Voyagers!: Asylum

Chapter 3: Brocklehurst Asylum

The rutted and uncomfortable ride through the countryside was only the beginning of Jeffrey's troubles. He could've sworn he heard Bogg calling him as the carriage made a speedy retreat. There was no mistaking his deep voice. The other children drowned Jeffrey's cries out, so he eventually gave up and sank to the carriage floor. It was a tight squeeze inside, with five boys all shoving and pinching one another, trying to find the most comfortable position. Jeffrey had to cover his nose and mouth; he was in need of a bath, but the stench from the poor urchins was unbearable. Jeffrey was the oldest of the group and they looked strangely at him and his clothes, making comparisons to their tattered, gray and brown shirts and trousers. It seemed to be their uniforms. He saw hopelessness in their eyes, and took pity on their stick-thin frames and hollowed faces.

"What's going on here? Why did they take me?" Jeffrey asked.

"Hey, he don't talk like one of us, he ain't from 'ere!" A mousy haired, ruddy boy said with awe.

"No, I'm not, I'm from America."

"What's that place like?" the boy questioned.

"Well, it's…it's big and has all different kinds of lands and has all sorts of people with different languages and skin colors and they don't have places like this! Kids are happy and loved and they go to school."

"I wanna go to America!" The boy decided.

"I'll tell ya why they took ya, 'cause they think ya escaped like we did! We're from Brocklehurst Asylum." The oldest of the boys said. His soulful, brown eyes and cherubic face didn't quite match his tough tone of voice. It was apparent he was the leader.

"Asylum?" Jeffrey shuddered at the word. "We're not crazy, we're just kids."

"Aww, tell that to them! It's not like a loony asylum, but some of us boys go loony enough and they use the crazy jackets on us! It's an orphanage, but nobody knows much about it."

"What kind of place is this?" Jeffrey asked. He already knew the answer as every Dickens story coursed through his mind.

"It's cruel and harsh! They beat us and starve us and if they think we're bad they do all sorts of strange torture!" Another blonde child said, his sunken green eyes wide with fear. He held up his hands and Jeffrey winced at the sight of his thumbs. They were twisted disproportionately on each hand.

"Torture? They can't do that! That's not right!"

"Oh yeah they can! They own us, nobody else wants us so they take us in and make us do all sorts of slave labor. You'll see. Since your new, they'll probably make ya trim and cut the laces, or clean and scrub out the rooms. Ya better get used to it fast or else." The leader drew a slit across his neck.

Tears sprang to Jeffrey's eyes. "Murder? But, isn't there a benefactor? Someone who'll look out for your well being?"

The boys all laughed. "Now who's loony? Ain't nobody who cares 'bout us, sometimes they'll take us right from our own 'omes! Addie over here was kidnapped when 'is mum got sick. They thought she was gonna die, but she didn't and never saw 'im again!"

At the mention of his mother Addie burst into tears. "I wanna go home! I miss me mummy!" He wailed, banging his arms on the door. The leader smacked him on the side of the head.

"Aww, shut yer mouth! Do ya wanna get double punishment? Ya can't go 'ome! There's no use cryin' 'bout it!"

Jeffrey put a firm hand on the leader. "Hey, you don't have to be so rough with him! He's sad. He has a right to cry."

The boy withdrew his arm, irritated. "Don't think your gonna come in 'ere and start changing things! Every time he cries, we pay for it! Say, what's yer name anyway, spunky?"

"My name's Jeffrey Jones, what's yours?"

"My name's Daryl. Last names don't matter 'round 'ere. The crybaby is Addie, short for Addison. The blonde with the twisty thumbs is Wick, short for Chadwick and short stuff on the end is Firth, not short for anything, that's just his name. He can't talk to ya, just makes sounds."

Jeffrey stared at Firth. "He barely looks six years old! This place is unbelievable."

"If I were you I'd get some sleep, because the minute ya get there, they're gonna put ya to grind!" Daryl warned. Jeffrey watched the boy lean back and saw his body tense up. Daryl quickly rolled onto his side and wiped tears away before anyone else noticed.

Jeffrey tried to nap but the wild ride kept jolting him awake. He noticed the others had fallen fast asleep, oblivious to the ruckus. He curled up near the carriage door, hoping to jostle the lock. But he remembered one of the captors put a giant padlock on the front of it. It was useless to try and escape. He put his chin on his knees and closed his eyes tight. He was thankful Phineas survived.

