CHAPTER XXII.
A BATTLE IN THE ROTUNDA.
At 2 o'clock the alarm bell rang out thirteen ominous notes. This wasthe fire-box of the prison. The flames had broken out in thewicker-workers' shop, where the younger and lighter convicts plaitedsummer chairs, flower-stands and all kinds of basket articles. On a highthrone set against the middle of one wall sat Johann Koerber, the deputyin charge, overseeing everything, pistol in hand. He was a Titan of 300pounds, who might have proved admirable in his proper work of puttingmaniacs in strait-jackets. But his selection as overseer of thework-rooms was another instance of Tapp's want of judgment. For all hisformidable strength, Koerber lacked the power to govern. The slenderestboy did not fear him, while even "papa," the giant negro who loaded theteams, stood in awe of "Slim" Butler, the lightweight deputy who hadcharge of the harness-makers. Right under Koerber's eye, the match wasapplied in several places, and almost before he smelled smoke the canesand osiers were on fire.
Then came the wild riot. In every shop but "Slim" Butler's the officerin charge was overpowered before the alarm bell had ceased ringing.Butler held his men down by sheer strength of will, until the sight ofothers rushing about in the yard below drove the men at the windows tofrenzy, and with the loss of one of their number the brave deputy wasdisarmed, mangled, crushed. Brushmakers, tailors, shoemakers, saddlers,teamsters and handy men, all streamed from the workshop doors, making byconcert toward the wire pole in the middle of the yard. Here the RightSpur was executing a dangerous but ingenious maneuver.
Astride of the cross-bars of the pole, which he had climbed in full viewof a dozen deputies, he was cutting the thick telephone wire with a hugepair of shears. The thing could be done in twenty seconds if hisconfederates mobbed the keepers below, and it might mean a delay oftwenty minutes in the arrival of re-enforcements from the neareststation. Stupefied and absorbed, the convict crew were gazing upward attheir chief on his perilous perch, when the tall form of Hawkins wasseen striding down from the bath-room entrance. The other deputies hadcontented themselves with fronting the crowd, shoulder to shoulder,rifles leveled, like a herd of musk-bulls with lowered horns defendingtheir females against wolves or men. Hawkins raised his rifle and fired.
The bullet missed its mark and the crack of the powder roused theconvicts from their stupor. With a bestial cry and faces on fire, theforward rank, pushed on by those behind, swept down on the group ofdeputies. Chisels, mallets, hammers, tools and weapons of all kinds froma wheel-spoke to a blunderbuss were brandished in their hands. Onevolley and the deputies fled--all but Hawkins. Almost simultaneously,it seemed, the second barrel of his rifle hurled its missile, the RightSpur was seen to drop from his post, dragging the severed wire with himto the ground, and "Longlegs" himself was felled, bleeding andsenseless, with a heavy bottle.
The mob would have been glad to outrage his body, but time was preciousand Dickon Harvey had already sped to the north corner of the "bastile"and was beckoning and summoning his men to follow. They rushed in hiswake, turned one corner of the bastile and then another, gave a greatshout of joy as they saw the wide outlet of freedom before them.
The bastile was the great granite castle which contained the cells, acontinuation of the rotunda. It projected into the yard, leaving a widespace at one end and at both sides. On the opposite side from that inwhich the shops were located stood the greenhouses, where Robert Floydwas accustomed to work whenever he wearied of writing. He had beencrouching under the slant glass roof of the conservatory, snipping offthe dead leaves, when the alarm bell sounded. The cries on the otherside of the bastile brought him out on the open grass plot, and he wasstanding there, scissors in hand, when the convict pack swept toward himaround the angle 100 yards away. At the same time he heard the impatientbells of the fire-engines jingling up the street.
The riot had been ably planned. Over on this side of the yard stood theentrance for teams. It was this point that the fire engines from withoutand the convicts from within were making for together. The alternativeoffered was that of letting the workshops burn or of emptying the jailof its inmates. Outside there was a ponderous iron gate, guarded by adeputy. Within this a stout one of oak wood, which a convict wasdetailed to open and shut. This convict was no other than MinisterSlick, who had persuaded the warden to assign him to this light duty onthe score of advancing age and feebleness.
Minister Slick's door was only open a crack. He was too cunning to givethe deputy outside a view of the convicts racing down the yard. Notuntil the outer iron gate was swung back and the fire horses camegalloping along did he throw his own gate in, without any markedevidence of "feebleness." The fire engine burst through; the convictswere at hand. Before the heavy iron gate outside could be shut theywould be down upon its guardian and he would be swept aside like asapling before the moose.
Floyd was quick to take in the situation and quick to choose his courseof action. The deputies were flying in every direction before thevictorious mob. A hundred yards can be covered in a very few seconds,even by men who are not professional sprinters. The wooden gate must notremain open.
The fire engine shielded him from the gaze of Minister Slick, who haddrawn a revolver, but, not daring to attack the outside deputy alone,stood awaiting the onset of his fellow-prisoners. Robert was upon him inan instant and drove the greenhouse scissors into his neck, then thrusthim aside, swung the door to with a mighty shove and turned just in timeto dodge the rush of the maddened convicts.
