LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS.
In the centre of its wide waste of barren hills, huge granite
outcroppings and swampy valleys, the gloomy prison of Dartmoor stood
wrapped in mist one dismal morning in the March following the Royalist
outbreak. Its two centuries of unloved existence in the midst of a wild
land and fitful climate had seared every wall-tower and gateway with
lines and patches of decay and discoloration. Originally built of brown
stone, the years had deepened the tint almost to blackness in the larger
stretches of outer wall and unwindowed gable.
On this morning the dark walls dripped with the weeping atmosphere, and
the voice of the huge prison bell in the main yard sounded distant and
strange like a storm-bell in a fog at sea.
Through the thick drizzle of the early morning the convicts were marched
in gangs to their daily tasks, some to build new walls within the prison
precincts, some to break stone in the round yard, encircled by enormous
iron railings fifteen feet high, some to the great kitchen of the prison
and to the different workshops. About one third of the prisoners marched
outside the walls by the lower entrance, for the prison stands on a
hill, at the foot of which stretches the most forsaken and grisly waste
in all Dartmoor.
The task of the convicts for two hundred years had been the reclamation
of this wide waste, which was called "The Farm." The French prisoners of
war taken in the Napoleonic wars that ended with Waterloo had dug
trenches to drain the waste. The American prisoners of the War of 1812
had laid roadways through the marsh. The Irish rebels of six generations
had toiled in the tear-scalded footsteps of the French and American
captives. And all the time the main or "stock" supply of English
criminals, numbering usually about four hundred men, had spent their
weary years in toiling and broiling at "The Farm."
Standing at the lower gate of the prison, from which a steep road
descended to the marsh looking over "The Farm," it was hard to see
anything like a fair return for such continued and patient labor. Deep
trenches filled with claret-colored water drained innumerable patches of
sickly vegetation. About a hundred stunted fruit trees and as many
bedraggled haystacks were all that broke the surface line.
As the gangs of convicts, numbering about twenty each, marched out of
the lower gate on this dull morning, they turned their eyes, each gang
in the same surprised way as that which preceded, on a small group of
men who were working just outside the prison wall.
To the left of the gate, on the sloping side of the hill, was a
quadrangular space of about thirty by twenty yards, round which was
built a low wall of evidently great antiquity. The few courses of stones
were huge granite boulders and slabs torn and rolled from the hillside.
There was no gateway or break in the square; to enter the inclosure one
must climb over the wall, which was easy enough to do.
Inside the square was a rough heap of granite, a cairn, gray with
lichens, in the centre of which stood, or rather leaned, a tall square
block of granite, like a dolmen. So great was the age of this strange
obelisk that the lichens had encrusted it to the top. The stone had once
stood upright; but it now leaned toward the marsh, the cairn having
slowly yielded on the lower side.
Around this ancient monument were working four men in the gray and black
tweed of the convicts; and it was at their presence that the gangs had
stared as they passed.
One of these four men was young, one middle-aged, and two well down the
hill of life, the oldest being a tall and emaciated old man of at least
seventy years. They were four political prisoners--namely, Geoffrey
Ripon, Featherstone, Sydney, and the old Duke of Bayswater. There was a
warder in charge, who addressed them by numbers instead of names. He
called Geoffrey "406;" Featherstone, "28;" Sydney, "No. 5," and the old
Duke, "16." The prisoners recognized their numbers as quickly as free
workmen would have answered to their names.
"No. 5," said the Warder, sharply, a bearded man, with the bearing of an
old infantry soldier, "you must put more life into your work. You have
been fooling around that stone for the last ten minutes."
"No. 5" raised himself from the bending posture in which he had been,
and looked at the officer with a gentle reproach.
"It is a heavy stone, and I have been thinking how it can be moved,"
said "No. 5," and he smiled at the officer. He was not the Sydney of
old, but a woe-begone creature, obviously sixty years of age, on whose
thin frame the gray clothes hung in loose folds.
The officer thought "No. 5" was making fun of him, and he became angry.
"No use thinking," he shouted; "move the stone."
"No. 5" tried again, but his starveling strength could not shake a tenth
of its weight.
"Here, you, 16," cried the officer to the old Duke; "bear a hand here.
Your mate says he can't move that stone."
