CHAPTERLXVIII.GILES CHUDLEY IN PRISON.Giles Chudley had ample funds at his disposal, and he told the sagacious Mr. Slapperton not to spare any expense in preparing his defence and securing the services of a clever counsel to conduct his case when the trial came on.Mr. Slapperton had several interviews with the prisoner after his committal, and in common with many others was at a loss to account for the amount of money he had in his possession.Some averred that Chudley had rich relations, who had come forward handsomely in the hour of need.He had friends—that is quite certain, but they were not related to him. The reader will remember that at the time of Chudley’s capture there were two strangers in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis.” One was a young swell, the other a broad-shouldered, square-headed man.The young swell was none other than the boy Alf Purvis, who now assumed all the airs and graces of a fashionable young gentleman, and who, moreover, was one of the most accomplished pickpockets in London. The other, the man with the broad shoulders, was the London “cracksman,” who was introduced to the reader when Laura Stanbridge and young Purvis paid a visit to that delectable establishment known as a thieves’ haunt in Little Mint-street, Whitechapel.These two personages had effectually concealed Chudley in various parts of the metropolis after he had committed the murder in Larchgrove-lane.They had supplied him with funds to go abroad. In point of fact, they were about to see him on board of a vessel at Liverpool, but imprudently chose to pay a visit to the hiring fair.The result of this act of folly we already know.Purvis detested the Jamblins, and he, as well as Laura Stanbridge, thought Chudley had done a meritorious act by ridding the world of young Mr. Philip; anyway, they befriended his assassin, and supplied him with funds, both before and after his capture.Mr. Slapperton, after having received the necessary instructions for the wretched man’s defence, spoke most confidently of the result of the trial. He told his client that the chances were clearly in his favour, and that in all probability the jury would return a verdict of “Not Guilty.”Giles, however, was of a different opinion. He was an ignorant low-bred ruffian, but he had a certain amount of low cunning, which, to say the truth, is a qualification that most criminals of his type generally possess. However, he put as good a face on the matter as possible, and affected to believe what his solicitor told him.But he was reflective, and thinking of certain plans which he had formed. His low cunning now came out with additional force.One burning thought was for ever in his brain; it was this:“How could he effect his escape?”If he could succeed in doing this, there were those outside who would effectually conceal him from the bloodhounds of the law.As far as this was concerned the prisoner was not far out in his reckoning.The reader will remember that inNo.28 of this work we gave a chapter on mysterious murders, and cited many cases in which the perpetrators of crimes of this nature have successfully eluded the vigilance of the police—one of these instances being a murder which was committed at Chingford by a man named Geydon, who in many respects was similar to Giles Chudley.Since the publication of these cases in a number of this work, issued only five weeks ago, Geydon has given himself up.For twenty-two years he has, despite the £200 reward offered by Government at the time of the murder, remained under cover.This, to say the least of it, is a remarkable circumstance, and it is still more remarkable that we should have brought the matter so recently under public notice in this work.Giles Chudley, as we have already intimated, was bringing all the intellect he had to bear on the one cherished idea which had taken possession of him.The sessions would come on in about a month. He had that time before him, which he was determined if possible to make use of. In a month there were thirty days, in these thirty days there were seven hundred and twenty hours; a third of the time would be devoted to sleep, to meals, and to times when he could not work, but what of that? There were plenty of hours left for him to accomplish his purpose.And if all went on well he would accomplish it.Having come to this resolution he watched and waited for a brief period, never hinting to a living soul that he had any fear respecting the issue of the forthcoming trial.He assumed an air of cheerfulness, and spoke confidently of the result. He said his innocence would be proved, and that he hoped to leave the court without a stain on his character.After his trial he judged rightly enough that he woald be confined in a stronger cell, and have a warder night and day with him, who would watch him as they watch men who are doomed to die, and whom despair so often inspires with unnatural strength and cunning.Both these qualities he possessed in a remarkable degree; the last-named prompted him to allay suspicion, and to make everybody around him believe that he had no fear for the future.He sent a message to the governor, requesting to see him.The governor was a particularly kindly-disposed man, and was indulgent to a fault. He came at once.“Do you wish for anything, my man?” he said, addressing himself to the prisoner.“I’m very dull, and doan’t know what to do wi’ myself,” said Chudley. “You were kind enough to say that I might have books and papers.”“I didn’t know you took an interest in books or their contents, or that you cared about reading. However, I am glad to find I’ve misjudged you. You can have what books you require from the circulating library. You’d better pay a month’s subscription, and then you can look over the catalogue, and select those which take your fancy.”“Thank you, sir. How am I to get them?”“The messenger will fetch whatever you require.”“I shall read a goodish lot o’ books,” said Chudley, smiling. “Was always fond o’ reading.”“Oh, yes; just so—I dare say,” remarked the governor, carelessly.“And I can’t sit here all by myself wi’out having summut to do.”“Certainly not; besides, they will keep you out of mischief. Idle people are always mischievous.”“Out of meescheef!” cried Chudley. “Well, I loike that; what meescheef can a poor devil loike me do?”“You might scrawl on the walls, or tear down the rules, you know,” observed the governor, with a smile.“Oh, I might, sartenly, but I aint loikely to do nuffin o’ the sort. I hope I know how to behave myself in prison or out o’ prison.”“I dare say you do, my man. Is there anything else you want before I leave?”“Thank ’ee, sir, that be all.”The governor despatched the messenger to the nearest library, and then left the cell. As he passed along the passage he called the turnkeys before him.“I can’t make out that man,” he observed. “What can be his reason for asking for books? Just you keep an eye upon him.”“We are sure to do that, sir; but he don’t give much trouble, and seems to make sure of getting off.”“Oh! he does—eh?”“Yes, sir.”“That may be put on. I wouldn’t put too much trust in him. I may be mistaken; but I believe him to be a very artful, cunning fellow. I say again, keep your eyes uponNo.9.”The turnkeys promised to do so, but they could not very well see any reason for mistrust or doubt.At four o’clock Giles Chudley was summoned to chapel, and was ushered into a long line of fellow-prisoners, clad in the uniforms of convicted crime.All the officers accompanied the prisoners into the chapel in the manner we have described in a preceding chapter.The warders stood in the gallery above the seats of the convicts, every movement of whom they commanded with their eyes.It seemed to Chudley, however, that he was the leading object of attraction, for glancing carelessly round the building, as people usually do when first entering a place of worship, he observed several pairs of eyes accompanying his own in whatsoever direction he turned them, and also that several more were fixed upon him in one long steadfast glance.He could not help noticing this, at which he felt greatly annoyed. He had not calculated the deep interest men of every denomination take in the actions and demeanour of a murderer.The glance he had taken at the most noticeable features of the chapel, cursory as it had been, put him in possession of the fact that the windows of the building were only protected by one bar, which fell down the centre, and which left an opening on each side sufficiently small to prevent a sudden escape and sufficiently large to admit of a slim man squeezing through with time and trouble.He was