Escape From Home (19 page)

B
estir yourself,” the voice pleaded into Laurence's ear. “They might be coming back.”

Laurence lay upon his back. His head was whirling. He had to force himself to open his eyes. Out of the darkness, a face peered down at him. It was Patrick.

“I heard what that fellow was saying,” he whispered urgently. “So I ran back to the sentry box and called the police. Their coming scared him off. Only you best get away before they return. They're like to be after you too no matter what I say.”

Laurence struggled upright and faced the boy kneeling by his side. To his eyes Patrick seemed nothing but a beggar, and—from the way he talked—an Irish one at that.

The boy extended a helping hand. For a brief moment, Laurence looked at it disdainfully. Then, with reluctance, he took it and hauled himself up on unsteady feet.

“They went that direction,” Patrick said, pointing into the darkness. “We'd better be heading the other way.”

Assuming Patrick knew the docks, Laurence made a murmur of assent. The two started off. Laurence ran a few steps, stumbled, steadied himself.

“Can you not run?” Patrick asked.

“I'm all right,” Laurence insisted.

Too quickly they reached the end of the quay.

“Now where?” Laurence asked.

Patrick looked first one direction then another. It was hard to see far. What light there was came from the occasional dock lamp and the night lanterns on the ships. “I've no idea which way is best,” he confessed.

“Don't you know where we are?” Laurence asked. There was annoyance in his voice.

Hearing the rebuke, Patrick looked around. “Do you?”

“No,” Laurence was forced to admit.

“We can try this way then,” Patrick said. “There's more light.”

Ten minutes later, Laurence cried, “I need to rest.”

A high lantern on a pole spread its yellow light in a circle about them. On two sides, dimly seen, floated ranks of moored ships, their masts, spars, and rigging a ghostlike forest against the dark sky. Not far from where they were, chests and trunks were piled high, waiting to be loaded.

Laurence sat down against one of the chests. It provided some protection from the chill wind, if not the damp. Patrick sat as well but not too close. After a silence, he said, “Do you have a name then?”

“Laurence.”

“My name is Patrick.”

Laurence grunted. For a while neither boy spoke. Finally Laurence said, “That man wanted me to steal.”

“Faith then, it's true. I heard him.”

“It was a metal box,” Laurence said, as much to himself as to Patrick. “And full of money. I didn't want to take it.” Fatigued, he closed his eyes.

“Did you know him at all?” Patrick asked cautiously. “The one making you steal?”

Laurence shook his head.

“I do,” Patrick declared.

Laurence turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“Sure then, his name is Ralph Toggs,” Patrick confided. “And he's a runner.”

“What's a runner?”

Remembering Mr. Drabble's explanations, Patrick said, “They find people like my sister and me—just off the boat from Ireland—and tell a pack of lies to make you go to some wretched lodging place. You can't believe them. It's all for the money. There are lots of them in Liverpool.”

Thinking he knew exactly the sort of man Patrick referred to, Laurence nodded.

“That was this morning,” Patrick went on. “Then, this evening, didn't the same fellow come around again, bringing more people to the place he took us. Only this time he was asking for my sister, Maura. I was sure he meant to do her harm, so I had to follow him. All over town he wandered, until he came out here. Then I saw him catch hold of you.”

“I was lost,” Laurence said.

“So am I,” Patrick allowed, staring into the darkness. “And, to tell the truth, I'll be needing to find my way back to my sister soon.” He glanced around at Laurence. “We're going to America.”

“So am I,” Laurence murmured bleakly.

“Are you then?”

Laurence gave a small nod.

“So many are going,” Patrick mused. “On the road, when we were coming up to Cork, the whole world seemed to be tramping. Where do you come from then?” he asked.

“London.”

Patrick considered Laurence with discomfort. “Is it English you are?” Patrick asked.

“Of course.”

“And a … a Protestant?”

“Church of England.”

“I'm Catholic,” Patrick felt compelled to say.

Laurence shrugged. He did not care. Patrick, however, felt ill at ease.

“Have you no family with you?” he ventured.

Laurence shook his head.

“Traveling alone then?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, you've got it much harder than me,” Patrick said. “I have Maura.”

Laurence did not reply.

