The Escape From Home

by Avi

  Fred shook his head. “This boy here needs to get out of Liverpool.”

  Maura descended the steps. “Mr. Laurence,” she said, “it was Patrick who told me your name…. It’s not for me to be your judge. But did you know the police are searching everywhere for you?”

  Laurence recoiled. “The police?” he cried.

  “It’s true,” Maura said. “They read your name from a paper to me.”

  “It’s all Ralph Toggs’s doing,” Fred cried.

  “Why, what about Mr. Toggs?” Maura demanded.

  “He’s the one causing all this trouble.”

  “But how?” she asked.

  “Because he’s a thief and a swindler,” Fred exclaimed. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll clear yourselves out of this place. That Toggs will track you down and do you harm like he’s done me and this boy here.”

  “But … what am I going to do?” Laurence said, wholly consumed with his own plight. “I have to get away!”

  “Don’t you worry none,” Fred said. “I’ll keep you from Toggs.”

  “See here, my good fellow,” Mr. Drabble joined in, “what is this all about?”

  “This boy needs to get on an emigrant ship, fast,” said Fred. “Before they grab him.”

  “Who will grab him?” Mr. Drabble asked.

  Fred ticked them off on his fingers: “There’s Sergeant Rumpkin, there’s Toggs, there’s that Mr. Clemspool, there’s the minister, and, like this lady says, there’s all the police in Liverpool.”

  Mr. Drabble looked at Laurence with astonishment. “But, good heavens, my boy,” he exclaimed, “what ghastly things have you done?”

  Laurence, too stunned, could not reply.

  “Sure, he’s done nothing,” Patrick insisted. “It’s what this boy says. It’s all that Toggs’s doing.”

  “Isn’t that the runner who led you here?” Mr. Drabble asked of Maura.

  Deeply upset by Laurence’s anguish, she could only nod. The fact that he too was a victim of Toggs only intensified her sympathy.

  “This boy may be right, my dear,” Mr. Drabble said with some agitation. “These runners can be quite ruthless. It might be wise to heed his warning.”

  “Ruthless ain’t half of it!” Fred agreed. “When it comes to Toggs, I’ll not answer for it if he gets his hands on anyone here.”

  Patrick turned to his sister. “Maura, we have to help him.”

  “Patrick,” she reminded him, “we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “What ship are you going on?” Fred asked.

  “The Robert Peel,” Maura said without thinking of the consequences.

  “All right then, I’ll get this boy aboard her,” Fred announced. “You can take care of him once he’s there.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mr. Drabble demanded. “You heard the boy say there is no ticket.”

  “He don’t need a ticket,” Fred said. “I’ll get him on as a stowaway.”

  “But that’s against the law!” Mr. Drabble cried.

  Laurence’s heart tumbled.

  “Don’t you worry yourselves about it,” Fred insisted. “It’s been done before. It’ll be done again. Nothing to it.”

  “And I for one will help you,” Patrick said to Laurence.

  “Bully for you,” said Fred. “Stowaways can’t work proper unless they’ve got a friend on board.”

  “I’ll do it,” Patrick vowed to Laurence. “I give you my word I will.”

  “Good enough,” Fred said. “I’ll make arrangements.”

  Once again Mr. Drabble tried to intervene. “But, see here, boy, we can’t take responsibility—”

  “Maybe you can’t, but we can,” Fred insisted. He turned to Laurence. “Come on. We won’t lay about here.”

  “We’re going to the medical exam,” Patrick said.

  “That will be Ransom Street,” Fred called as he began to drag Laurence away. “I’ll find you there!”

  “You must keep your promise this time!” Laurence shouted over his shoulder to Patrick. “You must!”

  “I will!” Patrick returned. He stood watching the two until they turned a corner.

  No sooner had they gone than Maura approached her brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Patrick,” she said softly, “why are the police looking for that poor boy? What’s he done?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrick said. “And I don’t care. Wasn’t that Mr. Morgan looking for me when I did no wrong? He’s depending on me, Maura. I won’t be failing him again.”

