“Nothing can be done, Belton.”
“How is Lieutenant Clinton, sir?” asked the master, as the surgeon
turned to leave him.
“Dying fast. Another hour or so will see the end.”
“And his wife and baby?”
“She bears up well, but her infant cannot possibly live another day in
such weather as this. God help her, poor little woman! Better for her if
she follows husband and child.”
“Who is with Mr. Clinton, doctor?” asked the master presently.
“Adair--No. 267. I brought him into the cabin. Indeed, Clinton asked me
to do so. He thinks much of the young fellow, and his conduct ever
since the outbreak occurred deserves recognition. He has rendered
me invaluable assistance with Clinton and the other sick in the main
cabin.”
“He's a fine young fellow,” said Belton, “and his good example has done
much to keep the others quiet. Do you know, doctor, that at any time
during the last three weeks the ship could have been captured by a dozen
even unarmed men.”
“I do know it; but the poor wretches seem never to have thought of
rising.”
“What was Adair sent out for?” asked Belton.
“Lunacy; otherwise, patriotism. He's one of a batch of five--the five
best conducted men on the ship--sentenced to end their days in
Botany Bay for participating in an attack on a party of yeomanry at
Bally-somewhere or other in Ireland. There was a band of about fifty,
but these five were the only ones captured--the other forty-five were
most likely informers and led them into the mess.”
A hurried footstep sounded near them, and a big man, in a semi-military
costume, presented himself abruptly before them. His dark, coarse race
was flushed with anger, and his manner insolent and aggressive. Not
deigning to notice the presence of the surgeon, he addressed himself to
the master of the transport.
“Mr. Belton, I protest against the presence in the main cabin of a
ruffianly convict. The scoundrel refuses to let me have access to
Lieutenant Clinton. Both on my own account and on that of Mr. Clinton,
who needs my services, I desire that this man be removed immediately.”
“What right, sir, have you, a passenger, to protest?” answered Belton
surlily. “Mr. Clinton is dying and Prisoner Adair is nursing him.”
“That does not matter to me, I----”
The surgeon stepped in front of the newcomer.
“But it _shall_ matter to you, Mr. Jacob Bolger, Government storekeeper,
jailer, overseer, or commissary's runner, or whatever your position is.
And I shall see that No. 267 suffers no molestation from you.”
“Who are you, sir, to threaten me? The Governor shall hear of this when
we arrive at the settlement. A pretty thing that I should be talked to
like this by the ship's doctor!”
“By God, sir, I'll give you something to talk about,” and the surgeon's
Welsh blood leapt to his face. Advancing to the break of the poop, he
called--
“Sergeant Matthews!”
The one remaining non-commissioned officer of the diminished
convict-guard at once appeared and saluted.
He was a solemn-faced, taciturn man, devoted to Clinton.
“Mr. Belton,” said the doctor, “in the serious illness of Lieutenant
Clinton I now assume charge of the military guard and convicts on
this ship, and as a first step to maintain proper discipline at such a
critical time, I shall confine Mr. Bolger to his cabin. Sergeant, take
him below and lock him in.”
Bolger collapsed at once. “I beg your pardon, doctor, for my hastiness.
I did not know.... I was----”
The surgeon cut his apologies short. “Go to your cabin, sir. I shall
not have you locked in, but, by heavens! if you attempt to go into Mr.
Clinton's cabin I'll put you in irons, Government official though you
are. I am well aware that your presence is particularly objectionable to
Mrs. Clinton.”
With an evil look Bolger left them, and the surgeon, turning to
Belton, said: “That settles _him_, anyway, for a time. He's a thorough
scoundrel, I believe. Mrs. Clinton has a positive horror of the man; yet
the brute is continually pestering her with offers of his services. Now
I must go below again to poor Clinton.”
In the dimly lighted cabin the young officer lay breathing heavily, and
as the doctor softly entered he saw that the time was now very near.
