Into the Storm by Avi Page B

from Cork.”
    â€œMy name is Maura O’Connell. We’re from county Cork too. Kilonny, which was tumbled.”
    â€œGod give you comfort, Maura O’Connell,” said Mrs. Faherty.
    For a while neither woman spoke. Finally Mrs. Faherty turned to Maura. “If I’d known how hard this voyage would be, I’m not so sure I’d have come.”
    â€œIn truth,” Maura said, “my mother chose not to.”
    â€œThen is it just your husband you’re traveling with?”
    Maura blushed. “He’s not my husband,” she said.
    â€œAh,” Mrs. Faherty said, speaking kindly and without any hint of censure, “but it’s hardly fit for unwed girls to be traveling this way. Where is your father then?”
    â€œIn America,” Maura explained. “He sent us the money to come. From Lowell, Massachusetts.”
    â€œMay heaven speed all,” Mrs. Faherty whispered crossing herself.
    As they waited for the privies, Maura explained how she came to be traveling with Mr. Drabble. For her part, Mrs. Faherty related how she and her family came to emigrate. “It was the landlord who paid for our going. By the Holy Faith, it was either that or perish.”
    â€œAnd what made you choose to go to Boston?” Maura asked.
    The woman smiled grimly. “Wasn’t it more the case of the ship choosing us. Sure, the first one we had tickets for never sailed. The second neither. We took the one we could. In the name of Jesus, I don’t suppose it matters as long as it’s to America. Aren’t they saying it’s the land of promise. Food so plentiful no one starves. Full of decent employment and wages as well as honest places to live for the asking. Surely a paradise on earth.”
    â€œAnd have you no family there at all?” Maura asked.
    â€œIn faith, we’re all we are.”
    Silently, Maura thanked God that her father was waiting.

 
    I n that section of Lowell, Massachusetts, known as the Acre stood many a three- and four-decker wooden building. These leaned one against the other like sleepy folk who know that if one falls all will fall. At the curb, dirty snow lay in piles.
    After their day’s work, Gregory O’Connell and Nathaniel Brewster moved slowly toward one such structure. The younger man all but guided the older around a street lamp, whose blue flame hissed feebly against the gloom.
    Suddenly, Nathaniel said, “Hold it.”
    Mr. O’Connell stopped and looked up. Ten yards before them, they saw three boys. They were standing side by side, effectively blocking the way, their shoe-shine boxes at their feet.
    Mr. O’Connell peered at them through the darkness. “And what may they be wanting?” he asked Nathaniel.
    â€œI’m not sure,” Nathaniel replied. “They don’t have a pleasant look, though.”
    â€œIf you’re Irish,” one of the boys called out, “you might as well learn that no Paddy can pass this way.”
    â€œHooligans,” Nathaniel said under his breath.
    â€œBut … what do you mean to do?” Mr. O’Connell whispered.
    Before Nathaniel could answer, a snowball splattered the ground not far from them. The first was quickly followed by another, then another. One struck Nathaniel on the chest. It felt like a rock.
    â€œOut of America!” one of the boys called.
    Mindful of Mr. O’Connell, Nathaniel grabbed his companion’s sleeve. “We’d best go this way,” he urged, and all but dragged the man down an alleyway.
    More snowballs followed at a faster rate.
    As they hurried along, Nathaniel turned to see the boys coming after them. “Run!” he cried to Mr. O’Connell.
    The two men scrambled down the alley. Mr. O’Connell lost his muffler. “Over here!” Nathaniel panted, ducking into a recessed and shadowy doorway. Struggling for breath, Mr. O’Connell followed. “Jesus, Mary, and