Escape From Home (22 page)

T
he dock police who chased Ralph Toggs from beneath the porthole of the coastal schooner did not pursue him for long. Though they whirled their rattles loudly and demanded with angry authority that he stop, Toggs was too fast for them. They hurried back to the quay. When they reached the ship, no one was there, Laurence and Patrick having already fled.

But then, as far as the police were concerned, they had done their task. A theft had been prevented. After closing up the boat's porthole, the two constables returned to their posts and thought no more about the incident.

As for Toggs, he simply moved on to his favorite hiding place, an old warehouse in a serious state of ruin. He knew that, once inside, he was quite beyond discovery.

Though it was black as pitch past the entry, he easily made his way down a crumbling hall to a little room once used for coal storage.

Over a period of time, Toggs had furnished the room with an old rug, a few candle stubs, a blanket, even a small sack of cotton, which he used as a pillow.

Now he lay down on the rug, pulled the blanket over his body, and sat back against his pillow. With his hands behind his head, he thought over the day.

He would have been happier if that boy with the welt on his face had been successful in handing out some money. Since he had not, he, Toggs would have to find another way to impress that Irish girl.

The girl … Toggs did like to think about her. She was a comely lass, so slim, with her thick dark brown hair and blue eyes. He even liked it when she had been upset. Her face seemed pitiful then. He did wish he knew her name and wondered if she remembered his.

If he was going to impress her, he had to have money in his pocket. He considered his day's takings from running emigrants. It was not much, and in any case, most of it was supposed to go to Sergeant Rumpkin.

Ralph Toggs sighed. Yes, she was the girl for him. And he was determined to win her over. The question was, How? It was while thinking such thoughts that he fell asleep.

T
he dawn was still dim when Maura O'Connell woke. She rose up immediately and, in hopes that her brother had returned while she slept, searched the basement corners. All she discovered was what she most feared: Patrick was not to be found.

Greatly troubled, she made her way up the rickety stairs to the porch, stepping carefully over the sleepers in the halls. Outside, early morning light glimmered through the chill city haze, enough to reveal that Patrick was not on the porch either. Nor did Maura believe, as Mr. Drabble had suggested, that he was elsewhere in the house.

Shivering—more from tension than the raw frost—the girl sat upon the top porch step, drawing her shawl tightly about her head and neck.

Why ever did Patrick go?
she kept asking. What had happened to him? Had that Ralph Toggs done him harm? Or was Patrick simply lost, wandering somewhere in the city? Maura was almost afraid to know the answers. And when she reminded herself that they were meant to embark the next day, her dread increased. “
Patrick, where are you?
” she whispered to the air, and pressed a hand against her aching heart. If she lost him, surely she would die.

She must search for him. Yet she held back, wondering if it might not be wiser to wait for Mr. Drabble to awaken. The next moment she decided she must act alone. It was not prudent to be always depending on the actor's kindness. All in all, he was still a stranger. She could only hope she'd done nothing improper by being so much in his company. Though it was a small worry compared to her concern about Patrick, the thought troubled her.

Clutching her shawl around her, pushing her hair away from her worried blue eyes, Maura stepped into the muddy street. The cold morning air smelled foul. Walls of tall tenement buildings rose up and vanished into noxious mists that stung her eyes. It was hard to see far. Every few yards she paused to look around, struggling to memorize signs, shops, buildings, whatever might help guide her back to Mrs. Sonderbye's.

Despite the early hour, many people were passing. Their shoulders were hunched, their eyes hardly open. Hands were thrust deep in pockets. Maura kept wondering where these folk were going. Was it to work? What sort? The only work she knew was the work of home, the tending to fields, or the jobs in shops such as the one in Kilonny.

Maura had never been one to conjure visions of hell, but Liverpool, she thought, must be something like it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she whispered, shuddering and making the sign of the cross, “protect us all.” How, she wondered, could people live their lives pressed together so tightly in such a place? How utterly unlike her home.

