by Avi
Though Maura grew alarmed, Mr. Drabble seemed barely to notice. Instead, he went on to announce his final speech, a piece from King Richard the Third. Before beginning, he issued a warning to his audience. “Be advised,” he told them, “that I am about to portray an evil man. A thief, a murderer. An upstart! I beg you not to faint. But pray take notice. Richard speaks well and thereby gets his way and becomes a king. Thus does culture lift a man!”
Mr. Drabble flung his hair out of his face a third time, opened his brown eyes wide, and tore into his final rendition.
As the speech drew to an end, Maura saw a man reach into a sack, pull out half a cabbage, and ready himself to throw it at the actor. But before he could, the man with the eye patch struck the cabbage from his hand, then sent the heckler flat onto the ground with a single blow. Those around him took one look at the well-dressed gentleman and melted away.
Bowing, Mr. Drabble addressed his audience of one, which was applauding loudly. “If, upon receiving this recitation, you have felt Mr. Horatio Drabble somewhat worthy, he would not be too humble to accept a penny or two for this, his farewell tour in England. Remember, ‘’Tis better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistening grief and wear a golden sorrow.’ Henry Eighth.”
So saying, the actor descended the steps. Even as he did, another performer mounted them, a violin in her hands.
Mr. Grout—for it was he with the eye patch—offered the actor a whole shilling.
“Sir,” Mr. Drabble said, unfolding from another deep bow and taking the coin, “you do me great honor.”
“Don’t yer worry,” Mr. Grout returned gruffly. “I can spare it an’ more too, if it comes to that.”
“May the rest of mankind be so generous,” Mr. Drabble returned.
“All the same,” Mr. Grout said, “I’m wonderin’ if I could ’ave a word with yer? Confidential like.”
“Oh?”
“Right. I’ve been listenin’ and watchin’ yer and it looks to me—though I ’ave but one good eye—that yer could provide something as I’m needin’ bad.”
Mr. Drabble turned to Maura. “The gentleman wishes to have a brief conversation with me. Will you come along?”
“This ’ere yer gal?” Mr. Grout inquired with something of a leer.
Maura, made uncomfortable by both the look and the insinuation, took an instant dislike to the man.
“My companion in art, to be sure,” returned Mr. Drabble gallantly. “Where do you wish to converse?”
“There’s a pub over to the far side of the square,” Mr. Grout suggested.
“Your name, sir?” Mr. Drabble inquired.
The man with the eye patch grinned. “Mr. Grout,” he said. “Toby Grout. From London. Like yerself.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Grout,” Mr. Drabble returned, extending his hand and offering his own name.
Led by Mr. Grout, Mr. Drabble and Maura entered a spirit shop on the far side of the square. It was small and crowded, with the unpleasant smell of too many bodies consuming too much liquor. The publican, however, seeing money in Mr. Grout, quickly made room at a table in the back by forcing away the people who were sitting there.
“What do yer want for drinks?” Mr. Grout asked once they had all sat down.
“A dram of rum will do me,” Mr. Drabble said politely.
Mr. Grout looked at Maura and winked his eye. “And you, gal?”
Maura shook her head, and though she kept her eyes averted, she studied the man. He was as powerfully built as a prizefighter she had once seen at a fair. His dark hair was cropped short, and his lower lip had recently been bruised or so it seemed. Maura guessed he had been struck in a brawl. It made her recall the savage blow that had felled Mr. Drabble’s heckler. Indeed, though his clothing proclaimed Mr. Grout a gentleman, his manners and talk seemed crude and the bright eye positively threatening.
Requesting gin for himself, Mr. Grout placed the order.
As they waited for the drinks, he said, “I liked wot yer were doin’ up there. All that fancy talk.”
Mr. Drabble nodded. “You are more than kind to say so, sir.”
“All that … What do yer call ’im?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Right. Shakespeare. And is that wot yer said true,” Mr. Grout asked, “just to know ’is words makes a man somethin’ more? Is it?”
