The Escape From Home

  Bit by bit, Laurence began to grasp the truth. Going to America would be a mistake. He did not want to go. He wanted to be home. He wanted to beg forgiveness of his father. His brother, Albert, might bully him again, but nothing that happened at home could be as bad as what he had experienced since running away. He wanted to be Sir Laurence Kirkle, not Laurence Worthy.

  “Sir Laurence Kirkle,” he said out loud. It felt good to say it.

  Laurence took a deep breath, the freshest he’d drawn since leaving home. He felt taller. Lighter. Happier. If only the minister were not taking so long to return!

  Itching with impatience, Laurence made his way out on the deck of the chapel ship. Observing the docks by daylight, he saw for the first time how vast they were, how many ships they could accommodate. And people…. Everywhere he looked, there were milling crowds! Their numbers, their beggarly state alarmed him. What a relief it was that he need have nothing to do with any of it. No longer Laurence Worthy, he was Sir Laurence Kirkle, who stood beyond and above it all.

  “Sst! Hey, boy!” came a call.

  Laurence needed a moment to realize that the call was directed at him and that it came from the quay below. He looked down. There was Fred.

  “Were you calling to me, boy?” Laurence demanded in a voice tinged again with a tone of superiority.

  “I was,” Fred cried, “if your name is Laurence. Is it?”

  “It is, yes. And why do you ask?”

  “Don’t you remember me?” Fred said. “I was in the chapel with you and your friend before. Fred’s the name.”

  “It was impolite of you to run off,” Laurence informed him loftily.

  “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t stay around either. Not for a minute.”

  “What are you talking about?” Laurence asked, annoyed at this ginger-haired boy’s presumption.

  “They’re coming after you.”

  “Coming after me?” Laurence echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “Ever hear of the Lime Street Runners Association?”

  Laurence shook his head.

  “Well, you know about Sergeant Rumpkin, don’t you?”

  “Is this some kind of jest?” Laurence snapped, and started to turn away dismissively.

  “Then how about Ralph Toggs?”

  Laurence stopped short. “What—what about him?” he stammered.

  “They’re all out to catch you, that’s what.”

  “Catch me?” Laurence echoed again. “What are you saying?”

  “Ever hear of a Mr. Matthew Clemspool?”

  Laurence leaped back to the rail. “How do you know of him?”

  “He’s a London gent, ain’t he? And didn’t he go to the Lime Street Runners Association—which is Sergeant Rumpkin, Ralph Toggs, and a whole flock of stupid sheep—and say if they got hold of you and handed you over, he’d give a whole two-quid reward?”

  Laurence’s mouth fell open with shock.

  “And Sergeant Rumpkin and Ralph Toggs and all the Lime Street runners said they’d find you for him. Why, I’d bet you ticks to tumblers they’re galloping here right now. So if you don’t move, and move quick, they’ll snatch you certain and hand you over to that Clemspool bloke.”

  “They’re coming here?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “But … but how do you know this?” asked Laurence.

  “Never mind how,” said Fred grimly. “I just do. And what I’m saying is you better move unless you want to be catched.”

  “But where can I go?”

  “Don’t you have any friend to hide you?” Fred asked.

  “That other boy who was here,” cried an increasingly panicked Laurence, “the Irish one. Patrick. He said he had a ticket for me so I could go to America. But now he’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “Some … society. A society for Irish boys.”

  “Did he have the ticket with him?”

  “He said his sister had it.”

  “Where’s this sister at?”

  “At a … a Mrs. Sonderbye’s.”

  “Mrs. Sonderbye’s! Nothing to it. I can take you there easy. Come on!”

  Laurence, not sure what to do, felt unable to move.

  Fred charged halfway up the gangway. “Can’t you hear me!” he shouted. “I’m telling you they’re coming!”

  Laurence looked back toward the chapel. Should he not wait for Mr. Bartholomew? Surely the minister would protect him. But what if those others arrived first?

  “I’ll not answer for it if you don’t move fast,” Fred pressed.

