Escape From Home (33 page)

A
t the far northern end of the Liverpool docks, Mr. Pickler paced up and down along the quay of Sandon Basin. With each turn, he stared nervously out at the river, now and again applying the telescope to his eye and scanning the passing vessels. Though many boats had already gone by, he was quite sure no emigrant ships had sailed. Even so, he felt tense, his mood swinging wildly between hope and frustration.

All that morning, he had been receiving reports from the police that they'd had no sightings of Laurence. Twice, some boys ran up and spoke to Toggs. Mr. Pickler recognized them as members of Sergeant Rumpkin's association. He tried not to notice them. Why had he allowed himself to work with such riffraff? Because he had failed, he told himself miserably. And he had failed because he had been too willing to believe Lord Kirkle. I do not question others enough, he said to himself. Then he added, I do not question myself. Deeply agitated, he resumed his pacing.

Would he have done things differently if Lord Kirkle had told him the truth, he fretted, had admitted that the boy ran away because he'd been beaten? Mr. Pickler did not know. Perhaps he might not have taken on the case. It certainly would have been better if he had not.

For a while he continued to stare glumly at the river. Small boats, with their red-and-tan sails, seemed to be flitting about aimlessly, like his thoughts. Now and again he thought of his own children. It soothed him to think they were safe with their mother.

He turned to look reproachfully at Toggs idling in the little skiff—oars at the ready—on the basin side of the bridge. The young man, with his brash cocky manner, was an affront to him.

One hour later, yet another boy rushed up and yelled down to Toggs.

Mr. Pickler hurried over.

“This is Orkin,” Toggs called. “You remember him. Seems he saw Fred last night. Tried to catch him. But couldn't.”

“Fred?” asked a puzzled Mr. Pickler. “Who is Fred?”

“The one who took your boy off.”

Mr. Pickler blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Toggs said, “the one who got your Laurence off that chapel ship, the one who's trying to get him stowed on a packet. Sergeant told you about him.”

“Sergeant Rumpkin never spoke such a name to me,” Mr. Pickler snapped. “This is the first I have heard of any Fred!”

With a shrug, Toggs looked to Orkin. “Better tell the gentleman what you knows.”

“Yes, sir,” Orkin said. “Begging your pardon, but this here Fred—”

“Who is
Fred
?” cried Mr. Pickler, completely exasperated.

“Used to be in the association.”

“And you say Laurence was connected to him?”

“Yes, sir. The thing is, I saw Fred hanging about the ship
Robert Peel
.”

“The
Robert Peel
?” Mr. Pickler echoed dumbly.

“Yes, sir, he was.”

“Did you see Laurence?”

“No, sir. It was Fred I was trying to get at. But he probably knows where your boy is. Except Fred got away.”

“When did you see him?”

“Like I said, last night, by the
Robert Peel
.”

“Last night?” cried Mr. Pickler. “Then why am I learning about this only just now?”

The boy backed away. “I was waiting on the sergeant, sir, for him to be up this morning. See, he's most particular about being disturbed at his meals. We all knows that. Told us so again last night. It's one of his major orders. But when I finally did tell him—after his breakfast—he told me to trot double time here, which I just did.”

Mr. Pickler shouted down to Toggs. “And you say this Fred has been the one helping Laurence get away? And you knew it?”

“That's how Sergeant figures it,” Toggs said sheepishly.

Mr. Pickler whirled about and stalked back out to the end of the quay. As he watched, a packet ship, pulled by a steam lighter, approached midriver. The lighter dropped away, and the packet's sails began to unfurl and fill with wind. Heeling slightly, the ship glided down the choppy river.

Mr. Pickler lifted his telescope to an eye. By the ship's bowsprit he could just make out the name,
Robert Peel
. “Toggs!” he cried. “Come here.”

The young man clambered out of the skiff and onto the quay.

“I believe that's the
Robert Peel
!” Mr. Pickler cried, thrusting the telescope at Toggs.

Toggs looked for himself. “That's it,” he agreed.

“We must reach it,” Mr. Pickler snapped. “I have to board it.”

They ran back to the skiff. Toggs climbed in first, taking up the oars from the center seat. Mr. Pickler all but jumped into the stern.

“Push us off,” Toggs called to Orkin. The boy did, and the moment they were cleared, Toggs leaned into the oars and began to row.

“Hurry!” Mr. Pickler cried.

The skiff shot forward, as Toggs, using deft short strokes, drove them toward the narrow basin entrance under the bridge. Just before they reached the bridge, a voice hailed them. “There you are, Ralph Toggs! I knew I'd get you!”

Mr. Pickler looked up. So did Toggs. Standing on the bridge above was Fred. In his hands, high over his head, he held, tremblingly, a large building stone. Even as Mr. Pickler and Toggs spotted him, he hurled the stone down. It struck the skiff just inside its bow, punching a hole right through its wooden bottom. Water began to pour in. The skiff foundered.

Toggs leaped up, only to have the boat shift beneath his feet. He tumbled into the water, splashing about frantically. “Help!” he cried. “I can't swim! I can't swim!”

Mr. Pickler, who could swim, clung to the boat. His bowler floated away. He started to reach for it only to let it go. Instead, with his free hand he snatched at one of the oars floating by and thrust it toward Toggs, who grabbed it. Kicking, Mr. Pickler struggled to propel them back toward the quay. As he did, he turned, just in time to see the
Robert Peel
sail by.

Upon the bridge, Fred leaned over, shouting, “Huzzah! Huzzah for them who has no names!” then rushed away.

 

Upon the
Robert Peel
, deep within the bottom hold, in the dark crate, Laurence waited. Had it been a day, less than a day, or two days? He hardly knew. Sometimes he was awake, other times he slept, though he was never quite sure which was which. For long stretches of time he thought—or did he dream?—of nothing but food and water. Other times he remembered his London home and family. He cried then. Most generally, his thoughts drifted from notion to notion without connections or conclusions. At times he was certain he was seeing Fred before him or Mr. Clemspool or the man who had robbed him in London or Toggs or Patrick. And with each sighting came an endless drift of anxiety, frights, and regrets.

Now, at last, he began to sense that something was happening. The crate was swaying gently. Did that mean the ship was under sail? Would Patrick be coming for him now? “Please, please,” Laurence prayed out loud, “let Patrick come. If he doesn't, I'll die in here. I know I will.”