The Rupa Book Of Great Escape Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  Then, weak as I was, I did that chill morning what I do not think I would be able to do to-day. I pulled myself hand over hand up the long chain which passed from ship to buoy and found myself, with scarcely an ounce of strength left, on the ship's deck. Less than six feet from me was a big box arrangement filled with old sails, and I jumped into this after a single glance around to satisfy myself that no one had seen me.

  I was safe. Safe! Safe! I pulled some of the sails on top of me, closed my eyes, and the overwhelming thought that I was free of all pursuit sent a heavenly feeling of comfort through my whole body. Safe! I could not realise it.... Then an icy chill shot through me. Was I safe? The water had been dripping from me when I came on board. I must have left a wet trail across six feet of deck. Was I safe? Would some of the crew chance to see that tell-tale wet mark, or would it have dried up by the time they were awake? Was I safe? The idea came to me that I should dry up that mark on the deck with a piece of sail, but the heat of my body was beginning to make my hiding-place rather comfortable and I fell asleep before I could flog my will into carrying out the instructions of my mind.

  Heavy feet were tramping the deck all around me when I awoke. A dozen times, it seemed, some one walked up to within a few inches of where I lay and a dozen times I looked fearfully up in the expectation of being discovered. But no. The footsteps passed by, succeeded by others a minute or two later, which in turn passed by, to be succeeded by others....I was safe!... No one knew I was on board!

  I heard the pleasant swish of water against the ship's side. I heard the steady throb of the ship's engines, and I thrilled all over to think that I was at sea....At sea!...In Algeria no longer. In Morocco no more....At sea! I was free, and at sea. I closed my eyes, and a wordless prayer of thankfulness went up from me, as heartfelt a prayer as mortal man can make.

  Then came the sweetest music I have ever heard, a man's rough voice. Aye, an what's mair, the He'rts never had a look- in for the rest o' the game. They werena a patch on Hibs that season.' That was all I could make out, the fragment of a football conversation, but the words warmed my heart as if it had been the voice of my own father. The Scots accent—how homely, how beautiful it was.... So I was amongst Scotsmen on this ship. So much the better. I had good reason to think highly of Scotsmen. There was Miller, for instance. God had never made a more noble soul than poor Miller. Poor Miller, dead.

  With a sigh of contentment, I fell asleep once again. Never was there more comfortable bed made than that sail-box.

  Something was gnawing me from within when I again awoke. I was refreshed, wonderfully refreshed, yet that something inside me would allow me no rest.... Hunger, good healthy hunger.

  I had no means of estimating how long I had been on the ship, but the hunger warned me that it must have been forty-eight hours, at least. I had had ample opportunity since joining the Legion of becoming acquainted with the graduated degrees of semi-starvation and I reckoned that I had had nothing to eat or drink for fully two days.... The ship must be well out at sea by this time, I thought, for it had been in motion when I awoke the first time.... Everything would be all right. I was among Scotsmen. I must surrender myself as a stowaway, at once. The hunger could no longer be denied.

  So I pushed the sails to one side and stood up, feeling extremely weak in the legs.

  I stepped over the low side of the sail-box, unnoticed, and with a hand on the deck-rail slowly made my way towards the bow, where a broad-shouldered seaman was standing with his back to me.

  He turned round when he heard my footsteps and started back a pace. Then he stared at me as if he were looking at a ghost.

  'Where the hell hae ye come frae?' he exclaimed, completely astonished.

  'Give me something to eat. I'm starving,' was all I could answer.

  He continued to stare at me incredulously, and then shouted to another seaman who appeared from behind a hatchway. He in turn gave me a long, bewildered look, as if unable to believe his eyes. Soon I was surrounded by six or seven others, whom I told, in a few words, of my having escaped from the Legion.

  'Come wi' me to the captain. He'll see everything put right,' said one of the men kindly, and slipped his arm round my waist to assist me in walking. I was terribly weak and no doubt my unexpected appearance on board the ship was a bit startling to the men. If I looked as worn-out as I felt, I must have presented a pretty picture indeed.

