storm

by Avi

  The smell in the hold was so nauseating that Mr. Grout pinched his nose. “’Ow can yer find anyone ’ere?” he wondered as he gawked about. “More a place for ghosts than livin’ people.” Nervously, he reached out and rapped his knuckles upon wood, then grasped the same timber to keep himself steady.

  “Aye, ships do have ghosts,” Mr. Murdock solemnly assured him.

  “They do?”

  “It’s a sailor’s belief, sir, that ships are haunted by the souls of those who died trying to get on board. Not to mention those who drown during a voyage.”

  “Lord ’elp us!” Mr. Grout cried. “Are yer speakin’ the truth?”

  The first mate tipped a wink to Mr. Clemspool, who in turn encouraged the teasing with a grin.

  “’Course it’s true!” Mr. Murdock insisted. “And yer had best be on the lookout for them, sir.”

  In dread, Mr. Grout shut his one good eye.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Mr. Murdock said, “to business. Stowaways always think themselves clever by trying something different. Except it’s just those differences that help us find ’em. See these barrels here, gentlemen, stacked one atop the other? All neat and regular. Little likelihood of anyone being in ’em. Consider yerself.” He measured the large Mr. Grout with gleeful eyes. “Yer could hardly get in one of ’em barrels, now could yer, sir? And if yer did,” he added ominously, “we’d never pry yer out alive. Regular bit of salt cod, yer’d be.”

  Mr. Grout shuddered.

  “No, sir,” the first mate continued, “what we do is look for what’s irregular. Stowaways tuck themselves into corners, thinking they won’t be noticed. We usually find ’em up forward or aft by the bread and spirit larders, where there’s some open space. Yer’ll see.”

  Holding his lantern before him, Mr. Murdock led the way down the central aisle between the rows of cargo. Now and again he nodded to one of his crew and pointed to a box or bale. The sailor either banged the box or poked a staff deep into it. But though they tried many times, no one was found.

  When they went as far forward as they could, the first mate suddenly gave a snort and pointed to an upright crate standing quite isolated in the bow. Its position had the look of irregularity even to Mr. Clemspool’s and Mr. Grout’s unpracticed eyes.

  Grinning broadly, Mr. Murdock beckoned to the sailors. They hastened forward and crouched at either side of the crate.

  The first mate gave a curt nod, reached out, took hold of one of the crate’s slats, and yanked. The board clattered to the floor. All five men leaned forward to see what was inside.

  It was empty.

  “By God,” Mr. Murdock swore with rage. “Someone was here. And whoever he is, he’s on board somewhere. Don’t yer fear, gents. I’ll get him. And when I do, I’ll make him jig to a lively tune.”

  Laurence, crouched deep among rows of barrels amidships, heard every word. To keep himself from sobbing, he bit hard into his lower lip.

  Mr. Drabble could not help himself. While Maura was caught up in her thoughts and worries, he had gazed at her intently, smiling broadly from time to time. Miss Maura O’Connell was the angel who had dropped through the miasma of Mrs. Sonderbye’s basement and led him out of loathsome Liverpool toward the promised land. Without her, the actor was convinced, he would have perished. Indeed, it was far more than gratitude that he felt toward her: In a matter of days he had fallen in love with her.

  The idea of loving Maura thrilled him. Was not he a gifted actor? Was not she a heroine? Was not her rescue of him the stuff of great drama? So he believed.

  Here they were embarking on an epic voyage — the play. Here they were on a ship — a stage. There were the passengers — the audience. Here was his leading lady — Maura. Was not he — Horatio Drabble — destined to play the role of devoted lover? Was not loving this young woman the part he’d prepared himself for all his life? To each of these questions Mr. Drabble answered a resounding “Yes!”

  Now, as the ship sailed toward the Western Sea — the second act of the play — he felt compelled to speak the lines fate had written for him.

  “Miss O’Connell,” he called gently.

  Maura, hearing her name, turned.

  Even as she did, Mr. Drabble gathered up one of her hands in both of his and embraced it with his long fingers. Solemnly, he pressed the hand to his lips, kissed it — then allowed himself a prodigious sigh.

