A DASH FOR LIBERTY

Otago Witness, Issue 2649, 21 December 1904, Page 75

A DASH FOR LIBERTY

By Thos. J. Pemberton.

(For the Witness.)

"We'll 'aye to give 'em the slip to-night, I tell 'c, mate. It's right enough to think as we're safe 'ere enjoyin' ourselves, but we'll be jugged afore we know it, you take my word. You've got some littlegame on down there in the town, that's ■wlist you 'aye."

"And what if I have?"

■" "See 'ere, we've 'ad a pretty tight squeeze, but we've made a clean job of it. I "reckons, though, we'd better keep joggin' if we—want the fun for our money."

"I have a reason for staying, and we are as safe here as anywhere else. If you 'like, you can go." "All right, lad, dion't get huffy over it. You can get the darbies on you again si so as you wish, but if you 'ad worked for (government as long as I 'ad you'd think mrce of your skin than you do." f'unvicts hiding in the mountains: such •were the speakers. An old man leant over a miserable little fire tending the cooking of a high-smelling -weka. No one could mistake him. for anything but a criminal, yet there was a subtle something in his face which showed he was not all- bad. On the brink of a small precipice which rose above the camp was seated a younger man. Though weather-stained, he was jiofc ill-clad, for the details of their escape lad been 1 so well arranged and carried out that at present, so far as clothes and ■comforts were- concerned, they were comparatively well off. But "a year of prison life and the excitement of the past few days had left their traces on the handsome face of the young convict, and streaks of gray appeared amidst his short, black liair. After his outburst of^ impatience ■with the old man, he continued to gaze -thoughtfully "out upon the scene below.

It was the closing "of a summer day. The. last tints of gold had scarcely faded from the sky. From the peak above far <lown into the valley the hills were clothed) in " a mantle of green, and the air was filled with the notes of birds, bidding adieu to the passing day. On the lower slopes numbers of farmhouses nestled^ and on the still evening air there floated up the lowing of the cattle they muster* d for the milking. Over the brow of the spur to the left the southern half of the township could be seen, and, beyond the town, -the point on which the pioneers had unfurled their Union Jack while yet the century was young. On all sides, like' sentinels, peak after peak guarded the sleeping waters at their feet, while the polished sheen threw back the mountains from its depths. % "Are you goin' to sit there 'like a stuff-id mummy all night, lad," the old man growled from -below, "or are you goin' to Jielp me eat tkis game fowl?" Aroused from his reverie, Jack Donovan, the young convict, made his way round the rocky face and joined his fellow fugitive, who was now laying out their scanty aneal on a log in front of the tent.

" "So you thinks you're goin' to stay here tintil you're caged again, eh?" saidl the •lder man, when £is first .pangs of hunger satisfied' "You know the hawks are swarming round the place; you've seen ■'■em down tEere on the road with yer ov.n eyes, and the slop that runs us in will get a lift and a hundred quid beside. Do T«* think as" that won't keep 'em goin' 1

} Stay 'ere any longer, and we'll have to eat ; raw meat, for there'll be no more lightin' | of fires." I "Look here, Marshall, old man," said I Donovan, "I don't want you to be caught on account of me. I'll hand you over ten pounds, and you can go where you like ; but, caged again or not, I can't leave this place yet. To tell you the truth, the only hope I have of regaining my good name lies in that little town. You can go to-night as soon as it is dark. I'll draw you a plan of the best tracks to take."

"What, and. leave you here?" said the old man. "No, I reckons, as I've stuck to you so far, there'll be no good done in clearin' out without you, so I'll just stay alongside of you for a bit yet."

