Читать книгу Red Lion and Blue Star - John Arthur Barry - Страница 10

Table of Contents

"Och, be jabers, me poor man, an' is ut so bad agin, thin? Ay, shure, I see the brute's there all roight. Bedad, an' the suner his neck's stretched the suner we'll be at pace agin. Now aff wid ye, an' git the rotten thing out."

Thus Relief-Constable Sullivan to the man with his swathed face in No. 4 corridor who, peaked cap drawn over his brows, and handkerchief to his mouth, seemed able to do nothing but shake his head and groan, whilst pointing to the cell in token that all was well with his charge.

Along the passage and down some stairs, and through another passage, all brilliantly lit, went the sham constable, one hand to his face, grasping his rifle with the other. At the end of the last passage was a covered yard, at the farther side of which he could see the great iron entrance-gate of the gaol, through whose bars a big, round, white moon seemed to glare inquisitively, so close she looked. And now the road to freedom appeared clear and, by instinct, depositing his rifle in the arm-rack on the left hand of the hall-way, he turned towards the little open gate to the right of the main entrance, always barred, this latter, except to admit the prison van—"Black Maria."

But one does not get out of Port Endeavor gaol so easily—bound or free! The Governor, an old army colonel—martinet, and therefore; in the regard of his men, faddist—saw to that. Thus as the escaping felon stepped to the wicket, coolly exultant, and sniffing the fresh night air with all the eagerness of one long confined, a man issuing from the lighted guard-house said "Halloa, Ashton! Off to have it out? Well, it's the only cure. Give me your pass till I clock you," and he extended his hand.

The cold sweat started in beads from the other's forehead as, to gain time he mumbled indistinctly, and groped with one hand in his pockets for the thing that now flashed into his mind with fatal certainty was not there. Idiot, ass, that he was! The card, doubtless, that he had pulled out of the fellow's pocket with the key of the irons, and, neglecting to even glance at, had thrown into the hammock!

"Left it in your room, eh?" queried the other jokingly. "Well, my son, you'll have to find it, tooth or no tooth. It's worth my jacket to let you out without it. Now, then, off you go and get your ticket."

That, however, was more than even he dare do; although, for a moment, the thought occurred to him to return and kill Sullivan and then possess himself of the pass lying on the dead body of the hammock. But he was now unarmed. Sullivan was a big powerful man. No, plainly, there was nothing for it but a dash.

Where he stood was somewhat in shadow. Even now, Sullivan might have taken it into his head to have a look at his prisoner. He could hear steps approaching. The constable on duty was, too, he thought, eyeing him suspiciously. In a second his resolution was taken. From the shadow of the porch he might still have made a dart, preserving his incognito, his escapade set down to pain, and the knowledge that he had lost his pass. All these alternatives flitted across his brain in a space of time measurable by a dozen heart-beats. Realising that his case was desperate indeed, all the old murderous bravado rose strong and fierce within him. He began to see red. Armed, he would have killed the man who stood there in his path, as he had so lately killed the other one. Suddenly, tearing off his bandages and pushing his cap away from his eyes, he thrust a distorted, furious face into the light. The guard stepped back appalled, and the next minute a crashing blow from the other's fist sent him reeling to the ground. Another minute, and the murderer was through the gate and speeding along the road to the town, ankle-deep in powdery dust that rose in white clouds into the white moonlight.

Zip, zip, ping, ping, came the bullets as the men on the watch-towers fired at the flying form, whilst the great bell rang out sharp and quick; and hurrying, half-dressed warders snatched up their Martinis and ran, firing as they went at the pillar of dust ahead.

Ping, ping, szz, sszz! How the bullets hissed and whistled past him down the hill, kicking up little splotches of dust far in front! And how that infernal bell rang! He hated bells! Always had done so, since the old days at Arawatta homestead, when a boy, at the call of one, he rose at dawn to tramp through the wet grass after the station saddle-horses. If ever he owned a station, he'd take good care to have a night-horse kept in. Ah! that was a hit! He could feel the blood running down his leg into his boot. If he only had hold of the fellow that fired the shot.

He did not in the least know where he was making for, never having been at the port before, nor, indeed, anywhere except "Out Back"; but still he kept going, and still the bullets sang past him and pecked at the dust in front. The way lay all down hill. In front of him he could see the harbor, and the masts of the shipping, clear in the moonlight. Behind him he could hear the muffled tramp of many steps. He felt weak, and staggered once or twice. All at once he became aware of shouts coming towards him. But by this time he was at the foot of the steep descent on the brow of which was placed the gaol. To the right the road wound towards the heart of the town. To the left, close to the sea beach, were some sheds and yards, stacks of timber, jetties, and a small coaster or two.

Dust was rising ahead, evidently from police or townspeople aroused by the firing and bell-ringing, and hastening towards the gaol. It was worse than useless to go on. The rifles were quiet now. Where he crouched, in the shadow of a paling fence, his pursuers could not see him. A storm, too, was coming up, and black clouds were already throwing their reflection on the white ground. Rising, he crept along the fence, till, finding a broken paling, he tore it out and squeezed through. He was in a yard; a long shed from which rose a chimney took up one side. There was a smell of hot iron and fresh paint in the air; his feet crunched cinders. Right against him loomed a big, curiously-shaped mass, whose possible use puzzled him as he limped into the shadow of it, and gave it a moment's vague speculation, whilst heavy rain-drops splashed hollowly on its iron skin. At the height of his shoulder was an aperture big enough for him to get through, and so into the belly of the thing. He could hear his pursuers cursing the gloom at the other side of the fence. Just as well in there as anywhere else! And putting all his strength into the effort, he drew himself up by his wrists until he got his head in; and then, holding on by a cross-stay, he wriggled his whole body through.

He was a tall man; but swinging from the stay he could touch no bottom. Deciding to let go, he, however, only had to drop some three feet. And wherever he sat he sat on a slope, a matter that seemed so funny to him that he laughed aloud, whilst the lightning flashed and the thunder roared, and the tropical rain fell in streaming sheets over his refuge—kept dry by reason of the entrance being on the under side. The incessant lightning illumined his cavern continuously, enabling him to discover that his wound was not serious—a bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his thigh; and, tearing up a kerchief he found in the pocket of the constabulary tunic, he soon extemporized an efficient bandage. In another pocket he came across a plug of tobacco, of which, taking a good chew, he lay back and stolidly awaited what fortune might have further in store for him.