*CHAPTER XII*
*At Midnight*
Waiting--A Russian Offer--A Farewell Letter--What the CaseHeld--Kite-flying Extraordinary--Prison-breaking--Free
Bob was so exhausted that he fell asleep at once, notwithstanding thegravity of his position. When he awoke some hours after daylight, hefound some black bread and a plate of preserved beef and a jug of vodkaby his side.
"To keep up my courage," he said to himself. He was hungry, and thebread and meat soon disappeared; but he found the vodka too fiery forhis palate, and wondered if he would be allowed some water. He was tobe shot, of course; when would that be? Shot! For the first time thereality of last night's scene forced itself on his mind. He had been sotired, and so strung-up in the determination to say nothing that wouldbetray Yamaguchi, that the matter as it affected himself had nottroubled him. But now--the thought of death struck him for the firsttime. It was a strange idea. He was well and strong; rather stiff andcramped, indeed, but that could easily be cured. Yet in a short time hewas to be dead. He could not realize it; on board the Japanese vessels,in the poisonous box-battery on the _Mikasa_, on the _Kasumi's_shot-pelted deck, the idea of death had never been present to his mind.The oddness of it struck him most of all. It seemed absurd that heshould die, and for what reason? His explanations had been too simple tobe believed! He thought over the past days; there was nothing in hisactions he could have altered, even if he had known that death was tocome so soon. "Well, it can't be helped," he concluded. "I only hope Isha'n't funk it at the end."
Life was so vigorous in him at present, that he looked round his narrowroom in an instinctive quest for some means of escape. It was abouttwelve feet square. The outer wall was of stone, some eighteen inchesthick, pierced by a single unglazed splay window, narrowing from twentyinches broad on the inside to seven on the outside. The bottom of thewindow was about three feet above the floor, and it extended upwards forabout an equal distance. Below it, embedded in the wall, projected anarrow platform about a foot high, which, Bob guessed, was intended toaccommodate a watchman or possibly a marksman, for the tower hadevidently been built as a watch-tower. Clambering up into thewindow-recess, Bob looked through the open slit, and saw that itcommanded a view across the river, which flowed past at a depth of someeighty feet. The water-course was obstructed by ice; to plunge into itwas impossible.
Returning to the floor, Bob noticed that the inner walls were of brick,comparatively new in contrast with the mouldering stonework of the outerwall. He concluded that at one time the whole story had formed a singlechamber, and that it had been partitioned off recently, though in allprobability before the advent of the Russians. The door was of massivemake, and hung on ponderous iron clamps; it opened inwards, and therewas no keyhole on the inner side.
"Things look black," thought Bob, as he convinced himself that there wasno means of escaping from his dungeon. He tramped up and down with benthead, idly speculating on the scenes the old tower must have witnessed.How often in bygone days, he wondered, had Chinese, Korean, or Japaneseflotillas passed under its walls up and down the Yalu? What romancesmight be woven about the spot, going back into ages long anterior toironclads and machine-guns! He wished he knew something of the historyof these far Eastern countries, and was resolving to look it up on thefirst opportunity when he suddenly remembered that he was to die, andthe remembrance brought him to a stand-still and gave his imaginationpause.
Looking again through the narrow opening, he saw in the distance a troopof Cossacks picking their way across the hills. He watched them withidle interest as they gained the summit and disappeared at a trot overthe crest. He followed them in fancy; they were soldiers going perhapsto their death; and he wished that he too might meet with death in someactive, heroic way, instead of tamely as the target of a firing-party.He was drawn from his reverie by the entrance of a soldier with a plateand jug. The man set the food down on the stone platform and leftwithout a word.
Alternately pacing the room, sitting on the platform, or listlesslylooking out upon the river, Bob passed the rest of the day. He saw noray of hope. The room was bare; it contained nothing but his rug;everything had been taken from him; he had not even a penknife withwhich to while away the hours, as many a prisoner had done before him,in scratching initials or diagrams upon the walls.
"I wish they'd hurry up," he said to himself restlessly.
But the long day passed, and he was not summoned to his doom. At nighthe was given another meal. He was standing when it was brought him, andhe moved towards the open door, without any hope of escaping. Outside,by the dim light of the lamp carried by the man inside, he saw anothersoldier armed with a rifle. The way was effectually guarded. He spoketo the man, asking when his execution was to take place. The man shookhis head, evidently understanding not a word. The door was shut,bolted, and padlocked, and he was again left alone with his thoughts.
Next morning the soldier who brought him his food was accompanied by theofficer who had acted as interpreter at his summary trial two nightsbefore.
