Escape From Home

by Avi

  Clumsily, Laurence made his way to the same ladder and began to climb. It brought him into another cavern, one darker than below and, as far as he could see, smaller. He had to search for Fred.

  “Keep coming,” the boy called. He was on another ladder and moving up again. Laurence did the same. Fred waited at the top. It was hard to stand there, the broken deck being at a slant.

  “Here you go,” Fred said, gesturing toward a door. He worked his way forward and yanked the door open. Its hinges were rusty. They stepped inside the gloomy space, and Fred stuck the candle to the floor with a blob of wax.

  “Perfect, ain’t it?” he said with pride. “My special hiding place. The captain’s quarters.”

  Laurence peered around the small room. Its rear portholes were crudely boarded over. A bunk—no more than a ledge built into a wall—could be seen on one side of the room. Where the bowed wall met the raked floor, a collapsed table lay. A few cabinets—interiors empty—had their doors gone. All else had been stripped away. The angle of the decking made it impossible to stand properly.

  “Am I to stay here?” Laurence asked, looking about with dread.

  “If you don’t want anyone to find you, you are.”

  “But … but, there’s nothing,” Laurence said.

  “Just a few hours,” Fred assured him. “Then I’ll come back and fetch you.”

  Laurence leaned against one wall and covered his face with his hands. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “And let yourself be caught by Toggs?” Fred cautioned. “You don’t mean it. Not by half!”

  “But what if you don’t come back?” Laurence asked.

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll be back quick enough. Just blow out the candle, pop yourself onto the bunk, and take yourself a snooze while old Fred does all the work.” He was already halfway out the door.

  “Please, don’t go!”

  “Just a short time,” Fred insisted. The next instant he was gone.

  “Please, you mustn’t leave me …,” Laurence cried. He tried to follow, but, forgetting he was not on a level, he slipped and fell. He hit the floor hard, then rolled until he tumbled in a heap against the wall. There he lay, crying.

  Outside, Fred scampered across the tidal flats, pausing only to look back when he got to the top of the ridge. To his satisfaction he saw that the water was rising. The tide was coming in. No one would be able to get onto the hulks—or off.

  Aware that the Lime Street Runners Association was eager to find him, Fred slipped into the city with caution. As it was, he did spy one association runner—Mr. Orkin—on the prowl, but Fred avoided him without being seen.

  Upon reaching the docks, he approached a sentry box where a dock policeman was standing.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Fred asked, “can you tell me who’s running the packet Robert Peel? I’m to lead a gentleman over to her tomorrow.”

  The policeman ducked into his sentry box and returned leafing through a sheaf of papers. “That’s a Lazarus Brothers ship.”

  “Right then,” Fred cried. “Clarence Basin.”

  Near the northern end of the docks, Clarence Basin was big enough to berth thirty ships or more. There was a narrow portal to and from the Mersey River, with a pair of lifting bridges so that pedestrians and navvies could move around the ships with ease. On three sides of the basin—close to the ships—rose great warehouses.

  The basin was crowded with three-masted, full-rigged packet ships. Thousands of feet of rope, crossing and crisscrossing, gave the appearance of a gigantic spider’s web in whose midst sailors—like spiders—worked, tarring, splicing, and tying lines.

  From the quay Fred tried to pick out the Robert Peel. At first glance, all the ships seemed very much alike, the standard packet having three masts, copper-sheathed hulls, a short billethead, and an extended, steeply angled bowsprit. But finally by asking he found the Robert Peel. Looming tall, she was snug against the dock, her black-and-white bulwark newly washed and bright, a contrast to the dull copper of her hull. On the adjacent quay were bales of textiles and wooden crates. These were being taken out of the warehouse bale by bale, crate by crate, on barrows that men were rolling onto the ship.

  “You’ve got lots to load there, mate,” Fred called to one of the workers who was momentarily resting.

  “Aye, she sails tomorrow on the early tide,” the man replied. “We’ll be going all night.” He stood up, approached a crate, and from a pocket pulled out a piece of chalk. He made an X mark on the box.

