GILES CHUDLEY IN PRISON.
Giles Chudley had ample funds at his disposal, and he told the
sagacious Mr. Slapperton not to spare any expense in preparing his
defence and securing the services of a clever counsel to conduct his
case when the trial came on.
Mr. Slapperton had several interviews with the prisoner after his
committal, and in common with many others was at a loss to account for
the amount of money he had in his possession.
Some averred that Chudley had rich relations, who had come forward
handsomely in the hour of need.
He had friends――that is quite certain, but they were not related to
him. The reader will remember that at the time of Chudley’s capture
there were two strangers in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis.” One
was a young swell, the other a broad-shouldered, square-headed man.
The young swell was none other than the boy Alf Purvis, who now
assumed all the airs and graces of a fashionable young gentleman, and
who, moreover, was one of the most accomplished pickpockets in London.
The other, the man with the broad shoulders, was the London
“cracksman,” who was introduced to the reader when Laura Stanbridge
and young Purvis paid a visit to that delectable establishment known
as a thieves’ haunt in Little Mint-street, Whitechapel.
These two personages had effectually concealed Chudley in various
parts of the metropolis after he had committed the murder in
Larchgrove-lane.
They had supplied him with funds to go abroad. In point of fact, they
were about to see him on board of a vessel at Liverpool, but
imprudently chose to pay a visit to the hiring fair.
The result of this act of folly we already know.
Purvis detested the Jamblins, and he, as well as Laura Stanbridge,
thought Chudley had done a meritorious act by ridding the world of
young Mr. Philip; anyway, they befriended his assassin, and supplied
him with funds, both before and after his capture.
Mr. Slapperton, after having received the necessary instructions for
the wretched man’s defence, spoke most confidently of the result of
the trial. He told his client that the chances were clearly in his
favour, and that in all probability the jury would return a verdict of
“Not Guilty.”
Giles, however, was of a different opinion. He was an ignorant
low-bred ruffian, but he had a certain amount of low cunning, which,
to say the truth, is a qualification that most criminals of his type
generally possess. However, he put as good a face on the matter as
possible, and affected to believe what his solicitor told him.
But he was reflective, and thinking of certain plans which he had
formed. His low cunning now came out with additional force.
One burning thought was for ever in his brain; it was this:
“How could he effect his escape?”
If he could succeed in doing this, there were those outside who would
effectually conceal him from the bloodhounds of the law.
As far as this was concerned the prisoner was not far out in his
reckoning.
The reader will remember that in No. 28 of this work we gave a chapter
on mysterious murders, and cited many cases in which the perpetrators
of crimes of this nature have successfully eluded the vigilance of the
police――one of these instances being a murder which was committed at
Chingford by a man named Geydon, who in many respects was similar to
Giles Chudley.
Since the publication of these cases in a number of this work, issued
only five weeks ago, Geydon has given himself up.
For twenty-two years he has, despite the £200 reward offered by
Government at the time of the murder, remained under cover.
This, to say the least of it, is a remarkable circumstance, and it is
still more remarkable that we should have brought the matter so
recently under public notice in this work.
Giles Chudley, as we have already intimated, was bringing all the
intellect he had to bear on the one cherished idea which had taken
possession of him.
The sessions would come on in about a month. He had that time before
him, which he was determined if possible to make use of. In a month
there were thirty days, in these thirty days there were seven hundred
and twenty hours; a third of the time would be devoted to sleep, to
meals, and to times when he could not work, but what of that? There
were plenty of hours left for him to accomplish his purpose.
And if all went on well he would accomplish it.
Having come to this resolution he watched and waited for a brief
period, never hinting to a living soul that he had any fear respecting
the issue of the forthcoming trial.
He assumed an air of cheerfulness, and spoke confidently of the
result. He said his innocence would be proved, and that he hoped to
leave the court without a stain on his character.
After his trial he judged rightly enough that he woald be confined in
a stronger cell, and have a warder night and day with him, who would
watch him as they watch men who are doomed to die, and whom despair so
often inspires with unnatural strength and cunning.
Both these qualities he possessed in a remarkable degree; the
last-named prompted him to allay suspicion, and to make everybody
around him believe that he had no fear for the future.
He sent a message to the governor, requesting to see him.