  Maura was shocked.

  “My dear Miss O’Connell,” Mr. Drabble began again, his face suffused with a pink glow that heightened the intensity of his brown eyes, “though we’ve known each other but a short time, it has been long enough for me to discover your great virtues. The bard expressed it far, far better than I ever shall when he said, ‘Love goes toward love.’ May I, even as we set upon this voyage together, beg your permission to extend it through the rest of our lives?”

  Maura looked at him incredulously.

  Oblivious, Mr. Drabble smiled sweetly and went on. “What I am suggesting, my dear Miss O’Connell, in humbler words, is this: Will you bestow upon me the honor of your hand in marriage?”

  Maura’s reaction shifted from shock to offense. How could this man — all but a stranger — speak to her, a girl alone, in such a way? But a stab of guilt quickly followed her sense of affront. What had she done to encourage this man? The answer was immediate and clear. She had allowed herself to become too familiar.

  In fright, she snatched her hand away and pressed it against her throat as if to feel her words as she spoke them. “Mr. D-D-Drabble,” she stammered, “you must not say such things. You mustn’t! If we’re to be friends at all — and you’ve been a generous one — you cannot address me so. I’m but fifteen years of age. I’ll not hear it!”

  Mr. Drabble sank to his knees. “Shakespeare’s Juliet,” he reminded her, “was a mere fourteen.”

  “By the Holy Mother, Mr. Drabble, I’m afraid I don’t know this Juliet you’re speaking of, and besides —”

  Maura’s words were interrupted by a voice that rang out across the deck.

  “Attention! Attention!” As one, the crowd of emigrants turned to see Captain Rickles addressing them through his speaking trumpet.

  “My first mate,” the captain announced, “has informed me that there’s a stowaway upon this ship. I warn you: Do not aid this person! If you do, it will go as hard on you as on him when he’s found, as he surely will be.

  “But we are well off, and there will be no more green seaweed till we reach America! For now, all is in readiness for you to go below. Once there, you will be permitted to claim your berths. We expect orderly behavior. There’s room for all.”

  The captain’s words galvanized the crowd. The emigrants snatched up their belongings and began to surge toward the steps that would take them below.

  Maura turned back to Mr. Drabble. The actor, still upon his knees, was gazing up at her as if he had not heard anything she or the captain had said.

  “Please, Mr. Drabble, please …,” Maura begged in an agonized whisper, “you must get up! I’ll not think of it again, nor, I beg, will you. Please!”

  Maura felt a pull on her arm. It was Patrick.

  “And where have you been?” she demanded, the harshness of her voice masking the great relief she felt that her brother was by her side again.

  Breathless from rushing up from below, Patrick could not speak. He could only shake his head.

  “Are you ill?” Maura asked, instantly alarmed.

  “It’s the rolling of the ship,” he gasped.

  A trembling Mr. Drabble pulled himself to his feet. “Miss O’Connell,” he managed to say in a voice barely above a whisper, “we had best go below ourselves.”

  Patrick looked from his sister to the actor. Though he had come too late to hear their exchange, he had seen the man on his knees and observed his sister’s great agitation. Neither one would look at the other.

  He’s asked her to marry him, Patrick thought with dismay, and she’s accepted. Even if he
had had the courage to inquire about it — which he did not — there was no time to do so. They gathered up their bundles and joined the crowd surging toward the entryway, the same that Patrick had used before. Slow as their descent was, the trio at last stepped upon the steerage deck, where they were to live during the long weeks of the voyage. What they beheld made them gasp in astonishment.

  The few oil lanterns dangling from the low ceiling cast a dull, smoky light, making it impossible to see for any great distance, What was visible were two long rows of platforms — forty-five to a side — set up like bunk beds, upper and lower. On the foot of each platform section a number was chalked.

  These platform berths were built of soft and splintery wood and measured six feet by six, boxed in by wood strips so as to keep occupants and their possessions from tumbling out. Wooden braces — none too strong — ran from floor to ceiling to hold the platforms up. As for the space between bottom and top — where one might hope to sit up — it was hardly more than a few feet.