“It is my fondest hope,” Mr. Drabble acknowledged.
The drinks were brought. Mr. Grout downed his gin at a gulp and ordered another. Mr. Drabble took no more than a polite sip. Maura kept her eyes down and her hands in her lap.
“Look ’ere,” Mr. Grout said, slumping across the table toward Mr. Drabble in a confidential manner. “I’m a direct sort. Yer won’t find me beatin’ bushes. Yer see these togs I’m wearing?” He gestured to his cape with its fur collar and cuffs.
“Very fine indeed,” Mr. Drabble said.
“A few days ago I didn’t ’ave any such stuff. And now …” Mr. Grout winked his good eye.
“What occurred?” inquired Mr. Drabble.
Mr. Grout grew serious. “Mr. Drabble, do yer believe in spirits, ghosts, an’ the like?” he asked in a low tone.
“I’m not certain….”
“Well, I do. ’Cause all me life they’ve been a plaguin’ me. Except now they’ve come around to treat me decent. Put a pile of money in me ’ands. Out of nowhere so to speak. Like magic, I’m a swell.” Mr. Grout snapped his fingers.
“‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and miseries.’”
“Eh?”
“Julius Caesar. Shakespeare.”
“Right. Exactly. See, what I’m doin’ is—now that I’m a man of means—I’m goin’ to America. Startin’ a whole new life. Gettin’ away from old ghosts, so to speak. It’s money—not the way yer born—that makes yer way there, they say. And, as I see it, a man wants to be where ’e can have some respect.”
“A worthy endeavor,” Mr. Drabble agreed.
“But,” continued Mr. Grout, “as yer can tell for yerself, I do speak low. I knows it. And I can’t read a lick either. What I needs is education. For America, you see. To make something of meself.”
“If I comprehend you,” said Mr. Drabble, “you wish me to teach you some loftier ways of speech?”
“If yer can do it, I can pay for it. I ’eard yer say yer going to America too. Well, I’ve a few days. I’d be ’appy to put meself where yer can learn me something of the proper way of mouthin’.”
“I approve of your desire, sir, I do. But, if I may be so bold, it is reading that should come first.”
“Readin’!” cried Mr. Grout. “I would ’ave thought that was above me, don’t yer think?”
“Not in the least. And once you learn to read, you will be able to peruse Shakespeare all on your own.”
Mr. Grout considered Mr. Drabble suspiciously. “Look ’ere, sir, but do they read in America?”
“I believe they do, sir. At least, those of a better sort.”
“Well then, I do wish to be a better sort. But do yer think yer can start me in the way of readin’?”
Mr. Drabble took his second sip of rum, then sat back and considered Mr. Grout. “I would require some … compensation,” he said, choosing his words with care.
Maura, sitting close to the actor on the bench, sensed that he was trembling.
Mr. Grout waved his hand. “Like I told yer, I don’t worry ’bout money no more. If yer can do it, I can afford it.”
“Would … four pounds be within the realm of possibility?” Mr. Drabble inquired tentatively.
Mr. Grout fastened Mr. Drabble with his one-eyed stare as one might pin a bug to a board. “The price of a ticket to America?” he said.
Mr. Drabble turned pale. “I believe so.”
Mr. Grout laughed and extended his large hand. “If yer can teach me to read, it�
��s a done deal.”
As Mr. Drabble shook the man’s hand, his eyes sparkled, his smile grew very broad.
An appointment—time and place—was agreed upon for the very next day. Then again hands were shaken.
As Mr. Drabble and Maura walked toward Mrs. Sonderbye’s, the actor was jubilant. “My dear Miss O’Connell, you have proved to be my muse. I have achieved—I think—salvation.”
“I’m the first to be happy for you, Mr. Drabble.”
“To think,” the actor went on excitedly, “I shall have my ticket to America! Perhaps,” he said, with a glance at Maura, “we shall locate in the same community. But you look glum, my dear. Can you not rejoice in my good fortune?”
“I do, Mr. Drabble. But it’s not for me to say a word,” Maura replied.
