Escape From Home

by Avi

  On the quay, the boarding of the steerage passengers continued with painful slowness. The crush of people was suffocating. It was a strain just to keep upon one’s feet. Maura and Patrick managed to stay close together until they arrived, finally, at the gangway.

  “You there!” the constable cried, slapping the flat of his hand hard on Patrick’s chest to keep him from moving. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  An alarmed Patrick tried to stand firm. “Patrick O’Connell, Your Honor.”

  “Where you from?”

  “It’s Ireland, Your Honor.”

  “Kilonny, county Cork,” Maura intervened.

  “Let him talk for himself,” the constable insisted.

  “Ireland. Kilonny,” Patrick repeated.

  “Where’s your ticket?”

  Maura, straining to hold her own against the shoving of the crowd behind her, struggled to unpin her packet of tickets. These she showed to the constable. He inspected them carefully, looking repeatedly from the name on Patrick’s ticket to Patrick himself.

  “Let’s see your cheek,” the constable ordered, and he twisted Patrick’s face about, examining it intently.

  “All right then,” he said, clearly disappointed. “You can board.”

  Mr. Drabble, next in line, was quickly passed through. So was Maura.

  “Faith, Maura, I’m sure that constable was looking for Laurence,” Patrick whispered.

  “Shhh!” Maura hissed. “I don’t want to know!”

  The trio reached the top of the gangway. Once again tickets were asked for, produced, and accepted. “Get to the forecastle deck,” came the order.

  Under the watchful eye of several surly faced sailors, the three hastened to the short flight of steps that led to the forecastle deck, already crowded. Under sailors’ orders, all passengers were required to leave their piles of sacks, bags, trunks, chests, and mattresses on the main deck. The O’Connells were no exception.

  Patrick kept straining to take in the ship. Everything was very much bigger than on the boat from Ireland. But it was much more important to sleuth out some means of getting to Laurence.

  “Not so very difficult, was it now?” Mr. Drabble cried, his cheeks red with excitement. “To think I’m really here! And it’s to you, my dear Miss O’Connell, I am so deeply indebted for it all.”

  “Mr. Drabble,” Maura returned coolly. “We’re not yet safe upon the sea.”

  “It will happen, my dear,” Mr. Drabble cried. “It will happen!”

  More and more people kept crowding upon the forecastle deck. Babies screamed and children cried. Some adults wept openly.

  Patrick, leaning over the forecastle rail and looking into the ship’s waist, called, “They’re closing off the gangway!”

  No more passengers were being allowed on board, although some twenty, still on the quay, protested vehemently. Their cries—some screams—went unheeded.

  With a helping hand from the first mate, a top-hatted man climbed upon the rail. In his hand he held the ledger book.

  “All right! All right,” the man cried to the crowd before him. “You must listen to me now. The ship won’t sail until this is done.” He held up the book. “As a representative of Lazarus Brothers Shipping, I have in my hand the names of all passengers who have paid their way. I shall call these names. When you hear your name, step forward. I shall call your berth number too. Remember it. It will not be repeated. You may then go down the steps and wait upon the main deck.

  “All those who remain—whose names I do not call—will be summarily removed from this ship. There will be no arguments. You will go off! If you do not, you will be thrown overboard.”

  Without further fuss, the officer began to read names. “Albertson, Terrence!”

  “Aye!” cried a man.

  “Berth number one. To the deck!”

  With three hundred and fifty names to be called—and many to be mispronounced—the roll took considerable time.

  The merchants and hawkers who had managed to slip on board departed without ceremony. But when the roll call was done, five people remained on the forecastle deck. Their names had not been called. The two men, two women, and a boy of nine all insisted with great passion and tears that they had paid their passage money. Two even produced tickets that, they claimed, proved they had a right to be there. It made no difference. Sailors stepped forward and, taking hold of the begging, rejected passengers, forcibly ejected them from the ship.

  Captain Rickles looked over the scene with calm amusement. “Raucous, isn’t it?” he said, turning to Mr. Grout and Mr. Clemspool, who stood by his side, also looking on.

  “Is it always like this?” Mr. Clemspool asked. He was finding the embarkation distasteful.

