Contents
Title Page
Friday, January 24, 1851
75. Farewell, England!
76. In Search of Stowaways
77. Laurence Found
78. Mr. Murdock on the Prowl
79. A Proposal Is Made
80. The Steerage Deck
81. Berth Mates
82. Laurence in the Hold
83. An Identity Revealed
84. Mr. Clemspool about His Business
85. Mr. Drabble at the Bowsprit
86. Mr. Clemspool Writes a Letter
87. 7:35 P.M., Lowell, Massachusetts
88. A Meeting in Lowell
89. Mr. Jenkins and Jeb
90. Mr. Tolliver Calls
91. Jeb Grafton
92. Whispered Words
Saturday, January 25, 1851
93. Meetings
Monday, January 27, 1851
94. In London, Mr. Pickler Makes His Report
95. Enter Sir Albert
96. Mr. Shagwell Asks a Question
Wednesday, January 29, 1851
97. Maura’s Morning
98. Mr. Gregory O’Connell
99. Jeb and His Gang
Thursday, January 30, 1851
100. Patrick Goes to the Bottom Hold
101. Sir Albert Kirkle in the City of Liverpool
Saturday, February 1, 1851
102. Bridy Listens
Thursday, February 6, 1851
103. A Warning
104. The Storm
105. In the Bottom Hold
106. Seasick and Smiling
107. Out of the Bottom Hold
108. Mr. Grout in the Galley
109. Patrick and Laurence Search for Safety
110. Mr. Grout Learns Something
111. Into the Storm
Monday, February 10, 1851
112. The Sickness
113. A Death
115. Laurence Goes Looking
116. Sarah Grafton
117. Mr. Jenkins Makes a Visit
Monday, February 17, 1851
118. Night at Sea
Thursday, February 20, 1851
119. Mr. Grout Has a Lesson
120. An Unexpected Meeting
121. From the Podium
Saturday, February 22, 1851
122. Patrick Goes Searching
Sunday, February 23, 1851
123. The Thirty-first Day
124. Mr. Grout and the Money
125. Mr. Grout and Mr. Drabble Make Plans
126. Business Plans
127. Mr. Clemspool Sees Something
Monday, February 24, 1851
128. Patrick’s Idea
129. A Change of Name
Tuesday, February 25, 1851
130. The Robert Peel Is Inspected
131. Mr. Shagwell’s Salvation
132. Mr. Grout at the Liberty Tree Inn
133. Mr. Grout Makes a Discovery
134. Laurence and Mr. Murdock
135. On Land Again
136. A Meeting at the Inn
137. The Rage of Laurence
138. Story of a Life
Wednesday, February 26, 1851
139. A Meeting on the Wharf
140. Unhappy Decisions
141. What Laurence Does
142. Mr. Grout Buys Some Clothes
143. Mr. Jenkins Buys Some Words
144. Laurence, Mr. Grout, and Mr. Drabble Go to Lowell
145. The O’Connells Reach Lowell
146. A Lowell Lodging
147. The Room
148. On Adams Street
149. Mrs. Hamlyn’s Place
Thursday, February 27, 1851
150. Patrick at the Mill
151. An Encounter
152. Mr. Clemspool Visits the Mill
153. Maura Goes to the Mill
154. Bridy Alone
155. Mr. Drabble Reaches Another Stage
156. Mr. Clemspool and the Money
157. Mr. Clemspool Takes Action
158. In the Spindle City Hotel
159. Sir Albert Comes Across
160. Mr. Clemspool Complains
161. Mr. Grout Takes His Walk
162. A Meeting at the Mill
163. Patrick’s Day
164. In Which Laurence Finds an Occupation
165. Nick Seeks Revenge
166. Patrick Meets Someone He Knows
167. Mr. Shagwell and Mr. Clemspool Have a Talk
168. Mr. Clemspool Paces
169. Earnings
170. Maura after Work
171. Mr. Shagwell’s House
172. Mr. Jenkins Meets with Friends
Friday, February 28, 1851
173. Maura Doesn’t Worry
174. Mr. Drabble Wanders
175. A Surprising Pair of Shoes
176. Brothers
177. Albert Looks for His Man
178. In the Shanty
179. Tales Are Told
180. In Search of Safety
181. In Which Mr. Clemspool Has a Visitor
182. The Bank Key
183. Mr. Drabble Returns
184. Laurence Meets Some Friends
185. A Family Reunion
186. Further Adventures in the Hotel
187. Jeb Follows Laurence
188. Maura Returns
189. Mr. Jenkins Speaks
190. The Mob
Saturday, March 1, 1851
191. From the Ashes
192. Lord Kirkle’s Money
Saturday, March 8, 1851
193. Departures
Also by Avi
About the Author
Copyright
A brisk, chill wind and a strong tide bore the Robert Peel down the Mersey River, away from the city of Liverpool and out upon the rolling Irish Sea.