"Is my time up?" asked Bob almost eagerly.
"Not yet. The general will allow you another chance. Tell me what youknow of the Japanese spies in Yongampo and of the Japanese with whom youlanded, and the general will spare your life and keep you as a prisonerof war until peace is signed in Tokio."
Bob looked at the officer in silence.
"Come, why be obstinate? It isn't much to ask of you, and if you're anEnglishman and a non-combatant the Japanese are nothing to you."
"You think I'll adopt that plea?" said Bob, with a touch of scorn. "Nothank you. You've treated me as a combatant; very well, I've told youall I mean to tell you."
"You'll think better of it by and by. You've a day to think it over."
"I've thought it over."
"Well, think it over again. You'll come round, never fear."
The officer smiled as he went out. Bob spent the rest of the day intramping his cell, which was very cold, looking out of the window, andwishing that they would not prolong his suspense. He expected toreceive another visit from the officer before night, but saw no more ofhim until breakfast-time next morning.
"Well," said the Russian as he entered, "have you taken my advice?"
"No."
"Still obstinate! Your execution is fixed for to-morrow morning--thegeneral gives you a long rope first, you see."
"That's a pleasant jest."
"Well, it's a pity for a young fellow like you to be so absurdlyobstinate. You've only to mention a couple of names and give us a fewparticulars about men who can't possibly be of any interest to you,and--"
"Excuse me; I am in the Japanese service."
"Nonsense, you're an Englishman. What have you in common with the raceof venomous conceited dwarfs who have dared to measure themselvesagainst the might of an empire like ours?"
Bob stood with his hands in his pockets looking at his tempter.
"They may be all that you say, though, as far as the war has gone, itscarcely becomes a Russian to say it; but you, sir, ought to knowperfectly well that, whatever they may be, it is impossible for me tobetray them. I can't say any more; and I'd really be obliged to you ifyou'd drop the subject. Your general has decided that I'm a spy. I'mnot a spy, but I can say nothing more to convince him. He has made uphis mind, and so have I. You said to-morrow morning?"
The officer looked at Bob with mingled annoyance and admiration.
"What folly!" he exclaimed. "I can't but admire your constancy, but I'msorry for you. Yes, to-morrow morning, at dawn. You needn't imagineyou'll be let off, the general is determined."
"Very well."
"You can tell the man who brings you food if you change your mind."
"I will--if I do!"
The officer turned away. As he was going out at the door, Bob took astep forward, and spoke, with a little hesitation, and in a differenttone.
"One moment. Could you do me a favour?"
"What is that?" asked the Russian quickly.
"Send me pencil and paper and an envelope. I have some friends athome--my father and mother--I should like--"
"I understand. You shall have the writing materials."
"And you will see that the letter is sent off?"
"Yes, yes; but it will not be necessary. Think over it." And hehurried away.
It was some time before Bob touched the food that had been brought tohim. He was tired of waiting for the end. He longed for life; yet ifhe was to die, he wished it over and done with; the attempt to overcomehis determination, the appeal to his self-interest against his honour,wearied and troubled him. For a time he tramped restlessly up and down,thinking gravely; then, catching sight of the food, on the stone slab,he reflected that he could meet his fate better fed than fasting, and heset-to with a will upon the ample supply of beef and black bread andtea, which he had asked for instead of vodka. After a while, however,he again fell into a fit of abstraction; he ate mechanically, musing onmany things. Breaking one of the hard-crusted loaves, he saw a glitterlike that of a golden coin buried in the bread. For a moment hiscuriosity overcame the gloom into which his long pondering had thrownhim. He picked the bread away from the strange intruder, and discoveredthat what he had taken for a coin was the end of an emptycartridge-case.
"How did it get there?" he wondered, holding the case before him. Heremembered how puzzled King George had been to account for the presenceof the apple in the dumpling, and laughed aloud.
"No doubt about the bakery this bread came from," he thought. "Well,better a cartridge-case than a beetle."
He was seated on his rug by the wall opposite the window, where he wasfarthest away from the cutting wind that had been blowing in all themorning. Raising his arm, he shied the cartridge-case at the narrowopening; it struck the wall at the side of the recess, fell on the sill,and rolled down the slight inward slope on to the floor.
"Wretched bad shot!" remarked Bob to himself and the four walls. Thenwith a sudden start he remembered what was to happen on the morrow. Heshuddered involuntarily, and dreaded the possibility of flinching whenhe stood actually face to face with death. Yet why should he flinch?He remembered the fearless manner with which the Japanese went open-eyedinto mortal peril. He thought of Kobo's serene, unperturbed manner. Wasit for him, an Englishman and a Christian, to show any more fear? Thequestion answered itself, and he fell into a quiet reverie.