  “But the minister …”

  “Fiddle the minister! He’s no better than the others.”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “He was informing the police on you.”

  “Mr. Bartholomew … informing the police?” Laurence gasped, hardly able to breathe much less speak. “On me?”

  “Didn’t he give me a letter for them that was all about you?”

  Laurence was flabbergasted. “But—but,” he stammered, “why?”

  “That Clemspool fellow said you were connected to money.”

  “But—”

  “Well, any boy I ever knew who had money stole it,” Fred said. “Isn’t that what you did? Steal money?”

  Fred’s words struck like a sledgehammer on Laurence’s heart. He turned deathly pale. His legs all but buckled.

  Fred went up to the deck and plucked at Laurence’s sleeve. “All I’m saying is you better get that ticket from your friend and sail off. It’s your only hope. They’re coming for you, all of ’em! Right now!”

  Do you think Fred went to warn that Laurence off?” an impatient Toggs asked when the sergeant, wheezing and red faced, bade him stop yet again for a rest. They still had a distance to go before reaching the docks.

  “Not a chance,” the sergeant replied as he mopped his sweating brow with his handkerchief. “He may be angry, but he’s loyal.”

  “Maybe I should go ahead and check,” Toggs suggested. All he could think of was taunting his rival again.

  “You’re not to do it,” the sergeant ordered. “I need to be there myself.” He had fixed his mind on the reward money and wanted to make sure the boys’ feud would not interfere.

  “What’s so special about this Laurence anyway?” Toggs wanted to know.

  “A good soldier doesn’t ask,” the sergeant replied. In fact, he had wondered as much himself, but he was not about to share that with his underling. “All you need to know, Mr. Toggs, is we have to get him.”

  “You might tell me what he looks like.”

  Sergeant Rumpkin mulled over the suggestion while purchasing a paper twist of nuts from a vendor. “Eleven years of age,” he said, cracking a walnut in his hands and prying out the meats with his slender fingers. “In fancy clothes but ragged. With a long welt on his face, here.”

  “Welt!” cried Toggs. “Crikey! I had that boy last night.”

  Sergeant Rumpkin, momentarily neglecting the nuts, looked up. “Mr. Toggs, be so good as to make a report.”

  “Remember I told you how I was hiding from the dock police last night? Well, it was because of that boy.”

  “More, Mr. Toggs, more!”

  Toggs told his story, but as he related it, the theft from the boat was all Laurence’s idea. As for the police coming and giving chase, that too was Laurence’s fault, though how it happened Toggs hardly made clear.

  Having listened to the tale, Sergeant Rumpkin shook his head and mopped his chins. “Look here, Mr. Toggs, I don’t like that sort of thing. The running profession is fine enough. No one interferes. We don’t need the trouble common looting brings. Discipline in the ranks, Mr. Toggs. It’s what worked at Waterloo…. It will serve us well in Liverpool,” he concluded as he finished off the nuts and scattered the shell bits to the wind.

  “It was only a lark,” Toggs replied. “Besides, it wasn’t me on that boat. Didn’t even touch the cash box. That boy done it.
”

  “Did he get the money?”

  “Must have.”

  “Well then,” Sergeant Rumpkin said thoughtfully, “no wonder that minister was informing the police. He probably caught the boy out. Go on now, I’m ready.”

  As they continued on, Toggs asked, “What if that minister is holding the boy?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  After some minutes of hard walking and more and more frequent stopping, the two came upon the chapel ship. “There she is,” Toggs said.

  Sergeant Rumpkin held up his hand. “Halt and reconnoiter,” he commanded.

  They paused to study the boat. “Ever been on her?” the sergeant asked in a low voice.

  “Never!” Toggs replied as if the question were a serious insult.

  “Now mind, Mr. Toggs, no advances on your own. Strictly under orders. Do you understand me? The boy might be desperate.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Toggs said. “I can handle any boy.”

  “All right then, let us lay siege.”

  With Sergeant Rumpkin in the lead, they crept up the gangway and onto the Charity. Once on deck, however, they stopped. There was no one to be seen.