  “The X means bottom hold, doesn’t it?” Fred asked.

  “Right-o. Sure thing. Any lower, and you’d have to swim it across. Top, bottom, fore, or aft—you want the weight distributed evenly, you know.”

  Fred watched the men work. When he saw a piece of chalk lying on the ground, he picked it up and pocketed it. Then he wandered among the crates and pulled at some of their slats, finally sauntering away as if nothing was on his mind. He approached one of the warehouses but was chased away. It did not matter. Fred had already decided how he would sneak Laurence on board.

  At 115 Waterloo Road, a wide avenue directly across from the docks, stood a large building with many windows and an elegant facade of architectural fancies.

  At street level, a door had been wedged open. Arranged in a lengthy line, shabbily dressed people were attempting to make their way inside. Most were encumbered with trunks and bundles, as well as children. An air of intense if silent agitation pervaded them all as they waited. From the look of them—weary, half-asleep—some had been in line for hours if not days.

  Across the front of the building was a large sign.

  LAZARUS BROTHERS—SHIPPING AGENTS

  With his one good eye, Mr. Grout gazed at it. “Wot’s that sign say?” he asked.

  Mr. Clemspool read it to him.

  “Right then,” Mr. Grout replied. “It’s wot we want, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Mr. Clemspool said, looking about furtively. Fearful that some policemen would notice him, he had insisted that they take a cab to the building. Now that they had arrived, he was being made anxious by the sight of a constable patrolling the fringes of the crowd.

  “Look at them Irish beggars,” Mr. Grout said scornfully.

  Mr. Clemspool sniffed. “I feel I am about to be reduced to traveling among cattle.”

  “Don’t yer worry none,” Mr. Grout assured him. “Mr. Grout only travels first class these days. Yer can ’ope for the same.”

  Mr. Clemspool waved away the insinuation. “I have an intense dislike for waiting in lines,” he said.

  “A flash of the old coin changes all that,” Mr. Grout assured him with a laugh. He started to move forward.

  Mr. Clemspool restrained him. “Do you think that constable is looking for me?”

  Mr. Grout grinned. “’Ere now, Mr. Clemspool, yer’ve grown wonderful sensitive, ’aven’t yer? Never noticed yer to be so worried about the law before.”

  “You know perfectly well what concerns me,” Mr. Clemspool snarled. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to be so dependent upon his former subordinate. “That Mr. Pickler may well have gone to the police about me. I don’t intend to wait upon the consequences.”

  “We ’ave got to get tickets somewhere,” Mr. Grout reminded him, “don’t we? These ’ere Lazarus Brothers seem to have ships sailin’ today and tomorrow. Are we goin’ or not?” Mr. Grout took a few coins into his hand and held them there in readiness.

  “I must,” Mr. Clemspool said with an air of heavy resignation.

  As the two men approached the line, the constable began to move toward them. Mr. Clemspool froze. The policeman, however, merely saluted. “Morning, gentlemen. Will you be needing to get inside?”

  “Right yer are,” Mr. Grout called. “We’re buyin’ first-class tickets.”

  “Step right this way,” the constable said. He moved toward the crowd and began barking orders. “All right now, make way for gentlemen! Stand
aside here! Let them through!” Cowering under the commands, most of the people moved. A few resisted. These the constable shoved aside with his hands or stick. A way was soon cleared. The officer turned. “Gentlemen,” he called, with a tip of his cap.

  “Thanks,” Mr. Grout replied, and led the way, dropping a coin into the constable’s hand as he and Mr. Clemspool passed into the building. Mr. Grout, catching sight of Mr. Clemspool’s apprehensive face, said, “Ain’t no better mask than a bit o’ coin, is there?”

  The two men stepped into a vestibule with a vaulted ceiling, marble floors, and walls of fine wood paneling. A sign on the wall read:

  TICKETS—STEERAGE

  A man could be seen through the ticket window. To its immediate right was a placard that listed the date, destination, and captain for each departing Lazarus Brothers ship for the next two weeks.

