CHAPTERCXVII.THE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE—MURDOCK, THE SMUGGLER.When Mr. Leverall reached the infirmary he approached the bedside of one of the patients to whom his attention had been directed by the surgeon.The man appeared to be almost in a state of collapse.“Is he in immediate danger?” said the chaplain to the doctor.“I think not, but his injuries are very serious. He has sustained a compound fracture of the leg, two broken ribs, besides other casualties consequent upon his falling from a high wall on to the stone flags of the yard.”“How very terrible! It’s that man Murdock, I see.”“Yes, the smuggler, as he is termed. A most determined, incorrigible ruffian.”Mr. Leverell made no reply to this last speech, but approached the bedside of the sufferer.“I am sorry to see you in this position,No.59,” observed the chaplain, “very sorry.”“Ugh,” groaned the man, “I wish I’d escaped or else have been killed outright. Oh—oh,” here he writhed with pain.“You must bear up against this new misfortune, and have the grace of patience,” said the chaplain.“I aint got any patience left. It’s all gone long ago, and I don’t want any of your palaver.”“You must not talk like that. Let me read a little to you.”“No, I won’t be read to—I don’t like it. Leave me to myself.”“But I must beg of you to listen to my discourse. It is useless your being obstinate or refractory.”“Get away, and leave me alone,” cried the man in a voice which was something like the roar of a wild beast.The chaplain began to read after a few further observations, and the man hallooed and shouted like a maniac.Nevertheless the chaplain persevered, although not a word he was uttering reached the ears of the wretched man.At this moment the governor came in. He was a tall handsome man, of about fifty-five, with a military stride, and a military voice. He was, in fact, a retired officer in her Majesty’s service.He glanced at the sufferer, who was writhing and making hideous grimaces.“I am afraid you’ll not be able to do much with him—not at present, at any rate,” observed the governor, addressing himself to the chaplain; “still I thought it my duty to communicate with you.”Mr. Leverall bowed to the governor, who glanced at the doctor; then the three gentlemen withdrew into a corner of the room, and conversed in whispers.“He’s of a most excitable temperament, and as to making any impression on him I frankly own that I believe that to be quite hopeless. Under all the circumstances of the case, he had, I think, better be left to himself. His wounds are dressed, the broken bones are set, as well as we could do them, and in the course of an hour or so I shall prescribe an opiate.”The governor nodded; the surgeon was a special favourite of his.“In that case I shall not attempt to address any further conversation to him,” observed Mr. Leverall, pocketing his book, and accompanying the governor out of the ward.“I am glad he’s taken his hook—jolly glad,” said the smuggler, following with his eyes the receding figures of the governor and the chaplain.Desperately injured as the man was, and dangerous as were his wounds, these were as nothing in comparison to the madness of his despair at being thwarted in his attempt at escape.Mat Murdock was a villain of the most pronounced and desperate type. He had for many years of his life been a seafaring man, first as a smuggler, then as a pirate, while at other times he had been in the merchant service.He had been convicted upon various charges, and had been sentenced to short terms of imprisonment both at home and abroad, and at one time he was the chief of as lawless a set of desperadoes as ever trod on land or sailed in salt water.At length, however, the law proved too strong for him. He was tried upon the charge of murder and piracy on the high seas. The first charge, however, was reduced to manslaughter, and Mat Murdock was sentenced to penal servitude for life.He was sent to Dartmoor, and while there he made two attempts to escape. He was such a trouble to the authorities there that they were glad to get rid of him, and an order was therefore sent for his removal.It was understood that his ultimate destination would be either Portland or Spike Island, but for the time being he was lodged in the same gaol in which Laura Stanbridge was incarcerated.While here he meditated and matured another plan of escape. He succeeded in removing the bars of his cell, crept through the aperture, and dropped on to the wall which enclosed one of the yards, then began to creep along this in the hopes of arriving at the outer wall, from whence he hoped to drop into the street, but, much to his chagrin, he found