Mr. Drabble stopped. “My dear, say what you will. I’ll not be offended.”
“It’s your own warning I’m hearing, Mr. Drabble. About money and Liverpool. I won’t be saying I cared much for that Mr. Grout. He’s more than a bit of brutish.”
“My dear,” returned Mr. Drabble, “you are an innocent. Take it from me, a man who knows the world. Mr. Grout is nothing more than a lucky man, a man who has chosen to touch me with some of that same luck. You saw the way he defended me from those rude people. As the poet said, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ You may trust my judgment, my dear, as a man of great experience. We can trust Mr. Grout.”
Anxious as she was to rejoin Patrick, Maura said nothing further all the way back to Mrs. Sonderbye’s. Only when she reached the house did she discover that Patrick was not there.
Laurence sat on the roof of the building, slightly dazed but quite certain he had sustained no harm from the fall. As soon as he recovered his wits, he sprang up and rushed for the ladder. One glance revealed that it reached the ground. He swung onto it, made a rapid descent, and began to run. Nor did he stop until he had passed six streets. Only then did he slow down. Panting, he kept on walking, feeling free and immensely pleased with himself.
The evening darkness was deepening rapidly. The air was growing colder too. With no particular place to go, Laurence wandered randomly. Some twenty minutes later he stopped, forced to acknowledge he had absolutely no idea where to turn. It did occur to him that he could go to the police and have Mr. Clemspool arrested for stealing the money from his clothes. Then he remembered the London police were looking for him. What if they had informed the Liverpool police about him? He could not chance it.
A lamplighter, long lighting pole over his shoulder, came onto the street and began to illuminate the gas lamps.
“You, there, fellow,” Laurence called. “Can you tell me where the ships are?”
The old man paused in his work to scrutinize Laurence. “You there, yourself,” he said with a snort. “You’ve got an uncivil tongue in your head, you do.”
Laurence started to tell the man he was the one being uncivil when he remembered how he looked.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly, short of a full apology. “I’m … I’m looking for the ships.”
“Ships!” the lamplighter cried. “There are a million of them!”
“I don’t want any ships,” Laurence explained. “I want the ones that go to America. I intend to go there.”
“Do you now?” the lamplighter scoffed. “Just like that, eh? A shrill-voiced ragamuffin like you? Well, why not, you and lots of others sail away every day, and the sooner the better, says I. Be well rid of your sort. But if you have to ask where the ships are, you’ve a far piece to go.”
“But where are they?” Laurence said, not at all pleased to be so mocked.
“You’re a fool, boy,” the lamplighter said, “not to know that before starting out. But if you’ll leave me in peace, I’m willing to tell. Just head downhill, and you’ll get to the docks.” With those curt words, the old man turned his back on Laurence and resumed his work.
Regretting that he had not been more polite, but not knowing how to repair the damage, Laurence started off down the hill.
Everywhere he looked he saw posters for the United States and Canada. He examined one closely.
UNITED STATES
SNEED BROTHERS AMERICAN EMIGRATION
SERVICE
CLAYMORE BUILDING—KINGS STREET
The Following FIRST-CLASS PACKETS
Will Be Dispatched on Their Appointed Days
FOR NEW YORK, PHILADELPHIA, and BOSTON
A list of ships and their captains followed, including the size of each vessel, in tons, and the date of departure. Then the boy read:
The above ships are of the largest class, commanded by men of experience who will take every precaution to promote the health and comfort of the passengers during the voyage.
Fares from 3 pounds, 10 shillings up. Children half fare.
For further particulars, apply,
N. Sneed Ltd., Liverpool
R. Sneed and Co., New York
The Sneed Brothers’ boats left for America twice weekly. When Laurence checked other posters, he found that there were departures virtually every day. On some days, many ships were sailing within hours of one another. All the posters listed the same base fare, three pounds, ten shillings. It was then that Laurence recalled his predicament. He had not a penny, nor the slightest idea where to get one.
