Escape From Home Page 9

  “My dear, the thing is, when I finally did see Sir Laurence at the station, he was not dressed at all in the way Lord Kirkle described. Though I had only the briefest of glimpses, I’m quite sure he’d been … well, disguised as a street urchin of the most contemptible lowness. A hideous welt had been painted on his face. What’s more, he boarded a third-class carriage.”

  “How extraordinary,” a shocked Mrs. Pickler cried.

  Mr. Pickler put down his fork and knife. “Mrs. Pickler, you must not repeat a word of what I’m about to say.”

  “Merciful heavens, Mr. Pickler! You know I never would!”

  “You see, though it all happened so quickly that I cannot be certain, it seemed to me that the boy was dragged forcibly onto that train.”

  “Dragged!” Mrs. Pickler cried. “But who would do such a dreadful thing?”

  “My dear, the children are sleeping,” Mr. Pickler cautioned. His voice sank to a whisper as he went on. “Moreover, when I attempted to board the train after the boy, it was as if I was pushed off.”

  “Pushed off!”

  “By a gentleman with an eye patch.”

  “Mr. Pickler, it’s a conspiracy!”

  “My dear, please! I’m not certain. I can only say that if—if—Sir Laurence was abducted, the case is considerably altered.”

  “Do you think,” his wife asked tremulously, “that the boy is being taken to America against his will?”

  “I do not know,” Mr. Pickler replied. “Nonetheless, my dear, I must travel to Liverpool by the earliest morning train to make sure it does not happen.

  “My dear, Lord Kirkle is a man of enormous influence. If I am successful in restoring Sir Laurence to his proper home—”

  “You will, Mr. Pickler, you will.”

  “The rewards could be enormous. A fine thing for us all. However, if I fail to bring Sir Laurence back, my reputation—and chances for further employment—will suffer indeed. Having taken on the job, I have little choice but to be successful. It is best to proceed cautiously and tell Lord Kirkle nothing of these speculations of mine.”

  “I quite agree with you, Mr. Pickler,” his wife said.

  While his wife went to pack his traveling bag, Mr. Pickler, candlestick in hand, wandered into the nursery. Both his children lay asleep in their cots. Their father gazed at them fondly. So like angels. How could anyone abduct or harm a child? It was unthinkable! Indeed, the mere thought that Sir Laurence might have been badly treated so enraged the man, it made him even more determined than ever to save the boy.

  At five-fifteen, after a fitful sleep, Mr. Pickler rose up, whispered a loving farewell to his wife—who insisted upon getting up with him—kissed Thomas and Evelina on their foreheads, and within the hour was on the early train to Liverpool.

  The journey from Kilonny had taken two days. On the Queen of the West, a low, mournful clanging of a buoy bell woke Maura O’Connell from her standing sleep by the bulwark. Bleary-eyed, she gazed about. The Irish Sea was calm but rolling. The air was a misty white. The great side wheels of the ship churned. Black smoke still flowed from the central stack. On deck the passengers huddled together, numb, wet, and cold. Many hunched beneath tarpaulins.

  At Maura’s feet Patrick lay fast asleep. Reaching down, she touched his brow and found it cool. Alarmed, she put a hand over his mouth. When she felt his breath warm, she whispered a prayer of thanks.

  Gradually the mist began to lift. In the distance Maura saw a low strip of land. England. Ireland’s Protestant master. It was everything she had learned to fear and hate. Tension knotted her belly. Unknown dangers, she knew, lay before them. She would have to protect them both until they boarded the packet ship to America. “Please, Jesus …,” she prayed, “make me strong.”

  Ah, Master Worthy! Awake, are you?”

  The early light was dim and gray, the air fetid with a cloying clamminess that hinted of the sea. A jolt of the railway carriage reminded Laurence that he was on the train to Liverpool. Remembering now that Worthy was his name, he shifted about on the cramped seat. It was Mr. Clemspool who had spoken. A napkin was spread across the gentleman’s lap, pieces of apple arrayed upon it like the open petals of a flower.

  Trying not to stare at the food, Laurence stretched his stiff arms, legs, and back as best he could.