"Thanks ; I think it will be better to stick together," Donovan replied. "Tv* never told you yet why I made for this place when we got away. Of course, to steer for the hills was our only chance, and then there was Dan O'Connor, who has helped us through : lie lives here. But there was another reason, and that involves a long story, which perhaps you would like to hear. Well, you see, it was like this. Before I landed in gaol I had a job with a good firm in town. I wasn't a millionaire, but I was quite satisfied with the screw I got, and I was the boss's right-hand man. In the house where I had rooms about a dozen other people lived as well. Among them was a man and his daughter. Don't smile, you old sinner; I suppose- you were never in love yourself. Well, that was about the size of the matter. The man was a strange old beggar. He had seen better days, and he still hoped, I think, to regain his position, for he spent all -his time working at a patent which ho said would' eventually make him enormously wealthy. A kind of cold friendship sprang up between us, but in spite of it I never quite trusted him. His daughter was an angel, though, and those few months we spent together were paradise to me. A week before the tragedy we had arranged .to marry before the end. 'of the year, and I was looking forward to that day of days. Then, one bright morning, I found myself arrested for robbing a safe. The evening before I had been on a visit, and), on returning home at midnight, I remembered I had left a book at the office, which I wanted to begin that night. I went into town and got it, for I had a key of the front door. Someone evidently saw me go in and come out again, for my appearance as I was at that * time was afterwards described m court: During the the office sate was robbed of. nearly £500, and in the morning, while I was at work, all unsuspecting, for the manager had said nothing to us, my rooms were searched. Twenty pound notes, whose numbers corresponded with those stolen, were foundi hidden under a heavy case, and two dupUcate keys of the office safe were discovered in my desk. The evidence, in spite of my reputation, went hard against me,, and added to this was the fact that some months before, when the manager was away on holiday, I was in charge of his keys, so could easily have taken patterns of any I wished. I think I could have saved myself if I had tried, but I was too miserable to trouble much. And so the trial ended, and I was sentenced to three years. I hoped to the last that the man who had arranged the .plot would confess, btit evidently he ihad no conscience, for a year has gone by, and I am still a branded convict. Do you remember when we were working in the quarry one day, and a note was dropped down from the rock above? That note told me that Defoe and his daughter had some months before left for this little town down here, and that Defoe himself was dangerously ill. iFrom that day I determined to escape, and how we did it together you know. Twice I have tried to see Dorothy Defoe, but it is a difficult task, for I believe the police have an inkling I am in league witfi her, though until tJiis morning she didn't know I was here. Last night I gave Dan O'Connor a note to deliver this morning, and if all goes well I shall see Dorothy to-night. Now, you see how the land lies. Defoe, the only man who can save me, is dying. I must see him at any cost. If my surmises are not correct, or if he dies without confessing, then I am lost. If the worst comes to the worst, however, we'll make a dash for it together. From our loot-out up there you can see a little craft anchored just the other side of the first jetty. I lived in that toAvn for several years, and that yacht belonged to myself and another man. It once held the championship of the colony. It's been beaten since, but it's S; for a cruise yet. Two years ago I bought out my partner, and that boat is now mine, though I haven't been near her for many a day. She has been kept in order and used constantly, so we can trust her. To-night and to-morrow night Dan O'Connor is taking provisions and water on board for me. I pay him well for it, and I can be confident of his doing it secretly. Just outside the heads to the right there is a little nook that we found when we were fishing round that way some years ago. We could lie there for weeks with safety .if we had enough food. On the other hand, there is the open sea and a bolt for the other side. Now, you understand why I dion't want you to leave me, and I only have a right .to ask a desperate man to risk his life, maybe for weeks, in that little craft."

The old man seemed to be thinking deeply. For some time he said nothing, and then : "You must try an' trust me, lad" ; and their hands closed in a grip which meant more to those hunted men than any -words. • • • « a

