Escape From Home Read online

  “Whom do you mean?” Mr. Drabble asked.

  “The boy who’s helping Laurence. Didn’t I tell him I’d be waiting here.”

  “Mr. O’Connell,” said Mr. Drabble sternly, “haven’t you made enough trouble for us already?”

  Patrick was about to reply angrily when Maura took his arm and tried to lead him away. “Patrick,” she said, “I saw for myself the poor boy was wanting help. I’ll not begrudge him any. But you don’t know what kind of thing he’s tarnished with, do you? I’m fearing it will come down on us.”

  “Maura, I promised I’d wait,” Patrick said stubbornly. “I’d be going back on my word if I didn’t.”

  Mr. Drabble refused to be excluded from the debate. “A stowaway is strictly illegal,” he said.

  “What would happen?”

  “He’d be at the mercy of captain and crew. His very life would be in jeopardy. It should not be encouraged.”

  Patrick shook his head. “The two of you can go off,” he said. “I’ll not budge until you get back.”

  “Patrick O’Connell,” Maura said, “didn’t we agree there would be no more separations?”

  “Then can’t we wait a bit?” Patrick begged. “If that boy doesn’t come, then we can go on.”

  “A short time only,” Mr. Drabble replied.

  Though reluctant to set any limit, Patrick agreed. The three found a place against a wall not too far from the medical hall. Thirty minutes later, Fred arrived.

  Patrick rushed forward. “Have you got Laurence on board yet?” he asked.

  Fred grinned. “Not yet. But I will.”

  Patrick looked over his shoulder. Maura and Mr. Drabble were watching. “They don’t want me to help,” Patrick said quickly, keeping his voice low. “But I will. Only you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  “Right you are,” Fred agreed. “We’ll keep him from Toggs, that’s for sure. And here’s the way: I’m going to put him in a crate on the Robert Peel myself.”

  “A crate?”

  “It’s the only way,” Fred said. “Then, when you get on the boat—once it’s well off—you open it up and out he pops.”

  “But how will I be knowing where the crate is?”

  “There’s always a crowd of emigrants waiting to board the ship. You’ll be part of it. I’ll find you and tell you where I put him.”

  Mr. Drabble was advancing on the boys now. Maura, not wanting a row, hastened after.

  “Be off with you,” Mr. Drabble shouted at Fred even as he tried to pull Patrick away. “He’s not going to have anything to do with your friend.”

  Patrick tore himself free. “It’s none of your business!” he cried. “None!” He was sure he hated Mr. Drabble.

  Maura hastily stepped between the actor and her brother. “Mr. Drabble,” she said, “I’ll take care of things.”

  A laughing Fred danced backward. “Make sure you’re at the quay,” he called to Patrick. “I’ll find you.”

  “I promise!” Patrick returned.

  Fred turned and ran off.

  Maura was greatly relieved to see Fred go, but once he had, she cried to her brother, “Patrick O’Connell, what have you promised to do now?”

  Patrick gazed at her fiercely. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

  Maura looked at him. Then she decided she did not want to know.

  Once again Sergeant Rumpkin could be found at his table at the Iron Duke. Once again the members of the Lime Street Runners Association were in attendance. Once again one member was missing. This time, however, the missing one was Fred. And, instead of Mr. Matthew Clemspool asking for assistance, it was Mr. Phineas Pickler, with Laurence’s torn clothing on his lap. As for Toggs, he sat next to the investigator, grinning for all he was worth.

  “You see, sir,” Sergeant Rumpkin explained to Mr. Pickler, “we’re strictly military in organization. Here are the soldiers. I am, sir, their leader. I set the strategy and issue orders. They enact them. No democratic tendencies lurking here, sir!” The sergeant blotted his lower lip with his handkerchief.

  The boys, hearing this declaration, allowed not the slightest hint that they had ever heard anything like it before.

  “I am much obliged for your explanation,” Mr. Pickler said to the sergeant, “and given the urgency of the matter, I’m willing to work out an understanding. I must find this boy. He may be using the name Laurence Worthy. Though it appears he has not so much as a penny in his pocket, he is, in fact, Sir Laurence Kirkle.”

