OVER THE ROOF.
Richard Yorke is still at Lingmoor; and though but a twelvemonth
intervenes between him and freedom--or perhaps partly because of
it--prison life is growing insupportable. It is the last year of "a long
term," as all "old hands" will tell you, which is the most trying.
Impatience becomes more incontrollable as the limit of suffering is
neared; and just as, after a tedious and dangerous illness, the
convalescent will rise too soon, and risk a relapse in his feverish
desire to be well, so a prisoner will often make some wild endeavors to
escape, when, if he did but wait a little--a span of time compared with
that in which he has lain captive--his jealous doors would open of
themselves to let him pass in safety. But there are other reasons which
are pressing Richard toward flight, and goading him (as he feels) to
madness if he remain quiescent. He has quarreled with all about him, and
has suffered for it; and he is now menaced with worse things. His
sullenness, his brooding ire, have long transformed his nature;
civility, and even obedience, have become impossible for him. He kicks,
as it were, against a chevaux-de-frise of steel. He has been starved on
bread and water, and grown thin and fierce. He has been put, and not for
nothing, into the dark cell for hours, to brood, as usual, and has come
forth a more reckless devil than he went in.
His warder and he are open foes. That cross-grained official has taken a
strong antipathy to him, which is more than reciprocated; and every,
time he enters his cell sets foot, though unconscious of the fact, on
the very threshold of the grave. He is the keeper of one who is almost a
madman; but the latter is sane on one point yet--he knows to whom his
vengeance is mainly due; and while that knowledge lasts his lesser foe
is safe from him--safe, that is, at present; but a provocation may be
given which would compel this long-suffering victim--in years scarce a
middle-aged man, in appearance gray and withered as the oldest within
those prison walls--to give his passion way, and slay him. If something
should take place, which this warder himself has prophesied would
happen, it will be so; and all Richard's hoarded hate would then be
useless, since it would have no heir. There has been flogging in the
prison--an unusual punishment, and only inflicted for great offenses, or
for continued contumacy and bad conduct. A conspiracy was discovered,
and seven of the ringleaders received three dozen lashes each, in
presence of all the inmates of the jail. It was a punishment perhaps
deserved and necessary, but sickening enough to witness. Richard's
warder stood beside him, and while the cat was descending on one
wretch's naked back, observed in a grim whisper: "Do you take warning,
my man; for if you are reported again, the governor says you are to have
a dose of the same medicine."
Whether the man spoke truth or not, Richard believed him. It was more
than probable that he _would_ be reported, and by the very voice that
uttered the menace. In a twelvemonth's time there were three hundred and
sixty-five opportunities, ten times told, of its being fulfilled. If
such a sentence was ever passed upon him, as it was almost sure to be,
Richard was well resolved that it should not be carried out; rather
should this man die, and he himself, his slayer, be hung for it. His
desire for vengeance upon those who had blasted his young life so
cruelly was as strong as ever--nay, stronger, fiftyfold; but he knew
that he could never bear the lash. Somehow or other, therefore, at all
risks, he must escape from Lingmoor.
Robert Balfour was to be set free in a few days, his conduct, though not
good, having earned that much of remission. Richard was not envious of
him, yet the contrast of their two positions made him perhaps more
desperate and reckless. Of late months the old man had been admitted to
certain privileges accorded to such as have almost worked out their
time, or who are otherwise recommended for them. He had been employed as
"a cleaner," then as "a special"--in which position he was permitted to
work out of doors without an attendant warder, and even (in his
particular case, for he was growing very old and feeble) to have leave
of absence for an hour or two. On some occasions it was his duty to
bring round the prisoners' meals; and then he saw Richard, and could
even exchange a word or two with him alone. This happened upon the
afternoon of the day when the public flogging had taken place.
"Balfour," said Richard, earnestly, "will you do me a favor?"