  “And did you sleep well?” Mr. Clemspool inquired while using a penknife to spear one of the apple pieces. Just before he bit into it, he glanced sideways.

  Laurence was staring at him, his mouth open. “Not hungry, are you?” Mr. Clemspool asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Laurence whispered, feeling ashamed.

  “Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool cried, “why didn’t you say so? Here you are.” He held out the slice of speared apple. Laurence grasped it eagerly.

  The man laughed at how quickly the boy swallowed it down. “Master Worthy, you are hungry. Here, help yourself.” He offered the rest of the fruit. “As I’ve told you, I like young people, enjoy helping them, want them to trust me. You might say it’s my calling.”

  “Yes, sir,” Laurence mumbled.

  “That welt on your face, Master Worthy. Does it bring much discomfort?”

  Laurence put his hand to his right cheek. It was still sore, the blood a tight scab by this time. “No, sir,” he said.

  “I’m gratified to hear it. Now then,” Mr. Clemspool pressed, “you informed me you are going to America. With friends, I think you said. So surely, Master Worthy, these friends of yours will know about getting tickets for the right kind of vessel, finding temporary lodging, arranging the proper medical exam, provisioning you for the long, hard voyage, choosing a proper berth—not any bed will do, you know—as well as securing suitable recreational and devotional readings to soothe the weary hours. All these details, my young friend, that—to make my point precisely—an experienced traveler knows about and attends to.”

  Laurence gazed at the man in bewilderment.

  Mr. Clemspool smiled sweetly. “Of course, you knew all that, Master Worthy, didn’t you?”

  Laurence shook his head.

  Mr. Clemspool wagged a finger. “Young man,” he admonished, “that is unwise. Of course—and this is precisely my point—what every traveler needs is advice from time to time.”

  Laurence swallowed hard.

  “So surely, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool continued in his most avuncular manner, “those people—the friends you alluded to—will meet you at the train and take you”—he fluttered his fingers—“as it were, under their wings.”

  Laurence peeked out at the passing countryside. The view flashing by made him dizzy. He closed his eyes. Everything that had happened unfurled in his mind: his dispute with his brother, Albert; the argument with his father. He remembered the caning, taking the money, running away from Belgrave Square, the one-eyed man, the pursuit by the police, and finally, the race to the train.

  The day before seemed to belong to another time, another world. Gone now. What remained were feelings of rage and humiliation so thick they all but choked him. It was all so unfair! Tears trickled down his cheeks. He pawed them away. With effort, he turned back to Mr. Clemspool.

  “I am not,” he struggled to say, “certain my friends … will be … there.”

  “What!” Mr. Clemspool cried, apparently stunned by this news.

  Laurence shook his head.

  “I am shocked!” Mr. Clemspool exclaimed so loudly that four passengers turned to look at him and moved away a tad. “Absolutely shocked! Well then, I must hasten to assure you there will be at least one friend there for you!”

  “What do you mean?” Laurence asked.

  “Why, Master Worthy, to make my point precisely, I shall be your friend!”

  By way of sealing the contract, he offered his large hand to the boy. Though not certain it was correct for him to shake a stranger’s hand, Laurence extended his own small one. Mr. Clemspool shook it like a pump handle.

  “Thank you, sir,” the boy said, and mean
t it with all his heart.

  “Master Worthy, you are not to mention it again. Instead, you must look to me for answers to all your worries. In fact, you must consider me, Matthew Clemspool, Esquire, your particular protector.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, I shall.”

  Mr. Clemspool positively glowed at the avowal. “I beg you to indulge yourself in more sweet repose. I will provide all the help you need to reach America in perfect comfort and safety.”

  Laurence, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like “Thank you,” shut his eyes, gave himself over to the swaying of the carriage, and was soon asleep again.

  It was almost eight in the morning when the Queen of the West eased its way into the wide and muddy Mersey River. A bell on the ship began to ring. Someone cried, “Liverpool!”