She thought of Kilonny, so small, so tucked away in its ignored cranny of the world. What an insignificant spot it was! The thought startled her. Was that what she truly thought, that Kilonny was insignificant? Yes, she told herself, it was true. But how painful to acknowledge that one's own home mattered only to those few souls who lived there! A short time ago her entire life lay marked before her. With utter certainty she could have recited every task, every obligation, every stage of life until she became an old woman and died. Now, she realized, she could neither predict nor guess what she would be doing the next hour. The notion frightened her, not the least because she knew it excited her too.

She wandered on downhill, scrutinizing faces of strangers as they passed. Who were they? What were their lives like? It was not that she thought they might be Patrick in disguise. Rather, she kept wondering if their eyes had rested on him without their even knowing it and had retained—in some way—a hazy image of her dear brother. More than once she had to suppress the desire to look into their eyes, to ask if, indeed, any had seen him.

She stopped at a sign that read:

 

C
ATHOLIC
S
OCIETY FOR THE
P
ROTECTION
OF
A
BANDONED
I
RISH
B
OYS

 

She wondered if she should make inquiries within, only to scold herself—Patrick was lost, not abandoned.

Half an hour later Maura came upon two constables on a corner, a sheet of paper between them. They were talking earnestly, now and again pointing in one direction then another as if trying to decide which way to go. Maura decided to ask if they had seen Patrick.

Eyes cast down, she stood off a few paces, patiently waiting until they noticed her.

“Yes, miss, what can we do for you?” one of the constables asked finally.

“If it please Your Honor, it's my brother.”

“What about him, miss?”

“He disappeared last night and hasn't come back. I've been searching all over for him.”

The other constable laughed. “Ah, Miss Paddy, if we had to look for every Barry, Brian, and Bridgit who disappeared in Liverpool, it'd take an army of us. And what's more, we still wouldn't find them.”

“Faith, sir,” Maura pressed, “he's only twelve years old and a stranger to the city.”

The first constable, struck by Maura's earnestness, said, “We don't mean to banter, miss, but here we are already looking for a boy. It's a useless task.”

“What boy is that?” Maura asked, her hopes rising.

The constable held up the paper they had been consulting. “What's your brother's name?”

“Patrick, sir. Patrick O'Connell.”

“Well now,” the constable said, checking his paper, “this one's named Laurence. An English boy. They're making a point of not telling us much. No last name given but eleven years of age. Sandy hair. Fancy clothes gone ragged. A nasty welt on his face, right side. That wouldn't be your brother, would it?”

Disappointed, Maura shook her head.

“Are you sure your brother hasn't signed on some ship for crew?” the second constable asked.

“He'd never do such a thing!” Maura cried.

The constable grinned. “There are plenty that do, miss.”

Offended by the idea, Maura recoiled. As if Patrick would run away! Restored by something close to anger, she turned back toward Mrs. Sonderbye's. Perhaps, while she was gone, Patrick had returned. Folly to think so, she told herself. Folly not to, her heart cried.

The next moment she made herself stop and once again reversed herself. She would look for Patrick awhile yet before turning back.

F
red had a history no more lengthy than he was tall. His mother died when he was born. His father shortly after. They left him nothing, not even a last name. At eight he ran away from the Yorkshire workhouse in which he had been placed and came to Liverpool. For two years he had pursued many occupations: old-wood gatherer, dog finder, crossing sweeper, rat catcher, and finally, at the age of ten, runner. Considering his age and size, membership in the Lime Street Runners Association was not just an achievement, Fred felt it a great honor.

As far as he was concerned, he had but one rival and that was Ralph Toggs. Toggs was not just older, he was considered smarter. He knew how to read and was generally acknowledged as the wiliest at catching up emigrants. These attributes had made Toggs Sergeant Rumpkin's favorite. Fred's great ambition was to take Toggs's place in the sergeant's esteem. What's more, Fred was convinced he now had a way to achieve just that: He would find the missing London boy, a challenge about which Toggs knew nothing.

Fred lived in a dustbin at the end of Tumbler's Alley, a loose thread of a street that ran off Dunn's Court. Though he was one of six in the dustbin, it was usually Fred who left his bed of straw first each morning. Since he slept in his clothes, he could be on the street in a matter of moments. So it was on this Thursday. The city was still dark when, hands in pockets, breath steaming, he set out to find this Laurence Worthy.