"Yes, lad, any thing," replied the old man, softly. The word "lad"
seemed so inapplicable to that gray-headed, care-lined face, which he
had known so young and comely, that the misuse of it touched the
speaker. "You know I will."
"Even though you should run a risk," said Richard, "within a day or two
of your freedom?"
"Ay; for your sake, I would do that and more."
"God bless you, if there be a God!" answered those haggard lips. "Ask
leave to go to the village to-morrow, and get me a file."
"Hush!--the warder."
The conversation thus interrupted was resumed next day.
"Here is the file," said Balfour; "hide it in your mattress. But, lad,
you will be mad to use it. I pray you be patient. It is only a
twelvemonth now."
Richard shook his head, with a ghastly smile. "I must try," said he.
"Nay, nay; you will be retaken and flogged, lad; think of that."
"I shall never be retaken, Balfour, at least alive."
It was easy enough to read in Richard's face the corroboration of his
words.
"Have you any plan?" asked the old man, disconsolately.
"I have. From my window here I see an open shed, with a coil of rope in
it. I shall file my bars, and get that rope to-night; climb back again
here, and over the roof. I have calculated the distance from outside. I
feel sure I can reach the parapet with my finger-tips as I stand upon
the window-ledge, then let myself down into the exercising-yard upon the
west side."
"The walls about that yard are sixty feet high, lad."
"There is a spout in the north corner which will help me up; and if I
reach the top without a broken neck, I make fast my rope, and slide on
to the moor. From thence, no matter how dark it is--and it will be
pitch-dark, I reckon--I can make Bergen Wood. No power on earth shall
stop me. If you told the warder yonder of my plan this moment, I should
still escape--in another and more certain fashion." To look at him and
read the resolute despair in his white face was to have no doubt of
that.
"What must be must be," sighed the old man. "But for _my_ sake, lad--for
mine, who love you as a father loves his own son--be patient till
to-morrow. This is my last day at Lingmoor. To-morrow I shall be free.
I'll come at night to the wall of the west yard, and throw a rope over
the north corner, close by the spout you mention. It shall be made fast
on my side, and if you do but lay hold of it, the rest is easy. Your
scheme, as it now stands, is hopeless. No squirrel could climb that
spout, far less a man reduced as you are;" and he glanced significantly
at Richard's shrunken limbs.
"You are the best of friends, Balfour--indeed, the only man that ever
_was_ my friend." He stopped, as if overcome by an emotion that was so
strange to him. "At midnight, then, to-morrow, I shall begin my work;
and in an hour from that time, if all goes well, I shall be at the spot
appointed. If I fail, you will remember Wheal Danes?"
"Yes, yes; but you will not fail. Keep a good heart," whispered the old
man, as he hurried away at an approaching footstep.
But, in reality, Balfour had no hope. His experience of such attempts,
and his knowledge of the difficulties to be surmounted in the present
instance, forbade any expectation of Richard's success, even in the
matter of getting outside the prison walls; and, supposing that was
done, and the wood reached, what was to be looked for further but slow
starvation or death from the sharp-tipped arrows of the wintry wind?
Still, Balfour's help was promised, and would be given; the old
cracksman had many faults and vices, but he was not one to desert a
friend at a pinch, and Richard Yorke was really dear to him.
As for Richard, notwithstanding the seasonableness of the other's offer,
and although he was himself almost convinced that without such aid he
could never effect his object, no sooner was he left alone than he
regretted that he had passed his word to put off the attempt another
day. Suppose he should transgress some prison regulation between this
and then, or be reported by his hostile attendant without having
committed a transgression! There were thirty-six hours of such perilous
delay before him, and his impatience was already at fever-heat. By
standing on his metal wash-stand, and peering through his bars, he could
see that the coil of rope still lay in its accustomed place that
afternoon, but would it remain there till to-morrow night? The very act
of thus climbing to his window, which he could not resist, was a serious
offense; and if by any chance he should be found in possession of the
file--then all was over. He was fully determined only to part with it
with life itself. For once, the picture of Trevethick and his son-in-law
(for he had heard before he left Cross Key of Harry's marriage with his
rival), unsuspecting, complacent, and exposed to the full force of his
revenge, failed to occupy his gloating thoughts; they were fixed as ever
there, but on the means and not upon the end--his whole being was
engrossed in the coming enterprise. He feared the warder should read
that forbidden word "Escape" in his eager eyes, or on his restless lips.
