Escape From Home (24 page)

Y
ou will find the society home a great blessing, Mr. Patrick,” Mr. Bartholomew said, his hand firmly upon the boy's shoulder. As they passed through the docks, he was keeping to a fearful pace.

Patrick barely listened to the minister's words. He was trying to decide the right moment to break away and run for freedom.

“Father Kiley, the principal, is a generous, bighearted man,” the minister went on. “All the lads are quite devoted to him. And, Mr. Patrick—no small thing—not once have I heard any complaints about the food. So you see it will be a happy time for you, I'm sure.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick said.

After passing by the last of the dock police stations, they paused before crossing the wide congested street known as the Strand.

Patrick looked about. He was sure he remembered buildings and signs from the time they had followed Ralph Toggs to the lodging house.

“As to how long you will remain there, that's for Father Kiley to decide,” the minister went on. “Generally, it will be until he finds you suitable employment. That usually takes two months or so. But it can be the making of you, Mr. Patrick. I've seen it happen many times.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“He may even teach you to read.”

Patrick looked around. “I can read,” he said.

“Can you? Well, Mr. Patrick, I'm both surprised and gratified to hear it,” Mr. Bartholomew said as he moved them forward, threading their way through the wagons, carts, and carriages that crowded the road.

A hansom cab loomed up before them. The horse came so close, Mr. Bartholomew had to step back. In so doing, his grip on Patrick loosened, just the chance Patrick had been waiting for. Giving a sudden twist to his shoulder, he freed himself. Instantly, he darted forward, cutting in front of a large wagon filled with bales of textiles all labeled “Shagwell Cotton Mill.” Clearing the wagon, Patrick skipped across the road. Once on the other side, he plunged into a narrow street and began to race up through the city.

Mr. Bartholomew was taken entirely by surprise. “Mr. Patrick! Stop! Halt!” he cried. “You mustn't go! I'm trying to help you!” He attempted to follow, but the wagon blocked his way. Endeavoring to sidestep it, he was stopped by a man pushing a barrow. By the time he reached the other side of the road, Patrick had vanished.

Winded, frustrated, the minister looked up and down the busy street. He had lost Patrick for sure. The thought made his heart heavy.

Then he reminded himself there was still a chance to do some good. That is, there was Laurence. He hesitated, wondering if he should just go back to the
Charity
. The question was, did that red-headed boy deliver the letter or not?

After looking about to take his bearings, the minister realized he was closer to police headquarters than to the chapel boat. Would the English boy wait as he'd been told to? There was something about the boy—better breeding perhaps—that suggested he would indeed keep his word. It seemed, therefore, most efficient to go to the police. With renewed vigor, the Reverend Mr. Gideon Bartholomew set off uphill.

O
n the
Charity
, Laurence remained in his chair for a long time. Periodically he sipped at the remainder of his tepid tea, but the silence that surrounded him contributed to his feeling of being very alone.

Slowly, painfully, he weighed what had just happened: First he had found a solution to his problems—Patrick's ticket to America—only to have it snatched away. Though he knew he should feel upset, he gradually became aware that he did not. He wondered why. Was not the chance to go to America
exactly
what he had desired? Yes, he kept telling himself,
yes
. What then was the matter with him? Why was he feeling … relieved not to have it?

Bit by bit, Laurence began to grasp the truth.
Going to America would be a mistake
. He did not want to go. He wanted to be home. He wanted to beg forgiveness of his father. His brother, Albert, might bully him again, but nothing that happened at home could be as bad as what he had experienced since running away. He wanted to be Sir Laurence Kirkle, not Laurence Worthy.

“Sir Laurence Kirkle,” he said out loud. It felt good to say it.

Laurence took a deep breath, the freshest he'd drawn since leaving home. He felt taller. Lighter. Happier. If only the minister were not taking so long to return!

Itching with impatience, Laurence made his way out on the deck of the chapel ship. Observing the docks by daylight, he saw for the first time how vast they were, how many ships they could accommodate. And people…. Everywhere he looked, there were milling crowds! Their numbers, their beggarly state alarmed him. What a relief it was that he need have nothing to do with any of it. No longer Laurence Worthy, he was Sir Laurence Kirkle, who stood beyond and above it all.

“Sst! Hey, boy!” came a call.

Laurence needed a moment to realize that the call was directed at him and that it came from the quay below. He looked down. There was Fred.

“Were you calling to me, boy?” Laurence demanded in a voice tinged again with a tone of superiority.