  Patrick thought there must be two hundred passengers already jammed into the narrow area between the facing rows of berths. Goods were being passed about, sorted, tearfully lost, searched for, loudly found, then lost again. Unwieldy mattresses were being unrolled. Trunks were opened and rummaged through, their contents spewing forth as from horns of shabby plenty and further scattered by the constant rolling and pitching of the ship.

  And the noise! Babies were crying, children squabbling, adults shouting to make themselves heard above the din. The air was close, stinking with the crush of too many people in a space too small with too little ventilation. Mr. Drabble could barely breathe.

  “Keep going along! Keep going!” a sailor at the foot of the steps repeatedly cried. “Take yer berths. Four persons to each! Keep moving! Keep moving! Four persons to a berth.”

  The newcomers struggled forward, loudly proclaiming this or that platform as the one assigned them and crawling in, whether others were there or not.

  “Where are we to go?” Maura demanded of the sailor.

  “What’s yer number?” he cried.

  “Seventy-four!”

  “To the forward, lass!” he shouted. “And yer’d better be quick. Nothing lasts long here.”

  Mr. Drabble exclaimed, “Do you mean to say, sir, that these open platforms are our berths, where we are expected to live?”

  “Yer can live or die on ’em, for all I care, mate,” the sailor retorted. “It’s yer place so yer can do wot yer likes. Now move yerselves or yer’ll be trampled! There’s a hundred or more behind yer.”

  Propelled forward, Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble struggled through the crush of people. Each berth they passed was packed with occupants, pushing and jostling to establish themselves in some degree of comfort.

  “Here’s our number, “Mr. Drabble announced finally. Do you wish the top or lower berth?”

  “Together?” asked a horrified Maura. Only minutes ago this man had shocked her nearly to death with his proposal.

  Mr. Drabble glanced back. More passengers were pressing forward. “It’s either me or someone else, Miss O’Connell,” he said.

  Maura, furious at him, at herself, at everything, blushed to the roots of her hair. “Mr. Drabble, it’s not decent!” she cried.

  Then, embarrassed by her outburst, she turned away and stared back into the area toward the steps. Never in her wildest thoughts could she have imagined anything like this. She had considered Mrs. Sonderbye’s house ghastly. The steerage deck was ten times worse.

  Something crawled over Patrick’s bare feet. Startled, he looked down just in time to see a brown rat scurry across the wooden floor and disappear beneath one of the lower platforms.

  “Miss O’Connell,” Mr. Drabble urged with a nervous glance at the flow of newcomers. “If we don’t choose quickly, we’ll be pushed aside.”

  Maura gave way. “The top, “she whispered.

  “Up you go,” Mr. Drabble told Patrick. More than glad to leave the floor, the boy hauled himself to the higher berth. Once there, he looked down along the teeming deck only to see Mr. Murdock working his way through the crowd in their direction. Certain he was coming for him, Patrick, heart hammering, crammed himself into a far corner. As it was, the first mate pushed past, but Patrick was sure he looked right at him as if to say, “I know what you know.” It frightened him terribly.

  “Patrick!” Maura cried. “Pay some mind!” She was handing up their few belongings. Then Mr. Drabble worked his way into the berth. He twisted about but did not try to sit. There was no headroom.

  “Can I help you up, Miss O’Connell?” he said to Maura, his voice stiff with formality.

  “No,” she replied, full of mortification. As she stood there, another Irish family arrived, a man, his wife, and two young children.

  “Would you be holding this spot?” the man asked Maura, indicating the lower berth.

  Maura shook her head.

  “In you go then,” the man instructed his family. All four hastily squeezed in, leaving their two trunks and three sacks to block the aisle.

  Another family appeared. It consisted of two boys, a girl, a large fleshy-faced man with a mop of curly hair, and a woman who seemed to be in charge. The woman’s long, tangled gray hair and ragged dress hid nothing of her squalidness. Though her appearance was one of frailty, her fixed and sullen eyes revealed a ferocity that promised argument.

  “How many would ye be having up there?” she demanded of Maura.