in a state of feverish anxiety. He clenched his teeth, and endeavoured to prevent his emotion being perceived by the eyes in the gallery.To deceive whom he did not look round any more, giving his attention not to the chaplain, for that would have been a transparent act of hypocrisy, and sufficient in itself to have excited suspicion, but to the title-page of the prayer-book and to other indifferent little matters, as any one else who had been sent to church by compulsion might have done.But his mind was actively employed, and his whole thoughts were engaged upon his pet project.He was trying to guess first what the chapel windows opened out upon; secondly, whether the chapel door was locked at night.An answer to the first question was soon made by the rattle of carriage wheels, which he could hear distinctly, and sometimes he fancied he could catch the faint hum of voices and footsteps, which gave him hopes of escape and liberty.There was not the least question about the chapel being close to the street or some public thoroughfare; if he could only get there he could easily escape. But he had seen that there was a lock on the door—a massive lock which might give him a great deal of trouble, and take him hours to pick with such rude instruments as alone he could possibly obtain.Besides, he was by no means an adept in the manipulation of locks, and this he bitterly regretted; but, nevertheless, he did not despair.Happening to look on the floor he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw a good-sized needle there.It had probably been dropped by one of the female prisoners, who at the regular chapel hour sat together in a large pew, surrounded by a red curtain, but occupied the seats of the male prisoners when attending the school class which was held in the chapel once a day.He considered for some little time, not knowing very well how to act; the needle would be of service, and he must obtain it by some means.A few minutes after this he happened to drop his hymn-book. He picked it up again directly, and with it the needle, which he secreted in his shirt sleeve.As he returned the hymn-book to the ledge of the pew, he took care to display the palms of both his hands, that no one might suppose they contained anything besides his book.No one who knew Giles Chudley would have given him credit for possessing so much acuteness; but the situation in which he found himself called forth the latent powers of his mind, which had heretofore lain dormant.As the convicts and other prisoners were being marshalled out of chapel, Giles blundered against the door, apparently by accident, so that it almost shut.He took hold of the lock to swing it open again, and, in so doing, slipped the needle into the keyhole.“Can’t you see your way out?” cried a warder.“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; it was an accident,” returned Chudley.“Forward! this way,” said the official, and the line of men marched on.All was well so far. It was evident that the warders did not suspect that anything was amiss.He could examine the lock the next day as he went out, and if the needle was still there it would be a proof that the door had not been locked.The contrivance was an ingenious one, but then we should remember that men whose lives are at stake have their wits sharpened in a remarkable degree.Chudley returned to his cell. He opened his books, disfigured them with notes on the margin, much to the disgust of the librarian, and littered them together as if he had been diligently employed with them; but he was too excited to read; he could not even sit or remain still for any length of time; he paced to and fro, thinking and muttering to himself.By day and by night the same thought haunted him.At dusk a turnkey came in and lighted his gas. As soon as he heard the key in the lock he sprang to his stool, and was poring over his books before the door was opened.He had the cunning of the serpent, and flattered himself that he could assume anything or conceal anything while the great lock was being turned by the gaoler.“It is a most fortunate thing the lock makes such a noise when turned,” he murmured. “I do hope they won’t oil it.”But as yet he did not see his way clear for the accomplishment of his object.The whole of that night, and on the following day also, he was cudgelling his brains for some solution to the grand and all-important question.It seemed almost like wasting precious time, but he knew that it would be folly to begin working with his hands till his plans were matured and his calculations had been fully made.The half-hour of evening prayers seemed to be an age.He quivered all over with impatience and anxiety.There was no help for it—he had to wait patiently. The time having expired, he passed out with the others as usual. As he did so he thrust his finger into the key-hole. An icy tremour shot through his frame.The needle was still there. Never surely did so insignificant an object have such a powerful effect upon a man as did this little needle. It whispered into his ears delusive words of hope and comfort, of escape and freedom.If he could only work through his cell door into the corridor, from which the chapel was entered, the rest was an easy matter. He felt assured this could be accomplished, and was confident of his ultimate success.But much remained to be done. His plan of operations was simple enough in theory, but it had to be put into practice.It would be no very difficult task to turn his bed-clothes into a rope, and when this was done he could let himself down from the chapel window.Upon his return from chapel he found Mr. Slapperton awaiting him.The lawyer had a number of questions to put respecting the leading points in the case. He had a long conference with his client, and as heretofore spoke hopefully of the result of the trial.Giles Chudley assumed an air of confidence, which, to say the truth, he was far from feeling. However, he humoured his legal adviser, but said nothing about the scheme he had in his head.After Mr. Slapperton had left, Giles knelt down before the door and scrutinised the lock.After a minute examination of the same he came to the conclusion that it would be easier for him to dig a hole in the wall close to the lock, to wrench the staple away, and then force back the bolt as if it was being unlocked by a key.He felt assured that this would be the best plan, but as he was rising from his knees he discovered something in the centre of the door which strangely enough had entirely escaped his attention before.There was a small round grating a little larger than a man’s eye: a flap of iron hung before it on the other side.Giles was astonished, as well he might be, at the discovery, and still more so at it having escaped his notice.While he was staring at it and fingering it with a considerable amount of curiosity he heard a soft step, so soft that he did not think it was so close to him.“Some one on the watch,” he murmured, as his heart beat audibly.The flap was gently raised and its place was taken by a large brown eye, which sternly surveyed the interior of the cell.As if satisfied with the impression it had made, the eye disappeared, and the iron flap descended as noiselessly as it had been raised.Giles Chudley felt relieved when the scrutiny was over.“Ah, ah,” he muttered, “I did not reckon on this, but I am glad I made the discovery. This is a hound that does not bark; I must act with caution.”He resolved to begin work as soon as it was dark, and watched the shadows one by one as they fell through the little window upon the door of the cell.Having matured his plans he was burning to put them into practice.When once outside the walls of his prison-house he would be safe.So he thought and fondly hoped; but how to get out was the question.He waited till the turnkeys, who brought the prisoners their suppers of bread and gruel, and lighted their gas, had gone their rounds.He then wrenched off one of the hooks, upon which his bed was suspended at night, and crept cautiously towards the door.He was afraid to begin, for the sounds of voices met his ear, and he judged that some of the prison officials were about. He was very soon convinced of this, for the voices became more distinct.He was constrained, therefore, to await for a more favourable opportunity.Deeply mortified at this circumstance he heaved a deep sigh, and sat himself down upon his wooden stool.He felt supremely wretched, and endured an hour of almost insupportable agony. During this time he stared vacantly at the white flame which flickered from the gas-pipe, and calculated what he should do when he had made his escape.When he heard a clock strike eleven he sprang from his seat, and grasping the hook with which he hoped to obtain his freedom firmly in his right hand, he again knelt before the door.Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He set to work vigorously, and struck the hook into the stone. A cloud of white dust flew from it, he raised his weapon again, when the noise of a footstep fell upon his ear.He paused and listened. It was a slow, regular step, like that of a sentry on guard. He did not move, but waited patiently till the sound had passed, till it had grown faint, till it had become inaudible.This was a most unfortunate circumstance. It required all his skill and address to baffle his janitors.One false step and all his schemes were scattered like leaves before the autumn blast.He felt sick at heart. There was a haze before his eyes, and horrible lights flickering, and strange noises murmuring.Something seemed to be swinging to and fro inside his head like the pendulum of a clock; big drops of perspiration oozed from his temples.He was now very well assured that the corridor was watched by both day and night, and it was therefore impossible to force the door without running the risk of discovery—it was impossible to enter the chapel without being seen.He was baffled, and could have cried in the agony of his despair.He must resort to some other means.He felt his way back to his seat, and sat there till the grey light of morning shed its cold wan rays into his cell.The light, ghastly as it was, appeared to inspire him with strength and hope, for he now rose, drove the hook back into the wall, removed the white dust which was scattered on the floor, and, suspending his bed to the hooks on each side of the cell like a hammock, flung himself upon it, and, wore out with watching throughout the livelong night, fell into a sound sleep.His first night’s experience had not inspired him with much hope; on the contrary, it had almost driven him to despair; but there is an old saying, that a drowning man will catch at a straw, and Chudley, despite the difficulties that were in the way, still clung tenaciously to his fondly-cherished scheme.The turnkeys in attendance on him observed nothing remarkable in the demeanour ofNo.9, except that he was always occupied with his books; so busy was he with them that he hardly honoured the prison officials with even a cursory glance when any one of them entered his cell.This was most remarkable in a man of his class, and the officials could not help noticing this.“He’s a queer sort of customer,” said one—“one of the oddest chaps I ever came across. I sometimes think he hasn’t got his right change.”“Ah! don’t you run away with that idea,” said another turnkey. “He’s a jolly sight more artful than people suppose.”“Well, but the fellow takes such strange fancies. Sometimes at his books, sometimes he’s writing away like mad, and yesterday he wanted parcels and big sheets of white paper, because he must try his hand at drawing. I suppose he thinks himself a sort of genius.”“That man is a mystery,” said the deputy governor, joining the men, “but more knave than fool—mind you that. Keep your eyes well upon him.”It is possible, despite the difficulties and impediments in the way, that Giles Chudley would have succeeded in making his escape had it not been for one circumstance, which proved fatal to him.It was this.In the same prison was confined a man who was charged with piracy and murder on the high seas. He was a ruffian of the most pronounced type, and if report spoke truly he had committed no end of atrocities; but report, we must remember, is not always to be relied on.Nevertheless the nautical miscreant was most unquestionably a bad lot.Upon being brought to the gaol he gave himself all the airs and graces of a West-end swell, and found fault with everything and everybody.He said the cell in which he was confined was dripping with wet, and gave him the ague. He was in consequence of this transferred to the cell next to the ill-fated Giles Chudley.After being immured in this a few days, he said it was worse than the other.The turnkeys were sick of listening to the man’s complaints. At length he said he wanted to see the governor.“Oh, you want to see the governor, do you?” said the turnkey in attendance, with an air of irony. “What do you want to see him for? Make him apply to her Majesty for better dinners, I suppose?”“Don’t you be so cheeky, young fellow,” observed the pirate, “’cos it’s no use your trying to bullyrag me. Never mind what I want to see him for, that’s my business. I can see him if I like—I read it in the rules; o you shut up. If you don’t go and tell him I’ll report you.”“I never said I wouldn’t tell him, did I?” and the turnkey as he banged the door in a rage.“I ain’t a-goin’ to stand any of their nonsense,” muttered the pirate. “I know what discipline is, an’ I’ll see it enforced, if needs be.”“Well,No.8, what is the matter now?” said the governor, at he entered. “Anything amiss with this cell?”“I don’t much like it. ’Cos why—I can’t get any sleep o’ nights.”“Indeed! Not well, I suppose; you had better let the doctor see you.”“I don’t want no doctor—I want peace and quietness.”“And I hope you have both.”“No, I aint. There’s some of your men at work in the yard below all the blessed night, and I can’t sleep for the noise.”“Eh!” ejaculated the governor. “Indeed—men at work all night; that’s contrary to my orders.”“Well, all I know is, they are there. All night they are a-scratching and a-scratching, like a lot of big rats.”“I think I know who it is,” remarked the governor, in a careless manner. “Just under the window here, isn’t it?”“Yes, that’s where it is—the exact spot.”“Ah, the vagabonds, they will work out of hours and disturb people. I’ll see and put a stop to them. When do they begin—about dusk?”“Some little time after nightfall, and they go on till it’s light. I never hear it in the day time.”“I am glad you have spoken of this, my man. You won’t hear it again. If you do send for me.”“All right, and thank you,” returned the pirate.Seven days had elapsed since the night on which Giles first began putting into practice his plan of escape. On the eighth day the prisoner was still in bed, although it was half-past ten o’clock. He was aroused by the unlocking and opening of his door, but he did not move from his hammock.He was a little surprised, however, upon beholding the governor, accompanied by two turnkeys, enter the cell.The governor, who, like most governors of prisons, was a retired military officer, and on this occasion he was arrayed in his best uniform, looked more than usually severe and imposing. He twirled his heavy iron-gray moustache, and glanced suspiciously around the cell.“You are taking it easy,” he observed, addressing the prisoner. “Do you not know, sir—and if you do not it is time that you did—that to be in bed at this hour is against the rules and regulations?”“I know it, sir,” said Giles, springing out of his hammock, and muddling on his clothes, “but I doan’t feel at all well, and ha’ had very little sleep all night.”“Oh, that I can readily believe,” observed the governor, in a tone of sarcasm. “Not well—eh? Perhaps you are over-fatigued.”Chudley was greatly alarmed at this last observation.“Eh, do you hear, my man?” inquired the governor.“I don’t see how that can be. I aint had nuffin’ to tire me,” returned Giles.“Haven’t you? Well, there may be other reasons.”At a signal from their chief the two turnkeys proceeded to search the bed-clothes with great care. They also searched the clothes the prisoner had on, and those lying on his stool (for he was but partially dressed).They found nothing, however, to excite their suspicions.The governor was evidently disappointed.“No instrument or weapon of any sort,” he murmured.“No, sir, nothing. Nor do we miss anything from the cell.”The governor, who had been standing with his arms behind him in a Napoleon-like attitude, appeared to be lost in reflection.While the examination of the garments had been taking place he watched the countenance of the prisoner with the eyes of a lynx. He had succeeded in intercepting one furtive glance.“Umph! You miss nothing, eh?” said he.“No, sir.”“How about the hasp to the window?” The turnkeys looked astonished when they found that it was not in its proper place.“It must be concealed somewhere, and has been taken away for a specific purpose. What that purpose is we can readily guess.”Giles Chudley felt as if about to faint.“What have you done with the hasp?” said the governor to the prisoner.