  “A Kirkle,” cried Sergeant Rumpkin, his eyes sparkling with joy. “This boy is a prince! Worth his weight in gold! So be it!” He sat back with a smile. “And what would you say, sir, if”—he paused for effect and even lowered his voice—“if I was to tell you that your boy has been observed?”

  Mr. Pickler sat bolt upright. “What do you mean?”

  Sergeant Rumpkin winked, took up a biscuit, snapped it in two, and ate each piece deliberately. Only when he’d brushed the crumbs from his chins did he say, “Your boy was seen—by four of my runners here—in the vicinity of the docks some hours previous.”

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Pickler demanded.

  “I’d bet my rank on it.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “Mr. Pickler,” the sergeant replied with another wink and nod, “the Lime Street Runners Association, which I have the honor of commanding, knows what needs to be known.”

  “But … but what has happened to him!” cried Mr. Pickler.

  “He got away. It is my judgment he was trying to ship out as a stowaway.”

  “A stowaway!”

  “I am truly grieved to say so.”

  “But how can you be so sure?”

  “Deep experience, sir. That’s to say, why else would a penniless boy be lurking about the docks?”

  “But what am I to do!” Mr. Pickler cried.

  Sergeant Rumpkin leaned forward. “Sir, there are nine ships leaving for America tomorrow. I keep a listing of such ships. You shall be provided with one. Each ship is owned by a different company. Each sails from a different dock. We are but eight. Mr. Pickler, might I inquire if you will be securing the help of the police?”

  Once again Mr. Pickler recalled the unhelpful Mr. Knox. “Do you think it would be useful?” he asked.

  “Being upstanding citizens,” the sergeant informed the investigator, “we much prefer to cooperate with the police.”

  Mr. Pickler sighed. “If I were to ask them to work with you, I think they would.”

  The sergeant considered Mr. Pickler carefully. “You speak of powerful influences, sir.”

  Mr. Pickler bobbed his head. “I believe I represent them.”

  Sergeant Rumpkin slapped the table hard. “Excellent! We shall all work together to serve the queen’s subjects!” he cried out.

  “May I propose,” he continued, “the following plan of action: You, sir, shall arrange to have the police posted at the gangway of every one of the departing ships so that they might observe and detain—if necessary—all suspicious boys who go aboard. Meanwhile, I shall have these eager young troops of mine”—Sergeant Rumpkin extended his hand so as to include his soldiers—“posted up and down the docks, patrolling those ships. They too shall be on the alert.

  “Now then, when and if the police see your boy, they will alert a runner. The runner shall speedily inform all others up and down. All then shall join forces in a siege. It will be impossible for your young man to escape!” He rattled his finger rings upon the table for emphasis. “There, sir, what do you think of that?”

  Mr. Pickler studied his bowler. “If the police will cooperate, it might work. But where, do you think, should I be posted?”

  “In military matters, sir, one should never assume victory. No, sir. Never underestimate the enemy. Never!

  “You, sir, shall station yourself at the northernmost point of the docks. That would be Sandon Basin. It’s undergoing some repairs so it won’t be occupied. Mr. Toggs shall s
erve as your assistant as he has already ably done. At his disposal shall be a skiff. A small boat, if you will. He is adept with the oars, is Mr. Toggs. Is that not right, Toggs?”

  “Right-o,” Toggs acknowledged.

  “If, sir,” the sergeant continued, “as a misfortune of war, your boy eludes us, Mr. Toggs can intercept any vessel you choose from that most northern position. You can board the ship and capture your boy. Is there anything beyond all this?”

  “You will wish to be paid,” Mr. Pickler said.

  “Well, yes,” agreed Sergeant Rumpkin amiably, his eyes positively smiling. “Soldiers cannot be expected to work on empty bellies, sir. Never have. Never will. Never should be!” He patted his own stomach as proof of this policy.

