The Spider and the Fly. Garvice Charles
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The Spider and the Fly / or, An Undesired Love
CHAPTER I
A SWIM FOR LIFE
It is sunset; a dusky red is spreading out from the horizon and throwing a duskier reflection upon the sullen sea and its more sullen shore. A weird, awful shore it is, encumbered with huge rocks and strangely hewn stone.
A grim, shuddering waste, made grimmer and more terrible by strange, stray specks of humanity, that, seen in the falling sunlight seemed rather distorted creations of fancy than actual human beings; from stone to stone they pace, stepping with a peculiar, halting, laborious gait, and looking sullenly earthward as if their eyes were chained to the hateful, barren shore and the looking upward were death.
Look closer and gain fresh cause for wonderment. There is a strange likeness in these dim figures. They move alike, their gaze is directed sullenly downward alike, they are dressed alike. A sad, dingy, gray garment, half shirt, half tunic, relieved in all cases by a patch of crimson across the arm, upon which is stamped, in letters of black relief, a number. Their feet are shod with thick, heavy, iron-soled boots; a coarse, hideous cap is upon their heads, and the hair beneath it is cut almost to the skin.
The faces – ah, no! who could describe those faces? Who can speak of those crime-stamped brows, those passion-distorted lips, and those despairing eyes?
Listen! There is no sound but the sudden crash, crash of the falling stone that the coarse-grained hands are pushing, and the bent, gray-clad shoulders are heaving, from the quarries. One other sound still, heard only at intervals when the stone is silent, and that is the tramp, tramp of the sentries, who, like the figures of Death and Eternity in the old Roman temple, forever, day and night, march to and fro on the battlements, forever, night and day, keeping watch and ward on the terrible, gray-clad figures, that despairingly toil upon the barren plain below.
It is the convict station at Portland, and the figures are the shadows of some of England's vilest criminals.
The sun sinks lower, the warders, stationed at measured intervals between the various gangs, yawn with weary impatience and long for the sound of the prison bell. When that rings, which it will do within half an hour, the gangs will have finished their work for the day and the march for the gloomy prison upon the heights will commence.
The warders yawn impatiently, but the silent, gray-clad figures feel no impatience. They have nothing to long for, nothing to hope for.
One and all toiling on this particular plain toil on till death, and that has been longed for so long that it seems so far off as to be hopeless.
Death comes to men free and happy, but them it seems to avoid; it leaves them to their most awful punishment of life.
The quarter has chimed, the warders have grown more impatient, perhaps less vigilant, or does this tall, thin figure with No. 108 stamped upon his arm only fancy so? For he has broken the rule which says that no man shall separate himself from his particular gang, and is crouching behind a bowlder. Is he resting? His hazel, hunted eyes flash from the nearest warder to the sentinels upon the battlements. His hand grasps the chain at his leg to deaden its rattle as he glides along. His eyes drop from the sentinel and travel swiftly but keenly along the grim rank of the next gang. They rest upon one gray-clad figure numbered ninety-nine. His breath comes faster, he crouches until his breast touches the ground, and, though his lips are too tightly pressed for speech, his eyes seem to speak in the intensity of their gaze.
Perhaps No. 99 feels their gaze, for as he stoops with the gang to heave the hard, cruel stone he lifts his small, villainous eyes and sees the dark, piercing ones fixed so earnestly upon him. A start, imperceptible, thrills through him, and, as he raises his shoulder, he contrives to lift one hand as a signal that he has seen and understands.
No. 108 seems satisfied, he drops his eyes with a sigh, and waits with sullen impatience.
The stone is upheaved. The gang moves round and pauses to gain breath.
A few of the miserable figures drop upon the stones.
No. 99 flings himself sullenly upon the stone behind which crouches No. 108, and so effectually conceals the piercing eyes from the warders' catlike vigilance.
"Jem," says a low, hoarse voice from below the stone. "Can you hear me? Don't turn your head, and speak low."
"I hear," replies No. 99, with a hoarse voice.
"Jem, there's a chance; don't start or I'll kill you. There's a chance, but it wants working. I've been wanting to speak to you for six weeks. Warder No. 24 drinks like a fish. He'll be drunk to-night – to-night at seven. I've the stuff in the corridor. Our cells are opposite. He carries the keys in his breast pocket. At half-past seven to-night, Jem, he or I will be a dead man. You know me and my stroke. If I can get a clear blow with the iron jug and without noise we are free. Once in the corridor with his keys, we can gain this cursed cliff. Don't speak – he's looking this way! The tide comes in at ten; we must swim for it – go this minute, or we are lost."
A warder leaps along the stones; No. 99 rises as if rested; No. 108 crawls like a serpent back to his proper gang.
Crash, crash, the last stone is lifted for to-night; the bell chimes the hour, the gangs form with listless, weary sullenness into lines, stalwart warders, well armed, order them sternly to march. Another dreary, hopeless day of toil is done.
The sun has sunk, the red glow has left the sky, darkness has fallen upon the surging sea and barren shore.
The tramp of the sentinels can just be heard above the rattle of the falling beach. It is too dark to see them, but two figures are crawling under the beetling cliffs, they crawl hand in hand, fearful of losing each other for a moment. Not a word is spoken, their movement makes no sound. Five, ten, twenty minutes pass, and then they stop and draw long, husky gasps of relief.
"Jem," says one, "where are we?"
No. 99 shakes his head and peers into the darkness.
"Under the cliff," returns the other. "Right under the guardhouse, I think; if so, far enough."
"Quite far enough, captain," is the hoarse reply. "And now we are here, what's the next move?"
The other remains silent for a moment, while he fumbles at his leg, then touches his breast and face.
"What's the matter, guv'nor, are you hurt?"
"A little," is the reply. "I'm bleeding like an ox."
No. 99 emits a grim, guttural laugh.
"There's enough of that with both on us," he says. "It's like our luck as the beast should turn. I thought you'd struck him straight, too, guv'nor."
"So did I," is the curt retort. "No matter; we are here and that's luck enough."
"But we can't stop here."
"We must till the tide's up, and it's coming now, half an hour and the fishing yawls will be in front of us."
His companion shudders.
"The fishing yawls!" he repeats. "D'ye mean we're to swim for them, guv'nor, through this, in the pitch dark? Why, it's death!"
"Or freedom. Death! Jem, my man, you're worse than an idiot. What's the name you'll give to what we've left behind us? If that's life, we take death, Jem, and be thankful for it."
As he speaks, with a bitterness beyond description, he stoops and fumbles at his leg again. The sharp ears of his companion catch the grating of steel on iron.
"What's that, guv'nor?"
"A file," was the reply.
"Where did you get it from?" asks the other, with undisguised astonishment.
"I made it, Jem," replies his companion, quietly.
"What with?"
"An old piece of iron and my brains. It's a good one; try it for yourself."
As he speaks, he shakes the horrible link of iron from his foot and passes the instrument to the other.
No. 99 takes it, with a muttered oath.
"You're