When our hero found himself in a hole, pitch dark and barely large
enough to permit of his creeping on hands and knees, he felt a sudden
sensation of fear--of undefinable dread--come over him, such as one
might be supposed to experience on awaking to the discovery that he had
been buried alive. His first impulse was to shout for deliverance, but
his manhood returned to him, and he restrained himself.
Groping his way cautiously along the passage or tunnel, which descended
at first steeply, he came to a part which he could feel was regularly
built over with an arch of brickwork or masonry, and the sound of
running water overhead told him that this was a tunnel under the
rivulet. As he advanced the tunnel widened a little, and began to
ascend. After creeping what he judged to be a hundred yards or so, he
thought he could see a glimmer of light like a faint star in front of
him. It was the opening to which Betty had referred. He soon reached
it and emerged into the fresh air.
As he raised himself, and drew a long breath of relief, the words of his
deliverer seemed to start up before him in letters of fire--
"Use your freedom to escape from death--but _much more, to escape from
sin_."
"I will, so help me God!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands convulsively
and looking upward. In the strength of the new-born resolution thus
induced by the Spirit of God, he fell on his knees and tried to pray.
Then he rose and sat down to think, strangely forgetful of the urgent
need there was for flight.
Meanwhile Gashford and his men proceeded to question Paul Bevan and his
daughter. The party included, among others, Fred Westly, Paddy
Flinders, and Crossby. Gashford more than suspected the motives of the
first two in accompanying him, but did not quite see his way to decline
their services, even if he had possessed the power to do so. He
consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he could keep a
sharp eye on their movements.
"No, no, Bevan," he said, when the man brought out a case-bottle of rum
and invited him to drink, "we have other work on hand just now. We have
traced that young thief Brixton to this hut, and we want to get hold of
him."
"A thief, is he?" returned Bevan, with a look of feigned surprise.
"Well, now, that _is_ strange news. Tom Brixton don't look much like a
thief, do he?" (appealing to the by-standers). "There must be some
mistake, surely."
"There's no mistake," said Gashford, with an oath. "He stole a bag o'
gold from my tent. To be sure he dropped it in his flight so I've got
it back again, but that don't affect his guilt."
"But surely, Mister Gashford," said Bevan slowly, for, having been
hurriedly told in a whisper by Betty what she had done for Tom, he was
anxious to give his friend as much time as possible to escape, "surely
as you've come by no loss, ye can afford to let the poor young feller
off this time."
"No, we can't," shouted Gashford, fiercely. "These mean pilferers have
become a perfect pest at the diggin's, an' we intend to stop their
little game, we do, by stoppin' their windpipes when we catch them.
Come, don't shilly-shally any longer, Paul Bevan. He's here, and no
mistake, so you'd better hand him over. Besides, you owe us something,
you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of
time."
"Well, as to that I _am_ much obliged, though, after all, it wasn't to
help me you came."
"No matter," exclaimed the other impatiently, "you know he is here, an'
you're bound to give him up."
"But I _don't_ know that he's here, an' I _can't_ give him up, cause
why? he's escaped."
"Escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has
not crossed that since we arrived, I'll be bound. There's a sentry on
it now."
"But an active young feller can jump, you know."
"No, he couldn't jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a
Rocky Mountain goat. Come, since you won't show us where he is, we'll
take the liberty of sarchin' your premises. But stay, your daughter's
got the name o' bein' a religious gal. If there's any truth in that
she'd be above tellin' a lie. Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good
gal, is Tom Brixton here?"
"No, he is not here," replied the girl.
"Where is he, then?"
"I do not know."
"That's false, you _do_ know. But come, lads, we'll sarch, and here's a
cellar to begin with."
He laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a
light descended, followed by Bevan, Crossby, Flinders, and one or two
others. Tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels
ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was
discovered.
"Ho! ho!" he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it. "Here's
something, anyhow."
After peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as
far as his arm could reach.
"Mind he don't bite!" suggested Paddy Flinders, in a tone that drew a
laugh from the by-standers.
"Hand me that stick, Paddy," said Gashford, "and keep your jokes to a
more convenient season."
"Ah! then 'tis always a convanient season wid me, sor," replied Paddy,
with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick.
"Does this hole go far in?" he asked, after a fruitless poking about
with the stick.
"Ay, a long way. More'n a hundred yards," returned Bevan.
"Well, I'll have a look at it."