  Mr. Pickler’s offer was accepted. Four pounds to the Lime Street Runners Association for taking on the task. Six more pounds when Mr. Pickler had Laurence in hand. A list of departing ships was provided. Mr. Pickler stood up and shook hands with Sergeant Rumpkin.

  Toggs, catching the sergeant’s quick nod, followed the investigator out of the Iron Duke.

  Sergeant Rumpkin remained at the table with his seven young runners. “Any questions?” he asked, looking about. “Yes, Mr. Orkin. You have something on your mind?”

  “Sergeant, that gentleman who was here last night, Mr. Clemspool. Was I confused, sir, or did we have contrary orders regarding this boy, Laurence? I mean, are we trying to keep this here boy here or are we trying to ship him there?”

  “Gentlemen,” the sergeant returned, “in war as in life, it is not victory that matters, it is loyalty! Do you not see, Mr. Orkin, that boy has great profit in him. Great profit. When we get him, I shall auction him off to the one who wants him most. All shall benefit.

  “But, gentlemen, there remains the question of loyalty. So there is something I want as much as I want that boy.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Orkin asked.

  “Fred,” said Sergeant Rumpkin. “I want him too.” And he laid one hand upon the table and curled up thin fingers so that they resembled a claw.

  Where to now, mate?” Toggs asked Mr. Pickler when they emerged from the meeting.

  Mr. Pickler was studying the list of departing ships that Sergeant Rumpkin had given him.

  The list depressed him. If Laurence was attempting to stow away, he could be on any of them. With a sigh he said, “I shall return to police headquarters and make arrangements with Inspector Knox. You will meet me at my hotel, the Royalton, tomorrow morning, five-thirty.”

  “You’re the early bird.”

  “You will take me to that most northern place on the docks as your sergeant suggested, Sandon Basin. You’ll have a skiff in readiness. Is that all understood?”

  “All set,” Toggs assured him.

  “Tomorrow morning then.” Mr. Pickler, feeling less confident than Toggs sounded, bobbed his head, tucked Laurence’s clothing under his arm, and went off toward police headquarters.

  Left alone, Toggs thought he might prowl the streets on his own in search of Laurence. But he was feeling too pleased with himself to spend time on others. What he decided to do was go back to Mrs. Sonderbye’s. It would be fine to tell that Irish girl about his exploits. He was sure she’d be impressed.

  South of the city Fred sat on a rock by the water’s edge, put aside the loaf of stale bread he had snatched from a baker’s cart, and pulled off his old boots. Overhead, the sky was still clogged with clouds, but here and there patches of blue appeared, hinting at better weather. On the sand, just above high water, small white birds raced about on sticklike legs, then stopped and pecked furiously. The hulks, which had been mired in mud, were now surrounded by the tide.

  Boots in one hand, bread in the other, Fred waded into the water. If he had waited any longer he would have had to swim.

  Reaching the hulks, he made his way inside, then up the ladders. He peeked into the captain’s cabin. By the dim light he saw Laurence lying on the bunk, eyes open, staring blankly before him. He looked dead.

  “Laurence?” Fred cried.

  “Yes,” Laurence murmured. Since crying his eyes dry, he had lain all morning upon the bunk.

  “Told you I’d come back,” Fred said.

  Laurence said nothing.

  “Got it all worked out with your friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “The Irish boy.”

  “Patrick?”

  “I’m going to stow you away on the same ship he’s going on. The Robert Peel. You’ll be in America in spit time.”

  Laurence turned his face to the wall.

  “Don’t you want to go?” Fred asked, puzzled.

  “I don’t care,” Laurence said.

  Fred snorted. “You’d care a lot about going if Toggs was standing here instead of me, wouldn’t you?”

  Again Laurence said nothing.

  “Can you read?” Fred asked.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ll see.” Fred stretched himself. “I’ve half a mind to go with you to America,” he said. “What’s it like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know?” Fred replied with surprise. “What you going for then anyway?”

  “Because all those people are after me.”

  “There’s your reason,” Fred said as he sat on the floor with his back propped up against the bunk. “But we’ve got to wait till dark. Then we can get moving.”