“Me, I aint seen nuffin’ of it; somebody must ha’ taken it away afore I came here.”The governor shook his head.“No, my man,” he said, “that story won’t do. It is concealed somewhere, I have no doubt.”The turnkeys turned over all the things and made another search, which was as fruitless as the first.Their chief contemplated the window with some curiosity.“Can’t one of you climb up to that?” he inquired.“Yes, sir, certainly; that’s easily managed,” returned one, who, addressing his companion, said, “give us a back, Jewett.”The latter obeyed, and the other of the turnkeys, who was the lighter of the two, sprang upon his comrade’s back and clambered up to the window.The panes were made of fluted glass, which were very difficult to see through. In addition to this a louvre light, or “copper light,” as the prisoners call them, was hung before the window.It was a great shade made of galvanised iron, which prevented the prisoner from seeing anything else even when the window was opened.This, however, was never allowed. There was an express rule and punishment for climbing up to the window. The prisoners had to content themselves with the mouthful of fresh air per day which was admitted by the grating.It must, however, be admitted that there was abundance of air for them as a rule. There is seldom or never any reason for complaint as far as ventilation is concerned.“Search the louvre light!” said the governor, and he looked Giles Chudley hard in the face as he gave this order. At the same time he twisted his moustache with a sort of malicious hilarity.Chudley’s knees knocked together.The turnkey drew forth the hasp, which he held forth triumphantly. It had been chipped at the end, and was covered with dirt. It had evidently been used on the prison stones.No.35.Illustration: AVELINE GATLIFFE AND MISS JAMBLINAVELINE GATLIFFE AND MISS JAMBLIN ARE HANDED OUT OF THE BOAT.The governor tapped at the wall with his Malacca cane. After two or three minutes’ sounding he came upon a part of the wall which yielded to his stick. Both the turnkeys sprang forward and grabbed at it with their hands.Giles Chudley fell upon his stool, and, covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.An opening in the wall was discovered almost large enough to admit a man.The hole had been pasted over with sheets of white drawing paper, smeared with prison gruel, which made admirable glue; and these, when powdered over with the white dust of the stone, became not an imitation but afac simile.An exclamation of surprise proceeded from the turnkeys and their chief.“Ah!” exclaimed the latter, “we now know the reason for the pirate being so disturbed at night. This is no more than I expected. We have made the discovery in good time.”“It has been cleverly managed, sir,” observed one of the turnkeys.“Certainly, very clever indeed; but all is of no avail.”The three prison officials, however, could not refrain from admiring the masterpiece of industry and art. They remained for some time examining the aperture in the wall.Presently the governor turned towards Chudley, who sat on his little stool the very personification of despair, and said in a severe tone—“Since you have been under my charge you have had every indulgence it was possible for me to give, consistent with my duty as governor of this prison. What return have you made for this? The answer is but too apparent. With the basest ingratitude for all the kindness shown to you, without the slightest consideration for me, you have striven secretly to effect your escape. Had you succeeded I should have been disgraced and severely censured. You are a worthless fellow.”“I be sorry for what I ha’ done, and ask you to forgive me, but for all that I be doubly sorry that I ha’ bin found out. Liberty is sweet, but it aint o’ no yoose talking about that now,” returned Chudley.“I will take good care another such an opportunity is not afforded you. Henceforth you will be confined in a stronger and more commodious cell, and I warn you not to make another attempt to escape; indeed, it will be my duty to see you have no chance of doing so. Dogs that bite us when we fondle them must go to dirty kennels and rusty chains. Dixon, you have your orders.”The turnkey touched his cap, and said “Yes, sir.”“And see that my instructions are attended to. The prisoner is a dangerous character; he has the cunning of the serpent. Keep watch and ward over him. Do you understand?”“He shall be well looked after, sir.”The governor turned upon his heel, and strode majestically out of the cell.Chudley did not seem to be aware that the prison’s chief had taken his departure.The wretched man sat on his stool almost in a state of stupefaction.He had drained the cup of bitterness to the very dregs, and did not appear to care what became of him. The misery that had fallen on him was supreme and overpowering.The turnkeys spoke to him, but he did not answer or take any notice of what they said.One stepped forward, and shook him roughly by the shoulder.“Now, then, get up and stir your stumps. Do you hear?” he exclaimed.“Oh, aye, I hear. You mun ha’ it all your own way. What do ’e want me to be after?”“Get up, man, and follow us,” was the answer.“It doan’t much matter where I be; one place is as good as the other,” he answered, rising from his seat, and casting a woe-begone look round his narrow prison-house.He was so broken down that he hardly had strength enough to follow his janitors from the cell.They took him down a flight of steps through a yard. In this yard was a covered building fitted up with little cells, each of which contained a crank and a prisoner.Chudley heaved a deep-drawn sigh, and passed his hands across his eyes, which were filled with tears.The turnkeys retained him there for a few minutes to see the prisoners at work, and then conducted him to a corner of the yard in which there were two iron doors.One of these was unlocked, and he was forcibly thrust into a low, damp cell, the walls of which were covered with damp, and which emitted a cold, earthly smell, as if it now tasted the sun and fresh air for the first time.It was in a cell similar to the one in which he now found himself that the pirate had been confined previous to his being transferred to the one next to the cell Chudley had just left.He sat down upon the rough stones, with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.He remembered then that he had been within a few hours of liberty—he had been robbed of his life when he had almost grasped it with his hands.The thought was agony, and he uttered a low, plaintive cry.Besides this, he had seen his fellow-prisoners at work; he had seen how they obeyed the orders of men who spoke to them, not with words, but with gestures and with bells.He knew his life in the prison had been one of indulgence and comparative luxury, when contrasted to the poor wretches he had seen in this part of the gaol.Their infamous dress, their white faces, their servile compliance, had filled him with terror and dismay.Hope—the last solace of the wretched—seemed to suddenly take wings and fly away.He looked up at the window, which was little less than one great iron bar; he sounded the walls, so thick and strong; he breathed the air of his new cell, and it chilled him to the bone.“Am I to remain in this miserable place?” he inquired.“Yes, until your trial comes on,” replied one of the turnkeys. “Don’t blame us; it’s all your own fault.”“But if I promise to remain quiet and behave better?”“The governor won’t believe you. It aint likely, I should say.”“But I will promise. Tell him to be merciful. I be sorry for what I ha’ done.”“No good your saying that. He’s lost faith in you. You’ve nobody but yourself to blame.”Chudley groaned and said no more.The door was shut with a loud bang, the lock was turned, and the prisoner was alone.Two hours afterwards, when the turnkeys came in with his dinner of gaol soup and his prison bread, they found him crouched in the farthest corner of the cell, gnawing his hands, and uttering low groans.He was also trembling all over, and his eyes had a lack-lustre vacant expression like those of a madman.They exchanged glances and shook their heads, and when the prisoner was shut in again they threw out hints that he might endeavour to commit suicide.To say the truth, they were not very far out in their reckoning; Chudley had thoughts of suicide at that time, but he had not the means to put it into practice.
Giles Chudley had ample funds at his disposal, and he told the sagacious Mr. Slapperton not to spare any expense in preparing his defence and securing the services of a clever counsel to conduct his case when the trial came on.