“You're right to go to America,” Patrick said finally. “They say life is better there. Work and food in buckets. My father's gone and become as rich as a lord. When do you sail?”

“I don't know,” Laurence said.

Patrick was surprised. “Don't you now?”

“I've no money.”

Patrick looked at Laurence anew. He had never heard of an Englishman without money. “Have you none at all then?”

The grief Laurence felt rose to choke him. He could only shake his head.

Patrick felt a rush of sympathy. “Laurence, I don't think you're faring too well, are you?”

The boy shook his head again.

“If you have no money,” Patrick asked after a time, “how do you expect to be getting on to America?”

“I don't know,” Laurence whispered hoarsely, his eyes full of tears. He rubbed them away.

Patrick sighed. “My sister will be worried sick that I'm gone. I know she'll be.”

“Are you going back now?” Laurence asked. He did not want to be alone.

“I should,” Patrick said. “I wish you could stay at our lodging place, but the woman who runs it—a Mrs. Sonderbye—she won't let anyone in till they pay. I heard her say so.” Patrick struggled to his feet. “I really should be off.”

Laurence stopped him. “Would … would you mind if I went with you? I wouldn't have to stay there.”

“You can if you want,” Patrick said.

Laurence got up.

A thick fog had drifted in from the sea, wrapping the docks in swirling coils of cold mist and making it even harder to see than before. From the river came the occasional tinkling of a buoy bell.

“We might as well try this way,” Patrick said, making a random choice.

For more than an hour, the two boys wandered over the docks, past row upon row of silent ships, bridges, closed warehouses, canal towers, dark waters. Discouraged, they stopped and sat again.

“I think,” Patrick suggested, “it's only when the fog lifts that we'll be able to find our way.”

Laurence, knowing the fogs of London, said, “They can last all night. And day.”

Patrick stared into the murk. “Hello!” he called. “Is there someone about?”

“Ahoy there!” came an unexpected cry. “Were you hailing me?”

Unnerved, Patrick and Laurence peered in the direction of the shout. “Hello!” Patrick called again.

“Over here!” The voice seemed to come from one of the ships moored to the dock. The boys rose and crept toward it. Though obscured by the fog, a lantern could just be seen waving back and forth. They edged forward.

“Hello!” Patrick called again.

“You're getting there,” came the reply. “I see you.”

As they drew closer, the boys discerned a man on the ship before them. Even in the fog they could see this was no ordinary vessel. Of modest size, it had no rigging or masts. At midships, a houselike structure had been erected where the forward mast should have stood.

“Come on, lads,” the man called, “you needn't be fearful. Haul yourselves over here.”

Patrick and Laurence peered up from the edge of the quay. Looking down at them over the ship's bulwark was a gray-bearded figure in a sailor's jacket and hat.

“The hour is late, lads,” the man said. “What brings you?”

“It's a way off the docks we're looking for,” Patrick called. “Can you give us directions?”

“From what I can see of you, you're both in dire need of directions for your souls as well as your feet. Come along and board us. You can sup and sleep in peace.”

Patrick and Laurence exchanged looks.

“And what kind of ship are you then?” Patrick called.

“This is the good ship
Charity
, a chapel ship. Reverend Gideon Bartholomew at your service. We don't sail worldly seas but venture on even greater heavenly voyages. We're tied up here for the glory of God so wayward sailors and all those who frequent these docks might find a sacred compass for their mortal wanderings. Step along. I've hot tea, a warm loaf, blankets, and the Gospels to share.”

Laurence started to move forward but stopped when he saw Patrick was not following.

“What's the matter?” Laurence asked.

“He's Protestant!” Patrick whispered nervously.

“But it's food and warmth,” Laurence said.

“If I go,” Patrick said, “you must promise not to be telling him what happened.”

“But why?”

“He won't believe us.”

“I won't say anything,” Laurence agreed, and started up the gangway, leaving Patrick on the quay. But as Patrick saw Laurence reach the boat, he found the offer of food and the chance to get out of the cold too tempting to resist. Though anxious for his soul, he followed.

T
he Reverend Gideon Bartholomew was a strong, burly man with a prominent nose, dark eyes, and a thick salt-and-pepper beard. With his lantern held high, he looked as if he'd just stepped from the pages of the Bible.

