bird and flower dealer invariably gives this fair creature twice her
money's worth of violets, pinks, or roses, or why, last winter, he
trained, to the utmost of their pretty possibilities, two yellow
canaries as a Christmas "gift for his fair." But one day, as this
little maiden, bearing in her hand a lavish bunch of Parma violets,
turned smiling from his door, the listening parrots heard him thus
pensively soliloquize: "Blue eyes, but jes' such hair, an' _her_ step,
to a T! An' a wonderful takin' little creetur you air, to be sure. But
(sorrowfully shaking his grizzled head), you ain't _her_. No, no, no!
Not by a long shot!"
ESCAPED.
In this roomy corner cell, which rejoices in a glazed window, and is
far more cheerful than the ordinary hospital compartment, a pale,
earnest man, with sensitive face and iron-gray hair, sits writing.
Looking over his shoulder, you would perceive that (absurd though it
may seem) he is making entries in a regular nautical log-book. This
has been, for many years, his daily practise; for this convict, whose
bowed form and subdued mien retain no traces of the sometime "jolly
tar," is a born sailor.
His prison name is Robert Henderson. His is the old, old story--a wild
bout in port; a drunken quarrel with a drunken shipmate; a reckless
assault; an unintentional murder, and a consequent life-term in the
State Prison. Although in hospital for treatment, Henderson is still
on his feet, and quite competent to undertake the care of the feebler
sinners who are, from time to time, consigned to the other cot in
this--his sleeping cell.
Eighteen slow years behind the bars have brought in their weary train
salutary repentance and unavailing regret; and, under their pressure,
he is gradually going to pieces. Time has been when his whole being
was dominated by a restless, homesick yearning for the sea--a form of
that nostalgia, recognized in medicine as a real malady, the
passionate craving of the land-locked sailor for his wide, billowy
home--the sea.
Long before his coming up to hospital, I had noted this mild-mannered
convict, and had heard his story from official lips.
By his correct demeanour, and careful adherence to prison rules, he
had found favour in the sight of the warden, who tacitly gave him such
sympathy as, without in the least palliating crime, may be bestowed
even upon a murderer, when his fatal act is the unfortunate result of
momentary frenzy, and does not indicate innate depravity.
Henderson, being a creature of superabundant vitality, it is but inch
by inch that he has physically succumbed to an environment absolutely
antipodal to both temperament and training. Naturally reserved and
reticent, he seldom complained; but, on a certain day, when the scent
of some foreign fruit that I had brought him may have stirred within
him old memories of tropical seas and gracious sunny lands, he gave
voice to his yearning. It was on a prison reception-day, and I was his
"visitor;" and long after, when the end came, I remembered his words,
and thanked God that he had at last given this long-denied being the
desire of his soul.
"Yes, lady," he said, "I was born and reared on the sea, my mother
being a sea-captain's wife, and at the time making the round voyage
with my father. Why! even _now_" he murmured passionately, "I could
cross the Atlantic in my shirt-sleeves, lady, but _here_! in a close,
damp cell! My God! I shiver with cold, and moan and fret like a sick
baby. Often, of a night, I cannot sleep for thought of it all. I pace
my den hour after hour, like a caged beast. I cry to Heaven, the sea!
the sea! Almighty God, give me but once more to look upon it, to smell
brine, to see a ship bound bravely over its broad billows! After that,
let what will come, I can die content."
From the slow monotony of the prison shoe-shop, Henderson has, at
last, been released by ill-health, and is now permanently established
in the hospital; and, dismal though it be to find oneself a tenant of
a hospital cell, and facing the blank certainty that there is for him
no egress, save by that final inexorable door opening into the blind
unknown, he is comparatively happy. So sweet is the merest taste of
liberty to long-denied lips!
Now he may, hour by hour, stroll in the prison-yard, brightened in
summer by its small oasis of verdure and bloom (the flowerbeds), and,
in winter, still wholesomely sweet with keen, bracing air and genial
sunshine. The old sea-longing still haunts his enfeebled mind; but
now, it is a thing to be borne. He has outlived the fierce vehemence
of human desire; and, with little positive suffering, is slowly
wearing away of lingering consumption, complicated with incurable
disease of the heart.