The governor was a particularly kindly-disposed man, and was indulgent
to a fault. He came at once.
“Do you wish for anything, my man?” he said, addressing himself to the
prisoner.
“I’m very dull, and doan’t know what to do wi’ myself,” said Chudley.
“You were kind enough to say that I might have books and papers.”
“I didn’t know you took an interest in books or their contents, or
that you cared about reading. However, I am glad to find I’ve
misjudged you. You can have what books you require from the
circulating library. You’d better pay a month’s subscription, and then
you can look over the catalogue, and select those which take your
fancy.”
“Thank you, sir. How am I to get them?”
“The messenger will fetch whatever you require.”
“I shall read a goodish lot o’ books,” said Chudley, smiling. “Was
always fond o’ reading.”
“Oh, yes; just so――I dare say,” remarked the governor, carelessly.
“And I can’t sit here all by myself wi’out having summut to do.”
“Certainly not; besides, they will keep you out of mischief. Idle
people are always mischievous.”
“Out of meescheef!” cried Chudley. “Well, I loike that; what meescheef
can a poor devil loike me do?”
“You might scrawl on the walls, or tear down the rules, you know,”
observed the governor, with a smile.
“Oh, I might, sartenly, but I aint loikely to do nuffin o’ the sort. I
hope I know how to behave myself in prison or out o’ prison.”
“I dare say you do, my man. Is there anything else you want before I
leave?”
“Thank ’ee, sir, that be all.”
The governor despatched the messenger to the nearest library, and then
left the cell. As he passed along the passage he called the turnkeys
before him.
“I can’t make out that man,” he observed. “What can be his reason for
asking for books? Just you keep an eye upon him.”
“We are sure to do that, sir; but he don’t give much trouble, and
seems to make sure of getting off.”
“Oh! he does――eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That may be put on. I wouldn’t put too much trust in him. I may be
mistaken; but I believe him to be a very artful, cunning fellow. I say
again, keep your eyes upon No. 9.”
The turnkeys promised to do so, but they could not very well see any
reason for mistrust or doubt.
At four o’clock Giles Chudley was summoned to chapel, and was ushered
into a long line of fellow-prisoners, clad in the uniforms of
convicted crime.
All the officers accompanied the prisoners into the chapel in the
manner we have described in a preceding chapter.
The warders stood in the gallery above the seats of the convicts,
every movement of whom they commanded with their eyes.
It seemed to Chudley, however, that he was the leading object of
attraction, for glancing carelessly round the building, as people
usually do when first entering a place of worship, he observed several
pairs of eyes accompanying his own in whatsoever direction he turned
them, and also that several more were fixed upon him in one long
steadfast glance.
He could not help noticing this, at which he felt greatly annoyed. He
had not calculated the deep interest men of every denomination take in
the actions and demeanour of a murderer.
The glance he had taken at the most noticeable features of the chapel,
cursory as it had been, put him in possession of the fact that the
windows of the building were only protected by one bar, which fell
down the centre, and which left an opening on each side sufficiently
small to prevent a sudden escape and sufficiently large to admit of a
slim man squeezing through with time and trouble.
He was in a state of feverish anxiety. He clenched his teeth, and
endeavoured to prevent his emotion being perceived by the eyes in the
gallery.
To deceive whom he did not look round any more, giving his attention
not to the chaplain, for that would have been a transparent act of
hypocrisy, and sufficient in itself to have excited suspicion, but to
the title-page of the prayer-book and to other indifferent little
matters, as any one else who had been sent to church by compulsion
might have done.
But his mind was actively employed, and his whole thoughts were
engaged upon his pet project.
He was trying to guess first what the chapel windows opened out upon;
secondly, whether the chapel door was locked at night.
An answer to the first question was soon made by the rattle of
carriage wheels, which he could hear distinctly, and sometimes he
fancied he could catch the faint hum of voices and footsteps, which
gave him hopes of escape and liberty.
There was not the least question about the chapel being close to the
street or some public thoroughfare; if he could only get there he
could easily escape. But he had seen that there was a lock on the
door――a massive lock which might give him a great deal of trouble, and
take him hours to pick with such rude instruments as alone he could
possibly obtain.
