The King's Men: A Tale of To-morrow

by Nathan Schachner

  CHAPTER XV.

  LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS.

  In the centre of its wide waste of barren hills, huge graniteoutcroppings and swampy valleys, the gloomy prison of Dartmoor stoodwrapped in mist one dismal morning in the March following the Royalistoutbreak. Its two centuries of unloved existence in the midst of a wildland and fitful climate had seared every wall-tower and gateway withlines and patches of decay and discoloration. Originally built of brownstone, the years had deepened the tint almost to blackness in the largerstretches of outer wall and unwindowed gable.

  On this morning the dark walls dripped with the weeping atmosphere, andthe voice of the huge prison bell in the main yard sounded distant andstrange like a storm-bell in a fog at sea.

  Through the thick drizzle of the early morning the convicts were marchedin gangs to their daily tasks, some to build new walls within the prisonprecincts, some to break stone in the round yard, encircled by enormousiron railings fifteen feet high, some to the great kitchen of the prisonand to the different workshops. About one third of the prisoners marchedoutside the walls by the lower entrance, for the prison stands on ahill, at the foot of which stretches the most forsaken and grisly wastein all Dartmoor.

  The task of the convicts for two hundred years had been the reclamationof this wide waste, which was called "The Farm." The French prisoners ofwar taken in the Napoleonic wars that ended with Waterloo had dugtrenches to drain the waste. The American prisoners of the War of 1812had laid roadways through the marsh. The Irish rebels of six generationshad toiled in the tear-scalded footsteps of the French and Americancaptives. And all the time the main or "stock" supply of Englishcriminals, numbering usually about four hundred men, had spent theirweary years in toiling and broiling at "The Farm."

  Standing at the lower gate of the prison, from which a steep roaddescended to the marsh looking over "The Farm," it was hard to seeanything like a fair return for such continued and patient labor. Deeptrenches filled with claret-colored water drained innumerable patches ofsickly vegetation. About a hundred stunted fruit trees and as manybedraggled haystacks were all that broke the surface line.

  As the gangs of convicts, numbering about twenty each, marched out ofthe lower gate on this dull morning, they turned their eyes, each gangin the same surprised way as that which preceded, on a small group ofmen who were working just outside the prison wall.

  To the left of the gate, on the sloping side of the hill, was aquadrangular space of about thirty by twenty yards, round which wasbuilt a low wall of evidently great antiquity. The few courses of stoneswere huge granite boulders and slabs torn and rolled from the hillside.There was no gateway or break in the square; to enter the inclosure onemust climb over the wall, which was easy enough to do.

  Inside the square was a rough heap of granite, a cairn, gray withlichens, in the centre of which stood, or rather leaned, a tall squareblock of granite, like a dolmen. So great was the age of this strangeobelisk that the lichens had encrusted it to the top. The stone had oncestood upright; but it now leaned toward the marsh, the cairn havingslowly yielded on the lower side.

  Around this ancient monument were working four men in the gray and blacktweed of the convicts; and it was at their presence that the gangs hadstared as they passed.

  One of these four men was young, one middle-aged, and two well down thehill of life, the oldest being a tall and emaciated old man of at leastseventy years. They were four political prisoners--namely, GeoffreyRipon, Featherstone, Sydney, and the old Duke of Bayswater. There was awarder in charge, who addressed them by numbers instead of names. Hecalled Geoffrey "406;" Featherstone, "28;" Sydney, "No. 5," and the oldDuke, "16." The prisoners recognized their numbers as quickly as freeworkmen would have answered to their names.

  "No. 5," said the Warder, sharply, a bearded man, with the bearing of anold infantry soldier, "you must put more life into your work. You havebeen 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 ofold, but a woe-begone creature, obviously sixty years of age, on whosethin 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 tenthof 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 itremained as before. The two poor old fellows regarded it with perplexitywhile furtively watching the officer. It was pitiful to see theexpression of simulated mortification on their faces, which was meant toplacate 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'shand. The officer, more rough than cruel, turned away to hide a smile atthe courtesies of his charge. Soon after, he gave them instructionsabout the work, and left them, going down to "The Farm" to superintendthe making of a new drain.

  "This is heavy work, Duke," said Geoffrey to the old man; "but we oughtto be thankful for the sentiment which sends us to do it instead of thecriminals."

