THE ESCAPE
Good fortune, I have always contended, comes to those who make ready to
receive it. I can well imagine the Foolish Virgins of the parable
spending the rest of their lives lamenting their hard fate and
attributing their wise sisters' preparedness not to prevision but to
good luck. Throughout my life I have always tried to leave nothing to
chance but the _dénouement_. It is in the _dénouement_ that Fate lies
in ambush, waiting to slay or to spare....
I had done what I could, I reflected as I lay up in my stuffy hole.
Now Fate must take a hand. I had no settled plan. In course of time
they would come to look for me and if they did not drag me forth by the
heels from my hiding-place, I should watch for the best opportunity
that presented itself for my dash into liberty....
I think I may have dozed off; for I did not hear the shed door above me
open. What brought me to my senses with a shock and set my nerves
a-tingling was the stump of a heavy footstep, a well-remembered halting
step, that made my heart stand still.
Then came the hubbub of excited voices, the glare of torch-light
filtering through the interstices of the floor and the roar of
Clubfoot's voice shouting orders. A long beam of white light clove the
darkness of my lair. Someone had climbed down into the hole. I held
my breath and wondered whether against the white concrete on which I
lay my drill suit might escape notice.
Heavy feet trampled above my head; a door slammed violently and a
whistle shrilled thrice. Again there came that clumping tread, shaking
the very fabric of the hut. Then silence fell and I breathed again.
Suddenly a voice spoke, almost in my ear, as it seemed, from outside
the shed.
"He may have tunnelled," the speaker said in German.
"If he has," replied a voice in the same language, "he can't have gone
far. He hadn't time!"
The voices moved away.
The speakers were obviously going to make the round of the shed on the
outside to see where I had escaped. They would find no opening and I
should be caught like a rat in a trap. If I were to make a bolt for
it, it must be now or never. I began to shuffle my way backwards
towards the hole in the floor....
The shed was empty and, oh! thank God! the door stood wide. Beyond it
I had a glimpse of an open space surrounded by half a dozen wooden
huts, a fire burning low in the centre. I tiptoed to the door.
The night was very dark. I could hear men crashing about on the
outskirts of the camp. One of them carried a torch and its red and
smoky glare flickered over the trees and bushes. But the little clear
space between the huts was deserted. Once I could get away from the
light thrown by the fire....
Now I was through the door. I could hear them on the far side of the
shed. In three silent bounds I was past the fire and across the open.
Then I was brought up short by a low building lying directly in my
path. As I halted, nonplussed for the instant, a door facing me opened
and a mulatto poked his head out. He recognised me for a stranger at
once. He rolled his eyes at me in surprise and would have cried out.
But I leapt at him, my fingers at his throat, and as he toppled over
backwards across the threshold of the door, I tightened my grip until I
felt the breath choking out of him. However, having got him down, I
released my hold and ran my hands over his filthy clothes.
In the hip-pocket of his striped cotton trousers I found a Browning and
a large key. I thrilled at the touch of the pistol in my hand. After
successfully travelling the first stage on the road to freedom I had
now a weapon to help me over the next! Surely things were coming my
way!
The mulatto, upon whose chest my knee pressed hard, was grey with fear.
He was a picturesque-looking ruffian with rings in his ears and a gaudy
bandana handkerchief bound about his brows. I tore off his head-dress
and unceremoniously crammed it into his mouth. There seemed to be
about three yards of it and it was far from clean. But the yellow-boy
gobbled it down and by the time I had pushed the end of it past his
thick lips he appeared to be very effectively gagged. Then I strapped
his hands together behind his back with his own belt and tethered his
legs with an end of rope which I found in a corner. He made no attempt
at resistance.
This job satisfactorily accomplished, I rose to my feet and looked
about me. Where was Marjorie? Had any harm befallen her? In my
mind's eye there arose the picture of her as I had left her standing on
the fringe of the forest, a slim, girlish figure, a little thrilled but
making such a brave show of calm. What had they done with her? In
which of these squalid huts was she confined?
