Into the Storm

by Avi

  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.

  “Why, it’s where Maura O’Connell is staying. I wrote it.”

  “Yer might want to know there’s a mob ’eadin’ there right now, and it’s going to put ’er in awful trouble unless we do something quick.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Drabble, and in frantic haste he pulled on his boots.

  Within moments, the two men were out of the room, out of the hotel, and racing toward Cabot Street.

  Though dinner was done and boarders and guests were gathered in the parlor, Bridy was sitting on the outdoor steps, Maura’s red shawl wrapped tightly about her against the night cold. The feeling that she was doing something useful for people who were being kind to her gave Bridy deep satisfaction. She loved the idea that she had a job watching for Mr. Hamlyn — though why it was so important she neither understood nor cared to know. The main thing was she had a job — just like Maura.

  Then, from the corner, Bridy heard shouting. She made little sense of it. Indeed, at first she was not even sure what she was seeing, other than a crowd of people, several of whom held flaming torches. She thought this might be a parade.

  It was only when the crowd drew closer that she recognized Mr. Jenkins. His face was lit up by the torch carried by a boy walking at his side. The man’s fringe of white whiskers was unmistakable. It was as if, by virtue of the reflected torch flames, he himself were ringed with fire.

  As soon as Bridy realized the man was Jeremiah Jenkins, she stumbled up the steps and pushed the front door open. It was not the parlor, where so many of the household — including Maura — had gathered, to which she ran. Instead, she turned to the other side of the hallway, to Mr. Hamlyn’s room.

  Heart beating wildly, the child rapped lightly on the door. The sound, however, was so small and tentative, it received no response. With a look over her shoulder — for Mr. Jenkins himself might be following — Bridy knocked again, this time more loudly.

  “Come in!”

  She pushed the door open and went into the room on shaking legs.

  As usual, Mr. Hamlyn — his sleeping cap tied around his head — lay in bed beneath a pile of blankets. A fire glowed brightly in the fireplace. In his hands he held a book.

  Seeing it was Bridy who had come into the room, he put down his book and smiled warmly at her. “Yes, my dear,” he said. “What is it? Did you wish me to read to you again?”

  “He’s … come
,” the girl stammered. “I saw him.”

  Mr. Hamlyn could not grasp her words. “Did you say someone … has come?”

  “Yes.”

  “But … who?”

  “That man,” Bridy said, her voice quivering. “Himself. The one … the one you said I should be watching for.”

  Mr. Hamlyn started. “Do you mean … Mr. Jenkins?”

  Bridy nodded.

  “At the door?”

  Bridy shook her head. “He’s outside. With a crowd of people.”

  This time Mr. Hamlyn did understand. He sat up so quickly his book tumbled to the floor. Faintly now, as though from a considerable distance, he heard raucous chants and calls from outside. Through his front window, he could see the glow of the torch flames. Mr. Hamlyn’s pale face grew even paler.

  “Quickly, Bridy!” he cried. “Fetch my wife! Hurry, girl!”

  The urgency in his voice caused Bridy to freeze with fear.

  “For heaven’s sake, go!” the man shouted.

  Jarred into action, Bridy ran across the hallway and into the parlor.

  Mrs. Hamlyn, Maura, and the eight other young women boarders as well as Nathaniel Brewster were crowded about the front windows, staring into the street.

  When Maura saw Betsy Howard in the first rank of the crowd, she felt a terrible chill. Was this demonstration aimed at her?

  “Down with the Irish! Drive the foreigners out,” the people chanted.

  Bridy squirmed her way to Mrs. Hamlyn and tugged at her dress.

  Greatly agitated, the woman demanded, “Why, what is it, girl?”

  “It’s Master Hamlyn, mistress,” Bridy whispered fervently. “He’s wanting you to come.”

  Mrs. Hamlyn frowned, then clapped her hands smartly. “Girls! Go to your rooms! Away from the windows now! Go! Quickly.” She pulled a key from her dress pocket and held it out. “Someone lock the front door from the inside. Hurry! Do as I say!” One of the boarders snatched at the key and hurried out into the hall. As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Hamlyn darted about the room, snuffing out candles.

  The other boarders, not sure how they should react to the scene outside — with fear or curiosity — backed away reluctantly from the windows.

  “Come along now,” Maura insisted to Bridy, only to stop at the parlor door. “The boys,” she suddenly said. “Where are they?”

  “I’m not certain,” Nathaniel replied. “I think in the basement, bedding down.”

  “You must tell them to come to my room,” Maura said. And, grasping Bridy’s hand firmly, she hurried from the parlor and up the steps to the third floor.

  Nathaniel started down the hall toward the basement only to be restrained by an outstretched hand on his jacket sleeve. It was Mrs. Hamlyn.

  “Mr. Brewster, sir,” she said urgently. “You must come! I need help with my husband.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young man replied. Putting aside his first mission, he followed the woman back toward the front of the house.

  Mr. Hamlyn was already sitting on the edge of his bed, the short stump of his left leg sticking straight out like a broken post, his right leg dangling uselessly. He kept straining to look through the window. The chants had grown louder than before.

  “How many are there?” he asked in great agitation.

  “Maybe fifty,” his wife replied.

  “It’s that man Jenkins. He’s led them here. He must have come for me.”

  “We’ll leave by the back door,” Mrs. Hamlyn said.

  “Let’s pray they’re not out there too. Nelly,” Mr. Hamlyn said to his wife, “we can go to neighbors till this quiets down. Take a candle from the hall.”

  Mrs. Hamlyn turned to the young man. “He can’t walk. You’ll have to carry him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Once you dump me,” Mr. Hamlyn told Nathaniel, “you’re to go get the police. Do you hear me? Fetch Mr. Tolliver.”