Saying which Gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and
then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow.
We say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree.
It must be remembered that Gashford was an unusually large man, and that
Tom Brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an
entrance. When, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about
as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither
advance nor retreat! He struggled violently, and a muffled sound of
shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was
said.
"Och! the poor cratur," exclaimed Paddy Flinders, with a look of
overdone commiseration, "what'll we do for 'im at all at all?"
"Let's try to pull him out," suggested Crossby.
They tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of
him.
"Sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle," said Flinders, wiping
the perspiration from his forehead, "an' what a most awful crack he'll
make whin he does come out! Let's give another heave, boys."
They gave another heave, but only caused the muffled shouting inside to
increase. "Och! the poor cratur's stritchin' out like a injin-rubber
man; sure he's a fut longer than he used to be--him that was a sight too
long already," said Flinders.
"Let's try to shove him through," suggested the baffled Crossby.
Failure again followed their united efforts--except as regards the
muffled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied
by no small amount of kicking by what of Gashford remained in the
cellar.
"I'm afeared his legs'll come off altogether if we try to pull harder
than we've done," said Crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless
limbs of the victim with a perplexed air.
"What a chance, boys," suddenly exclaimed Flinders, "to pay off old
scores with a tree-mendous wallopin'! We could do it aisy in five or
six minutes, an' then lave 'im to think over it for the rest of his
life."
As no one approved of Paddy's proposal, it was finally resolved to dig
the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose.
Contrary to all expectations, Gashford was calm, almost subdued, when
his friends at last set him free. Instead of storming and abusing every
one, he said quietly but quickly, "Let us search the bush now. He can't
be far off yet, and there's moonlight enough."
Leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and
across the bridge, followed closely by his party.
"Hooroo!" yelled Paddy Flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of
the chase, but in reality to give Brixton intimation of the pursuit, if
he should chance to be within earshot.
The well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late. It
found Tom still seated in absorbed meditation. Rudely awakened to the
consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran
along the path that Betty had described to him. At the same moment it
chanced that Crossby came upon the same path at its river-side
extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other's
arms, and both rolled upon the ground.
The embrace that Crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even
to a black bear, but Tom was a match for him in his then condition of
savage despair. He rolled the rough digger over on his back,
half strangled him, and bumped his shaggy head against the
conveniently-situated root of a tree. But Crossby held on with the
tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before
either could subdue the other, Gashford and his men coming up stopped
the combat.
It were vain attempting to describe the conflict of Brixton's feelings
as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to
Paul Bevan's hut. The thought of death while fighting with man or beast
had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as
a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the
girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary
death. Afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to
himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of
home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled
with his dreams. But those dreams, however pleasant they might be at
first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree
and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again
and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose
was already tightening on his throat.
The agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was
terrible, for Tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his
fate. Still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him. More than
once he struggled to his knees and cried to God for mercy in the
Saviour's name.
By daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless
sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up. A slight breakfast of bread
and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade
candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle. Soon afterwards Crossby
descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder. He did so,
and found the party of miners assembled under arms, and ready for the
road.
"I'm sorry I can't help 'ee," said Paul Bevan, drawing the unhappy youth
aside, and speaking in a low voice. "I would if I could, for I owe my
life to you, but they won't listen to reason. I sent Betty out o' the
way, lad, a-purpose. Thought it better she shouldn't see you, but--"
"Come, come, old man, time's up," interrupted Gashford, roughly; "we
must be off. Now, march, my young slippery-heels. I needn't tell you
not to try to bolt again. You'll find it difficult to do that."
As they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, Tom
Brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while
three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each
with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear.
But even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made
any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly
up to despair. In the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled
with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that Betty had been
sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not
bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away.
"May I speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?" said Fred Westly to
Gashford, as they plodded through the woods. "He has been my comrade
for several years, and I promised his poor mother never to forsake him.
May I, Gashford?"
"No," was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, "Well, yes, you
may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to
help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as I'm a
living one. An' you needn't be too soft, Westly," he added, with a
cynical smile. "Your chum has--Well, it's no business o' mine. You can
go to him."
Poor Tom Brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung
his head.
"Dear Tom," said Fred, in a low voice, "don't give way to despair. With
God all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited,
it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to
save to the uttermost. But I want to comfort you with the assurance
that I will spare no effort to save you. Many of the diggers are not
very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and
I think Gashford may be bought over. If so, I need not tell you that my
little private store hidden away under the pine-tree--"
"There is no such store, Fred," interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of
shame.