The room in which I found myself, dimly lit by a single candle stuck in
a bottle, was obviously the cook's galley. There was a stove in one
corner and remnants of food on the table. The mulatto, of course,
would be the cook. Then there crept into my memory something Marjorie
had said about a hideous negro in whose custody she had been left
before I met her with Custrin in the forest. And I turned over in my
hand the key which I had taken from the mulatto's pocket.
At the back of the kitchen was a door. It was locked but that key
fitted it. As I softly turned the lock and swung the door back, there
was a little cry, a flutter of something white, and Marjorie stood in
the pool of yellow light thrown by the guttering candle across the
threshold. I beckoned to her and put my finger to my lips.
She was very pale and her face looked as though she had been crying.
But her splendid courage never failed her. She seemed to take in at a
glance the disordered room and the yellow-skinned mulatto trussed up on
the floor.
"My dear!" she whispered softly as she came out and stood by my side as
though awaiting orders.
The galley door gaped wide as I had left it. The open space about the
fire was still deserted; but I yet heard the sound of voices and the
crash of feet in the undergrowth beyond the circle of light flung by
the dying embers. And I noticed with growing anxiety that the eastern
sky was growing light.
"We can't afford to wait!" I whispered to the girl. "We shall have to
run for it. If only we can make our way in the dark to the grave! I
can find myself to rights after that...."
"There's a path through the forest to the grave," rejoined Marjorie.
"I followed it this morning. I can show you where it is."
I made her drink a cup of rum from a wicker-bound jar that stood on the
floor and took a dram myself. It was wicked stuff, raw and almost
proof, but I felt a great deal the better for it. I also pocketed some
cold meat and bread. Famished as I was, I would not stop to eat; but I
meant us to make a meal at the first opportunity.
Suddenly, from somewhere quite close at hand, voices reached my ear.
Swiftly I drew the galley door towards me and peeped through the crack.
Silhouetted against the firelight two figures were striding rapidly
towards the hut. One of them, a great black shape, went with a limp.
In a flash, without a noise, I pulled the door to and flattening my
palm on the candle, extinguished it, plunging the galley into darkness.
"We must get out by the back," I whispered to Marjorie at my side.
"There is no way!" she replied. "There is not even a window in the
back room!"
"Then stay here behind the door!" I told her. "And, whatever
happens.... whatever happens, do you understand?.... don't make a sound
but leave things to me. And when I say 'Run,' run!...."
In a bound I was at the mulatto's side and had dragged him by the feet
into the inner room. It was a fetid, black hole. I felt the outline
of a truckle bed against the farther wall. I flung the cook down on it
and spread a blanket over him. I was back in the galley at Marjorie's
side just as a heavy footstep rang on the hard earth without.
Then the hut door was violently flung open.
"Pizarro!" called a thick voice in Spanish. "Pizarro! _Nombre de
Dios_! Is the man deaf?"
We pressed ourselves flat against the wall as the door swung inwards.
A white gleam of light pierced the darkness of the room and showed up
clearly the rough panels of the door at the other end.
"Well!" said the thick voice, in German this time, "the door's shut
anyway!"
The hut shook to his heavy tread as he stumped in, the fair young
German, the brother of the Unknown, at his heels. Noiselessly I
slipped out behind them.
They stopped suddenly. Clubfoot was at the door. If they turned round
now, I should have to fight for it....
"_Na nu!_" ejaculated Grundt, without looking back. "The key's in the
door. Show a light, Ferdinand!"
I heard the door creak on its hinges, saw the flash-light pick out the
vague shape beneath the coverlet on the bed. And then the full force
of my error broke upon me. I had left the mulatto's head exposed and,
instead of Monica's soft golden-brown hair, Ferdinand's lamp showed us
a coal-black woolly thatch.
Clubfoot, half across the threshold, swung round to the young German
who was close behind him. But, before he could speak, I pitched myself
with every ounce of weight I could command at Ferdinand's back and
propelled him and Clubfoot violently into the inner room. I heard the
loud crash as they fell in a heap on the floor and a smothered screech
from the bed as I slammed the door and locked it.
"Now," I cried to Marjorie, "run!...."