A MESSAGE
In an unused attic room of the great house lay Godfrey Landless, cords
about his ankles, and his arms bound to his sides by cords and by a
thick rope, one end of which was fastened to a beam on the wall. He was
alone, for the Muggletonian, Havisham and Trail were confined in the
overseer's house. Opposite him was a small window framing a square of
sky. He had watched light clouds drift across it, and the sun pass
slowly and majestically down it, and the sunset turn the clouds into
floating blood-red plumes. He had been there since noon. Thick walls
kept from him all sound in the house below--it might have been a house
of the dead. Through the closed window came the low, incessant hum of
the summer world without, but no unusual noise. He had heard the sunset
horn, and the song of the slaves coming from the fields, and as dusk
began to fall, the cry of a whip-poor-will.
When the door had closed upon the retreating figures of the men who
brought him there, he had thrown himself upon the floor where he lay,
faint from physical anguish, in a stupor of misery, conscious only of a
sick longing for death. This mood had passed and he was himself again.
As he lay with his eyes following the fiery, shifting feathers of cloud,
he remembered that the gaol at Jamestown faced the south, and he
thought, "This is the last sunset I shall ever see." He had the strong
abiding faith of his time and party, and he looked beyond the clouds
with an awe and a light in his eyes. Verses learnt at his mother's knee
came back to him; he said them over to himself, and the tender, solemn,
beneficent words fell like balm upon his troubled heart. He thought of
his mother who had died young, and then of scenes and occurrences of his
childhood. All earthly hope was past, there could be no more struggling;
in a little while he would be dead. Dying, his mind reverted, not to the
sordid misery from which death would set him free, but to the long past,
to the child at the mother's knee, to the boy who had climbed down great
cliffs in search of a smuggler's cave. The unearthly light that rests
upon that time so far behind us shone strong for him--he saw every twig
in the rooks' nests in the lofty elms, every ivy leaf about a ruined
oriel, black against a gold sky; the cool, dark smell of the box alleys
filled his nostrils; the sound of the sea came to him; he heard his
mother singing on the terrace. He bowed his face with a sudden rain of
tender, not sorrowful, tears.
Something crashed in at the window, splintering the coarse glass and
falling upon the floor at a little distance from him. It was a large
pebble, to which was tied a piece of paper. He started up and made for
it, to be brought up within two feet of it by the tug of the rope which
bound him to the wall. He thought a moment, then lay down upon the floor
and found that he could touch the end of the string that tied the paper
to the pebble. He took it between his teeth and slowly drew it towards
him, then, rising to his knees, he strained with all his might at the
cords that bound his arms. They were tightly drawn, but when at length
he desisted, panting, he had so loosened them that he could move one
hand a very little way. With it and with his teeth he disengaged the
paper from the pebble and spread it upon his knee. There was just light
enough to read the sprawling schoolboy hand with which it was covered.
It ran thus:--
"I don't know as this will ever reach you. I am doing all I can. Luiz
Sebastian has not let me get at arm's length from him since I overheard
him and the Turk, and a sailor from Captain Laramore's ship and _Roach_
at the hut on the marsh, two hours ago. They would have killed me there,
but I ran, and he did not catch me until I was almost to the quarters.
He will kill me though in a little while, I know; he has a knife and he
is sitting on the doorstep, and the Turk is with him, and I can not
pass them. He held his hand over my mouth and the knife to my heart when
Woodson went the rounds, and I couldn't make no sound--Lord have mercy
upon me! I write this with my blood, on a leaf from your Bible, while he
sits there whispering to the Turk. He goes to his own cabin directly and
he will take me with him and kill me there, I know he will. He goes to
the stables first and I must go with him. If we pass close enough, and
if I can do it without his seeing me I will throw this in at the window
of the room where I know you are, if not--the Lord help us all!...
Landless, for God's sake! before moonrise to-night the Chickahominies
and the Ricahecrians from the Blue Mountains will come down on the
plantation. With them are leagued Luiz Sebastian, the Turk, Trail,
Roach, and most of the slaves.... When all is over, the Indians will
take the scalps and Grey Wolf and will make for the Blue Mountains; Luiz
Sebastian and the others will seize the boats and put off for the ship
at the Point. Her crew will give her up and they will all turn pirate
together. The women go with them if they can keep them from the Indians;
the men are all to be killed.... I have told you all I heard. For God's
sake, save them if you can,--and remember poor Dick Whittington."
Dropping the paper, Landless strained with all his might, first at the
cords which bound his arms, and then at the rope which fastened him to
the wall. Again and again he put forth the strength of despair--his
muscles cracked, great beads stood upon his forehead--but the ropes
held. As well as he could with his shackled feet he stamped upon the
floor; he called aloud, but there came no answering voice or sound from
below. He was at the end of the house over unused chambers, and the
walls and flooring were very thick. He clenched his teeth and began
again the battle with the cords which held him. All in vain. He shouted
until he was hoarse--it was crying aloud in a desert. With a groan he
leaned against the wall, gathering strength for another effort. It was
dark now and the moon rose at eleven.... There was a piece of glass upon
the floor, one of the splinters from the shattered window. He remembered
noticing it--a long narrow piece like the blade of a knife. Sinking to
his knees he felt for it, and after a long time found it. He now had a
knife, but he could not move the hand that held it six inches from his
side. Stooping, he took the splinter between his teeth, and making the
rope taut, drew the sharp edge of the glass across it. Again and again
he drew it across, and at length he perceived that a strand was
severed. With a thrill of joy he settled to the slow, laborious and
painful task. Time passed, a long, long time, and yet the rope was but
half severed. As he worked he counted the moments with feverish dread,
his heart throbbed one passionate prayer: "Lord, let me save her!" Now
and then he glanced at the blackness of the night outside with a
terrible fear--though he knew it could not be yet--that he should see it
waver into moonlight. Another interval of toil, and he stood erect,
gathered his forces, made one supreme effort--and was free! There was
not time for the cords about his arms, but he must get rid of those
which fettered his ankles. An endless task it seemed, but hand and
friendly splinter accomplished it at last; and he sprang to the door. It
was locked. He dashed himself against it, once, twice, thrice, and it
crashed outwards, precipitating him into a large, bare room. He crossed
this, managed to open its unlocked door with his free hand, descended a
winding stair and came into the upper hall. It was in darkness, but up
the wide staircase streamed the perfumed light of many myrtle candles,
and with it laughter, and the sound of a man's voice singing to a lute.