A BATTLE IN THE ROTUNDA.
At 2 o'clock the alarm bell rang out thirteen ominous notes. This was
the fire-box of the prison. The flames had broken out in the
wicker-workers' shop, where the younger and lighter convicts plaited
summer chairs, flower-stands and all kinds of basket articles. On a high
throne set against the middle of one wall sat Johann Koerber, the deputy
in charge, overseeing everything, pistol in hand. He was a Titan of 300
pounds, who might have proved admirable in his proper work of putting
maniacs in strait-jackets. But his selection as overseer of the
work-rooms was another instance of Tapp's want of judgment. For all his
formidable strength, Koerber lacked the power to govern. The slenderest
boy did not fear him, while even "papa," the giant negro who loaded the
teams, stood in awe of "Slim" Butler, the lightweight deputy who had
charge of the harness-makers. Right under Koerber's eye, the match was
applied in several places, and almost before he smelled smoke the canes
and osiers were on fire.
Then came the wild riot. In every shop but "Slim" Butler's the officer
in charge was overpowered before the alarm bell had ceased ringing.
Butler held his men down by sheer strength of will, until the sight of
others rushing about in the yard below drove the men at the windows to
frenzy, and with the loss of one of their number the brave deputy was
disarmed, mangled, crushed. Brushmakers, tailors, shoemakers, saddlers,
teamsters and handy men, all streamed from the workshop doors, making by
concert toward the wire pole in the middle of the yard. Here the Right
Spur was executing a dangerous but ingenious maneuver.
Astride of the cross-bars of the pole, which he had climbed in full view
of a dozen deputies, he was cutting the thick telephone wire with a huge
pair of shears. The thing could be done in twenty seconds if his
confederates mobbed the keepers below, and it might mean a delay of
twenty minutes in the arrival of re-enforcements from the nearest
station. Stupefied and absorbed, the convict crew were gazing upward at
their chief on his perilous perch, when the tall form of Hawkins was
seen striding down from the bath-room entrance. The other deputies had
contented themselves with fronting the crowd, shoulder to shoulder,
rifles leveled, like a herd of musk-bulls with lowered horns defending
their females against wolves or men. Hawkins raised his rifle and fired.
The bullet missed its mark and the crack of the powder roused the
convicts from their stupor. With a bestial cry and faces on fire, the
forward rank, pushed on by those behind, swept down on the group of
deputies. Chisels, mallets, hammers, tools and weapons of all kinds from
a wheel-spoke to a blunderbuss were brandished in their hands. One
volley and the deputies fled--all but Hawkins. Almost simultaneously,
it seemed, the second barrel of his rifle hurled its missile, the Right
Spur was seen to drop from his post, dragging the severed wire with him
to the ground, and "Longlegs" himself was felled, bleeding and
senseless, with a heavy bottle.
The mob would have been glad to outrage his body, but time was precious
and Dickon Harvey had already sped to the north corner of the "bastile"
and was beckoning and summoning his men to follow. They rushed in his
wake, turned one corner of the bastile and then another, gave a great
shout of joy as they saw the wide outlet of freedom before them.
The bastile was the great granite castle which contained the cells, a
continuation of the rotunda. It projected into the yard, leaving a wide
space at one end and at both sides. On the opposite side from that in
which the shops were located stood the greenhouses, where Robert Floyd
was accustomed to work whenever he wearied of writing. He had been
crouching under the slant glass roof of the conservatory, snipping off
the dead leaves, when the alarm bell sounded. The cries on the other
side of the bastile brought him out on the open grass plot, and he was
standing there, scissors in hand, when the convict pack swept toward him
around the angle 100 yards away. At the same time he heard the impatient
bells of the fire-engines jingling up the street.