  "I suppose so," said the Duke, in a desponding tone; "but it is notpleasant to think that after a century and a half the tomb of politicalprisoners in Dartmoor should be repaired by the hands of politicalprisoners."

  "Not pleasant, but natural, Duke," said Mr. Sydney; "so long as thereare principles, there must be men to suffer for them."

  "Whose monument is this?" asked Featherstone; "I am all in thedark--tell me."

  Geoffrey, who had been employed in the office of the Governor of theprison, 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 thestory of the old monument as he had learned it from the prison recordswhich he had been transcribing.

  "In the wars of the Great Napoleon," Geoffrey said, "the Frenchprisoners captured by England were confined in hulks on the seacoasttill the hulks overflowed. Then this prison was built, and filled withunfortunate Frenchmen. In 1812 the young Republic of America went to warwith England, and hundreds of American captives were added to theFrenchmen. During the years of their confinement scores of these poorfellows died, and one day the Americans mutinied, and then other scoreswere shot down in the main yard. This field was the graveyard of thoseprisoners, and here the strangers slept for over half a century, tilltheir bones were washed out of the hillside by the rain-storms. Therehappened to be in Dartmoor at that time a party of Irish rebels, andthey asked permission to collect the bones and bury them securely. TheIrishmen raised this cairn and obelisk to the Americans and Frenchmen,and now, after another hundred years, we are sent to repair their lovingtestimonial."

  "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 obeliskitself for sympathy."

  They went on, working and chatting in low tones, till an exclamationfrom Sydney made them look up. Sydney was on top of the cairn, scrapingthe lichens from the obelisk. The moss was hard to cut, and had formed acrust, 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 ahundred 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 asharp 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 fourprisoners, now looking at the ancient letters, akin with those who sleptbelow, and with those who had so lovingly preserved their memory. Thesudden uncovering of the inscription seemed to give a talismanic valueto the words. The centuries cleared away like the mist from the moor,and the four Royalist prisoners saw the brave Americans carry their deadcomrades to their English grave; they saw their set faces as they facedthe armed guards and invited their own destruction; they saw theFrenchmen who had followed Napoleon from Egypt to Waterloo laid here bytheir younger fellows who still dreamt of future glory under theirworld-conquering Emperor. And when all this phastasma cleared away cameanother picture of the Celtic patriots raising the cairn and cutting thesweet old Roman words on the monolith.

  "May they rest in peace!" said the old Duke, taking off his convict'scap.

  "Amen!" said Sydney.

  "How this day's work would have suited John Dacre," said Featherstonewith a deep sigh; and the name brought tears to the eyes of the fourprisoners, who went on with their labor in silence.

  But interesting as was this employment to the Royalists, it was on quiteanother account that Geoffrey had, while acting as clerk in theGovernor's office, secured this work for them. The truth was that heexpected to hear from friends outside who might help them to escape. Aletter which he had received from his old servant Reynolds had puzzledhim exceedingly with its repeated regrets for the difficulty of gettingadmission to the prison. But at last the idea struck Geoffrey thatReynolds was hinting that he should seek employment outside the walls.The restoration of the old monument soon gave the opportunity, andGeoffrey had seized it.

  He had said nothing of all this to the others; for he might have quitemisinterpreted Reynolds's letter, and he did not wish to raise vainhopes. There was not the least sign as yet that he had been right. Theold high-road across Dartmoor, it is true, passed the spot at which theywere working, skirting the very prison wall; but it was an empty anddesolate path.

  That day and the next they labored at the cairn, until at last thestones were sufficiently removed to allow the monolith to be raised by aderrick into an upright position. They had just rigged the derrick andthe 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 roaddriving a donkey-cart. The harness had given way, and the old man wasbusy repairing it, standing behind the Warder. Something in the oldman's attitude rather than appearance induced Featherstone to look athim again. His raised hand seemed to purposely arrest attention.

  Featherstone looked too long and too sharply, for the Warder observedhim, and turned to see what he looked at. The old man on the road sawthe 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 workersat 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 handleof the windlass, until their old joints cracked.

  "That'll do; slack away!" and they rested panting, while the rope wasfixed 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, andalmost shouted with joy and surprise to see faithful old Reynolds, withboth hands raised in recognition and a wide smile on his honest face.Fortunately the Warder was at the moment encouraging the Duke and Sydneyto "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 myold Reynolds. Careful!"