Besides, he was by no means an adept in the manipulation of locks, and
this he bitterly regretted; but, nevertheless, he did not despair.
Happening to look on the floor he could scarcely believe his eyes when
he saw a good-sized needle there.
It had probably been dropped by one of the female prisoners, who at
the regular chapel hour sat together in a large pew, surrounded by a
red curtain, but occupied the seats of the male prisoners when
attending the school class which was held in the chapel once a day.
He considered for some little time, not knowing very well how to act;
the needle would be of service, and he must obtain it by some means.
A few minutes after this he happened to drop his hymn-book. He picked
it up again directly, and with it the needle, which he secreted in his
shirt sleeve.
As he returned the hymn-book to the ledge of the pew, he took care to
display the palms of both his hands, that no one might suppose they
contained anything besides his book.
No one who knew Giles Chudley would have given him credit for
possessing so much acuteness; but the situation in which he found
himself called forth the latent powers of his mind, which had
heretofore lain dormant.
As the convicts and other prisoners were being marshalled out of
chapel, Giles blundered against the door, apparently by accident, so
that it almost shut.
He took hold of the lock to swing it open again, and, in so doing,
slipped the needle into the keyhole.
“Can’t you see your way out?” cried a warder.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; it was an accident,” returned Chudley.
“Forward! this way,” said the official, and the line of men marched
on.
All was well so far. It was evident that the warders did not suspect
that anything was amiss.
He could examine the lock the next day as he went out, and if the
needle was still there it would be a proof that the door had not been
locked.
The contrivance was an ingenious one, but then we should remember that
men whose lives are at stake have their wits sharpened in a remarkable
degree.
Chudley returned to his cell. He opened his books, disfigured them
with notes on the margin, much to the disgust of the librarian, and
littered them together as if he had been diligently employed with
them; but he was too excited to read; he could not even sit or remain
still for any length of time; he paced to and fro, thinking and
muttering to himself.
By day and by night the same thought haunted him.
At dusk a turnkey came in and lighted his gas. As soon as he heard the
key in the lock he sprang to his stool, and was poring over his books
before the door was opened.
He had the cunning of the serpent, and flattered himself that he could
assume anything or conceal anything while the great lock was being
turned by the gaoler.
“It is a most fortunate thing the lock makes such a noise when
turned,” he murmured. “I do hope they won’t oil it.”
But as yet he did not see his way clear for the accomplishment of his
object.
The whole of that night, and on the following day also, he was
cudgelling his brains for some solution to the grand and all-important
question.
It seemed almost like wasting precious time, but he knew that it would
be folly to begin working with his hands till his plans were matured
and his calculations had been fully made.
The half-hour of evening prayers seemed to be an age.
He quivered all over with impatience and anxiety.
There was no help for it――he had to wait patiently. The time having
expired, he passed out with the others as usual. As he did so he
thrust his finger into the key-hole. An icy tremour shot through his
frame.
The needle was still there. Never surely did so insignificant an
object have such a powerful effect upon a man as did this little
needle. It whispered into his ears delusive words of hope and comfort,
of escape and freedom.
If he could only work through his cell door into the corridor, from
which the chapel was entered, the rest was an easy matter. He felt
assured this could be accomplished, and was confident of his ultimate
success.
But much remained to be done. His plan of operations was simple enough
in theory, but it had to be put into practice.
It would be no very difficult task to turn his bed-clothes into a
rope, and when this was done he could let himself down from the chapel
window.
Upon his return from chapel he found Mr. Slapperton awaiting him.
The lawyer had a number of questions to put respecting the leading
points in the case. He had a long conference with his client, and as
heretofore spoke hopefully of the result of the trial.
Giles Chudley assumed an air of confidence, which, to say the truth,
he was far from feeling. However, he humoured his legal adviser, but
said nothing about the scheme he had in his head.
After Mr. Slapperton had left, Giles knelt down before the door and
scrutinised the lock.
After a minute examination of the same he came to the conclusion that
it would be easier for him to dig a hole in the wall close to the
lock, to wrench the staple away, and then force back the bolt as if it
was being unlocked by a key.
He felt assured that this would be the best plan, but as he was rising
from his knees he discovered something in the centre of the door which
strangely enough had entirely escaped his attention before.