"What do you mean, Tom?"
"I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you. Oh! Fred, you do
not--you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given
way to, especially when backed by drink. No, it's of no use your trying
to comfort me. I do believe, now, that I deserve to die."
"Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can--
both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my
intentions or my hopes. By the way, does Gashford know about this?"
"Yes, he knows that I have taken your money."
"And that's the reason," said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment,
"that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he's a bad lot
altogether."
"Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not
reveal it, a much better `lot'?" demanded Fred, with some indignation.
"Perhaps not," replied Gashford, with a short laugh; "but as I never set
up for a good lot, you see, there's no need to discuss the subject.
Now, fall to the rear, my young blade. Remember that I'm in command of
this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence
in those under me."
Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out,
and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had
the power to aid his condemned friend.
It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings. Tom Brixton
was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine,
but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in
Gashford's pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door.
That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair.
True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend's case before God,
and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only
means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. The
hidden hoard, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost
by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was
revealed by the disappearance of the gold--for he had almost forgotten
that the Almighty can provide means at any time and in all
circumstances.
Fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that Tom had _stolen_
his gold. He only _took_ it for a time, with the full intention of
refunding it when better times should come. On this point Fred's style
of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend. Tom
never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft.
Oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan--a temporary accommodation.
It would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands
of criminal careers have been begun in this way!
"Now, Mister Westly," said Flinders, entering the tent in haste, "what's
to be done? It's quite clear that Mister Tom's not to be hanged, for
there's two or three of us'll commit murder before that happens; but
I've bin soundin' the boys, an' I'm afeared there's a lot o' the worst
wans that'll be glad to see him scragged, an' there's a lot as won't
risk their own necks to save him, an' what betune the wan an' the other,
them that'll fight for him are a small minority--so, again I say, what's
to be done?"
Patrick Flinders's usually jovial face had by that time become almost as
long and lugubrious as that of Westly.
"I don't know," returned Fred, shaking his head.
"My one plan, on which I had been founding much hope, is upset. Listen.
It was this. I have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time
past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back
upon when poor Tom had gambled away all his means. This hoard of mine
amounted, I should think, to something like five hundred pounds. I
meant to have offered it to Gashford for the key of the prison, and for
his silence, while we enabled Tom once more to escape. But this money
has, without my knowledge, been taken away and--"
"Stolen, you mean!" exclaimed Flinders, in surprise.
"No, not stolen--taken! I can't explain just now. It's enough to know
that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned."
"D'ee think Gashford would let him out for that?" asked the Irishman,
anxiously.
"I think so; but, after all, I'm almost glad that the money's gone, for
I can't help feeling that this way of enticing Gashford to do a thing,
as it were slily, is underhand. It is a kind of bribery."
"Faix, then, it's not c'ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c'rupt as he
can be already. An', sure, wouldn't it just be bribin' a blackguard not
to commit murther?"
"I don't know, Pat. It is a horrible position to be placed in. Poor,
poor Tom!"
"Have ye had supper?" asked Flinders, quickly.
"No--I cannot eat."
"Cook it then, an' don't be selfish. Other people can ait, though ye
can't. It'll kape yer mind employed--an I'll want somethin' to cheer me
up whin I come back."
Pat Flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor Fred went about the
preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his
comrade meant by his strange conduct.
Pat's meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his
friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a
sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams
struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on
the green-sward.
"My frinds," he said, in a low, mysterious voice, "I know that ivery
mother's son of ye is ready to fight for poor Tom Brixton to-morrow, if
the wust comes to the wust. Now, it has occurred to my chum Westly an'
me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to
fight for him, an' as I know some o' you fellers has dug up more goold
than you knows well what to do wid, an' you've all got liberal hearts--
lastewise ye should have, if ye haven't--I propose, an' second the
resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an'
presint it to Bully Gashford as a mark of our estaim--if he'll on'y give
us up the kay o' the prison, put Patrick Flinders, Esquire, sintry over
it, an' then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin'."
This plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large
sum to be made up by men who--some of them at least--had nearly made
"their pile"--by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of
heart with which they had been credited was not wanting. Having settled
a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and Patrick Flinders--
acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee--went off,
with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact
the business.