Mr. Slapperton had several interviews with the prisoner after his committal, and in common with many others was at a loss to account for the amount of money he had in his possession.
Some averred that Chudley had rich relations, who had come forward handsomely in the hour of need.
He had friends—that is quite certain, but they were not related to him. The reader will remember that at the time of Chudley’s capture there were two strangers in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis.” One was a young swell, the other a broad-shouldered, square-headed man.
The young swell was none other than the boy Alf Purvis, who now assumed all the airs and graces of a fashionable young gentleman, and who, moreover, was one of the most accomplished pickpockets in London. The other, the man with the broad shoulders, was the London “cracksman,” who was introduced to the reader when Laura Stanbridge and young Purvis paid a visit to that delectable establishment known as a thieves’ haunt in Little Mint-street, Whitechapel.
These two personages had effectually concealed Chudley in various parts of the metropolis after he had committed the murder in Larchgrove-lane.
They had supplied him with funds to go abroad. In point of fact, they were about to see him on board of a vessel at Liverpool, but imprudently chose to pay a visit to the hiring fair.
The result of this act of folly we already know.
Purvis detested the Jamblins, and he, as well as Laura Stanbridge, thought Chudley had done a meritorious act by ridding the world of young Mr. Philip; anyway, they befriended his assassin, and supplied him with funds, both before and after his capture.
Mr. Slapperton, after having received the necessary instructions for the wretched man’s defence, spoke most confidently of the result of the trial. He told his client that the chances were clearly in his favour, and that in all probability the jury would return a verdict of “Not Guilty.”
Giles, however, was of a different opinion. He was an ignorant low-bred ruffian, but he had a certain amount of low cunning, which, to say the truth, is a qualification that most criminals of his type generally possess. However, he put as good a face on the matter as possible, and affected to believe what his solicitor told him.
But he was reflective, and thinking of certain plans which he had formed. His low cunning now came out with additional force.
One burning thought was for ever in his brain; it was this:
“How could he effect his escape?”
If he could succeed in doing this, there were those outside who would effectually conceal him from the bloodhounds of the law.
As far as this was concerned the prisoner was not far out in his reckoning.
The reader will remember that inNo.28 of this work we gave a chapter on mysterious murders, and cited many cases in which the perpetrators of crimes of this nature have successfully eluded the vigilance of the police—one of these instances being a murder which was committed at Chingford by a man named Geydon, who in many respects was similar to Giles Chudley.
Since the publication of these cases in a number of this work, issued only five weeks ago, Geydon has given himself up.
For twenty-two years he has, despite the £200 reward offered by Government at the time of the murder, remained under cover.
This, to say the least of it, is a remarkable circumstance, and it is still more remarkable that we should have brought the matter so recently under public notice in this work.
Giles Chudley, as we have already intimated, was bringing all the intellect he had to bear on the one cherished idea which had taken possession of him.
The sessions would come on in about a month. He had that time before him, which he was determined if possible to make use of. In a month there were thirty days, in these thirty days there were seven hundred and twenty hours; a third of the time would be devoted to sleep, to meals, and to times when he could not work, but what of that? There were plenty of hours left for him to accomplish his purpose.
And if all went on well he would accomplish it.
Having come to this resolution he watched and waited for a brief period, never hinting to a living soul that he had any fear respecting the issue of the forthcoming trial.
He assumed an air of cheerfulness, and spoke confidently of the result. He said his innocence would be proved, and that he hoped to leave the court without a stain on his character.
After his trial he judged rightly enough that he woald be confined in a stronger cell, and have a warder night and day with him, who would watch him as they watch men who are doomed to die, and whom despair so often inspires with unnatural strength and cunning.
Both these qualities he possessed in a remarkable degree; the last-named prompted him to allay suspicion, and to make everybody around him believe that he had no fear for the future.
He sent a message to the governor, requesting to see him.
The governor was a particularly kindly-disposed man, and was indulgent to a fault. He came at once.
“Do you wish for anything, my man?” he said, addressing himself to the prisoner.
“I’m very dull, and doan’t know what to do wi’ myself,” said Chudley. “You were kind enough to say that I might have books and papers.”
“I didn’t know you took an interest in books or their contents, or that you cared about reading. However, I am glad to find I’ve misjudged you. You can have what books you require from the circulating library. You’d better pay a month’s subscription, and then you can look over the catalogue, and select those which take your fancy.”
“Thank you, sir. How am I to get them?”
“The messenger will fetch whatever you require.”
“I shall read a goodish lot o’ books,” said Chudley, smiling. “Was always fond o’ reading.”
“Oh, yes; just so—I dare say,” remarked the governor, carelessly.
“And I can’t sit here all by myself wi’out having summut to do.”
“Certainly not; besides, they will keep you out of mischief. Idle people are always mischievous.”
“Out of meescheef!” cried Chudley. “Well, I loike that; what meescheef can a poor devil loike me do?”
“You might scrawl on the walls, or tear down the rules, you know,” observed the governor, with a smile.
“Oh, I might, sartenly, but I aint loikely to do nuffin o’ the sort. I hope I know how to behave myself in prison or out o’ prison.”
“I dare say you do, my man. Is there anything else you want before I leave?”
“Thank ’ee, sir, that be all.”
The governor despatched the messenger to the nearest library, and then left the cell. As he passed along the passage he called the turnkeys before him.
“I can’t make out that man,” he observed. “What can be his reason for asking for books? Just you keep an eye upon him.”
“We are sure to do that, sir; but he don’t give much trouble, and seems to make sure of getting off.”
“Oh! he does—eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That may be put on. I wouldn’t put too much trust in him. I may be mistaken; but I believe him to be a very artful, cunning fellow. I say again, keep your eyes uponNo.9.”
The turnkeys promised to do so, but they could not very well see any reason for mistrust or doubt.
At four o’clock Giles Chudley was summoned to chapel, and was ushered into a long line of fellow-prisoners, clad in the uniforms of convicted crime.
All the officers accompanied the prisoners into the chapel in the manner we have described in a preceding chapter.
The warders stood in the gallery above the seats of the convicts, every movement of whom they commanded with their eyes.
It seemed to Chudley, however, that he was the leading object of attraction, for glancing carelessly round the building, as people usually do when first entering a place of worship, he observed several pairs of eyes accompanying his own in whatsoever direction he turned them, and also that several more were fixed upon him in one long steadfast glance.
He could not help noticing this, at which he felt greatly annoyed. He had not calculated the deep interest men of every denomination take in the actions and demeanour of a murderer.
The glance he had taken at the most noticeable features of the chapel, cursory as it had been, put him in possession of the fact that the windows of the building were only protected by one bar, which fell down the centre, and which left an opening on each side sufficiently small to prevent a sudden escape and sufficiently large to admit of a slim man squeezing through with time and trouble.
He was in a state of feverish anxiety. He clenched his teeth, and endeavoured to prevent his emotion being perceived by the eyes in the gallery.
