The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  M'Kelvie had been a Scottish Police "Harriers" man before his wife had had a baby the previous year, so instinct now began to regulate his breathing and dictate a pace. "I'll get 'im," he swore under his breath, and then was out of sight of his fallen companion, who pointed after him wildly as two other Scottish detectives, then Spittle and Pinkerton, who now appeared, followed fast.

  George reached the second curve of Drummond Place—an oval garden within a square, four streets dividing buildings on each side. Flat out, he sprinted around the garden until he was out of sight of M'Kelvie; then, instead of turning into London Street, George continued on until he hit Dublin Street. At the corner beside a Baptist church he recognized from the map he'd studied, George turned again, breathing heavily now from the effort, hoping that he had become lost to whoever was directly behind.

  George had begun running down Dublin Street Lane when he was suddenly faced with what looked like a cul-de-sac. The map as he remembered it had shown no blocked exits here; he swore and slowed a moment, looking over his shoulder. There was the "damn Scot" running for all his worth. George saw before him that perhaps the road did not end but curved again farther along where it became narrow. There, if he was right, a terraced row of houses should begin—but he could not take a chance of becoming bottled up.

  He stopped and leaped for the wall beside him, perhaps nine feet high, that sealed off a terrace from Dublin Street Lane. George pulled himself to the top and stood a moment. Behind him, M'Kelvie was himself almost at the wall, steeling his body for a flying jump; to his rear the others (some way apart now, with Pinkerton in the forefront and, surprisingly, Spittle close up) shouted at M'Kelvie to "Get him."

  George looked down from his position, then crouched on the wall and cursed nervously; he was using every second to regain his breath, for he could see, as his pursuers could not, what lay ahead. Parallel walls, each perhaps five feet high, stretched for several hundred yards into the distance, each enclosing the small, narrow garden of a two-up, two-down drab, though newly built, terraced house.

  It was a nightmare. Even the light was going now, making what was in the distance hazy, but George thought he could just make out the high wall of an adjacent terrace. He jumped down into the first garden, strode four paces, leaped for the wall, swung over into the second garden and again ran for the next five-foot wall.

  M'Kelvie, with great effort, scrambled up the nine feet of end terrace wall. Atop, he saw, as had George, the formidable obstacles.

  "Dear God in Heaven!" he muttered, breathing heavily, feeling his lack of condition. His strength was beginning to ebb, as before his marriage it would not have. "Soft life," he panted to himself.

  Behind him, Spittle leaped for the wall, grazing both hands and his face as M'Kelvie leaned down to help pull him up.

  George was over a third, then a fourth wall as Pinkerton hoisted himself up the nine feet of bricks and mortar to join his two associates.

  "We'll get him!" the American shouted from his vantage point, slumping a moment to regain breath. He gestured at the two others below. "That way," he breathed. "Around!" he exclaimed, and indicated the curving road that did indeed lead through to the front of these terrace houses.

  The two men ran off. Five thousand pounds, even shared, was a huge sum and a fair spur to them all. Spittle and M'Kelvie leaped for the first low garden wall together. Each had a wife who continually emphasized the value of money, and neither wished to have less than the whole reward. Both nen swung over the wall, swearing with anger and some pain; "Pinkerton, close behind, jumped, gripped the top and was over and into the next garden with the two others, who already were striding for the second wall.

  Determination and will fueled the men; they ignored their bodies' pleas to stop. All three leaped for the next wall together.

  George reached the fifth wall—flagging now, but heartened that his pursuers must be in the same condition. He glanced back and saw them coming, two gardens behind; he leaped, again swung over into the next squalid little backyard, where, taking first strides toward the opposite wall, he halted just in time. Bottle glass, jagged-edged, fixed into the brickwork atop the wall ahead made it an impossible obstacle.

  He spun round desperately, looked up at the pitched roof of the building and in the next moment had run to the half-open back door of the terraced kitchen. He took a deep breath and plunged into the house.

