ESCAPE.
The great convict prison of Princetown stands on the wildest part of
Dartmoor, nearly fifteen hundred feet above the sea, surrounded by wild,
rock-strewn tors, whose heather-covered slopes stretch for miles in
every direction. Four main roads cross the moor from Plymouth to
Moretonhampstead, and Tavistock to Ashburton. These unite at Two
Bridges, where they cross the river Dart.
In the triangle formed by the Plymouth and Tavistock roads which divide
at Two Bridges lie the prison farms. This land has been reclaimed from
the moors with years of heavy toil by the convicts. Only those who by
good behaviour have earned a conduct badge are taken for work on the
farms, where they have more freedom and even the chance of stolen
conversation. Although the rule of silence is not relaxed, it is
impossible for the warders, who stand on guard at every vantage point
around the field in which the men are working, to hear; and the art of
speaking without moving the lips is practised by every convict.
Nearly six months had passed since Rupert had stepped from the train
between two warders on to the tiny platform at Princetown, and for six
months the prison walls had hidden from his longing eyes the moor that
was his home.
But eventually the day came when he was taken outside the prison walls
to work in the fields. As he was marched with his gang through the
great gates soon after the sunrise of an early summer morning he
remembered with a curious tightening of his heart-strings another
morning--he had forgotten how long ago--when he had entered those very
gates with his friend Robert Despard.
They had come to look over the prison, to stare at the prisoners.
He choked back a laugh, and the convict marching on his left half turned
his head and gave him a look of warning. They had reached the cross
roads and the next moment halted outside the gate that led to the
fields--for the convicts were never marched further along the road than
was necessary.
Rupert looked back at the risk of reprimand. It was at this very spot
that his sister Marjorie had left them, going on into Princetown to do
the week's shopping--and to buy herself a present with the money Rupert
had given her!
He stared dry-eyed along the broad highway. Tears never dimmed his eyes
now, as they had done at first.
Reaction had come long ago. He had gone through the fire and had come
out hardened. For a little while his sufferings had been unbearable. He
had prayed for death. Even his love for Ruby Strode had not been
sufficient to give him a hold on life.
In the great convict prison day and night had been merged into one.
There had been no break to the dreadful monotony and the everlasting
silence. Time had not been composed of days and nights, but of hours;
hours of minutes, minutes of seconds--and each second had been an
eternity.
Part of his torture had been in thinking of the sufferings of those he
loved. Of the woman who had tried to save him, and whose great love had
brought him to this pass; of his father and sister, who, perhaps, would
never hold up their heads again, ostracised by the so-called decent
people.
He did not even know how they managed to live, whether they had enough
money to keep body and soul together. And it was that thought that
sometimes nearly drove him mad.
The old man who had sacrificed everything for his sake to make a
gentleman of him; his beautiful little sister, who had been standing on
the threshold of life with the dawn of love in her heart. He had robbed
her, too, of life and of love.
Over and over again he had pictured Marjorie and his father sitting in
the old kitchen of the little farmhouse alone, afraid even to look at
one another, afraid to talk. Shunned by all their neighbours. Poverty
facing them, perhaps starvation, the farm going to rot and ruin before
their eyes. And yet, had they but known, a fortune waited for them in
that old, disused tin-mine. No one knew anything about it but his
friend, Robert Despard.
His eyes had been opened too late, and he knew what sort of a friend
Despard was. He did not even dare hope that the man who had taken their
hospitality would play the game and tell John Dale of the vast
possibilities that were hidden in the mine on his property. He would
keep the knowledge to himself and take advantage of it ... and of
Marjorie!--Rupert's sister--whom he had professed to fall in love with.
The convicts were crossing a patch of moorland towards the fields in
which they were to work; the soft turf was beneath Rupert's feet, the
blue sky above his head, the scent of gorse, already blossoming, in his
nostrils. The sweet sounds and sights and scents stirred his blood. He
gazed down into the valley across the Dart. There lay Two Bridges,
almost a stone's throw away. Beyond, Post Bridge. He almost fancied he
could see Blackthorn Farm! Were they still there, his loved ones, ekeing
out a lonely, miserable existence, or had shame driven them away, and
had the home they owned been taken? With a fortune lying hidden beneath
the land!
Sometimes he had wondered whether the story Despard told him about the
traces of radium in the pitch-blende had been an hallucination on his
part. But long ago, a month or two after his arrival at Princetown, he
had made up his mind and sworn a solemn oath that he would wait for a
chance of escape. He knew that no convict had ever succeeded in getting
right away, but now and then some unfortunate had hidden on the moors
for many days before he was captured.