Ail was still in the settlement, and it seemed" that care, if there it could exist, was forgotten m those sleeping hours. Yet thure was more than one person astir that night. Out there in the bay a boat laden with provisions was gliding with muffled oars towards a dark form across the waters. On the farther slopes an old man silently trudged along the deserted road, his footsteps turned towards the city, 50 miles beyond. Above the town a man stood watching a light in a cottage window. He thought of the time when he could call this haven of rest his home ; when he could roam these hills a free man ; when, light of heart, he had dashed across those waters to the merry tune of a sail-splitting sou'-we3ter. Then his thoughts wandered back" to the present, and he saw himself as he was, a hunted convict, on whose head was set a price, whose chance of regaining his honour in the sight of the world was ebbing away with a life that even now was crossing the bar. Just then the light in the window went out, and he made his way down to the back of the cottage, to where a little footbridge spanned the creek, almost hidr den by the branches of a giant willow, a slip from one that lived to weep above the grave of the great Napoleon. Someone stole out from the shadow of the house. It was a girl, clad in a light summer gown, and with head uncovered), for the night was warm. For a moment she stood and listened, but, hearing no sound, she crossed to where the foliage .of the willow hung down :n: n long-streaming clusters.

"Dorothy," said the man, and he moved towards her, but the girl drew back in an attitude of defiance.

"Why are you here?" she asked, almost fiercely.

The dream +hat find Vieei his only plea--ri during his year of prison life 'mclt e>li away, and his heart seemed to grow cold within him. He tried to speak, but the words choked him, and he turned away to hide his weakness.

"Why do you wish to see me?" she asked again. With an effort he spoke. "I have no reason now," he said. "I had hoped — but what matters it to you? I will go back."

"Why, what do you mean?" said the girl.

"Dorothy," he said, "if this was what I thought I was coming to, I should have tried to forget you, forget everything. I have lived with the one hope that you, at least, trusted me. A n?an is only human. Good-bye. I needn't go far to find those who are more anxicus for my company. Good-bye, and may God help me to forgive you," and he turned to go. With a cry of despair the girl in a moment was by his side "Jack, Jack, don't go," she sobbed. "I see what it all means row ; forgive me for doubting yoxi were innocent," and she bowed her head on his shoulder, and) a hot tear fell on to his hand. Perhaps he was hardened after his months of suffering, for he was not yet satisfied.

"And have you lived for a year," he said, "with the knowledge that the man "who loved you as I did was a common thief, fit only to herd with criminals and murderers? Oh, Dorothy! why have .1 ever troubled to think of you?" "Don't say that, Jack, but forgive me. Listen," and she raised her tear-stained eyes to him. "After you went, my father tolcl me never to think of you again. Ho said he was not only sure you were guilty, but that he had found out that you had been in — in prison before in Australia." "Oh, God ! the whole world's in league against me, Dorothy," he said, taking her in his arms. "Will you trust me? will you be true to my memory if not to me? I may never be able to prove my innocence in the eyes of the world, but God' knows I am suffering for the sins of another man."

"I am happy now," she replied. "I have heard from your own lips what I have been longing to know all these long, dreary months. But, Jack, dear, you are in danger." "Never mind about me. What of your father?"' he asked.

"I want to tell you something," said the girl. "You may think lam cold and unnatural if you .remain in ignorance any longer. When I was quite a child! my father died, leaving me in the care of this man. I took his name, Defoe ; by his own wish I called him father, but i am afraid he has not been a father to me. He has not been kind to me, and I never really loved him. I had property le f t to me, but he has got it out of my hands, and now I am almost — Jack, what is the matter?"

If sentence of death hacl been passed on Donovan at the moment it could scarcely have wrought such a change in his face as this acknowledgment. "Not your father?" he muttered, half to himself. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Slowly the full meaning of the words came to him. Love, hate, revenge, the bitterness of despair seemed to overwhei-a him. "Come, we must see Defoe. We must choke the words out of his dying Hps," he almost hissed.

Without, waiting for* more he strode into the cottage, and) instinctively sought the room where the man lay. The girl followed, wondering. Inside the room he paused, his head uncovered, for there seemed to *be something in the air demanding reverence. The room was dimly lighted by a shaded night lamp, which just took within its luminous circle the bed on which the sick man lay. All else was in darkness. The features of the invalid were cold and set.