On the main deck stood three hundred and fifty emigrants, most of them Irish. They were of all ages, from children in mothers’ arms to the old and hobbled. Virtually everyone was dressed shabbily, though here and there — like plump plums in an otherwise poor pudding — could be seen those of a richer sort. Well-off or poor, most were cold, many weak and ill. All were pondering what would happen to them next. But now that England had been left behind — and the ship’s gray sails bulked large even as her high, stout prow plowed the waves — there was little the passengers could do but wait anxiously for some word from the ship’s captain.
Maura O’Connell, her brother, Patrick, and their friend, Mr. Horatio Drabble, pressed side by side against the ship’s bulwark, each lost in thought.
Mr. Drabble, long, lanky, expanded his thin chest and breathed deeply of the rich sea air, hardly believing his good fortune. Just a few days ago he had been trapped in the insufferable misery of Mrs. Sonderbye’s Liverpool basement. Now he was sailing to America, the fulfillment of a dream long held. Watching England’s coast fade in the distance, he felt the weight of past disappointments drop away. As far as he was concerned, he had already become a new man. His smile was as wide as his face.
Maura O’Connell — brown hair blowing, red shawl aflutter — thought of her mother back in Ireland. While Maura could envision the woman wrapped in black, saying her beads, the girl could not imagine where in the ruins of Kilonny Village she might have found shelter. The thought brought tears to her eyes.
Then there was the actor, Horatio Drabble. Though he had been truly kind and helpful to them in Liverpool, Maura was not certain she knew him. There were times he seemed to be from quite another world, not because he was English, but because he, like Patrick, struck her as mo
re boy than man.
Then Maura thought, with some self-chiding, that soon they would be in America with their father, and she could turn over all her responsibilities to him. How well he’d care for them! Maura wanted little but some peace, some quiet, and some work to call her own. How fine that her father, rich man that he was, would provide it. The idea prompted one of Maura’s rare smiles.
Patrick O’Connell had no interest in observing either the passing scenery or the other passengers. Nor was he pondering the future. He could think of nothing but Laurence hidden belowdecks. So it was that he stared fixedly at Captain Rickles — splendid in gray uniform and red mustache — who was standing before the main mast, calling commands to the sailors in the high rigging. As Patrick watched, the first mate approached the captain, who introduced him to Mr. Drabble’s friend, Mr. Grout, and his stout companion whose name Patrick did not know.
So great was Patrick’s worry about Laurence that he simply assumed the subject of their discussion was stowaways. The notion filled him with dread. He must free Laurence.
Satisfied that Maura was intent upon her own thoughts, Patrick murmured, “I’m going to watch from over there.”
“Don’t go far,” Mr. Drabble cautioned. “They’ll be letting us below soon.”
Small and wiry, Patrick had little trouble slipping through the crowd to the opposite side of the ship. Once there, he climbed the ratlines a ways and held on, toes curling over the ropes. From this roost he studied the main deck in search of some entry into the bottom hold. Only now did he admit to himself that he had no clear idea where or what the bottom hold was. In all his twelve years he had never been on such a boat. The words had made sense in Liverpool, when Fred told him where he’d hidden Laurence. They didn’t make sense now.
Looking about, Patrick noticed a sailor emerge from a closetlike structure almost directly below the main mast. Would that be a way? he asked himself.
As soon as the sailor moved on, Patrick climbed down from the lines and stole a look inside the small structure. A narrow stairway led down. After checking to see if anyone was watching him, Patrick stepped into the alcove, made the sign of the cross, grasped the guide rope, and started to descend.
The first level he reached was dim. Long rows of what appeared to be wide shelves stretched forward and aft into darkness. As for cargo, he saw none. The steps continued down. He went on.
At the next level Patrick discovered a few candles set in wall-mounted glass bulbs. Their small yellow flames illuminated neat rows of boxes and crates. Here, surely, was the bottom hold.
Taking up one of the candles, Patrick made his way toward the bow of the ship only to come to a sudden, heart-pounding stop. Before him gaped an open hatchway. One more step and he would have plummeted down.
From the open square of the hatch a ladder dropped into darkness as black as his hair. Was there yet another, third hold below? Fred’s words echoed in his mind: the bottom hold. Patrick stepped onto the ladder and began to climb slowly down.
Candlelight revealed a dark cavelike expanse embraced by enormous arching timbers. Countless casks, barrels, and chests, piled one atop the other, were deployed in rows that seemed to vanish, fore and aft, into murky blackness. The air was humid, clotted with the stench of rot and filth. Sounds of sloshing bilgewater, the creaks and groans of the plunging ship, filled his ears. This, Patrick told himself with dread, must be the bottom hold.