* * * * *
The prison clock is on the stroke of nine, and the prison itself
(already in its nightcap) composes itself for a long night's rest.
In the deserted guard-room and along the now empty corridors, silence
undisturbedly reigns. Here in the hospital the quiet of the hour is
less unbroken. Five consumptives (as is their wont, poor fellows!)
will cough the slow night away; and, in yonder cell, a man, with a
great carbuncle under his ear, groans, _sotto-voce_, at every breath.
On the second floor, in the large cell or room at the head of the
stairway (which is, as occasion requires, used for the sick, for the
holding of prison inquests, or for an operating-room, and but one of
whose several cots is now occupied), a convict is dying. He has been
long about it, for his vitality is tremendous. In his single body
there would seem to be the makings of, at least, two centenarians.
Nature, however, _makes_ us men, and the devil _mars_ them. And here,
before the coming of his first gray hair, lies the sin-spoilt material
for a brisk old patriarch of a hundred years!
He is not, however, to be lightly put out of existence. Even this
nefarious old prison does not readily dispatch him. Consumption, the
chosen "red slayer" of its "slain," he flouts with his last fluttering
breath.
This daring and desperate sinner has proved himself, even under the
disadvantages of restraint, a splendid villain. Unweariedly
indefatigable in his efforts to regain his forfeited liberty, and,
prolific of resources to that end, his custody (even when in close
confinement) has sorely vexed the official soul. By repeated assaults
upon his fellow convicts and the prison officers (for which sanguinary
purpose he has fashioned the deadliest weapons from the most
inconceivable of articles), he has well-nigh lost all claim on human
sympathy; and the entire prison community has long since given him
over to his diabolic possessor. Failing health, and its attendant
necessities, have partially subdued this fierce, unresting spirit; but
even now, in the last stage of consumption, unable to lift himself
from his pillow, and already on the solemn outskirts of an unknown
world, the abnormal evil is yet strong within him. For a past day or
two he has been delirious; and though far too wasted to require
physical restraint, he is, even in his helplessness, half terrible.
The passing soul still revels amid remembered scenes of debauch, or
gloats upon the foul details of crime. The night-watcher's labour is
here one of love; yet, tender as the convict is to his ailing comrade,
this dying wretch scarce appeals to his humanity; and night-watching
zeal is, in this case, inconveniently cool. Robert Henderson--who in
this favouring month of June somewhat renews his failing strength--has
kindly volunteered to sit up to-night with this unpopular patient. The
superintendent, ever ready to encourage good intent, and scarce aware
of Henderson's unfitness for the hard mental strain of a lonely night
beside so uncanny a death-bed, accedes to his request, and at nine
o'clock he takes his place in the dismal apartment. The cells are, as
is customary, secured for the night. The superintendent leaves the
hospital; the cook, who, with his attendant, is also a hospital nurse,
retires to his rest; and Henderson, locked in, is left alone with his
charge. It chances to be his first watch beside a dying bed, and an
exceptionally trying one it proves.
As he listens to the muttered ravings of this frenzied creature, he
already half regrets the humane impulse that tempted him to brave the
horrors of such a night. An hour passes. The man raves on. Terrors,
vague and supernatural, begin to seize upon the watcher's unnerved
mind. Surely already evil fiends are swooping on their prey--the
parting soul! And in the silence that now alternates with these fierce
outbreaks of insanity, he half fancies in the dusky room the whirr of
their uncanny wings. He wishes to God it were morning, and he well out
of this! The night, however, has scarce begun; and so, manfully
bracing himself to his task, he resolves to stick to his post, doing
his best, let what will come. Suddenly the patient ceases to rave, and
seems to struggle gaspingly with some strong and terrible foe!
White foam flecks his blue lips, and great beads of agony start to his
brow. Hurrying to his side, Henderson tenderly wipes the
pain-distorted forehead, and offers him drink. His teeth are fast
clenched. He makes a rude attempt to drive the comforter from him.
Obeying the motion, Henderson seats himself and awaits the issue.
By and by the convulsive gasping ceases. Again he bends over the
sufferer. How strangely quiet the man is! No motion, no sound--not
even a breath! Heaven help him! he has gone at last!
How dismal will the long night be locked in here alone with a corpse!