There was a small round grating a little larger than a man’s eye: a
flap of iron hung before it on the other side.
Giles was astonished, as well he might be, at the discovery, and still
more so at it having escaped his notice.
While he was staring at it and fingering it with a considerable amount
of curiosity he heard a soft step, so soft that he did not think it
was so close to him.
“Some one on the watch,” he murmured, as his heart beat audibly.
The flap was gently raised and its place was taken by a large brown
eye, which sternly surveyed the interior of the cell.
As if satisfied with the impression it had made, the eye disappeared,
and the iron flap descended as noiselessly as it had been raised.
Giles Chudley felt relieved when the scrutiny was over.
“Ah, ah,” he muttered, “I did not reckon on this, but I am glad I made
the discovery. This is a hound that does not bark; I must act with
caution.”
He resolved to begin work as soon as it was dark, and watched the
shadows one by one as they fell through the little window upon the
door of the cell.
Having matured his plans he was burning to put them into practice.
When once outside the walls of his prison-house he would be safe.
So he thought and fondly hoped; but how to get out was the question.
He waited till the turnkeys, who brought the prisoners their suppers
of bread and gruel, and lighted their gas, had gone their rounds.
He then wrenched off one of the hooks, upon which his bed was
suspended at night, and crept cautiously towards the door.
He was afraid to begin, for the sounds of voices met his ear, and he
judged that some of the prison officials were about. He was very soon
convinced of this, for the voices became more distinct.
He was constrained, therefore, to await for a more favourable
opportunity.
Deeply mortified at this circumstance he heaved a deep sigh, and sat
himself down upon his wooden stool.
He felt supremely wretched, and endured an hour of almost
insupportable agony. During this time he stared vacantly at the white
flame which flickered from the gas-pipe, and calculated what he should
do when he had made his escape.
When he heard a clock strike eleven he sprang from his seat, and
grasping the hook with which he hoped to obtain his freedom firmly in
his right hand, he again knelt before the door.
Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He set to work
vigorously, and struck the hook into the stone. A cloud of white dust
flew from it, he raised his weapon again, when the noise of a footstep
fell upon his ear.
He paused and listened. It was a slow, regular step, like that of a
sentry on guard. He did not move, but waited patiently till the sound
had passed, till it had grown faint, till it had become inaudible.
This was a most unfortunate circumstance. It required all his skill
and address to baffle his janitors.
One false step and all his schemes were scattered like leaves before
the autumn blast.
He felt sick at heart. There was a haze before his eyes, and horrible
lights flickering, and strange noises murmuring.
Something seemed to be swinging to and fro inside his head like the
pendulum of a clock; big drops of perspiration oozed from his temples.
He was now very well assured that the corridor was watched by both day
and night, and it was therefore impossible to force the door without
running the risk of discovery――it was impossible to enter the chapel
without being seen.
He was baffled, and could have cried in the agony of his despair.
He must resort to some other means.
He felt his way back to his seat, and sat there till the grey light of
morning shed its cold wan rays into his cell.
The light, ghastly as it was, appeared to inspire him with strength
and hope, for he now rose, drove the hook back into the wall, removed
the white dust which was scattered on the floor, and, suspending his
bed to the hooks on each side of the cell like a hammock, flung
himself upon it, and, wore out with watching throughout the livelong
night, fell into a sound sleep.
His first night’s experience had not inspired him with much hope; on
the contrary, it had almost driven him to despair; but there is an old
saying, that a drowning man will catch at a straw, and Chudley,
despite the difficulties that were in the way, still clung tenaciously
to his fondly-cherished scheme.
The turnkeys in attendance on him observed nothing remarkable in the
demeanour of No. 9, except that he was always occupied with his books;
so busy was he with them that he hardly honoured the prison officials
with even a cursory glance when any one of them entered his cell.
This was most remarkable in a man of his class, and the officials
could not help noticing this.
“He’s a queer sort of customer,” said one――“one of the oddest chaps I
ever came across. I sometimes think he hasn’t got his right change.”
“Ah! don’t you run away with that idea,” said another turnkey. “He’s a
jolly sight more artful than people suppose.”