“Welcome to the
Charity
, lads,” he boomed in a resonant voice. “Welcome to this floating house of God. All I need to know are your Christian names.”

“Laurence, sir.”

“P-p-patrick, Your Honor.” He was afraid to look up.

“All right, Mr. Patrick and Mr. Laurence,” the minister said with zeal, “this way to that food I promised.” Lantern in hand, he guided the boys across the deck toward the ship's central structure, opened a door, and urged them to step within.

Inside was a simple chapel with a few old mismatched pews set before a Church of England altar. The walls were unadorned, the floor nothing but rough planking. Despite its meager furnishings, the room held a still, solemn air of sanctity.

Patrick, seeing the cross, automatically bent his knee and crossed himself.

“Ah, Mr. Patrick,” Mr. Bartholomew said in kindly tones, “I see you're a Roman Catholic.”

Patrick, fearing the worst, took a step toward the door as if to run.

“No, no, Mr. Patrick,” the minister hastened to say as he held up a hand to block the boy's departure. “You need not worry. The
Charity
has been boarded by all faiths, and there's been no sinking yet, neither ship nor souls. Now, lads, step this way for tea and bread.”

They went into an adjacent room, small and close, in the middle of which sat a rusty potbellied stove that radiated soothing waves of warmth. On the hob, a kettle was steaming idly. There were a few shabby chairs. On one wall a motto had been affixed. It read:

 

A
M
I M
Y
B
ROTHER'S
K
EEPER
?

 

“Sit yourselves down, lads,” Mr. Bartholomew urged as he hung his lantern from one of the overhead beams. After removing his hat and hanging up his coat—revealing clerical suit and collar beneath—he went to a cabinet and took out two chipped mugs. Into these he sprinkled a liberal amount of tea, poured in some boiling water, then handed a mug each to the boys, who gratefully wrapped cold fingers about them.

“Now then, bread,” the minister announced as he took a crusty brown loaf and a knife from another cabinet and cut two large slices, which he slathered thick with dripping molasses. The boys took the slices gladly and swallowed them in a few bites and gulps.

Looking on with contentment, the minister cut two more slices, but these he put aside—though, purposefully, not out of view.

“Very well, lads, more in a moment,” he said, taking up a position before them, hands behind his back, chin tucked in so that his beard looked like some vestment. “First you need to hear a brief sermon. As I told you, the
Charity
is a floating house of God. There are four of these ships at the Liverpool docks for all who choose to board. I'll not pass judgment on you. That's for Our Captain above. But if I'm to help you—and it's that I wish to do—I'll need to hear a true account of what brings you here. Mind, lads, I can tell a lie from the truth….

“You,” he said to Patrick, “have no doubt come from Ireland. Is that correct?”

Patrick, who had made up his mind to say as little as possible, mumbled, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“And you, young man,” he said to Laurence, “are English.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, lads, straight to the mark. Were you on the docks for thieving?”

Flustered by Mr. Bartholomew's question, Laurence peeked over at Patrick, who made a tiny shake of his head.

The gesture was not lost upon Mr. Bartholomew. Assuming the worst, but recalling his vow not to judge, he struggled to contain his impatience. “Come, come, lads, if I'm to provide assistance, as I truly wish to do, I must know your story.”

The boys stared at the floor.

“Well then, how did you two meet?”

Again no answer.

“Mr. Patrick,” he said, “are you willing to tell me anything?”

Patrick, eyes averted, shook his head.

“So be it,” the minister declared. Sensing that the English boy was not only the younger but the more vulnerable, he leaned forward. “What about you, lad, you're certainly not from Liverpool.”

“No, sir,” Laurence murmured. “I'm from London.”

“And going where?”

Laurence hesitated. Then he said, “America.”

Mr. Bartholomew considered the boy, taking particular note of the welt upon his face and the fact that the clothing he wore was—despite its soiled and torn appearance—of good quality.

Looking straight into the boy's eyes, Mr. Bartholomew said, “Mr. Laurence, I've piloted this ship for years. I can read faces as well as I can read the Gospels. So I ask you, lad, have you run away from home?”

As Laurence stiffened, a startled Patrick turned to stare at him.

