THE PRISON-BREAKERS
The nights were fast waxing shorter. It was necessary that no time
should be wasted. Patsy waited till there was a change of garrison at
Stranryan. Long spoken of, it came at last. The relief had been
signalled from afar--at Carlisle, at Dumfries, and now crossing the
hills by the military road from New Galloway.
On the night before its arrival the storm burst upon the little fishing
town scattered so carelessly along the shores of the Loch of Ryan. The
two companies of the light cavalry division had marched out that
afternoon leaving their barracks empty, swept and wholly ungarnished for
the troops which were to arrive to replace them.
Stranryan will long remember that twenty-fourth of May. In the evening
there was a wind off the Loch, a little irregular but pleasantly fanning
to cheeks heated with the good-night bumper. So the burgesses stayed out
a little longer than usual on the quay in the fading light, standing
about in groups or marching up and down in pairs solemnly talking
business or of the "Common Guid" of the town. How, for instance, they
thought of electing the Earl Raincy to be their provost, honorary as to
duties, but exceedingly decorative and possibly useful. The
ninety-nine-year leases of the Out Parks would fall in during his time
of office, and the feu duties would have to be rearranged. It would be a
very suitable thing indeed--in all respects--that is, if the Earl could
see his way--and so on and so forth.
He had certainly been more approachable lately, ever since Miss Patsy
had gone to stay at Castle Raincy. A year or two before he would have
damned them up and down all the hills if they had ventured to mention
such a thing to him. They looked forward with hope to a more amicable
reception now.
One by one they began to draw out turnip-shaped watches from their fobs,
and having first held the case to their ears to make sure that there was
no deception, the dial was examined, and with a casual, "Guid nicht to
ye--the goodwife will be waitin'," the members of the town council and
other municipal dignitaries strolled off each to his own house.
It did not strike any of them that they had not seen the town's night
watchman, old Jock McAdam, in the performance of his duties. If it had
occurred to any of the burghal authorities, it had only provoked the
reflection that Jock would most likely be discussing a pint or two at
Lucky Forgan's down by the Brigend, and that presently he would be
perambulating the streets of the royal borough, his halbert over his
shoulder, and intoning his song--
"Twal' o'clock on the strike,
And a fine fresh nicht."
But Jock had been early encountered near the abandoned guardhouse of the
cavalry quarters, and there had been safely locked in with a loaf of
bread and three gigantic tankards of ale. It was not likely, therefore,
that the time of night would be cried in Stranryan by Jock McAdam's
booming bellow. Jock was at peace with all the world and the town had
better remain so also.
Then came the first of the little ponies. The town had often listened to
the clatter of their feet. It was familiar with the jingling of their
accoutrements. But never had Stranryan rung with that music from side to
side, and from end to end, as it did that night of the twenty-fourth of
May!
Patter, patter, tinkle, tinkle--two and three abreast they came. Timid
citizens in breezy costumes about to blow out the candle made haste to
do so, and peered goggle-eyed round the edges of the drawn-down blind.
"What's to do? It's the lads of the Free Trade--hundreds o' them, all
armed, and never a load pony amang them. Every man on his horse and none
led!--Not a pack-saddle to be seen. Will they never go by? It's no
canny, I declare! I shouldna' be standin' here lookin'. There will be
blood shed before the morn's morning. Guid send that they do not burn us
a' in our beds!"
"Come to your ain bed, ye auld fule!" was the wife's sleepy rejoinder;
"if the gentlemen have onything to sell, we will hear of it the morn as
usual. 'Tis not for the like of us to be watching ower closely the
doings of them that tak's the risk while we drink the drappie!"
Oh, wise and somnolent lady, somewhat ill-informed in the present case,
but on the whole of excellent and approven advice! It were indeed better
for your good Thomas that he should neither see nor hear, and be in no
wise able to give any evidence as to the doings of "these gentlemen,"
this one night of the year.
Soon, however, the whole town was awake and listening. But nobody
ventured out into the street. Accidents had been known to occur, painful
errors in identification. Even the chief civil authority of the town was
deterred from sallying forth by a remembrance of a predecessor in the
provostship who had been buried in a stable mixen all but his head, to
the detriment of his clothes and the still greater and more lasting hurt
to his dignity.