Leaving the ladder, Patrick moved warily in the direction he thought was forward, for Fred had also said the bow.
As Patrick crept along — the rough planking pricking his bare feet — he tried to examine each and every crate in fear of missing the one that bore the telltale X in a circle.
Upon reaching the bow, Patrick held the candle up. A few feet from where he stood he saw a coffinlike box wedged between two great beams as far forward as possible. On the side facing him, Patrick could just make out Fred’s mark.
Patrick ran to the box and tapped on it. “Laurence!” he called. “Are you there, Laurence?” When no answer came, he began to claw away at the boards.
On the quarterdeck Mr. Murdock, the first mate, assembled his stowaway search party: two sailors, Mr. Grout, and Mr. Clemspool. One sailor carried a long sharp stick, the other a heavy hammer. Mr. Murdock held a lantern.
“All right, gents,” the first mate began, “yer welcome to come along to search for stowaways if it’s Captain Rickles’s pleasure. I’m just warning yer to keep behind me and the lads. If we find someone, they’re liable to be desperate. Yer’ll want us to deal with ’em, not yerselves.”
“No need to worry about me, sir,” Mr. Clemspool replied heartily. The further the ship drew away from England, and Mr. Pickler, the more the man’s cherublike face resumed its cheerful demeanor. “My friend, however, who cannot claim more than twenty years of life, is quite another matter.”
Indeed, Mr. Grout was finding the ship’s motion most upsetting. His stomach was queasy, and his face had turned a pasty white. As the Robert Peel pitched and rolled, he was continually reaching out for support. “Will this ’ere search take long?” he fretted.
“I wouldn’t think so, sir,” Mr. Murdock told him, taking pleasure in the landlubber’s uneasiness. “But yer welcome to step out at any time and go to yer stateroom. Just take yerselves a pull of fresh air before we go, ’cause we start in the bottom hold. And it’s not particular pleasant there.”
From inside the crate a weak and dazed Laurence blinked at the candle flame. His muscles were cramped. His stomach ached from hunger. His throat was parched. “Is that you, Patrick?” he beseeched hoarsely.
“Aye, it’s me,” Patrick replied, much relieved to have found his friend. “And you, Laurence, are you all right?”
“I thought you’d never come,” the English boy managed to say.
“Didn’t I tell you I would?” Patrick returned with pride, though as he spoke he looked nervously back over his shoulder.
Carefully, he helped Laurence from the crate. But the boy sank to the floor, too weak to stand.
“I’ll be needing to put the boards back on,” Patrick cautioned. “Else for sure they’ll know you’ve been in the box.” He set his candle aside and worked to shove the crate boards back into place.
“Now, Laurence,” he said, kneeling before his friend, “you must listen to me, because I can’t be staying long. I don’t know where we’re to be yet so I can’t take you with me. And faith, I’m thinking it wouldn’t be safe for you there. Maybe you’d best bide some time here.”
“Where?” Laurence asked, too numb, too confused to think for himself.
“I’m not sure exactly,” Patrick admitted. “You could try among the barrels over there. Only you’d best hurry, Laurence. They’ll be searching for you.”
“For me?” whimpered Laurence.
“For any stowaways.”
The miserable boy stared into the murky darkness.
“Laurence, you must look at me and listen! I’m going now or my sister will be wondering where I am. You can hide yourself, can’t you?”
“Patrick! Will you come back soon?”
“Don’t you be worrying about that,” Patrick assured him as he retrieved the candle and backed away a few steps. “You can be sure I’ll come as often as I can.”
“But —”
“Just hide yourself, Laurence!” Patrick whispered with urgency as he moved further into the dark. “Do you hear me? Hide yourself!”
Laurence struggled to his feet. “Patrick!” he called. But the Irish boy had disappeared, though where Laurence was not sure.
Enveloped by inky blackness, Laurence stood where he was, sensing little more than the ceaseless pitching and yawing of the ship. The motion made him disoriented. It was hard to grasp what was happening. “I’m going to America,” he said out loud. “To America,” he repeated as though trying to convince himself. Then he added, “I have no family. I’ve no money. My name is Laurence, and I —”
Suddenly he heard voices coming from above. Terrified of being caught, Laurence looked up and saw a beam of light cut down a ladder like a golden spike. Then he saw boots descending. Close to panic, he scrambled along the aisle in search of a hiding place.
Imagine people hiding in such a pestilential hole!” Mr. Clemspool exclaimed.
“But they do, “Mr. Murdock said as he swung his lantern beam about to illuminate the cargo.