"No. 16" and "No. 5" applied their united force to the stone, but it
remained as before. The two poor old fellows regarded it with perplexity
while furtively watching the officer. It was pitiful to see the
expression of simulated mortification on their faces, which was meant to
placate the Warder.
"Let me assist them," said Geoffrey to the officer, and he got a good
"purchase" on the block and easily heaved it from its bed.
"No. 16," the old Duke, bowed his thanks, and "No. 5" pressed Geoffrey's
hand. The officer, more rough than cruel, turned away to hide a smile at
the courtesies of his charge. Soon after, he gave them instructions
about the work, and left them, going down to "The Farm" to superintend
the making of a new drain.
"This is heavy work, Duke," said Geoffrey to the old man; "but we ought
to be thankful for the sentiment which sends us to do it instead of the
criminals."
"I suppose so," said the Duke, in a desponding tone; "but it is not
pleasant to think that after a century and a half the tomb of political
prisoners in Dartmoor should be repaired by the hands of political
prisoners."
"Not pleasant, but natural, Duke," said Mr. Sydney; "so long as there
are principles, there must be men to suffer for them."
"Whose monument is this?" asked Featherstone; "I am all in the
dark--tell me."
Geoffrey, who had been employed in the office of the Governor of the
prison, and who had, on hearing this old monument was to be repaired,
volunteered on behalf of the three others to do the work, now told the
story of the old monument as he had learned it from the prison records
which he had been transcribing.
"In the wars of the Great Napoleon," Geoffrey said, "the French
prisoners captured by England were confined in hulks on the seacoast
till the hulks overflowed. Then this prison was built, and filled with
unfortunate Frenchmen. In 1812 the young Republic of America went to war
with England, and hundreds of American captives were added to the
Frenchmen. During the years of their confinement scores of these poor
fellows died, and one day the Americans mutinied, and then other scores
were shot down in the main yard. This field was the graveyard of those
prisoners, and here the strangers slept for over half a century, till
their bones were washed out of the hillside by the rain-storms. There
happened to be in Dartmoor at that time a party of Irish rebels, and
they asked permission to collect the bones and bury them securely. The
Irishmen raised this cairn and obelisk to the Americans and Frenchmen,
and now, after another hundred years, we are sent to repair their loving
testimonial."
"It is an interesting story," said Featherstone.
"A sad story for old men," said the Duke.
"A brave story for boys," said Mr. Sydney; "I could lift this obelisk
itself for sympathy."
They went on, working and chatting in low tones, till an exclamation
from Sydney made them look up. Sydney was on top of the cairn, scraping
the lichens from the obelisk. The moss was hard to cut, and had formed a
crust, layer on layer, half an inch in thickness.
"What is it, my dear Sydney?" asked the Duke.
"An inscription!" cried Sydney, scraping away. "An inscription nearly a
hundred years old. I have uncovered the year--see, 1867."
"Ay," said Geoffrey, "that was the year the Irish were here."
Featherstone had gone to Sydney's assistance, and with the aid of a
sharp flint soon uncovered the whole inscription. It ran thus:
____________________________________________
| SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE |
| |
| FRENCH AND AMERICAN PRISONERS |
| OF WAR, |
| |
| Who Died in Dartmoor Prison during the |
| Years 1811-16. |
| |
| _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._ |
--------------------------------------------
Underneath were the words, "Erected 1867."
Very tender and true was the touch of nature that made these four
prisoners, now looking at the ancient letters, akin with those who slept
below, and with those who had so lovingly preserved their memory. The
sudden uncovering of the inscription seemed to give a talismanic value
to the words. The centuries cleared away like the mist from the moor,
and the four Royalist prisoners saw the brave Americans carry their dead
comrades to their English grave; they saw their set faces as they faced
the armed guards and invited their own destruction; they saw the
Frenchmen who had followed Napoleon from Egypt to Waterloo laid here by
their younger fellows who still dreamt of future glory under their
world-conquering Emperor. And when all this phastasma cleared away came
another picture of the Celtic patriots raising the cairn and cutting the
sweet old Roman words on the monolith.
"May they rest in peace!" said the old Duke, taking off his convict's
cap.
"Amen!" said Sydney.
"How this day's work would have suited John Dacre," said Featherstone
with a deep sigh; and the name brought tears to the eyes of the four
prisoners, who went on with their labor in silence.
