The Sentence
The cold fabric of discipline at the Police Headquarters at Calford
had been shocked into a flutter of excited interest and anticipation.
The machine-like routine of police life had, for a moment, reacted to
a more human aspect of itself. Interested comment passed from lip to
lip, and widely conflicting were the opinions expressed. But, curiously
enough, there was pretty general unanimity amongst the lower ranks of
the Force in a feeling of quiet satisfaction. Corporal Andrew McFardell
had been placed under arrest, and, at “Orderly-Room” that morning, he
would be tried and sentenced for permitting the escape of his prisoner
while on escort duty from Greenwood to Calford.
Alone in his barrack-room, which had been his charge for so long,
Corporal McFardell was more than sick at heart. But over and above
everything else he was smarting under a sense of intolerable injustice.
It was four days since he had returned to barracks. And before that
he had driven himself and his horse well-nigh to death for ten days,
scouring the snowy desolation of the hill country in search of the man
who had tricked him so badly in his moment of helplessness. The man
had vanished; completely and utterly disappeared. He had made good an
escape which McFardell had deemed impossible. The man was a stranger to
the country; he was shackled; his horse was none too fresh. How was it
possible?
McFardell had expected to discover his frozen body at least. But his
ten days of superhuman effort had left him unrewarded. So he had been
driven to return to Calford, his horse well-nigh foundered, and himself
in little better case, to make his report, and to be promptly placed
under arrest for his pains. Then he had been forced to place himself on
the sick list, to be attended for the frost which had bitten him almost
to the bone. And now, rested and recovered, he was awaiting that brazen
summons of the bugle for the thing that was yet to come.
It was curious. As the man lolled upon the brown blankets of his bed
his resentment and bitterness were in no way directed against the
prisoner who was the cause of his disaster. It was anger, furious
anger, against the authority which took practically no cognisance of
any circumstance in a case of failure amongst those who acknowledged it.
For years he had laboured and schemed, sacrificing everything to
“duty.” Step by step he had gained his advancement by sound, patient
work, until now he stood first on the roll of seniority for his
sergeant’s stripes. Now he knew that all that record would have to go
by the board. It would count for practically nothing. He must face a
cold tribunal, governed only by police regulations, which were devoid
of all human sentiment. He must accept the last ounce of punishment
for the loss of his prisoner for which they happened to call. He
would be punished in just the same degree as any other whose record
was incomparable with his. The injustice of it maddened him. In his
bitterness he claimed the right to treatment in accordance with his
record of years of good work.
But that was the Andrew McFardell whom his associates knew. That was
the man who, for all his good police work, had failed to inspire any
warmth of regard amongst those with whom he worked. That was why there
was excitement, and anticipation, and a sense of quiet satisfaction in
the thought of the trial that was to take place that morning.
Andrew McFardell took no thought for anything or anybody but himself.
As the last harsh note of the bugle died out on the crisp winter air
McFardell sprang alertly from his bunk. He set his fur cap on his head
and buttoned the shining buttons of his red jacket. Then, with a swift
glance round the deserted room, he passed hurriedly out in response to
the summons.
* * * * *
On the wooden side-walk just outside the Superintendent’s office
Corporal McFardell sprang to “Attention” in response to the
Sergeant-Major’s barking order. He felt that a hundred pairs of eyes
were peering out at him, prompted by a curiosity that had little
friendliness in it. He was under no illusion. Popularity with his
comrades was a thing he had treated with quiet contempt. He had never
concerned himself with their opinion. The only good opinion he had
sought had been of those in authority over him. And now he knew he was
about to learn the true value of the favour of the gods he had set
up. He pulled himself together, and thrust every other thought aside,
concentrating upon the task of combating regulations whose cold framing
left him so little hope.
As the little procession lined up facing Superintendent Leedham
Branch’s desk the Sergeant-Major snatched the fur cap from the
prisoner’s head. It was a further indignity demanded by regulations.
The Superintendent was contemplating the charge sheet before him. He
did not even glance at the prisoner. On either side of him and slightly
behind his chair, stood the two Inspectors of his command. They were
very definitely regarding the prisoner, but in that cold sphinx-like,
unrecognising fashion which the discipline governing them all had
taught them.
It was a bare, uninteresting room, with calsomined walls and a
flooring of bare boards. There was just sufficient furnishing to meet
the needs of administration. The Superintendent’s desk was a simple
whitewood table, and the chair he occupied behind it was of bentwood.
Immediately behind him stood a fireproof safe, and, distributed about,
where necessary, stood other whitewood tables and bentwood chairs for
the use of Inspectors and staff. The whole atmosphere of the place
epitomised the lives of these men, who spared themselves as little as
the criminals it was their work to deal with.
