Kitabı oku: «Twice Bought», sayfa 4
Chapter Five
When our hero found himself in a hole, pitch dark and barely large enough to permit of his creeping on hands and knees, he felt a sudden sensation of fear—of undefinable dread—come over him, such as one might be supposed to experience on awaking to the discovery that he had been buried alive. His first impulse was to shout for deliverance, but his manhood returned to him, and he restrained himself.
Groping his way cautiously along the passage or tunnel, which descended at first steeply, he came to a part which he could feel was regularly built over with an arch of brickwork or masonry, and the sound of running water overhead told him that this was a tunnel under the rivulet. As he advanced the tunnel widened a little, and began to ascend. After creeping what he judged to be a hundred yards or so, he thought he could see a glimmer of light like a faint star in front of him. It was the opening to which Betty had referred. He soon reached it and emerged into the fresh air.
As he raised himself, and drew a long breath of relief, the words of his deliverer seemed to start up before him in letters of fire—
“Use your freedom to escape from death—but much more, to escape from sin.”
“I will, so help me God!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands convulsively and looking upward. In the strength of the new-born resolution thus induced by the Spirit of God, he fell on his knees and tried to pray. Then he rose and sat down to think, strangely forgetful of the urgent need there was for flight.
Meanwhile Gashford and his men proceeded to question Paul Bevan and his daughter. The party included, among others, Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, and Crossby. Gashford more than suspected the motives of the first two in accompanying him, but did not quite see his way to decline their services, even if he had possessed the power to do so. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he could keep a sharp eye on their movements.
“No, no, Bevan,” he said, when the man brought out a case-bottle of rum and invited him to drink, “we have other work on hand just now. We have traced that young thief Brixton to this hut, and we want to get hold of him.”
“A thief, is he?” returned Bevan, with a look of feigned surprise. “Well, now, that is strange news. Tom Brixton don’t look much like a thief, do he?” (appealing to the by-standers). “There must be some mistake, surely.”
“There’s no mistake,” said Gashford, with an oath. “He stole a bag o’ gold from my tent. To be sure he dropped it in his flight so I’ve got it back again, but that don’t affect his guilt.”
“But surely, Mister Gashford,” said Bevan slowly, for, having been hurriedly told in a whisper by Betty what she had done for Tom, he was anxious to give his friend as much time as possible to escape, “surely as you’ve come by no loss, ye can afford to let the poor young feller off this time.”
“No, we can’t,” shouted Gashford, fiercely. “These mean pilferers have become a perfect pest at the diggin’s, an’ we intend to stop their little game, we do, by stoppin’ their windpipes when we catch them. Come, don’t shilly-shally any longer, Paul Bevan. He’s here, and no mistake, so you’d better hand him over. Besides, you owe us something, you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of time.”
“Well, as to that I am much obliged, though, after all, it wasn’t to help me you came.”
“No matter,” exclaimed the other impatiently, “you know he is here, an’ you’re bound to give him up.”
“But I don’t know that he’s here, an’ I can’t give him up, cause why? he’s escaped.”
“Escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has not crossed that since we arrived, I’ll be bound. There’s a sentry on it now.”
“But an active young feller can jump, you know.”
“No, he couldn’t jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a Rocky Mountain goat. Come, since you won’t show us where he is, we’ll take the liberty of sarchin’ your premises. But stay, your daughter’s got the name o’ bein’ a religious gal. If there’s any truth in that she’d be above tellin’ a lie. Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good gal, is Tom Brixton here?”
“No, he is not here,” replied the girl.
“Where is he, then?”
“I do not know.”
“That’s false, you do know. But come, lads, we’ll sarch, and here’s a cellar to begin with.”
He laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a light descended, followed by Bevan, Crossby, Flinders, and one or two others. Tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was discovered.
“Ho! ho!” he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it. “Here’s something, anyhow.”
After peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as far as his arm could reach.
“Mind he don’t bite!” suggested Paddy Flinders, in a tone that drew a laugh from the by-standers.
“Hand me that stick, Paddy,” said Gashford, “and keep your jokes to a more convenient season.”
“Ah! then ’tis always a convanient season wid me, sor,” replied Paddy, with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick.
“Does this hole go far in?” he asked, after a fruitless poking about with the stick.
“Ay, a long way. More’n a hundred yards,” returned Bevan.
“Well, I’ll have a look at it.”
Saying which Gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow.