To deceive whom he did not look round any more, giving his attention not to the chaplain, for that would have been a transparent act of hypocrisy, and sufficient in itself to have excited suspicion, but to the title-page of the prayer-book and to other indifferent little matters, as any one else who had been sent to church by compulsion might have done.
But his mind was actively employed, and his whole thoughts were engaged upon his pet project.
He was trying to guess first what the chapel windows opened out upon; secondly, whether the chapel door was locked at night.
An answer to the first question was soon made by the rattle of carriage wheels, which he could hear distinctly, and sometimes he fancied he could catch the faint hum of voices and footsteps, which gave him hopes of escape and liberty.
There was not the least question about the chapel being close to the street or some public thoroughfare; if he could only get there he could easily escape. But he had seen that there was a lock on the door—a massive lock which might give him a great deal of trouble, and take him hours to pick with such rude instruments as alone he could possibly obtain.
Besides, he was by no means an adept in the manipulation of locks, and this he bitterly regretted; but, nevertheless, he did not despair.
Happening to look on the floor he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw a good-sized needle there.
It had probably been dropped by one of the female prisoners, who at the regular chapel hour sat together in a large pew, surrounded by a red curtain, but occupied the seats of the male prisoners when attending the school class which was held in the chapel once a day.
He considered for some little time, not knowing very well how to act; the needle would be of service, and he must obtain it by some means.
A few minutes after this he happened to drop his hymn-book. He picked it up again directly, and with it the needle, which he secreted in his shirt sleeve.
As he returned the hymn-book to the ledge of the pew, he took care to display the palms of both his hands, that no one might suppose they contained anything besides his book.
No one who knew Giles Chudley would have given him credit for possessing so much acuteness; but the situation in which he found himself called forth the latent powers of his mind, which had heretofore lain dormant.
As the convicts and other prisoners were being marshalled out of chapel, Giles blundered against the door, apparently by accident, so that it almost shut.
He took hold of the lock to swing it open again, and, in so doing, slipped the needle into the keyhole.
“Can’t you see your way out?” cried a warder.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; it was an accident,” returned Chudley.
“Forward! this way,” said the official, and the line of men marched on.
All was well so far. It was evident that the warders did not suspect that anything was amiss.
He could examine the lock the next day as he went out, and if the needle was still there it would be a proof that the door had not been locked.
The contrivance was an ingenious one, but then we should remember that men whose lives are at stake have their wits sharpened in a remarkable degree.
Chudley returned to his cell. He opened his books, disfigured them with notes on the margin, much to the disgust of the librarian, and littered them together as if he had been diligently employed with them; but he was too excited to read; he could not even sit or remain still for any length of time; he paced to and fro, thinking and muttering to himself.
By day and by night the same thought haunted him.
At dusk a turnkey came in and lighted his gas. As soon as he heard the key in the lock he sprang to his stool, and was poring over his books before the door was opened.
He had the cunning of the serpent, and flattered himself that he could assume anything or conceal anything while the great lock was being turned by the gaoler.
“It is a most fortunate thing the lock makes such a noise when turned,” he murmured. “I do hope they won’t oil it.”
But as yet he did not see his way clear for the accomplishment of his object.
The whole of that night, and on the following day also, he was cudgelling his brains for some solution to the grand and all-important question.
It seemed almost like wasting precious time, but he knew that it would be folly to begin working with his hands till his plans were matured and his calculations had been fully made.
The half-hour of evening prayers seemed to be an age.
He quivered all over with impatience and anxiety.
There was no help for it—he had to wait patiently. The time having expired, he passed out with the others as usual. As he did so he thrust his finger into the key-hole. An icy tremour shot through his frame.
The needle was still there. Never surely did so insignificant an object have such a powerful effect upon a man as did this little needle. It whispered into his ears delusive words of hope and comfort, of escape and freedom.
If he could only work through his cell door into the corridor, from which the chapel was entered, the rest was an easy matter. He felt assured this could be accomplished, and was confident of his ultimate success.
But much remained to be done. His plan of operations was simple enough in theory, but it had to be put into practice.
It would be no very difficult task to turn his bed-clothes into a rope, and when this was done he could let himself down from the chapel window.
Upon his return from chapel he found Mr. Slapperton awaiting him.
The lawyer had a number of questions to put respecting the leading points in the case. He had a long conference with his client, and as heretofore spoke hopefully of the result of the trial.
Giles Chudley assumed an air of confidence, which, to say the truth, he was far from feeling. However, he humoured his legal adviser, but said nothing about the scheme he had in his head.
After Mr. Slapperton had left, Giles knelt down before the door and scrutinised the lock.
After a minute examination of the same he came to the conclusion that it would be easier for him to dig a hole in the wall close to the lock, to wrench the staple away, and then force back the bolt as if it was being unlocked by a key.
He felt assured that this would be the best plan, but as he was rising from his knees he discovered something in the centre of the door which strangely enough had entirely escaped his attention before.
There was a small round grating a little larger than a man’s eye: a flap of iron hung before it on the other side.
Giles was astonished, as well he might be, at the discovery, and still more so at it having escaped his notice.
While he was staring at it and fingering it with a considerable amount of curiosity he heard a soft step, so soft that he did not think it was so close to him.
“Some one on the watch,” he murmured, as his heart beat audibly.
The flap was gently raised and its place was taken by a large brown eye, which sternly surveyed the interior of the cell.
As if satisfied with the impression it had made, the eye disappeared, and the iron flap descended as noiselessly as it had been raised.
Giles Chudley felt relieved when the scrutiny was over.
“Ah, ah,” he muttered, “I did not reckon on this, but I am glad I made the discovery. This is a hound that does not bark; I must act with caution.”
He resolved to begin work as soon as it was dark, and watched the shadows one by one as they fell through the little window upon the door of the cell.
Having matured his plans he was burning to put them into practice.
When once outside the walls of his prison-house he would be safe.
So he thought and fondly hoped; but how to get out was the question.
He waited till the turnkeys, who brought the prisoners their suppers of bread and gruel, and lighted their gas, had gone their rounds.
He then wrenched off one of the hooks, upon which his bed was suspended at night, and crept cautiously towards the door.
He was afraid to begin, for the sounds of voices met his ear, and he judged that some of the prison officials were about. He was very soon convinced of this, for the voices became more distinct.
He was constrained, therefore, to await for a more favourable opportunity.
Deeply mortified at this circumstance he heaved a deep sigh, and sat himself down upon his wooden stool.
He felt supremely wretched, and endured an hour of almost insupportable agony. During this time he stared vacantly at the white flame which flickered from the gas-pipe, and calculated what he should do when he had made his escape.
When he heard a clock strike eleven he sprang from his seat, and grasping the hook with which he hoped to obtain his freedom firmly in his right hand, he again knelt before the door.
Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He set to work vigorously, and struck the hook into the stone. A cloud of white dust flew from it, he raised his weapon again, when the noise of a footstep fell upon his ear.
He paused and listened. It was a slow, regular step, like that of a sentry on guard. He did not move, but waited patiently till the sound had passed, till it had grown faint, till it had become inaudible.
This was a most unfortunate circumstance. It required all his skill and address to baffle his janitors.