By her husband's side sat Marion Clinton, her loosened wavy brown hair
hiding from view her own face and the dying hand which she held pressed
to her quivering lips. At her feet, on a soft cushion on the floor, lay
her infant, with one thin waxen hand showing out from the light
shawl that covered it; at the further end of the cabin stood a young,
broad-shouldered man in grey convict garb. As the doctor entered he
stood up and saluted.
The sound of the opening door made Clinton turn his face. “Is that you,
Williams?” he said, in slow, laboured tones. “Marion, my girl, bear up.
I know I am going, old fellow. Do what you can for her, Williams. The
Governor will see to her returning to England, but it may be long before
a ship leaves.... Marion!”
“Yes,” she answered brokenly.
“Is baby no better?”
“No,” she answered with a sob, as she raised her tear-stained face to
Surgeon Williams, who shook his head. “There is no hope for her, Harry.”
His hand pressed hers gently. “God help you, dear! Only for that it
would not be so hard to die now; and now I leave you quite alone.”
She stooped down and lifted the fragile infant, and Williams and No.
267 turned their faces away for awhile. Presently Clinton called the
surgeon.
“Williams,” and his eyes looked wistfully into the doctor's, “do what
you can for her. There is something like a hundred guineas among my
effects--that will help. Thank God, though, she will be a rich woman
when my poor old father dies. I am the only son.”
The surgeon bent down and took his hand. “She shall never want a friend
while I live, Clinton, never.”
A light of thankfulness flickered in Clinton's eyes, and the pallid lips
moved; and then as wife and friend, each holding a hand, waited for him
to speak, there came the sound of a heavy sob. Convict 267 was kneeling
and praying for the departing soul.
Slowly the minutes passed, the silence broken but by the creaking and
straining of the ship as she rose and fell to the sea, and now and again
the strange, mournful cry of some night-fishing penguin.
“Marion,” Clinton said at last, “I would like to speak to Adair before I
die. He has been good to you and to me.”
Walking softly in his stockinged feet, Adair advanced close to the bed.
“Give me your hand, Adair. God bless you,” he whispered.
“And God bless you, sir, and all here,” answered the young Irishman in a
husky, broken voice.
“Hush,” said the surgeon warningly, and his eyes sought those of the
watching wife, with a meaning in them that needed no words. Quickly she
passed her arm around Clinton, and let his head lie upon her shoulder.
He sighed heavily and then lay still.
The surgeon touched the kneeling figure of Convict Adair on the arm, and
together they walked softly out of the cabin.
“Come again in an hour, Adair,” said Dr. Williams; “you can help me
best. We must bury him by daylight. Meanwhile you can get a little
sleep.”
No. 267 clasped his hands tightly together as he looked at the doctor,
and his lips worked and twitched convulsively. Then a wild beseeching
look overspread his face. “For God's sake don't ask me!” he burst out.
“I implore you as man to man to have pity on me. I _cannot_ be here at
daylight!”
“As you please,” answered Williams, with a surprised expression; and
then as he went on deck he said to himself, “Some cursed, degrading
Irish superstition, I suppose, about a death at sea.”
*****
Slowly the hours crept on. No noise disturbed the watcher by her dead
save the low voices of the watch on deck and the unknown sounds that
one hears at night alone. Prisoner Adair was sitting in the main cabin
within near call of Mrs. Clinton, and, with head upon his knees, seemed
to slumber. Suddenly the loud clamour of five bells as the hour was
struck made him start to his feet and look quickly about him with
nervous apprehension. From the dead officer's state-room a narrow line
of light from beneath the door sent an oblique ray aslant the cabin
floor and crossed the convict's stockinged feet.
For a moment he hesitated; then tapped softly at the door. It opened,
and the pale face of Marion Clinton met his as he stood before her cap
in hand.
“Have you come to take”--the words died away in her throat with a sob.
“No,” he answered, “I have but come to ask you to let me say goodbye,
and God keep and prosper you, madam. My time here is short, and you and
your husband have made my bitter lot endurable.”
She gave him her hand. He clasped it reverently in his for a moment,
and his face flushed a dusky red. Then he knelt and kissed her child's
little hand.
“Are you leaving the ship? Are we then in port or near it?” she asked.
