A MONOPOLY
Lance Carlyon was right in trusting Dr. Dillon's power of doing without
help until Providence chose to send some. This was the easier task, in
that he had made up his mind deliberately beforehand as to what his
best course of action would be should an alarm of this sort occur.
Therefore that imperative _kling-kling_ of the telegraph bell which
roused him in a second from his bed, where, ready dressed for any such
emergency, he was sleeping the sleep of the just, found him alert,
prepared for anything and everything.
So it has come, he thought, as he hastily wired back the comprehensive
reply, "_All right, await you_." He felt as a doctor does when a
dangerous symptom which he has foreseen as a possibility, shows itself.
He had been on the lookout for this for days, but as the dawn would end
the period during which it might be expected, he had, as in the
outbreak of the cholera, had hopes that danger was over. His last
thought, as he slept, had been this; he woke to find that the
complication must be faced. Woke with a strong regret, but a stronger
instinct of fight. So he slipped his feet into his shoes, jammed his
big mushroom hat on his head out of pure habit, and so, armed
_cap-a-pie_, with a brain quick to work, and a body ready to follow and
obey, he ran across the sandy road to the Smiths' bungalow, realizing
as he did so that a dust-storm was just beginning. That would delay
both attack and relief. On the whole, this would be an advantage,
since, once things were secure, half an hour or so would make no
difference in the latter; whereas, he wanted every minute he could get
now for preparation.
He had not warned Eugene Smith of his fears. There was never any use
alarming people by mere probabilities, unless by so doing you could
forearm them. And this was not the case here; since the safest--in fact
the only--place of refuge for Mrs. Smith and the child, should trouble
arise, was the semi-fortified roof above the gate of the gaol; and that
he knew to be ready for use. He had, therefore, only to wake them, as
quietly as might be, so as not to give the alarm to the servants.
Fortune favoured him in this; for, just outside the verandah, he ran
full tilt upon Eugene himself, tall, gaunt, in his sleeping-suit,
carrying a roll of bedding on his back like a snail's shell. The heat
of the evening had enticed him to sleep outside, as he preferred, _a
la_ Robinson Crusoe, and the dust-storm was sending him in.
"Hello, Dillon!" he cried, "what's up?--nothing wrong with my wife or
the child--I hope--No!--" he gave a sigh of relief, "then it's the
beastly dust-storm disturbed you, I suppose. Isn't it sickening to
think how many times in the next six months we shall have to take up
our beds and walk."
"H'm! Hope I shall have the chance," replied the doctor, dryly,
recovering his breath. "No, it isn't the storm. They're going to try a
row, Smith. Just had a wire from the Fort. There's a plot on, to come
here and set the prisoners free, and that's dangerous. So, till the
troops come, I think you'd better bring Mrs. Smith and Gladys to the
gate--it's the safest place, and I've got everything ready. It mayn't
be much; but the devils, whoever they are, might turn and rend
you--especially if they fail with me."
Eugene Smith had dropped his snail-shell and sat down on it, aghast, in
surprise; but he was up again before the doctor finished.
"By Jove!" he said rapidly, calmly as the doctor himself. "That's a
taking up one's bed with a vengeance. I'll have 'em both ready in a
jiffy--anything else?"
"No. I'll rummage round till you return--one forgets things to the
last, sometimes. And I shall want your Remington and such like--I know
where to find 'em."
A moment after he was striking a match to light the tall floor-lamp in
Mrs. Smith's drawing-room. She had turned it out herself a few hours
before, thinking, as she looked round the room, full of soft
rose-shaded light, how pretty, how cosey it was. It had the same air of
refined security now. Everything, down to a copy of the last '_Queen_'
lying on an inlaid table by her favourite chair, was so exactly what
one would have expected to find in her room; the room of a delicate,
cultivated, civilized, society woman.
And now?
Now the delicacy, the culture, the civilization, the society, and the
security belonging to them, had been invaded in an instant. By what?
The dust--you could almost see it springing into the air in these sandy
stretches--had already settled thick over the dainty furniture, and as
Dr. Dillon, standing by the table in the pink glow of the lamp, asked
himself the question, he yielded to the imperious fascination which a
smooth sand-surface has for humanity. But he did not write his name
upon it; only the idle answer to the question.
"God knows."
The writing lay upon the table beside the latest fashions, staring up
into the pink paper shade, after George Dillon had passed rapidly to
Eugene's office to choose this, that, and the other, and make them into
a bundle with a table-cloth.