The riot had been ably planned. Over on this side of the yard stood the
entrance for teams. It was this point that the fire engines from without
and the convicts from within were making for together. The alternative
offered was that of letting the workshops burn or of emptying the jail
of its inmates. Outside there was a ponderous iron gate, guarded by a
deputy. Within this a stout one of oak wood, which a convict was
detailed to open and shut. This convict was no other than Minister
Slick, who had persuaded the warden to assign him to this light duty on
the score of advancing age and feebleness.
Minister Slick's door was only open a crack. He was too cunning to give
the deputy outside a view of the convicts racing down the yard. Not
until the outer iron gate was swung back and the fire horses came
galloping along did he throw his own gate in, without any marked
evidence of "feebleness." The fire engine burst through; the convicts
were at hand. Before the heavy iron gate outside could be shut they
would be down upon its guardian and he would be swept aside like a
sapling before the moose.
Floyd was quick to take in the situation and quick to choose his course
of action. The deputies were flying in every direction before the
victorious mob. A hundred yards can be covered in a very few seconds,
even by men who are not professional sprinters. The wooden gate must not
remain open.
The fire engine shielded him from the gaze of Minister Slick, who had
drawn a revolver, but, not daring to attack the outside deputy alone,
stood awaiting the onset of his fellow-prisoners. Robert was upon him in
an instant and drove the greenhouse scissors into his neck, then thrust
him aside, swung the door to with a mighty shove and turned just in time
to dodge the rush of the maddened convicts.
Fifty of them flung themselves against the gate. It groaned but held
firm. The original oak had buffeted winter gales fiercer than this, when
the sap was in its veins and its green leaves rustled about the
spreading branches. Like a wave of ocean breaking into foam against a
cliff the oncoming mob scattered and reeled back in indecision. Several
of them made at Robert, hurling their weapons at his flying form. Others
ran along the great wall, like tigers along their cage bars, as if
feeling for an opening. Only Dickon Harvey, from the moment that the
inner gate clanged, had stood still in the middle of the clashing
throng, turning his head to and fro and studying the situation. He was
not slow to make up his mind.
"Out by the rotunda!" he shouted, waving his hand, and the whole rabble
was making for the rotunda before the fire-horses had rounded the angle
of the bastile at the other end of the yard.
Now Robert, hemmed in by a broad line of 400 armed opponents, had
already chosen this outlet of escape for himself. He had foiled their
plan and it would go hard with him if he and they should remain within
these prison walls alone. There was a possibility that the flying
deputies had left the rotunda doors ajar, since they were so heavy as to
require several seconds to open and shut. So through the kitchen, up the
iron stairs and across the tiled floor of the rotunda he sped, with the
foremost of the pursuers almost at his heels. Only one deputy, Gradger,
opposed himself to his progress, gun in hand, and Robert eluded him with
the ease of a football dodger.
Both doors were ajar, the outer one, however, only a dozen inches or
less. Perhaps twenty feet lay between him and safety. He had almost
flung himself upon the knob, when a man coming toward him from the
outside forestalled his purpose and drew the door to with a clang. It
was Tapp, who from his office, unable to rally his routed deputies, was
rushing to the scene of the riot, determined to retrieve by a last act
of courage the numberless shortcomings of his administration.
Robert's predicament was fearful. The door barred egress, the dogs were
at his heels. Something of the cowering awe that benumbs the stag when
his legs at last tremble under him and he turns to face the baying pack
swept through his breast for an instant. But it was no more than an
instant, for the young man's blood was roused and it was not unmixed
with iron. With a leap at the knob and a mighty tug he drew the inner
door between himself and the criminals.
A snarl, hardly human, burst from hundreds of throats when they saw this
last avenue closed. The thick glass of the door was splintered in a
jiffy and vicious hands, armed with bludgeons and cutting tools,
stretched through the bars at the traitor who had twice cheated them. As
green displaces yellow in the chameleon's coat, so a wave of revenge
suddenly swept aside the hope of escape in the temper of the crowd.