But interesting as was this employment to the Royalists, it was on quite
another account that Geoffrey had, while acting as clerk in the
Governor's office, secured this work for them. The truth was that he
expected to hear from friends outside who might help them to escape. A
letter which he had received from his old servant Reynolds had puzzled
him exceedingly with its repeated regrets for the difficulty of getting
admission to the prison. But at last the idea struck Geoffrey that
Reynolds was hinting that he should seek employment outside the walls.
The restoration of the old monument soon gave the opportunity, and
Geoffrey had seized it.
He had said nothing of all this to the others; for he might have quite
misinterpreted Reynolds's letter, and he did not wish to raise vain
hopes. There was not the least sign as yet that he had been right. The
old high-road across Dartmoor, it is true, passed the spot at which they
were working, skirting the very prison wall; but it was an empty and
desolate path.
That day and the next they labored at the cairn, until at last the
stones were sufficiently removed to allow the monolith to be raised by a
derrick into an upright position. They had just rigged the derrick and
the old Duke and Mr. Sydney were standing at the wheel ready to turn,
while Geoffrey and Featherstone mounted the cairn to arrange the rope.
The Warder sat on the low wall with his back to the road and the prison.
As they stood on the cairn, Featherstone saw an old man on the road
driving a donkey-cart. The harness had given way, and the old man was
busy repairing it, standing behind the Warder. Something in the old
man's attitude rather than appearance induced Featherstone to look at
him again. His raised hand seemed to purposely arrest attention.
Featherstone looked too long and too sharply, for the Warder observed
him, and turned to see what he looked at. The old man on the road saw
the motion, and, instantly dropping his hand, went on with his mending,
meanwhile addressing the donkey with reproving words.
The Warder looked for a moment, then turned his attention to the workers
at the cairn.
"Heave on that handle, you, No. 5; don't let your mate do all the work.
Come, now--heave!"
And the two decrepit old men "heaved," as he called turning the handle
of the windlass, until their old joints cracked.
"That'll do; slack away!" and they rested panting, while the rope was
fixed for another grip.
"Geoffrey," whispered Featherstone, with his head bent beside the stone,
"look at that old fellow on the road. I am sure he made a signal to me,
and stopped when he saw the Warder looking."
When Geoffrey had arranged the rope he looked toward the road, and
almost shouted with joy and surprise to see faithful old Reynolds, with
both hands raised in recognition and a wide smile on his honest face.
Fortunately the Warder was at the moment encouraging the Duke and Sydney
to "heave" on the wheel.
Geoffrey quickly recovered, and turned his attention to the rope.
"Try and find what he wants," he whispered to Featherstone. "It is my
old Reynolds. Careful!"
While he whispered there was a crash on the road that made the whole
group start. The harness had wholly given way and the shafts had come to
the ground.
The old driver was in a sad plight, and he looked helplessly at the
wreck of his team. He turned wistfully to the Warder and asked him to
send one of the prisoners to his aid.
"Here, you, No. 16," shouted the Warder to the Duke; "lend a hand here
on the road; look alive, now." The old man went toward the wall, as if
nothing could surprise him, no indignity arouse a spark of resentment.
He tried to hurry to win the Warder's approbation; but in doing so he
stumbled in climbing the low wall, upon which he turned to the officer
with a look of apology.
Geoffrey took advantage of this moment to offer his services. He leaped
from the cairn, and asked the Warder to let him take the place of the
old man.
"All right--go along. Here, you, No. 16, scramble back to your work. If
you don't look out you'll lose your good-conduct marks."
Mr. Sydney gave the Duke a look of sympathy and a smile of cheer as he
took his place on the windlass again, and Featherstone looked down from
the cairn at both his old friends with actual tears in his eyes.
Meanwhile Geoffrey had gone out to Reynolds, and in bending to the shaft
gave the old man's hand a grip of welcome and gratitude. Reynolds moved
to the other side of the cart, and stooping out of sight of the Warder
took a letter from his pocket and showed it to Geoffrey. Featherstone,
from the top of the cairn, saw the movement and made a brilliant stroke.
"Look out, down there!" he shouted to the old men, "my hand is caught in
the bight!"
There was a brief excitement in which the Warder joined, while
Featherstone played his part to the life. When it had passed the cart
was raised, and Geoffrey had the letter in his stocking.
Reynolds gave Geoffrey a look that was better than words, and then he
thanked the Warder and went off with his donkey.
