June 1892 - Euston Railway Station; London

The bruising heavyset enforcer stood outside the landmark arches of Euston Station, squinting tightly in the drizzling rain. “Here yas go, luvies.” He purposely splashed in large puddles of dirty water to bother pedestrians escaping the darkening weather elements.

Lost in this solitary joy, the oaf held a small Gladstone bag with the earnings he’d gleefully collected by coercing shopkeepers. It was the only role demanded from his underworld overlords. Then a sharp, piercing pain struck his hand, and he released the money case. He dropped his gaze. Someone had stabbed a stiletto knife into his thick hand.

“Bloody hell!” The thug winced as he pulled out the dagger.

After inspecting his bloodied hand, the large man whirled around upon realizing his bag had been grabbed by a brazen dipper—one who would not be long for this world once apprehended. Wiping beads of rain off his face with a soggy coat sleeve, the man narrowed his eyes on the soon-to-be-dead culprit, easily spotted dashing toward the railway terminus and into the flowing crowd within the building.

The enforcer entered the station’s great hall. His impure combination of sweat and drenched clothes made for a crude wardrobe and foul body odor. His labored breathing attracted attention from others inside, who likely thought the unsightly man was tardy in catching his transport out of the muddy metropolis. Any hall footslogger who tried to make sense of his hurried desperation would have noticed the source of his motivation as a gutsy youth darted through the bodies. The brisk movement caused the thief ’s flat cap to pop off and revealed their true guise: a young, wild-haired, redheaded girl, barely a teen, in neat but tattered boys’ clothing.

The tight human traffic impeded her ability to safely make space between her and her pursuer. As the distance between them narrowed, she scrambled past a tall spectator. He stared at her with impressed curiosity while she fumbled by. Then the sound of body-crushing contact halted her feet, and temptation made her glance back.

Surprise greeted her damp face.

The grimy spectator lay pinned beneath the weight of her equally grimy chaser. The lad’s arms extended out and flailed. A lumpy bag was released from his hand in his desperation to defend himself from the large man’s meat cleaver–like fist poised to tenderize him.

If the girl didn’t know better, she would have guessed that this twig beneath the fallen tree had purposely come to her aid in creating this collision.

Why would anyone do such a thing? He must be addled, or simply a fella with poor luck, she surmised.

The meddler must have been thinking the same while he struggled to move under the pressure of the grump’s weight. His gloved left hand attempted a failed punch, and the thug’s hand tightened around his throat.

“Youse two working together, are yas?” The brute sneered. “I’ll teach you buggers what it means to mess with me!” The harshness in his voice left little to the imagination about the wrath he wished to inflict. He raised his arm in the customary motion of striking an opponent.

The dirt-faced victim closed his eyes tightly in preparation for the pain to come. But the anticipated downward swing didn’t land.

Instead, a stranger wearing a Stetson hat and defined handlebar mustache intervened, pushing the smelly beast off the boy.

“What’s with you, Yank?” asked the thug. The mustached interloper’s cowboy appearance hinted at his origin. “That nutter lass over there took me bag, and this dirty runt is ’er thieving crow.”

The brute rambled on with additional colorful language, indicating his opinion of the stranger’s uncalled-for intrusion, while he gawked over at his primary target, who stood nearby in observance. Any attempt to get up on his feet failed, as the cowboy’s buckled leather boots stomped him back down.

“Just head back the way you came before I do to you what you were planning to do to this . . . boy.” The cowboy-looking man’s non-English English made it evident to the intrigued audience that he was positively an American.

The brute wavered and considered a lunge, until a Remington Model 1890 revolver revealed itself from under the cowboy’s long coat. Only proper coppers carry irons, he guessed.

Wheezing as he got up, the goon straightened his ruined clothes, staring at the strange-looking boy, who remained immobile on the ground. Then he scrutinized the thieving spitfire watching from a comfortable distance. Yielding to defeat, he retreated back toward the famous Euston arches.