himself baffled.He could not keep his equilibrium, the reason for this being that in one of his attempts to escape from Dartmoor he had been fired upon by the sentry on duty, and had received a bullet in his right hip.The bullet was extracted and the wound healed up, but it left Murdock partially a cripple. He could not rely upon or make good use of his right leg for ever afterwards; the consequence was, when he was on the wall, its weakness became painfully manifest.The miserable man was almost powerless; he tottered, swayed to and fro for a moment, then closed his eyes and fell.When discovered by the prison officials he was senseless.He was carried into the operating room, where a consultation took place, and the doctors in attendance did the best they could for him under the circumstance, and after this Murdock was placed in the infirmary.Under the influence of morphia the smuggler was passive and peaceable enough, but the moment the effects of that drug passed away he began howling and screaming like a wild beast.The bitter mortification he felt at the unsuccessful nature of his last attempt to escape was too much for him.It drove him frantic, and during the night the manifestation of his rage was so terrible that the patients in the same ward with him could get very little sleep.On the following day, when the doctor paid his accustomed visit, they one and all complained of the noise made by Murdock.The wardsman and night nurses corroborated their statement, and the consequence of all this was that the wounded smuggler was transferred to a small room at another part of the prison.Ill or well, Mat Murdock was a difficult customer to deal with, and not one of the few professional nurses who were in attendance on the prisoners seemed disposed to volunteer their services to wait on the smuggler.But as we have indicated in a previous chapter, it is a common thing for the prisoners themselves to be appointed as nurses to the sick, and so, after some little discussion, a young man named Walter Knoulton volunteered his services as attendant on Murdock.There was some reason for this. Knoulton and the smuggler had been on friendly terms ever since they made each other’s acquaintance in the gaol where they were both confined.They had worked side by side in the same shop at mat making, and Murdock had spun many a yarn to the younger prisoner.Seeing and knowing all this, the officials one and all agreed that no person was better adapted to the task than Knoulton, who was generally acknowledged to be an excellent nurse.In addition to this he was a young man of rather a superior class. He was well educated, had moved in respectable society, and was generally liked by all who knew him.Prior to his conviction he held a good appointment in a mercantile house in one of our provincial towns, and was greatly esteemed by his employers, who, it was said, allowed him too much latitude.His downfall was brought about by a concurrence of circumstances. He began by betting, then he indulged in a plurality of mistresses, besides other little foibles, which it is perhaps needless to mention. The end of it was that to bridge over a difficulty, he made use of his employers’ money.The first time he escaped discovery, as he made up the deficiency just in the nick of time, but he had recourse to the same desperate alternative several times afterwards, and the result was that his defalcations were discovered, and he was given into custody.He was convicted upon the charge of embezzling, but his prosecutors strongly recommended him to mercy. It was thought that he would have a mere nominal sentence—a few days’ imprisonment perhaps—but he had the misfortune of being tried before a severe judge, who never, under any circumstances, gave less than six months’ imprisonment; so six months’ young Knoulton had, and hence his becoming a fellow-prisoner with Murdock, the smuggler.It would be difficult for me to attempt to convey to the reader the bold and fearless nature of this man, who, like a caged tiger, was for ever clawing at the bars of his cage. Nothing appeared to intimidate him. After his attempt to escape at Dartmoor he had for several months been forced to work at the quarries in chains weighing some thirty pounds, or more. Every vigilance had been exercised by his guards to prevent the possibility of his flight, and yet the idea of escape haunted his imagination, and became a never-dying, never-yielding monomania.The thought of regaining his liberty seemed to be the one acting principle of his life. He used to observe to his companions in crime that he would much prefer being executed than having to endure a life-long imprisonment.Whether this was merely said out of bravado or not we cannot determine, but one fact is quite clear—of all the prisoners in this gaol and others he had been drafted to, he was the most restless and discontented—he of all men else pined most for liberty.When young Knoulton entered the apartment occupied by the sick man, Murdock gave a grunt of satisfaction, but he said nothing at first beyond that momentary expression.