  “He must be below,” Toggs whispered.

  The sergeant nodded and moved forward, treading softly.

  Toggs eyed each and every place big enough to hold a boy but saw no sign of Laurence.

  Sergeant Rumpkin rapped on the chapel door. “Anyone here?” He edged the door open and stuck his head inside. The chapel was deserted.

  They entered cautiously. When the hall proved empty, they proceeded into the adjacent rooms.

  “Think he could be hiding in the hold?” Toggs asked.

  “You can look if you care to, Mr. Toggs,” the sergeant answered, “but I should doubt it. I think the minister took him prisoner and hauled him to the police on his own.”

  “Or maybe Fred took him,” Toggs suggested.

  Frowning, the sergeant considered the idea. “Wouldn’t dare,” he decided.

  Toggs hastened away to the hold but soon returned.

  “Report!” ordered the sergeant.

  “Just this,” Toggs said. In his hands was Laurence’s torn clothing. “I think it’s what he was wearing when I saw him.”

  The sergeant swore under his breath and returned to the deck to stare out over the busy docks.

  Toggs, following, said, “I’ll bet you anything Fred went to the police just to spite you.” He dumped Laurence’s clothing on the deck.

  “The police!” the sergeant growled. “If he’s done so, it’s grounds for a court-martial.”

  “You saw how hot he was when he ran off,” Toggs reminded him. “Keen to do something.”

  Sergeant Rumpkin, his sense of indignation growing, puffed himself up. “Mr. Toggs,” he pronounced, “if that Fred has committed such a vicious act of treason, he will be punished for it or I’ll take my pension and retire!

  “Here are my orders. I shall return to the Iron Duke. Once there, I’ll call in the troops and make sure they don’t interrupt me at breakfast again. Then they can redouble their search for this Laurence. And for that rapscallion Fred too.

  “As for you, Mr. Toggs, you are to go to police headquarters, where that minister was sending his letter. Maybe you’re right and Fred went there. Reconnoiter. Determine the lay of the land. Then come back to me.”

  Toggs saluted and started down the gangway.

  “Mr. Toggs!” Sergeant Rumpkin called.

  Toggs looked back over his shoulder.

  “If you see Fred, you’re to capture him and march him to me. No more! No less! Discipline! That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Toggs agreed with a grin, and hurried off at double time.

  Maura was doubting she’d ever get back to Mrs. Sonderbye’s when she caught sight of Patrick running up the street.

  “Patrick!” she shouted.

  Patrick stopped, turned, and saw his sister. With a whoop of joy he raced back and embraced her.

  “Oh, Patrick, I thought I’d lost you for sure.”

  “I was only at the docks, Maura.”

  She took hold of her brother by his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Patrick O’Connell,” she said, “you had me near bled of life last night when I couldn’t find you. Where and why, in the name of glory, did you go?”

  “I thought you were in danger,” Patrick explained. “It’s you I was thinking of.”

  “What danger?”

  “Wasn’t that runner, that Ralph Toggs, asking after you at the lodging house.”

  Maura was taken aback. “For me?” she cried.

  “It was right after you left with Mr. Drabble. Who should come along but that Ralph Toggs, the one that brought us to Mrs. Sonderbye’s. And he was asking about you, Maura.”

  “Me?”

  “Faith, he was. And when he learned you’d gone, he said he’d find you. So off he went. I was that fearful I ran after him.”

  “Patrick O’Connell, promise me we’ll never leave each other’s side again. Not for an instant!”

  “But I need to tell you all of what I was doing,” Patrick said, and told Maura not just about Toggs but about the English boy, the attempted theft from the ship, how he himself summoned the dock police, how he and the boy fled until they came upon the Charity, where Mr. Bartholomew took them in. “So you see, Maura, I was perfectly safe all the time.”

  “And with a Protestant clergyman.”

  “But didn’t I get away from him?”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” his sister said sternly, “why would you be doing all that for an English boy? Have you forgotten so quickly? What have we to do for the English when they lord it over us?”