The bell of the town steeple clanged loudly half-a-dozen times, and
ceased as abruptly as if the breath had been choked out of the
bellringer. That was the sole attempt at alarm which was given in the
town of Stranryan on the night of the Great Riding.
By all the ports they came hurrying in--ceaseless, close ranked, without
end and past counting. Over the wild uplands which lie between Leswalt
and Stranryan, the Back Shore men arrived--not a man missing. They were
the nearest and their horses were quite unbreathed. Stonykirk and
Kirkmaiden came next, and then the lads from the moors with hair bushy
about the fetlocks of their steeds. They were a broad-shouldered and
go-as-you-please crowd. They marched directly to the door of the Castle,
and took up their position before it, awaiting orders. Then you might
see two score of black-a-vised Blairs and McKerrows from Garliestown and
the two Luces. Last of all, with wearied horses but in ranks of unbroken
firmness, came the Stewartry men, headed by Godfrey McCulloch.
On Stair's Honeypot rode Patsy, ordering and ranging everything
everywhere. She was as calm as if on her own ground at Cairn Ferris, and
neither she nor any of the chiefs made any attempt at concealment. Only
some few of the rank-and-file, sons of lairds and functionaries, fiscals
and suchlike cattle, wore masks so as not to implicate their fathers.
"And now, MacJannet," it was Patsy's clear voice that rang out, "open
your old gates or we will have them down without your permission!"
But MacJannet, keeper of his Majesty's strong house of Stranryan, knew
that there was a time to be silent as well as a time to speak. He did
not speak, and the next minute tall ladders with ropes arranged from
their tops were reared at the word of command against both the gates.
The Garlies men swarmed up them and with sailorlike agility descended
into the big courtyard of the ancient Cassillis townhouse.
A moment more and the bars were drawn from within. The multitude swarmed
in without a sound. No cheer was heard, only the confused noise of many
feet and suppressed calls to this one and that to come and help to man
the scaling ladders. The young men of the town of Stranryan itself were
masked, since it was not fitting that sons of high magistrates should
hunt through all the building and wood yards, aye, and even the paternal
back-premises, to bring up ladders and forehammers to the fray. It had
been their duty to provide these things, and by Patsy's orders they were
taking no chances beyond the ordinary personal ones common to all
prison-breakers.
"MacJannet, MacJannet--open there, you lurking dog!"
But just then MacJannet was more than usually deaf. He knew that he
would have to answer for that night's work and it did not suit him to do
anything of his own accord. A pistol at his head and a demand for the
keys--well, that would be coercion, and when a man is compelled and put
in fear of his life, what can he do? But for the present MacJannet lay
safe and quiet behind his six-foot-thick walls and waited for that to
happen which should happen.
Torches began to flare smokily in the courtyard and ladders were hooked
to roof cornices. More ladders, tied safely together, were hoisted to
riggings of buildings and held in place by ropes conveniently cleeked
round chimneys. On these little dark figures climbed upwards, up and up
interminably, till they reached the grey hump of roof under which lay
the prisoners.
Picks and hammers went up from hand to hand, many helping. Fragments of
slate and tile began to rain down, but nothing had been achieved till
the blacksmith brigade, headed by Andrew Sproat of Clachanpluck, a
famous horse-shoer, laid into the iron-bound doors of the prison.
"Clang! Clang!" went the forehammers, as the men holding their torches
low made a circle of murky light about the workers. Every blow made the
doors leap, striking full on the huge lock. All who stood in the yard
could hear them leap on their hinges.
"'Tis the bolts that are holding--can't you feel them draw?" cried
Andrew, the smith. "Bring all the hammers to one side! Now for it!
Strike a little lower there!" And the three great forehammers struck so
accurately that the lock gave way with a grinding crunch. The doors hung
only by the bolts at top and bottom. Soon the aperture was so widened
that a hand could be introduced and the iron rods shot back. The gates
of the prison on the sea-front were thrown back and with the same
silence as before the crowd poured in--all, that is, except the
unfortunates, chosen by lot, who had been designated to look after the
horses.
"MacJannet--MacJannet--the keys, MacJannet!"
The gaoler's quarters were swiftly invaded. One blow of Andrew Sproat's
massy hammer did that business, and thereafter the gaoler did not lack
for coercion. Godfrey McCulloch had a pistol to his head, and the bell
mouth of a huge blunderbuss lay chill between his shoulder-blades,
thrusting him forward.