“Poor chap, he does look bad, though,” murmured the commercial, if we may so term him—“very bad.”There was a silence for some time.Knoulton sat himself down at a side table and began to read. He and the other convicts, who were elected to similar offices to himself, were permitted to have what books they chose from the prison library. This was, of course, a great boon to them.He read on for half an hour or so, being under the impression that the patient had sunk into a peaceful slumber; but this was not so.Murdock even at that hour was meditating how he might at some future time effect the object, the thought of which had occupied his undivided attention for so many long and wearisome years.He knew that young Knoulton was in the room, and he judged, or rather hoped, he had been appointed nurse. This hope he fancied would be delusive if he made any inquiry.He, therefore, chose for the nonce to maintain a moody silence. He wouldn’t be first to speak—not he; he didn’t care for any man. He had been befooled and baffled; the world was against him, and he was against the world. These were his first fugitive thoughts upon Knoulton’s first half hour or so in the apartment.The door opened, and the governor entered.He walked to the bedside of the patient and looked at him for a moment or so, then apparently satisfied with his inspection he said in a kind tone—“I hope you like your new quarters,No.95? They are much more comfortable, I think, than the infirmary.”The convict nodded.“Ah, that’s well,” observed the governor in a cheery tone. “Is there anything you want? If so, tell me what it is.”“Want?” repeated Murdock.“Yes. Can we do anything for you?”“Can you? Yes!”“What is it?”“Give me my liberty!” shrieked the smuggler.The governor started back.“You ask impossibilities,” said he; “be reasonable. At the present moment your life is in peril. Be patient,No.95; you are not out of danger for the present, and excitement may prove fatal. Be patient and resigned, and hope for the best.”“Hope! Ugh, that has long since deserted me. I want my liberty.”The governor said no more, but turned away and slowly left the apartment.“He is incorrigible, and almost unmanageable,” he whispered to the doctor. “I never met with such an obstinate man in all my experience.”The doctor nodded significantly, but made no reply to this last speech.In a few minutes after this, Mat Murdock was left in the charge of Knoulton.The latter did not seem inclined to force the conversation. He knew the irritable nature of the patient, and therefore deemed it advisable to leave him to his own reflections, which were, to say the truth, bitter enough.The smuggler tossed about in his bed, groaned, and ground his teeth, but his nurse took no notice of all this; he was well used to scenes of this nature, and was, moreover, well versed in the treatment of such persons.Presently Murdock glanced towards him, and said in a more subdued tone—“Have they placed you here to attend upon me?”“Yes,” answered Knoulton; “I am your nurse. Does that satisfy you?”“I’d rather have you than anyone else. Give me your hand.”Knoulton put down his book, and went to the bedside of the injured man, who grasped and shook his hand gratefully.“Ah! Walter, old chap, I’m pretty well done for. Haven’t much life left in me. But I’m thankful that they’ve allowed ye to be by my side, ’cause, ye see, we’ve always been friends since we first met—always!”“I hope so, I’m sure,” returned Knoulton.“Ay, but we have, there’s no gainsaying that—good friends and true. Oh, but it was a narrow squeak after all. If it had not been for my game leg, as deserted me when I most needed its service, I should by this time—long ere this—have been outside these accursed walls. Bad luck to the sodger who fired upon me at Dartmoor, may he be——!” He uttered an impious oath.“Silence! you must not talk like that. It’s no use bearing malice against one who only did an act of duty.”“I wish he had been throttled afore he fired on me. Had it not been for that all would have gone well.”“You really must endeavour to be as calm as possible. Do not excite yourself.”“Not excite myself!”“No, certainly not; that is if you wish to recover.”