  “Ah, Maura, you can hardly believe how bad off he is. Worse than us. Not a penny in his pocket. And hasn’t he run off from home. Wanting to go to America. That’s why I offered him the ticket.”

  “What ticket?”

  “The one Mother won’t be using.”

  “Patrick,” Maura replied, “there’s no ticket to give.”

  “Where’s it gone to then?” he asked.

  “I’ve given it to Mr. Drabble. Sure, I could do no less. Last night he helped me look for you. In fact, we should be getting back. He’ll be wondering if I’m lost too.”

  Patrick was beginning not to like Mr. Drabble. “Isn’t Mr. Drabble English?” he asked.

  Maura drew herself up with indignation. “It’s not the same at all,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s been kind to me. Now come along,” she said, and set a fast pace.

  Patrick, hurrying after, was now sure he didn’t like the actor.

  Suddenly, Maura stopped. “This English boy, might his name be Laurence, and him dressed in rags and with a welt on his cheek?”

  “Why, that is him. How did you know?”

  “Patrick,” his sister said, “it’s the police themselves who are looking for him.”

  “The police!”

  “It’s true. When I was searching for you early on, I met some of them. Didn’t they give me his name. ‘Laurence,’ they said, reading his name from a paper. They’re searching everywhere for him. The Lord knows what that means. By the Holy Mother, Patrick, have you thought that that boy might not be so innocent as you’d believe?”

  “Maura, I don’t know why they’re after him, but you’ve only to see him to know he’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Well, it no longer matters,” his sister said as they set off again to the lodging house. “You’ll not be seeing him again.”

  Toggs needed little time to reach City Hall and the police headquarters. After loitering a bit outside while deciding what he might say if questions were asked, he started down the circular staircase. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, he strolled into the office, hat set rakishly, hands in pockets.

  The room was busy. Inspector Knox was at his place behind the high desk, leafing through papers. A number of blue-
coated constables were seated on the bench engaged in earnest conversation with a man in a bowler hat. A poorly dressed fellow lay sprawled upon the floor of the prisoner’s holding dock, fast asleep. As for Fred, Toggs saw no sign of him. Whether his rival had come and gone was another matter. He approached Inspector Knox.

  At first the inspector ignored him. Toggs was patient. Finally Mr. Knox looked up. “Yes, lad, what is it?” he asked curtly.

  Toggs snatched off his hat. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I’m looking for a friend.”

  Mr. Knox was stern. “Someone taken in?”

  “Not that I know, sir,” Toggs said. “He left in a rush, if you know my meaning.”

  “That him?” Mr. Knox asked, pointing to the man in the holding cage.

  Toggs considered the sleeping man as if the possibility were real. “No, sir, it’s not.”

  “What’s your fellow’s name? He might have been charged.”

  “Fred, sir, Fred. Nothing but a chit of a boy. Doesn’t even have a last name. Weasel faced and nasty, to tell the truth. Ginger hair.”

  “Not here,” Mr. Knox said, and continued sorting through his papers.

  Toggs put on his hat and turned to leave just as Mr. Bartholomew entered the room and approached the desk.

  Mr. Knox looked up. “Here, young man,” he barked at Toggs, “stand aside and let the gentleman approach.”

  Toggs did so.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bartholomew,” the inspector said, reaching over his desk and shaking the minister’s hand.

  “A good morning to you, Mr. Knox.”

  “Is the Charity still afloat then?” Mr. Knox asked.

  At the word Charity, Toggs, who was halfway to the door, stopped and looked around with interest.

  “Sitting pretty, sir,” the minister replied.

  “And what brings you to us this morning, sir?” Mr. Knox inquired.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Inspector, but I need to determine if you received my message. I sent it with a boy earlier this morning.”

  Toggs edged closer.

  “You might have sent it,” Mr. Knox said, “but it never reached this desk. Gentlemen!” he called out to the constables. “Any of you take in a message from Mr. Bartholomew this morning?”