Thoughts like these shot like electrons through my brain. And out of the chaos emerged one decisive view—there was some compelling force, outside of the natural desire to hunt for treasure, that kept these five men bound irrevocably to each other. Of that I became convinced. And all my subsequent reasoning was based on that assumption. The name Penang began to stand out in my mind as large as Trikkala. I began to recall the details of that story. The old cook drifted into my cell, his apron floating in water, his hair like short strings of seaweed, and his lips framing the word PIRACY. Then he was gone and my mind grasped at the straw my imagination had produced. The money for the purchase of the tug—where had that come from? What would it cost to purchase and equip a salvage tug—£20,000, £30,000? Halsey had refused to say who his backer was. Suppose it was Captain Halsey of the Penang who was backing it? Jewels fetch high prices now. Jewels are a cash transaction in many places in London. Jewels might well have financed this expedition.
I communicated the contents of the paragraph to Bert. We spent the rest of the evening discussing it through the medium of our burglar chum. Next day, I remember, it was bright and clear. The moors lay all about the prison, warm and brown and friendly. The tors were no longer black, mysterious battlements, but sun-warmed rock cresting the hills. The sky was blue.
It was on that day I decided to escape.
At what moment I made the decision I cannot recall. It was an idea that grew within me. And the focal point of my idea was Rankin. I don’t think I had any feeling about Halsey or Hendrik, certainly not about Jukes or Evans. But Rankin had grown in my imagination to the size of an ogre. The long winter of captivity had taught me to hate. And though by my effort of will, I had suppressed all conscious thought of these men or the events on the Trikkala, yet when the flood tide of recollection was released from my pent-up brain by the story of the salvage attempt, I found myself with a violent hatred for Rankin. His heavy body, soft hands, white face and little eyes seemed stamped in my memory, together with every action, every gesture so that I felt him to be the embodiment of everything unhealthy. He wandered in and out of my brain like a big, white maggot. And because I knew he would be afraid of me if I suddenly accosted him when he thought me safe in Dartmoor, I became feverishly excited with the idea of doing just that. From him I would get the truth. And I would get it before the Tempest sailed, if I had to smash every bone in his body. Dartmoor had done that for me. It had toughened me mentally as well as physically. I felt there was nothing I would not dare, nothing I would not do to come at the truth which had forced me to spend almost a year in that dismal place.
It was typical of my frame of mind that at first I thought only of what I would do after I had escaped, not of how I was going to escape. All that evening I planned. I would make for Newcastle. I would find the tug. Rankin would be on board, or if he had not yet taken up his quarters on board, he would be in the vicinity, probably at one of the hotels in Newcastle. I would lay in wait for him. And then, when he gave me the chance of a lonely spot, I’d wring the truth out of him. I visualised it all so clearly. I never stopped in my dreaming to consider the snags that might arise to prevent my reaching him, or to wonder if the truth might not be just as they had stated and all my suspicions and uneasiness the imaginings of an over-wrought mind.
But next morning dawned cold and chill, with the moors hidden in a thick mist. The cold damp of the grim, stone blocks pressed upon my spirits and I suddenly began to have doubts. How was I going to get out? I’d need money and clothes. As we went out on the parade ground the great prison wall seemed to mock at my plans. How was I going to get over it? How was I to get clear of the moors? I knew the prison routine for escapes too well—the tolling of the great prison bell, the patrol cars, the warders out beating across the moors, and the dogs. There had been several Borstal escapes quite recently. They’d got caught in the end. And I knew what happened outside. I’d seen it on holidays before the war. All the towns around Dartmoor warned. The few roads through it patrolled. Police checks at every road exit. An escaped prisoner had to walk off the moors and at night. I knew enough about the moors to reckon the chances of succeeding pretty slim. I began to feel depressed.