  On deck, the cold, sodden crowd of passengers stirred in hopes that relief was at hand. Wherever they looked, they saw boats of every size, from modest steam tenders to many-masted clipper ships, from small coastal ketches to large Atlantic barks. Some ships had their rigging hanging loose. Smaller boats bore wind-puffed sails of red and tan. Steamers trickled smoke. Dories and skiffs skimmed the surface like nervous water bugs.

  But the greatest number of vessels were moored within Liverpool’s vast dock system of interlocking basins, each big enough to hold as many ships as fifty. Their masts and spars stood as thick as a forest shorn of leaves.

  Just as extraordinary was the city of Liverpool itself, rising up on a hill beyond the docks.

  Over the entire scene lay a thick, heavy air, rank with the smell of sea, tar, and decay. All in all, the Irish passengers found it nothing less than astounding. If Cork had seemed vast, Liverpool was twenty—fifty—times its size.

  “Is it the biggest city in the world?” Patrick asked of Maura, his voice tight with astonishment at the jumble of wood, brick, stone, and marble buildings he saw.

  Maura could only reply, “It must be.”

  “And are all the people Protestants?” Patrick asked, making the sign of the cross over his heart.

  “I believe most are.”

  “Where will we go then?”

  Maura put a comforting hand upon her brother’s shoulder. “You needn’t worry. Father Mahoney arranged for us to stay at a place,” she reminded him. “It’s called the Union House. Something of a vast inn, he said, for emigrants such as we. Mind, we’ll only be stopping for a couple of days before we sail.” She touched her dress where the packet of tickets and money was pinned.

  “But where is the place exactly?” Patrick persisted.

  “Ah, Patrick O’Connell, do you think I know? Look at the number of buildings, will you? But you need not worry,” she said, seeking hard to suppress her own anxiety. “We can always ask the way.”

  On the Queen of the West, sailors raced about the deck. Shouts and commands seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Bells clanged. Whistles blew. The ship heaved back and forth by inches, creaking and groaning as though every timber were in agony.

  Gradually, painfully, it eased past the other ships in Trafalgar Basin, threading its way through a maze of stone piers, turrets, open bridges, wooden piles, and brick warehouses, buildings so huge, they blocked the sky from view.

  Then they were there. The ship’s bell began to clang more furiously than ever. “All ashore!” came the cry. “All ashore!”

  There was a rattle of chains as the gangway was run out. Patrick and Maura, along with all the other passengers, hastily snatched up their bundles. No one wanted to remain on the ship a moment longer than necessary.

  “Stay close,” Maura cautioned her brother as they were pushed along.

  Seeing what looked to be an opening in the crowd, Patrick squeezed forward only to find himself thrown back and cut off from his sister. “Maura!” he cried.

  She made a half turn toward his voice but was pulled away. Battling with all his strength, Patrick thrashed ahead frantically. The next moment his legs were kicked out from under him. Trying to keep upright, he dropped his bundle, realized what he’d done, and attempted to grab it; but he saw it swept away, pulled apart, and trampled underfoot. Then he himself began to go under only to be lifted up and hurled forward until he found himself at the top of the gangway. “Maura!” he cried again.

  From somewhere he thought he heard a shout. “Patrick!” Before he realized it, he had been propelled down the gangway and now stood on the stone pier surrounded by a crowd of strangers. Maura was nowhere to be seen. His heart sank. Thinking he saw her, he tried to follow but was held back by someone gripping his arm. Struggling to free himself, he swung around. There she was! She met him halfway, and they reached the edges of the crowd, where the press of people was not so fierce.

  “I was sure you were lost,” Patrick panted when they were able to stop.

  “I thought so too,” Maura whispered. She was pale, her hair in disarray. “But where’s your bundle gone to?” she cried.

  “I dropped it,” Patrick confessed.

  Maura bit her lip to keep from rebuking him. She looked toward the mob of people. “Faith, I almost lost mine too,” she said. “As for yours, we’ll just be traveling lighter.”

  Patrick nodded, grateful for her forbearance.