Death sits horribly on these evil features. Upon the hard, set face,
one may still trace the footprints of unholy and unbridled desire. The
mouth is much drawn. Its strong white teeth show grimly between the
blue parted lips, and, to the watcher's nervous fancy, they seem, even
in death, to snarl viciously at the beholder. Livid circles underline
the sunken eyes, now wide and glassy, beneath their heavy brows, and,
as Henderson morbidly conceives, turned wrathfully upon _him_. If he
could but close those terrible eyes! Alas! he dare not with his shaky
hand attempt so bold a thing! A moment ago he could have turned his
back upon the ugly sight; _now_ it is too late. By some hypnotic
fascination beyond his control, his gaze is riveted to the corpse.
The slow hours wear on. The living and the dead, set face to face,
grimly confront each other. The dead man never winces. The living man,
at last, succumbs to the stress and horror of the situation. The walls
of the apartment reel and totter. The corpse dims and fades before
him, and he falls limp and unconscious to the floor.
Sensation gradually returning to the overwrought watcher, he finds
himself still miserably faint and weak. It is, however, _something_ to
have escaped the spell of those death-glazed eyes, and, thanking God,
he strives to get upon his feet. In his effort to rise, he stumbles
clumsily over a small dark object upon the floor, close beside the
bed. Regaining his poise, he discerns that it is the coarse, heavy
shoe of a convict. He lifts it, thinking to place it beside its fellow
beneath the cot. His hand is weak and nerveless. It escapes his grasp,
and falls clattering to the floor. As it strikes, his ear is surprised
by the click of some metallic substance. A small shining implement
lies at his feet. He picks it up. It is a miniature steel saw, and
must somehow have been concealed in this shoe of the dead man.
Curiously examining _it_ and the shoe, he discovers (what in the dim
light had at first eluded his notice) a displaced inner sole, thin,
but firm and nicely fitted. Removing it, he sees that the shoe is
still intact, and that this neatly adjusted super-sole was but an
ingenious blind, adroitly concealing the precious implement, which,
had fate proved less unkind, should have opened to the dead prisoner
the long untrodden way of liberty.
It is not in Robert Henderson's nature to peach on a comrade, living
or dead, and, carefully restoring the saw to its hiding-place, he
readjusts the sham sole, and, with a touch of that reverence which one
instinctively yields to the belongings of the dead, puts the shoe
aside.
Still weak and trembling, but no longer magnetically drawn to the
corpse, he totters to the grated window, which, to eke out the sick
man's failing breath, has been left open. Dropping upon the rude stool
beside it, he leans his yet dizzy head upon the sill. A wandering
breath of the summer night steals gently in. How balmy it is, this
tender night wind! And he, a worn creature at a prison grating, might
be a gentle lady at her lattice, so softly it caresses his wasted
cheek!
Yet, kindly as it is, it does not wholly restore his wonted vigour. At
intervals, a deathly faintness oppresses him. A fearful sinking of
heart and limb, as if life and courage were, together, oozing away.
What if the end were indeed come, and he were to die to-night,
unattended and alone; his filmy eyes looking their last upon earth,
still confronted by that odious dead face, that, even in the world
beyond, may still pursue him, as, for years, _another_ dead face has!
His heart scarce beats at all! Ah, well, it is time he should be gone!
But to die alone! Were daylight but here, he might summon help--might
get from the dispensary some relieving draught, or soothing powder,
wherewith to blunt the dreaded sting of Death.
A sudden thought flashes through his troubled brain. There, just
beside the dead man's bed, stands his medicine! A small phial
half-filled with dark-brown liquid; he read its label, idly, as he sat
beside the sufferer--"Cough Drops." Summoning such strength as he can
command, he staggers across the room, and, eagerly seizing the phial,
drains it to the dregs. This composite remedy is well-freighted with
morphine, and, though perfectly safe in moderate doses, is by no means
to be administered _ad libitum_. Opium, as we know, is dual in effect,
inducing irregular and excited brain action, as well as coma. This
over-liberal potion of "Cough Drops" works swift wonders in
Henderson's sensitive, excitable organism. He is soon upon his feet
again, and, as he says gaily to himself, "As bright as ever, and
well-nigh as strong." A sensuous delight in existence again thrills
his torpid being; a wild eager craving to taste once more its long
withheld joy! "Die to-night? Ah, no! How _could_ he have imagined a
thing so unlikely? He is but a young man yet, and life lies long and
pleasant before him. Stimulated by his energizing draught, he presses
eagerly to the window, and, grasping its hindering bars,--in a spurt
of the old-time Herculean strength,--wrenches at them mightily. They
are fast and strong. In the scuttle they are wider apart, and,
apparently, more slender. The summer wind steals deliciously in. Ah!