Superintendent Branch seemed in no hurry to deal with the case. Perhaps
his attitude was calculated. He continued his reading, while McFardell
regarded him with anxiously speculative eyes.
At last the man behind the desk spoke, without looking up. He was a
clean-cut, clean-shaven creature, with fair hair and pale blue eyes.
He was possibly forty. He was tall, slight, and his whole appearance
suggested energy and capacity.
“Corporal McFardell, the charge against you is one of gross neglect
of duty,” he said, in a quiet, colourless voice. “On November 8th
you permitted the escape of the prisoner, James Pryse, sentenced to
five years’ imprisonment with hard labour, while on escort duty from
Greenwood to Calford. You are further charged with absenting yourself
from duty from November 8th to the 18th, contrary to General Order
9075A2 governing the escort of prisoners by trail. What have you to
say? Are you guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty on both charges, sir.”
McFardell’s reply came on the instant. He knew he had no alternative.
There was, however, a sharpness in his tone that gave some indication
of the alertness, the readiness to defend, that lay behind his words.
“Sergeant-Major Ironside.”
The man at the desk looked up interrogatively at the first witness. And
the Sergeant-Major cleared his throat.
“Sir, on the morning of the 18th Corporal McFardell rode into barracks
and reported the loss of the prisoner, James Pryse. He stated that the
date of the man’s escape was the 8th. When I questioned him as to the
delay of his return to barracks he explained he had been riding the
hill country in an attempt to recapture the escaped prisoner, who, he
believed, could not have made a clear getaway in the snowstorm that was
prevailing at the time of his escape. The Corporal’s horse was in bad
shape, and the Veterinary Sergeant reports that he had been pretty well
ridden to death. I placed Corporal McFardell under arrest, and reported
at once to the Orderly Officer of the day.”
The Sergeant-Major’s evidence was given in the unemotional manner of
an automaton. He had given the outline of the facts in the manner his
duty demanded. There was no exaggeration; there was no softening.
Superintendent Branch turned to the prisoner.
“Have you any question to ask Sergeant-Major Ironside?”
“None, sir.”
Forthwith the Superintendent turned to Inspector Kalton.
“You were Orderly Officer on the 18th, Mr. Kalton?”
The Inspector also gave a slight clearing of the throat. Then, very
briefly, he corroborated his subordinate’s evidence. As the prisoner
had no questions to put, for a few reflective moments, Superintendent
Branch gazed steadily up into his face.
“You have heard the evidence, Corporal,” he said at last, in that cold
fashion that was so desperately discouraging. “What have you to say in
your defence?”
Not a detail of the manner in which Orderly-Room cases were dealt with
was new to Corporal McFardell. He knew the whole ritual by heart. His
years of experience had brought him into contact with it often enough.
But this was the first time he had occupied the central place as the
prisoner. His whole concern at that moment was how far he might hope
to escape the full penalty due to him as laid down by General Orders.
He pinned his last hope to the extenuating nature of the circumstances
of his disaster. He believed that no one would have fared better
under his conditions. And, furthermore, he felt he had done all he
knew to recover the escaped man. He had striven till the last of his
bodily resources were exhausted. He felt that his case was good.
Superintendent Branch was a just man.
He knew that the extreme penalty for his crime against regulations was
reduction to the ranks, imprisonment, and dismissal from the Force
without character. If he could escape with reduction to the ranks
he would be happy. If imprisonment were added he would not despair.
Dismissal from the Force was the thing he dreaded most of all. It would
be the end of all things for him. For he had looked to make the Force
the whole of his career. A “bobtail” discharge was the nightmare of the
mounted policeman. So he, like those others, cleared his throat before
speaking, and hurled himself to his defence.
“Sir,” he began, a little hoarsely as he passed his tongue across his
thick lips to moisten them, “I’ve no sort of defence to offer beyond
the letter of the report which I addressed to you as my commanding
officer on my return to barracks on the 18th. You’ll have read it
before this, sir, and I want to say that every word I wrote there is
just the God’s truth. I was knocked out cold by my horse falling,
through the balling snow in his hoofs. And I guess there was no
power in the world to prevent the man getting the drop on me while
I was unconscious. When I woke up he’d got me covered, so I couldn’t
do a thing. I just had to lie there while he got clear away in the
half-light of the snowstorm. The moment I had the chance I was on my
horse and after him. And I didn’t let up till my horse was done, and
I couldn’t sit a saddle right. I’ve been through hell to recover that
prisoner, sir. Give me a chance, sir, to get after that feller again. I
don’t ask to escape punishment. I know I’ll lose my stripes, and maybe
I’ll go to the guard-room for a spell. But for God’s sake, sir, don’t
discharge me from the Force. It’s the only way I can hope to get after
that feller right. Hand me the chance to get after him. It’s all I ask.