He looked steadfastly at her for a moment, and then, pushing the door to
behind him, lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Mrs. Clinton, your husband one day told me that he would aid me to
regain my freedom. Will you do as much?”
“Yes,” she answered, trembling; “I will. I shall tell the Governor how
you----”
He shook his head. “Not in that way, but now, now.”
“How _can_ I help you now?” she asked wonder-ingly.
“Give me Mr. Clinton's pistols. Before daylight four others and myself
mean to escape from the ship. The guard are all too sick to prevent us
even if we are discovered. There is a boat towing astern, lowered
with the intention of sending it ashore to seek assistance. Water and
provisions are in it. But we have no firearms, and if we land on the
coast may meet with savages.”
Without a word she put her husband's pistols in his hands, and then gave
him all the ammunition she could find.
“Do not shed blood,” she began, when the convict clutched her arm. A
sound as of some one moving came from the next cabin--the one occupied
by Jacob Bolger--and a savage light came into Adair's eyes as he stood
and listened.
“He would give the alarm in a moment if he knew,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she answered; “he hates you, and I am terrified even to meet his
glance.”
But Mr. Jacob Bolger made no further noise; he had heard quite enough,
and at that moment was lying back in his bunk with an exultant smile,
waiting for Adair to leave the cabin.
Then the convict, still crouching on the floor, held out his hand.
“Will you touch my hand once more, Mrs. Clinton?” he said huskily.
She gave it to him unhesitatingly.
“Goodbye, Adair. I pray God all will go well with you.”
He bent his face over it and whispered “Goodbye,” and then went up on
deck.
*****
As No. 267 stumbled along the main deck he saw that all discipline was
abandoned, and even the for'ard sentry, that for the past week had been
stationed to guard the prisoners when on deck, had left his post.
At the fore-hatch four shadowy forms approached him, and then the five
men whispered together.
“Good,” said Adair at last. Then they quickly separated.
*****
Six bells had struck when Jacob Bolger opened his cabin door, peered
cautiously about, and then, stepping quickly to Mrs. Clinton's door,
turned the handle without knocking, and entered.
“Why do you come here, Mr. Bolger?” said Marion Clinton, with a
terrified look in her dark eyes. “Do you not know that my husband is
dead and my child dying?” And, holding the infant in her arms, she
barred a nearer approach.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Clinton; but I come as a friend,
first to offer you my poor services in your great affliction, and
secondly--but as a friend still--to warn you of the dangerous step you
have taken in assisting a party of convicts to escape from the ship.”
“For Heaven's sake, Mr. Bolger, have some pity on me! My dear husband is
dead, my child has but a few hours--perhaps minutes--to live. Do not add
to my misery.”
“I shall not betray _you!_” and he advanced a step nearer to her;
“but it is my duty,” and his cunning eyes watched her shrinking figure
keenly, “to prevent these men from escaping.” And then he turned as if
to go.
Her courage came back. “Mr. Bolger”--and she placed her hand on his
cuff, shuddering as she did so--“you are not a rich man. Will you--can
I--will a hundred guineas buy your silence? It is all I have. Forget
that which you know. Let these wretched men escape. What harm can it do
you?”
His savage, brutal nature came out, and he laughed coarsely.
“None, but--but you would like to see them get away, would you not?”
“Yes,” she answered, looking at him with dulled eyes, “Adair has been
very good to us.”
“Well, look here; money cannot buy my silence, but _you_ can. Now do you
know what I mean?”
“No,” she answered despairingly. “How should I? What is it you wish me
to do?”
“This”--and he bent his evil-eyed face close to hers--“promise to marry
me three months from now.”
She gave a gasping cry, and sank back upon her seat. He followed and
stood over her, and then spoke quickly--
“Ever since I first saw you I have loved you. You are a free woman now,
and I shall have a good position at the settlement.”
She made a gesture of horror, and his voice grew savage and threatening.
“And unless you make me that promise I'll give the alarm now, and
Adair and his confederates shall hang together. Come, think, and decide
quickly--their life or death rests in your hands.”
