Escape From Home (30 page)

N
ot far from the open-air food stalls in the Haymarket, Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble squatted by three cloth bags, one each of rice, oatmeal, and flour, as well as an open tin can.

“I do hope you were right to buy these things, Mr. Drabble,” Maura said to the actor. “We have only a few pennies left us.”

“My dear, let me assure you again, it's money well spent. We will need these provisions for the voyage.”

“Besides, Maura,” Patrick said, “hasn't Da grown rich? He'll not begrudge us any.”

Maura shook her head. “It's being short of cash and only just starting that troubles me. I was certain Father Mahoney said they would feed us on the boat,” she said.

“And so they will,” Mr. Drabble explained. “Be so kind as to show me your tickets.”

Maura unpinned her packet and offered them to Mr. Drabble. “There, you see?” he said, holding up one ticket. “Here's what they promise:

“That's more than we had at home, Maura,” Patrick reminded his sister. “We're like to grow fat on that.”

“True enough,” Mr. Drabble agreed. “Though much depends on the ship's master. As for these”—he waved his hands over the food—“you know me for the optimist I am, my dear, but one can never be certain how long the voyage will take. Better to have too much than too little.” He touched the can. “And something to hold the water.”

“On the boat from Ireland, they gave us nothing,” Maura told him. “And kept us in the open all the way, even though it stormed.”

“It will not be so on
this
voyage,” Mr. Drabble assured her. “I can give you my word about that.”

She glanced up. The sun was sinking rapidly. “I only wish we were on our way.”

“Maura,” Patrick suddenly asked, “are we not getting our bundle from Mrs. Sonderbye's?”

Maura looked at him. “Why, that's true,” she said. “I had forgotten. She took it when we arrived.”

“My dear,” Mr. Drabble cautioned, “I'm not certain it's wise to go there. You heard what that boy said about the runner—”

“Ralph Toggs,” said Patrick.

“Exactly. If he's lurking about, we wouldn't want to meet him, would we? Not in the dark.”

“But those are things we'll be needing,” Maura protested.

“Now, Miss O'Connell, I think you'd best take my advice on this. I'm here to protect you.”

Maura bridled. “Mr. Drabble,” she said, “haven't I listened to you in much of this? And no doubt you know more than I. But surely that woman has no right to our things. It's all we have. As it was, we lost one bundle.”

“Very well, my dear, if you insist.” Mr. Drabble sighed. “But I shall go with you. It will be safer.”

With that, they gathered up their provisions and set off for the lodging house. But no sooner did they turn the last corner onto the street where the house was than they saw Ralph Toggs standing on the porch steps, talking to Mrs. Sonderbye.

“It's him!” Patrick cried.

“Who?” Mr. Drabble asked.

“The runner Ralph Toggs.”

Mr. Drabble held out his arms to keep the others from advancing. “My dears,” he whispered, “I really think—”

Maura ducked around him. “Mr. Drabble,” she said, “I can deal with that one myself.” Tossing her hair away from her face, she moved to the foot of the steps. Ignoring Toggs, she called, “Mrs. Sonderbye!”

Hearing her name called, Mrs. Sonderbye looked down. Toggs, when he realized it was Maura, snatched off his hat. “There you are, missy. You're the one I was asking about,” he said.

“And why would you be doing that?” Maura demanded.

“Toggs's the name. Did you forget? I met you at your boat and brought you here. You and your brother.”

“Of course I remember. But my business is with Mrs. Sonderbye and not you.”

Toggs paid no mind to her words. “I'm glad you recall me. After I left you, I thought of a better place for you to stay. It's probably something you'd find more to your liking. I'd be happy to take you there.”

Maura, her blue eyes fierce, stared right at him. “And why, Mr. Toggs,” she said, “should I be listening to you after the things you told us were nothing but lies?”

“What lies?”

“That this was a decent place and that the Union House was burned to the ground.”

“Now see here, miss,” Toggs replied, coming partway down the porch steps, “I was only doing my business. You needn't have paid heed to me.”

“Lurking about and making trouble for the likes of poor strangers like us,” Maura went on. “You should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage. You're nothing but a troublemaker!”

Toggs slapped his hat back onto his head. “Is that what you think?” he returned. “I suppose that's why I'm working for the police.”

“The police?”