"Please find me, Bogg, I'm counting on you. I need you!" He whimpered and nodded off.

~Oo~

The stagecoach came to a striking halt and Jeffrey's head flew up quick, he'd hoped this was all a dream and he was still in the Civil war tent with Phineas. He rubbed his bleary eyes and saw the other boys yawning and scratching, waking as if from a soft bed. The padlock rustled and the back door swung open. Jeffrey recognized the man with the whip. He stood like a sentinel while his partner with the grizzly beard started pulling the boys out.

"Let's go, ya scum! Ya think ya can run away so easily, aye? How does a few days in the box strike ya?"

The boys lined up in size order and the man cast a bloodshot eye on Jeffrey. "Who do ya think you are? A prince? Get outta 'ere!" He shoved him to the front of the line. He leaned forward, staring him up and down like a vulture. His rancid breath burned Jeffrey's nose hairs and Jeffrey turned his face away. The man grabbed his chin and forced his gaze.

"What be yer name, boy? I don't remember ya!"

"My name is Jeffrey Jones and I told you, I'm not one of them! You kidnapped me from my friend! You can't force me to stay here!"

The other boys stared open-mouthed at his boldness and Jeffrey felt their instant respect.

"Well, well, well! Don't yer have a mouth! Firth! Over here!"

The little boy scurried over.

"Open wide and show master Jeffrey 'ere, what we do ta smart mouth boys!"

Firth hesitated and the man grabbed his cheeks. "I said open wide!"

Jeffrey gasped when Firth's small mouth opened; half of his tongue was missing. Before he could say anything, the man pulled out a small blade from his soiled pants and ran the blunt end across Jeffrey's face.

"Now, how'd ya like the same? Ya wouldn't, would you?"

Jeffrey shook his head, too stunned to answer and fearful of the dirty knife hitting his mouth.

"That's what I thought! My name's Rufus, my good friend with the whip is Owen, and we're the guys who keep law and order 'round this place. If ya think yer gunna get anything by us, yer dead wrong!"

Rufus let go of Jeffrey's face and stepped away. Jeffrey was finally able to breathe fresh air. He looked at the immense building. The bricks and stones were gray and black, adding to the dreariness of its presence. It had high arched roofs with a single church bell in the center. The filthy windows were fitted with metal bars to prevent escape. The entrance was a castle door. Owen's whip cracked in the air and Daryl pushed Jeffrey to start walking.

The doorway opened wide. Standing with his hands behind his back was a portly man with a long, and dusty white wig. He wore a misshapen black suit that was befitting an undertaker rather than caretaker. His fat, drooping cheeks squished his beady eyes and his mouth was set in a thin line. It brought to Jeffrey's mind a description from Dickens's 'Great Expectations.' A character had a mouth as thin as a mail slot and every time he opened it, it was as if to hungrily eat another letter.

"Welcome back, my precious ones." His voice croaked. "I've been waiting for you. You've been very, very bad boys running away. You know what happens to bad boys don't you?"

The boys remained quiet, staring at the scuffed wooden floor. Jeffrey glanced up and observed dozens of other young boys leaning over the banisters on the large stairways. Each boy was more emaciated than the rest. They regarded the scene and him with intense curiosity. The inside of the asylum was just as oppressive as the outside with dark and Gothic inspired furnishings.

"Bad boys get punished! Severely! Which one of you instigated this little escape?"

With his arms still behind him, the caretaker sauntered back and forth down the row of frightened children. He grabbed Daryl by the back of his neck and dragged him over to Owen.

"It's always you, isn't it? I think he needs another hot wax treatment, don't you?"

Jeffrey looked on in disbelief. All he could think of was how Bogg would never allow this to happen. He could see Daryl's legs shivering and Owen patted his back hard. The boy struggled to hide his pain from the man's touch and swallowed his tears.

"Ahh, that's good for what ails ya! We got 'is back last time, maybe now we should get 'im in the tummy, aye!" He boomed with snide laughter and poked his stomach.

The caretaker eyed Jeffrey and turned his bulbous nose up at him. Jeffrey was still afraid to speak, but he glared back at him.

"And who is this, Rufus? Where's he from?"

"I found him by the streams back in London when we was passing through. I thought he was one of the boys since we rounded them up in the area."

"He's certainly not one of my boys, such strange clothing! However, he'll make a fine addition to our humble abode…Owen!"