  The woman at a gas stove preparing her family's meager supper screamed as an intruder burst into her kitchen. George smashed through the swing door to a small hallway, grabbed the handrail and ran up the stairs two at a time. At the top, on the landing, several children, playing, shouted in amazement as George jumped between them, yelling for the kids to move.

  He entered a small front bedroom. Unable to avoid the bed which took up most of the space, George leaped onto it and kicked out at two hands that reached for his ankles. He was already at the sash window, pulling it up, as the rudely awakened man fell groaning from the bed, holding his jaw.

  George, at the open window, was about to jump into the street when he saw the two Scottish detectives, who had come around to the front of the terrace; they saw him and shouted, breaking into a run. No way down, George could only go up.

  Downstairs, Spittle crashed into the kitchen of the terraced house, M'Kelvie close on his heels, Pinkerton trailing. The woman, already shocked by George's forced entry, collapsed against the side dresser sobbing.

  Pinkerton uttered a harsh apology before following the others up to the landing and front bedroom. A man on the floor was shouting through blood and broken teeth; h, several children, in tears, were screaming, the noise added to by Spittle, who was yelling down to the two policemen below. They were pointing up to the roof.

  Pinkerton leaned out the narrow side window of the bay and craned his neck. A slate fell. Their quarry was up there. Spittle, first wiping the sweat pouring from his face, eased himself out the main window as M'Kelvie squeezed out the other.

  "He'll pay for 'is whistle now," rasped Spittle, and hauled himself out and up onto the roofs edge; his blood was racing and he felt there was no stopping him.

  A narrow tiled pathway ran the length of the terrace. It had been conceived by an architect to accommodate sweeps, who could carefully negotiate the path, inspecting chimney stacks set to one side or the other of the pitched roof. Almost two hundred yards distant was a wall rising above even these roofs, which apparently backed onto another terrace, with an additional third floor.

  George saw two of his pursuers pulling themselves onto the roof. Below in the street, one of the detectives had pulled out a pistol and was shouting something unintelligible to George. He looked again along the spine of the terrace roof, filled his lungs and began to sprint.

  Spittle could hardly believe his eyes. "The man'll walk on water next!" he bellowed hoarsely up to M'Kelvie as, bent over, the man carefully made his way up the slate roof. Spittle staggered and fell heavily. M'Kelvie turned around to see his companion's plight, immediately lost his footing and slid down to the guttering with a shout of fear.

  Pinkerton could see the disappearing figure of George fifty yards away—sixty—seventy, as Spittle clambered back to the roofs edge where M'Kelvie was now propped, still breathing heavily, determined even now to attempt a second ascent.'

  "Damn him!" exclaimed Pinkerton. "Well, follow him!" he shouted down to the two detectives below in the street. They took off down the road. At the end it became a cul-de-sac where the rear of the other terrace formed a high wall. They could see that here George must come to a halt.

  George was tired and bleeding, but raced the final yards to "the back of the three-story terrace that rose above the roof he was on—not knowing how he would get over. In the cul-de-sac below, the two detectives' stumbled toward the end of the street still shouting hoarsely. George, his breath rasping, blessed the architect of the pathway: planning ingenuity, consideration for the sweeps had also provided an iron stepladder that gave acces
s to the next terrace roof. George grasped the rusting metal, pulled himself up the eight rungs panting— exhausted, but by no means finished. In his mind was the one place: Waverley-the railway station.

  The two detectives in the street were joined by Pinkerton, Spittle and M'Kelvie, who ran up from behind. People from the terraced houses had come out to see the source of commotion, and all of them peered above into the fading light to catch sight of "a man on the run."

  Bricks and mortar three stories high, not one window relieving the imposing terrace wall, confronted the five pursuers. Facing its rear to right and left was a narrow lane which led along the back of the terrace. Pinkerton quickly indicated to the two detectives to go in one direction whilst he, M'Kelvie and Spittle followed the lane the other way—out of the cul-de-sac—hoping to get around into what M'Kelvie said would be Broughton Street.