“Just Providence, think what I have suffered,” cried the pirate. “Nine long long years of misery, and now two months of cherished hopes are crushed in a moment. Shattered, maimed and almost done to death, here I am at the mercy of my gaolers, and the hope of liberty still further from me. Merciful heaven, but its terrible—horrible.”He writhed and moaned in bitter anguish.“Be patient, Murdock; be contented with your lot.”“Contented!” he ejaculated, bursting out into a mocking harsh horrible laugh.“Why are you so desirous of gaining your liberty?”“Why? Oh, you know not what it is to endure the horrible drudgery of nine years’ penal servitude. If you had, you would not ask such a question.”“Well, perhaps not. Yours is a hard lot, and has been for so——”“For nine long, miserable years.”“But of what use is liberty to you now? You are old, Murdock. The best and brightest of your days have passed.”“True, I am old; there’s no denying that. You are right—I am old.”“Past fifty, I suppose?”“Nearly sixty.”“Well, then, supposing you gained your liberty, what would you do to obtain a living? You are getting past work.”“I’m not past work as yet,” returned the pirate, savagely, “though I am not the man I was; but I can turn my hand to a thing or two still.”“That may be; still you would have a precarious sort of existence. As I said before, the best of your days are over, and you might starve.”The captive smiled.“Should I?” he ejaculated. “I know better than that.”“I hope you would not. Still, after your long imprisonment, you would find the outside world strangely altered. Many of your friends are doubtless dead. Others may be in distant parts, and you would, therefore, be thrown upon your own resources. I am afraid, Murdock, you have not duly considered all these things.”“I tell you I have considered all you mention, and more too—a good deal more. Starve—eh?”An almost disdainful sneer of triumph curled his lip as he said—“I am richer than you or any one supposes.”It was now Knoulton’s turn to start.“Richer!” he ejaculated.The pirate nodded.“Aye, lad,” he murmured. “Riches if I could only get outside these walls—if I could only regain my liberty. Ugh!”“I don’t know what to make of you, and that is the truth,” said the young man. “You are a puzzle to everybody. You rich?”“Certainly, if I could escape I should be so.”“You are indeed most fortunate.”This was said with a degree of bitter irony, which, while it conveyed a doubt of the truth of the assertion, told how highly Knoulton esteemed the gifts of fortune.No.62.Illustration: MURDOCK DRAWING A CHARTMURDOCK, THE PIRATE, DRAWING A CHART OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE HIDDEN TREASURE.“Would you like to be rich, Walter?” inquired the pirate.“I should be telling a falsehood if I said the contrary. Do you take me for a fool that you endeavour to deceive me?”“Belay there,” cried Murdock—“hold on a bit, lad. I aint romancing, talking wildly, when I say I can make your fortune. What think you of that?”“I don’t know what to think. It appears to be incredible, but still I am bound to believe what you say, seeing that you can have no motive in declaring that which is untrue. So let it pass. Wait till you are better—till you have recovered. It will be some time before that comes to pass.”“I say I can make your fortune, and you take no heed of my words or warning.”“I do take heed. You would carry out some robbery in which you would have me join. I think I understand.”The pirate shook his head.“No yer don’t,” cried he. “If you will assist me to make my escape, we’ll succeed the next time. If you will do that you shall be rich, for I will give you half I have.”Walter Knoulton was under the impression at this time that the pirate was light-headed, and he therefore did not take much notice of the declaration he had made.He deemed it advisable, however, to humour him, for experience had taught him that it was never at any time advisable to contradict patients in the condition Murdock was in at that time.“You are in earnest—I know that,” said he; “and I am quite sure you would keep your word as far as your promise to me is concerned.”“But you don’t believe me, for all that,” observed the sick man.“Yes, I do—indeed, I do.”“You merely say that to humour me. Your manner belies your words.”“I tell you I do.”“Good, then—that being so we shall be able to understand each other, and I will take you into my confidence, for I believe I can trust you.”The conversation was suddenly brought to a close by the entrance of the prison chaplain.
When Mr. Leverall reached the infirmary he approached the bedside of one of the patients to whom his attention had been directed by the surgeon.
The man appeared to be almost in a state of collapse.
