The prison gate opened, and Number 73 for a minute or so leaned against
the wall to steady himself. The strange clamour of the streets smote
upon his ear like dagger strokes into his heart, and his breath came in
quick, short gasps.
Some one was speaking to him--a little, pale-faced, red-whiskered man
with watery eyes--and Challoner, once “Number 73,” staring stupidly
at him, tried to understand, but foiled. Then, sidling up to him, the
little man took one of Challoner's gaunt and long hands between his
own, and a stout, masculine female in a blue dress and poke bonnet and
spectacles clasped the other and called him “brother.”
A dull gleam shone in his sullen eyes at last, and drawing his hands
away from them, he asked--
“Who are you?”
The stout woman's sharp tongue clattered, and Challoner listened
stolidly. Sometimes a word or two in the volley she fired would cause
him to shake his head wearily--“happiness in the life heternal,” “washed
in the blood of the Lamb,” and “cast yer sins away an' come an' be saved
without money an' without price.”
Then he remembered who he was and who they were--the warders had told
him of the Prison Gate Brigade. He turned to the man and muttered--
“I want to get away from here,” and stepped past them, but the woman
laid her fat, coarse hand on his sleeve.
“Come 'ome with us, brother. P'r'aps yer 'ave a mother or a wife waitin'
to 'ear from yer, an' we----”
He dashed her hand aside savagely--“Blast you, no; let me go!”
Then with awkward, shambling gait he pushed through the curious crowd
at the prison gate, crossed the street, and entered the nearest
public-house.
“Another soul escaped us, Sister Hannah,” squeaked the little man; “but
we'll try and rescue him when he comes out from the house of wickedness
and abomination.”
“Better leave him alone,” said a warder in plain clothes, who just then
came through the gate, “he won't be saved at no price, I can tell yer.”
“Who is the poor man?” asked Sister Hannah, in a plaintive, injured
voice.
“Sh! Mustn't ask them questions,” said the little man.
But he knew, all the same, that the tall, gaunt man with the sallow face
and close-cropped white hair was Harvey Challoner, once chief officer of
the ship _Victory_, sentenced in Melbourne to imprisonment for life for
manslaughter, but released at the end of ten years.
*****
The _Victory_ murder trial had not attracted much public attention, and
the prisoner had been defended at the public expense. On the voyage from
London to Australia the crew had become discontented. They had
reason for their discontent. Captain Cressingham, for all his suave,
gentlemanly shore manners, was an adept at “hazing,” and was proud
of the distinction of making every ship he commanded a hell to the
fo'c's'le hands. Sometimes, with sneering, mocking tongue, he would
compliment Challoner upon the courteous manner in which he “addressed
the gentlemen for'ard.” As for the other two mates, they were equally
as brutal as their captain, but lacked his savage, methodical
vindictiveness.
When only a few weeks out, Harman, the second mate, one day accused
one of the men of “soldiering,” and striking him in the face, broke his
nose, and as the man lay on the deck he kicked him brutally. Challoner,
who was on deck at the time, jumped down off the poop, and seizing
Harman by the arm, called him a cowardly hound.
“And you're a d------d old woman,” was the retort.
Challoner's passion overpowered him, and at the end of five minutes
Harman was carried below badly knocked about, and à stormy scene ensued
between Challoner and the captain.
“You have all but killed Mr. Harman. I could, and should, put you in
irons for the rest of the voyage,” the captain had said.