Knowing the country as he did it would be easy for Rupert, if he could
make a dash for freedom, to get to Blackthorn Farm, see his father and
tell him what lay hidden in the old mine just outside his very door.
The place was mortgaged to Sir Reginald, and in that fact lay the one
chance that Despard had been unable to either purchase or lease it. He
would have to wait until Sir Reginald foreclosed and then buy it from
him.
Every week that passed, every day, meant that the chance of the fortune
was slipping away from his father. Rupert knew by the time of the year
that more than nine months had passed since he had been tried and
sentenced. Unless he escaped within the year it would be too late.
It might be too late now, but it was worth the risk. To get out from
the prison cell, or from the great walls that surrounded the prison
itself, was practically impossible. His only hope had lain in being
sent to work in the quarries or fields.
And now the chance had come. It seemed as if Providence had sent it.
Suddenly the word "Halt!" rang out. Automatically Rupert stopped. The
convicts were lined up and their numbers called over. Rupert raised his
eyes.
The man on his left was speaking to him again--using his usual
signals--a man who had often been his companion in exercise within the
prison walls and whose one idea, curiously enough, had also been escape.
Rupert did not look at him. His fists were clenched, every muscle in
his body was tight and taut. It required all his self-restraint not to
make a dash then and there. He looked up: the blue sky flecked with
fleecy clouds was above him, the sweet smell of new-mown hay was
everywhere in the air; the soft bleating of sheep and the barking of a
dog came faintly down the breeze from Beardown Hill, and along the white
dusty road he could see the carrier's cart crawling to Post Bridge.
"No. 381, get on with your work!"
The raucous voice of the warder brought him back to the fact that work
was about to commence. As he lifted the hay on his fork he gazed around.
The black forms of the warders stood like silhouettes against the sky,
their rifles glinting in the sun, a wall as formidable, as impassable,
as those of the prison behind him.
By a lucky chance the convict who was raking by him now was his pal, No.
303. He had been plying him with questions of roads, paths, and
distances to the nearest railway stations, and only yesterday had
offered to make an attempt with him to escape. He was a small man with
flaxen hair, which now stood up in a short, stiff stubble like a
closely-mown cornfield, and the blue, dreamy eyes, whose kindly glance
belied the broad arrows which covered every portion of his costume, made
one wonder how this kindly little gentleman had earned the ten years,
four of which had failed to stamp the convict brand upon his face. In
all their many opportunities for secret conversation he had never
confided in Rupert his crime or his name.
He was a mystery, but his willingness and his ready obedience, his
haunting smile and kindly blue eyes, had made him a favourite with the
warders, who treated him with a lack of harshness that almost amounted
to kindness. And as he worked as though his life depended upon it, and
always with the same sad smile, he was allowed more freedom of movement
within the limits of the warder's chain than any other convict.
Once or twice during the day, whenever they were close together, No. 303
questioned Rupert as to the part of the moorlands they were on, how far
from Princetown or Moretonhampstead.
"Keep your eyes open, the chance may come to-day."
But Rupert shook his head. What chance had they, surrounded by armed
men, in the broad light of day? True, there was always the chance of a
fog, and though in the spring they were fairly common, as the summer
advanced their appearance was rare.
To-day the heat was oppressive, and though the sun shone in a cloudless
sky a thin, almost imperceptible, haze hung over the tors, and the peaks
shone with a curious light. Rupert noted this, for it sometimes was the
precursor of a summer fog, and when these fogs did come they appeared
suddenly, without warning--and as suddenly disappeared.
In the afternoon a slight breeze, which now and then had blown from the
hills, died down. There was not a breath of air. It was with a sigh of
relief that even the warders saw the sun sink beneath the bank of grey
cloud that had covered the western sky.
The perspiration poured down the convicts' faces as they worked, and the
warders began to throw anxious glances behind them where Great Tor had
already disappeared in an ominous cloud-bank, which rolled down its
slopes like cotton-wool. The field in which they were working was the
furthest one from the prison, and just above Two Bridges, which lay at
the bottom of a steep slope of rough grass. The field was separated
from the road by another one, and a high wall without any gates ran down
the whole length of the road.
The head warder pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to five. He
glanced at the low, white clouds which the least puff of wind might at
any moment bring down and blot out the landscape.