  They were standing on a stone-paved quay, part of an enormous rim of stone surrounding a pool of water in which many ships were berthed. On three sides of this basin rose five-story redbrick warehouses running the length of each side. The quay itself was crowded with the people from their own ship and hundreds more too. Never before had either Patrick or Maura felt so small, so isolated.

  In need of reassurance, she reached for her packet of money and tickets and pulled it out.

  “It’s all here,” she said in response to her brother’s look of concern.

  As she was preparing to repin the packet, a voice broke upon them. “Well now, you look like you’re in need of some help.” Maura hid the packet behind her skirt. Patrick grabbed up their bundle.

  A few feet from them—arms akimbo—stood a ruddyfaced, bright-eyed young man. His wry smile was cockiness itself. He wore a seaman’s tar hat at a rakish angle. Indeed, his loose striped shirt, his stiff wide britches, and his boots gave him the look of a sailor.

  “Just in from Ireland, mates?” the young man asked. He touched the brim of his hat with his fingers to make a crisp salute.

  Patrick took one look and knew whom he wished to be like.

  Maura, however, hardly knew what to say or do. She was not used to being stared at by young men so brazenly, and this one couldn’t have been more than her age. Even as she nodded, she looked down.

  “And bound for America?” the fellow went on.

  “Our father’s there,” Maura murmured.

  “Well now, that’s good for you,” he said. “But even so, you’ll need a place to stop until you sail.”

  Maura forced herself to look up. “Thank you, sir,” she replied. “You’re very kind, but it’s all been done and arranged for.”

  “Is that so,” the young man said. “Where are you headed?”

  Maura, determined to say no more, simply looked away, tightening her grip on her money and tickets.

  Fascinated by the young man, Patrick blurted out, “The Union House.”

  At the mention of the hotel’s name, the young man’s face clouded. He gave a somber shake of his head. “I think you’d better let me see your passes.” He held out his hand.

  Maura, taken aback, considered the young man with suspicion.

  Patrick gave her a nudge. “Maura, show them to him. Surely he knows better than us.”

  “The lad’s right. Let’s see what you have.”

  Still Maura hesitated.

  Patrick pulled on her arm. “Maura,” he whispered urgently, “show them. We don’t know where to go.”

  Against her better judgment, Maura sorted through her packet and handed over the slips of paper pertaining to the hotel.

  The young man gave the pap
ers a cursory glance. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you,” he announced.

  “And what might that be?” Maura said.

  “Just last night,” he replied in deep and melancholy tones, “this Union House of yours burned to the ground. These are useless.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, he tore the hotel papers up and flung the pieces into the breeze.

  Appalled, Maura and Patrick could only stare.

  “It’s the truth,” the young man insisted, putting hand to heart as though the gesture itself was proof of his sincerity. “But you’re in luck,” he went on quickly. “I know the perfect place for you.” He paused. “You do have some money about you, I hope.”

  Maura hardly knew how to respond.

  Once again it was Patrick who replied. “Yes, sir,” he said, “we do.”

  “A good thing, mate,” the young man said. “It takes money to get about here. This is England. Nothing comes cheap. I suppose it’s English money you have, laddie? Not yet American dollars?”

  Maura put a hand out to restrain Patrick. She was not fast enough. “It’s all English, sir,” he said. “And from a bank.”

  The fellow grinned. “All right then,” he said with enthusiasm, “you’re in luck. Toggs is my name. Mr. Ralph Toggs. And a good thing I found you. You can’t be too careful in Liverpool. There are those who’d rob a blind man of his eyelashes if they could. But you can trust me. I’ll treat you right.”

  Ceremoniously he took the bundle from Patrick. “Just follow me!” he cried, and began to march off with great speed.

  For a moment Maura stood her ground, holding her brother back. “Have you got to go telling our business to the first stranger we meet?” she whispered vehemently.

  “Maura, you heard what he was saying. He’s only being helpful. There’s no call to be suspicious all the time!”

  “We’ve hardly a choice to make now, do we?” she threw back. “Look at him. Off to a fare-thee-well, isn’t he?”

  They had run to catch up.

  Toggs strode boldly through the crowd, pausing briefly now and again to make sure that Maura and Patrick were following.