“Is he in immediate danger?” said the chaplain to the doctor.
“I think not, but his injuries are very serious. He has sustained a compound fracture of the leg, two broken ribs, besides other casualties consequent upon his falling from a high wall on to the stone flags of the yard.”
“How very terrible! It’s that man Murdock, I see.”
“Yes, the smuggler, as he is termed. A most determined, incorrigible ruffian.”
Mr. Leverell made no reply to this last speech, but approached the bedside of the sufferer.
“I am sorry to see you in this position,No.59,” observed the chaplain, “very sorry.”
“Ugh,” groaned the man, “I wish I’d escaped or else have been killed outright. Oh—oh,” here he writhed with pain.
“You must bear up against this new misfortune, and have the grace of patience,” said the chaplain.
“I aint got any patience left. It’s all gone long ago, and I don’t want any of your palaver.”
“You must not talk like that. Let me read a little to you.”
“No, I won’t be read to—I don’t like it. Leave me to myself.”
“But I must beg of you to listen to my discourse. It is useless your being obstinate or refractory.”
“Get away, and leave me alone,” cried the man in a voice which was something like the roar of a wild beast.
The chaplain began to read after a few further observations, and the man hallooed and shouted like a maniac.
Nevertheless the chaplain persevered, although not a word he was uttering reached the ears of the wretched man.
At this moment the governor came in. He was a tall handsome man, of about fifty-five, with a military stride, and a military voice. He was, in fact, a retired officer in her Majesty’s service.
He glanced at the sufferer, who was writhing and making hideous grimaces.
“I am afraid you’ll not be able to do much with him—not at present, at any rate,” observed the governor, addressing himself to the chaplain; “still I thought it my duty to communicate with you.”
Mr. Leverall bowed to the governor, who glanced at the doctor; then the three gentlemen withdrew into a corner of the room, and conversed in whispers.
“He’s of a most excitable temperament, and as to making any impression on him I frankly own that I believe that to be quite hopeless. Under all the circumstances of the case, he had, I think, better be left to himself. His wounds are dressed, the broken bones are set, as well as we could do them, and in the course of an hour or so I shall prescribe an opiate.”
The governor nodded; the surgeon was a special favourite of his.
“In that case I shall not attempt to address any further conversation to him,” observed Mr. Leverall, pocketing his book, and accompanying the governor out of the ward.
“I am glad he’s taken his hook—jolly glad,” said the smuggler, following with his eyes the receding figures of the governor and the chaplain.
Desperately injured as the man was, and dangerous as were his wounds, these were as nothing in comparison to the madness of his despair at being thwarted in his attempt at escape.
Mat Murdock was a villain of the most pronounced and desperate type. He had for many years of his life been a seafaring man, first as a smuggler, then as a pirate, while at other times he had been in the merchant service.
He had been convicted upon various charges, and had been sentenced to short terms of imprisonment both at home and abroad, and at one time he was the chief of as lawless a set of desperadoes as ever trod on land or sailed in salt water.
At length, however, the law proved too strong for him. He was tried upon the charge of murder and piracy on the high seas. The first charge, however, was reduced to manslaughter, and Mat Murdock was sentenced to penal servitude for life.
He was sent to Dartmoor, and while there he made two attempts to escape. He was such a trouble to the authorities there that they were glad to get rid of him, and an order was therefore sent for his removal.
It was understood that his ultimate destination would be either Portland or Spike Island, but for the time being he was lodged in the same gaol in which Laura Stanbridge was incarcerated.
While here he meditated and matured another plan of escape. He succeeded in removing the bars of his cell, crept through the aperture, and dropped on to the wall which enclosed one of the yards, then began to creep along this in the hopes of arriving at the outer wall, from whence he hoped to drop into the street, but, much to his chagrin, he found himself baffled.
He could not keep his equilibrium, the reason for this being that in one of his attempts to escape from Dartmoor he had been fired upon by the sentry on duty, and had received a bullet in his right hip.
