1960 - Come Easy, Go Easy

by James Hadley Chase

  If I were to escape, the attempt would have to be made at night, but first I would have to think of a way to fool those dogs.

  So during the day, while I toiled in the fields and most of the night as I lay in my stinking bunk, I wracked my brains as to how I could lick those dogs, but nothing came up that was of any use.

  Each morning as we paraded for the roll call, I passed the dog pen. There were ten dogs in the steel cage: massive brutes, some Alsatians, some wolf hounds. A man on his own attempting to escape wouldn’t stand a chance against those ten dogs. They would concentrate on him and tear him to pieces before he got twenty yards from the bunkhouse.

  The problem baffled me.

  It wasn’t until I had been at Farnworth for close on a month that I solved the problem.

  I was put on kitchen fatigue: a job every prisoner dreaded.

  The food dished up for the prisoners was practically uneatable. The invariable diet was potato soup in which floated lumps of half rotten meat. Working in the kitchen in the heat and the ghastly stink of rotting meat was an experience to turn the strongest stomach.

  To disguise the taste of the meat, the cook used a lot of pepper, and it was this pepper that gave me the idea of fixing the dogs.

  For the next three days when I returned to the bunkhouse I brought back with me a pocketful of pepper which I hid in a flour sack in my bunk.

  I was now two steps forward in my escape plan. I had the means of opening the door of the bunkhouse and I had a quantity of pepper to throw the dogs off my scent once I reached the river.

  But if the dogs spotted me, no amount of pepper would save me. The pepper would only serve a purpose if I could get out of sight of the dogs, and they then came after me, trying to follow my scent.

  But how was I to reach the cover of the river before the dogs spotted me?

  If I could solve this problem, I was ready to go.

  For the next four days I concentrated on the sounds going on outside the bunkhouse. These sounds gave me a picture of Byefleet’s routine, and I needed that.

  At seven o’clock in the evening, when it was still light, Byefleet took over from the guards. The prisoners were checked and driven into the bunkhouse where one of the trusties fastened on the chains while Byefleet watched. Then the bunkhouse was locked up and Byefleet went over to the dog pen and let the dogs out. Then he went to a hut where there was a bed and lay down: maybe he even slept. With ten dogs doing his work there was no reason why he shouldn’t sleep.

  At a quarter to four in the morning, he left the hut and went over to the kitchen to collect a couple of buckets of meat scraps for the dogs. He carried these buckets into the steel pen and the dogs followed him in. From the noise and the sudden yelps of pain, I guessed he stood over the dogs, supervising them, this took a little time. Then at twenty minutes past four, he locked up the pen and walked over to the steam whistle. He gave it a couple of long, ear-splitting blasts. This was to wake the prisoners and tell the guards the dogs were back their pens.

  This routine never varied. I decided my only chance of escape was to crash out as soon as the dogs began to feed.

  I would only have a small margin of time to get to the river: a distance of a mile across completely flat ground. I was in good physical shape and I was fast on my feet. I could reach the river in under six minutes, but they could be hectic minutes. Only there I would begin to use my store of pepper to blot out my trail. I would keep going until they came after me, then I would hide somewhere until they got tired of looking for me. From then on I would move only at night. I would head for the railway which was about twenty miles from Farnworth. I then planned to jump a train that would take me to Oakland, the biggest town in the district, where I could get lost.

  There was one more thing to worry me. It wouldn’t take a second or so to unlock my ankle chain, but it would take me longer to open the bunkhouse door. While I was doing this, would one of the trusties raise the alarm?

  If one of the trusties started yelling, Byefleet might hear him, then I would be sunk.

  Having got so far with what looked like a nearly foolproof escape plan, I decided I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance if I could help it.

  There is always one man in a prison camp more feared than the rest. At Farnworth this man was Joe Boyd.