And then something happened that made me feel as though fate were on my side. Half a dozen of us were detailed for a painting job. We were taken to a shed on the east side of the prison. Inside it were paint pots, brushes, carpentry tools, and ladders. I walked out of that shed supporting one end of a long green ladder and the prison wall was right above me. When we brought the ladders back in the evening, I managed to slip some putty into my pocket. This I transferred to a tobacco tin I happened to have in my cell to keep it moist. That night I tapped a message to Scotty in the next cell. Being a REME engineer he was employed in one of the workshops. If I gave him a putty impression of a key could he cut it for me in the workshops? Back came the answer—Yes. Two days later I got my opportunity. We were painting the outside of one of the blocks and the screw in charge suddenly discovered that we had no turps. I should say perhaps that I was regarded quite favourably by most of the staff. Anyway, the warder turned to me and told me to run over to the shed for the turps. And he tossed the key across to me. I remember staring down at it in my hand hardly daring to believe my eyes. “Come on, look sharp, Vardy,” he said. I made off then before he changed my mind.
Next morning when we were cleaning out our cells I slipped Scotty the tin with the putty impression of the key. Bert was close beside me at the time. “Wot you bribing ’im for, Jim?” he asked. He thought I had handed over a tin of tobacco. I told him then what I planned to do. He’d a right to know, for if I succeeded in getting anything out of Rankin it might well lead to a revision of our sentences.
I’ve never seen a man come to life with excitement the way Bert did. I realised then that below all his cheerfulness and wise-cracking, he was pretty wretched. “You’ll let me come wiv yer, Jim,” he whispered. “You’d never make it on yer own like.”
I said, “Don’t be a fool, Bert. You’ve served at least a third of your sentence allowing for good conduct remission.”
“Nark it,” he said. “That ain’t got nuffink ter do wiv it. If you’re makin’ a break I’m comin’ wiv yer. I know wot you’re up to. It’s on account o’ that story in the paper aba’t those brutes going after the Trikkala’s bullion. You fink there’s somefink phoney, an’ so do I. You’ll make for Newcastle, won’t yer?”
I nodded.
“Well,” he said. “I don’t aim ter be in stir while you’re beating the living daylights a’t o’ that little tyke, Rankin. Yer can count me in. Wot aba’t makin’ it Friday? There’s a rumour goin’ ara’nd that the Borstal Boys is goin’ ter stage another riot on Friday. Zero hour is planned for eight o’clock in the evening.”
“Look, Bert,” I said. And then I stopped, for one of the jailers was approaching us.
That evening Bert was telegraphing to me madly. I was surprised at his insistence. I thought at first that he wanted to come out of sheer good nature. I was already feeling a little scared at the thought of doing the whole thing on my own with no one to brace up my spirits. But as message after message was relayed to me demanding to come with me, I began to realise that it was something more. Bert wanted to come, wanted to come for the sake of the chance in a million of getting clean away. I warned him again and again what it meant if we discovered there was nothing phoney about the Trikkala salvage attempt. If Halsey and the rest of his gang were on the level he would be a fugitive for the rest of his life unable to live with his wife and kids, unable to have any sort of a normal job. That was, if we got clear. If we were caught, it meant a severe increase in his sentence just when he was getting to the time when he could begin to think of the future. To all his pleadings I replied No. Finally his messages ceased and I thought he had accepted the situation.
But next day he reopened the matter over a bin of potatoes. We were on spud peeling. It was one of those wretched jobs that crop u
p from time to time. He manoeuvred himself next to me and I found myself alone with him in a corner of the shed, our heads close together across the bin. “When d’you aim to make the break, Jim?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “First opportunity I get when Scotty gives me the key. If opportunity offered, I think I’d choose just before eight on Friday, as you suggested. If the Borstal Boys start rioting everything will be so confused it may mean longer before they find out I’e escaped.”
He nodded, his hands working busily at the potatoes. “’Ow d’yer aim ter get up ter Newcastle?” he asked then. “There’s money and clothes ter be got, the police checks ter be avoided. An’ don’t ferget them beastly dawgs. You don’t want ter be lying a’t on the moors this time o’ the year fer long. Look wot ’appened ter them two Borstal kids wot got away Christmas time. Free days a’t on the moors an’ sufferin’ from frostbite when they was brought in.”