“Well, but the fellow takes such strange fancies. Sometimes at his
books, sometimes he’s writing away like mad, and yesterday he wanted
parcels and big sheets of white paper, because he must try his hand at
drawing. I suppose he thinks himself a sort of genius.”
“That man is a mystery,” said the deputy governor, joining the men,
“but more knave than fool――mind you that. Keep your eyes well upon
him.”
It is possible, despite the difficulties and impediments in the way,
that Giles Chudley would have succeeded in making his escape had it
not been for one circumstance, which proved fatal to him.
It was this.
In the same prison was confined a man who was charged with piracy and
murder on the high seas. He was a ruffian of the most pronounced type,
and if report spoke truly he had committed no end of atrocities; but
report, we must remember, is not always to be relied on.
Nevertheless the nautical miscreant was most unquestionably a bad lot.
Upon being brought to the gaol he gave himself all the airs and graces
of a West-end swell, and found fault with everything and everybody.
He said the cell in which he was confined was dripping with wet, and
gave him the ague. He was in consequence of this transferred to the
cell next to the ill-fated Giles Chudley.
After being immured in this a few days, he said it was worse than the
other.
The turnkeys were sick of listening to the man’s complaints. At length
he said he wanted to see the governor.
“Oh, you want to see the governor, do you?” said the turnkey in
attendance, with an air of irony. “What do you want to see him for?
Make him apply to her Majesty for better dinners, I suppose?”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, young fellow,” observed the pirate, “’cos
it’s no use your trying to bullyrag me. Never mind what I want to see
him for, that’s my business. I can see him if I like――I read it in the
rules; o you shut up. If you don’t go and tell him I’ll report you.”
“I never said I wouldn’t tell him, did I?” and the turnkey as he
banged the door in a rage.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to stand any of their nonsense,” muttered the pirate.
“I know what discipline is, an’ I’ll see it enforced, if needs be.”
“Well, No. 8, what is the matter now?” said the governor, at he
entered. “Anything amiss with this cell?”
“I don’t much like it. ’Cos why――I can’t get any sleep o’ nights.”
“Indeed! Not well, I suppose; you had better let the doctor see you.”
“I don’t want no doctor――I want peace and quietness.”
“And I hope you have both.”
“No, I aint. There’s some of your men at work in the yard below all
the blessed night, and I can’t sleep for the noise.”
“Eh!” ejaculated the governor. “Indeed――men at work all night; that’s
contrary to my orders.”
“Well, all I know is, they are there. All night they are a-scratching
and a-scratching, like a lot of big rats.”
“I think I know who it is,” remarked the governor, in a careless
manner. “Just under the window here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s where it is――the exact spot.”
“Ah, the vagabonds, they will work out of hours and disturb people.
I’ll see and put a stop to them. When do they begin――about dusk?”
“Some little time after nightfall, and they go on till it’s light. I
never hear it in the day time.”
“I am glad you have spoken of this, my man. You won’t hear it again.
If you do send for me.”
“All right, and thank you,” returned the pirate.
Seven days had elapsed since the night on which Giles first began
putting into practice his plan of escape. On the eighth day the
prisoner was still in bed, although it was half-past ten o’clock. He
was aroused by the unlocking and opening of his door, but he did not
move from his hammock.
He was a little surprised, however, upon beholding the governor,
accompanied by two turnkeys, enter the cell.
The governor, who, like most governors of prisons, was a retired
military officer, and on this occasion he was arrayed in his best
uniform, looked more than usually severe and imposing. He twirled his
heavy iron-gray moustache, and glanced suspiciously around the cell.
“You are taking it easy,” he observed, addressing the prisoner. “Do
you not know, sir――and if you do not it is time that you did――that to
be in bed at this hour is against the rules and regulations?”
“I know it, sir,” said Giles, springing out of his hammock, and
muddling on his clothes, “but I doan’t feel at all well, and ha’ had
very little sleep all night.”
“Oh, that I can readily believe,” observed the governor, in a tone of
sarcasm. “Not well――eh? Perhaps you are over-fatigued.”
Chudley was greatly alarmed at this last observation.
“Eh, do you hear, my man?” inquired the governor.
“I don’t see how that can be. I aint had nuffin’ to tire me,” returned
Giles.
“Haven’t you? Well, there may be other reasons.”