The man in the Stetson hat watched the messy youth twirl around on his knees in a desperate search for something, then held out a hand to help him to his feet. The youngster clumsily leaned into the stranger for balance before standing to his full six feet, a couple inches taller than the older man.

The American reminded him of a Western spectacle he’d marveled over a while back during the queen’s jubilee. Standing behind his savior was another individual: a lean Asian man a touch shorter than the Yank with a clean-shaven face, clutching a worn satchel. The youngster let out a low whistle of appreciation for his missing property.

With the unscheduled entertainment finished, the peeping onlookers returned to their otherwise bleak day as the two men and ragged street lad settled into uncomfortable silence.

The American assessed this oddity he’d saved from an undeserved pummeling and asked, “Are you, as that hoodlum claimed, in cahoots with the girl?” His eyes crossed the train station to the redheaded lass standing in place with a blank look, indicating no connection with the gangly youth.

He, too, stared at the talented—and pretty—canary who’d set everything in motion, then warily measured the two men waiting for an answer. “I don’t know the bird.”

“Then why bother putting yourself in harm’s way?” The youth shrugged and said, “Seemed proper. I didn’t want to see ’er hurt.”

The American raised a brow, impressed with the boy’s chivalry and the unrewarded sacrifice he’d been willing to make. Foolish but brave. Adjusting his Stetson hat, he weighed his options, taking stock of the satchel held by his colleague before meeting the boy’s blue eyes with skepticism.

Recognizing the doubt circulating in the cowboy’s narrowed eyes, the boy relented. “Like I said, guvnor, I don’t know the girl. I could’ve gone about like a blind monkey and did nothing.” He searched for the right words. “I felt sorry, y’know? I had to help. Nobody else would’ve.”

The admission seemed genuine, and the American smiled beneath his bushy mustache, then signaled for his associate to return the satchel to its valiant owner. He combed his fingers through his mustache while pondering the youngster’s fate and asked, “What brings you here, boy? Are you planning to travel?” From the boy’s appearance, this seemed unlikely, but he avoided uttering more, believing the dirty rascal to possibly be involved with the runners in the station stealing people’s luggage for ransom.

The tan-skinned boy stared down at his ruddy shoes, debating whether or not to take the easy route and make a run for it. Raising his penetrating blue eyes, he viewed the two men with reticence, measuring the limited options available. “I’m aiming to catch the LNWR,” he said, meaning the London and Northwest Railway, which carried passengers to cities north of London such as Manchester, Birmingham, and Liverpool.

“Interesting,” commented the American, patting his own coat pockets with mild concern. “Don’t you have a home and family to return to, son? Or are you intending to become an English Huckleberry Finn?” He chuckled at the last remark, but the look on the youngster’s face suggested confusion. The American removed his Stetson hat. “Let us start again, shall we? My name is Captain Thurman Attlee—two Ts, two Es—retired US Army, and my associate here is . . .”

“Hum.” He said nothing more.

“Great, now that we’ve introduced ourselves, would you kindly return the favor?”

The boy’s eyes monitored the bustle in the train station hall before returning to the two men. “James Turnbull,” he answered, leaving it at that.

Attlee ventured on, a little bewildered by the innocuous response, not believing it. “Really? All right, Mr. Turnbull. Shouldn’t you be with your family on this trip, or would you explain to this simpleton what exactly your well-meaning intentions are of embarking on the iron horse and making tracks out of London?”

The captain was being polite and sociable, but there were limits Turnbull would avail himself of regarding personal information, even if the Yank had saved him from a deadly beating. The youngster’s drained eyes wandered again, spotting the cute robber watching them. She appeared unconcerned for her own safety now, as if assured. He still questioned the impulse that had made him interfere. Quick eye contact with the hurried lass was all it had taken for him to step into the brute’s path, making him wonder if his aching head suffered from stupidity.

“We’re waiting, James,” said the captain evenly. Though his interest was not wholly charitable. Attlee sensed this straggler could be useful for other requirements and clearly possessed a degree of decency, considering he’d sacrificed himself so the young girl would not be harmed.