  “But, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Maura pleaded, “we mustn’t have trouble with the police here too. The boy is unfortunate. I could see it with my own eyes. But don’t we need to be taking care of ourselves first? I shouldn’t have told him the name of the ship. Promise me you’ll do no more for him.”

  Before Patrick could respond, Mr. Drabble interceded. “Now, now, my dears,” he said, “what I’m concerned about is your Mr. Toggs. We don’t want any of his mischief to stand between us and our departure, do we?”

  “It’s true what that other boy said about Ralph Toggs,” Patrick insisted. “He is a villain.”

  Mr. Drabble turned to Maura. “Have you the tickets with you?”

  Maura put a hand to where her packet was pinned. “I do.”

  “May I suggest we go immediately to the medical examiners? There’s no saying how long the lines will be.”

  “Will it be the Ransom Street place?” asked Patrick.

  “There is no choice,” Mr. Drabble informed him.

  The three set off at once.

  Here it is,” Ralph Toggs announced. “Mrs. Sonderbye’s.” Mr. Pickler gazed with dismay at the wretched building. “And you say people live here?” he asked, finding it difficult to believe that anyone should desire to stay in such dismal conditions.

  “One of the best,” Toggs assured him. He stood before the porch steps. “Mrs. Sonderbye!” he called. “Are you about?”

  The red-faced landlady emerged, blinking at the daylight. “Who you got this time?” she demanded.

  “Not that at all,” Toggs said quickly. “This here gentleman is looking for someone.” He gestured toward Mr. Pickler who, reluctant to draw closer, had remained standing on the street below.

  Mrs. Sonderbye considered the investigator suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “The name is Phineas Pickler, madam. I am from London but working closely with the Liverpool police.”

  Mrs. Sonderbye’s face turned dark. “This is a respectable house,” she cried. “Nothing illegal here.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the kind, madam. I am merely looking for a boy by the name of Laurence.”

  Mrs. Sonderbye turned to Toggs. “That someone you brought?” she asked.

  “Not me,” the young man replied.

  “I don’t have anyone by that name,” the woman declared to Mr. Pickler. “But you can search for yourself. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  Though loath to enter the building, Mr. Pickler, with Laurence’s clothing still in hand, forced himself up to the porch. Toggs—in hopes of finding Maura—started to follow. Mrs. Sonderbye blocked his way with an arm. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “I’m his assistant.”

  “Is he?” the woman demanded.

  The investigator had been staring down the hallway with deep disgust. The chaos, the smell, and the filth assaulted him.

  “Would you tell her I’m your assistant, Mr. Pickler!” Toggs called.

  The man swallowed his revulsion. “Yes, I suppose you are,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Sonderbye let Toggs pass.

  A half hour’s grim search yielded no Laurence for Mr. Pickler, no Maura for Toggs.

  Once outside again the investigator felt obliged to use his handkerchief to wipe off his hands and face. He felt as if his very soul had been dirtied.

  “Where are we going to look now?” Toggs asked him.

  “Somewhere else in L
iverpool,” the man confessed gloomily.

  Toggs touched his hat with a finger. “Happy to be of help, mate,” he said.

  The two set off. A deeply despondent Mr. Pickler—having no idea what to do next—could barely hold his head up.

  “What you need, mate,” said Toggs, “is lots of eyes.”

  “The police, you mean. Yes, I suppose I should return there.” Mr. Pickler recalled the list of ships that Inspector Knox had offered the day before. Though it would be uncomfortable to ask for it, he knew now he had need of it.

  “No, sir, I was thinking something better. Know anything about runners?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You see,” Toggs explained, “lots of emigrants come off the ships here in Liverpool. Mostly Irish—and an ignorant, filthy lot they are. Can’t speak the language proper and don’t know where to stop before they board the packet ships. We runners find them lodgings.”

  Mr. Pickler, suppressing the urge to inform Toggs that his own mother was Irish, only said, “Do these people pay for this service?”

  “Not a farthing, mate. It’s all Christian kindness on our part. It’s the lodge keeper who pays the fees. All up and up, and perfectly legal.”