Moreover, he began to grasp how much money he had taken—and lost. A huge sum. The realization deepened his guilt, his shame, his isolation.
With a sigh, he made his way into a large square. It was full of street performers, among them an organ-grinder making music with the aid of a red-capped gray monkey. Laurence stopped to watch. Tethered to his master with a long cord, the monkey begged for pennies with a cup. Whenever people dropped coins in, the monkey lifted his cap, then did a somersault. All the while, it grinned hideously. The creature did make Laurence laugh when it approached him, looking up with wide eyes and making ferocious chattering noises. Then the boy realized that the monkey had more money than he and knew how to find more. Upset with himself, Laurence hurried from the square.
The smell of the sea drew him. He began to fancy that someone on some vessel would note his nobility, take pity on him, let him board, allow him to sail away. He knew—vaguely—that such a stroke of luck was unlikely, but he drifted on, not knowing what else to do.
After crossing a wide boulevard, he came to a region of enormous buildings. The smell of the sea intensified. A few more steps, and the docks were before him. They appeared deserted.
But when he spied a police constable by a sentry box—ever-present rattle hanging from his belt—Laurence halted. Believing as he did that the whole world was looking for him, Laurence worried that the man would recognize him. For a long while Laurence remained still, trying to make up his mind what to do, go forward or retreat. If he went forward, he would have to pass the sentry box. If he retreated, he would be nowhere. Perhaps, he thought, it would be better if he were caught. At least he would be somewhere then, with someone watching out for him.
Arms pressed to his side, Laurence walked stiffly forward. The constable, a pipe clenched firmly in his teeth, turned slightly, looked down at him, nodded a greeting. Nothing more. Aware of keen disappointment that he had not been stopped, Laurence kept walking. Part of him wanted to turn and say, “My name is Sir Laurence Kirkle. Take me home.” He was too fearful.
He had entered the dock area. Only an occasional quay lamp lit the deserted way. It felt colder. His breath misted. All about him rose ships whose countless masts, spars, and rigging made him think of a vast spread of the black lace his mother wore to funerals. Now and again he stopped to listen to the creaking and groaning of timbers, the occasional slip-slap of waves.
He walked to the edge of one wharf and looked up at the ship tied there. It was immense. He wondered if it would be going to America.
“Don’t yer even tink of sneaking on,” growled a voice from on high in the darkness.
Startled, Laurence jumped back.
&n
bsp; “I’m here,” the voice said, “an’ I’m watching yer.”
Laurence peered upward. He made out a man leaning over the bulwark of the ship. In his hand—the man made sure Laurence saw it—was a heavy belaying pin.
“Be off with yer now,” the man warned. “Too much thieving ’round ’ere. Know what the punishment for thieving is?”
Laurence shook his head.
“Shipped to the penal colony—and yer can stay for fourteen years.”
Laurence hurried away, craning his head to take one, then a second look back. The man brandished his club over his head and cackled.
For two hours Laurence wandered the docks. Four times he was chased away from ships. Chilled to the bone, teeth chattering, thoroughly discouraged and tired, he hunched deep within a coil of rope and stared up at the inky sky, where a moon now floated through scudding clouds.
I don’t know what to do, Laurence said to himself. I don’t know what to do at all. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and began to fall asleep till the sound of approaching footsteps startled him. Someone was standing over him.
“Well, well,” Ralph Toggs exclaimed as he looked down at the wide-eyed Laurence, “just what I was looking for. A small boy to do a small job.”
Laurence pushed himself back among the ropes. Toggs put out a hand and held him hard. “Don’t you be so squirmy, mate. I want to talk to you. What’s your name?”
“Laurence.”
“Laurence, eh?” Toggs grinned. “Where you from?
“London.”
“Long way from home, aren’t you? Who you with? Come on, tell me.”
“I’m alone,” Laurence blurted out.
“Are you now? Can’t say I mind. How about standing up so I can measure you?”
Trembling, Laurence sat up and pulled himself free of the rope coil.
“Empty your pockets.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Do it!”