"Bravo!" whispered Featherstone as Geoffrey joined him; "that was done
in a way to make the professionals envious."
For the rest of the day Geoffrey felt like a man made of India rubber.
He leaped up and down the cairn like a boy, and he whispered all kinds
of encouraging words to the old men at the wheel. He felt the letter in
his stocking all the time, and wondered why he could not read it by very
insight. He turned a hundred times in alarm to see if the Warder's eyes
were on its hiding-place. Who had written it? Was it a plan of escape?
Perhaps it was only a word of empty sympathy; but no, Reynolds was a
practical man.
Oh, how long the hours were, till at last the prison-bell rang at six
o'clock, and the gangs all over the farm formed into little squads and
marched toward the prison, the warders drawing after them the light iron
bridges of the canals, which were locked on one side every night. By
this means "The Farm," which was intersected by a score of these wide
and deep trenches, was impassable; and as it hemmed in one side of the
hill on which the prison stood, with a guard tower on either end, it was
a greater safeguard even than the wall of the prison.
The four political prisoners marched into the yard. The Warder, before
locking them up, made each one raise his arms and stand to be searched.
He then ran his hands lengthwise over the whole man, mainly to see that
no weapons or tools were concealed. As his hand passed over the letter
in the stocking Geoffrey closed his eyes in the tense pain of anxiety.
He did not breathe till he stood in his narrow cell and had closed the
self-locking door with a bang. Then he sat down on his hammock and
hugged himself with joy.
When all was quiet on the long corridor and the prisoners were eating
their meagre supper Geoffrey drew out his letter and broke the outer
cover. It was addressed in a hand he had never seen before--a plain,
business-like hand:
"To Mr. Geoffrey Ripon, or any of the Royalist prisoners."
"No more titles," mused Geoffrey with a smile; "there is something
American in the 'Mr.'"
This thought naturally led him to think of one in America whose
handwriting he had blindly and unreasonably hoped to see in this letter.
Now, with a sigh, he saw that it was not for him alone, but for "any of
the Royalist prisoners" as well.
The letter was written on small sheets, joined at the top by a thin
brass holder. From the first word it was a plan to escape from Dartmoor
and from England. It showed that everything had been carefully examined
and considered by those outside before they had attempted to communicate
with the prisoners; and all that remained must be done by those within
the prison. The letter ran thus:
"We have arranged everything but your actual getting out of the
prison and crossing the marsh at the foot of the hill. ['The Farm'
was here meant.] This marsh extends between two guard towers, and
is nine hundred yards long. It cannot be crossed at night, for the
warders withdraw and lock on the prison side the swinging bridges
of the numerous canals. These canals are seven feet deep and
fourteen wide, and the banks are soft peat. It would be dangerous
to try to swim them. You must procure a long plank or beam, and
carry it from trench to trench. You can get such a plank, which two
men can carry easily, at the new tool-shed which the convicts are
building against the outer wall of the prison to the right of the
lower gate.
"We cannot do anything to help you out of the prison till we hear
from you. You must escape by the lower side of the prison and cross
the marsh, for the town and warders' quarters extend on the other
three sides. In the old tool-shed against the outer lower wall,
where you leave your tools every evening, there is a small portable
steam-engine. Place your answer inside the furnace door, to the
right, and search there every morning for our messages. You need
not grope around. Put your hand to the right corner of the furnace,
and our parcel will be there. In case you can get out without our
help, here are complete instructions:
"When you have crossed the marsh, keep straight on across the hill,
at the foot of which, a mile from the prison, there is a narrow
lane. Keep to the right on this lane till you come to the high
road. Half a mile down this road to the left stands a cottage with
a ploughed field behind. Go boldly into this house day or night;
the door will be left open, though latched. Once inside the
cottage, unseen by the guards, you are safe. Trust implicitly on us
for anything else."
Geoffrey read the letter many times before he turned to his miserable
supper of dry bread and cocoa. He impressed every detail on his mind so
that the writing might be destroyed. Then he began to eat and think
together, and it was nearly morning before the thinking ceased. In his
mind he must settle every difficulty, foresee and circumvent every
danger before he made a move. Were it only his own peril he were
considering he would have had small anxiety. But now he felt on himself
the burden of the lives of his three friends, who would undoubtedly
attempt to carry out his arrangements. At last he fell asleep, and it
seemed that the vile roar of the waking bell began a few minutes later.