  “And Mrs. Sonderbye’s is just such a lodging place?”

  “It is, sir, but it’s a scurvy one. There’s lots better to be had. That’s the whole point. We runners guide the folks to decent places. Not that the Irish care.”

  Mr. Pickler wished he could walk away. But he could not. “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Toggs?”

  “There are a troop of us runners—the Lime Street Runners Association—who know the city like the inside of our boots. Led by Sergeant Rumpkin, who fought at Waterloo next to the Iron Duke himself. You could hire us out to help find your boy. We’d find him, sure as daylight.”

  Mr. Pickler, kneading Laurence’s old clothing in frustration, felt himself on the verge of tears. There was Inspector Knox…. But he had been so sarcastic, so unhelpful. The investigator looked resignedly at Toggs. That he must turn for help from such … And yet … “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Toggs. If you could take me to this Sergeant Rumpkin of yours, I would appreciate it.”

  Where are we going?” Laurence asked. Fred had rushed Laurence through one twisted, crowded, and muddy street after another. Now they stood in a dank narrow alley, surrounded by buildings on the verge of collapse but nonetheless reaching high enough above them to blot out the winter sun. Laurence felt he was in a long narrow room. But they were hardly alone. Vendors were hawking rags, rotten vegetables, and stale bread from pushcarts everywhere. And to Laurence’s astonishment, people were buying.

  “We need to find a place where you can hide while I work out the rest,” Fred said.

  “What’s the rest?” Laurence asked.

  “You’re getting on a boat for America, aren’t you?” an exasperated Fred returned. “Isn’t that what we’re about?”

  Laurence leaned against a wall, uttering a small moan.

  “It’s either that or you’ll be caught up by all them people looking for you,” Fred reminded him.

  “But why are they all trying to catch me?” Laurence wondered tearfully. “What do they want with me?”

  Fred could not hide a look of scorn. “Because you’ve got money stuck all over you, that’s why.”

  “But I have nothing!” Laurence wailed.

  “Come on,” Fred said, “don’t go waxing the truth. How much did you snap?”

  “Snap?”

  “Steal.”

  Laurence stared at his feet. Then he murmured, “One thousand pounds.”

  “One thousand quid!” Fred cried in astonishment. “Where is it?”

  “It was taken from me.”

  Fred stared at Laurence. “I’ll admit, you don’t act like a thief. But I don’t care. All I want is that you don’t get caught by Toggs. You don’t want that either, do you?”

  Laurence looked up and down the horrid street. The narrow alley gave him the feeling of being crushed while the swarms of people pressing by, oblivious to his presence, intensified his feelings of isolation. Everything seemed terribly wrong. If he could only find a place to stop, he might think out what to do. “I need to rest,” he said.

  “I’ll take you to a place where you can rest all you want.”

  “All right,” Laurence said.

  “This way then,” Fred said.

  They soon reached the dock area. It was as crowded as ever with people, carts, horses. Laurence hardly looked where they were going. So it was that when Fred came to an abrupt stop, Laurence banged into him.

  “Hold it!” Fred warned.

  Laurence looked over the younger boy’s shoulder. Standing some fifteen yards before them were four boys side by side, blocking the way. “Fred!” cried one of them. “Sergeant Rumpkin wants you!”

  “Tom Spofford,” Fred shouted back, “I’m off the association. And you can tell Sergeant it’s because of Toggs!” Fred grabbed hold of Laurence and began to pull him back the way they had just come.

  Laurence glanced over his shoulder. The four boys were in pursuit.

  “Here!” Fred yelled, making a sharp turn and racing through a maze of barrels and boxes into a small shack, only to burst out its back door. A slow-moving horse and wagon was passing by.

  “Jump on!” Fred called. He leaped on the wagon, spun about on his knees, and held out a hand to Laurence, who, running frantically behind, grabbed the offered hand and allowed himself to be hauled on.

  “Now lie flat!” Fred ordered in a hard whisper. “And don’t you move or talk none!”

  Laurence, terribly frightened, did as he was told.

  With the driver unaware of his passengers, the cart rumbled on for a while.