“Came to me special, they did. So, Miss Paddy, if you don't take care, I'll just make sure you won't get on any ship soon.”

Maura paled. “What do you mean?”

Toggs, sensing his advantage, grinned wickedly. “There are ways and ways to keep a body off a ship. If I were you, I'd mind my manners. I was only trying to show you some kindness.” He reached out and put his hand on Maura's arm. She froze.

“Keep your hands off that young woman!” Mr. Drabble cried, taking a prizefighter's stance and holding up his fists.

Toggs glared at Mr. Drabble menacingly.

“Step away from her,” Mr. Drabble insisted, making a few feints.

Toggs smirked, took a step forward, cocked his arm, and threw a punch that landed on Mr. Drabble's chest. The actor, spun about by the force of the blow, tumbled to the ground. Toggs stood over him, threatening to strike again. Mr. Drabble cringed.

“Maura!” Patrick cried. “Get away!”

A laughing Toggs gave Mr. Drabble a kick. Then he turned back to Maura. “If that's the kind of fellow you prefer, you can have—” Toggs did not finish his words. Maura slapped him hard across the face with the flat of her hand.

“Be off with you!” she cried in fury. “You're nothing but a brute!”

Taken more by surprise than pained, Toggs turned scarlet and backed away. “Stupid Paddy!” he spit out. “Don't think you'll be leaving Liverpool by any ship soon. Not if I have anything to do with it!”

“Be off with you!” Maura cried again, and stamped her foot. “Or you'll get yourself a slap to the other side of your lying face!”

Toggs turned and ran off.

Patrick watched him go with glee. Then he turned back to Maura. She was kneeling by Mr. Drabble's side.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She could hardly keep from crying.

“My dear,” the actor replied tremulously, “I can cast a spell upon the stage, but in life I'm no more than a useless prop. You have saved me when I thought I was saving you.”

“Wasn't she positively fierce with him!” Patrick crowed.

“I'm sure she was,” Mr. Drabble said.

With Maura and Patrick's help, the man climbed to his feet and brushed himself to hide his embarrassment.

“Stay here,” Maura said. “I'll fetch the bundle.”

“Wait!” the actor called. “I must get my Shakespeare.”

Maura stepped toward the porch only to find Mrs. Sonderbye blocking the way, her beefy arms folded over her great bulk.

“That's all you Irish is good for, fighting,” the woman cried, her face redder than ever. “Well, I won't have you staying if you're like that. This is a respectable, law-abiding house.”

“If you give me the bundle you took from us when we arrived yesterday, mistress,” Maura replied, “we'll go.”

“It's in the front parlor. You can get it yourself, and then be off. All of you. You'll get no refund either. As for you,” Mrs. Sonderbye said to Mr. Drabble, “you call yourself an actor, but you're only a conceited fool, knowing nothing but words from a book. No bloody use to anyone.” She stepped aside.

While Patrick stayed on the street to guard their food, Mr. Drabble hurried toward the basement. Maura went into the parlor, which was filled like a refuse bin with bundles and boxes. Though it took time, she was able to find hers. She carried it out to Patrick. Not long after, Mr. Drabble appeared with his own small bag.

“Now get away from here!” Mrs. Sonderbye cried. “The lot of you!”

“Maura,” said Patrick, as they crossed the street, “what if Ralph Toggs can keep us off the ship?”

“Preposterous!” Mr. Drabble sputtered. “It can't be done. An Englishman has his rights!”

The chilly night was already upon them when, forty-five minutes later, they reached Clarence Basin. Illuminated by warehouse lights, the
Robert Peel
lay on the northern side, looking not very different from the other packets.

Two gangways had already been deployed, running from the ship to the quay. On one, navvies were hauling kegs, bales, chests, and boxes into the ship's hold. Some of these things they carried on their backs. Others required barrows. On the second gangway, more men, empty-handed except for their barrows, returned to fetch more goods.

Mr. Drabble, Maura, and Patrick moved as close to the ship as they could, then searched for a place to wait. Some seventy people had already set down their bundles and were camped about the quay. From the look of them, Maura and Patrick assumed most were from Ireland.

Mr. Drabble found space at the base of a gas lamp. There they settled down for the long wait.

“And when will they be letting us on board?” Maura asked.

“Tomorrow morning, early,” Mr. Drabble assured her.