In the morning Geoffrey sat face to face with the first and least of his
difficulties: he had no means of writing to his unknown friends. But the
mind springs to experiment when it is left alone. In a minute he had
paper, pen, and ink, and, stretched on the floor, with his only book,
the prison Bible, for a desk, he was writing his answer.
The ink was on the floor, composed of the asphalt dust of which the
floor was made. He had swept it into a little heap with his hard
floor-brush, and mixed it with water from his washing basin. His pen was
the wire-twisted end of his leathern boot-lace; and his paper, whole
leaves carefully torn from the Bible, across the small type of which he
wrote in heavy letters as follows:
"We cannot possibly escape from within the prison. Our cells are on
the third tier, opening into the prison, and two of our friends are
old and infirm. We must escape from the guards while employed
outside the walls, conceal ourselves till night, and then follow
your instructions. To-day we shall begin our preparations. We
cannot tell how soon we may make the attempt, or how long we shall
have to wait. Wednesdays and Saturdays are the only days on which
it can be done; and we must wait for a very rainy or foggy evening
on one of those days. The present weather is in our favor, so do
not leave the cottage empty day or night for a few weeks."
Geoffrey concealed his letter, ate his breakfast when the six o'clock
bell rang, and the bolts of five hundred cells shot back by one mighty
stroke of a steam piston-rod, he paraded with his companions, and the
four were marched off to their work at the monument.
Sydney and the Duke walked together in rear of Geoffrey and
Featherstone. The Duke, in order to keep up with the regulation pace,
secretly clung to Sydney's arm, which he dropped when the officer looked
round and took again when the danger had passed.
When they came to the tool-shed, the prisoners went in one by one for
their tools, which were piled up and taken away day after day, by the
same men in the same order. The portable steam-engine was to the left of
the door. Geoffrey went straight to it, opened the furnace door, and
left his letter.
A few minutes later, when they were on the cairn, Featherstone's
anxiety spoke in his eyes, and Geoffrey told him the whole story, in a
whisper, as they walked.
"Can it be done?" asked Featherstone.
"Yes, I think so. At any rate, we must try."
"What is your plan?"
"We must escape from the guards outside the prison," said Geoffrey,
looking down at Sydney and the Duke, who were doing cyclopean work under
the eye of the Warder. "Those two could never escape from the cells, nor
climb the walls if they did."
"True," answered Featherstone, with a despondent manner; "but we are no
nearer freedom than ever, if we have no definite plan."
"I have a definite plan," said Geoffrey, "and I think a good one. We
must remain outside some evening when the convicts march in. On every
evening but Wednesday and Saturday we go straight to our cells when we
go in from work, and we close our own doors, so that if we remained
outside on any evening but those two we should be instantly missed. On
Wednesday and Saturday evenings the prisoners are taken off work one
hour earlier and are sent to school. We want at least an hour's start
for the sake of those two; you and I could do with half the time.
Therefore we must remain behind on one of those two days."
"But how?" asked Featherstone, impatiently. "The Warder walks beside
us."
"We must manage to send him off or have him called away," answered
Geoffrey. "Can it be done?"
Featherstone did not answer. He went on working; he even spoke about
other things, as if he had not heard Geoffrey's question. In about half
an hour he said:
"I think it cannot be done. What do you think?"
"I think so too," said Geoffrey.
"So that, even with our friends waiting for us, we are tied hand and
foot."
"No," said Geoffrey, with a smile at his friend's gloom; "but that is
just what the Warder must say."
"What! Seize him and tie him up?" asked Featherstone, with a flash in
his eyes that made the shaven prisoner a soldier again. "Bravo, Ripon!
It can be done. What a mole I am."
"Do you think it can be managed without hurting the poor devil? With all
his loud talk he has been kind to those two old friends. Just look at
them now, pretending to turn that wheel, with no rope on the windlass,
and he looking on! I don't want to harm him, Featherstone."
"No, nor I. But we can take him gently and swiftly and gag him. That
won't hurt him, will it?"
"No; but should he make a noise?"
"Trust me, Ripon; I could strangle him with one hand. I shall simply
hold him by the throat while Sydney gags him, you tie his hands, and the
Duke his feet. We shall do it any day or hour that you give the word."
The friends' hands met as they bent over the monolith, and Featherstone,
perhaps to show Geoffrey what he could do, almost crushed his hand in a
giant grip.