I For a minute the two stood watching > , the still pale features. Then a sud'Jen fear , seized the convict. In a moment he was . by the bedside, bending low over the face ., \of the man. He felt for the beating of the feeble heart — no movement ; the breath failed to dim the glass. He stooped again — not a sign. "Dead !" and a great sob choked him. He sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. "Jack," whispered the girl softly, kneeling beside him and taking his hands in hers, "why should you grieve? I shall try and remember some of his kindnesses to me. but what was he to you?" "Everything — hie, honour, happiness, Dorothy! Don't you understand yet? With the life of that man lying there went my only chance of wiping this stain -from my life. He is the man who has ruined me. He is the man who has taken tny honour and stolen the years of my life. It is he who committed the crime and trapped me to hide h?s guilt. And, not content with that, he robbed you of the faith you had in me. And now he lies dead, and his secret is buried forever. At the time of the trial I had one scrap of evidence which might have saved me and incriminated him, but I wasn't man enough to reveal it. You see, I thought he was I your father and you loved him. So I. \ waited, hoping that he would acknowledge his crime himself, or that he would be betrayed. But it's too late now. Dorothy, • you must be brave. I. must go away and , start life over again. A branded criminal may dare to lose, but no more. You must forget me." i The full' significance of his words dawned upon her, and when he ended she was ready and -willing even to lay down her life for him. . ■ "No, no!" she cried, "let me come with you. Let me try to make amends for what this man has done. No, I can't let you go alone. You don't know what it means to me." ■ "You don't understand, little sweetheart," he said. "At any moment I may be caught. Here in this town, on these hills, are desperate men who look for me day and night. I have still two years of my sentence to serve, and my having escaped will mean a third if I am captured. If I do get away from the colony, it will be years before I can show my face to the world again, and) do you think I could have the heart to drag you down to where I must fall? Some day, perhaps — but, no, I mustn't." "Yes, promise when you are safe away from these human bloodhounds that you will write to me, and you will let me come and share your poverty. I shall be . alone in the world." "No, not- alone, Dorothy," he said. "You will have kind friends to *care for you. A bright day may come soon — who knows? But now, good-bye. I must get back to the mountains before it is light. If you watch the boat anchored just off the little ■ jetty you may' see it sail away to-morrow, or it may disappear in the night. Then you will- know that at least for a time I am safe. I may never see you again s but I shall always know there is one person in this wide world who believes in me. j Good-bye." But she clung to him still, and he, forgetting his danger, took her to his heart again, and thus in silence they lingered. Suddenly there was a hurried step in the passage, and a harsh laugh disturbed the stillness of that death chamber. "Caught like a rat in a trap !" came a voice from the open door. But the bloodhounds had not allowed for the strength of a desperate man. A shot rang out, but missed. The guard went down, bleedting and stunned. There was sound of a desperate fight in a back room of the house, then a groan, a loud shattering of glass, revolver shots rang out on the night air ; but the shadows of the trees closed over the hunted; man, and long before the sun had risen he was safe in his mountain haunt. But he was alone. On the white calico of the tent, scrawled with a piece of red stone found in the creeks, were the words, "Wait and trust me, lad. — Marshall." The old convict had gone. When the first light of dawn showed over the range, the valleys above the town were being scoured by the officers who had been so badly foiled the night before. All day long Donovan -watched from his vantage point, and towards the close of the afternoon he saw three of the men start up the valley below and enter the bush in which he was hiding. There were more than three, he knew. He looked up to the peak, not 300 ft above him, and there he saw crouching figures moving from rock to rock. He thought of his old companion, Marshall. What if he should return tonight? He would enter the trap unsuspecting. He must trust to luck, however, for there was no other way. Fifteen minutes lafer the camp was rushed 1 , but the birds hadi flown. %«» • t ■ Dan O'Connor was a man who had seen many sides of life. In his younger days he had been a whaler, and now ostensibly he was a fisherman. But probably he had other ways of making a living whicE the public were not acquainted with. He had many good qualities, however. He could keep his word, drunk or sooer, and any man who paid him. well found a true friend in Dan. It was he who had been ready ■with clothes and food, 50 miles away from his own home, when the two convicts escaped from the island fortress. It was he who had kept them supplied with necessaries of life in their mountain hidingplace, and it was he who was provisioning the yacht in readiness for its dangerous cruise.