these are but mere thimblefuls. Outside, now, a man might take his
fill. The old sea longing is again hot within him. Outside these cruel
bars it lies, broad and fair, as of old. The whole wide world is
there! Liberty, happiness, and maybe health. At least, leave to die
outside of prison walls.
"Why! Men smothering in subterranean dungeons have, like burrowing
moles, groped their slow way to freedom; while he"--a swift thought
illumines his seething brain, sending the life-tide swifter through
his pulses, and electrifying his entire being! The saw! the dead man's
saw! There it is, safe in the shoe, and not in vain has Heaven
graciously discovered it to him! Still reverent of the belongings of
the dead, he takes in his hand the precious shoe, removes from it the
secreted implement, and, in a moment more, is eagerly at work.
Noiselessly placing a small table beneath the scuttle, he finds it
still beyond his reach. Placing a stool upon the table, he mounts it,
and is soon sawing away at the bars above him. In this aperture,
designed rather for sanitary than illuminating purposes, the bars
are comparatively wide apart, and far more slender than the
window gratings. The removal of a single bar will give egress
to his emaciated form. The saw works well. His task is soon
accomplished,--the dead man all the while (as he excitedly fancies)
angrily staring from the bed. Faugh! How close the air is in this
infernal place! A moment ago he was fast here, locked in with a
horrible thing that grins and glares at a man, and is already
decomposing! It is over now. In a moment more, he will have left it
all; will be free. The coarse covering of an empty cot is soon torn
into strong strips. Deftly knotting these together, sailor-wise, he
tucks the improvised rope under his arm, and, holding it fast, climbs
out upon the roof, and, creeping cautiously on all fours to its
extremity, has secured it firmly to the spout.
Clinging desperately to his flimsy tackle, he lowers himself, hand
over hand, to its end. He is still at a remove of twenty feet from the
ground.
Under normal mental conditions, Henderson might have demurred at so
bold a fall; now, no whit appalled, he loosens his hold, and drops,
scarcely bruised, to the earth. Kissing in ecstacy the clammy ground,
he looks mutely up to heaven. It is a prayer! And, rising to his feet,
he hastily puts off his heavy shoes (which in the hurry and excitement
of departure he has forgotten to remove), and, listening intently for
the night watchman's patrolling step, assures himself that he is at
this moment reconnoitering some distant stretch of his beat. Now is
the time! Stealthily gaining the wall, he looks cautiously about him;
selecting a spot comfortably distant from a sentry-box, with a pile
of refuse lumber and some empty lime barrels, providentially at hand,
he improvises a rude scaffolding, and, eagerly mounting it, clambers
in safety to the top.
A neighbouring clock is striking two. The night is cloudy. There will
be no moon, and not a star to be seen. It is an easy thing to manage
the rest; and, well beyond the prison walls, it cannot be far to that
goal of his longing--the sea.
Safe, though somewhat shaken by his bold fall, he finds his legs and
pushes resolutely on. He moves but slowly. Through long disuse, his
locomotion has become rusty; yet, keeping steadily to his snail-like
pace, he threads the deserted streets, and presently finds himself
upon the broad highway. He has grasped his clew; and, following it,
presses bravely on. The shoeless feet, already hurt and bleeding, get
wearily over the rough, hard ground. The clouds are breaking; and,
here and there, a kindly star twinkles upon his pathway.
His spurious strength--opium-engendered and ephemerally sustained by
this new wine of liberty--is waning.