“I was,” Fred cried, “if your name is Laurence. Is it?”

“It is, yes. And why do you ask?”

“Don't you remember me?” Fred said. “I was in the chapel with you and your friend before. Fred's the name.”

“It was impolite of you to run off,” Laurence informed him loftily.

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn't stay around either. Not for a minute.”

“What are you talking about?” Laurence asked, annoyed at this ginger-haired boy's presumption.

“They're coming after you.”

“Coming after me?” Laurence echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Ever hear of the Lime Street Runners Association?”

Laurence shook his head.

“Well, you know about Sergeant Rumpkin, don't you?”

“Is this some kind of jest?” Laurence snapped, and started to turn away dismissively.

“Then how about Ralph Toggs?”

Laurence stopped short. “What—what about him?” he stammered.

“They're all out to catch you, that's what.”

“
Catch me
?” Laurence echoed again. “What are you saying?”

“Ever hear of a Mr. Matthew Clemspool?”

Laurence leaped back to the rail. “How do you know of him?”

“He's a London gent, ain't he? And didn't he go to the Lime Street Runners Association—which is Sergeant Rumpkin, Ralph Toggs, and a whole flock of stupid sheep—and say if they got hold of you and handed you over, he'd give a whole two-quid reward?”

Laurence's mouth fell open with shock.

“And Sergeant Rumpkin and Ralph Toggs and all the Lime Street runners said they'd find you for him. Why, I'd bet you ticks to tumblers they're galloping here right now. So if you don't move, and move quick, they'll snatch you certain and hand you over to that Clemspool bloke.”

“They're coming
here
?”

“That's what I'm telling you.”

“But … but how do you know this?” asked Laurence.

“Never mind how,” said Fred grimly. “I just do. And what I'm saying is you better move unless you want to be catched.”

“But where can I go?”

“Don't you have any friend to hide you?” Fred asked.

“That other boy who was here,” cried an increasingly panicked Laurence, “the Irish one. Patrick. He said he had a ticket for me so I could go to America. But now he's gone.”

“Where?”

“Some … society. A society for Irish boys.”

“Did he have the ticket with him?”

“He said his sister had it.”

“Where's this sister at?”

“At a … a Mrs. Sonderbye's.”

“Mrs. Sonderbye's! Nothing to it. I can take you there easy. Come on!”

Laurence, not sure what to do, felt unable to move.

Fred charged halfway up the gangway. “Can't you hear me!” he shouted. “I'm telling you they're coming!”

Laurence looked back toward the chapel. Should he not wait for Mr. Bartholomew? Surely the minister would protect him. But what if those others arrived first?

“I'll not answer for it if you don't move fast,” Fred pressed.

“But the minister …”

“Fiddle the minister! He's no better than the others.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“He was informing the police on you.”

“Mr. Bartholomew … informing the police?” Laurence gasped, hardly able to breathe much less speak. “On me?”

“Didn't he give me a letter for them that was all about you?”

Laurence was flabbergasted. “But—but,” he stammered, “why?”

“That Clemspool fellow said you were connected to money.”

“But—”

“Well, any boy I ever knew who had money stole it,” Fred said. “Isn't that what you did? Steal money?”

Fred's words struck like a sledgehammer on Laurence's heart. He turned deathly pale. His legs all but buckled.

Fred went up to the deck and plucked at Laurence's sleeve. “All I'm saying is you better get that ticket from your friend and sail off. It's your only hope. They're coming for you, all of 'em! Right now!”

D
o you think Fred went to warn that Laurence off?” an impatient Toggs asked when the sergeant, wheezing and red faced, bade him stop yet again for a rest. They still had a distance to go before reaching the docks.

“Not a chance,” the sergeant replied as he mopped his sweating brow with his handkerchief. “He may be angry, but he's loyal.”

“Maybe I should go ahead and check,” Toggs suggested. All he could think of was taunting his rival again.

“You're not to do it,” the sergeant ordered. “I need to be there myself.”
He
had fixed his mind on the reward money and wanted to make sure the boys' feud would not interfere.

“What's so special about this Laurence anyway?” Toggs wanted to know.

“A good soldier doesn't ask,” the sergeant replied. In fact, he had wondered as much himself, but he was not about to share that with his underling. “All you need to know, Mr. Toggs, is we have to get him.”

“You might tell me what he looks like.”