  The captain, Mr Biglands, listened to me without making a single interruption. I told him, briefly, of everything that had happened to me—Boulogne, Dunkirk, Touloin, Marseilles, Oran, Sidi-bel-Abbes, Ainalager, Morocco—together with a fuller account of the escape. When he heard about poor Miller, I saw him swallow hard.

  Ten minutes later I was sitting down to a meal fit for the gods. I ate, and ate, and ate until I could eat no more.

  Then a pair of seaman's stout trousers, a seaman's stout jersey, and a seaman's stout jacket were given me to wear. I had the rare luxury of a wash and shave, a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches were pressed into my hand without a word, and I soon found myself sitting at ease on a bunk with a circle of friendly faces round me.

  It seemed as if I had known that ship's crew all my life. They were my friends, every one of them, and I knew that they were interested in what had happened to me. They wanted the full story of my experiences.... So I told them everything—everything that had happened to me since the day I joined the Legion. How they listened! How eager they were to hear every word!... But I am no great shakes at telling a story by word of mouth—or by pen either, for that matter—so I simply told them the bald facts. But I told them every fact, omitting nothing, and the night must have been far advanced before I was nearly finished.

  'Dinna ye see the laud's fair played oot? Let him get to his bed an' we'll hear the rest o't in the mornin',' broke in a rough voice, kindly, and the audience at once broke up, to return to my bunk in a few minutes with as many blankets as would have smothered me. I lay back, closed my eyes, and was instantly asleep.

  Think of heaven and you have an exact picture of the days that followed. The captain and crew of the Maindy Hill vied one with the other in doing me kindnesses. Every soul on board was a Scotsman—with the exception of myself, of course—and a whole book written about their overwhelming kindness would not do justice to them.... I cannot give anything except a vague idea of their hospitality and generosity.

  The Maindy Hill was a Fifeshire trader, I learned, plying between Scodand and the North African coast. The captain, Mr Biglands, agreed to put me ashore at the first port of call, which was his home port of Methil, Fifeshire, and I offered to work my passage. Mr Biglands thereupon gave a humorous look at my thin arms and advised me not to attempt anything of the sort until I was a bit stronger.

  I would willingly have worked my fingers to the bone in order to repay in some measure the kindness of the captain and crew, but Fate would not allow it.

  Three days after I had given myself up as a stowaway, I went down with typhoid fever. The captain immediately had a bunk rigged up for me in his own quarters. I was tended day and night with wonderful care, but I remember nothing more until the Maindy Hill put in to Methil, Fifeshire, where I was handed over to the care of a new angel in the form of a nurse.

  I was taken to Cameron Infectious Diseases Hospital, Cameron Bridge, East Fifeshire, where I lay for ten weeks hovering between life and death. The skill, patience, and kindness of the matron, sisters, and nurses of that hospital, allied to the assistance of Dr Skinner, Buckhaven, eventually pulled me out of the new Valley of the Shadow of Death wherein I found myself, and to-day, by their miraculous care, I am alive.

  I must have been a troublesome patient. Dozens of times did I awake during the night and imagine the sister's headdress to be the turban of an Arab. Dozens of times was I held down on my bed by strong, friendly arms when every nerve in me was urging me to flee out of the stockade and fire down on the Arabs whom I saw crawling up the hill towards me. Dozens of times I
saw the isolation ward crammed full of sneaking Arabs, every one of whom had a long curved knife in his hands, coming towards me—towards me.... I must have been a troublesome patient. And from the bottom of my heart I would publicly express my gratitude and thanks to the whole staff of that hospital. I owe my life to each one of them individually. Never will I forget Cameron Bridge, Fifeshire, as long as I live. Neverl

  I would also like to thank publicly the captain and crew of the Maindy Hill. I will carry the memory of their thousand kindnesses in my heart for all time. I owe my life to them, too, as completely as I owe it to Smithy, and the six-foot German.... Maindy Hill is a name that is inscribed deeply on my heart.