Fifty of them flung themselves against the gate. It groaned but heldfirm. The original oak had buffeted winter gales fiercer than this, whenthe sap was in its veins and its green leaves rustled about thespreading branches. Like a wave of ocean breaking into foam against acliff the oncoming mob scattered and reeled back in indecision. Severalof them made at Robert, hurling their weapons at his flying form. Othersran along the great wall, like tigers along their cage bars, as iffeeling for an opening. Only Dickon Harvey, from the moment that theinner gate clanged, had stood still in the middle of the clashingthrong, turning his head to and fro and studying the situation. He wasnot slow to make up his mind.
"Out by the rotunda!" he shouted, waving his hand, and the whole rabblewas making for the rotunda before the fire-horses had rounded the angleof the bastile at the other end of the yard.
Now Robert, hemmed in by a broad line of 400 armed opponents, hadalready chosen this outlet of escape for himself. He had foiled theirplan and it would go hard with him if he and they should remain withinthese prison walls alone. There was a possibility that the flyingdeputies had left the rotunda doors ajar, since they were so heavy as torequire several seconds to open and shut. So through the kitchen, up theiron stairs and across the tiled floor of the rotunda he sped, with theforemost of the pursuers almost at his heels. Only one deputy, Gradger,opposed himself to his progress, gun in hand, and Robert eluded him withthe ease of a football dodger.
Both doors were ajar, the outer one, however, only a dozen inches orless. Perhaps twenty feet lay between him and safety. He had almostflung himself upon the knob, when a man coming toward him from theoutside forestalled his purpose and drew the door to with a clang. Itwas Tapp, who from his office, unable to rally his routed deputies, wasrushing to the scene of the riot, determined to retrieve by a last actof courage the numberless shortcomings of his administration.
Robert's predicament was fearful. The door barred egress, the dogs wereat his heels. Something of the cowering awe that benumbs the stag whenhis legs at last tremble under him and he turns to face the baying packswept through his breast for an instant. But it was no more than aninstant, for the young man's blood was roused and it was not unmixedwith iron. With a leap at the knob and a mighty tug he drew the innerdoor between himself and the criminals.
A snarl, hardly human, burst from hundreds of throats when they saw thislast avenue closed. The thick glass of the door was splintered in ajiffy and vicious hands, armed with bludgeons and cutting tools,stretched through the bars at the traitor who had
twice cheated them. Asgreen displaces yellow in the chameleon's coat, so a wave of revengesuddenly swept aside the hope of escape in the temper of the crowd.Fortunately the space between the two doors was so wide that Robertcould back away and avoid the blows intended for his vitals.
But he had not reckoned on Dickon Harvey. Harvey had been the first tohurl himself on the door that Robert drew between the convicts andhimself. Without a word, without a moment of hesitation, he had turnedback diagonally, the others making a lane for him, and thrown himself onthe turnkey Gradger. The struggle was fierce. Had Harvey been alone, hewould have gone down underneath in the bout. But he was not alone.Twenty hands reached at the keeper and presently Harvey came pushingthrough the others, waving a huge bunch of keys over his head with ashout that the whole hall echoed.
Robert looked behind him through the outer door. Tapp had disappearedinto his office. There was only the clerk and some idlers about and noneof these, if they could have opened the door, dared to exercise thepower. It was only a question of time when Dickon Harvey would find theright key. He could see the weapons waving in bared right arms and theshouts of the rabble once more had a hopeful ring. He said nothing, didnothing. There was nothing to do. But a rippling in his cheek showedthat his teeth were clenching and unclenching. Instinctively he spreadhis arms out, backing against the outer door, clutching the bars andfacing his hunters. It was the attitude of crucifixion.
"Ha!" Dickon Harvey was silent as death, but the shriek of exultationtold that his wrist had turned on the handle of the key. It fitted thewards. Slowly, all too slowly for the convicts, all too quickly forFloyd, the inner door was drawn ajar and the foremost men crouched tospring. Then came a crash in the glass behind Floyd at his very ear. Along tube of steel passed by his cheek, and, turning, he looked into theeye of Warden Tapp sighting along the barrel of a rifle. The report rangout and Dickon Harvey fell forward, the keys jangling at his feet.Robert wrenched them from his unclasping hand. They were his onlyweapon. He had lost the scissors.
At the fall of Harvey the men recoiled for an instant. Quickly anotherrifle, and another, and another were thrust through the bars behindRobert, and he was cautioned to stand motionless. Like a mountebank'sdaughter, whose body outlined against a board the father fringes withskillfully cast knives, each missing her by only a hair, the prisonerstood with his arms outspread, protected by the chevaux de frise ofprotruding guns. Several of the defenders were kneeling and one thrusthis muzzle between the young man's legs.
"Retire!" said Tapp. "Clear the rotunda!" The men sullenly stood.