For some moments she bent her gaze upon the pinched and sunken features
of her dying child; then she raised her head, and a swift gleam of fire
came into her eyes.
“I will do as you wish. Now go.”
Without a word Bolger turned and left the cabin.
As he walked quickly through the main cabin he did not see the tall
figure of Sergeant Matthews standing a few feet aft from Mrs. Clinton's
cabin-door. The moment Bolger disappeared the sergeant tapped and
called--
“Mrs. Clinton!”
A new terror beset her as she recognised the sergeant's voice; but she
bravely stifled it and bade him come in.
The solemn, wooden-faced soldier looked at her steadily for a second or
so, and then, being a man of few words, got through with them as quickly
as possible.
“Beg pardon, madam, doctor sent me with a message to Mr. Bolger, telling
him he was at liberty to leave his cabin; found he was gone; heard
his voice in here; waited to see if could be of any assistance to you,
madam.”
There was a kindly ring in his voice which encouraged her.
“Matthews, did you hear what Mr. Bolger was saying?”
The sergeant looked stolidly before him. “I did, madam--part of it.”
“Part?” she repeated agitatedly.
“Yes, madam--about Adair and some other men.”
She pressed her hand to her throat. Matthews was an old, tried servant
of her husband's in former years. “Close the door!” she said suddenly.
Opening a locker, she took out a leathern-bound writing-desk, unlocked
it, and in a moment or two more turned to the sergeant with a small but
heavy purse in her hand.
“Sergeant,” she said quietly; “this money, nearly a hundred guineas, is
for you. I may not live to reach the settlement at Port Jackson. And I
would like to reward you for--for----” The rest died away.
Matthews understood. He took the money, saluted, and with softened tread
left the cabin. He was not a hard man, and had meant to do his duty when
he heard Bolger speak of Adair's intended escape; but a hundred guineas
was a large sum to him.
As the door closed after the sergeant, Marion Clinton, holding the
infant close to her bosom, saw the grey shadow deepen on the pallid
race, as with a gentle tremor of the frail body the child's head fell
back upon her arm.
*****
No one on board heard a soft splashing of the Water as Adair swam to the
boat towing astern and cut the painter where it touched the water-line;
the dense fog hid everything from view. Holding the line in his left
hand he swam silently along, drawing the boat after him, till he reached
the fore-chains. Then four figures clambered noiselessly over the
bulwarks and got into the boat, which was at once pushed off.
Wrapped in the white mantle of fog, they drifted slowly away, watching
with bated breath the misty outlines of the towering spars grow feinter
and fainter, and then vanish altogether, till, although they were but
forty yards away, the position of the _Brekenbridge_ was discernible
only by a dull blurr of sickly light that came from her stern ports.
Then suddenly there came the sound of a splash, followed by tramping of
feet and Captain Belton's hoarse voice.
“Hands to the boat, here! Mrs. Clinton and her baby have fallen
overboard.”
Lights appeared on the deck, and then a voice called out, “The boat is
gone, sir!”
“Clear away the starboard-quarter boat, then!” roared Belton; “quick!”
But before the quarter-boat could be lowered, the sound of oars was
heard, a boat dashed up, and a man, leaning over the side, grasped the
drowning woman and lifted her in, her dead baby still clasped tightly in
her arms.
“Have you got her?” called out Williams and Belton together.
“No,” came the answer, and those in the boat began rowing again, but
instead of approaching the ship, she seemed to be swallowed up in the
fog, and the _click clack_ of the oars momentarily sounded feinter.
“By heavens, the scoundrels are pulling away!” shouted Belton. “After
them, you fellows in the quarter-boat!”
But the dense, impenetrable mantle of fog made pursuit useless, and the
quarter-boat returned an hour later with an exhausted crew.
At ten o'clock next morning a keen, cold air came from the south-east,
and two days later the _Breckenbridge_ brought her load of misery into
Sydney Cove, and her master reported the escape of Edward Adair, Michael
Terry, William O'Day, Patrick O'Day, and Daniel McCoy, and the death
by drowning of Mrs. Clinton, who, with her baby in her arms, had jumped
overboard on the same night.