From his experience, runaway boys who came to Liverpool headed straight for the docks. Accordingly, Fred headed there too, but only after pausing to purchase a breakfast of boiled black coffee and a stale roll.

In the two years since Fred had come to Liverpool, he had learned the docks wonderfully well. He knew countless shortcuts, dodges, and back ways. But that morning his knowledge was to no avail. He found no sign of Laurence in any of those places.

Moving on, he began searching among the many piles of goods on the quays. Perhaps the boy had holed up for the night. There were hundreds of these piles held up for want of customs clearance and fees or because of shippers' mistakes. It was while he was prowling along Queen's Dock that he suddenly heard a shout.

“Hello there, lad!”

Fred halted, looked about, and saw that a gray-bearded man was hailing him from the deck of a ship. It took another moment for Fred to realize in the misty dawn that the vessel was one of the chapel ships and the man hailing him a minister.

“You calling me, governor?” Fred called.

“Yes, you, lad,” Mr. Bartholomew said. “Might I have a word with you?”

Fred, curious though wary, strolled over. “What did you want?” he asked cheekily.

The minister, choosing to ignore the rudeness, said, “Young man, I wonder if I could entice you into doing a small favor. It's a matter of some importance.” He held up the letter regarding Laurence that he had written to Inspector Knox.

“If you would be so good as to deliver this, there will be a whole penny for you.”

Fred eyed the letter suspiciously. “Where's it going?”

“City Hall. The police headquarters.”

Fred, wanting nothing to do with the police, backed away.

“You see,” the minister confided in a whisper, “I have some lads on board whom I would rather not leave.”

The mention of lads brought a quick stop to Fred's retreat. Perhaps this was something worth investigating. “Well, I might deliver it,” he allowed.

“I cannot thank you enough,” Mr. Bartholomew enthused.

Fred made his way up the gangway. Once he was on deck, the minister handed him the letter with one hand, the penny with the other.

“Obliged, sir,” Fred said with an obedient tug to his ginger hair by way of respect.

“Now, lad,” the man said, “I would be derelict in my duty if I did not urge you to join us for morning service.”

Sensing Fred's hesitation he added, “I'm sure you can spare a few moments to hear the word of the Lord. And you won't be alone. Those other lads I mentioned will join you.”

That he might see these other lads was something Fred could not resist. “All right,” he agreed. “I will.”

“Good for you!” the minister cried, and led the boy into the chapel. “Take a seat. I'll return in a moment.” Suddenly he paused. “Young man,” he said, “if you could put that letter away … I'd much prefer it not be seen.”

“Yes, sir,” Fred said.

Fred stared at the letter, but since he could not read, he angrily shoved it into a pocket.

In moments Mr. Bartholomew returned herding a sleepy Patrick and Laurence before him. “Here we are, here we are,” the minister bubbled as he guided the two boys into seats. Rubbing their eyes and yawning, they slumped down.

Fred swiveled about to catch a look and, remembering Mr. Clemspool's description of the missing boy, knew he had found his prize.

“All right, my lads, I think we can begin,” Mr. Bartholomew said. He moved to the front of the chapel and prepared for the service.

Fred kept stealing glances at Laurence and Patrick. They looked so very ragged, he found it hard to believe that Laurence was connected to money, though it was true that he was, for one, wearing shoes.

Fred felt for the letter in his pocket. Could it have something to do with this Laurence? The minister had said he did not want it to be seen.

Mr. Bartholomew's deep bass voice filled the small chapel. Fred tried to be patient. But instead of giving his mind over to the sacred words, all he could think of was getting news of Laurence to Sergeant Rumpkin. So it was that halfway through the service, at a moment when the minister's back was turned, Fred bolted.

He did not stop running until he was a full quarter of a mile away from the chapel ship. When he paused, it was to think of where Sergeant Rumpkin would be at such an early hour. Presumably at breakfast at the Iron Duke.

That was a problem. It was a standing order in the association—an important order—that the sergeant was never to be troubled during meals. Fred was sure, however, that his news and, perhaps, the letter were important enough for a breaking of the rule.

After thinking through the fastest route, one that snaked in and out of some of the older warehouses and then out of the dock area, Fred took off at a hard trot.