I Since his escape in the afternoon Don»« van had remained in hiding in the bush, but when darkness closed he made his way ( to the point at the water's edge where O'Connor was to leave again that night with his boatload of provisions. The boat was drawn up on a little deserted beach, and here, in the shadow of a rock, Donovan awaited the coming of his accomplice. Some time after midnight a man led a pack-horse down the gully. "Dan," called Donovan, "don't get excited, it's only me," and he stepped out from his cover. '"That's the last load you are bringing, I suppose? Well, now", I want to speak to you seriously. You've been a good sailor in your time. You'v? got no family to -trouble you. What do you say to a last cruise, with me for skipper? Marshall has deserted; I shall ghvhim another day, and then away. I'vs got eighty pounds left of that money of mine you drew for me, and if we get to Australia, Tasmania, or anywhere out of this hell alive, you shall have half. You can book your passage home again, and you'll be none the worse for your trip. It's a risky job, I know, but, given good weather,^ we'll see it through. What do you say?" "Wall," said Dan, ' "I should like a bifc of pleasure trip o' the kind, but you must give a chap time to consider, like." "Good," said Donovan. "You shall have until I count sixty," and he seated himseU on tiis boat and began to count. "Na, na ; a few hours or a day or so, I mean," said Dan. "No time — yes or no. Remember — forty pounds." "Wall, yes, it's a peety to waste forty pounds, so i just reckon I'll go along with you." '"Get these things into the boat, take your horse back, make final arrangements as secretly as possible, and be back in. an hour. We'll get aboard to-night ; lie low to-morrow to give Marshall a chance, and, if he doesn't come by midiaight, then, the first breath of wind after that, we'll let loose the sheets and away." From the small cabin porthole they had watched the town break into its littlo life again. Groups of men stood talking at the shop doors, and it was evident that something extraordinary was afoot. Possibly Marshall had been caught, they surmised. People were gathering on the wharf, for it was the hour when the launch started out on its daily rounds, and even now the steam was hissisg from the escape. O'Connor was keeping watch. Suddenly he turned to Donovan, who was lying on the opposite bunk. "They're comin" in a boat from the other side of the wharf," he' said. Like a flash the convict darted for tha > porthole. It was but a moment, and ho was on deck, almost dragging O'Connor after him. > His knife snapped through the ropes that bound the sail at rest, and in 'less t-han 30 seconds the huge main sheet bellied out over the water. "Let go the anchor rope and stand to the tiller," he shouted to Dan, who was now fired with the enthusiasm of the moment. The officers in the boat had roundied the end of the wharf, and were now rowing as though for their very lives, shouting as they came. The jib of the yacht flew up in a big semi-circle and tightened in the wind. By this time the boat was within 100 yards ; they were shouting forhim to stop, but the fugitive heard nothing. The ropes strained, the yacht heeled over in the light breeze, and the bubbles slowly began to dritt past the sides ; a fresh puff of wind struck her, and she shot - out from her anchorage. The stay-sail flew into position, and the pace increased as they steered for the open roadstead. It was a fair wind, but a light one. "They're goin' back," said Dan. ''I reckon we've just about given 'em the slip this time." "Don't be too sure of- that yet," said "Donovan, as he kept his eyes on the movements of those upon the wharf. " The whole town seems to be turning out to see us off. Look ! they are waving their handkerchiefs. Good heavens ! what are they doing? The launch ! They're all making a rush for her. We're done foi this time if the wind doesn't freshen." It was only too true. The steam launch had been requisitioned by those in pursuit, and even now was throwing off her moorings. Donovan made a dive down into the small fore cabin and dragged up extra canvas, and in five minutes a flying jib and a spinnaker were adding to the speed. It was a wild and exciting chase. For the first two miles the pursuers seemed to gain, but as they came more into the. open harbour the wind freshened a little, and the water swirled past the bows of the. yacht as she bent to the work in hand. A constant cloud of black smoke I came from the funnel of the launch. She | was sparing no coal. Then the mouth of the harbour loomed into sight round the point, and a clear sti*etch of six miles, and then the open sea. The convict lift his pipe and breathed great wreaths of smoke in sheer delight, for the water far in their wake had ruffled, and a strong gale of wind was widening the distance between pursuer and pursued. But it was a last effort. The wind died away, thai fly ing -jib gave a flap of despair, the main sheet slackened and the boom swung round, and the swirl of the parted waters subsided. "Done !" said Donovan ; "we'll get no more wind for an hour, and then it will be a head wind. I was half afraid thia would happen. I've seen it before with? these nor'-easters. Stick to the yacht, Dan; here's something for your trouble