  “The three of us,” Maura felt obliged to reply.

  “And wouldn’t you know that each berth is meant for four?” the woman cried shrilly as she pushed the small dirty girl forward. The girl, no more than eight, Maura thought, bore such a marked resemblance to the woman, it was clear she was her daughter. But it was fright not fierceness that Maura saw in her eyes.

  “This will be yours then, Bridy Faherty,” the woman informed her bewildered child, indicating the top berth where Patrick and Mr. Drabble already were. “Get yourself in before someone steals that from us too.”

  “But, madam,” Mr. Drabble tried to object, “we’re already three.” To Maura’s further embarrassment, he added, “And we are a family.”

  “Begorra, you could be the queen’s horse guards for all I care,” Mrs. Faherty snapped, her face flushed with anger. “There’s to be four in each berth, and since we’ll be berthing down a ways, the girl will be stopping here, thank you.” Without further ado she picked Bridy up and thrust her onto the platform.

  The girl crawled into a corner opposite Patrick and shrank down.

  Maura, seeing how frightened the child was, reached up and touched her hand.

  “It’s all right,” she said softly. “It’s the same for us all. But you need not fear. We’ll soon be getting to America, where all will be fine.”

  Though Laurence was pretty sure that the stowaway search party had gone above decks, he was afraid to stand up and stretch himself. Suppose the searchers came back? As it was, he remained crouched down between two barrels, listening intently, all the while aware of the taste of blood from his bitten lip.

  After ten more minutes he cautiously raised his head and looked about. By the light of the open hatchway above, he gazed at the cargo. It seemed endless, row upon row of crates, boxes, barrels. There was also a considerable amount of litter, sticks, staves, and blocks of wood. Moreover, the entire hold was so terribly foul, with such a ghastly stench, the rasping and grating of wood timbers so irritatingly incessant, that Laurence hardly knew what to cover first, his eyes, his ears, or his mouth.

  Growing bolder, he began to roam. At the stern of the boat he found a room with a door partially ajar. Curious, he pulled the door open. Though he could see nothing, he smelled the distinct sweet smell of bread. It was strong enough to make his stomach growl.

  Feeling his way, Laurence entered the room and banged into something hard. Groping blindly, he felt what seemed to be stacks of small, light, and very hard squares
of wood. Was it what he’d seen before? Wood blocks? He couldn’t tell. He picked one up and sniffed it. It was something breadlike. Once again his stomach growled. Laurence put the square to his mouth and tried to bite into it. It was as hard as a rock.

  Convinced that no matter how hard it was, he’d nonetheless found bread, Laurence took a few of the squares and continued wandering through the dark, eating — or trying to — as he went. Bit by bit, the bread softened, until at last he was able to break off a piece. He felt something wiggle. It was a worm. Hastily he plucked it out. Though it made him queasy to eat, he was so hungry, he did anyway. The bread had a sour taste and gritty texture. He continued to eat, finding and throwing away two more worms before he gradually consumed an entire square. Having eased his hunger a trifle, he began to work on a second.

  The more he ate, the thirstier he became. Harking to the continual sound of water sloshing below his feet, he lay down and pushed his fingers between the planking. When his fingertips touched wetness, he pulled back his hand, eager to suck at the moisture. The smell proved so offensive he could not.

  His thirst now raged. Feeling desperate, he began to search for another source of water. Midships he came upon two great metal tanks very much taller than he was, as well as wider. He had no idea what they were. As he groped his way by, his hand drew across the surface of one. It was cool and wet. When he sniffed his fingers and sensed nothing bad, he licked the moisture off. The taste of water! Excited, he pressed both hands flat against one of the tanks, then hastened to lick more from them. He tried again along another part of the tank and licked the water off. He smiled, recalling his sister’s cat washing herself. Twenty minutes later his thirst was slaked.

  Continuing to explore, Laurence came upon a narrow ladder leading up into darkness near the stern of the ship. He wondered what would happen if he climbed it. But he thought of the searchers and refrained.

  As he stood there, he heard a high-pitched squeaking noise. It was different from the sound the ship timbers made. And it came from first one place, then another.