One false step and all his schemes were scattered like leaves before the autumn blast.
He felt sick at heart. There was a haze before his eyes, and horrible lights flickering, and strange noises murmuring.
Something seemed to be swinging to and fro inside his head like the pendulum of a clock; big drops of perspiration oozed from his temples.
He was now very well assured that the corridor was watched by both day and night, and it was therefore impossible to force the door without running the risk of discovery—it was impossible to enter the chapel without being seen.
He was baffled, and could have cried in the agony of his despair.
He must resort to some other means.
He felt his way back to his seat, and sat there till the grey light of morning shed its cold wan rays into his cell.
The light, ghastly as it was, appeared to inspire him with strength and hope, for he now rose, drove the hook back into the wall, removed the white dust which was scattered on the floor, and, suspending his bed to the hooks on each side of the cell like a hammock, flung himself upon it, and, wore out with watching throughout the livelong night, fell into a sound sleep.
His first night’s experience had not inspired him with much hope; on the contrary, it had almost driven him to despair; but there is an old saying, that a drowning man will catch at a straw, and Chudley, despite the difficulties that were in the way, still clung tenaciously to his fondly-cherished scheme.
The turnkeys in attendance on him observed nothing remarkable in the demeanour ofNo.9, except that he was always occupied with his books; so busy was he with them that he hardly honoured the prison officials with even a cursory glance when any one of them entered his cell.
This was most remarkable in a man of his class, and the officials could not help noticing this.
“He’s a queer sort of customer,” said one—“one of the oddest chaps I ever came across. I sometimes think he hasn’t got his right change.”
“Ah! don’t you run away with that idea,” said another turnkey. “He’s a jolly sight more artful than people suppose.”
“Well, but the fellow takes such strange fancies. Sometimes at his books, sometimes he’s writing away like mad, and yesterday he wanted parcels and big sheets of white paper, because he must try his hand at drawing. I suppose he thinks himself a sort of genius.”
“That man is a mystery,” said the deputy governor, joining the men, “but more knave than fool—mind you that. Keep your eyes well upon him.”
It is possible, despite the difficulties and impediments in the way, that Giles Chudley would have succeeded in making his escape had it not been for one circumstance, which proved fatal to him.
It was this.
In the same prison was confined a man who was charged with piracy and murder on the high seas. He was a ruffian of the most pronounced type, and if report spoke truly he had committed no end of atrocities; but report, we must remember, is not always to be relied on.
Nevertheless the nautical miscreant was most unquestionably a bad lot.
Upon being brought to the gaol he gave himself all the airs and graces of a West-end swell, and found fault with everything and everybody.
He said the cell in which he was confined was dripping with wet, and gave him the ague. He was in consequence of this transferred to the cell next to the ill-fated Giles Chudley.
After being immured in this a few days, he said it was worse than the other.
The turnkeys were sick of listening to the man’s complaints. At length he said he wanted to see the governor.
“Oh, you want to see the governor, do you?” said the turnkey in attendance, with an air of irony. “What do you want to see him for? Make him apply to her Majesty for better dinners, I suppose?”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, young fellow,” observed the pirate, “’cos it’s no use your trying to bullyrag me. Never mind what I want to see him for, that’s my business. I can see him if I like—I read it in the rules; o you shut up. If you don’t go and tell him I’ll report you.”
“I never said I wouldn’t tell him, did I?” and the turnkey as he banged the door in a rage.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to stand any of their nonsense,” muttered the pirate. “I know what discipline is, an’ I’ll see it enforced, if needs be.”
“Well,No.8, what is the matter now?” said the governor, at he entered. “Anything amiss with this cell?”
“I don’t much like it. ’Cos why—I can’t get any sleep o’ nights.”
“Indeed! Not well, I suppose; you had better let the doctor see you.”
“I don’t want no doctor—I want peace and quietness.”
“And I hope you have both.”
“No, I aint. There’s some of your men at work in the yard below all the blessed night, and I can’t sleep for the noise.”
“Eh!” ejaculated the governor. “Indeed—men at work all night; that’s contrary to my orders.”
“Well, all I know is, they are there. All night they are a-scratching and a-scratching, like a lot of big rats.”
“I think I know who it is,” remarked the governor, in a careless manner. “Just under the window here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s where it is—the exact spot.”
“Ah, the vagabonds, they will work out of hours and disturb people. I’ll see and put a stop to them. When do they begin—about dusk?”
“Some little time after nightfall, and they go on till it’s light. I never hear it in the day time.”
“I am glad you have spoken of this, my man. You won’t hear it again. If you do send for me.”
“All right, and thank you,” returned the pirate.
Seven days had elapsed since the night on which Giles first began putting into practice his plan of escape. On the eighth day the prisoner was still in bed, although it was half-past ten o’clock. He was aroused by the unlocking and opening of his door, but he did not move from his hammock.
He was a little surprised, however, upon beholding the governor, accompanied by two turnkeys, enter the cell.
The governor, who, like most governors of prisons, was a retired military officer, and on this occasion he was arrayed in his best uniform, looked more than usually severe and imposing. He twirled his heavy iron-gray moustache, and glanced suspiciously around the cell.
“You are taking it easy,” he observed, addressing the prisoner. “Do you not know, sir—and if you do not it is time that you did—that to be in bed at this hour is against the rules and regulations?”
“I know it, sir,” said Giles, springing out of his hammock, and muddling on his clothes, “but I doan’t feel at all well, and ha’ had very little sleep all night.”
“Oh, that I can readily believe,” observed the governor, in a tone of sarcasm. “Not well—eh? Perhaps you are over-fatigued.”
Chudley was greatly alarmed at this last observation.
“Eh, do you hear, my man?” inquired the governor.
“I don’t see how that can be. I aint had nuffin’ to tire me,” returned Giles.
“Haven’t you? Well, there may be other reasons.”
At a signal from their chief the two turnkeys proceeded to search the bed-clothes with great care. They also searched the clothes the prisoner had on, and those lying on his stool (for he was but partially dressed).
They found nothing, however, to excite their suspicions.
The governor was evidently disappointed.
“No instrument or weapon of any sort,” he murmured.
“No, sir, nothing. Nor do we miss anything from the cell.”
The governor, who had been standing with his arms behind him in a Napoleon-like attitude, appeared to be lost in reflection.
While the examination of the garments had been taking place he watched the countenance of the prisoner with the eyes of a lynx. He had succeeded in intercepting one furtive glance.
“Umph! You miss nothing, eh?” said he.
“No, sir.”
“How about the hasp to the window?” The turnkeys looked astonished when they found that it was not in its proper place.
“It must be concealed somewhere, and has been taken away for a specific purpose. What that purpose is we can readily guess.”
Giles Chudley felt as if about to faint.
“What have you done with the hasp?” said the governor to the prisoner.
“Me, I aint seen nuffin’ of it; somebody must ha’ taken it away afore I came here.”
The governor shook his head.
“No, my man,” he said, “that story won’t do. It is concealed somewhere, I have no doubt.”