“I’ve no family to speak of,” Turnbull stated, “and no bed in which to sleep. I plan to catch the train to Liverpool and ship off to America.” Essentially, he was running away from a place of sad memories, hoping for renewal in a new world without knowing how to accomplish it.

Captain Attlee saw opportunity with this destitute. He looked over at his associate, and their two faces remained unreadable before returning their attention back to the young James Turnbull. Truth be told, Attlee maintained some suspicion, but the squalor and suffering of the lad portrayed a level of authenticity.

“I have an offer to propose, James, if you’ll hear me.”

The prospect nodded.

“We’re willing to take you to Liverpool under our supervision, provided we are given more details about your background. It’s hard to believe a promising youngster like yourself could drop everything and take the risk you wish to pursue.” Captain Attlee waited as the audience of one remained quiet, realizing he may not have gotten his point across.

“We have a long train ride ahead, which’ll give us plenty of time to know each other better. Right?” Attlee figured it would be worth the price of a train ticket to be able to properly profile this project’s suitability in the solitude of a train compartment. He’d allow the youth to hold on to his independence. For now.

Turnbull nodded again, not wishing to appear too eager for the free train ride and relative security of being accompanied by the two gentlemen. The new conditions meant he would face fewer issues with the attendants and unsavory characters.

Not much of a talker, the captain thought to himself. Should fit in perfectly with Hum.

With travel arrangements agreed upon, Attlee readied for the queue to purchase one more ticket. “How old are you, James?” he asked.

“Eighteen.”

The captain reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his wallet. Feeling the inside pocket empty, he searched through another one. Having no success in locating his money pouch, he turned worried eyes on Hum for assistance.

Hum pointed his finger toward their newest member for reclamation. Quickly interpreting the sign language, Captain Attlee glared at the tan-cheeked pocket picker he’d been feeling charitable for only moments earlier. Attlee’s hand opened, fingers motioning for the return of his leather.

The sulking trickster pulled the wallet from his dirty wool jacket and delivered the item to its rightful owner, showing no remorse. In his world, such emotions did not exist. Hum had witnessed the sleight and kept quiet about it, allowing the exercise to carry itself out to this awkward surrender. The Asian had impressed the youngster, and the two shared a grin.

Attlee opened the wallet to verify all the bills were still there. Satisfied, he folded his arms and furrowed his eyebrows, taking a hard look at the sly wonder standing in front of him. “What’s your name?” he asked firmly.

“James Turnbull,” the teen replied easily without meeting the captain’s stare. His blue optics once again surveyed the station hall.

The captain let his annoyance pass, recognizing that the boy feared unsaid danger in this airy rotunda. It was best that they complete the boarding pass purchase and proceed to the train platform. Attlee had to admit to himself, the skill shown by the strange-looking nibbler was superb, leading him to believe that “James” possessed other such attributes that would demand serious supervision.

Attlee put his arm around cagey James Turnbull’s shoulder and aimed him toward the wicket to allow the newest member aboard. The captain then turned his head toward the lively red-haired thief holding vigilance amid the mix of rushed bodies getting on with their monotonous lives. The two made eye contact, allowing him to sneak a wink and a smile at her. The girl responded in a similar fashion before heading toward an opposite exit into the bustle of Camden Town borough.

With the travel arrangements updated, the trio marched through the terminal to departure platform number six and readied to board their train for the Northwest. While waiting for the attendant to allow them to ascend, James again turned in all directions to assess his surroundings, even upward at the wrought iron roof partially covering the platform. The surveillance did not go unnoticed by Attlee or Hum, who refrained from offering commentary for now.

Unbeknownst to the three, they were being carefully observed by a man wearing a standard black bowler hat pretending to be engrossed with the daily tabloid on a nearby bench. In truth, Detective Inspector Alistair Townsend was there for “James Turnbull.” The DI had not been tasked with engaging the youth. Instead, the Great Scotland Yard man scribbled notes in his pocketbook disguised behind the tabloid to report the boy’s whereabouts to a higher London authority named Sir Edmund Woolsey Sweetland.