“Well, it’s warmer now,” I whispered. “As for clothes and money—remember I told you I’d stayed with a friend of mine at his people’s place at Dartmeet when I was a kid? Well, they still live there. He’s dead—killed at Alamein. I wrote to him some months back. Thought he might come up and see me. It was his father who replied. A nice, kindly letter. I think I might be able to get clothes and money there. As for getting off the moors, well that’ll depend on luck as much as anything else.”
He said nothing for a moment and we went on peeling potatoes in silence. Suddenly he stopped and looked up at me. “Listen, Jim,” he said. “We bin pals ain’t we? You an’ me—we bin through all this business together. We ain’t done nuffink wrong. We ain’t crooked or rotten or anyfink. We ain’t deserted or got scared in a scrap an’ run a’t on our pals. We don’t belong in this dump. An’ if you’re goin’ ter take a chance on gettin’ a’t, well I aim ter come wiv yer.”
His brown eyes were watching me anxiously. He wasn’t pleading now. He was stating his decision. I thought of his missis and the kids he hadn’t seen much of and the fact that he’d probably little over two years to go. “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “We’ve been over all this last night. In just over a year you’ll be out.”
“I’m comin’ wiv yer,” he repeated obstinately. “We bin in on this together from the start. We’ll see it fru tergether.”
“You fool!” I said. “Look—the odds are I never get as far as Newcastle. It’s not easy getting off the moors. If you’re caught, there’s a nice little sentence added on.”
“Well, wot aba’t you?” be said. “You’re taldn’ the risk, ain’t yer.”
“In my case it’s different,” I told him. “Even allowing for good conduct I’ve got at least two years more to serve. And that’s a hell of a slice out of one’s life. Besides, unless I can get evidence that’ll reverse the decision of that Court, what sort of future do you think I’ve got?”
“Well, wot aba’t me? Ain’t I got no pride? D’yer think I want people sayin’—‘Oh, Bert Cook, ’e’s the bloke wot done three years on the Moor fer mutiny’? I got me self-respec’. No. If you makes a break, you takes me along wiv yer. An’ if we gets caught, well, we gets caught, that’s all. Now I knows where Rankin is I aims ter be ara’nd when ’e gets ’is horrid dial bashed in. ’E ain’t the type ter take a thrashin’ an’ ’old ’is tongue. If there anyfink ter spill, ’e’ll spill it.”
I was beginning to argue, when he caught my arm suddenly in a fierce grip. His hand was trembling. He was wrought up to a sudden nervous pitch. “Listen, Jim,” he said. “I wouldn’t ’ave stuck this place if it ’adn’t bin fer you. As long as you were in it wiv me, it was all right. I saw you stickin’ it an’ I thought if ’e can stick it a’t, Bert, then so can you. But don’t leave me, Jim. Fer goodness’ sakes don’t leave me. I wouldn’t stand it, honest, I wouldn’t.” He was all worked up and his eyes had no laughter in them now—they were wide and scared. “You saved my life,” he went on in a quick flood of words. “But you done more than that. You’ve kep’ me from doin’ somefink foolish. I couldn’t stand it ’ere on me own. I got some good pals ara’nd, but they’re crooks an’ scum—they ain’t my type o’ crony. Nah jist you resign yerself ter the fact that I’m comin’ wiv yer. Okay?”
I started to tell him it was impossible, stupid. But he stopped me with a fierce gesture. I was watching his face. It was a-twitch with anxiety. He was so tensed up that I was convinced he meant what he said. It seemed stupid for him to run the risk. But—I held out my hand. “If that’s the way you feel about it, Bert,” I said, “I’ll be glad to have your company. We’ll make it somehow.”
He gripped my hand eagerly. His face was suddenly full of a bright grin. “We’ll ’ave a jolly good try anyway, mate,” he said.
So it was agreed. Next morning Scotty slipped me the key he had made to fit my putty impression. “A’m no guaranteeing it’ll work,” he said. “But onyway, gude luck to ye.”
That was on the Thursday. That evening we were able to confirm that the Borstal riot was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock the following night. It would be dark then. We decided to make the attempt at 7.45, a quarter of an hour before the riot. The one problem was how to be legitimately out of our cells at that hour.