  While he whispered there was a crash on the road that made the wholegroup start. The harness had wholly given way and the shafts had come tothe ground.

  The old driver was in a sad plight, and he looked helplessly at thewreck of his team. He turned wistfully to the Warder and asked him tosend one of the prisoners to his aid.

  "Here, you, No. 16," shouted the Warder to the Duke; "lend a hand hereon the road; look alive, now." The old man went toward the wall, as ifnothing could surprise him, no indignity arouse a spark of resentment.He tried to hurry to win the Warder's approbation; but in doing so hestumbled in climbing the low wall, upon which he turned to the officerwith a look of apology.

  Geoffrey took advantage of this moment to offer his services. He leapedfrom the cairn, and asked the Warder to let him take the place of theold man.

  "All right--go along. Here, you, No. 16, scramble back to your work. Ifyou 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 hetook his place on the windlass again, and Featherstone looked down fromthe cairn at both his old friends with actual tears in his eyes.

  Meanwhile Geoffrey had gone out to Reynolds, and in bending to the shaftgave the old man's hand a grip of welcome and gratitude. Reynolds movedto the other side of the cart, and stooping out of sight of the Wardertook 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 inthe bight!"

  There was a brief excitement in which the Warder joined, whileFeatherstone played his part to the life. When it had passed the cartwas raised, and Geoffrey had the letter in his stocking.

  Reynolds gave Geoffrey a look that was better than words, and then hethanked the Warder and went off with his donkey.

  "Bravo!" whispered Featherstone as Geoffrey joined him; "that was donein 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 kindsof encouraging words to the old men at the wheel. He felt the letter inhis stocking all the time, and wondered why he could not read it by veryinsight. He turned a hundred times in alarm to see if the Warder's eyeswere 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 apractical man.

  Oh, how long the hours were, till at last the prison-bell rang at sixo'clock, and the gangs all over the farm formed into little squads andmarched toward the prison, the warders drawing after them the light ironbridges of the canals, which were locked on one side every night. Bythis means "The Farm," which was intersected by a score of these wideand deep trenches, was impassable; and as it hemmed in one side of thehill on which the prison stood, with a guard tower on either end, it wasa greater safeguard even than the wall of the prison.

  The four political prisoners marched into the yard. The Warder, beforelocking 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 thatno weapons or tools were concealed. As his hand passed over the letterin 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 theself-locking door with a bang
. Then he sat down on his hammock andhugged himself with joy.

  When all was quiet on the long corridor and the prisoners were eatingtheir meagre supper Geoffrey drew out his letter and broke the outercover. 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 somethingAmerican in the 'Mr.'"

  This thought naturally led him to think of one in America whosehandwriting 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 ofthe Royalist prisoners" as well.

  The letter was written on small sheets, joined at the top by a thinbrass holder. From the first word it was a plan to escape from Dartmoorand from England. It showed that everything had been carefully examinedand considered by those outside before they had attempted to communicatewith the prisoners; and all that remained must be done by those withinthe 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 miserablesupper of dry bread and cocoa. He impressed every detail on his mind sothat the writing might be destroyed. Then he began to eat and thinktogether, and it was nearly morning before the thinking ceased. In hismind he must settle every difficulty, foresee and circumvent everydanger before he made a move. Were it only his own peril he wereconsidering he would have had small anxiety. But now he felt on himselfthe burden of the lives of his three friends, who would undoubtedlyattempt to carry out his arrangements. At last he fell asleep, and itseemed 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 hisdifficulties: he had no means of writing to his unknown friends. But themind springs to experiment when it is left alone. In a minute he hadpaper, 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 thefloor was made. He had swept it into a little heap with his hardfloor-brush, and mixed it with water from his washing basin. His pen wasthe wire-twisted end of his leathern boot-lace; and his paper, wholeleaves carefully torn from the Bible, across the small type of which hewrote 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'clockbell rang, and the bolts of five hundred cells shot back by one mightystroke of a steam piston-rod, he paraded with his companions, and thefour were marched off to their work at the monument.

  Sydney and the Duke walked together in rear of Geoffrey andFeatherstone. The Duke, in order to keep up with the regulation pace,secretly clung to Sydney's arm, which he dropped when the officer lookedround and took again when the danger had passed.