Sergeant Rumpkin mulled over the suggestion while purchasing a paper twist of nuts from a vendor. “Eleven years of age,” he said, cracking a walnut in his hands and prying out the meats with his slender fingers. “In fancy clothes but ragged. With a long welt on his face, here.”

“Welt!” cried Toggs. “Crikey! I had that boy last night.”

Sergeant Rumpkin, momentarily neglecting the nuts, looked up. “Mr. Toggs, be so good as to make a report.”

“Remember I told you how I was hiding from the dock police last night? Well, it was because of that boy.”

“More, Mr. Toggs, more!”

Toggs told his story, but as he related it, the theft from the boat was all Laurence's idea. As for the police coming and giving chase, that too was Laurence's fault, though how it happened Toggs hardly made clear.

Having listened to the tale, Sergeant Rumpkin shook his head and mopped his chins. “Look here, Mr. Toggs, I don't like that sort of thing. The running profession is fine enough. No one interferes. We don't need the trouble common looting brings. Discipline in the ranks, Mr. Toggs. It's what worked at Waterloo…. It will serve us well in Liverpool,” he concluded as he finished off the nuts and scattered the shell bits to the wind.

“It was only a lark,” Toggs replied. “Besides, it wasn't me on that boat. Didn't even touch the cash box. That boy done it.”

“Did he get the money?”

“Must have.”

“Well then,” Sergeant Rumpkin said thoughtfully, “no wonder that minister was informing the police. He probably caught the boy out. Go on now, I'm ready.”

As they continued on, Toggs asked, “What if that minister is holding the boy?”

“Leave that to me.”

After some minutes of hard walking and more and more frequent stopping, the two came upon the chapel ship. “There she is,” Toggs said.

Sergeant Rumpkin held up his hand. “Halt and reconnoiter,” he commanded.

They paused to study the boat. “Ever been on her?” the sergeant asked in a low voice.

“Never!” Toggs replied as if the question were a serious insult.

“Now mind, Mr. Toggs, no advances on your own. Strictly under orders. Do you understand me? The boy might be desperate.”

“Don't worry about me,” Toggs said. “I can handle any boy.”

“All right then, let us lay siege.”

With Sergeant Rumpkin in the lead, they crept up the gangway and onto the
Charity
. Once on deck, however, they stopped. There was no one to be seen.

“He must be below,” Toggs whispered.

The sergeant nodded and moved forward, treading softly.

Toggs eyed each and every place big enough to hold a boy but saw no sign of Laurence.

Sergeant Rumpkin rapped on the chapel door. “Anyone here?” He edged the door open and stuck his head inside. The chapel was deserted.

They entered cautiously. When the hall proved empty, they proceeded into the adjacent rooms.

“Think he could be hiding in the hold?” Toggs asked.

“You can look if you care to, Mr. Toggs,” the sergeant answered, “but I should doubt it. I think the minister took him prisoner and hauled him to the police on his own.”

“Or maybe Fred took him,” Toggs suggested.

Frowning, the sergeant considered the idea. “Wouldn't dare,” he decided.

Toggs hastened away to the hold but soon returned.

“Report!” ordered the sergeant.

“Just this,” Toggs said. In his hands was Laurence's torn clothing. “I think it's what he was wearing when I saw him.”

The sergeant swore under his breath and returned to the deck to stare out over the busy docks.

Toggs, following, said, “I'll bet you anything Fred went to the police just to spite you.” He dumped Laurence's clothing on the deck.

“The police!” the sergeant growled. “If he's done so, it's grounds for a court-martial.”

“You saw how hot he was when he ran off,” Toggs reminded him. “Keen to do something.”

Sergeant Rumpkin, his sense of indignation growing, puffed himself up. “Mr. Toggs,” he pronounced, “if that Fred has committed such a vicious act of treason, he will be punished for it or I'll take my pension and retire!

“Here are my orders. I shall return to the Iron Duke. Once there, I'll call in the troops and make sure they don't interrupt me at breakfast again. Then they can redouble their search for this Laurence. And for that rapscallion Fred too.

“As for you, Mr. Toggs, you are to go to police headquarters, where that minister was sending his letter. Maybe you're right and Fred went there. Reconnoiter. Determine the lay of the land. Then come back to me.”

Toggs saluted and started down the gangway.

“Mr. Toggs!” Sergeant Rumpkin called.

Toggs looked back over his shoulder.

“If you see Fred, you're to capture him and march him to me. No more! No less! Discipline! That's an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Toggs agreed with a grin, and hurried off at double time.