  “Always,” insisted the captain in the mildest of tones. “And often worse.”

  “’Ow do yer mean, worse?” Mr. Grout asked.

  “Take my word for it, gentlemen, there are those who try to steal their way across.”

  “’Ow can they do that?”

  “Stowaways,” Captain Rickles replied smugly. “There’s not an emigrant ship out of Liverpool that isn’t plagued by ’em. You’d be amazed at how they try and hide themselves away.”

  “And how do you find them?” Mr. Clemspool inquired.

  “Actually, my crew—under the orders of my first mate, Mr. Murdock—enjoys hunting them down. Singular mind, Mr. Murdock’s. He watches them board, and from then on he’ll remember all their faces. If one appears later who isn’t regular, he’ll spot him.”

  “What ’appens when yer nab ’em?” asked Mr. Grout.

  “It all depends on when we find them,” the captain replied with a smile. “If we are still in the river here, we can toss them overboard. They can swim home. A little farther out, we can send them back with the pilot boat. But if we’re already upon the seas when they’re discovered, we can make them work their passage over. Or, for that matter, tar and feather them.”

  “Yer don’t!” Mr. Grout cried.

  “If they are scurvy enough, sir, I’ve done so and with pleasure.”

  “Serves them right too,” Mr. Clemspool agreed. “Every man should pay his way.”

  Mr. Grout turned to look at his companion with irritation.

  “Perhaps,” the captain said, “you’d like to go along with Mr. Murdock when he leads the search party. Only a matter of moments now.”

  Mr. Grout laughed. “I’m game for it. Bit of sport, yer might say.”

  “It is that,” the captain agreed with a laugh. “They take pikes to poke into sacks and barrels, as well as hammers to get into crates. Great sport. I’ll have the first mate take you along. What’s more, gentlemen, if we catch anyone, I shall let you decide what we do with them.”

  “Be some fun in that,” Mr. Grout agreed with a grin.

  “Just pitch him overboard,” Mr. Clemspool grumbled.

  Sailors were swarming all about the ship, hauling in lines, casting them off. A bell began to sound again. This time, however, the bell came from a steam lighter that was approaching the Robert Peel.

  Once the lighter took on lines from the ship, she commenced to back up. Trembling, the packet began to move. The passengers, even those with tearstained faces, gave a shout.

  Mr. Drabble suddenly leaped upon the bulwark and, holding on to the ratlines with one hand while gesturing with his other, proclaimed, “‘Thus I turn my back. There is a world elsewhere!’ Coriolanus.”

  Under her breath and with eyes closed, Maura began to pray. Impulsively, she reached out, took Patrick’s hand, and brought it to her mouth to kiss. She had remembered her mother’s words: “It would be better for me to die at home. The earth will know me there.”

  “Oh, Patrick,” Maura murmured as much to herself as to her brother, “what earth will know me?”

  “Sure, Maura, it doesn’t matter what earth,” Patrick replied. “It’s where Da will be waiting.”

  “Let me have your attention, please,” the f
irst mate cried out from the forecastle deck. “In a short time you’ll be allowed to go to your berths below. But first, we’ll be making our search for stowaways. Let me warn you people now, if any of you have hidden someone among your possessions, or have assisted a stowaway, both you and he will be returned to Liverpool. There will be no exceptions. What’s more, if you know of any stowaways on the boat, you’d best come forward now, and it will go a bit better for them.”

  Patrick felt Maura’s hand clamp down upon his shoulder and squeeze. He trembled.

  At 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.”

  AVI’s work spans nearly every genre and has received nearly every major prize, including the Newbery Medal for Crispin: The Cross of Lead and Newbery Honors for Nothing but the Truth and The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. Avi lives in Denver, Colorado. You can visit him online at www.avi-writer.com.

  Also by Avi

  Midnight Magic

  Murder at Midnight

  Nothing but the Truth

  Perloo the Bold

  Something Upstairs

  The True Confessions
of Charlotte Doyle

  This book was originally published in hardcover by Orchard Books in 1996.

  Copyright © 1996 by Avi. All rights reserved.

  Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  This edition first printing, March 2012

  Cover art by Cathy Choi

  Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll

  eISBN 978-0-545-39247-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.