  When they came to the tool-shed, the prisoners went in one by one fortheir tools, which were piled up and taken away day after day, by thesame men in the same order. The portable steam-engine was to the left ofthe door. Geoffrey went straight to it, opened the furnace door, andleft his letter.

  A few minutes later, when they were on the cairn, Featherstone'sanxiety spoke in his eyes, and Geoffrey told him the whole story, in awhisper, 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 underthe eye of the Warder. "Those two could never escape from the cells, norclimb the walls if they did."

  "True," answered Featherstone, with a despondent manner; "but we are nonearer freedom than ever, if we have no definite plan."

  "I have a definite plan," said Geoffrey, "and I think a good one. Wemust remain outside some evening when the convicts march in. On everyevening but Wednesday and Saturday we go straight to our cells when wego in from work, and we close our own doors, so that if we remainedoutside on any evening but those two we should be instantly missed. OnWednesday and Saturday evenings the prisoners are taken off work onehour earlier and are sent to school. We want at least an hour's startfor 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 besideus."

  "We must manage to send him off or have him called away," answeredGeoffrey. "Can it be done?"

  Featherstone did not answer. He went on working; he even spoke aboutother things, as if he had not heard Geoffrey's question. In about halfan 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 andfoot."

  "No," said Geoffrey, with a smile at his friend's gloom; "but that isjust what the Warder must say."

  "What! Seize him and tie him up?" asked Featherstone, with a flash inhis 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 allhis loud talk he has been kind to those two old friends. Just look atthem 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. Thatwon't hurt him, will it?"

  "No; but should he make a noise?"

  "Trust me, Ripon; I could strangle him with one
hand. I shall simplyhold him by the throat while Sydney gags him, you tie his hands, and theDuke 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 agiant grip.

  "Now, tell Sydney and the Duke as soon as you can. To-morrow is ourfirst day of opportunity, and we must be ready. Should it rain heavilyor should the mist hang, we shall take our chance. All we have to do isto secure the Warder just as the five o'clock bell rings, and lie downover 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 asusual."

  Before night Featherstone had told the Duke and Sydney, and the mannerof those convicts changed mysteriously from that moment. Their gloomvanished. They smiled at Geoffrey every time he met their eyes. Theywere constantly whispering to each other and smiling, and often theylooked long at the Warder and measured him as a foeman.

  The next day was Wednesday. It rained in the morning, and the hearts ofthe four political prisoners went up at the steady down-pour. But thesun burnt through the clouds at noon, and the moor glistened under hisbeams all the rest of the day.

  "Don't fret, Duke," whispered Featherstone. "Our day is coming; we areyoung yet."

  The Duke bowed at the kind words, and he and Sydney smiled broadly atGeoffrey to show him that they were strong-hearted, just as they lookedserious to make the Warder think they were working very hard indeed.

  The next two days were fine, and the Saturday opened with a smile thatfell like a pall on the hearts that pined for freedom. But about threeo'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 Sydneyheard him. A large drop of rain had fallen on his hand, which he heldtoward Sydney. Five minutes later Geoffrey, who had been watching theclouds, bent his head to Featherstone, who was working in a cavity theyhad made in the cairn.

  "To-night, I think," he said. "It promises splendidly."

  Featherstone, who was quite concealed in his hole, laughed quietly, andpointed to his biceps.

  Geoffrey glanced at the two below and found them watching his eye with aquestion. He gave a little nod, and they both smiled, and soon afterturned their gaze on the Warder, who, to escape the rain, had croucheddown in lee of the low wall.

  When Featherstone saw him he said to Geoffrey, "Just look! The Dukealone could capture that fellow now."

  Had the Warder looked closely at his prisoners he might have noticedsomething odd about their proceedings. Though it rained hard none ofthem had donned the heavy striped linen blouse furnished to Dartmoorprisoners for use in wet weather. The truth was that the blouses of allfour were at that time being cut into strips, and twisted into stoutcords by the big Colonel in his hole in the cairn.

  At 4.30 the rain fell with sober steadiness, and there was no longer adoubt. In half an hour the bell would ring. The Warder still crouchedunder the wall.

  Another quarter of an hour passed, and the machinery of escape began tomove.