Fortunately the space between the two doors was so wide that Robert
could back away and avoid the blows intended for his vitals.
But he had not reckoned on Dickon Harvey. Harvey had been the first to
hurl himself on the door that Robert drew between the convicts and
himself. Without a word, without a moment of hesitation, he had turned
back diagonally, the others making a lane for him, and thrown himself on
the turnkey Gradger. The struggle was fierce. Had Harvey been alone, he
would have gone down underneath in the bout. But he was not alone.
Twenty hands reached at the keeper and presently Harvey came pushing
through the others, waving a huge bunch of keys over his head with a
shout that the whole hall echoed.
Robert looked behind him through the outer door. Tapp had disappeared
into his office. There was only the clerk and some idlers about and none
of these, if they could have opened the door, dared to exercise the
power. It was only a question of time when Dickon Harvey would find the
right key. He could see the weapons waving in bared right arms and the
shouts of the rabble once more had a hopeful ring. He said nothing, did
nothing. There was nothing to do. But a rippling in his cheek showed
that his teeth were clenching and unclenching. Instinctively he spread
his arms out, backing against the outer door, clutching the bars and
facing his hunters. It was the attitude of crucifixion.
"Ha!" Dickon Harvey was silent as death, but the shriek of exultation
told that his wrist had turned on the handle of the key. It fitted the
wards. Slowly, all too slowly for the convicts, all too quickly for
Floyd, the inner door was drawn ajar and the foremost men crouched to
spring. Then came a crash in the glass behind Floyd at his very ear. A
long tube of steel passed by his cheek, and, turning, he looked into the
eye of Warden Tapp sighting along the barrel of a rifle. The report rang
out and Dickon Harvey fell forward, the keys jangling at his feet.
Robert wrenched them from his unclasping hand. They were his only
weapon. He had lost the scissors.
At the fall of Harvey the men recoiled for an instant. Quickly another
rifle, and another, and another were thrust through the bars behind
Robert, and he was cautioned to stand motionless. Like a mountebank's
daughter, whose body outlined against a board the father fringes with
skillfully cast knives, each missing her by only a hair, the prisoner
stood with his arms outspread, protected by the chevaux de frise of
protruding guns. Several of the defenders were kneeling and one thrust
his muzzle between the young man's legs.
"Retire!" said Tapp. "Clear the rotunda!" The men sullenly stood.
"One! Two----"
Before the fatal "Three" was added they broke and turned. Then the
muzzles were drawn in, the door behind Robert opened and the warden, at
the head of half a dozen deputies and a dozen policemen who had just
arrived, charged in upon them. The odds were twenty to one, but with the
Right Spur lying senseless under the telephone pole, Minister Slick
wounded at the gate where Robert had stabbed him and Dickon Harvey dead
on the threshold to freedom, the rabble was merely a torso of Hercules,
formidable in physique but powerless without head or limbs. The clubs of
the officers made heavy thuds and the red blood starting here and there
splashed curious spots of color in the dingy crowd. At one stairway
Robert saw the tall form of Hawkins, bleeding but revived, thrashing
around with an empty gun barrel. Then the mob was driven down the
stairs, dividing itself into two portions in the right and left yards.
"Open the team gate," cried Hawkins, leading the deputies and officers
to the left, through the kitchen, instead of to the right through the
bath-rooms, whither Tapp had started. This time the warden was content
to follow and the reason became at once apparent. The solitary fire
engine stood over against the burning shops, helpless without its hose.
From the outside several streams were playing on the buildings and the
firemen, mounting by ladders, were climbing along the roof. But access
from within was necessary if any headway were to be made. The engines
stood outside the gate, occupying the interval of delay by getting up
their fires.
Hawkins stationed his men in a cordon across the gate and admitted the
engines and hose carriages and ladder trucks. One by one they dashed by
till as many as could be supplied with water from the hydrants in the
yard had entered. Then the tall deputy locked the others out, detailed
one squad to guard the rotunda and another to close all doors of the
bastile. With the remainder of the company, re-enforced by more
policemen and keepers, he began to corral his steers.