Thus passed some hours; how many he could not tell, for his watch hadbeen removed. He was roused by the entrance of a man with writingmaterials. Receiving them silently, he sat and pondered. What could hesay to the old folks at home? He wrote a full account of all that hadhappened since his last letter, then tore it up. His letter might beopened by the Russians; he must not give them any information. At last,with a full heart, he penned a few words intended for his parents' eyesalone. Then he sealed the letter, and placed it in his pocket to give tothe officer at the last moment.
He felt now cramped and chilled, and, rising, began to pace the floor,walking from door to window and back from window to door. As he did so,his eye lighted on the cartridge-case. At first he merely glanced at itand passed on; then, spying it again, he looked a little longer; thethird time he began to feel some curiosity and interest; the fourth timehe stooped and picked it up, wondering again what strange chance hadbrought it into so unlikely a resting-place. To whom had it belonged?Whose rifle had fired it? How had it come into the bakery? Whatcareless fingers had worked it into the dough? What a strange irony offate, that a case once filled with an instrument of death, should now bechoked with bread, an instrument of life!
"A bad match!" he thought. "Out with you!"
He felt for his penknife to scrape out the bread from the case, thenremembered that his jailer had removed it. What was he to do? Feelingby force of habit in his waistcoat pocket, he came upon a little hole inthe lining, and pushing his finger through, he touched a single lucifermatch that had found its way down. He enlarged the hole, took out thematch, and began to prise the caked flour bit by bit from thecartridge-case. He was, glad of any little activity that would enablehim to kill time. Soon a little heap of crumbs lay on the sill of thewindow-recess. Then, drawing the match once more from the case, he sawthat this time it had impaled, not a crumb, but a piece of some whitefluffy substance.
"What is this?" he thought, and with growing curiosity inserted thematch again. More fluff came out; it appeared to be cotton wool.
"Very odd!" he mused. He wetted the end of the match and inserted itagain. A little more of the wool adhered, but the next time the matchcame out bare. He pushed it in again; but though he held it with theextreme tips of his fingers, it touched nothing.
"Empty at last, I suppose. Yet it didn't touch the bottom of the case.I wonder if it is empty."
He turned his back on the window and held the case up so that the lightfell into it. But it was too narrow for him to see anything, supposinganything were there. He held it vertically, and shook it. Somethingfell from it, and rolled across the floor of the room. It was like apea. Bob stooped and picked it up. It was a pea--no, it was a smallpellet of paper!
Quick as thought Bob slipped it into his pocket, glancing instinctivelytowards the door and then to the opening in the wall. There was no oneto see him. He smiled and took the pellet from his pocket. Unrollingit with infinite care, he found that it was a slip of very thinrice-paper, and on it--yes, in small letters, faintly traced in Indianink, he saw the words:
"_Be at window above river at dusk to-night._"
That was all; there was no address, no signature. Yet, looking again atthe writing, Bob felt that he had seen it somewhere before. Where? Hecould not remember, and as he stood trying to recall, he heard the heavytread of his jailer in the passage outside. Instantly he slipped thepaper into his pocket, flung the cartridge-case far out into the river,and was walking up and down when the soldier threw open the door andentered with his second meal.
That afternoon seemed to Bob interminable. He paced up and down like acaged lion, waiting for the dark. He wondered who the writer of themessage was, what it implied, what possible plan of deliverance was incontemplation--for surely it must mean that someone was planning on hisbehalf. Many times he gazed out of the window, searching the wholevista from the horizon to the river below, knowing all the time thatduring the daylight nothing would be done, yet looking and lookingagain. The hours passed slowly, lingeringly. As night began to shadowthe hills he ceased his restless walk and remained fixed at the recessin the wall. The sky darkened, his outlook shortened; he lost sight ofthe hills, at length he could not see the opposite bank. He leantforward in the recess, till his head touched the sides of the outeropening. The wind was fresh and cold, but he heeded nothing. His eyestried to penetrate the dark until he felt that they were almostprojecting from his head. Thus he waited, waited, and shivered,looking, listening, seeing nothing, hearing only the slow gurgle of theriver as it rolled down between its frozen borders, and the creaking andgrinding of the ice as the floating masses met, and parted, and metagain.