  “I’m hungry,” Laurence announced.

  Fred held up the bread loaf. “Thought you would be.” He broke the bread in two and offered half to Laurence over his shoulder. Laurence took the bread and began to gnaw on it.

  “Where do you come from anyway?” Fred said.

  “London.”

  “London … What’s it like?”

  “All right,” Laurence said indifferently.

  “Lived on your own, did you?”

  “With my family,” Laurence said rather wistfully.

  “Did you?” Fred said with new interest. Having no family of his own, he was always curious about them. “Do you have a mother or a father then?”

  “Both.”

  “Crikey!” Fred said, impressed. “What happened to them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Alive then?”

  “Yes.”

  “My mother died when I was born,” Fred explained in a matter-of-fact way. “Then my father ups and does the same. Not very helpful, was it? When no one would have me, they put me in the workhouse. Didn’t care much for that so I runs off and came here, where I could take care of myself. You live in a room in that London?”

  “A house.”

  “That’s got rooms?”

  “The whole house,” Laurence said.

  “A whole one?” Fred asked with disbelief. He swung around on his knees the better to consider Laurence.

  “Yes.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you even guess?”

  “Twenty …”

  “Twenty!” Fred cried in astonishment. “Wool in your eye. That’s a warehouse! What did you do with all them rooms?”

  Laurence shrugged. “Lived in them,” he said.

  “Why, how many of you are there?”

  “Six.”

  “Six people in a whole warehouse of twenty rooms?”

  “There were servants too.”

  “What do you mean, servants?”

  “Twelve of them.”

  “Get off! If that was so, why would you ever want to leave?”

  Laurence looked away, “I’m a thief,” he said.

  “Oh, right. I forgot,” Fred said, giving Laurence a sympathetic poke. Then he twisted around to resume his seat. “And someone took it from you. That’s the world for you,” he allowed. “Big thieves stealing from us little thieves. Your name’s Laurence, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got a last name?”

  Laurence hesitated. “Kirkl
e,” he said softly.

  The name meant nothing to Fred. “I don’t have a last name,” he said. “Once I asked a man why folks have two names, and he says, ‘’Cause it tells to who you belongs.’ But, there you are, I don’t belong to anyone, do I, so there’s no point in having one, is there?” They ate the rest of the bread. But there was no more talk until Fred sighed, “I’m tired.” So saying, he stretched out and without any ceremony soon slept.

  Laurence lay in the bunk, thinking about what he had described to Fred: the house he lived in, the servants. It was untrue now, all past. He was no more than a thief trying to run away from everyone. In pain, he closed his eyes and dozed.

  When Laurence awoke, he lay awhile contemplating what he was about to do, get on a ship and stow away to America. “I don’t want to go,” he whispered to himself.

  When he saw that Fred was still asleep, he stood up. The raked floor was hard to walk on, but he made his way out of the room.

  Once beyond the room, he could discern the forecastle but little else beside rotten rope and wood debris. When he saw some steps, he climbed them and found himself standing on the forecastle deck.

  Standing by a broken capstan, Laurence looked about. The land between the hulks and the shore had vanished. Now there was only water, upon which a pale sun glinted. To the immediate west lay two other hulks, seeming in worse condition than the ship he was on. Beyond these, at some distance across the river, he could see the western shore. The eastern shore was closer.

  Laurence went back down the steps and worked his way down ladders until he was at the bottom, in the broken hull. He found it full of water. When a stick floated by, he used it to probe the depth—at least as high as his neck. It was impossible for him to walk away. A sense of grief engulfed him.

  Clinging to the ladder, Laurence contemplated leaping into the water. Drowning was, he thought, the only way to save himself, his name, his family. “I don’t want to be me,” he whispered. “I don’t.” He remembered Fred’s words, “I don’t belong to anyone.” That was the way he felt.

  But he did not want to die.

  From deep within the boy came a sound, half-sigh, half-moan, the sound of something breaking. He began to weep. The tears began softly but soon became deep racking sobs of bewilderment. “I can’t be me anymore,” he cried to the darkness. “I can’t!”