"Now, tell Sydney and the Duke as soon as you can. To-morrow is our
first day of opportunity, and we must be ready. Should it rain heavily
or should the mist hang, we shall take our chance. All we have to do is
to secure the Warder just as the five o'clock bell rings, and lie down
over there inside the wall of this little yard. No one ever looks over.
They will think as they pass from the farm that we have marched in as
usual."
Before night Featherstone had told the Duke and Sydney, and the manner
of those convicts changed mysteriously from that moment. Their gloom
vanished. They smiled at Geoffrey every time he met their eyes. They
were constantly whispering to each other and smiling, and often they
looked long at the Warder and measured him as a foeman.
The next day was Wednesday. It rained in the morning, and the hearts of
the four political prisoners went up at the steady down-pour. But the
sun burnt through the clouds at noon, and the moor glistened under his
beams all the rest of the day.
"Don't fret, Duke," whispered Featherstone. "Our day is coming; we are
young yet."
The Duke bowed at the kind words, and he and Sydney smiled broadly at
Geoffrey to show him that they were strong-hearted, just as they looked
serious to make the Warder think they were working very hard indeed.
The next two days were fine, and the Saturday opened with a smile that
fell like a pall on the hearts that pined for freedom. But about three
o'clock in the afternoon, as the two toilers on the windlass "heaved"
laboriously, the Duke gave a little cry of joy, so low that only Sydney
heard him. A large drop of rain had fallen on his hand, which he held
toward Sydney. Five minutes later Geoffrey, who had been watching the
clouds, bent his head to Featherstone, who was working in a cavity they
had made in the cairn.
"To-night, I think," he said. "It promises splendidly."
Featherstone, who was quite concealed in his hole, laughed quietly, and
pointed to his biceps.
Geoffrey glanced at the two below and found them watching his eye with a
question. He gave a little nod, and they both smiled, and soon after
turned their gaze on the Warder, who, to escape the rain, had crouched
down in lee of the low wall.
When Featherstone saw him he said to Geoffrey, "Just look! The Duke
alone could capture that fellow now."
Had the Warder looked closely at his prisoners he might have noticed
something odd about their proceedings. Though it rained hard none of
them had donned the heavy striped linen blouse furnished to Dartmoor
prisoners for use in wet weather. The truth was that the blouses of all
four were at that time being cut into strips, and twisted into stout
cords by the big Colonel in his hole in the cairn.
At 4.30 the rain fell with sober steadiness, and there was no longer a
doubt. In half an hour the bell would ring. The Warder still crouched
under the wall.
Another quarter of an hour passed, and the machinery of escape began to
move.
"Hold on!" shouted Geoffrey to the two on the windlass. They stopped and
stood as if surprised at the tone. Geoffrey meanwhile spoke rapidly and
excitedly to Featherstone, who was unseen in the hole.
"What's the matter there?" grumbled the Warder.
"I don't know. He says he has discovered something."
"Discovered something!" repeated the Warder, rising and coming toward
the cairn, up the sides of which the Duke and Sydney had scrambled,
regardless of rules. "What has he discovered?"
"What is it?" Geoffrey cried to Featherstone.
"Tell the Warder there is something buried here which I can't lift. He
had better come up here and see for himself."
The Warder heard the words, and climbed the cairn. He knelt on the brink
of the hole and leaned over to see the discovery. A quick, strong push
from Geoffrey sent him headlong into Featherstone's arms, and before he
knew what had happened the Duke had gagged him with his own woollen
gloves and handkerchief, and Sydney had tied his hands and feet.
"Good-by," said Featherstone, as he left him securely fastened at the
foot of the monolith in the hole. "If you had not been kind to our old
friends you might have been hurt. You will be discovered before
morning."
The Duke and Sydney also said "good-by" to the helpless officer, and
then, as the bell rang, the four adventurers lay down in the lee of the
wall just where the Warder had sat.
They heard the gangs march past on the other side of the wall. The sound
of the warders locking the iron bridges on the canals came up to them
clearly. In a few minutes the whole orderly closing of the day's work
was over. They heard the lower gate of the prison slam heavily into
place and the key turn in the lock, not twenty-five yards from where
they lay.
As soon as the gate was closed, Geoffrey rose and cautiously looked all
round. Not a living thing was in sight. He knew that they had a clear
hour's start, and he gave the word:
"Now, friends, follow me."