We say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree. It must be remembered that Gashford was an unusually large man, and that Tom Brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an entrance. When, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither advance nor retreat! He struggled violently, and a muffled sound of shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was said.
“Och! the poor cratur,” exclaimed Paddy Flinders, with a look of overdone commiseration, “what’ll we do for ’im at all at all?”
“Let’s try to pull him out,” suggested Crossby.
They tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of him.
“Sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle,” said Flinders, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “an’ what a most awful crack he’ll make whin he does come out! Let’s give another heave, boys.”
They gave another heave, but only caused the muffled shouting inside to increase. “Och! the poor cratur’s stritchin’ out like a injin-rubber man; sure he’s a fut longer than he used to be—him that was a sight too long already,” said Flinders.
“Let’s try to shove him through,” suggested the baffled Crossby.
Failure again followed their united efforts—except as regards the muffled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied by no small amount of kicking by what of Gashford remained in the cellar.
“I’m afeared his legs’ll come off altogether if we try to pull harder than we’ve done,” said Crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless limbs of the victim with a perplexed air.
“What a chance, boys,” suddenly exclaimed Flinders, “to pay off old scores with a tree-mendous wallopin’! We could do it aisy in five or six minutes, an’ then lave ’im to think over it for the rest of his life.”
As no one approved of Paddy’s proposal, it was finally resolved to dig the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose.
Contrary to all expectations, Gashford was calm, almost subdued, when his friends at last set him free. Instead of storming and abusing every one, he said quietly but quickly, “Let us search the bush now. He can’t be far off yet, and there’s moonlight enough.”
Leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and across the bridge, followed closely by his party.
“Hooroo!” yelled Paddy Flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of the chase, but in reality to give Brixton intimation of the pursuit, if he should chance to be within earshot.
The well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late. It found Tom still seated in absorbed meditation. Rudely awakened to the consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran along the path that Betty had described to him. At the same moment it chanced that Crossby came upon the same path at its river-side extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other’s arms, and both rolled upon the ground.
The embrace that Crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even to a black bear, but Tom was a match for him in his then condition of savage despair. He rolled the rough digger over on his back, half strangled him, and bumped his shaggy head against the conveniently-situated root of a tree. But Crossby held on with the tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before either could subdue the other, Gashford and his men coming up stopped the combat.
It were vain attempting to describe the conflict of Brixton’s feelings as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to Paul Bevan’s hut. The thought of death while fighting with man or beast had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary death. Afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled with his dreams. But those dreams, however pleasant they might be at first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose was already tightening on his throat.
The agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was terrible, for Tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his fate. Still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him. More than once he struggled to his knees and cried to God for mercy in the Saviour’s name.
By daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up. A slight breakfast of bread and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle. Soon afterwards Crossby descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder. He did so, and found the party of miners assembled under arms, and ready for the road.
“I’m sorry I can’t help ’ee,” said Paul Bevan, drawing the unhappy youth aside, and speaking in a low voice. “I would if I could, for I owe my life to you, but they won’t listen to reason. I sent Betty out o’ the way, lad, a-purpose. Thought it better she shouldn’t see you, but—”
“Come, come, old man, time’s up,” interrupted Gashford, roughly; “we must be off. Now, march, my young slippery-heels. I needn’t tell you not to try to bolt again. You’ll find it difficult to do that.”
As they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, Tom Brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear. But even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly up to despair. In the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that Betty had been sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away.
“May I speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?” said Fred Westly to Gashford, as they plodded through the woods. “He has been my comrade for several years, and I promised his poor mother never to forsake him. May I, Gashford?”
“No,” was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, “Well, yes, you may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as I’m a living one. An’ you needn’t be too soft, Westly,” he added, with a cynical smile. “Your chum has— Well, it’s no business o’ mine. You can go to him.”
Poor Tom Brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung his head.
“Dear Tom,” said Fred, in a low voice, “don’t give way to despair. With God all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited, it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost. But I want to comfort you with the assurance that I will spare no effort to save you. Many of the diggers are not very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and I think Gashford may be bought over. If so, I need not tell you that my little private store hidden away under the pine-tree—”
“There is no such store, Fred,” interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of shame.
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you. Oh! Fred, you do not—you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given way to, especially when backed by drink. No, it’s of no use your trying to comfort me. I do believe, now, that I deserve to die.”
“Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can—both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my intentions or my hopes. By the way, does Gashford know about this?”
“Yes, he knows that I have taken your money.”
“And that’s the reason,” said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment, “that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he’s a bad lot altogether.”
“Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not reveal it, a much better ‘lot’?” demanded Fred, with some indignation.
“Perhaps not,” replied Gashford, with a short laugh; “but as I never set up for a good lot, you see, there’s no need to discuss the subject. Now, fall to the rear, my young blade. Remember that I’m in command of this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence in those under me.”
Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out, and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had the power to aid his condemned friend.
It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings. Tom Brixton was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine, but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in Gashford’s pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door.
That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair. True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend’s case before God, and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. The hidden hoard, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was revealed by the disappearance of the gold—for he had almost forgotten that the Almighty can provide means at any time and in all circumstances.
Fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that Tom had stolen his gold. He only took it for a time, with the full intention of refunding it when better times should come. On this point Fred’s style of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend. Tom never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft. Oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan—a temporary accommodation. It would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands of criminal careers have been begun in this way!
“Now, Mister Westly,” said Flinders, entering the tent in haste, “what’s to be done? It’s quite clear that Mister Tom’s not to be hanged, for there’s two or three of us’ll commit murder before that happens; but I’ve bin soundin’ the boys, an’ I’m afeared there’s a lot o’ the worst wans that’ll be glad to see him scragged, an’ there’s a lot as won’t risk their own necks to save him, an’ what betune the wan an’ the other, them that’ll fight for him are a small minority—so, again I say, what’s to be done?”
Patrick Flinders’s usually jovial face had by that time become almost as long and lugubrious as that of Westly.
“I don’t know,” returned Fred, shaking his head.
“My one plan, on which I had been founding much hope, is upset. Listen. It was this. I have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back upon when poor Tom had gambled away all his means. This hoard of mine amounted, I should think, to something like five hundred pounds. I meant to have offered it to Gashford for the key of the prison, and for his silence, while we enabled Tom once more to escape. But this money has, without my knowledge, been taken away and—”
“Stolen, you mean!” exclaimed Flinders, in surprise.
“No, not stolen—taken! I can’t explain just now. It’s enough to know that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned.”
“D’ee think Gashford would let him out for that?” asked the Irishman, anxiously.
“I think so; but, after all, I’m almost glad that the money’s gone, for I can’t help feeling that this way of enticing Gashford to do a thing, as it were slily, is underhand. It is a kind of bribery.”
“Faix, then, it’s not c’ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c’rupt as he can be already. An’, sure, wouldn’t it just be bribin’ a blackguard not to commit murther?”
“I don’t know, Pat. It is a horrible position to be placed in. Poor, poor Tom!”
“Have ye had supper?” asked Flinders, quickly.
“No—I cannot eat.”
“Cook it then, an’ don’t be selfish. Other people can ait, though ye can’t. It’ll kape yer mind employed—an I’ll want somethin’ to cheer me up whin I come back.”
Pat Flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor Fred went about the preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his comrade meant by his strange conduct.
Pat’s meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on the green-sward.
“My frinds,” he said, in a low, mysterious voice, “I know that ivery mother’s son of ye is ready to fight for poor Tom Brixton to-morrow, if the wust comes to the wust. Now, it has occurred to my chum Westly an’ me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to fight for him, an’ as I know some o’ you fellers has dug up more goold than you knows well what to do wid, an’ you’ve all got liberal hearts—lastewise ye should have, if ye haven’t—I propose, an’ second the resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an’ presint it to Bully Gashford as a mark of our estaim—if he’ll on’y give us up the kay o’ the prison, put Patrick Flinders, Esquire, sintry over it, an’ then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin’.”
This plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large sum to be made up by men who—some of them at least—had nearly made “their pile”—by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of heart with which they had been credited was not wanting. Having settled a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and Patrick Flinders—acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee—went off, with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact the business.
Chapter Six
Gashford was not quite so ready to accept Flinders’s offer as that enthusiast had expected. The bully seemed to be in a strangely unusual mood, too—a mood which at first the Irishman thought favourable to his cause.
“Sit down,” said Gashford, with less gruffness than usual, when his visitor entered his hut. “What d’ye want wi’ me?”
Flinders addressed himself at once to the subject of his mission, and became quite eloquent as he touched on the grandeur of the sum offered, the liberality of the offerers, and the ease with which the whole thing might be accomplished. A very faint smile rested on Gashford’s face as he proceeded, but by no other sign did he betray his thoughts until his petitioner had concluded.