At a signal from their chief the two turnkeys proceeded to search the
bed-clothes with great care. They also searched the clothes the
prisoner had on, and those lying on his stool (for he was but
partially dressed).
They found nothing, however, to excite their suspicions.
The governor was evidently disappointed.
“No instrument or weapon of any sort,” he murmured.
“No, sir, nothing. Nor do we miss anything from the cell.”
The governor, who had been standing with his arms behind him in a
Napoleon-like attitude, appeared to be lost in reflection.
While the examination of the garments had been taking place he watched
the countenance of the prisoner with the eyes of a lynx. He had
succeeded in intercepting one furtive glance.
“Umph! You miss nothing, eh?” said he.
“No, sir.”
“How about the hasp to the window?” The turnkeys looked astonished
when they found that it was not in its proper place.
“It must be concealed somewhere, and has been taken away for a
specific purpose. What that purpose is we can readily guess.”
Giles Chudley felt as if about to faint.
“What have you done with the hasp?” said the governor to the prisoner.
“Me, I aint seen nuffin’ of it; somebody must ha’ taken it away afore
I came here.”
The governor shook his head.
“No, my man,” he said, “that story won’t do. It is concealed
somewhere, I have no doubt.”
The turnkeys turned over all the things and made another search, which
was as fruitless as the first.
Their chief contemplated the window with some curiosity.
“Can’t one of you climb up to that?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir, certainly; that’s easily managed,” returned one, who,
addressing his companion, said, “give us a back, Jewett.”
The latter obeyed, and the other of the turnkeys, who was the lighter
of the two, sprang upon his comrade’s back and clambered up to the
window.
The panes were made of fluted glass, which were very difficult to see
through. In addition to this a louvre light, or “copper light,” as the
prisoners call them, was hung before the window.
It was a great shade made of galvanised iron, which prevented the
prisoner from seeing anything else even when the window was opened.
This, however, was never allowed. There was an express rule and
punishment for climbing up to the window. The prisoners had to content
themselves with the mouthful of fresh air per day which was admitted
by the grating.
It must, however, be admitted that there was abundance of air for them
as a rule. There is seldom or never any reason for complaint as far as
ventilation is concerned.
“Search the louvre light!” said the governor, and he looked Giles
Chudley hard in the face as he gave this order. At the same time he
twisted his moustache with a sort of malicious hilarity.
Chudley’s knees knocked together.
The turnkey drew forth the hasp, which he held forth triumphantly. It
had been chipped at the end, and was covered with dirt. It had
evidently been used on the prison stones.
[Sidenote: No. 35.]
[Illustration: AVELINE GATLIFFE AND MISS JAMBLIN ARE HANDED OUT OF THE
BOAT.]
The governor tapped at the wall with his Malacca cane. After two or
three minutes’ sounding he came upon a part of the wall which yielded
to his stick. Both the turnkeys sprang forward and grabbed at it with
their hands.
Giles Chudley fell upon his stool, and, covering his face with his
hands, groaned aloud.
An opening in the wall was discovered almost large enough to admit a
man.
The hole had been pasted over with sheets of white drawing paper,
smeared with prison gruel, which made admirable glue; and these, when
powdered over with the white dust of the stone, became not an
imitation but a _fac simile_.
An exclamation of surprise proceeded from the turnkeys and their
chief.
“Ah!” exclaimed the latter, “we now know the reason for the pirate
being so disturbed at night. This is no more than I expected. We have
made the discovery in good time.”
“It has been cleverly managed, sir,” observed one of the turnkeys.
“Certainly, very clever indeed; but all is of no avail.”
The three prison officials, however, could not refrain from admiring
the masterpiece of industry and art. They remained for some time
examining the aperture in the wall.
Presently the governor turned towards Chudley, who sat on his little
stool the very personification of despair, and said in a severe tone――
“Since you have been under my charge you have had every indulgence it
was possible for me to give, consistent with my duty as governor of
this prison. What return have you made for this? The answer is but too
apparent. With the basest ingratitude for all the kindness shown to
you, without the slightest consideration for me, you have striven
secretly to effect your escape. Had you succeeded I should have been
disgraced and severely censured. You are a worthless fellow.”