  He was not more than five foot three in height, but in breadth he was twice the size of a normal man. His brutal face was a mass of scars from past ferocious fights. His smashed nose spread across his face and his tiny, gleaming eyes peered out from under bushy eyebrows. He looked like an orangutan, and acted like one.

  He slept in a bunk below mine. If I could persuade him to come with me, I was sure no one in the bunkhouse would dare raise the alarm while I worked on the door.

  But could I trust him not to give me away?

  I knew nothing about him. He never spoke to anyone. He kept to himself, but if anyone came too close to him, his enormous fist would crash into their faces, stunning them.

  It would be easy enough to tell him my plan without anyone else overhearing me. All I had to do was to pull aside the filthy blanket covering the wire grill on which I lay, and I would be looking right down on him.

  I spent half the night listening to his violent snoring, and wondering about him. He was hated not only by the prisoners but also by the guards. I couldn’t imagine him giving me away, and finally around two o’clock in the morning I decided to take a chance and include him in my escape plan.

  I undid my ankle chain and pulled aside the blanket.

  I couldn’t see him down there in the darkness, but I could smell him and I could hear his heavy, snorting breathing.

  “Boyd!”

  My voice was low-pitched and tense.

  His heavy breathing abruptly stopped. He had come awake the way an animal comes awake, and I imagined him staring up into the darkness, his little ape’s eyes flickering and suspicious.

  “Boyd! Are you listening?”

  “Huh?”

  The grunt was soft but alert.

  “I’m crashing out in a couple of hours,” I said, keeping my voice to a whisper. “Are you coming with me?”

  “Crashing out?”

  “When Byefleet is feeding the dogs, I’m getting out. Are you coming with me?”

  “You’re nuts! How the hell can you get out?”

  “I’ve got the ankle chain off already and I can get yours off. I can open the door. Are you coming with me?”

  “How about the dogs?”

  “I told you: when Byefleet is feeding them, we’ll go.”

  “Go—where?”

  “To the river. With any luck we’ll get to the railway. It’s worth a try. If you don’t want to come, say so.”

  “You can get this goddamn chain off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get it off!”

  I slid off the bunk and down on the floor beside him. I felt along his massive leg until my groping hands reached the ankle chain. Working in the dark made my task tricky, but after a few minutes I turned the lock and the anklet dropped onto the blanket.

  As I straightened, two hot, sweating hands groped for me out of the darkness, slid up my shirt front and before I could get out of his reach, his fingers fastened around my throat.

  He had a grip like a vice. He nipped my breath off. I didn’t attempt to struggle. I remained on my knees beside him, praying he wasn’t going to murder me.

  Suddenly he let go and his hand caught my shirt front, pulling me against him.

  “Listen, punk,” he snarled, “if you’re figgering to get me in a jam . . .”

  For a moment I struggled to get my breath back into my lungs, then I managed to hiss at him: “Go to hell, you ape! If you don’t want to come, say so!”

  Someone close to us moaned in his sleep. Someone cursed softly. We were whispering together. I could smell his rotten breath. This seemed to be the way to talk to him. His hand slid off my shirt.

  “Yeah, I’ll com
e.”

  “As soon as we get out, we run for the river,” I said. “When we reach the river we split up. They’ll send the dogs after us. If we can reach the river we can fool the dogs. Can you swim?”

  “Never mind what I can do,” he snarled. “You open that door. I’ll take care of myself.”

  I climbed back onto my bunk and lay there, fingering my throat. The first faint light of dawn was beginning to show at the window. In an hour it would be time to make a start.

  I got out the sack of pepper and put it inside my shirt I wasn’t going to share the pepper with Boyd. I might need every grain of it before I got clear of the dogs.

  I lay there waiting, watching the light become stronger and listening to Boyd’s heavy breathing.

  I heard him whisper suddenly, “You sure you can open the door?”

  I rolled over so I could speak to him.

  “I’m sure.”

  “What makes you think we’ll get away with this?”

