Читать книгу The Scales of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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The cold grey mist falling over London as George Drummond's train slid from the roaring arch of Paddington station had fallen still more chill over the moors behind Longtown. That was some hours before George started on his momentous journey—before the joy and happiness of his life went out. Against the background of the marshes stood the long, grey building that constituted Greystone Gaol. It was perhaps—at any rate from the point of view of the authorities—an ideal spot for a convict prison; from any standpoint it was dreary and desolate to a degree. If it had been necessary to chill the heart and take the last ray of hope out of a convict, a glimpse of Greystone would have done it. There was work to be done here of a kind—the building of a long wall, to keep back the creeping sea, foundations to be dug in the shifting gravel, a slow, tedious job that showed little result after a year's labour.

A gang worked now on the slimy gravel, some filling the burrows, others pushing the same up the slope to the big, grassy mound, where a warder stood looking here and there, his rifle resting on the hollow of his arm. The big figure in uniform stood out against the misty sky; there was a deep rampart behind him. There was no talk, no passing of words, nothing but dogged toil. And all wore the yellow stripe of the tribe. The mournful spectacle was in fit keeping with the dreary landscape.

For the most part the wearers of the yellow stripe were of the typical class. The one man at the end of the gang, working in the hole amidst the wet gravel, looked a little different from the rest. In the first place, he was by no means bad-looking, his face was gentle and refined, his hands had not been accustomed to this kind of toil. He had suffered, too, if it were possible to judge by the expression of his face—a proud, sensitive, eager face—the face of one who has been cruelly used by fate.

He worked on doggedly enough, and yet he seemed to be expecting something—that strange, restless feeling of hope that comes to us all even in the depths of the profoundest despair.

Two years of this had not killed his spirit. It is bad for the guilty to face the bitterness of their crime, but it is far worse for the innocent.

Nevertheless, the man started violently with surprise as a body came wriggling like a serpent over the marshy ground and slid head-first into the hole. But the worker never stopped in his labour, he did not even look down.

"Is it really you, Garcia?" he said hoarsely. "I began to wonder where you had got to. Is there any news?"

The newcomer was dark of face, a wiry little man, a mass of whipcord and steel. From the yellow tinge on his face he might have been a half-caste, or a Spaniard, or Mexican, certainly he would not have looked out of place in cowboy garb on the back of a horse.

"There is nothing fresh, my master," he said. "Slowly things are being prepared. But it is all a matter of patience. Wait—wait—till we can give the signal and all will be well."

"Well. If you knew what it was like! Two years—two centuries! And the mist gets into my bones as drink rots the lungs of the drunkard. Is there a letter for me—a message of any kind? You must have watched me closely to come here in this unerring fashion."

"Even so, master," Garcia said. "You read your letter whilst I pitch your gravel for you. The sentry yonder will not know the difference. Here is the packet I was to give you."

The convict grabbed at the letter as eagerly as a starving dog grabs at a bone. It was something to break the maddening monotony—like a glass of cold water in a dreary desert. It was not a long letter, but the reader read it again and again with a quick, fierce intaking of his breath. The little man with the brown face was industriously pitching gravel all the time. The convict turned to him eagerly, there was a quivering, flickering light, in his eyes.

"First get rid of that letter," he said. "Garcia, I must get away from here now. No matter if I am taken again in the daylight, no matter if it puts back the clock for a year. I must—I must be at the Moat House some time to-night."

"If master says it must be, it must," Juan Garcia said coolly. He placed the letter in his mouth, chewed it hastily, and swallowed the paper down. "But this haste spoils everything. A little longer, and my master would be free to defy his—"

"Fool! Cease your chatter. I tell you I must get away now, no matter what happens later. If I could only close the eyes of the warder for five minutes!"

"Escape may be taken as an evidence of guilt," the Mexican murmured.

He worked on doggedly without looking up from his toil. The queer little man was as cool as if he had been a navvy working in a ditch. And yet there was an air about him of dogged faithfulness that was pathetic. It spoke of deep devotion to his master. His voice shook a little as he spoke.

"The letter was sent to my lodgings," he said, never ceasing his toil. "I was to find some way of conveying it to you down here. It was for your sake, master, and I obeyed without asking any questions. For two days I have been studying the lie of the land here. And all the time I have been working in another direction."

"I understand, my faithful Garcia," the convict, said. "You mean that you have never given up the attempt to prove my innocence. And I am innocent. A fool I was, but dishonourable and dishonest, never. The Maker of us all, Who has laid this heavy burden on me for His inscrutable purposes, knows that I am innocent. As you say, to escape only tacitly confesses my crime. But something is happening to one whom I love better than life itself. The letter told me that. If I die in the attempt, I must try to get away now. That I will be taken again is inevitable. My good Garcia, you must help me!"

The little Mexican nodded. All the time he had not paused in the mechanical labour of tossing the gravel out of the hole. He was scheming a plan. The convict watched him with some impatience. It was hard for the man of action to feel that he was helpless as a little child.

"I can get my master away from here quite easily," the Mexican said. "We have been in tighter places in Mexico together, you and I. I have a plan—"

"Yes, yes. But no violence, mind. I will not be a party to anything of the sort. There is only one warder watching over this gang. He must not be hurt."

"He shall not be hurt," Garcia said coolly. "A dramatic surprise, a shock, and perhaps a trifle of personal discomfort, what are they? Better men than yonder guardian with the rifle have suffered worse things. It shall be done, master."