“If that Ralph Toggs does nothing,” Patrick added gloomily. He had noticed a police constable standing guard by the gangway.

H
olding a newly lit candle in his hand, Fred woke Laurence. “Should be about time now.”

Laurence sat up sleepily. “But there's water all about,” he said.

“Should be low tide again,” Fred said. “We'll be able to walk it easy.”

“Where are we going?”

“We're going to get you on the
Robert Peel
, that's where. Far away from everybody as wants to get you. Come on now, we've got a ways.”

Laurence rolled off the bunk and followed Fred into the hull. In the candlelight, Laurence saw that, as Fred had predicted, the water was almost all gone.

They splashed through the hull. Once they emerged from the boat, Laurence looked up. A bright moon cast a shimmering light over the river and made the path before them seem almost on fire. Fred blew out the candle and put it in its hiding place.

“This way,” he said. Laurence followed.

Just before reaching the shore, Fred bent over and scooped up some black mud. “Come here,” he called.

“What for?” Laurence asked.

“Your welt is too particular. You'll want to muck it a bit.” With a few strokes of his hand, Fred smudged Laurence's face on both sides. “There you are,” he said. “Now you look like a regular nobody.”

They headed north back into the city. Hardly speaking to each other, Fred always in the lead, they made their way through dark streets. Only once did Fred stop.

“That's where I live,” he said, pointing into a shadowy alley.

Laurence looked. All he could make out was a muddy lane worming between decayed buildings on the verge of collapse. “Where?” he asked, truly curious.

“Down at the end. Nothing much. Not like your house. I'd like to see that.”

Laurence shook his head. “You can't.”

Fred looked around. “What do you mean?”

“I made all that up.”

Fred studied Laurence, trying to decide if he was being teased. But the grimy sadness that filled Lawrence's face would admit to no fancy. Grinning, Fred gave him a playful poke. “Well, I didn't think it was true. Too fine for the likes of us. But I don't care, I'll get you away from Ralph Toggs anyway.”

They pressed on, stopping again when they came upon a crowd of sailors, shouting and laughing as they danced around a street fire to the wild strains of an old fiddler. White-haired, his back bent no less than his elbow, the man tore after his tune as though to challenge the dancers to see which would drop first, he, they, or the melody.

The two boys watched. “Like tykes, aren't they?” Fred said.

When they came down out of town and neared the docks, Fred halted again. Now the only light came from the dull gas lamps placed fifty yards apart and from dimly lit windows across wide Regent Street. “You might as well know,” Fred cautioned with a sly grin, “this won't be all that easy.”

Laurence felt his heart skip. “What do we have to do?”

“First off,” Fred said quietly, “we got to get you into the warehouse.”

“Why?”

“You'll see. Ready?”

“I suppose.”

“Come on then.”

Fred approached a wall built of great stone blocks. It extended without gaps in both directions along the road for as far as Laurence could see.

“Think you can climb it?” Fred asked.

Laurence had to lean back to look up. The wall was at least twenty feet tall.

“Not so hard,” Fred said encouragingly. “The way the stones fit, it's almost like a ladder.” He pressed Laurence's hand to the wall. The wall surface was jagged, with the mortar between the stones set deep. “Like steps. Now mind, sometimes there are guards. So we have to do it fast.”

“What if they catch us?”

“Don't you worry none. I've climbed the like so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. I'll go first. That way I can pull you over.”

After checking to make sure they were not being observed, Fred reached high and sprang up. Lizardlike, he slithered to the top in a matter of seconds. Once there, he swiveled around, belly flat, and peered down.

“Now it's your turn,” he called. “Just do it right quick.”

Laurence reached over his head, curled his fingers around the edges of a stone, and pulled while scrambling with his feet. Up he went.

“That's right!” Fred encouraged. “You're doing it just fine!”

Clinging to the rocks with one hand, face pressed against the rough, cold stone, Laurence stuck out his other hand and again pulled, kicking and clambering until he felt Fred's hand grip his hair.

“Got you!” Fred said, pulling until Laurence reached the top. Once there, he lay panting for breath.

“You're a good one,” Fred insisted. “I thought you'd be. But fast now, roll on down.” Fred did as he said, dropping below on the inside of the wall.

Laurence stared after him. Fred's pale face gazed up from the darkness like a pale moon.

“Come on!” Fred cried. “Good as before!”