  “Anything’s better than staying here.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long silence. Then we heard two of the dogs snarling at each other. The sound chilled my blood.

  “Those dogs ...” Boyd muttered.

  “Once they start eating they won’t bother us,” I said.

  “That’s what you hope,” Boyd said, and I caught the fear in his voice.

  Even a brutal ape like Boyd was scared of those dogs.

  Forty long tense minutes crawled by. A thin dagger of sunlight began to move across the floor of the bunkhouse, telling me I had now only a few more minutes before the crash out.

  My heart was thumping and my hands sweating. I could hear the dogs snarling outside. A number of the prisoners began to stir, jerking each other awake with the communal chain and beginning to curse each other.

  I could see Boyd’s face now as I looked down at him.

  “You’re going ahead with this?” he said. “You’re not kidding?”

  “I’m not kidding,” I said.

  The snarling of the dogs suddenly turned to excited barks. That told me Byefleet was making his way from the hut to the kitchen.

  “Watch it one of these guys don’t start yelling while I’m working on the door,” I said to Boyd.

  “I’ll watch it,” Boyd said, and sitting up, he swung his massive legs to the floor.

  I slid off the bunk and crossed to the door.

  One of the trusties, a rat-faced, bald-headed little man, jerked upright on his bunk.

  “Hey, you! Whatja tink ya doin’?” he bawled.

  Boyd came to his feet. He waddled over to the trustie and slammed his fist in his face. The trustie dropped back, blood pouring from his crushed nose.

  Boyd stood in the middle of the bunkhouse, his hands on his enormous hips and glared around.

  “Anyone else want to start something?” he snarled.

  No one moved. By now they were all sitting up staring goggled-eyed at me.

  The lock proved easier than I expected. I got the door open as I heard Byefleet’s bellowing voice cursing the dogs.

  “Let’s go!” I said, aware my voice had shot up a note and feeling cold sweat running down my spine.

  I moved cautiously out into the cool morning air.

  To my right, not more than fifty yards from me, was the dog pen. I saw Byefleet, his back turned to me, pouring a bucket of meat and mash into a trough. The dogs were snarling and snapping at each other as they pressed forward to get at the food.

  Boyd joined me. He, too, looked across at the dog pea.

  “Come on!” I said and started to run.

  I felt naked and scared as I started across that flat stretch of ground with the river so far in the distance.

  I could hear Boyd thudding after me. I could also hear him panting. He wasn’t in my class as a runner, and I quickly shot ahead.

  I’ve never run so fast in my life. I flung myself over the ground, seeing the long line of reeds that guarded the river coming more sharply into focus.

  Then I heard the bang of a gun.

  I slowed a little and looked back over my shoulder.

  Byefleet was out of the dog pen, crouching, holding a .45. He fired again, and I saw a spurt of dust five feet or so to the left of Boyd, who was running doggedly but not making much speed. It was pretty rotten shooting.

  I could hear the snarling and snapping of the dogs. They were too busy to come after us and that gave me heart. I quickened my pace again, and when I was within a hundred yards of the reeds I again looked back.

  Boyd was nearly two hundred yards behind me, but he kept coming.

  The steam whistle was now blasting, and I knew within a very few minutes the guards would be after us.

  I crashed through the reeds, belted along the bank of the river. After I had gone a hundred yards I threw myself down behind a thick shrub.

  Some seconds later I heard Boyd blunder into the reeds. He wasn’t more than twenty yards from me, but the reeds were too thick for him to see me.

  “Hey! Damn you! Where are you?” he panted, pausing to look left and right

  I kept still. I didn’t want him with me. I wanted to split the hunt.

  He waded into the river, paused to look back, then began to swim strongly towards the opposite bank.

  I took out the sack of pepper and filled the turn-ups of my trousers with the stuff. Then I began to move fast and silently along a path between the high bank and the reeds. And when I was sure Boyd, as he swam, couldn’t hear me, I began to run again.