  Standing before the ticket window was an attendant trying to keep order among the jostled and harassed people in line. It was not easy. Those who had finally reached the window kept consulating the placard, their friends, and their purses, as all the while hopeful passengers were pushing and shoving behind them.

  As soon as Mr. Clemspool and Mr. Grout appeared, the attendant hastened to them. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  Mr. Grout extended a hand, thereby transferring a coin, and said, “We’ll be needin’ some tickets to America.”

  The attendant pocketed the coin without looking at it and bowed. “Please step right this way, gentlemen.” He beckoned to a door.

  They were led to an elegant room with fine wood floors and windows draped in velvet. The walls were covered with framed sea prints of stately ships under full sail. A few heavy upholstered chairs stood before a table, behind which sat a meticulously dressed man. A closed folder—bound in polished leather—lay before him. When Mr. Grout and Mr. Clemspool entered, he stood immediately.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to Lazarus Brothers. How may I be of service?”

  Mr. Clemspool stepped forward. “We have pressing business. What’s the first ship departing for America?”

  The man consulted his folder. “Well, sir, we have the Valiant. She leaves today, flood tide, which I think should be about seven P.M. She goes to New York. Very fast. Very good accommodations. First-rate captain. We have some places remaining, but, unfortunately, second class only.”

  Before Mr. Clemspool could assent, Mr. Grout said, “We’re only wantin’ first class.”

  The agent behind the desk eyed Mr. Grout momentarily. Then he murmured, “Very well,” and turned a page of his folder. “The Robert Peel, for Boston, leaving with tomorrow’s morning tide, approximately seven A.M. British registry. Captain Rickles in command. A first-rate packet. Very fast indeed—has made the crossing in thirty-five days. Alas, only two first-class cabins, and one has been taken by an American. If you want the remaining room, you must share it.”

  Mr. Grout shrugged. “’Ow much?”

  “Twenty-four pounds each, sir. I presume you gentlemen will share quarters. All meals included, and dinner at the captain’s table.”

  “I’ve got one question,” Mr. Grout said. The man looked up. “Anyone ever report a ghost on this ’ere ship?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A spirit, or some such like?”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” the man behind the table said with some indignation.

  “Just makin’ sure,” Mr. Grout said. “All right then, we’ve got a deal.” He slapped his hand on the table and, after a look at Mr. Clemspool, gave their names.

  “One formality,” the agent advised. “The medical exam. A government requirement, I’m afraid. They will stamp your tickets. And the ship’s officer at the point of embarkation is required to inspect all tickets to make sure the stamp is there. You need only indicate that you are traveling first class. Naturally, that speeds things along. Just a few steps away. On Ransom Street.”

  “I never thought I’d be required to leave the land of my birth,” Mr. Clemspool complained as they left the building.

  “America’s the land of promise, or so they calls it,” Mr. Grout informed him.

  “Land of safety,” Mr. Clemspool replied in his best sulky fashion, and reached into the air as if to pluck strings. But there were none, and he trudged along in gloomy silence.

  Ransom Street,” Mr. Grout announced shortly.

  It was a narrow mews, muddy underfoot, hemmed in upon three sides by stone buildings whose walls were plastered by posters announcing ship departures. At the far, closed end of the street was a building upon which was a sign:

  GOVERNMENT

  MEDICAL INSPECTOR’S OFFICE

  HOURS 10 TO 4

  The mews was choked with emigrants, all trying to enter the office at the same time. No police constable was there to enforce order.

  “Just follow me close,” Mr. Grout said. “I’ll get us in quick enough.” He waded into the crowd, crying, “Make way for gentlemen! Make way for gentlemen!” With Mr. Clemspool at his back, Mr. Grout moved forward. Suddenly he stopped.

  “’Ello,” he cried. “’Oo do we ’ave ’ere?”

  Pulled at rudely, a startled Mr. Drabble reached for Maura and Patrick even as he looked about. When he saw it was Mr. Grout, he immediately began to bow.

  “Mr. Grout, sir, I do apologize for not meeting you as planned, sir. Unfortunate circumstances—”

  “Don’t yer worry none, Mr. Drabble,” Mr. Grout assured him grandly. “I weren’t there meself.”