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Once in the train compartment, the Americans sat opposite their new addition, who was completely curious to be inside this mode of transportation. Th e lad was accustomed to either using his own two feet or the odd horse carriage. James Turnbull found the adventure of being on the train exciting as he prepared to leave the only world he had ever known, anxious to follow the dream of crossing the Atlantic once shared with his late father. He stared out the window with measured optimism while squeezing a locket underneath his shirt.

“Are you holding up, James?”

The captain’s words startled the introvert. Turnbull, since entering the cabin, had said nothing, turning his attention to the scenery they sped past. Looking out the window, Captain Attlee found no landmark of interest. Young James’s mind is elsewhere, he concluded.

The runaway finally faced the gents.

“You go by the name of James Turnbull?” Attlee asked, still skeptical.

“Yeah.”

“Would you happen to bear any documentation proving who you claim to be?”

“No,” Turnbull replied in an uncooperative tone. Though he did possess identification bearing the name, he chose to keep the information private.

“But you hinted that both your folks are deceased, leaving you a type of orphan.” Such tragedies were not uncommon in London. “Are you telling me the truth?”

Not wishing to agitate the helpful American, Turnbull pitched a small overture and said, “Mum never survived me birth, and Dad died a few days ago.”

“How did your father pass?”

Turnbull scrutinized the inquisitor, who was doing the same to him, then looked at his silent partner, Hum, who sat serenely with his eyes closed, only listening, not interested in talking.

“In Blackwall,” Turnbull whispered. “There was an accident at the docks, where he’d sometimes work.” He made sure to inject elements of authenticity that a person of compassion would accept.

Captain Attlee had never considered himself the gullible type, and he could admit such events did sadly happen to day laborers in the shipping docks on a regular basis. For this potential recruit, the story held merit. Still, something was off about this scoundrel. His nervousness back in Euston Station, combined with his pickpocket skill and a compulsive need to hold that filthy satchel, had left the captain with a sense of unease. Attlee also took note of the gloves Turnbull wore. Th ere was more to the youngster’s tale that demanded investigation. He silently guessed Turnbull had crossed some bad people and that had expedited an ill-prepared pilgrimage to the United States.

What bothered Attlee more was the girl at the train station. She’d recklessly come out of nowhere, and when Turnbull had spotted the trouble, he’d exposed himself needlessly. It made no sense, as he allegedly had no connection with the sprite.

The youngster clearly demonstrated the qualities of a useful cog for what he had in mind: independence, cunning, intelligence, and a smidgen of good character. A fi ne asset to develop and implement for the ocean journey. Yes. Attlee decided to conscript the boy. If proven wrong, the sun-skinned runt could simply be cast aside to his own capable devices, whatever they may be.

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The train ride to Liverpool took an excruciating six hours. Whatever novelty James Turnbull had enjoyed at the start of the trip soon decayed into sheer boredom. Unable to explore the passenger coach unescorted, the confinement tested his composure with little activity to occupy his time, having left his prized books behind at a Westminster flat—save one, left in a package for the capable Lady Elephants gang leader, Helen Whitehead. His heart was heavy with the reality he now faced.

With his father, Alfred Bozz, buried only a few days back and beloved Lucy Love stuck in prison, there was no going back, especially with a vengeful uncle like Mad Bozz, who would almost certainly be on the hunt throughout Southwark and other parts of London once he opened his office safe and visited the banks. Stealing from his uncle was Gideon Bozz’s farewell gift to the murderous gang leader, and he believed the humiliation would be worth more than the monetary valuables in the life-preserving satchel in his possession.

Gid, as he preferred to be called, was silently pensive for those he cared about on this lonely journey. He attempted to rest his overworked mind until reaching Liverpool, holding on to the locket attached to his chain necklace for serenity. The effort proved futile under the constant surveillance by Attlee and Hum.