"One! Two----"
Before the fatal "Three" was added they broke and turned. Then themuzzles were drawn in, the door behind Robert opened and the warden, atthe head of half a dozen deputies and a dozen policemen who had justarrived, charged in upon them. The odds were twenty to one, but with theRight Spur lying senseless under the telephone pole, Minister Slickwounded at the gate where Robert had stabbed him and Dickon Harvey deadon the threshold to freedom, the rabble was merely a torso of Hercules,formidable in physique but powerless without head or limbs. The clubs ofthe officers made heavy thuds and the red blood starting here and theresplashed curious spots of color in the dingy crowd. At one stairwayRobert saw the tall form of Hawkins, bleeding but revived, thrashingaround with an empty gun barrel. Then the mob was driven down thestairs, dividing itself into two portions in the right and left yards.
"Open the team gate," cried Hawkins, leading the deputies and officersto the left, through the kitchen, instead of to the right through thebath-rooms, whither Tapp had started. This time the warden was contentto follow and the reason became at once apparent. The solitary fireengine stood over against the burning shops, helpless without its hose.From the outside several streams were playing on the buildings and thefiremen, mounting by ladders, were climbing along the roof. But accessfrom within was necessary if any headway were to be made. The enginesstood outside the gate, occupying the interval of delay by getting uptheir fires.
Hawkins stationed his men in a cordon across the gate and admitted theengines and hose carriages and ladder trucks. One by one they dashed bytill as many as could be supplied with water from the hydrants in theyard had entered. Then the tall deputy locked the others out, detailedone squad to guard the rotunda and another to close all doors of thebastile. With the remainder of the company, re-enforced by morepolicemen and keepers, he began to corral his steers.
In order to do this it was necessary that his own men should maintainthe solidarity of a phalanx, while deploying out like a line ofskirmishers from wall to wall. Spread over the width of the yard at oneside, they began their march with rifles and revolvers ready. Thestragglers fled before them. Their gait was slow. Turning the upperangle, an ambush was to be feared, but the spirit of the convicts wasbroken and they only hurled their weapons and fled. Hawkins wheeled hisline to the right, making the pivot-mark time, and passed along the endof the yard, which was deserted. Turning the second angle, a moredesperate resistance was shown. Here all was confusion, the engines andburning shops offering places of refuge, while the presence of thefiremen made it impossible to shoot. Hawkins halted his command.
"All firemen in the yard fall behind this line!" he shouted. The firemenleft their engines, several of them only tearing themselves away byforce. Three were captured and held in front by the convicts. Theothers, seeing this murderous purpose, could hardly be restrained fromrushing to their rescue.
"Club guns!" cried Hawkins, and the breeches instead of the muzzles werepresented to the mob. But they seemed to dread this end of the weapon asmuch as the other, for they released the firemen and slowly withdrew,Hawkins' line continuing its Macedonian march. Suddenly from a thicknucleus among the rebels, a spokesman started forward with a whitehandkerchief tied to a pole. Hawkins motioned him back and the march wascontinued. The men were penned up against the bath-room entrance,leading into the rotunda and the bastile, where four deputies withleveled rifles prevented escape. Hawkins had cleared the hydrants andthe firemen resumed their work.
"Deputies at the bath-room door fall back and guard the stairs leadingup to the rotunda! The prisoners will file into their cells in thebastile!"
This was the last straw. A yell of rage burst from the mob. To be flungback into their kennels with the bitter crust of disappointment to gnaw,and the prospect of punishment for the day's misdoings, this was toomuch to endure without a last resistance. They turned upon their keeperswith the courage of the beast at bay.
"Now!" cried Hawkins, and his line rushed forward. The hand-to-handstruggle of the rotunda was renewed more equally, for there wereresolute men in the mob, men reckless of life and maddened by thegoading around the yard. Nor was their accoutrement of iron toolsdespicable. Dozens slipped through the line, and policemen as well asconvicts were seen staggering under blows. But the timid ones speedilyfled into the bastile, and, thinning the multitude, robbed it of thatconsciousness of numerical superiority which had given it confidence. Atlast not more than twenty desperadoes remained, backs to the wall, infront of the line.
"Club them down!" cried Hawkins.
There was no choice but to obey. The men were of that mettle whichbreaks but does not bend. One by one they were beaten to the ground.
The whole of the afternoon was required to lock the mutineers upproperly. With the aid of those prisoners who had not joined the riotthe fire in the shops was finally put out and a good deal of theproperty was saved. Only one life had been lost, that of Dickon Harvey,but the hospital beds were full that night.
When Warden Tapp called Robert to the office and thanked him in personfor his behavior at the team gate and in the rotunda there were tears inthe proud man's eyes. This was a shameful legacy of ruin and rebellionwhich he was leaving to his successor.
Passing out of the warden's room, through the rotunda, Robert heard thefamiliar voice which had puzzled him so often.
"Aisy, Misther Butler, aisy, for the love o' heaven," the uncouth fellowgroaned.
Floyd turned and looked. "Slim" Butler, the overseer of theharness-shop, was superintending the transfer to the hospital on animprovised stretcher of the prisoner whom he had shot when his sectionrose against him. His own head was bandaged and his clothes were burned.The firemen had rescued them both with difficulty. But the face of theprisoner caused Robert to start, for he recognized in the convict whomDobbs called Quirk his uncle's coachman, Dennis Mungovan.
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery Page 22