CHAPTER VThe Sentence
THE cold fabric of discipline at the Police Headquarters at Calford had been shocked into a flutter of excited interest and anticipation. The machine-like routine of police life had, for a moment, reacted to a more human aspect of itself. Interested comment passed from lip to lip, and widely conflicting were the opinions expressed. But, curiously enough, there was pretty general unanimity amongst the lower ranks of the Force in a feeling of quiet satisfaction. Corporal Andrew McFardell had been placed under arrest, and, at “Orderly-Room” that morning, he would be tried and sentenced for permitting the escape of his prisoner while on escort duty from Greenwood to Calford.
Alone in his barrack-room, which had been his charge for so long, Corporal McFardell was more than sick at heart. But over and above everything else he was smarting under a sense of intolerable injustice.
It was four days since he had returned to barracks. And before that he had driven himself and his horse well-nigh to death for ten days, scouring the snowy desolation of the hill country in search of the man who had tricked him so badly in his moment of helplessness. The man had vanished; completely and utterly disappeared. He had made good an escape which McFardell had deemed impossible. The man was a stranger to the country; he was shackled; his horse was none too fresh. How was it possible?
McFardell had expected to discover his frozen body at least. But his ten days of superhuman effort hadleft him unrewarded. So he had been driven to return to Calford, his horse well-nigh foundered, and himself in little better case, to make his report, and to be promptly placed under arrest for his pains. Then he had been forced to place himself on the sick list, to be attended for the frost which had bitten him almost to the bone. And now, rested and recovered, he was awaiting that brazen summons of the bugle for the thing that was yet to come.
It was curious. As the man lolled upon the brown blankets of his bed his resentment and bitterness were in no way directed against the prisoner who was the cause of his disaster. It was anger, furious anger, against the authority which took practically no cognisance of any circumstance in a case of failure amongst those who acknowledged it.
For years he had laboured and schemed, sacrificing everything to “duty.” Step by step he had gained his advancement by sound, patient work, until now he stood first on the roll of seniority for his sergeant’s stripes. Now he knew that all that record would have to go by the board. It would count for practically nothing. He must face a cold tribunal, governed only by police regulations, which were devoid of all human sentiment. He must accept the last ounce of punishment for the loss of his prisoner for which they happened to call. He would be punished in just the same degree as any other whose record was incomparable with his. The injustice of it maddened him. In his bitterness he claimed the right to treatment in accordance with his record of years of good work.
But that was the Andrew McFardell whom his associates knew. That was the man who, for all his good police work, had failed to inspire any warmth of regard amongst those with whom he worked. That was why there was excitement, and anticipation, and a sense ofquiet satisfaction in the thought of the trial that was to take place that morning.
Andrew McFardell took no thought for anything or anybody but himself.
As the last harsh note of the bugle died out on the crisp winter air McFardell sprang alertly from his bunk. He set his fur cap on his head and buttoned the shining buttons of his red jacket. Then, with a swift glance round the deserted room, he passed hurriedly out in response to the summons.
On the wooden side-walk just outside the Superintendent’s office Corporal McFardell sprang to “Attention” in response to the Sergeant-Major’s barking order. He felt that a hundred pairs of eyes were peering out at him, prompted by a curiosity that had little friendliness in it. He was under no illusion. Popularity with his comrades was a thing he had treated with quiet contempt. He had never concerned himself with their opinion. The only good opinion he had sought had been of those in authority over him. And now he knew he was about to learn the true value of the favour of the gods he had set up. He pulled himself together, and thrust every other thought aside, concentrating upon the task of combating regulations whose cold framing left him so little hope.
As the little procession lined up facing Superintendent Leedham Branch’s desk the Sergeant-Major snatched the fur cap from the prisoner’s head. It was a further indignity demanded by regulations.
The Superintendent was contemplating the charge sheet before him. He did not even glance at the prisoner. On either side of him and slightly behind his chair, stood the two Inspectors of his command. They were very definitely regarding the prisoner, but in that cold sphinx-like,unrecognising fashion which the discipline governing them all had taught them.
It was a bare, uninteresting room, with calsomined walls and a flooring of bare boards. There was just sufficient furnishing to meet the needs of administration. The Superintendent’s desk was a simple whitewood table, and the chair he occupied behind it was of bentwood. Immediately behind him stood a fireproof safe, and, distributed about, where necessary, stood other whitewood tables and bentwood chairs for the use of Inspectors and staff. The whole atmosphere of the place epitomised the lives of these men, who spared themselves as little as the criminals it was their work to deal with.