A change of cell or a sudden examination of his bed-furniture--no
uncommon occurrence--would prove his ruin. He took the file out of his
mattress, and placed it in his breast: let that man beware who found it
there!
At last the long night, which should have found him free, passed by, and
the next weary day. The appointed time had come.
It was past midnight, and not a sound was heard in the vast prison;
there was no moon, but a few stars shone on him as he worked at the iron
bars; the noise of his file was muffled--he had rubbed it well with
soap--but every now and then he paused and listened. He half fancied he
could hear the distant tramp of the patrols, who, musket in hand,
watched the walls of Lingmoor from the roofs of its four stone towers;
but it was only fancy, and, at all events, no one else but they was
stirring. Years ago he had gauged those bars, and calculated that not
less than three must be sawn through to give his body room to pass; but
that was when he was young and plump and vigorous. He was vigorous
now--the fever within him seemed to give him the strength of ten--but he
was an old man to look at, and the flesh had left his bones. So much the
better; there were only two bars to file instead of three. Finding the
space sufficient, he twisted his blanket into a rope, fastened it to the
broken bars, and so, by its aid, slipped noiselessly into the yard.
That portion of the prison was low, and consisted but of two stories;
another cell window was immediately beneath his own, but, as he knew, it
was not used for prisoners. Still, he trembled as he slipped past it.
Suppose a hand had been pushed through to clasp his limbs, or a voice
had given the alarm, and warned the watchful guards! But his feet
touched ground in safety. His eyes, accustomed for long years to cleave
the darkness, guided him straight to the shed and to the coil of rope.
He seized it as the shipwrecked mariner clutches that which is thrown
him from the shore to drag him through the roaring breakers, and then,
winding it about his waist, he retraced his steps. To return to his cell
window was comparatively easy; but to stand upon its narrow ledge, and,
clutching the parapet with his fingers, to draw himself up thereby, was
a task that few, without the hope of liberty to spur them, could have
accomplished. Three times he failed; without something more of purchase
for his hold, he felt the thing was beyond his powers. The question was,
how broad was the stone coping? If, by a sudden spring, he could catch
the other side of it, he might succeed; but if he missed, his hands
would slide from the smooth surface, his feet could not regain their
stand-point, and he would fall backward twenty feet or so upon the stone
courtyard.
There was nothing for it but to run the risk. He gathered his strength
together, shut his eyes, and made a vigorous spring: one hand caught a
firm gripe, and, after a sharp struggle, the other gained it; then he
drew himself slowly up, and lay down in the gutter of the roof to gather
breath and look about him. The prison was built like the four spokes of
a wheel; and, indeed, with the high wall circling round it, did closely
resemble that image. Nearly the whole of the building could have been
seen, had it been light enough, from his present position; but, as it
was, only the west wing was dimly visible, with its guardian tower
standing blackly up against its dark back-ground of wintry night sky. He
could not make out the sentry on its top; but now and then, when his
circuit brought him nearest to his hiding-place, he could hear his
measured footfall.
