The Boy Without A Country

              French Navy Ship Fantasque

         I will my stomach to stop growling. I'm sure to be caught if it keeps on like this! Every footstep that I hear, every creaking of a board, even my heartbeat makes my mind race. Up, down, to and fro, the ship tosses about on the sea's merciless waves. I think I'm going to be sick. The stench of dead rats and the excrement of crew members and passengers is appalling. My knees rest uncomfortably underneath my chin and my arms wrap around my legs as I sit still in the empty crate. My fingers and toes ache from a loss of circulation, and through the dim light of my living arrangements, I can tell that my fingers are turning a greyish-blue color. My stomach growls once again.

Footsteps.

     I don't allow myself to breathe for fear that I will be found out.
Should I have stowed away on this ship? They'd kill me if they found out a Brit stowed away on a French ship!
But I'm only seven years old. Will they kill me? Father always said they would. My mind swarms through these questions as I hold my breath.
Creeeeeeeeaaaak.
The groaning of a nearby board makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand perfectly straight. It's like our armies back home standing at attention the moment the commander calls out. The noise of footsteps and creaking boards soon fades away. I release my breath.
It's too late to turn back now.
My legs have lost all feeling, and my mouth is crying out desperately for water. I decide to go to sleep and pass a few hours of this long journey. I attempt in vain to find a comfortable position to sleep in. How I wish to be able to stretch out my legs and arms. Hopefully, I can dream about such luxuries when I fall asleep. I close my eyes, even though I am reticent about letting my guard down in such a way. I will never forgive myself if I am caught. However, I have nothing better to do with my time, and it will be a good distraction. The last thing I remember before unconsciousness takes me prisoner is the rise and fall of the ship, and the groaning pleas of my stomach.

Darkness.

I clung to the loaf of bread with every ounce of strength that I had. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins and I didn't dare look back. I knew they were chasing me. I dashed through the alleys in the backstreets of London. The sun was just beginning to rise; I needed to move quickly. If I could just make it to the London Bridge and cross the River Thames, I could surely lose my pursuers.
Down Long Lane I ran, ignoring the yells and threats of Henry Baxter, the baker, and his son William. The roosters on nearby farms began to cocka-doodle-doo. As I passed the Southwark Cathedral, her bells began to sing their sweet music. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! It was six o'clock in the morning. Soon, the whole town would awake. I could make out the bridge from here! I rushed towards the bridge, although I was not sure of what I would do once I got across. I began the sprint across London Bridge. A knot formed in my stomach. There used to be beautiful homes and buildings on this bridge, but the city destroyed them. I didn't understand why! I would never forgive England for destroying the one thing my father left to me. As I ran past the rubble of my only home, rage built up inside of me. I ran faster than I had ever run before. I was determined to get away.
Once I reached the other side, I scrambled for a place to hide. Unfortunately, London was beginning to wipe the sleep from her eyes. The sun was up, and Londoners began to emerge from their stone homes. I dashed behind the St. Magnus Martyr Church, praying that no one had seen me hide. I smiled. The bread was still warm to the touch. I had gotten away with it. I broke off a piece of the sweet bread. As it entered my mouth, I was no longer in the cold, dingy town of London. I had entered a land of sweet, heavenly bliss. Too selfish at that moment to save any for later, I scarfed the bread down. After a few days of eating nothing but gruel and scraps of leather from the cobbler's shop, my growling stomach was finally satisfied.
Out of nowhere, two rough, burly hands grabbed the back of my tattered shirt.
"Where is that bread, you thief?!" Mr. Baxter screamed. "You'd be'er 'and it over ta me, boy. If you know what's best for ya!"
I was paralyzed with fear. I didn't have a plan. I just shrugged, not knowing what else to do. I couldn't tell him that I ate the whole thing. He wouldn't believe me. Before I knew what was going on, excruciating pain erupted from my face. Mr. Baxter had backhanded me.
I struggled to regain my balance when the baker's son boxed my ears. He was at least five years older than me. Maybe he was even fourteen years old, and he stood a good eight inches taller than me. As I fell to the cobblestone street, I could hear him laugh.
"That'll teach ya to think twice about taking my breakfast away from me, Dekker!" I noticed his fists balling up in fury, and I pleaded with him.
"Take this, but please don't hurt me. I'm sorry!" I produced a farthing from my pocket. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. William snatched it from my small, pudgy fingers. I wasn't prepared for the final punch that knocked me to the ground. Mr. Baxter told his son to leave me alone, and for that I was grateful. The two left me, sauntering off towards London Bridge. I tore off the sleeve of my shirt and held it up to my nose, which was now bleeding. I realized how lucky I was. I only had a few bruises and scratches. It could have been worse. Much worse. Brushing myself off, I knew I needed to leave this town. I hated London; I hated England. I hated all the memories I had of this place. I knew I would leave, and soon. But, how?