They crossed the wall, and ran straight for the new tool-shed. Geoffrey
forgot that his speed was much greater than that of the older men.
Featherstone kept up; but the Duke lagged, and Mr. Sydney, who ran
lamely, was left far behind.
When the two latter came up to the tool-house they met Geoffrey and
Featherstone shouldering a long new plank, and making for the first
canal at the foot of the hill.
"Follow us," they said; and, though awkwardly burdened, they far
outstripped the Duke, while poor Sydney's pace grew slower and slower.
The plank was down and waiting for them when they came to the canal.
They crossed, and Geoffrey and Featherstone pulled in the plank and set
off for the next. There were nine canals to be bridged in this way.
The slowness of Sydney caused the loss of many precious minutes. At
every trench they had to wait for the poor old fellow. When they came to
the seventh canal, he stood on the prison side when all had crossed, and
refused to move.
"God speed you, my dear friends," he said, with quivering voice. "I
cannot go any farther. You will all be lost if I attempt it. I cannot
run any more--nor could I even walk the distance you have to go."
"Oh, Sydney, come!" cried Geoffrey, with painful impatience.
"Dear Sydney, do not leave us," pleaded the Duke.
But Sydney did not move; he only waved a good-by with his hand. He could
not speak.
Without a word, Featherstone recrossed, seized Sydney in his arms, and
carried him bodily over. Geoffrey pulled in the plank alone, and started
for the eighth canal.
Mr. Sydney did not speak; and now he seemed even to gain new strength
and speed. He kept up bravely, and even crossed the next canal ahead of
the Duke. There now remained but one more.
"Fifty minutes gone," said Geoffrey in a low voice as Featherstone ran
over the plank. "That bell rings at ten minutes to six."
"Bravo, Duke!" cried Featherstone, as the old man stepped from the
plank. "Come, Sydney."
But Sydney did not come. Instead, when he came up to the canal, he bent
down, seized the plank, and pitched it into the deep trench which ran
rapidly and carried it off toward the marsh.
"Now go; and God bless you all!" cried Sydney, and he turned back and
went toward the prison.
There was no possibility of undoing Sydney's sacrificial work.
"No use waiting," cried Geoffrey. "In seven minutes we shall be missed.
God bless you, dear Sydney!"
The brave old fellow heard their loving words, but he would not turn or
speak, fearing they might delay. He walked on to the canal before him,
and then he turned and saw them drawing toward the top of the hill. Then
he broke down and sobbed. But his tears were not of grief, but of joy.
Next moment the fugitives heard the alarm bell clanging at the prison.
They did not look behind, but Sydney looked, and saw the lower gates
open and a crowd of warders rushing down the hill shouting. They had
seen the escaped prisoners just as they reached the top of the hill.
Sydney's heart failed him when he saw the speed with which the pursuit
crossed the marsh. The light bridges of the canals were easily opened
and swung round, and in as many minutes half the canals were crossed.
Just then a light of genius entered Sydney's brain, and he turned and
ran and shouted in his excitement as loudly as any officer of them all.
The gout was forgotten. The years fell from him like cobwebs. He was a
youth of twenty rushing for a football.
Straight toward the ninth and last canal he dashed, where his friends
had crossed beside the locked bridge. He was panting like a hunted wolf
when he reached the spot and sank down where the bridge was locked to
the bank.
By this time the warders were at the eighth canal, howling like demons
at sight of Sydney. They howled louder when they overtook him and found
what he had done.
Mr. Sydney had filled the padlock of the bridge with small stones, and
he stood aside with a grave face, looking at the warders as they tried
to open it. When they understood the daring trick, one brutal fellow
rushed at Sydney and struck him heavily on the face.
The old man reeled from the blow, and then recovering himself, turned
from the ruffian and looked with disgust and surprise, not at him but at
his crowd of fellow-warders.
"Stop that!" shouted one of them to Sydney's assailant. "That's no
criminal; and this is no criminal's trick."
There was no crossing this last canal without a bridge or a plank, for
the further side was a brick wall considerably higher than the nearer,
designed to prevent escape.
By the time the warders had cleared the lock from Sydney's obstructions,
his three friends in Mr. Windsor's carriage, driven by Reynolds, were
miles on their way toward that gentleman's steam yacht, which awaited
them in the harbor of Torquay.