The bullet was extracted and the wound healed up, but it left Murdock partially a cripple. He could not rely upon or make good use of his right leg for ever afterwards; the consequence was, when he was on the wall, its weakness became painfully manifest.
The miserable man was almost powerless; he tottered, swayed to and fro for a moment, then closed his eyes and fell.
When discovered by the prison officials he was senseless.
He was carried into the operating room, where a consultation took place, and the doctors in attendance did the best they could for him under the circumstance, and after this Murdock was placed in the infirmary.
Under the influence of morphia the smuggler was passive and peaceable enough, but the moment the effects of that drug passed away he began howling and screaming like a wild beast.
The bitter mortification he felt at the unsuccessful nature of his last attempt to escape was too much for him.
It drove him frantic, and during the night the manifestation of his rage was so terrible that the patients in the same ward with him could get very little sleep.
On the following day, when the doctor paid his accustomed visit, they one and all complained of the noise made by Murdock.
The wardsman and night nurses corroborated their statement, and the consequence of all this was that the wounded smuggler was transferred to a small room at another part of the prison.
Ill or well, Mat Murdock was a difficult customer to deal with, and not one of the few professional nurses who were in attendance on the prisoners seemed disposed to volunteer their services to wait on the smuggler.
But as we have indicated in a previous chapter, it is a common thing for the prisoners themselves to be appointed as nurses to the sick, and so, after some little discussion, a young man named Walter Knoulton volunteered his services as attendant on Murdock.
There was some reason for this. Knoulton and the smuggler had been on friendly terms ever since they made each other’s acquaintance in the gaol where they were both confined.
They had worked side by side in the same shop at mat making, and Murdock had spun many a yarn to the younger prisoner.
Seeing and knowing all this, the officials one and all agreed that no person was better adapted to the task than Knoulton, who was generally acknowledged to be an excellent nurse.
In addition to this he was a young man of rather a superior class. He was well educated, had moved in respectable society, and was generally liked by all who knew him.
Prior to his conviction he held a good appointment in a mercantile house in one of our provincial towns, and was greatly esteemed by his employers, who, it was said, allowed him too much latitude.
His downfall was brought about by a concurrence of circumstances. He began by betting, then he indulged in a plurality of mistresses, besides other little foibles, which it is perhaps needless to mention. The end of it was that to bridge over a difficulty, he made use of his employers’ money.
The first time he escaped discovery, as he made up the deficiency just in the nick of time, but he had recourse to the same desperate alternative several times afterwards, and the result was that his defalcations were discovered, and he was given into custody.
He was convicted upon the charge of embezzling, but his prosecutors strongly recommended him to mercy. It was thought that he would have a mere nominal sentence—a few days’ imprisonment perhaps—but he had the misfortune of being tried before a severe judge, who never, under any circumstances, gave less than six months’ imprisonment; so six months’ young Knoulton had, and hence his becoming a fellow-prisoner with Murdock, the smuggler.
It would be difficult for me to attempt to convey to the reader the bold and fearless nature of this man, who, like a caged tiger, was for ever clawing at the bars of his cage. Nothing appeared to intimidate him. After his attempt to escape at Dartmoor he had for several months been forced to work at the quarries in chains weighing some thirty pounds, or more. Every vigilance had been exercised by his guards to prevent the possibility of his flight, and yet the idea of escape haunted his imagination, and became a never-dying, never-yielding monomania.
The thought of regaining his liberty seemed to be the one acting principle of his life. He used to observe to his companions in crime that he would much prefer being executed than having to endure a life-long imprisonment.
Whether this was merely said out of bravado or not we cannot determine, but one fact is quite clear—of all the prisoners in this gaol and others he had been drafted to, he was the most restless and discontented—he of all men else pined most for liberty.
When young Knoulton entered the apartment occupied by the sick man, Murdock gave a grunt of satisfaction, but he said nothing at first beyond that momentary expression.