The road lies long before him. He drags wearily on. He stumbles
often, and once has even fallen from sheer exhaustion. At last he
diverges, instinctively, from the travelled highway. Another weary
pull. Now on a scarce-rutted wagon track, across open grassy flats,
and then a sudden pause--a thrill of ecstatic joy! The salt sea-breeze
is in his eager nostrils! "O God! O blessed God! it is the sea!" and
for eighteen weary years he has not once "snuffed brine!" He hears it,
singing in the dear old monotone; and, in a moment more, here it is,
spread out before him, grand as ever, and wide! Oh, _how_ wide!
Tottering feebly across the sands down to its very foam-fringed edge,
he sinks tremblingly upon his knees, and in ecstacy hugs the wet
shore. His strained muscles relax, and, too spent to rise, he
stretches himself upon the strand. His brain is hazy with morphine. A
drowsy bliss balms his tired senses. He looks dreamily at the broad
heaven (already flushed with coming day), and, fondly searching its
half-forgotten face, mutters drowsily to himself: "What! _all_ that
_sky_? How wide the world is!" He closes his eyes for the moment,
oppressed with the weight of immensity! His mood changes suddenly to
one of eager, childish delight. Far out at sea, through the soft bloom
of dawn's red rose, the sun is emerging from his bath of flame, a huge
disk of fire. Raising himself wearily upon his elbow, he watches its
unaccustomed face with curious half-recognition. "The sun? yes, this
_must_ be the sun! Ages ago he saw it rise out of the sea. Somebody
was with him then. Who was it? His name was--what _was_ his name? and
where _is_ he _now_?
"Dead, maybe. Everybody is dead--everybody--Tom, and the other left
behind there in the grated pen! He, too, may be dying. He is faint and
weary, and has so little breath after that long tramp! Ah, well! he is
close to his mother now, and where else should a man die? He is tired,
though--dog tired, and must rest awhile before he heaves anchor." The
tide is rising. A dash of salt spray spatters his cheek. The sun comes
bravely up from the sea; and, yonder, a ship is coming in. In dreamy
abstraction he watches it with half-shut eyes. "How drowsy he is! How
came he here? Where is he _going_? What a coil it is! No matter, he
is going to sleep now; and by and by he will wake up, and get his
bearings. It is all right--all well--he is in _her_ arms! How
beautiful she is--the blue-eyed mother! And--hush! hark! she is
singing him to sleep!" His mind wanders. He murmurs irrelevantly
on--"Poor mother! She is pale and worn! It will grieve her if her boy
turns in without a prayer." He tries to fumble to his knees, and
fails. Recomposing his limbs, he folds his large hands, childwise,
upon his breast, and distinctly and reverently repeats the old, old
prayer--
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord--"
"Good night, mother--" He is fast asleep.
* * * * *
Henderson has chanced upon an unfrequented strip of shore, and, though
it is now high day, no one comes, not even his pursuers, who, in the
coarse stiff grass must have missed his shoeless trail.
The tide is still coming in. He does not waken. Now and then an
intrusive wave breaks over his feet. By and by one creeps up to his
waist; and, directly, the sea gives him a broad, rough douche. He
moans, and starts in his dream. Another wave! How strong and fierce it
is--this sea--held in the hollow of God's safe hand!
It rouses him at last. He starts to his feet, and towering, for one
brief moment, high above the seething waves, sends over the blue
expanse a long, loud "Ship ahoy!" Then, shading his eyes with his thin
hand, he gazes eagerly expectant--far out to sea. A slow smile breaks,
like the dawn, over his face, and, folding his arms, he waits. The
waves come curling in, and, breaking at his feet, ruthlessly drench
him with foam and spray. He does not heed them. With straining gaze,
he waits that inbound phantasmal ship. Another and a happier smile!
And, with a keen cry of joy, he waves his eager hand and again sends
over the sea a jubilant "Ship ahoy!" He makes a forward pace or two--a
wave is coming in, huge and hungry; he sways, totters, and falls. It
swallows him and hurries back. And still the sea lies broad and blue
beneath the smiling heaven. The white gull skims its azure breast on
rhythmic wing. Proud ships bring happy ventures gaily in; or, sailing
out and on, dwindle to specks and melt at last, like shapeless dreams,
into the distant blue. And still the curling waves creep with slow
singing up the sand. With _him_ "there is no more sea!"
THE END.
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent and archaic spelling, punctuation, and syntax retained.