  I have brought home some terrible memories with me— livid, ineffaceable—but one memory, radiant, beautiful, takes pride of place over all others, the memory of Jamie Miller, the man whom I loved as a brother, who lies buried in a nameless sand-hill somewhere in northern Algeria. May he rest in peace.

  My story is ended. I have no more to say.... But, hold! Yes, I have.

  I have given you a straightforward, unvarnished account of what happened to me, and my escape after eight months' service in the French Foreign Legion. Eight monthsl How much more would have happened had I remained in the Legion for the whole of my five years' term of service? What might not have happened in that time? Anything is possible— in the Legion. I shudder to think what kind of a man I would have become, what kind of a beast I would have become, if I had remained in the Legion for five years.

  These experiences which happened to me a few months ago are happening to-day to some one else. They will happen to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow, and they will happen every day.... Would you like them to happen to your own son, or to your own brother?

  No more would I.

  So I have had the boldness to dedicate this poor literary effort of mine to the League of Nations, keeper of the world's conscience, in the hope that the world's conscience will be stirred.

  ESCAPES OF A STUNT REPORTER

  J. Murray Smith

  ight! Let her go!'

  The sudden, ear-shattering bark of an open exhaust, mechanics scurrying clear—and the motor-cycle began its crazy career around the Wall of Death.

  Rapidly it gathered speed in the bottom of the pit, leaping fiercely around in ten-yard circles, while I prepared for an exciting few minutes.

  I was sitting on the handlebars.

  The driver, Earl Ketring, leaned forward and shouted one word into my ear.

  'Now!'

  As, instinctively, I threw my weight inwards, the machine fairly leapt from the ground and shot up the wall, so violently, that I was pinned into my place.

  The world had turned upside down, but I gripped the bars between my bent knees and hung on grimly. The heavily studded tyre was spinning between my feet, leaping and plunging against a vague, dark background.

  Then I saw it assume curious shapes, twisting and buckling unaccountably, although the machine was still travelling without mishap.

  The wall too—that vague background—had turned back and was rising and falling in oily waves. With a sickening jolt of terror I realised that I had been seized with giddiness, was on the point of falling...

  You know, of course, about this Wall of Death. It is a circular wooden pit, ten yards across and sixteen feet deep. The wall is perfectly upright except near the bottom, where it slopes towards the centre, saucer fashion.

  To watch the performance, you stand on a narrow platform, to which you have climbed by a stairway, looking over the top of the wall.

  In the well of the pit, there is generally a small party of riders and mechanics, tinkering with powerful looking motor-cycles.

  A rider mounts a machine, kicks it into life, and begins to ride round the bottom of the pit with increasing speed, while the other people draw exactly into the centre of the pit and well out of the way of the rider.

  The motor-cycle gathers momentum, and the noise of the exhaust—there are no silencers—rises to nerve-shattering intensity. Then, when the rider is hurtling around like a human top, he gives a curious jerk of the handlebars and shoots up the wall. For a split second it looks as though he must crash into the horrified people on the platform, but he pulls to one side and careers round the wall within a few inches of the top.

  That rider is taking his life in his hands. If he permits his speed to drop when he is leaning down too far, he will crash to the bottom with three hundred pounds of machinery on top of him. A high speed is essential if he is to defy gravity and remain on the wall.

  Several times he circles the pit, and then, reducing his speed, skids in sickening fashion to the bottom again.

  Then another machine takes the wall, while the first rider sets out to pursue the other. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour—all within that confined circular space—and one rider passes the other in mid-air. The faintest error in judgment, the least touch of an elbow, and both would crash—perhaps to their death. They have never misjudged yet, simply because they would not be still riding if they had.

  The Wall of Death is a stunt which grew from a once famous cycling act. That was the time when a pedal cyclist dashed round an inclined wooden wall, risking a nasty spill. His speed was necessarily low, of course, and he had not far to fall, for the wall upon which he rode was not nearly upright.