"Yes, Master Brocklehurst!"

"Hurry and fetch a uniform for this one. I want him to feel right at home!"

~Oo~

The next few hours passed like a blur to Jeffrey, half of it because his eyes were blurred with tears at all he saw and heard. He was put into a shadowy room with rows of cots covered with greasy, yellowed linens. Tiny rat taps raced back and forth from inside the walls. They'd come out at night looking for nibbles and scare the younger ones with their red eyes. The boys warned Jeffrey to keep his body covered at all times while he slept. The rats were afraid to go near their heads, but had no qualms about biting fingers and toes.

Wick was assigned to give Jeffrey a grand tour of his new surroundings while Owen followed. The man's fingers curled over his whip, daring them to escape. Wick showed him the disgusting bathing facilities. For every row of boys in a room, there was one basin of water. Once every three months the boys had a 'real' bath in the barn. They would soap up and get dunked into a giant barrel of cold water, then went right back into their dirty uniforms. The same barrel of water was used for half the boys and then refilled for the rest. This process was done outside, even in the dead of winter. There were over one hundred boys and counting at Brocklehurst Asylum, ranging from ages four to twelve. The older ones were sold to gypsies and traders or to shop keepers looking for cheap labor in the neighboring cities.

As they approached the back of the asylum, Jeffrey heard a shovel scraping and froze. He closed his eyes. That sound always haunted him. After his parent's funeral, Jeffrey refused to leave the cemetery and nearly had a breakdown as he watched the gravedigger shovel in the first two piles of dirt. He couldn't tell this to Bogg the other night at the Civil war camp. It was that noise–the scraping, plowing, and banging of the dirt against the casket, which kept him awake. He pretended to wake up once Bogg was in the tent. His presence soothed him and he was finally able to doze.

"Jeffy? Jeffy? Are you alright?" Wick asked concerned.

Jeffrey stared at him blank-faced then shook his head. "Oh, yeah, umm, sorry. What about the graveyard over there?" He pointed and Wick led him to the crooked wrought iron fence. An old man hunched over a small marker and whacked it into place.

"That's our graveyard. We lose a lot of boys, Jeffy, 'cause they're starving and get sick, but…"

Owen watched them carefully, so Wick faced the tombstones and lowered his voice, pretending to point out the landmarks.

"Daryl and I know what's really 'appening. Sometimes the boys die from the tortures! In February we lost our friend Roger to Cholera. There was a 'uge epidemic in England in 1831. People still be getting it till now! Roger was always sick-like and we knew he weren't goin' to last long wit' us. One day, Roger was on his deathbed. We woke up in the mornin' and he 'ad gone. Of course Master said he 'ad died in the night, but Daryl knew the truth!"

Wick's eyes clouded with tears and he grasped the bars to steady himself. Jeffrey wanted to comfort the younger boy, but wasn't sure how. He spoke gently.

"It's okay Wick, you can tell me. I've learned to handle a lot." This was one of those moments Bogg warned him about. It was time to take off the rose-colored glasses and face the cold truth about history and the people involved.

Wick wiped his eyes with a clean part of his sleeve and gulped. "They killed 'im, Jeffy! Daryl saw them with shrouds over their mouths to protect them from his plague. They…they…"

"What, what did they do, Wick?" He demanded.

"They burned him! It was the only way to get rid of the disease but they couldn't wait and risk infection! I wouldn't believe Daryl, but he showed me. In the cellars, that's where the torture is done, Jeffy! Daryl and me was caught snoopin' and that's why they put me thumbs into corkscrews and poured the 'ot wax on Daryl's back!"

Jeffrey turned away and wept. The treatment of these children was inhumane. He thought of Bogg's omni, it'd been a green light when they landed here. Everything seemed right on course yet these children where doomed to a life of and brutality and servitude. These were children that'd long be forgotten by history, whose pitiful lives would be romanticized in books and movies for enjoyment. It angered him, but he had to keep levelheaded. He refused to stay here for much longer and would never stop looking for a way out for himself and all the boys.

~Oo~

After they went inside, Jeffrey promised Wick that he wouldn't tell the other children about Roger. They joined the supper line. His stomach growled and he reflected on how much he complained about food to Bogg earlier in the afternoon. It was his fault he'd gotten in this mess. Bogg had wanted to leave. He felt extremely fortunate that he and Bogg ate as well as they did and he swore to himself he'd never carry on about being 'starving' again.