Like a creeping thing, for he scarce used hand or foot at all, Richard
slowly crawled and slid along the sloping roof, then swiftly over the
vertex, while the patrol was at the most distant portion of his round,
and then once more, motionless and almost breathless, he lay down behind
the western parapet. The exercising-yard, into which it was his object
to drop, was just below him; but it was necessary to find some object to
which to fasten his rope; and here he perceived how futile would have
been his plan of escape without assistance from without; for here,
having slid down it, he must needs leave his rope tied to a neighboring
chimney. There was not length enough to cut off, and be of any service
afterward for the descent of the external wall, nigh sixty feet in
height. If Balfour failed him, it was now, indeed, clear to him that his
whole design must fail. Yonder towering wall, higher even than his own
present elevated position, could never be scaled by foot and hand, with
only the help of a spout--nay, he doubted whether, even if he found the
promised rope in position, he could even make use of that; for, though
agile, he had none of the sailor's cunning.
He made fast the coil which he had with him, however, and watching his
opportunity, slid off the parapet into space. Such a feat seems easy
enough to read of; but to slide without noise down a loose and swinging
rope for so great a distance is no slight task to one unused to such
gymnastics; and, besides, he had to check himself at intervals (which
took the skin off from his hands, although at the time he did not feel
it), lest he should suddenly reach the ground with a dull thud. He
accomplished this in safety, and once more paused, his back pushed hard
to the prison wall, while the warder passed, whose form he could now
even make out, it was so immediately above him; then he crossed the yard
with a swift but anxious step to its north corner, and peered about in
the gloom for the promised rope; the spout was there, smooth and
ineffectual enough as a means of exit, but no rope.
His heart died within him, and his hands trembled with anxiety and
trepidation as they felt in vain for it along the smooth and lofty wall.
Richard's brain began to reel. He leaned his trembling brow against the
cold iron of the spout, and endeavored to think the matter out. He was
sure of Balfour; he felt certain that nothing but sudden and dangerous
illness would have prevented him from keeping his word. But perhaps he
had not been able to obtain a rope; such things were watchfully looked
after in the neighborhood of Lingmoor Prison, and might even not be
procurable. Yet had such been the case, Balfour would not have
volunteered that form of assistance. He was of opinion that the rope was
there, then, and if so, it must have been thrown over by means of a
stone, or weight of some kind. In that case, if the stone had rolled
after reaching the ground, the rope might not be hanging like a
plumb-line from the wall, but at an angle from it, and at some distance.
He began to move, then, in a parallel line from the wall, still feeling
right and left; and on the third trial he caught in his stretched-out
hand a string--a string-line such as a boy uses for his kite; and for an
instant, the sense of the inefficacy of such means to effect his purpose
froze him with despair. But presently pulling on the string, he found it
gather in his hand, and pulling softly on, more string, and then an end
of thin but wire-strong rope, and then more rope. What was best of all
was, that this rope was knotted at intervals of every foot, so as to
afford a strong, firm hold.
After many yards of this had been hauled in he found resistance; the end
of it was evidently fast on the other side. Richard passed the rope
round the bottom of the iron spout, and beneath an iron clasp, that
prevented its slipping upward, and then made it taut. It was a perilous
bridge even then, and supposing the watcher with his musket had not
been, as he was, within easy gunshot of him; but it led from prison
walls to liberty, and Richard did not hesitate for a moment to commit
himself to it. Hand over hand, foot after foot, he dragged himself with
infinite effort slowly upward; but it was not now in his power to watch
the patrol, and secure the most favorable moment for crossing the wall
top, as he had done in the case of the roof. As ill luck would have it,
just as the sentry came to the northward portion of his beat, Richard's
form was vaguely visible against the sky, upon the very summit of the
wall. The next instant he had crossed it, and at the hoarse cry, "Who's
there?" had glided rapidly down upon the other side. The sentry's gun
was at his shoulder, and its sharp report rang through the silent night
just as the convict reached the ground. The starlight was just
sufficient, as the warder subsequently swore (and truly), to see the man
was hit; he staggered and fell, but crawled away directly, and was lost
in the surrounding gloom.
At the same moment all the prison seemed to wake to light and life, and
the alarm-bell clashed out its hoarse notes of warning on the wintry
air.