Laurence twisted about, let his feet dangle, then dropped. Failing to push himself far enough away from the wall, he scraped against it, then fell, landing so hard, he toppled onto his back. The shock took his wind away.

Fred hovered over him. “You all right?” he asked.

“I … think so.”

“That's all the hard part there is,” Fred assured him as he offered a hand to help Laurence get back on his feet.

“Where are we?” Laurence asked.

“Clarence Basin. We could have walked in, regular. But bet you double farthings it's being watched.”

“For what?”

“
You
. Come on now. The rest is old bread.”

Before them rose the basin warehouse, an immense redbrick building with only a few windows. Behind some of these, lights flickered faintly.

Fred took them along one wall of the building. At ground level there were many iron doors. He kept trying them until he found an open one. “In here!” he called. Before Laurence realized what Fred was doing, he was pulled inside.

They found themselves in a long iron-beamed hall. The tiny flames of lofty oil lamps seemed to create more gloom than light below the thirty-foot-high brick ceilings. Piles of crates, barrels, and bales were shadowy presences looming on all sides. At the far end of the warehouse, where the light was better, Laurence saw men busily coming and going.

Fred pointed to a nearby crate. “See this label?” he whispered. “Everything here has one. You said you could read. You got to read the labels for me. Find one that says which ship it's going on. We want the
Robert Peel
.”

Laurence moved quietly up and down the dim aisles, squinting at the crates and their labels. “Here's one,” he called in a whisper.

Fred hurried over. “Stand up against it.”

“Why?”

“So we can see if you fit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're going inside.”

“
Inside
?” Laurence cried, aghast.

“Shhh! Don't need to worry none. It won't be for long. But this here is too small. Find another. Go on, do it.” He gave the suddenly reluctant Laurence a shove.

Laurence kept looking and soon found a bigger crate. Made of rough wood, it was about two feet wide and five feet tall. Fred pushed Laurence against it.

“That should do,” the younger boy said. “Now go fetch that barrow over there.”

Laurence went to a heavy barrow, swung it about, then wheeled it to where Fred was hard at work, pulling at one of the crate slats. It barely budged.

“Give a hand,” Fred summoned.

The two pulled together. The board groaned.

“Not too fast,” Fred cautioned. “We'll need those nails.”

They worked three boards out gradually. Once they were pulled free, Fred leaned into the gap and fished inside with a hand. “Hats!” he exclaimed. He plucked out a tall one and, giggling, dropped it on his head. It came down over his nose.

“Look like a bloody swell, don't I?” Fred said, imitating upper-class talk while walking with mincing steps. As Fred snatched off the hat, Laurence smiled—the first smile Fred had seen from him. “But we can't fool now,” Fred said. “Come on.”

Together they took out all the other hats and hid them behind another crate. As soon as the first crate was empty, Fred said, “Got to put the boards back on.”

“I thought I was getting in it,” Laurence said.

“Not now.”

They replaced the boards. “All right then,” Fred instructed, “we got to get the box on the barrow.”

With much pulling and shoving, the boys maneuvered the barrow close to the crate, then tipped it in. Though the crate fit awkwardly, it stayed.

“What we want to do,” Fred explained, “is get this thing on your boat.”

Working side by side, they readied the barrow with the crate on it. Under Fred's direction, they wheeled it down the long warehouse corridor.

“Don't you say a thing,” Fred cautioned. “I'll do all the talking.”

They trundled toward the brighter end of the warehouse. There was little talk as the workers, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, hoisted the heavy goods and hauled them out of the building into the darkness. Fred and Laurence, looking not so different from the others, attracted no notice.

On the shadowy quay, Fred paused and scanned the ghostly ships. As a workman passed, he called, “Where's the
Robert Peel
, mate?”

“At the end,” the man said, not even pausing to look at his questioner.

Fred called a casual thanks. “This way,” he murmured to Laurence, his voice low. “And keep your face down.”

Despite the warning, Laurence kept stealing quick glances to see where they were. Off to one side, he thought he caught a glimpse of a crowd of emigrants sitting among their possessions. “I think I see Patrick,” Laurence said.

“Keep your face down!” Fred hissed. Laurence did as he was told.

Approaching the gangway, they were forced to stop. A man with a lantern and a sheaf of papers was examining every load going on board. Standing next to him was a police constable.