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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
IT was close to the edge of Harden Mire that Warden Fred Latham picked up the foot-prints. He stooped eagerly to examine them. 'Its them all right,' he said with quiet satisfaction, as he spotted the broad arrow in hobnails on each of the four boot-marks.
He straightened his back, and there was a puzzled frown on his keen, good-looking face.
'Wish I knew, which way the beggars have gone,' he said to himself, as he tried vainly to penetrate the mist-wreaths which swung like smoke before the cold, westerly wind that sighed over the vast expanses of the lonely moor. Anything more desolate than his surroundings could not have been seen in all England. Dead grass and brown heather, tall reeds through which the wind rustled harshly, and here, and there a patch of evil-looking blue ooze set like t a trap for the feet of anyone careless enough or unlucky enough to wander into it.
And not a living thing in sight except Fred Latham, assistant warder at Moorlands Prison, and at present engaged in the unpleasant task of trying to run down George Cradock and Seth Shotton, the two lags who had 'done a bunk' early that same spring morning.
Once more he looked round, then shook his head.
'No use! They're not in sight anywhere. I'll have to stick to the tracks, and that'll be a slow job, goodness only knows.'
A slow job it was, but as Latham was the tracker, and Latham, unlike most prison officers, was a moorman born and bred, it was a thorough one. Step by step he dogged the traces of the runaways all along the edge of the great, quaking morass, until at last they took him up on to firmer ground, and he found himself in the narrow gap between Bow Down and Raven's Ridge.
But it was, as he said, a painfully slow job, and he grew more and more uneasy as he thought of the long start the fugitives must be gaining. His whole mind, was set on recapturing the pair single-handed. It would be a tremendous feather ,in his cap, and would lead to almost certain promotion.
And Latham wanted promotion—wanted it very badly indeed. The step would give him nearly a third more pay than he was now getting, and that meant that he could go to old Silas Caunter and tell him straight out that he and Nellie meant to get married at once. He and Nellie Gaunter had been engaged for more than six months, but had not breathed a word of it to anyone else.
A chill, wet cloud blew down upon him, thick and blinding, and he stumbled over a stone hidden in the heather. Next moment a figure leaped from among a pile and a fist drove straight at his head.
He flung himself sideways, escaped the blow, but tripped in the tangle of wiry heather. Before he could recover his balance, the man who had struck at him was on top of him. Latham found himself flat on the ground, with two sharp knees on his chest, and a huge, hairy fist clutching at his throat.
An evil, crime-sodden face glared into his, and a hoarse voice rasped:
'I got 'im, Cradock—I got 'im! 'Ere, take 'is cosh and land 'im one on the conk.'
It was Shotton who had Latham in his grip—Seth Shotton, notorious as on of the most evil-tempered, conscienceless brutes that even Moorlands had ever held. As he spoke, his grip tightened on Latham's throat—tightened so that the warder's breath came in whistling gasps from his tortured lungs.
Next moment Cradock's form loomed through the mist. He was a younger man than Shotton, and a very different character. An Exeter bank clerk, he had been sentenced for forgery, and Latham had been wondering all day what in the world had made him go off with a fiend like Shotton.
There was a startled look on his pale grimy face as he stepped up.
'Hit him!' he said sharply. 'What do you mean? You're not going to murder him, Shotton?'
'Murder, ye fool!' growled Shotton, glaring up at the other with bloodshot eyes. 'What do ye think? I suppose you'd turn 'im loose again to set the other screws on us. Blime! If ye're scared to do it yourself, I'll do it with me own 'ands, and chuck 'im in the bog after.'
His great fingers sunk deeper into Latham's throat. The young warder kicked and struggled convulsively. Cradock's face hardened.
'Let up!' he ordered harshly. 'Screw or not, I'll be no party to outing the man.'
'Keep off!' growled Shotton. 'Keep away, or it'll be you next!'
Latham's senses were going. He was only conscious of the wild struggle for breath and Shotton's hot breath on his face.
There came a thud, and suddenly the crushing grip relaxed.