Superintendent Branch seemed in no hurry to deal with the case. Perhaps his attitude was calculated. He continued his reading, while McFardell regarded him with anxiously speculative eyes.
At last the man behind the desk spoke, without looking up. He was a clean-cut, clean-shaven creature, with fair hair and pale blue eyes. He was possibly forty. He was tall, slight, and his whole appearance suggested energy and capacity.
“Corporal McFardell, the charge against you is one of gross neglect of duty,” he said, in a quiet, colourless voice. “On November 8th you permitted the escape of the prisoner, James Pryse, sentenced to five years’ imprisonment with hard labour, while on escort duty from Greenwood to Calford. You are further charged with absenting yourself from duty from November 8th to the 18th, contrary to General Order 9075A2 governing the escort of prisoners by trail. What have you to say? Are you guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty on both charges, sir.”
McFardell’s reply came on the instant. He knew he had no alternative. There was, however, a sharpness inhis tone that gave some indication of the alertness, the readiness to defend, that lay behind his words.
“Sergeant-Major Ironside.”
The man at the desk looked up interrogatively at the first witness. And the Sergeant-Major cleared his throat.
“Sir, on the morning of the 18th Corporal McFardell rode into barracks and reported the loss of the prisoner, James Pryse. He stated that the date of the man’s escape was the 8th. When I questioned him as to the delay of his return to barracks he explained he had been riding the hill country in an attempt to recapture the escaped prisoner, who, he believed, could not have made a clear getaway in the snowstorm that was prevailing at the time of his escape. The Corporal’s horse was in bad shape, and the Veterinary Sergeant reports that he had been pretty well ridden to death. I placed Corporal McFardell under arrest, and reported at once to the Orderly Officer of the day.”
The Sergeant-Major’s evidence was given in the unemotional manner of an automaton. He had given the outline of the facts in the manner his duty demanded. There was no exaggeration; there was no softening. Superintendent Branch turned to the prisoner.
“Have you any question to ask Sergeant-Major Ironside?”
“None, sir.”
Forthwith the Superintendent turned to Inspector Kalton.
“You were Orderly Officer on the 18th, Mr. Kalton?”
The Inspector also gave a slight clearing of the throat. Then, very briefly, he corroborated his subordinate’s evidence. As the prisoner had no questions to put, for a few reflective moments, Superintendent Branch gazed steadily up into his face.
“You have heard the evidence, Corporal,” he said at last, in that cold fashion that was so desperately discouraging.“What have you to say in your defence?”
Not a detail of the manner in which Orderly-Room cases were dealt with was new to Corporal McFardell. He knew the whole ritual by heart. His years of experience had brought him into contact with it often enough. But this was the first time he had occupied the central place as the prisoner. His whole concern at that moment was how far he might hope to escape the full penalty due to him as laid down by General Orders. He pinned his last hope to the extenuating nature of the circumstances of his disaster. He believed that no one would have fared better under his conditions. And, furthermore, he felt he had done all he knew to recover the escaped man. He had striven till the last of his bodily resources were exhausted. He felt that his case was good. Superintendent Branch was a just man.
He knew that the extreme penalty for his crime against regulations was reduction to the ranks, imprisonment, and dismissal from the Force without character. If he could escape with reduction to the ranks he would be happy. If imprisonment were added he would not despair. Dismissal from the Force was the thing he dreaded most of all. It would be the end of all things for him. For he had looked to make the Force the whole of his career. A “bobtail” discharge was the nightmare of the mounted policeman. So he, like those others, cleared his throat before speaking, and hurled himself to his defence.
“Sir,” he began, a little hoarsely as he passed his tongue across his thick lips to moisten them, “I’ve no sort of defence to offer beyond the letter of the report which I addressed to you as my commanding officer on my return to barracks on the 18th. You’ll have read it before this, sir, and I want to say that every word I wrote there is just the God’s truth. I was knocked out cold by my horse falling, through the balling snow in his hoofs. And I guess there was no power in the world to prevent the mangetting the drop on me while I was unconscious. When I woke up he’d got me covered, so I couldn’t do a thing. I just had to lie there while he got clear away in the half-light of the snowstorm. The moment I had the chance I was on my horse and after him. And I didn’t let up till my horse was done, and I couldn’t sit a saddle right. I’ve been through hell to recover that prisoner, sir. Give me a chance, sir, to get after that feller again. I don’t ask to escape punishment. I know I’ll lose my stripes, and maybe I’ll go to the guard-room for a spell. But for God’s sake, sir, don’t discharge me from the Force. It’s the only way I can hope to get after that feller right. Hand me the chance to get after him. It’s all I ask. It’s him and me, sir. Whatever happens, it’s that way just as long as I live. If you keep me in the Force I can do it right. It’s my one big chance. That’s all, sir.”