They may think you are Marshall, and they'll reckon a biid in the hand is worth one in the bush. I'll, take the boat and row for that point, and if you do land in gaol for this day's work, I'll repay you somehow. "' In less lime than it takes to tell he had loosened the painter of the boat in tow, and was rowing for the nearest point of land. Evidently those in pursuit knew more than he gave them credit for, for they ha<J turned their bow to head him off. Then ensued a desperate struggle for liberty. With his eyes fixed on the evernearing launch, he rowed as no man was ever called to row on those waters before, and the oars bent almost to breaking point. It was a one-sided race, however, for although ths launch had almost double the distance to travel, it was moving under the highest pressure of steam. Nearer and nearer they drew together ; there was less than half a mile separating the convict from safety ; for once on land, no one would sea him again that day. Would he get there in time? Then he realised) with pleasure that, even if they headed him off, they would shoot past and thus give him another chance. He could see the people crowding to the side ; he could hear their sEouts. The muscles of his arms seemed as though they would burst ; but again' and again, with renewed vigour, he bent himself to his task. There was another 300 yards to go, and his pursuers were much less than that distance behind. He must win, and, with a last desperate effort, he flung his whole weight into the stroke. There was a snap, an oar broke in half, and the race endisd. He had done his best, but failed.

What happened in the next five minutes seemed a dream to him. As the launch drew up beside him he could hear the cheers of those who had been his friends. He recognised Dorothy Defoe amongst them. He could hear the words, "You're free !" and as he was helped on board he began to realise that lie was no longer a hunted criminal. The people crowded round him, all eager to explain the strange events, and, bit by bit, from a dozen different sources, the story was revealed. Marshall had played the hero. He had listened to Donovan's history that night upon the hills, and recognised in it the sequel of an event in his own life. Then he determined to make a sacrifice, if necessary, so had set out for the city as soon as his companion had left him. When he arrived, late on the- following day, the newspapers had jeportedi Donovan's -escape from the death chamber of Defoe, and so, on learning this, he surrendered himself up to the authorities, at the same time making a confession. More than a year before, Defoe, whom he had known for some time, brought him certain key§, and offered him a third share if he would use them to rob a safe which he knew contained a large amount of money on a certain night of the week. Marshall had carried the plan out successfully, and left the country next\ day. On returning some months later he was seized and sentenced for another crime, and it^was not until he heard the story from Donovan's own lips that he learned that an innocent man had been convicted. Proofs were brought forward which bore out his statement ; and so the one" offender was awaiting a further sentence, while the author of the crime had gone before a higher tribunal. "Jack, dear," said Dorothy to Donovan, when at last they were alone, "you -will forgive me now for telling them the secret of your hiding place V It never struck me that you could get away so quickly, though." "Dorothy, I'm so happy now," he said. "I feel a boy again. All the world seems more beautiful. It is as much joy as I can bear to feel that I'm alive. I don't care even if I have to go back to gaol for a. while for prison-breaking ; it will soon be over, and then they'll give me back my position. Then, Dorothy, then — you will, won't you?" "Will what, Jack?"' she aske3 simply.

"You know, little sweetheart." And she probably didu