  §

  George slid down the terrace roof that faced Broughton Street, and in so doing gashed his leg on the guttering. He swore in agony, but with no time to assess his wound, he jumped onto the portico of a house doorway and dropped into communal gardens which ran along the front of the terrace.

  George raced across the road to Broughton Place, then turned into Hart Street. He seemed to have lost his pursuers, so thankfully slowed to a jog as if only a man in a hurry. The light had almost gone from the sky, which, with not a cloud in sight, gave George the uplifting feeling he needed. He turned right into Forth Street—which for him was wrong: he had come full circle back to Broughton Street and disaster.

  A shout went up from behind, and George spun around. Several passers-by looked also. They had found nothing particularly unusual about George, disheveled and sweating though he was—it was not an uncommon sight in the poor district—but more shouts focused their attention. They came clear and cold from several voices and from men who looked as though they had the authority to mean it: "Stop him!"

  It was George's heart that stopped—almost. There, not sixty yards away, were his pursuers. Physically, they were in a condition admittedly worse than George's, but now their voices, at least, were full of renewed vigor.

  George guessed that he was less than half a mile from the station; every yard would count. He began to run even more strongly than he had before. With an increasingly powerful stride, George's legs propelled him as if no longer his own. It was a race for life, he well knew. Even if he made the station, he had only a slim chance of freedom—but he had none at all on the streets.

  "Fear lends wings." George remembered the saying and proved it true. He felt his feet flying over the cobbles and pavement squares. If he did nothing else, he'd make that station.

  Within sight of St. Mary's Cathedral, George swung right, crossing the street in front of cabs, broughams, a sweep's cart, several horses (whose riders shouted obscenities), two torch-bearing watchmen and four or five young ladies who should never have been out in the chill of evening.

  George's feet were firm and sure; his heart was steady; his body moved obediently to a rhythm set by steely determination. His stride was long, creating a pace hard to match.

  Behind, it was M'Kelvie who was out ahead; Pinkerton, following close, was now running on his last reserves of energy; Spittle had begun to stumble, but with gritted teeth remained at the heels of his American associate. The two other detectives were wheezing slowly to a standstill, aware that somehow they would arrive at the destination Pinkerton had correctly guessed. He rapped it our hoarsely, but loud and clear:

  "He's makin' for the station, boys!"

  George had entered Albany Street fast. Blood from the deep gash in his flesh was seeping through a long tear in his right trouser leg. His face was cut. Dirt and grime soiled his jacket. His soft leather "Shoes had split along their cross seams and begun to cut into his feet—but still he kept up a relentless pace.

  He ran down a lane to within sight of St. Paul's, turned sharply into York Place and crossed the still-busy thoroughfare. Ignoring the shouts both behind him and from the startled horse-drawn traffic, he entered Elder Street, leading down to the Royal Bank of Scotland.

  George burst out of the narrow street onto the intersection of Leith and Princes streets at Waterloo Place; there to the right of North Bridge was the entrance to Waverley Station. Through sweat-clouded eyes he could just make out the clock above the entrance. It was almost seven. George took Way Steps, the stairway beside Edinburgh's Station Hotel, two at a time. Behind him, the shouts of Pinkerton, Spittle and M'Kelvie were lost in the noise of traffic.

  George leaped off the steps, ran across the station foyer and broke through a crowd at the ticket barrier onto the platform area, shouting something to the inspector at the gate as if he were late for a train. George, breathing heavily, saw that a throng of people were making their way up the steps of a bridge across the tracks. He swore. It would be impossible to pass them, so he took the only other course of action and jumped from the platform edge onto the rails.

  He had already seen his goal—the third platform. A whistle blast echoed throughout Waverley Station as billows of black smoke were accompanied by released steam. The Southern Express for Carlisle and beyond had begun to move out.