So the hours passed, and Bob began to lose heart. Was the message aRussian trap? Yet what could it gain? Was it genuine, but his unknowncorrespondent had been prevented in some way from keeping the impliedappointment? A bugle-call struck his ear; and when its echoes had diedaway the world relapsed into the same silence, save for the occasionalbark of a dog, the dull noises of the ice-laden stream, and the sighingof the wind over the snowy wastes beyond. It became colder; the windblew more and more keen; and at length, his limbs cramped, his fingersnumbed, Bob had perforce to move, and lift his rug from the floor andwrap it round him.
What was that? His hearing was now so acute that he fancied he couldhave heard the world roll round. What was it? A rustle in the dark; afaint rustle outside the window, like the scraping of a bird's wingagainst the wall.
He strained his eyes; stars were glimmering cold andclear, but there was no moon, and he saw nothing. Again, the samerustle. He tried to grope near enough to the opening to thrust forthhis head, and his shoulders stuck; it was impossible, unless--yes, byturning on his side he could wriggle himself to the slit, and he put hishead out sideways. Something touched his face, with the cold, filmytouch of a spider's web. He put out his hand; it was gone. Would itreturn? He waited. Again the same insubstantial contact; and now heseemed to see, against the starlit sky, a gossamer thread. He clutchedat it, but it eluded his fingers and disappeared. He waited again, howlong he knew not, but it seemed an hour; then the thin line scrapedalong the outside of the wall until it reached him. He grasped at it,almost fearing to touch it lest it broke and floated away. He held it,and drew it towards him. It was a thin silken cord!
He wriggled back slowly through the recess into the room, holding thecord with gentle firmness. As he pulled it, he felt that only the upperpart yielded; the lower part was fixed or held below. He drew the upperstring towards him, feeling as if he were playing a fish. For a fewmoments it came unresisting, then there was a sharp tug, as though thecaptured object, whatever it was, was making an effort to escape.Suddenly the resistance ceased; even in the darkness the opening in thewall was darkened, and with a somewhat disconcerting scrape against thewall Bob hauled in a large triangle of paper stretched on a light bambooframe. It stuck in the opening. He had once more to crawl into therecess, and with some difficulty he coaxed the pliant framework throughthe narrow aperture. It was done. The bent rods sprang back to theirformer shape, and Bob at last understood what had been puzzling him. Itwas a kite!
All was now plain; the rustle, the elusive string, the reluctantcaptive. He remembered how interested he had been at Tokio, in watchingthe dexterous kite-flying of boys and men; in Japan, as in China, it ismore than a pastime: it is an art. The string was attached to a kite,and the person flying it was below. He tugged gently at the cord as asignal that the kite had reached him, and instantly he felt that theline was loose. His pulse beat high. Cautiously he hauled in theslack; foot after foot it came through his hands; would the end of itnever come? Yes, here it was; the silken cord was tied to a stretch oftwine, and this--how long it was!--to a thicker rope. With eager careBob drew this last up hand over hand; it was knotted at intervals, andas he pulled he felt the weight increase. At length it resisted hispull, yet gave slightly when he pulled again. Crawling again to theaperture, never letting go his hold, he found that the entrance wasbarred by a bundle, apparently of cotton waste. By turning thislongways he found he could draw it through. No precaution, heperceived, had been neglected; the soft wrapping had deadened any sound.
Hastily untying the bundle, he found by the touch, for it was too darkto see, a chisel, a crowbar, and a hammer faced with flannel. He neededno prompting. It was impossible to loosen the stones in the time he hadat his disposal. He knew not, indeed, what the time was; but it must belate, and if he did not escape before daybreak his doom was sealed. Thestones of the wall were large blocks firmly cemented, and though thecement at its surface showed signs of crumbling, it was no doubt stronginside. All that he could do was to chip away a few inches on each sideof the window, so as to enlarge the space sufficiently to admit of thepassage of his shoulders. At the edges the stone was greatly weathered,at the farther end of the recess it was already peeling off. If he couldwiden the opening by some five inches, he thought it would be possiblefor him to squeeze through.
This had flashed through his mind in a moment. He started workinstantly. Beginning at the outer right edge of the aperture, heapplied the chisel to the stonework, and was delighted to find that bythe mere pressure of his arm it came away in flakes, which fell to theground eighty feet below. Working quickly, he had soon scratched awayan inch of rotted stone for a distance of two feet along each edge ofthe opening. But as he went on, he found that the stone was becomingharder; it was necessary to exert more force. It would take long tochip the stone away as he had seen masons do. How could he shorten thelabour? Cautiously working with the chisel, he slowly bored a hole twoinches deep in the wall, at about the same distance from the outer edge.Then inserting the crowbar, he pressed upon it in an outward directionwith all the strength he could exert in his cramped position. To hisjoy the stonework gave way, and pieces fell with a sharp clatter uponthe ground. He waited anxiously, wondering whether any of his guardswould have heard the sound. All was silent. Feeling with his hand, hefound that the stone had broken irregularly, leaving a jagged surface,and this he proceeded to trim with the chisel. He went through the samedouble process on each side of the opening.