The enormous dining hall was straight out of 'Oliver Twist' – grimy cooks and monstrous pots of bubbling, mealy porridge. The boys ate their humble meals at long wooden tables and benches. Along with the porridge, they were given a tiny, stale roll and rotted potato. Jeffrey was afraid to even put the rusted utensils to his mouth. He just sipped it from the bowl, gagging as it crawled down his throat. Wick sat beside him and whispered.

"Don't be surprised if ya catch a water bug or spider in ya meal there, Jeffy. Sometimes they get cooked right inside and ya don't even know till it's too late. Sometimes we eat them anyway, it's cooked."

Jeffrey pushed his bowl away and forced bile down. "Thanks for the warning."

From the adjacent room, the caretakers and Master Brocklehurst could be heard eating and laughing. They however, demanded complete silence from the boys, except for the sound of chewing and utensils. The hearty aromas of roasted venison, sautéed vegetables, hot breads and sweet butter wafted out and each boy held their head down, and pretended to enjoy the same. Jeffrey noticed Firth and a few other tykes running back and forth carrying their stuffed plates and pouring them cool drinks. They weren't allowed to eat with the rest of the children and had to stand and watch as the adults gorged themselves. Only when the adults were finished could they have their share of the porridge – if there was any left to be scraped from the bottom of the pot.

Jeffrey saw Daryl enter the dining hall, his face was ashen and he held his middle. There was room beside him and he waved Daryl over. He came to the bench, but was too drained to even get his food. Jeffrey shoved his tray over.

"You can have mine. I'm not as hungry as I thought." He lied.

Daryl took it gratefully and slowly moved his hands from his shirt. Every movement was painstaking for him.

"Daryl, what happened? What did they do to you?"

Daryl concentrated on the porridge. "You 'eard them, 'ot wax on the stomach…it ain't so…bad…just burns a few days, ya know? Leaves a few scars, nothing more."

Jeffrey exhaled noisily and the other children shushed him straightaway. He dropped his head in his chest and continued to whisper to Daryl.

"Daryl, tell me how you escaped, I need to know. I have to get out of here. My friend is probably going crazy looking for me. I don't belong here. Please help me."

"Nobody belongs here, Jeffy." Daryl's mouth turned up in a halfhearted smile, and Jeffrey saw the defeat in his eyes. "Sure, I'll tell ya, but don't blame me if they catch ya, Jeffy."

"I promise I won't."

"In the Master's bedroom there's a 'idden trap door under his bed. You look just small enough to get through it from there, any bigger and it wouldn't work unless ya moved the bed. Don't even think about tryin' it while he's sleeping, you'll be crushed like a bug in the porridge!"

"Where does it lead?"

"It's a water tunnel and it leads straight to the Gravesend Docks. Right now we're on Cambrian Road. By foot it may only take no more than an 'our."

"How did you all wind up back in London? That's the other direction."

"It was late, we got on the first boat we saw, it went right up the Thames and straight back into the lion's den. We 'ad a few days of freedom, but they caught us on that bloomin' road!"

"I'm sorry, but thanks a lot for telling me. Does the Master know about this?"

"Oh yeah, he knows about the passage, 'cause that's his escape route if anything ever 'appens. I'll be surprised if he can even get his fat gut through the 'ole! I hope he gets stuck!"

Jeffrey tried not to giggle. "Does he know that's how you and the other kids got out?"

"Not on your life! I told him the back door was left open and we ran out. That made Owen and Rufus look like a real bunch of Jackasses!"

Jeffrey was impressed at how Daryl could hold his own and even laugh in the face of all this cruelty and torture. A loud bell rang. Supper was over. Every boy picked up their plates and marched toward a giant cauldron of bubbling hot water. They dunked the dishes in after scraping the remaining vittles into a large, separate bowl. The slop would go to feed the pigs in the barn at the back of the asylum. As Jeffrey was about to leave, Rufus put a hand on his chest.

"Not so fast there, boy. Master Brocklehurst has a job for you. He wants ya to wash all the dishes straightaway. After that, clean the tables and sweep and scrub the floors."

Jeffrey gulped at the enormous task set before him, but at least he'd be alone with his thoughts. He had to devise a plan of escape soon. If Bogg couldn't reach him, he was going to somehow reach Bogg.