When he returned to the drawing-room, Muriel Smith was standing by that
writing in the sand: a fragile figure in a blue dressing-gown, all
frilled and embroidered like the pictures in the paper. She looked more
forlorn than frightened; forlorn and pathetic.
"Is it warm enough?" said the doctor, as he entered. "Your dress, I
mean. There's a storm on, and it generally brings rain."
"It is flannel," she answered, and he nodded.
There was no excitement, no heroics. Only that. That, and the writing
on the sand, and her forlornness--the forlornness of a delicate Dresden
shepherdess set to drive a flock of real sheep to the shambles. But the
needlessness, the pity of it, made Dr. Dillon set his teeth.
"Eugene will be here directly with Gladys," she said. "We thought it
best not to wake her, and he said we had better start at once; for you
see I can't walk nearly so fast as he does."
There was no trace of fear in her voice, but there was none of
resistance either, and she turned at the door to look back with an
almost reproachful acquiescence.
"Poor room," she said softly, "it seems so strange--such a pity; but I
suppose it can't be helped." She turned to the darkness again with a
little shiver, and went on, "Vincent sent the wire, I suppose."
"I didn't ask," replied Dr. Dillon curtly; then, repenting him, added,
"I suppose so. He will be here directly I expect. And--and we will all
take care of you and Gladys, as long as we can. You know that; and we
can't do more--can we?"
She smiled quite tenderly. "Of course you will. And I am really not a
bit afraid--except of being in the way."
She seemed to accept the necessity of this; perhaps rightly. For the
storm itself was no joke in these desert stretches, where the sand rose
in choking clouds, yet left enough to make each step a toil. Muriel
stumbled along breathlessly, but so slowly that, when her husband
joined them, striding along with Gladys, still sleeping, wrapped in a
blanket in his arms, the doctor bade them come at their leisure and
wait until he gave the signal before entering, then ran on swiftly to
the gaol. For there was no time to lose; though, on the other hand,
there was very little to be done. The less the better, if his plan was
to be successful; since that involved the utmost quiet, and the keeping
of the prisoners from all knowledge of what was going on as long as
possible.
As he faced the choking darkness, the hot blasts of causeless wind,
blowing all ways at once, George Dillon reckoned up his chances fairly.
The storm would certainly make it easier to keep such knowledge from
those within, and make it more difficult for those without to establish
communication with the former. So far, good. On the other hand, no
amount of the light at his command would enable him to see, even from
his coign of vantage on the gateway roof, what was going on, either
outside or inside. And darkness was the diggers' best friend; while
digging was the recognized enemy of mud walls. Especially of those
inside walls which divided the gaol into sections. Yet the best, the
only chance of keeping the prisoners quiet, lay in preserving their
segregation into companies.
For the gaol was of the cart-wheel pattern. That is, a huge circle of
outside wall, thick as an earthwork, the felloes of the wheel, as it
were. Then a small central cylinder of brick, like a lime kiln, the
nave of the wheel, as it were. Between these two the spokes. Spokes of
twelve feet high mud wall, dividing the whole into seven wedges of
prison, absolutely distinct, blank, aperture-less, save for one heavily
stanchioned door in the apex of each wedge, leading into the central
tower. Exit or entry was therefore impossible to six of these wedges,
except through the tower; that is the citadel, the key, as it were, of
the gaol proper.
The seventh wedge, however, gave, at its wider end, on the
entrance-gate, which was a square, semi-fortified building, pierced by
a tunnel, gated at each end, and further protected by an outside yard,
or roofless porch, also gated. The inmost of these three gates opened
on to a small courtyard, and this narrowed again into an alley which
gave access to the central tower. Briefly then the whole gaol consisted
of six wedges opening, by a door in their narrow end, into the central
cylinder; and a seventh wedge split in two by an alley leading between
high mud walls from the gateway to that central tower; the key to the
position.
In the two halves of the split wedge lay the warders' barracks, the
solitary cells, the cook rooms, the hospital; and the entry to these
was by a door on either side of the little courtyard, just beyond the
inner gate. From the corner of this, also, rose the outside stair
leading to the roof of the square, brick gateway.