He sounded his whistle, and the convicts at once began to form up and
the guard to close in. There was a few moments' delay while the rakes
and forks were collected and the waggon brought up from the end of the
field.
"Stand next me," No. 303 whispered to Rupert. "Our chance has come.
You won't fail me!"
Rupert, whose knowledge of the moor told him that escape was impossible
for one as ignorant of his surroundings as poor 303, stooped down to tie
his shoelace. "For God's sake, don't be a fool! Summer fogs are no
good, I can't----"
"No. 381, stand up! All present, chief."
The chief warder immediately gave the order to march, and the whole
party moved up the centre of the field towards the prison, the warders
marching beside their charges and the armed guard about thirty paces
away extended so as to completely surround them.
Further conversation was rendered impossible. A faint breeze began to
stir the still air, bringing a damp mist, which beat in their faces.
Rupert, with his eyes fixed on the ground, began to pray that the
approaching fog might not blow away. A chance had come--for him. His
heart went out in tender sympathy to the poor soul who could not face
the long dreary years of his punishment yet to come, while his mind was
torn in two by an agony of doubt.
He, who knew the moors so well, did not believe for a moment that, alone
and unhampered, he could escape; even if they could hide on the moors
for a day or two, capture in the end was inevitable. All he wanted was
to get to Blackthorn Farm; but 303 wanted to get clear away.
Within a few minutes telephones and telegraphs would inform every town
and village in the two counties, every railway station would be watched,
every egress barred; every constable in Devon and Cornwall would block
all roads.
Suddenly the voice of the chief warder ordering the convicts to close up
broke in upon his thoughts, and looking up he saw that the prison had
disappeared--nothing but a white sea of fog lay all around, and even the
walls of the field a few yards away were almost invisible! They were
only two fields now from the prison, and the gang checked for a moment
as the last gate but one was reached.
Rupert was almost the centre of the gang, and he noticed that his own
warder, who was just in front, was only just visible in spite of his
dark uniform.
As he reached the gate 303 gripped him by the arm, dropped on his knees
behind the wall and disappeared. At this moment the chief warder gave
the order to halt, and his heart flew into his mouth, for he thought
303's action had been seen. But the sound of some one shouting at the
horses, and the chief warder's voice raised in angry question, reassured
him.
Without thinking of what he was doing he dropped on his face and crawled
rapidly down the side of the wall. At the same moment the order to
march was given and the noisy beating of his heart was drowned by the
creaking of the waggon as it lumbered past.
He lay perfectly still, flattened against the wall. He wondered why he
heard no shot or other indication that they had been seen. The rear
guards passed within six feet of him, and when their black forms were
swallowed up by the white fog, he realised that their absence from the
gang would not be discovered until they reached the prison.
Leaping to his feet he ran along the wall, and almost immediately fell
over 303, who was crouching against it.
"Quick, for God's sake follow me!" he whispered. "We must make for
Beardown. This fog may blow away at any moment."
They ran like hares; scrambling over the walls, falling into holes,
stumbling on rocks, Rupert intent only on reaching Wistman's wood before
the fog lifted.
He had nothing to guide him but the knowledge of the direction in which
he originally started from the wall and the moorman's instinct to
prevent him from travelling in a circle, which is the inevitable fate of
every one lost in a fog.
They dropped on to a road, Tavistock Road. "Come on, we are right now!"
Rupert cried excitedly.
They scrambled over the wall and raced down the steep hillside.
Suddenly they saw the gleam of water below them, bushes and stones
appeared. They had left the fog behind, the valley was clear.
As they plunged across the river and breasted the steep hill they saw
the blessed fog shutting out Beardown Farm and all the tors above it.
"Quick! we must get up with the fog before we are seen. Thank God,
there is no one in sight!"
But poor 303 was no moorman, and he was already dropping behind.
"I can't do it, 381; go on without me!"
Rupert turned back and, taking him by the arm, pulled him down into a
little hollow behind a huge furze-bush and laid him on his back.
"You're only winded; we have run over a mile; you'll get your second
wind in a minute," he whispered. "But we must not wait here a moment
longer than absolutely necessary. If the fog should lift now, we are
certain to be taken. I am going to make for Hartland Tor, which is
close to my father's house; there is an old, disused mine below the tor
in which we can hide for the present."
Boom! A dull explosion echoed across the hills.
"What's that?" exclaimed 303.
"The alarm," Rupert replied. "We have not a moment to lose."