The passionate sincerity of McFardell’s appeal was wholly convincing. His words came hotly, and regardless of the usual formalities. But there was no sign of the relenting he looked for in the eyes observing him so coldly. With his last word there came an ominous shake of the head from the man behind the table.
“I’ve read your report very carefully, Corporal,” he said coldly. “I’m quite convinced that it is the whole truth, and you are to be commended that that is so. But, unfortunately, for you the truth is very damning to your case. Your horse fell and threw you, and you were rendered unconscious. No one can blame you for that. Had the prisoner made his getaway while you were unconscious I should have dismissed the charges laid against you. But he did not do so. He apparently only had time to disarm you before you came to, which suggests you were only momentarily stunned. Then, when he held you covered, you made no resistance. You apparently did nothing. In fear of your life youlethim get away. Do you understand my meaning? There is the moralcharge of cowardice preferred against you. Your report condemns you so flagrantly that I shall inflict the maximum penalty. You are reduced to the ranks. You will be confined to the guard-room for two months, with hard labour. And—your case will go up to the Commissioner with a recommendation that you be dismissed from the Force.”
“Right turn! Quick march!”
The Sergeant-Major’s commands rang out. It was like the hideous toll of the prison bell after an execution.
Superintendent Branch, his officers, and Sergeant-Major Ironside had been discussing the escape of James Pryse. Orderly-Room was over. Trooper McFardell was already in the charge of the guard, and about to begin his two months of hard labour. His case was already relegated to the orders of the day. And, in so far as he was concerned, the matter was dismissed from the minds of his superiors. They had no thought for the career which their discipline had devastated.
“You know, Sergeant-Major, it’s a far more serious matter than I can say,” Superintendent Branch declared at the conclusion of the discussion, with an emphasis which his associates recognised as his most profound danger-signal. “Were this man, Pryse, an ordinary criminal, it would leave me less disturbed. Through him the Police prestige has suffered a double blow. Think back. What is the position? A murder is committed—a clear, frank, deliberate shooting by a man who, maybe, felt justified. That’s all right. His brother, this Pryse, fresh from Alaska, is staying in his house in Greenwood. The murderer has no thought of a getaway. He knows our people are coming for him, and he reckons to stand his trial. We know all that. Meanwhile this wild man,James Pryse, gets at him. He plans his escape and prepares. When our men come along, the house is transformed into a veritable fortress, and we are forced to storm it. Well, eventually we get in, and what do we find? This man, James Pryse, simply laughing at us. Which means that the whole of the town of Greenwood was laughing with him. It was all a game. Our man had been got away before we came. And the whole pantomime of barricading the house was performed to give him added time, and delay our ultimate pursuit. That all came out at Pryse’s trial. That’s bad enough. But now this later escape of Pryse himself is ten times worse. We’ve lost so much ground I simply daren’t think of it. We shall have the Commissioner here to investigate our discipline and efficiency. And very rightly so. Things have got to be jerked up, and at once. I shall hold myself responsible that this is so. And I shall hold my officers no less responsible, and you, too, Sergeant-Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Sergeant-Major’s face reflected the storm which the other’s words had set boiling behind his hard grey eyes. His superiors all knew his swift methods of passing any reprimand he might receive on to the troops under him.
A grim light was shining in the eyes that regarded the rugged face of the harshest Sergeant-Major in the Police Force.
“Now, let there be no mistake, Sergeant-Major. No mistake whatever,” the man at the desk went on, in a carefully calculated tone. “The prisoner, Pryse, has to be recaptured. If there is any further failure, you will have to answer for it. Do you understand me? How many patrols have you got out?”
“Three, Sir.”
“Three? You will treble that number. You will treble it, if you have to return half the staff to duty. Youmust go through the territory within a hundred and fifty miles of this post with a fine comb, and any failure in efficiency in the work will be dealt with in the most rigorous fashion. See to it. These patrols must be on the trail by noon. That will do.”