Thus the fifteen hundred prisoners were broken up into companies of
about two hundred each, and were absolutely without possibility of
communication so long as the central tower was in the hands of
authority. Unless there was time to undermine the mud walls, and tools,
also, wherewith to work. Of these, however, there were none in the
gaol. Nothing, even, that could be used to take their place, except in
that seventh section which held the executive of the gaol; and there
Dr. Dillon meant to leave no hands to use them, if he could compass it.
As he pulled up to regain his breath before walking up to the gate and
giving the countersign, the whole place lay quiet and dark. So far,
good. There was the risk, however, of the plot being known, and of the
sentry refusing him entrance. It was not, however, and the next moment,
calmly as if he was merely on one of his not infrequent rounds of
unexpected night inspections, Dr. Dillon passed from the outer porch to
the tunnel, and told the sentry at the inner gate to light the lamp in
the little office room to one side.
"Call the superintendent," he said to the first man, "and you can tell
him I am going to inspect the solitary cells."
He added this because he knew it would give time, since the
superintendent would be sure to give a private look round, first, to
see all was in order, and remove possible traces of tobacco or
opium,--those luxuries out of which so much money can be made by gaol
officials.
No sooner, however, had the first sentry gone through the door to the
left section, than he sent the second one on a similar message to the
right, where the hospital lay. Then, the coast being clear, he rapidly
unlocked the private safe in the office which held his set of keys in
case of accidents, and locked both the right and left doors. Secure for
a moment, therefore, from interruption, he ran outside, saw that the
tool rooms, etc., were closed, gave the signal to Eugene Smith, hurried
the refugees up the stairs; and then, after unlocking the two doors
again on his way back to the office, sat down in his usual chair and
began to look over a register.
He was engaged in this calm occupation when, a minute or two after, the
native superintendent--a big, dignified person, in a blatant undress
due largely to his bulk--arrived breathless.
"_Darogah-jee!_" began Dr. Dillon, instantly, and the mere tone of the
title made the man quiver, "I've had constantly to complain of the
tobacco and opium smuggling that is going on among the warders, and I
mean to stop it. I've had information to-night which will clinch
the business. So take the night guard, rouse every warder, bring
everyone here, even those on guard in the sections--the hospital
orderlies--everyone, in fact, who is free to go out of the gaol. They
are to come at once. No time allowed for arrangements. If they are not
all here in five minutes I shall think you are in league with the
smugglers."
The _darogah's_ fat flesh shook, yet he winked as he went off. If the
doctor-_sahib_ expected to find anything in this fashion except, maybe,
a smell of the forbidden drugs, he was mistaken. On such a night, too,
when the dust was in everyone's eyes. Well! it might have been worse;
for, though he knew nothing definitely of any plot, he could not fail
to know that there was more to excite men in the gaol, that night, than
tobacco or opium! So he went about his summons with a sigh of relief,
and before the five minutes were over had his posse of minor officials
together, including a file of unfettered prisoners, with good conduct
badges, who were used as gang leaders. He himself finally coming down
the alley, with a stupendous bunch of keys, followed by the little
group of night warders he had collected from the other sections.
"All here?" asked Dr. Dillon, lighting a cigar. "The register, please,
_darogah_. They will answer to their names, pass out through the wicket
into the porch, and stay there until I've tallied the lot. I'm going to
have it _pakka_[11] this time."
Some of the men grinned, some looked uneasy, and some few frowned; but
all obeyed, though they cuddled themselves into their blankets as they
slipped through the wicket, and faced the whirling, swirling storm in
the open porch, the doors of which were barred, not solid.
"Kishen Rao?" came Dr. Dillon's voice, after a long series of names,
followed by brief "_presents!_" and swift exits. There was no answer.
He turned to the _darogah_ for explanation.
"Absent!" explained the latter, timorously.
A little more decision might have saved him the quick question, "With
or without leave?"
"_Huzoor_" palpitated the fat man, "he went out to bathe in the Holy
Pool by permission this morning. He is of the utmost sobriety. A
Brahmin, promoted by your Honour to, as your Honour knows, general head
ward-keeper. He is not to be suspected."
"Leave till 5 P.M.," commented the doctor, looking over the register.
"Mark him down absent without leave. Go on."
So, rapidly, the last man ducked under the wicket.
"Is that the lot?"
"Everyone, Protector of the Poor," protested the burly official, with
smiles. "The prison is empty of the unfettered."
"Then let it remain so for the present," said Dr. Dillon, coolly, as he
stepped forward, closed the wicket, slid the bolt to its place, and
turned on the _darogah_, all in one swift sequence.