"Open every cell!" he was ordered by Godfrey McCulloch. "We must have
them all out. There are torches and the old place might take light. The
wood is sure to be as dry as tinder after four centuries!"
And the lads of the "Bands" let the prisoners go, every man and woman of
them. Only some Irish reapers clamouring for their reaping-hooks to be
returned to them were pitched neck and crop into the street with small
consideration and few apologies. And still they pressed on! Above them
the hammering on the roof could be heard. It ceased, and it was evident
that the gaol from dungeon to rooftree was in the power of the "Lads of
the Heather."
But still no Stair Garland! The brows of the seekers grew black.
"If ye have sent him away secretly with the soldier men, 'ware yourself,
MacJannet," said Godfrey, "we will roast you in your own black keep. We
will gar your accursed Castle of the Press flame like a chimbly on fire,
as sure as we came out of Rerrick!"
"He is here--I tell you--there is one of them, at any rate!" He threw
open the door of a cell triumphantly and showed the pallid countenance
of Eben the Spy.
For one instant the multitude stood silent, then with a howl of anger
and disappointment they were flinging themselves upon him.
"Tear him to pieces!--Kill the spy. Who sent our Davie to the hulks?"
But Patsy's voice cried, "Back there, men! He has bought his pardon. He
was with Stair Garland for two months on the Wild. He was captured with
him. I tell you we owe him his life. Touch him not. Stair will vouch for
him. And in the meanwhile, so will I!"
This did not satisfy the crowd, but they obeyed. They were compelled to
obey, for that night there was only one leader among them. Smith Andrew,
however, took Eben by the collar of his coat and marched him to the door
of the prison. In the courtyard a new shout arose.
"Let him alone," cried his protector. "Patsy says he is with us. He is
not to be killed."
So he led Eben to the outer gate, and with one enormous kick he
discharged his duty to society and to his own feelings.
"Go," he cried, "be off! We are ordered not to do you any harm. But be
out of the town before the morning light. For then Patsy may not be on
the spot to speak up for you, and the lads are apt to get a little out
of hand at sicht o' ye!"
It was the roof-breakers who descended first upon Stair Garland. They
found him fully dressed and waiting for them. But the doors of his cell,
which was that reserved for the most important criminals, could not be
broken from the interior, and they could get no farther for the moment.
However, the noise of the crowd beneath mounted higher and nearer,
sounding like the roaring of a tide in a sea cave.
A key clicked in the lock. Bolts were drawn, and the men who had broken
the doors and roofs stood back with respect to let Patsy go in alone.
She had been his only saviour, and she alone must tell Stair that he was
free. She came to Stair Garland flushed and quick breathing, who stood
before her pale and with his Viking hair flying all about his head.
"I came from London to do it, Stair, and it is done!" she said. She took
his hand to lead him away, and at sight of them with one accord the Lads
of the Heather uncovered.
Out in the courtyard it was like a triumphal procession as they passed
to their horses. Men laughed aloud, they knew not why. A spirit of mirth
was abroad, which had taken possession of all except dark Godfrey
McCulloch.
"You are sure there is no prisoner left within your old tourock?" he
demanded of MacJannet. The gaoler turned to his register and proved it.
"Very well!" said Godfrey, "off with you--sleep under some decent man's
roof if ye can find any to shelter ye!"
And taking a torch from one of his followers he carefully fired the
stores of kindling wood which filled part of the ground-floor of the
ancient Wark of the Cassillis folk. In ten minutes, before even the
cavalcade was entirely mounted, the flames were bursting through the
humped roof in a fiery fountain of gold sparks and ruddy jags of flame,
while the pillar of smoke rose many hundreds of feet into the still
morning air.
At the English Gate, by which they rode out, they encountered a company
of dragoons, weary from a long march, their horses footsore and the men
reeling in their saddles with sleep.
"You have come too late," cried Godfrey McCulloch to the leader, waving
his hand in the direction of the fiery beacon, now loudly crackling, and
sprouting to the heavens.
But the officer answered not a word. His eyes were on Patsy Ferris
riding by the side of Stair Garland, talking to him as one who had won a
great prize, or has found her heart's desire.
So the captain of dragoons gave no order, for at the sight his heart was
turned to stone within him.
His name was Louis Raincy, and he had quite forgotten pretty Mrs.
Arlington.