  That, however, was over twenty years ago. Then a young man named Perry conceived the idea of using a motor-cycle, and gradually adopted a steeper wall. He is now world-famous as Captain Bob Perry, the most daring motor-cycle rider ever known.

  Times out of number he has crashed, and there is scarcely a bone in his body which has not been broken at least once. To-day he has a knee-cap of silver, besides various other metal additions to his bone structure.

  Perry has taught daring young men—and one or two women—to ride the Wall of Death. Earl Ketring is one of the men.

  I met him at Olympia, where the proprietors of the Wall of Death were giving a show. After a brief talk, I signed a little draft to the effect that I was risking my own fool neck in undertaking this maddest of mad trips.

  'Nice day, I guess,' Ketring grinned, and bent over a motorcycle. I noticed the powerful build of his shoulders and the slight bow of his legs. Ketring is a small man but finely developed.

  He gave me brief instructions. I was to sit on the tank of the machine with my feet over the handlebars, hold the bars fairly lightly, and lean well forward....

  Then Ketring was in the saddle behind me, and the gallant little engine was spitting and roaring. We began to move, suddenly and fiercely. I gripped the handle bars with my bent legs and took a deep breath.

  Next moment the world turned upside down. I realised that we had dashed up the wall, and instinctively threw my weight inwards.

  I dared not shut my eyes, but I knew that at any moment I should fall over the front wheel—I could not overcome the awful, sickening giddiness.

  Another second and I should have crashed to death, dragging Ketring with me.

  'Head—head up!' screamed a voice in my ear, and with a despairing effort I threw my head back. In that instant I caught a glimpse of faces beneath my feet, and that touch of realism somehow restored my failing senses.

  My head cleared at once, and I almost liked the sensation of roaring round and round, a few inches from the top of the wall, and with the roof of the building a little distance away on my right!

  I had long since lost all sense of direction. I moved, so to speak, to left or to right—actually, up the wall and down—and nothing else seemed to matter. Once, though, I tried to raise my foot, and found that movement quite impossible. We were, of course, being thrown fiercely against the wall, and my muscular effort could not overcome the centrifugal force.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the experience came to an end. I felt Ketring heave the bike towards the right and knew by the noise that he had 'cut out' the engine. The bottom dropped out of everything, and I guessed we were goi
ng through that awful skid to the bottom of the wall. Once round the pit, with brakes screeching, and we came to a standstill.

  That was one of my early ordeals of terror. These experiences never came easily to me, but I was not spared them on that account. Editors liked such stuff.

  A few days later, I was sent up a chimney shaft, a great derelict that thrust its nose a hundred and twenty feet towards the sky.

  Up the side of it ran a crazy wooden ladder, secured here and there by thin steel bars driven into the brickwork. At the very top was what looked like a match-stick—a slight scaffold consisting of a single board.

  This is a very dangerous structure,' my companion said. 'It has been struck by lightning three times in the past year or two, and is in real danger of collapsing. Of course, it has been out of commission now for years.'

  The speaker was William Larkins the steeplejack, a member of the famous family with whose name the romance of towers and steeples is always associated.

  Judging by the dilapidation and chaos around, it was difficult to believe that this Thames-side rubbish-dump had ever been a busy factory. The only thing of dignity was the tall, slender chimney-shaft; and that, it seemed, was rotten at heart, doomed to be razed to the ground.

  At the moment, however, there were various objections to felling the shaft completely. It could, for instance, only be allowed to fall in one direction, to avoid two important streets— and that particular direction would call for the demolishment of several outbuildings. For the time being at any rate, the old crock had to be patched up.

  The brickwork at the top,' Mr Larkins went on, was in such bad condition, that it could be broken by hand. It was not strong enough to bear the scaffolding, and we have so far thrown down about five feet of the upper masonry. That was in danger of falling anyway. We have now got down to more or less good brick, and we are going to put upon that some new stuff to hold it in position. After that, we shall bind the whole stack with iron bands.'