It’s him and me, sir. Whatever happens, it’s that way just as long as
I live. If you keep me in the Force I can do it right. It’s my one big
chance. That’s all, sir.”
The passionate sincerity of McFardell’s appeal was wholly convincing.
His words came hotly, and regardless of the usual formalities. But
there was no sign of the relenting he looked for in the eyes observing
him so coldly. With his last word there came an ominous shake of the
head from the man behind the table.
“I’ve read your report very carefully, Corporal,” he said coldly. “I’m
quite convinced that it is the whole truth, and you are to be commended
that that is so. But, unfortunately, for you the truth is very damning
to your case. Your horse fell and threw you, and you were rendered
unconscious. No one can blame you for that. Had the prisoner made his
getaway while you were unconscious I should have dismissed the charges
laid against you. But he did not do so. He apparently only had time to
disarm you before you came to, which suggests you were only momentarily
stunned. Then, when he held you covered, you made no resistance. You
apparently did nothing. In fear of your life you _let_ him get away.
Do you understand my meaning? There is the moral charge of cowardice
preferred against you. Your report condemns you so flagrantly that I
shall inflict the maximum penalty. You are reduced to the ranks. You
will be confined to the guard-room for two months, with hard labour.
And--your case will go up to the Commissioner with a recommendation
that you be dismissed from the Force.”
“Right turn! Quick march!”
The Sergeant-Major’s commands rang out. It was like the hideous toll of
the prison bell after an execution.
* * * * *
Superintendent Branch, his officers, and Sergeant-Major Ironside had
been discussing the escape of James Pryse. Orderly-Room was over.
Trooper McFardell was already in the charge of the guard, and about to
begin his two months of hard labour. His case was already relegated to
the orders of the day. And, in so far as he was concerned, the matter
was dismissed from the minds of his superiors. They had no thought for
the career which their discipline had devastated.
“You know, Sergeant-Major, it’s a far more serious matter than I
can say,” Superintendent Branch declared at the conclusion of the
discussion, with an emphasis which his associates recognised as his
most profound danger-signal. “Were this man, Pryse, an ordinary
criminal, it would leave me less disturbed. Through him the Police
prestige has suffered a double blow. Think back. What is the position?
A murder is committed--a clear, frank, deliberate shooting by a man
who, maybe, felt justified. That’s all right. His brother, this Pryse,
fresh from Alaska, is staying in his house in Greenwood. The murderer
has no thought of a getaway. He knows our people are coming for him,
and he reckons to stand his trial. We know all that. Meanwhile this
wild man, James Pryse, gets at him. He plans his escape and prepares.
When our men come along, the house is transformed into a veritable
fortress, and we are forced to storm it. Well, eventually we get in,
and what do we find? This man, James Pryse, simply laughing at us.
Which means that the whole of the town of Greenwood was laughing with
him. It was all a game. Our man had been got away before we came. And
the whole pantomime of barricading the house was performed to give
him added time, and delay our ultimate pursuit. That all came out at
Pryse’s trial. That’s bad enough. But now this later escape of Pryse
himself is ten times worse. We’ve lost so much ground I simply daren’t
think of it. We shall have the Commissioner here to investigate our
discipline and efficiency. And very rightly so. Things have got to be
jerked up, and at once. I shall hold myself responsible that this is
so. And I shall hold my officers no less responsible, and you, too,
Sergeant-Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Sergeant-Major’s face reflected the storm which the other’s words
had set boiling behind his hard grey eyes. His superiors all knew his
swift methods of passing any reprimand he might receive on to the
troops under him.
A grim light was shining in the eyes that regarded the rugged face of
the harshest Sergeant-Major in the Police Force.
“Now, let there be no mistake, Sergeant-Major. No mistake whatever,”
the man at the desk went on, in a carefully calculated tone. “The
prisoner, Pryse, has to be recaptured. If there is any further failure,
you will have to answer for it. Do you understand me? How many patrols
have you got out?”
“Three, Sir.”
“Three? You will treble that number. You will treble it, if you have
to return half the staff to duty. You must go through the territory
within a hundred and fifty miles of this post with a fine comb, and
any failure in efficiency in the work will be dealt with in the most
rigorous fashion. See to it. These patrols must be on the trail by
noon. That will do.”