“It's a sad but painful truth,” Mr. Bartholomew continued carefully, “that runaways come to the Liverpool docks with great regularity. What led
you
to run from home?”

Laurence spoke to the floor. “I could not stay there any longer,” he whispered.

“Mr. Laurence,” the minister rejoined, “to cast away the anchor of family is a momentous act. You must have had a very strong reason indeed.”

Laurence glanced up, but finding Mr. Bartholomew's scrutiny too heavy to bear, he turned and gazed at the words affixed to the wall: “Am I My Brother's Keeper?” They made him recall the words chiseled below his father's mantel: “For Country, Glory—For Family, Honor.” Swallowing hard, he breathed, “I cannot say.”

“That welt, my friend,” the minister said with as much gentleness as he could muster, “did it come from home?”

Though Laurence colored with shame, he said nothing.

“I suppose,” the minister offered kindly, “not saying is better than lying.” He sat down. “Mr. Laurence,” he said at last, “you are not the first to run away and, sadly, will not be the last. You spoke of going to America. Have you a ticket?

“No, sir.”

“Money for a ticket?”

Laurence shook his head.

“Well then, Mr. Laurence, may I ask, how do you expect to go?”

“I don't know,” Laurence said quietly.

The minister—feeling he had come to an impasse—scratched his beard, cocked his head, wrung his hands. “Well then, here's another bit of bread,” he said, handing the boys the other slices by way of signaling that the interview was over.

The boys ate the bread as eagerly as before.

Mr. Bartholomew stood. “It's late now,” he said, “but I shall ponder what I can do to help you. In the meanwhile, you may both spend the night.”

Patrick looked up. “And in the morning, Your Honor, may I be going?”

“To be sure, Mr. Patrick,” the minister said evasively, “no one will compel you to stay. But it's late, and you may sleep here in safety.

“But first …” From a sea chest Mr. Bartholomew drew out a pair of worn canvas trousers and a jacket. He held them up before Laurence. “Mr. Lawrence,” he said, “your clothing will be of little help in this weather. I think these will serve you better.”

Embarrassed, Laurence took the clothing.

“Go on now, get into them,” the minister urged. “You'll feel more comfortable. I'll dispose of your rags.”

Laurence retreated into a corner and changed into the new apparel. Compared to what he usually wore, the canvas material felt stiff, rough, and heavy. Both trousers and jacket were big for him too, but Mr. Bartholomew bent over and rolled up the cuffs and sleeves. Laurence had to admit the clothes were warmer.

From the same chest the minister took two blankets and gave one to each boy.

“Now, lads, might we say a prayer for your momentary deliverance?”

“Can I be saying my own prayers, Your Honor?” Patrick asked anxiously.

“Mr. Patrick, you shall say whatever you desire!”

As both boys clasped their hands and closed their eyes, the minister recited a prayer concluding with, “And Lord, we thank You for guiding these poor lads Your way. May they find passage to homes both new and old. Amen.”

The prayer done, Mr. Bartholomew banked the fire, retrieved his hat, coat, and lantern. “I'll be sleeping in my quarters,” he informed them. “Morning service at six bells. Breakfast follows.” Just before withdrawing, he looked sternly at them. “I expect to see you both here in the morning.” Then he left, taking with him Laurence's tattered dinner jacket and trousers.

In the darkness, the two boys settled onto the floor and rolled themselves up in their blankets. For a while neither spoke.

“Patrick?” Laurence called.

“What?”

“Why couldn't we tell him what happened?”

“Well sure, it's his being an English Protestant clergyman, Laurence, and here I am, an Irish Catholic. More than likely, he intends to do me harm.”

“He seemed friendly to me,” Laurence said meekly.

“Faith, you can't trust them at all,” Patrick insisted. “Back home, people would say it's better to hold your tongue in your head—else they'll use it to strangle you.”

“I suppose,” Laurence said, though he did not truly understand.

In a few moments Laurence heard Patrick murmuring his prayers. Then came silence, followed by the soft breath of sleep.

Though very tired, Laurence lay awake thinking about all that had happened to him. Yesterday he was living in one of the best homes in London. Now he was flat upon the floor of a floating church in the city of Liverpool without so much as a penny in his pocket.
What will happen to me?
he kept saying to himself.
What will happen?