  I had gone some distance along the bank when I heard the horses. Now was the time to hide, and I looked around for a likely place. I found it in a thicket a few yards from the bank. I crawled under cover and lay flat, sweat streaming off me and my heart pounding.

  The sound the horses made as they crashed about among the| reeds was alarmingly close

  There was a sudden shout and then the sound of the splashing of water. I guessed one of the guards was swimming his horse across the river.

  Then I heard a voice bawl, “I can see him!” There was the sound of a rifle shot.

  Another horse splashed into the river. There was more shooting.

  I edged forward, pushing aside the undergrowth so I could see. A guard, swimming his horse across the river, holding an automatic rifle in his hand, came into sight.

  As he urged his horse up the opposite bank, there was more shooting, closer. Then I saw Boyd suddenly break cover and dive into the river. He began to swim frantically towards where I was hiding. I watched him come.

  The guard who had just got out of the river slid off his horse and kneeling on the bank, he lifted his rifle.

  Boyd must have sensed his danger. He dived as the guard fired. The bullet kicked up a spurt of water where Boyd’s head had been.

  The other guard, crashing his horse through the undergrowth, appeared on the bank.

  “He’s swimming back!” the first guard shouted. “Get after him! I’ll watch him from here!”

  The mounted guard urged his horse once more into the river. As the horse began to swim, Boyd’s head bobbed up for a brief moment. He was nearly halfway across the river by now, but the mounted guard had seen him. He swung his horse towards the swimming man just as Boyd dived again. I could see it was going to be an unequal race.

  Boyd couldn’t reach shelter before the guard caught up with him. He must have realised this himself. He certainly was an expert underwater swimmer. He must have turned underwater and swum towards the guard, for his head bobbed up just behind the swimming horse. The guard didn’t see him, but the other guard did and he yelled a warning. Boyd was too close to the mounted guard for the other to risk a shot.

  The mounted guard twisted around in his saddle, his face alarmed. He aimed a blow at Boyd’s head with the butt of his rifle, but missed him.

  With the quickness of a striking snake, Boyd grabbed the guard’s wrist and .heaved him off his horse into the water.

  The guard was help
less in the grip of those brutal hands. The two men disappeared from sight. There was a violent churning of water, and then Boyd bobbed up alone.

  He came up with the horse between him and the guard on the bank, and he kept that way. Holding the horse’s bridle, he urged the animal downstream.

  The other guard hesitated, then seeing what was happening, and that Boyd now had a chance of escaping, he ran back to his horse, mounted it and forced the animal into the river. He went after Boyd, who was having trouble controlling the swimming horse. He passed close to where I was hiding. His ape-like face was set and white, and I could hear him cursing the horse, trying to urge it forward faster.

  The other guard was rapidly overtaking him, but he still couldn’t get a shot at him.

  I saw Boyd suddenly let go of his horse and dive. I guessed he was going to try to surprise the guard as he had the other, but this time he overplayed his hand.

  The guard was alert, and Boyd slightly misjudged his distance. He bobbed up right by the guard. As he frantically shook the water out of his eyes, his hands grabbing at the guard, the guard smashed his rifle butt down on Boyd’s head.

  Boyd went down like a stone, and where he had sunk the river water turned red.

  The guard was taking no chances. He swung his horse around and made for the bank, coming out of the river not far from where I lay.

  I recognised him now. His name was Geary. He was a brute and a sadist, and had made my days at Farnworth a hell. If I had had a gun I wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot him, but I had no gun so I lay watching him while he sat on his horse, waiting for Boyd’s body to come to the surface.

  It came up eventually, floating face down and drifted to the bank where I rested among the reeds.

  The other horse struggled up onto the bank. Geary moved up to it and took its bridle.

  Geary then looked over the surface of the river. He was looking for the other guard’s body. I spotted the body on the far side of the bank just a few seconds before he did.

  He grunted, then leading the other horse, he went crashing off through the reeds and back to Farnworth,