“So you want to buy him off?” said Gashford, the smile expanding to a broad grin.
“If yer honour had bin born a judge an’ sot on the bench since iver ye was a small spalpeen, ye couldn’t have hit it off more nately. That’s just what we want—to buy him off. It’s a purty little commercial transaction—a man’s life for five hundred pound; an’, sure it’s a good price to give too, consitherin’ how poor we all are, an what a dale o’ sweatin’ work we’ve got to do to git the goold.”
“But suppose I won’t sell,” said Gashford, “what then?”
“Fair, then, I’ll blow your brains out” thought the Irishman, his fingers tingling with a desire to grasp the loaded revolver that lay in his pocket, but he had the wisdom to restrain himself and to say, “Och! sor, sure ye’ll niver refuse such a nat’ral request. An’ we don’t ask ye to help us. Only to hand me the kay o’ the prison, remove the sintry, an’ then go quietly to yer bed wid five hundred pound in goold benathe yar hid to drame on.”
To add weight to his proposal he drew forth the bag of nuggets from one of his capacious coat pockets and held it up to view.
“It’s not enough,” said Gashford, with a stern gruffness of tone and look which sank the petitioner’s hopes below zero.
“Ah! then, Muster Gashford,” said Flinders, with the deepest pathos, “it’s yer own mother would plade wid ye for the poor boy’s life, av she was here—think o’ that. Sure he’s young and inexparienced, an’ it’s the first offince he’s iver committed—”
“No, not the first” interrupted Gashford.
“The first that I knows on,” returned Flinders.
“Tell me—does Westly know of this proposal of yours?”
“No sor, he doesn’t.”
“Ah, I thought not. With his religious notions, it would be difficult for him to join in an attempt to bribe me to stop the course of justice.”
“Well, sor, you’re not far wrong, for Muster Westly had bin havin’ a sort o’ tussle wid his conscience on that very pint. You must know, he had made up his mind to do this very thing an’ offer you all his savings—a thousand pound, more or less—to indooce you to help to save his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he couldn’t do it.”
“Did he tell you who stole his gold?”
“No, sor, he didn’t—he said that some feller had took it—on loan, like, though I calls it stalin’—but he didn’t say who.”
“And have you had no tussle with your conscience, Flinders, about this business?”
The Irishman’s face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement at this question.
“It’s jokin’ ye are, Muster Gashford. Sure, now, me conscience—if I’ve got wan—doesn’t bother me oftin; an’ if it did, on this occasion, I’d send it to the right-about double quick, for it’s not offerin’ ye five hundred pound I am to stop the coorse o’ justice, but to save ye from committin’ murther! Give Muster Brixton what punishment the coort likes—for stailin’—only don’t hang him. That’s all we ask.”
“You’ll have to pay more for it then,” returned the bully. “That’s not enough.”
“Sure we haven’t got a rap more to kape our pots bilin’, sor,” returned Flinders, in a tone of despair. “Lastewise I can spake for myself; for I’m claned out—all but.”
“Row much does the ‘all but’ represent?”
“Well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it’s about tchwo hundred pound, more or less, and I brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an’ I haven’t got a nugget more if it was to save me own life. It’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye, sor.”
There was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and placed it beside the first, that Gashford could not help being convinced.
“Two hundred and five hundred,” he said, meditatively.
“That makes siven hundred, sor,” said Flinders, suggestively.
The bully did not reply for a few seconds. Then, taking up the bags of gold, he threw them into a corner. Thereafter he drew a large key from his pocket and handed it to the Irishman, who grasped it eagerly.
“Go to the prison,” said Gashford, “tell the sentry you’ve come to relieve him, and send him to me. Mind, now, the rest of this business must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, if it does, your own days will be numbered.”
With vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate nature on Gashford’s head, the Irishman hastened away, and went straight to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of the miners.
“Who goes there?” challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night was very dark.
“Mesilf, av coorse.”
“An’ who may that be, for yer not the only Patlander in camp, more’s the pity!”
“It’s Flinders I am. Sure any man wid half an ear might know that. I’ve come to relave ye.”
“But you’ve got no rifle,” returned the man, with some hesitation.
“Aren’t revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an’ better at close quarters? Shut up your tatie-trap, now, an’ be off to Muster Gashford’s hut for he towld me to sind you there widout delay.”
This seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving Flinders on guard.
Without a moment’s loss of time Paddy made use of the key and entered the prison.
“Is it there ye are, avic?” he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he advanced with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against obstructions.
“Yes; who are you?” replied Tom Brixton, in a stern voice.
“Whist, now, or ye’ll git me into throuble. Sure, I’m yer sintry, no less, an’ yer chum Pat Flinders.”
“Indeed, Paddy! I’m surprised that they should select you to be my jailer.”
“Humph! well, they didn’t let me have the place for nothing—och! musha!”
The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair and hitting his head on a table.
“Not hurt, I hope,” said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the incident.
“Not much—only a new bump—but it’s wan among many, so it don’t matter. Now, listen. Time is precious. I’ve come for to set you free—not exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o’ the camp haven’t all gone to bed yet; but whin they’re quiet, I’ll come again an’ help you to escape. I’ve only come now to let you know.”
The Irishman then proceeded to give Tom Brixton a minute account of all that had been done in his behalf. He could not see how the news affected him, the prison being as dark as Erebus, but great was his surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but firm voice, “Thank you, Flinders, for your kind intentions, but I don’t mean to make a second attempt to escape.”
“Ye don’t intind to escape!” exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from.
“No; I don’t deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged.”
“I’ll be hanged if ye do,” said Paddy, with much decision. “Come, now, don’t be talkin’ nonsense. It’s jokin’ ye are, av coorse.”
“I’m very far from joking, my friend,” returned Tom, in a tone of deep despondency, “as you shall find when daylight returns. I am guilty—more guilty than you fancy—so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or not, and take the consequences. Besides, life is not worth having. I’m tired of it!”
“Och! but we’ve bought you, an’ paid for you, an’ you’ve no manner o’ right to do what ye like wi’ yourself,” returned his exasperated chum. “But it’s of no use talkin’ to ye. There’s somethin’ wrong wi’ your inside, no doubt. When I come back for ye at the right time you’ll have thought better of it. Come, now, give us your hand.”
“I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all.”
“I’ll soon putt that right. Where are ye? Ah, that’s it, now, kape stidy.”
Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his friend free.
“Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an’ if any wan should rap at the door an’ ax where’s the sintinel an’ the kay, just tell him ye don’t know, an don’t care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an’ ax his grandmother.”
With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands.
“If Tom told you he wouldn’t attempt to escape,” said Westly, on hearing the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, “you may be sure that he’ll stick to it.”
“D’ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?” said his companion in deep anxiety.
“I do. I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing will move him. But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him.”
Fred’s talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had been.
“Well, Tom,” he said, as he and Flinders were about to quit the block-house, “we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and I hope you will then be ready to fly. Remember what Flinders says is so far true—your life has been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it. Think seriously of that before it be too late.”
Again the prison door closed, and Tom Brixton was left, with this thought turning constantly and persistently in his brain:
“Bought and the price paid!” he repeated to himself; for the fiftieth time that night, as he sat in his dark prison. “’Tis a strange way to put it to a fellow, but that does not alter the circumstances. No, I won’t be moved by mere sentiment. I’ll try the Turk’s plan, and submit to fate. I fancy this is something of the state of mind that men get into when they commit suicide. And yet I don’t feel as if I would kill myself if I were free. Bah! what’s the use of speculating about it? Anyhow my doom is fixed, and poor Flinders with his friends will lose their money. My only regret is that that unmitigated villain Gashford will get it. It would not be a bad thing, now that my hands are free, to run a-muck amongst ’em. I feel strength enough in me to rid the camp of a lot of devils before I should be killed! But, after all, what good would that do me when I couldn’t know it—couldn’t know it! Perhaps I could know it! No, no! Better to die quietly, without the stain of human blood on my soul—if I have a soul. Escape! Easy enough, maybe, to escape from Pine Tree Diggings; but how escape from conscience? how escape from facts?—the girl I love holding me in contempt! my old friend and chum regarding me with pity! character gone! a life of crime before me! and death, by rope, or bullet or knife, sooner or later! Better far to die now and have it over at once; prevent a deal of sin, too, as well as misery. ‘Bought, and the price paid!’ ’Tis a strange way to put it and there is something like logic in the argument of Paddy, that I’ve got no right to do what I like with myself! Perhaps a casuist would say it is my duty to escape. Perhaps it is!”