At last, after hours of work, when muscles of hand and arm achedunendurably, and his whole body felt bruised from lying so long on thehard stone, he thought that the opening must be large enough. Tying oneend of the rope to the crowbar, he paid the other out. A slight tugbelow told him that it had been received: his unknown helper was stillin waiting. Then he tied his rug to the twine, and let it gently down.This, too, being caught, he placed the crowbar horizontally across thewindow on the inner wall, turned on his side, and began to wriggle outof the opening feet foremost, always holding firmly to the rope. Hadhis work been successful? The question forced itself upon him as hemoved painfully towards the outer air. Alas! half-way through he stuck;his jacket and vest were riding up into a ridge; it would increase themore he struggled; he must return to the room.
It was more difficult to get back than it had been to wriggle out. Witha great effort he worked his way along the recess, and had just reachedthe floor of the room when his foot kicked the chisel, and it sped witha clatter across the floor. Immediately afterwards he heard a step inthe passage. His jailer must have detected the noise, and wouldcertainly come to discover its cause. It would be impossible to stripoff jacket and waistcoat and wriggle out before the man entered,discovered his flight, and gave the alarm or perhaps cut the rope. Witha sinking of the heart Bob listened. Was he to fail at the last moment?Perhaps the man would not come in after all. But no; the steps halt atthe door; there is a light in the crack below. Bob hears the manfumbling for his keys; a key is inserted in the padlock; the bolt isdrawn. By this time Bob, with lightning decision, is behind the door.It opens heavily on its rusty hinges, and half the room is lit up by thedim lantern carried by a Siberian infantryman, who peers into the room,and seeing nothing to his left, advances a few paces to light up theother half. At this moment Bob springs at him like a tiger. Onecrushing blow beneath the jaw, and the Russian falls backward like alog, his lantern clattering to the floor and being instantlyextinguished.
Two seconds passed, seconds crowded with the most rapid thinkinghard-pressed prisoner ever accomplished. The noise would draw the man'scomrades from below. They must be kept out at all costs. But even ifthey were excluded, the soldier might be only stunned, or perhaps dazed,and would recover in time to cut the rope. There was nothing at handwith which to tie him up, no time to cut a piece off the rope and retieit to the crowbar. He might kill the man, but the thought was banishedthe same instant that it occurred to him. Two seconds; then, even as heheard the shouts of men and the trampling of heavy footsteps far below,Bob stooped, lifted the ponderous figure, and, with a strength of whichhe would not have believed himself capable, hurled him out into thecorridor across the head of the staircase.
Bob surprises his Jailer]
Then back into the room. He slams the door, picks up the chisel, anddrives it with the hammer between the heavy oak and the floor. Off withhis jacket, off with his vest; he rolls them up and forces them throughthe window. Everything must be dared now! Then feet foremost into thewindow-recess; out, out, grasping the rope; his legs are through, hisbody follows. Is the gap wide enough? He jerks himself on; it is atight fit; his shoulders are through; he is dangling in the air, hisarms almost forced from their sockets. Down he goes, hand over hand;his feet find the rope; he hears the clamour of
blows on the door above.Down, down, faster and faster, the strain upon his muscles increasingwith every foot of distance; down into what seems an immeasurable gulf.His feet touch the projecting sill of a window; he finds a momentaryrelief; then down again into space; there can be no delay, even for amoment. At last, panting for breath, his hands sore and bleeding, Bobfeels a pair of arms supporting him; he loosens his grip of the rope,and falls half-insensible to the ground. But only for an instant. Hesees as in a mist the outlines of two men, who drag him to his feet.The next moment, as though impelled by some higher will, he is racingdown the frozen bank between the two shorter figures, over the creakingice, towards the middle of the stream. Shouts pursue him, reflectionsof lights dance before his dazzled eyes, a shot is fired, there is ababel along the walls. Hauled up on the ice lies a small sampan. One ofhis supporters half pushes, half hurls Bob into it, then both urge itover the sagging ice into the stream. The edge gives way, the sampanslides with a glug into deep water, the two men leap on board with theagility of panthers, and the light craft bounds forward on its way tothe sea.
Kobo: A Story of the Russo-Japanese War Page 13