The turnkeys turned over all the things and made another search, which was as fruitless as the first.
Their chief contemplated the window with some curiosity.
“Can’t one of you climb up to that?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir, certainly; that’s easily managed,” returned one, who, addressing his companion, said, “give us a back, Jewett.”
The latter obeyed, and the other of the turnkeys, who was the lighter of the two, sprang upon his comrade’s back and clambered up to the window.
The panes were made of fluted glass, which were very difficult to see through. In addition to this a louvre light, or “copper light,” as the prisoners call them, was hung before the window.
It was a great shade made of galvanised iron, which prevented the prisoner from seeing anything else even when the window was opened.
This, however, was never allowed. There was an express rule and punishment for climbing up to the window. The prisoners had to content themselves with the mouthful of fresh air per day which was admitted by the grating.
It must, however, be admitted that there was abundance of air for them as a rule. There is seldom or never any reason for complaint as far as ventilation is concerned.
“Search the louvre light!” said the governor, and he looked Giles Chudley hard in the face as he gave this order. At the same time he twisted his moustache with a sort of malicious hilarity.
Chudley’s knees knocked together.
The turnkey drew forth the hasp, which he held forth triumphantly. It had been chipped at the end, and was covered with dirt. It had evidently been used on the prison stones.
No.35.
Illustration: AVELINE GATLIFFE AND MISS JAMBLINAVELINE GATLIFFE AND MISS JAMBLIN ARE HANDED OUT OF THE BOAT.
AVELINE GATLIFFE AND MISS JAMBLIN ARE HANDED OUT OF THE BOAT.
The governor tapped at the wall with his Malacca cane. After two or three minutes’ sounding he came upon a part of the wall which yielded to his stick. Both the turnkeys sprang forward and grabbed at it with their hands.
Giles Chudley fell upon his stool, and, covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.
An opening in the wall was discovered almost large enough to admit a man.
The hole had been pasted over with sheets of white drawing paper, smeared with prison gruel, which made admirable glue; and these, when powdered over with the white dust of the stone, became not an imitation but afac simile.
An exclamation of surprise proceeded from the turnkeys and their chief.
“Ah!” exclaimed the latter, “we now know the reason for the pirate being so disturbed at night. This is no more than I expected. We have made the discovery in good time.”
“It has been cleverly managed, sir,” observed one of the turnkeys.
“Certainly, very clever indeed; but all is of no avail.”
The three prison officials, however, could not refrain from admiring the masterpiece of industry and art. They remained for some time examining the aperture in the wall.
Presently the governor turned towards Chudley, who sat on his little stool the very personification of despair, and said in a severe tone—
“Since you have been under my charge you have had every indulgence it was possible for me to give, consistent with my duty as governor of this prison. What return have you made for this? The answer is but too apparent. With the basest ingratitude for all the kindness shown to you, without the slightest consideration for me, you have striven secretly to effect your escape. Had you succeeded I should have been disgraced and severely censured. You are a worthless fellow.”
“I be sorry for what I ha’ done, and ask you to forgive me, but for all that I be doubly sorry that I ha’ bin found out. Liberty is sweet, but it aint o’ no yoose talking about that now,” returned Chudley.
“I will take good care another such an opportunity is not afforded you. Henceforth you will be confined in a stronger and more commodious cell, and I warn you not to make another attempt to escape; indeed, it will be my duty to see you have no chance of doing so. Dogs that bite us when we fondle them must go to dirty kennels and rusty chains. Dixon, you have your orders.”
The turnkey touched his cap, and said “Yes, sir.”
“And see that my instructions are attended to. The prisoner is a dangerous character; he has the cunning of the serpent. Keep watch and ward over him. Do you understand?”
“He shall be well looked after, sir.”
The governor turned upon his heel, and strode majestically out of the cell.
Chudley did not seem to be aware that the prison’s chief had taken his departure.
The wretched man sat on his stool almost in a state of stupefaction.
He had drained the cup of bitterness to the very dregs, and did not appear to care what became of him. The misery that had fallen on him was supreme and overpowering.
The turnkeys spoke to him, but he did not answer or take any notice of what they said.
One stepped forward, and shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“Now, then, get up and stir your stumps. Do you hear?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, aye, I hear. You mun ha’ it all your own way. What do ’e want me to be after?”
“Get up, man, and follow us,” was the answer.
“It doan’t much matter where I be; one place is as good as the other,” he answered, rising from his seat, and casting a woe-begone look round his narrow prison-house.
He was so broken down that he hardly had strength enough to follow his janitors from the cell.
They took him down a flight of steps through a yard. In this yard was a covered building fitted up with little cells, each of which contained a crank and a prisoner.
Chudley heaved a deep-drawn sigh, and passed his hands across his eyes, which were filled with tears.
The turnkeys retained him there for a few minutes to see the prisoners at work, and then conducted him to a corner of the yard in which there were two iron doors.
One of these was unlocked, and he was forcibly thrust into a low, damp cell, the walls of which were covered with damp, and which emitted a cold, earthly smell, as if it now tasted the sun and fresh air for the first time.
It was in a cell similar to the one in which he now found himself that the pirate had been confined previous to his being transferred to the one next to the cell Chudley had just left.
He sat down upon the rough stones, with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
He remembered then that he had been within a few hours of liberty—he had been robbed of his life when he had almost grasped it with his hands.
The thought was agony, and he uttered a low, plaintive cry.
Besides this, he had seen his fellow-prisoners at work; he had seen how they obeyed the orders of men who spoke to them, not with words, but with gestures and with bells.
He knew his life in the prison had been one of indulgence and comparative luxury, when contrasted to the poor wretches he had seen in this part of the gaol.
Their infamous dress, their white faces, their servile compliance, had filled him with terror and dismay.
Hope—the last solace of the wretched—seemed to suddenly take wings and fly away.
He looked up at the window, which was little less than one great iron bar; he sounded the walls, so thick and strong; he breathed the air of his new cell, and it chilled him to the bone.
“Am I to remain in this miserable place?” he inquired.
“Yes, until your trial comes on,” replied one of the turnkeys. “Don’t blame us; it’s all your own fault.”
“But if I promise to remain quiet and behave better?”
“The governor won’t believe you. It aint likely, I should say.”
“But I will promise. Tell him to be merciful. I be sorry for what I ha’ done.”
“No good your saying that. He’s lost faith in you. You’ve nobody but yourself to blame.”
Chudley groaned and said no more.
The door was shut with a loud bang, the lock was turned, and the prisoner was alone.
Two hours afterwards, when the turnkeys came in with his dinner of gaol soup and his prison bread, they found him crouched in the farthest corner of the cell, gnawing his hands, and uttering low groans.
He was also trembling all over, and his eyes had a lack-lustre vacant expression like those of a madman.
They exchanged glances and shook their heads, and when the prisoner was shut in again they threw out hints that he might endeavour to commit suicide.
To say the truth, they were not very far out in their reckoning; Chudley had thoughts of suicide at that time, but he had not the means to put it into practice.