  George scrambled up onto the second platform as, behind, his pursuers burst through the ticket barrier.

  Milling crowds awaiting the arrival of the Birmingham express packed the platform as George, oblivious of obstacles, careened into them. He knocked several people aside, sent one man sprawling and kicked into a pile of luggage, which fell across some old women, who screamed loudly. Reaching the edge of the second platform, he leaped down onto the rails. In his mind, a single thought: the departing train, one track away—one platform to cross. George was talking to himself now, almost delirious.

  He shouted in alarm as a huge engine—the Birmingham express—whistle screaming in warning; thundered down on him. George leaped for the platform edge ahead and pressed himself to it. Carriages rattled past as the train slowed, approaching the buffers of its destination.

  Smoke and steam billowed all around. George could hear clearly that the Southern Express, across this final platform, was beginning to draw away. He pulled himself up, staggered out of the swirling smoke and pushed through the crowd of well-wishers waving their last good-byes. He tried desperately to shoulder his way between them to reach out for a moving carriage door. The momentum of the Southern Express was now building quickly; George was forced to run faster.

  Again he knocked into someone. The breath rasped in his throat; his legs were numb; only will power drove him forward. Square on, George hit a man who tried to stand in his way. He hurdled an empty porter's trolley, punched out at a heroic "buck" grasping toward him, kicked the head of a man attempting a flying tackle; suddenly he was through the final cordon of startled young women, out from under the enclosing roof of the main platform.

  George had thirty yards more to make his bid to board the Express. Shouts went up from behind as his pursuers burst onto the third platform and themselves began to run parallel with the train, threading their way fast through the crowds.

  M'Kelvie gritted his teeth; Spittle swore to himself; Pinkerton bellowed harshly, "Hold him!" An ear splitting shriek from the Express, as steam was forced out of its whistle,

  cocooned in noise all witnesses to the final moments of George Bidwell in Edinburgh on Waverley Station.

  §

  In Newgate Prison, Edwin Noyes was drowsing against the wall of his damp cell when his heart suddenly lurched. It brought him to alertness. Edwin stood up. He crossed several paces to the four vertical bars firmly inset at the window. His hands found the two on either side, whilst his head fell against those bars in the center. He remained in this position, feeling the chill of evening. Fear for the future seized both his mind and his soul.

  Thinking of his lost friends, dissolving ambitions and the abortive attempt at riches; absorbing the hopelessness of his situation; having before him not the four pillars of a great gateway through w
hich he could enter to join the Four Hundred, but the bars of a British prison where he must surely rot, Edwin Noyes did two things he had not done in all the time since first he had been incarcerated: he burst into tears of self-pity and began to pray for salvation.

  §

  In New York Harbor, a few yards out from the Thuringia at the water line, Mac hit the surface of the water hard—to experience the immediate darkness of submersion in a cold, black sea.

  The impact knocked all breath from his body. Instinct sealed his mouth; fear flailed his limbs as, hopelessly, he tried to regain control in a world that no longer had gravity or direction. He sank deep. Gasping for oxygen, he found only the all-pervading icy fluid which began to fill every space, flooding ears, nostrils, throat and lungs, dragging him farther down until agony made a nightmare of reality and his fragile senses recognized that all of life was now merely a fading dream.

  Johnny Dobbs had heard the splash as MacDonald hit and immediately cut the motor of his pinnace. Mist swirled about him; he could see nothing. Above, from the Thuringia's decks, he heard voices babbling, but his ears waited for another sound: on the surface of the harbor, where he judged it would come from, of a man in the water, panicking. He gripped his boat hook tightly, knowing he would have only seconds to grab Mac before he sank again.

  "He's gotta rise once," he muttered to himself. "God in heaven—give him the once," he whispered gravely. And—patiently—Dobbs waited. And waited. And waited. And .. . suddenly ... he thought... for a moment. . . that he had heard ... the noise of a man drowning. He thrust the boat hook into the mist toward the sound on the water.