"And you think that you can give me a good chance to gain the woods yonder? Well, all I ask is a fair field and no favour. If I am taken again to-morrow or sooner, perhaps, I shall not mind so much. There is something before me which must be done to-night. It will be very late before my task is done. Do you know where she is, Garcia?"

The little Mexican nodded as he proceeded with his task.

"Not far off," he said. "I do not understand—that fiend is too cunning for me. And yet I fancy that the young lady is safe; any way, there are other people about her—an old lady and her daughter, with faces like angels, both of them. One looks like the Madonna in the chapel at San Lucar, where I was born. If—"

"Never mind that now," the convict interrupted. "We will talk about that another time. Give me some idea of how you are going to get me away. It is very foggy beyond the marshes. If I could only reach the woods, I might succeed yet. What I want you to do is to close the eyes of the warder for a few minutes and—"

"That I can manage," the Mexican whispered. "Look over the edge of the pit when I am gone, and when you have finished counting a hundred slowly—"

"Ah, I understand what you mean. Give me your long overcoat and cap. Go on with your spade-work."

The coat and cap were passed over; the coat, a long one, reaching below the convict's knees. He removed his stockings, and rubbed his bare legs with the wet gravel till they were brown. As he stood up he might have passed in the gathering gloom for a sportsman coming back from a day's shooting or golf, with his big coat over his knickerbocker suit. Then he fell to the pitching of the gravel again, whilst the little man crept out of the hole. The half-caste kept close to the ground like a hare; he worked his way to the back of the rampart, where the warder stood like a statue; something long the little man removed from about his waist. There were two thongs at the end of the line, and a heavy iron weight at the termination of each.

The little man stood up now, for he was secure from observation. There was an uneasy grin on his face as he whirled his line round his head. Then he cast it forward with a dexterous jerk, and immediately began to run violently in a contrary direction. Before the warder knew what had happened the thongs of the lasso had wrapped murderously round his throat; the line lengthened simultaneously with the full weight of the half-caste's flying body, and then, without a sound, the warder rolled over the rampart. The convict, with his eyes over the edge of the hole, saw the apparent miracle done without the least feeling of astonishment. He knew exactly what would happen now. Before the half-strangled warder had recovered his senses he would be gagged and bound by Garcia, who could be very well trusted to make his escape. The mists were falling thicker now; there would be nobody to bar the way. But not more than half an hour could elapse before the thing was discovered; still, much might be accomplished in that time. The convict scrambled out of the hole; he strode across in the direction of the marshes. Strangers found their way there by accident sometimes, so he passed without notice. A minute later, and the friendly mists hid him altogether. Then he gathered up the skirts of his long coat and began to run. He had an object in view, and he ran in a straight line. For three-quarters of an hour he sped on, until he was in a warm glow from head to foot; the sense of weariness and fatigue fell from him—he was a man again, with a grim purpose before him. An hour passed, and through the mists came no boom of guns, to show that a convict was missing.

He paused at length when he came to a properly-made roadway fringed with woods. Where the road forked was a signboard, bearing the information that Longtown was distant five miles, and the village of Grange barely two. It was all that the convict needed. He knew that he had only to pass through the wood and strike the Moat on the far side.

But not yet, not till quite late in the evening. He struck into the road until he came to a small stack of barley placed there by a keeper for the benefit of Sir Devereux Drummond's pheasants. Into this the fugitive burrowed deep, for he would be cold enough before he had finished his long vigil. He pressed his coat close to him, he dived his hands into his pockets. Something tinkled in the one, something rattled in the other. The convicts eyes gleamed. He had come upon a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

The luxury of it, after two years in that dreary hell yonder! There was something cheering and inspiring in the tobacco. The man lingered lovingly over his cigarettes, smoking but two very quietly, until he heard a clock somewhere strike eight. At the same time a distant sullen booming came over the marshes from the gaol.

"Well, they have given me plenty of latitude," the convict muttered. "I might have got halfway to London by this time, provided I had the money. Well, after the next few hours are over, it will not matter whether they take me or not. Poor little girl—poor little girl!"

The leaden minutes passed, and at intervals the gun boomed out. Presently it seemed to the watcher that he could hear voices on the edge of the wood. He drew back into the straw as the thought became a certainty, and two keepers passed along. A third man rose and accosted them.

"What are you doing here?" the fist keeper demanded suspiciously.

"In the King's name," came the reply. "One of the convicts, has got away. If you have seen anything—".

"Well, we haven't. You'll do no good coming here disturbing the squire's pheasants, and he is going to shoot these very woods only the day after tomorrow. There are three of us watching here for poachers and if one of your gang comes this way, why we'll take your place for you and secure him."

The convict lay in the straw till the sound, of the intruders died away. He had been very near to recapture, but good fortune had aided him. But, at the same time, now he was conscious of a double danger. Not only had he to think of the warders, but the keepers also were his foes. So might the poachers be if he met them. For an hour or more he lay still and snug in the straw until it was safe to venture out.

He stood in the road presently, eager, panting, and alert. He passed along, sheltering himself from sight in the shadow of the ditch till he came to a place where four roads crossed. There was a thicket of hawthorn in the centre, and before this he stopped.

"This must be the place mentioned in the letter," he muttered. "Four guide-posts and a little stunted tree. And it must be quite ten o'clock by now. I hope the messenger will not keep me long. Oh, the maddening suspense of this waiting!"