“Poor chap, he does look bad, though,” murmured the commercial, if we may so term him—“very bad.”
There was a silence for some time.
Knoulton sat himself down at a side table and began to read. He and the other convicts, who were elected to similar offices to himself, were permitted to have what books they chose from the prison library. This was, of course, a great boon to them.
He read on for half an hour or so, being under the impression that the patient had sunk into a peaceful slumber; but this was not so.
Murdock even at that hour was meditating how he might at some future time effect the object, the thought of which had occupied his undivided attention for so many long and wearisome years.
He knew that young Knoulton was in the room, and he judged, or rather hoped, he had been appointed nurse. This hope he fancied would be delusive if he made any inquiry.
He, therefore, chose for the nonce to maintain a moody silence. He wouldn’t be first to speak—not he; he didn’t care for any man. He had been befooled and baffled; the world was against him, and he was against the world. These were his first fugitive thoughts upon Knoulton’s first half hour or so in the apartment.
The door opened, and the governor entered.
He walked to the bedside of the patient and looked at him for a moment or so, then apparently satisfied with his inspection he said in a kind tone—
“I hope you like your new quarters,No.95? They are much more comfortable, I think, than the infirmary.”
The convict nodded.
“Ah, that’s well,” observed the governor in a cheery tone. “Is there anything you want? If so, tell me what it is.”
“Want?” repeated Murdock.
“Yes. Can we do anything for you?”
“Can you? Yes!”
“What is it?”
“Give me my liberty!” shrieked the smuggler.
The governor started back.
“You ask impossibilities,” said he; “be reasonable. At the present moment your life is in peril. Be patient,No.95; you are not out of danger for the present, and excitement may prove fatal. Be patient and resigned, and hope for the best.”
“Hope! Ugh, that has long since deserted me. I want my liberty.”
The governor said no more, but turned away and slowly left the apartment.
“He is incorrigible, and almost unmanageable,” he whispered to the doctor. “I never met with such an obstinate man in all my experience.”
The doctor nodded significantly, but made no reply to this last speech.
In a few minutes after this, Mat Murdock was left in the charge of Knoulton.
The latter did not seem inclined to force the conversation. He knew the irritable nature of the patient, and therefore deemed it advisable to leave him to his own reflections, which were, to say the truth, bitter enough.
The smuggler tossed about in his bed, groaned, and ground his teeth, but his nurse took no notice of all this; he was well used to scenes of this nature, and was, moreover, well versed in the treatment of such persons.
Presently Murdock glanced towards him, and said in a more subdued tone—
“Have they placed you here to attend upon me?”
“Yes,” answered Knoulton; “I am your nurse. Does that satisfy you?”
“I’d rather have you than anyone else. Give me your hand.”
Knoulton put down his book, and went to the bedside of the injured man, who grasped and shook his hand gratefully.
“Ah! Walter, old chap, I’m pretty well done for. Haven’t much life left in me. But I’m thankful that they’ve allowed ye to be by my side, ’cause, ye see, we’ve always been friends since we first met—always!”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” returned Knoulton.
“Ay, but we have, there’s no gainsaying that—good friends and true. Oh, but it was a narrow squeak after all. If it had not been for my game leg, as deserted me when I most needed its service, I should by this time—long ere this—have been outside these accursed walls. Bad luck to the sodger who fired upon me at Dartmoor, may he be——!” He uttered an impious oath.
“Silence! you must not talk like that. It’s no use bearing malice against one who only did an act of duty.”
“I wish he had been throttled afore he fired on me. Had it not been for that all would have gone well.”
“You really must endeavour to be as calm as possible. Do not excite yourself.”
“Not excite myself!”
“No, certainly not; that is if you wish to recover.”
“Just Providence, think what I have suffered,” cried the pirate. “Nine long long years of misery, and now two months of cherished hopes are crushed in a moment. Shattered, maimed and almost done to death, here I am at the mercy of my gaolers, and the hope of liberty still further from me. Merciful heaven, but its terrible—horrible.”