And it was here that Scotty, who knew all about our plans, gave us a hand. He’d made so many escape plans that the organisation of a small detail like this came quite easily to him. He tapped through to me that he and a pal of his were detailed for a coal fatigue the following day after the evening meal. He reckoned the fatigue would take about one and a half to two hours. His idea was that we went on that fatigue and answered to their names when the roll was called. If we kept in the background the screw in charge wouldn’t notice that we’d changed places. He and his pal would return to their cells, feign sickness and say they couldn’t do the fatigue, but that we had replaced them. That would account for our being absent from our cells. The rest was up to us.
It was the best plan we could hit on. Accordingly we reported with about twenty other men for coal fatigue at 6 oclock on the Friday evening. We kept in the background and the warder calling the work party roll never glanced up from the list of the detail as he called the names.
Five minutes later Bert and I and the rest of the work party were loading coal, into sacks. “Got the key, mate?” he whispered as I shovelled coal into the mouth of the sack which he held open for me.
“Yes,” I said.
We didn’t talk after that. I think we were both too busy with our own thoughts. There was a slight drizzle falling. The light slowly faded from the leaden sky. The clouds were very low. Every now and then grey wisps curled about the eaves of the ugly prison blocks. The weather was with us. In half an hour it would be pitch dark. I looked at my watch. It was just past seven. Three quarters of an hour to go.
CHAPTER VI
ESCAPE FROM DARTMOOR
I THINK THAT must have been the longest three quarters of an hour I have ever lived through. When we had filled the sacks we loaded them on to a lorry and began distributing them round the blocks. I kept on glancing at my watch. Slowly the light faded. The drizzle showed like a thin silver veil against the light of an open doorway. For five minutes I was busy stacking coal in a bunker beside one of the furnaces. When I came out to the truck again it was dark. The mist seemed to have come down like an impenetrable blanket. I suddenly felt panicky that we should lose our way. The truck moved slowly out into the parade ground. The lights of the prison showed all about us. The mist was not as thick as it had seemed. I got my bearings again.
Bert plucked at my sleeve. “Ain’t it time yet, mate?” he asked.
I showed him my watch. The luminous dial showed twenty to eight. “Keep close by me now,” I whispered. “First opportunity we get, well slide off.”
The truck turned up beside another block. We piled out and began unloading more sacks. The warder in charge went inside the boiler house to supervise the stacking of the coal.
“Okay, Bert,” I whisp
ered, “slip your boots off.”
A minute later we were gliding along under the shadow of the towering bulk of the block. At the end we paused. Behind us the headlights of the lorry blazed against a granite wall. Above us cell windows glimmered faintly. Ahead, there was nothing but impenetrable darkness. The ground struck cold through my prison socks. My knees were trembling. We listened. No sound of footsteps disturbed the silence of the darkness.
“Come on,” I said.
I took Bert’s arm and we plunged out into the open. Our stockinged feet made no sound. Twice I paused to glance back at the lights of the prison. I had tried to memorise the position of the blocks in relation to the paint shed. But it was the wall we struck and not the shed. We turned left, feeling our way along. I was hoping to get the building in which the ladders were housed in silhouette against the lights of the prison blocks. We went fifty yards before we hit up against an entirely different building and I realised we had come the wrong way. We hurried back. It was ten to eight. Incredible how fast the time went now. I was scared that the Borstal riot might start early. Once that started the authorities might train searchlights on to the walls.
My heart was racing as I saw the sheds we were looking for. I took the key out of my pocket as we felt our way along the side of the building and found the paint shed door. Everything depended on whether the key fitted. I fumbled for the key-hole. My hand was trembling violently. The key slipped in. I tried to turn it. Panic seized at me as I found it would not turn. I pulled the key out and inserted it again. It was sticking somewhere. It would not go right home.
“Wot’s up?” Bert asked.
“Key doesn’t fit,” I said. I pressed hard against it and tried again. It wouldn’t move. I tried to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. It was jammed. Bert tried. At length he whispered, “We’ll ’ave to ’ammer it in, chum. Okay?”
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