  "Hold on!" shouted Geoffrey to the two on the windlass. They stopped andstood as if surprised at the tone. Geoffrey meanwhile spoke rapidly andexcitedly 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 towardthe 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. Hehad better come up here and see for himself."

  The Warder heard the words, and climbed the cairn. He knelt on the brinkof the hole and leaned over to see the discovery. A quick, strong pushfrom Geoffrey sent him headlong into Featherstone's arms, and before heknew what had happened the Duke had gagged him with his own woollengloves and handkerchief, and Sydney had tied his hands and feet.

  "Good-by," said Featherstone, as he left him securely fastened at thefoot of the monolith in the hole. "If you had not been kind to our oldfriends you might have been hurt. You will be discovered beforemorning."

  The Duke and Sydney also said "good-by" to the helpless officer, andthen, as the bell rang, the four adventurers lay down in the lee of thewall just where the Warder had sat.

  They heard the gangs march past on the other side of the wall. The soundof the warders locking the iron bridges on the canals came up to themclearly. In a few minutes the whole orderly closing of the day's workwas over. They heard the lower gate of the prison slam heavily intoplace and the key turn in the lock, not twenty-five yards from wherethey lay.

  As soon as the gate was closed, Geoffrey rose and cautiously looked allround. Not a living thing was in sight. He knew that they had a clearhour's start, and he gave the word:

  "Now, friends, follow me."

  They crossed the wall, and ran straight for the new tool-shed. Geoffreyforgot that his speed was much greater than that of the older men.Featherstone kept up; but the Duke lagged, and Mr. Sydney, who ranlamely, was left far behind.

  When the two latter came up to the tool-house they met Geoffrey andFeatherstone shouldering a long new plank, and making for the firstcanal at the foot of the hill.

  "Follow us," they said; and, though awkwardly burdened, they faroutstripped 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 setoff for the next. There were nine canals to be bridged in this way.

  The slowness of Sydney caused the loss of many precious minutes. Atevery trench they had to wait for the poor old fellow. When they came tothe seventh canal, he stood on the prison side when all had crossed, andrefused to move.

  "God speed you, my dear friends," he said, with quivering voice. "Icannot go any farther. You will all be lost if I attempt it. I cannotrun 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 couldnot speak.

  Without a word, Featherstone recrossed, seized Sydney in his arms, andcarried him bodily over. Geoffrey pulled in the plank alone, and startedfor the eighth canal.

  Mr. Sydney did not speak; and now he seemed even to gain new strengthand speed. He kept up bravely, and even crossed the next canal ahead ofthe Duke. There now remained but one more.

  "Fifty minutes gone," said Geoffrey in a low voice as Featherstone ranover the plank. "That bell rings at ten minutes to six."

  "Bravo, Duke!" cried Featherstone, as the old man stepped from theplank. "Come, Sydney."

  But Sydney did not come. Instead, when he came up to the canal, he bentdown, seized the plank, and pitched it into the deep trench which ranrapidly and carried it off toward the marsh.

  "Now go; and God bless you all!" cried Sydney, and he turned back andwent 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 orspeak, 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. Thenhe 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 gatesopen and a crowd of warders rushing down the hill shouting. They hadseen the escaped prisoners just as they reached the top of the hill.

  Sydney's heart failed him w
hen he saw the speed with which the pursuitcrossed the marsh. The light bridges of the canals were easily openedand 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 andran 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 ayouth of twenty rushing for a football.

  Straight toward the ninth and last canal he dashed, where his friendshad crossed beside the locked bridge. He was panting like a hunted wolfwhen he reached the spot and sank down where the bridge was locked tothe bank.

  By this time the warders were at the eighth canal, howling like demonsat sight of Sydney. They howled louder when they overtook him and foundwhat he had done.

  Mr. Sydney had filled the padlock of the bridge with small stones, andhe stood aside with a grave face, looking at the warders as they triedto open it. When they understood the daring trick, one brutal fellowrushed at Sydney and struck him heavily on the face.

  The old man reeled from the blow, and then recovering himself, turnedfrom the ruffian and looked with disgust and surprise, not at him but athis crowd of fellow-warders.

  "Stop that!" shouted one of them to Sydney's assailant. "That's nocriminal; and this is no criminal's trick."

  There was no crossing this last canal without a bridge or a plank, forthe 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, weremiles on their way toward that gentleman's steam yacht, which awaitedthem in the harbor of Torquay.