  Mrs. Hamlyn snatched up a blanket and wrapped it about her husband. Then Nathaniel bent over the man and lifted him. He was very light. Mrs. Hamlyn ran to the door and held it open.

  “Which way?” Nathaniel asked once he had carried the man out of the room.

  “To the left,” Mr. Hamlyn said. “There’s a door at the back.”

  They hurried down the hallway, Mrs. Hamlyn following. At the far end, Mrs. Hamlyn edged open the door and peeked out. “No one’s there,” she said with relief, and pushed the door open the rest of the way. Nathaniel stepped into the cold dark.

  “Mind yourself,” Mr. Hamlyn cautioned as the three went down a short flight of steps.

  In the open air, the chants of the crowd seemed more insistent. Leaping light — thrown by the torches — danced on the walls of neighboring houses.

  They moved into a small bare yard. “Go directly across,” Nathaniel was told. “There’s a gate there. Once we get through, we should be safe.”

  Nathaniel, carrying Mr. Hamlyn, all but ran to the neighbor’s house. There, Mrs. Hamlyn knocked on the door, then told the alarmed householder what was happening. The door was pulled open, and Nathaniel deposited Mr. Hamlyn on a parlor sofa.

  “Nelly,” Mr. Hamlyn cried as he was set down. “Get the other people out of the house! Young man, run for the police. Tell them to come quickly!”

  Mrs. Hamlyn and Nathaniel ran outside.

  “Go!” Mrs. Hamlyn shouted to the young man. “I’ll take care of the others.”

  Nodding his understanding, Nathaniel tore around the side of the neighbor’s house and raced as fast as he could toward downtown.

  Hiking up her skirts, Mrs. Hamlyn ran back to the house. Once inside, she climbed to the second floor and began throwing open the doors of her boarders’ rooms one after the other. “Leave by the back way!” she ordered. “Hurry! Neighbors will take you in.”

  The young women, all too aware of the danger now, gathered up capes and shawls and rushed out of the building and into neighbors’ houses.

  When Mrs. Hamlyn reached the foot of the steps to the third floor, she was met by the housemaid coming down. “Faith, mistress, what is happening?” the young woman cried. “What are they wanting? Are we in awful danger?”

  “Get out of the house and you’ll be safe!” Mrs. Hamlyn told her. The young woman started away. “Wait! Stop! Is Miss O’Connell still up there with her sister?”

  “I think so,” the frightened young woman replied.

  “Then go back and tell them to leave immediately!”

  “Yes, mistress.” The young woman turned toward the stairs.

  Satisfied she had done her best, Mrs. Hamlyn hurried out of the house through the back door.

  The maid, following orders, was halfway up the steps when, panting for breath, she stopped to listen.

  “Down with the Irish!” she heard. “Get rid of them all! Kill them all!”

  With a gasp, and fearing for her life, the young woman turned about, hurried down the steps, and dashed out the back door, leaving Maura and Bridy unknowing in their room.

  Out on the street, Mr. Jenkins saw — through the window of the room — the glow of the fire in the fireplace of James Hamlyn’s bedroom.

  He looked down again at Jeb. But it was not Jeb he saw. It was the image of his own child, dead at Mr. Hamlyn’s hand.

  In the basement, Laurence and Patrick, unrolling blankets on the dirt floor, heard the muffled shouts of the crowd. At first they paid no attention. But the din persisted.

  “Laurence,” Patrick asked suddenly. “What do you make of that?”

  Laurence listened. “Some people shouting.”

  “Can you catch what they’re saying? I think it’s about the Irish.”

  Laurence went halfway up the narrow cellar steps to hear better.

  “There!” cried Patrick, just behind him. “Did you hear that? ‘Down with the Irish!’”

  “What’s it mean?”

  Instead of answering, Patrick eased by Laurence. Once he reached the top of the steps, he looked up and
down the empty hallway.

  He grew alarmed. “Laurence,” he called down. “There must be something bad happening.”

  The two boys crept into the first-floor hallway. By the light of the few candles still burning, they could see and sense that the house was deserted.

  “What is it?” Laurence said, feeling the need to whisper. “Where is everybody?”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don’t know….”

  Outside, the shouting intensified.

  “I’m going to the front,” Patrick said. “I have to see what’s happening.”

  They slipped into the dark parlor. Flashes of torchlight seemed to dance about the room.

  The boys looked out through the windows at the crowd. Patrick shuddered. In the reddish light, faces seemed contorted, with bodies oddly angular and grotesque. The shouting, calling, and shaking of fists continued unabated. “Out with the Irish!” “Get rid of the foreigners!” “America for Americans!”

  “Holy Jesus,” Patrick whispered in fright as he crossed himself. “Will you look at that?”

  Laurence pressed his face to the window. “What do they want?” he asked.

  “Look there,” cried Patrick, pointing. “It’s that boy — the one you said was named Jeb. Do you see him?”

  “Where?”

  “He’s holding a torch. Standing by the fellow with the ring of whiskers.”

  Laurence, seeing them, only nodded. Then he turned to look down the street. That’s when he saw a carriage.

  “Why are all these people here?” Mr. Clemspool demanded with indignation.

  Albert, at his side, looked out the carriage window. “Perhaps they want that key too,” he drawled.

  A look of horror came into Mr. Clemspool’s eyes. “But how dare they —” Abruptly, he opened the carriage door and stepped out.

  The crowd, having attracted people from nearby streets, was growing larger and angrier.

  “See here,” Mr. Clemspool said, grasping the elbow of a man looking on, “what’s this all about?”

  The man barely looked to see who had spoken. “It’s to get the foreigners out,” he said.