He writhed and moaned in bitter anguish.
“Be patient, Murdock; be contented with your lot.”
“Contented!” he ejaculated, bursting out into a mocking harsh horrible laugh.
“Why are you so desirous of gaining your liberty?”
“Why? Oh, you know not what it is to endure the horrible drudgery of nine years’ penal servitude. If you had, you would not ask such a question.”
“Well, perhaps not. Yours is a hard lot, and has been for so——”
“For nine long, miserable years.”
“But of what use is liberty to you now? You are old, Murdock. The best and brightest of your days have passed.”
“True, I am old; there’s no denying that. You are right—I am old.”
“Past fifty, I suppose?”
“Nearly sixty.”
“Well, then, supposing you gained your liberty, what would you do to obtain a living? You are getting past work.”
“I’m not past work as yet,” returned the pirate, savagely, “though I am not the man I was; but I can turn my hand to a thing or two still.”
“That may be; still you would have a precarious sort of existence. As I said before, the best of your days are over, and you might starve.”
The captive smiled.
“Should I?” he ejaculated. “I know better than that.”
“I hope you would not. Still, after your long imprisonment, you would find the outside world strangely altered. Many of your friends are doubtless dead. Others may be in distant parts, and you would, therefore, be thrown upon your own resources. I am afraid, Murdock, you have not duly considered all these things.”
“I tell you I have considered all you mention, and more too—a good deal more. Starve—eh?”
An almost disdainful sneer of triumph curled his lip as he said—
“I am richer than you or any one supposes.”
It was now Knoulton’s turn to start.
“Richer!” he ejaculated.
The pirate nodded.
“Aye, lad,” he murmured. “Riches if I could only get outside these walls—if I could only regain my liberty. Ugh!”
“I don’t know what to make of you, and that is the truth,” said the young man. “You are a puzzle to everybody. You rich?”
“Certainly, if I could escape I should be so.”
“You are indeed most fortunate.”
This was said with a degree of bitter irony, which, while it conveyed a doubt of the truth of the assertion, told how highly Knoulton esteemed the gifts of fortune.
No.62.
Illustration: MURDOCK DRAWING A CHARTMURDOCK, THE PIRATE, DRAWING A CHART OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE HIDDEN TREASURE.
MURDOCK, THE PIRATE, DRAWING A CHART OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE HIDDEN TREASURE.
“Would you like to be rich, Walter?” inquired the pirate.
“I should be telling a falsehood if I said the contrary. Do you take me for a fool that you endeavour to deceive me?”
“Belay there,” cried Murdock—“hold on a bit, lad. I aint romancing, talking wildly, when I say I can make your fortune. What think you of that?”
“I don’t know what to think. It appears to be incredible, but still I am bound to believe what you say, seeing that you can have no motive in declaring that which is untrue. So let it pass. Wait till you are better—till you have recovered. It will be some time before that comes to pass.”
“I say I can make your fortune, and you take no heed of my words or warning.”
“I do take heed. You would carry out some robbery in which you would have me join. I think I understand.”
The pirate shook his head.
“No yer don’t,” cried he. “If you will assist me to make my escape, we’ll succeed the next time. If you will do that you shall be rich, for I will give you half I have.”
Walter Knoulton was under the impression at this time that the pirate was light-headed, and he therefore did not take much notice of the declaration he had made.
He deemed it advisable, however, to humour him, for experience had taught him that it was never at any time advisable to contradict patients in the condition Murdock was in at that time.
“You are in earnest—I know that,” said he; “and I am quite sure you would keep your word as far as your promise to me is concerned.”
“But you don’t believe me, for all that,” observed the sick man.
“Yes, I do—indeed, I do.”
“You merely say that to humour me. Your manner belies your words.”
“I tell you I do.”
“Good, then—that being so we shall be able to understand each other, and I will take you into my confidence, for I believe I can trust you.”
The conversation was suddenly brought to a close by the entrance of the prison chaplain.