“I be sorry for what I ha’ done, and ask you to forgive me, but for
all that I be doubly sorry that I ha’ bin found out. Liberty is sweet,
but it aint o’ no yoose talking about that now,” returned Chudley.
“I will take good care another such an opportunity is not afforded
you. Henceforth you will be confined in a stronger and more commodious
cell, and I warn you not to make another attempt to escape; indeed, it
will be my duty to see you have no chance of doing so. Dogs that bite
us when we fondle them must go to dirty kennels and rusty chains.
Dixon, you have your orders.”
The turnkey touched his cap, and said “Yes, sir.”
“And see that my instructions are attended to. The prisoner is a
dangerous character; he has the cunning of the serpent. Keep watch and
ward over him. Do you understand?”
“He shall be well looked after, sir.”
The governor turned upon his heel, and strode majestically out of the
cell.
Chudley did not seem to be aware that the prison’s chief had taken his
departure.
The wretched man sat on his stool almost in a state of stupefaction.
He had drained the cup of bitterness to the very dregs, and did not
appear to care what became of him. The misery that had fallen on him
was supreme and overpowering.
The turnkeys spoke to him, but he did not answer or take any notice of
what they said.
One stepped forward, and shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“Now, then, get up and stir your stumps. Do you hear?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, aye, I hear. You mun ha’ it all your own way. What do ’e want me
to be after?”
“Get up, man, and follow us,” was the answer.
“It doan’t much matter where I be; one place is as good as the other,”
he answered, rising from his seat, and casting a woe-begone look round
his narrow prison-house.
He was so broken down that he hardly had strength enough to follow his
janitors from the cell.
They took him down a flight of steps through a yard. In this yard was
a covered building fitted up with little cells, each of which
contained a crank and a prisoner.
Chudley heaved a deep-drawn sigh, and passed his hands across his
eyes, which were filled with tears.
The turnkeys retained him there for a few minutes to see the prisoners
at work, and then conducted him to a corner of the yard in which there
were two iron doors.
One of these was unlocked, and he was forcibly thrust into a low, damp
cell, the walls of which were covered with damp, and which emitted a
cold, earthly smell, as if it now tasted the sun and fresh air for the
first time.
It was in a cell similar to the one in which he now found himself that
the pirate had been confined previous to his being transferred to the
one next to the cell Chudley had just left.
He sat down upon the rough stones, with his elbows on his knees and
his face in his hands.
He remembered then that he had been within a few hours of liberty――he
had been robbed of his life when he had almost grasped it with his
hands.
The thought was agony, and he uttered a low, plaintive cry.
Besides this, he had seen his fellow-prisoners at work; he had seen
how they obeyed the orders of men who spoke to them, not with words,
but with gestures and with bells.
He knew his life in the prison had been one of indulgence and
comparative luxury, when contrasted to the poor wretches he had seen
in this part of the gaol.
Their infamous dress, their white faces, their servile compliance, had
filled him with terror and dismay.
Hope――the last solace of the wretched――seemed to suddenly take wings
and fly away.
He looked up at the window, which was little less than one great iron
bar; he sounded the walls, so thick and strong; he breathed the air of
his new cell, and it chilled him to the bone.
“Am I to remain in this miserable place?” he inquired.
“Yes, until your trial comes on,” replied one of the turnkeys. “Don’t
blame us; it’s all your own fault.”
“But if I promise to remain quiet and behave better?”
“The governor won’t believe you. It aint likely, I should say.”
“But I will promise. Tell him to be merciful. I be sorry for what I
ha’ done.”
“No good your saying that. He’s lost faith in you. You’ve nobody but
yourself to blame.”
Chudley groaned and said no more.
The door was shut with a loud bang, the lock was turned, and the
prisoner was alone.
Two hours afterwards, when the turnkeys came in with his dinner of
gaol soup and his prison bread, they found him crouched in the
farthest corner of the cell, gnawing his hands, and uttering low
groans.
He was also trembling all over, and his eyes had a lack-lustre vacant
expression like those of a madman.
They exchanged glances and shook their heads, and when the prisoner
was shut in again they threw out hints that he might endeavour to
commit suicide.
To say the truth, they were not very far out in their reckoning;
Chudley had thoughts of suicide at that time, but he had not the means
to put it into practice.