"Now, then!" he went on sharply, "you and I have to settle a bit of
business. Your keys--" he took out a revolver, and laid it on the table
beside him--"every key you have; duplicates, triplicates, everything!
I'm going to keep this gaol myself for a bit. Do you understand?"
"_Huzoor!_" bleated the man, helplessly, putting his big bunch on the
table.
Dr. Dillon smiled sarcastically. "Won't do, my friend. I want the lot
by the list. Where's the register?"
When it came he ticked them off rapidly by it. "Sections B and C,
warder's duplicate; where's that?" he asked.
The official grew green. "Kishen Rao--" he began--"but he is of the
utmost--"
Dr. Dillon turned on him like lightning. "You're a damned scoundrel,
sir! What else is missing?" He ran over the rest swiftly, then looked
up suddenly with a scowl that made the man literally collapse. "So
that's it, is it? Duplicate of B and C sections missing, and duplicate
of the alley doors. A pretty little game!" he laughed sardonically.
"Kishen Rao--" gurgled the _darogah_--"by your Honour's promotion--of
the utmost--"
"But it won't play, my friend; it won't play!" went on the doctor, with
a curious elation. "I hold the thirteenth trump, now. You go in
there,"--he pointed to an inner store-room behind the slip of an
office; a windowless place, pitch dark, where the clothes in which the
prisoners arrived awaited their release in piles--"and thank your stars
you're in such good quarters."
All but that brief order, "You go in there," was spoken in English, as
a sort of outlet for the intense satisfaction which was filling him at
his own success,--_so far_.
The next minute he had turned the key on the _darogah_, and was up the
stairs calling Eugene Smith in a low voice to come down and help to
bolt and bar; but to come as quietly as he could.
"I've got rid of the lot," he said joyously, after he had explained the
position in a few rapid words; "there isn't a soul in this section
except the solitary cellers--who, of course, are ironed--a few sick
people, and the assistant surgeon; but _baboo-jee_ is an agnostic, and
is so confoundedly afraid of the possibility of a future life that he
may be trusted to go into green collapse if he hears a shot fired."
So, rapidly, the two men set to work, undisturbed by more than a
protesting "_Huzoor_, what shall we do?" from the posse outside the
first gate, and a low knocking at the wicket.
There were double doors here, however, and of the sort which it would
need time to negotiate, without powder.
"They will hold out for an hour, at least," said the doctor; "then
there will be the inner one, and after that the alley door--unless--"
he remembered Kishen Rao, and frowned. That was the only weak spot in
his armour. "We can count on an hour and a half, at least," he
continued, carefully allowing for the worst; "longer, perhaps. Now
then, Smith, for the toughest job! I've got a couple of crowbars here.
Those first six steps--eight if we can--of the stairs must come down.
There aren't enough of us to hold them."
So, for fully a quarter of an hour, no sound was heard above the
curious vibration of the storm except the grinding and crushing of the
bricks as they were rapidly eased out, one by one, from the mud mortar.
The light of one of the office lamps, set on the ground, showed by that
time a sheer drop of eight or ten feet, and Eugene Smith, working
above, jammed his crowbar into a crevice of the wall against which the
steps clung like a swallow's nest, and gave Dr. Dillon, who had been
working below, a rope and a hand up.
The latter set down the keys and the lamp he had brought up with him,
and deliberately dusted the knees of his trousers.
"There, that's done," he said. "Couldn't be better."
"Yes, it seems pretty safe," assented Eugene Smith, a trifle dubiously.
"Safe!" echoed the doctor, enthusiastically, "I haven't felt so safe
for the last fortnight. Hullo! what's that?"
That was a sudden bugle-call. The doctor's face fell. "What, already! I
didn't expect relief so soon. However, it can't be helped. I'll just go
up and tell Dering what I've done, so that he may be prepared for the
locked out ones!"
He took the light in his hand and crossed to the outer parapet.
"Hello, Dering!" he began, peering down. Then a couple of shots whizzed
past his head and he ducked. At the same moment, as if roused by the
concussion, the first crackling thunderclap of the dust-storm, sounding
muffled through the thick air, followed like a roll-call, and
reverberated dully, sluggishly, through the black darkness.
When it passed, Dr. Dillon's voice rose quietly.
"There will be no relief, Smith; those are the troopers, and they're
against us. So now--we've got it to ourselves, Smith, for some time."
There was a certain satisfaction at the monopoly in his voice.