  “I am much relieved.”

  “Too much goin’ on,” Mr. Grout allowed. To Mr. Clemspool he said, “This is Mr. Drabble, the bloke who was goin’ to give me an education.”

  “A worthy task,” Mr. Clemspool muttered with disinterest. His sole desire was to get through the business at hand.

  “Are you here for the medical exam?” the actor inquired.

  “Leavin’ tomorrow, early tide,” Mr. Grout said.

  “So are we,” Mr. Drabble replied. “These are my friends the O’Connells.”

  Patrick, close to Maura, kept looking up at Mr. Grout, fascinated by his eye patch. Maura, who had formed a dislike for the man when she had met him with Mr. Drabble, kept her eyes averted.

  “Wot ship are yer takin’?” Mr. Grout asked.

  “The Robert Peel, I believe. Is that so, my dear?” he asked Maura.

  “It’s so,” she murmured.

  “Well, there’s a piece of good luck,” Mr. Grout enthused. “We’re goin’ on that one too. Yer can give me lessons as we go.”

  Mr. Drabble bowed again. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  “All right then,” Mr. Grout said. “’Ow yer travelin’?”

  “Steerage.”

  “We’re first class,” Mr. Grout said proudly. “Not to worry. We’ll find each other.” He was feeling the pressure of Mr. Clemspool’s hand upon his back, urging him to get on.

  “My pleasure, I assure you,” Mr. Drabble insisted, folding himself into a final deep bow.

  With Mr. Grout calling, “Make way for first-class passengers!” the two men pushed on until they entered the building.

  “Now there is a piece of uncommon fortune,” Mr. Drabble declared when the two had gone. “To think, Miss O’Connell, I’ll be earning some money as we sail. I’ll be able to repay you for the ticket and still have enough to start us off in America.”

  Maura, hearing the us among Mr. Drabble’s words, blushed. She feared the actor’s presumption but did not wish to say anything hurtful. Instead, she bit her lip and turned away until she recovered her composure. All she said was, “Mr. Grout is not a man I care for.”

  After another hour, Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble were able to enter the medical building. They stepped into a large, long, and bare room where the emigrants were divided into two lines. These lines worked their way to the end of the room, where two small tables had been placed. Behind each of these tables sat a medical examiner.

  There
was another half hour to wait before Mr. Drabble reached the table and faced the examiner. He was an older man, with small eyeglasses perched upon a thin red nose. His sparse gray hair was in shambles and the suit he wore was spotted with stains.

  “Ticket!” he demanded, slurring the single word.

  Mr. Drabble handed his ticket over. The examiner took it with a shaking hand but did not even look at it. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Gregory O’Connell.”

  “Are you well?” the examiner barked even as he scribbled the name Gregory O’Connell on the ticket.

  “I should think that on the whole I—”

  “Hold out your tongue! So I can see it!” the examiner demanded.

  Mr. Drabble bent down.

  The examiner barely glanced at Mr. Drabble’s protruding tongue. “All right!” he murmured. Picking up a stamping bar, he pressed it into a pad of black ink, then slapped it on Mr. Drabble’s ticket. With a pen he covered the mark with a scrawling signature.

  “Next!” he cried.

  Mr. Drabble was not sure he understood.

  “You’re healthy!” the examiner said. “Be off with you. Make room for the next.”

  Surprised, Mr. Drabble stepped away. In his place came Patrick. The examiner asked the boy the same questions he’d asked Mr. Drabble, passing him just as swiftly. Maura took no longer. Within moments all three were out the exit door and back on the street.

  “There, you see?” Mr. Drabble said. “No trouble at all. “Now we must purchase some provisions, then take ourselves to the quay and wait.”

  “Don’t they feed us on board?” Maura asked, remembering the Queen of the West.

  “They do, my dear. But from what I’ve been told, it’s never enough. All a question of what we can afford. Now that I’ll be earning as we go, we might get more.” He made a move to leave Ransom Street.

  It was then that Patrick said, “I have to wait for that boy.”