In order to do this it was necessary that his own men should maintain
the solidarity of a phalanx, while deploying out like a line of
skirmishers from wall to wall. Spread over the width of the yard at one
side, they began their march with rifles and revolvers ready. The
stragglers fled before them. Their gait was slow. Turning the upper
angle, an ambush was to be feared, but the spirit of the convicts was
broken and they only hurled their weapons and fled. Hawkins wheeled his
line to the right, making the pivot-mark time, and passed along the end
of the yard, which was deserted. Turning the second angle, a more
desperate resistance was shown. Here all was confusion, the engines and
burning shops offering places of refuge, while the presence of the
firemen made it impossible to shoot. Hawkins halted his command.
"All firemen in the yard fall behind this line!" he shouted. The firemen
left their engines, several of them only tearing themselves away by
force. Three were captured and held in front by the convicts. The
others, seeing this murderous purpose, could hardly be restrained from
rushing to their rescue.
"Club guns!" cried Hawkins, and the breeches instead of the muzzles were
presented to the mob. But they seemed to dread this end of the weapon as
much as the other, for they released the firemen and slowly withdrew,
Hawkins' line continuing its Macedonian march. Suddenly from a thick
nucleus among the rebels, a spokesman started forward with a white
handkerchief tied to a pole. Hawkins motioned him back and the march was
continued. The men were penned up against the bath-room entrance,
leading into the rotunda and the bastile, where four deputies with
leveled rifles prevented escape. Hawkins had cleared the hydrants and
the firemen resumed their work.
"Deputies at the bath-room door fall back and guard the stairs leading
up to the rotunda! The prisoners will file into their cells in the
bastile!"
This was the last straw. A yell of rage burst from the mob. To be flung
back into their kennels with the bitter crust of disappointment to gnaw,
and the prospect of punishment for the day's misdoings, this was too
much to endure without a last resistance. They turned upon their keepers
with the courage of the beast at bay.
"Now!" cried Hawkins, and his line rushed forward. The hand-to-hand
struggle of the rotunda was renewed more equally, for there were
resolute men in the mob, men reckless of life and maddened by the
goading around the yard. Nor was their accoutrement of iron tools
despicable. Dozens slipped through the line, and policemen as well as
convicts were seen staggering under blows. But the timid ones speedily
fled into the bastile, and, thinning the multitude, robbed it of that
consciousness of numerical superiority which had given it confidence. At
last not more than twenty desperadoes remained, backs to the wall, in
front of the line.
"Club them down!" cried Hawkins.
There was no choice but to obey. The men were of that mettle which
breaks but does not bend. One by one they were beaten to the ground.
The whole of the afternoon was required to lock the mutineers up
properly. With the aid of those prisoners who had not joined the riot
the fire in the shops was finally put out and a good deal of the
property was saved. Only one life had been lost, that of Dickon Harvey,
but the hospital beds were full that night.
When Warden Tapp called Robert to the office and thanked him in person
for his behavior at the team gate and in the rotunda there were tears in
the proud man's eyes. This was a shameful legacy of ruin and rebellion
which he was leaving to his successor.
Passing out of the warden's room, through the rotunda, Robert heard the
familiar voice which had puzzled him so often.
"Aisy, Misther Butler, aisy, for the love o' heaven," the uncouth fellow
groaned.
Floyd turned and looked. "Slim" Butler, the overseer of the
harness-shop, was superintending the transfer to the hospital on an
improvised stretcher of the prisoner whom he had shot when his section
rose against him. His own head was bandaged and his clothes were burned.
The firemen had rescued them both with difficulty. But the face of the
prisoner caused Robert to start, for he recognized in the convict whom
Dobbs called Quirk his uncle's coachman, Dennis Mungovan.