  “Now off,” Fred cried, and he scrambled down onto the road. Laurence obeyed, only to tumble and fall to his knees. Fred jerked him up. “This way,” he cried. They staggered behind a building. Fred crept to the corner of the building and looked out. “Good, we’ve lost ’em.”

  “Who were they?” Laurence managed to ask. He was completely spent. One of his knees was bleeding. “Why were they after me?”

  “The Lime Street Runners Association,” Fred said. “It’s Toggs again.”

  Laurence closed his eyes.

  Fred glanced up at the sky to determine the time. “Tides are low,” he said. “I can take you to my best spot. Skip the docks entirely.”

  Laurence shook his head. He did not want to move.

  “Come on now,” Fred said more kindly. “You can rest all you want when we get where I’m taking you.”

  Laurence still didn’t move.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  Laurence shook his head.

  “Who else you gonna trust?”

  “Patrick.”

  “First me,” Fred said with a grin. “Then your Patrick.”

  They turned south along Grafton Street. The farther they went, the less grand grew the buildings. Crowds thinned. Now and again an open patch of land was to be seen and beyond that the river. The street had become a muddy track. Crumbling cottages and broken shanties lined the way. As they pressed on, Laurence saw what looked to be fishermen’s nets spread to dry. There were also small boats hauled high. The city was behind them.

  They came upon a ridge overlooking the Mersey River. The river itself lay roughly two hundred yards beyond tidal flats of rocks and black sand. The stench of seaweed and rotting fish was intense. A brackish stream wound its crooked way from land to river, where rickety wooden docks had been built.

  Midway between where the boys were standing and where the river flowed lay what Laurence thought was no more than a vast mound of tangled planking, spars, and rope. But when he stared at it, he realized he was seeing the remains of beached and broken sailing ships abandoned to rot.

  “The hulks,” Fred proclaimed with triumph, pointing to the old ships, “that’s where we’ll hide you. No one will find you there.” />
  Laurence’s heart sank. “Hulks!” he cried. “Are they prison hulks?”

  Fred shook his head. “Not these. But the best hiding place in the world.”

  Laurence gazed at the hulks bleakly. “How long will we have to stay?”

  “Got to find that ship—the Robert Peel—they’re sailing on,” Fred explained. “Find out when she’s going. Then I’ll find a way to get you on and let your friend know how and where I’m doing it. Takes time, all that.

  “Come on,” he urged, and he skittered down the ridge. Laurence hesitated for a few moments but then followed. They moved across the flats. Though now and again they had to skirt puddles of water, the black sand was firm beneath their feet.

  From the ridge, the hulks had seemed one mass. As they drew closer, Laurence realized how distinct the old ships were, standing more than fifty feet over his head. There were, in fact, three ships heeled over, hulls sprung, their masts and spars intertwined in a tangled mass of ropes and tackle like discarded bird’s nests. Patches of seaweed and algae grew everywhere, glossing the rotten wood with a sickly green sheen.

  “Here we go,” Fred called. He was standing by a ship’s bow that was, in part, staved in. Above it rose an old figurehead in the shape of a great bird. Only half a beak remained. Its colors were faded. The ship’s name—Seahawk—was barely legible.

  Reaching high over his head, Fred pulled out a board and removed a candle. He lit it with a match.

  “We’ll need to climb some,” Fred warned. Reaching up, he took hold of a jagged end of wood and hoisted himself high, then disappeared within the hulk.

  For a second Laurence considered running away. But he could see for himself there was nowhere to go. Besides, he had no energy left. Resigned, he grabbed the same jagged piece Fred had used and hauled himself into the ship.

  By the light of Fred’s candle, he saw great ribs of wood encircling him, ribs that stuck out from what looked like a monstrous backbone that ran down the length of the open area. Laurence’s first sensation was that he—like Jonah—had entered into the dim belly of a giant fish. He could see that the planking of the hull had given way in numerous places, enough to let light, sand, and seaweed seep in.

  “Over here,” Fred called. He was standing by a ladder that dangled from above. The next moment, he scampered up and disappeared.