'You dirty swine!' roared Shotton, and struggled to his feet,
Latham, flat on the ground, was able to move, saw him hurl himself at Cradock. Cradock sprang back. He had Latham's 'cosh,' or truncheon, in his fist, and as Shotton came at him, he hit him again. The club fell on Shotton's fore-arm, and, the bone snapped with a sound like the crack of a toy pistol. Shotton reeled back, uttering a horrible oath, while Cradock faced him with white cheeks and shining eyes.
Before Shotton could gather himself for a second attack, there was a loud shout from the hillside above, and two more warders came leaping over the stones. The first seized Shotton, and, tripping him, flung him to the ground; the second collared Cradock.
'Fighting between 'emselves!' gasped the second warder.
Then, as his eyes fell on Latham:
'Parker, they're done Fred in.'
'No. I'm all right,' panted Latham, struggling to his feet. 'Bailey, go quiet with Cradock. It was he saved me. Shotton had me down and was choking me but Cradock stopped him just in time. Shotton won't do anyone much more harm. Cradock broke his arm for him.'
Latham suggested that he should take Cradock and go ahead, and send a cart from the nearest farm to the head of the track under Cawland Tor, to bring in Shotton.
The others agreed, and he and Cradock started.
Cradock did not speak. His thin face was set and grim. Latham, who felt really sorry for him, asked no questions.
In about an hour they came to the high ground above the main road crossing the moor from Okestock to Taviton. Just below, half-seen through the fog, was Wistwell Farm.
Cradock stopped short.
'What's the matter?' asked Latham.
'I want you to do me a favour!' said Cradock hoarsely.
There was a queer, strained look on his face, which made Latham feel more sorry than ever for him.
'I'll do anything 1 can for you,' he said readily.
Cradock hesitated.
'Would you take the word or honor of a man like me?'
Latham stared at him in blank surprise.
'See here!' went on Cradock quickly. 'The girl I love, the one I was going to marry—she's dying over at Baracombe. It's consumption, and, by a letter I got yesterday, she hasn't a week to live. That's why I ran to-day. That's why I went off with that unspeakable brute', Shotton!
'Will you let me go and see her? Will you take my parole that, when I've seen her, I'll come straight back and give my self up?'
His desperate earnestness impressed Latham deeply, but not enough to make him think of agreeing to such a mad request.
'I'm sorry Cradock! I'm grateful, and I'd do a lot for you, but I can't do that. They'd break me for it.'
'Perhaps you've got a girl,' he went on, controlling his voice with an effort, 'Think, if she was dying! I can get to Baracombe in an hour. An hour with her. Another hour to come back here. It's only three now.'
Latham hesitated. He was more touched than he could say.
'Do it!' begged .Cradock. 'You'll never regret it! Oh, man, if you ever loved anything, help me!'
There was a lump in Latham's throat.
'I trust you!' he said hoarsely: 'Go!'
'God bless you!' said Cradock; and was away at a full run.
Latham watched the fog swallow him, then started forward, sharply, as if to follow.
'No!' he muttered in his throat. 'No! I said I'd trust him. And I've got to now!'
THREE hours later Latham was back on the hill-top. The fog was as thick as ever. He looked at his watch. It was just after six. There was no-sign of Cradock.
Minutes, dragged by, the silence was unbroken. The light began to fail. Latham paced to and fro, and with every minute his uneasiness increased.
He had been mad to trust the man. What lag would ever come back willingly to prison, especially knowing of the heavy punishment in store for him? Was there a girl at all, or had the whole story been a clever bit of fiction cleverly acted?
He thought of all it meant to himself if he failed to bring back his prisoner. So far from the promised promotion, it would be instant and disgraceful dismissal. Nellie would be lost to him forever.
And still the minutes ticked past, until it was half-past six, and the sun had set, and the foggy twilight was falling fast.
By this time Latham was nearly crazy. At one moment he thought of starting straight back to the prison and organising, pursuit; at another of rushing off to Baracombe to see if Cradock had really gone there or no.
A quarter to seven. He could stand it no longer. He turned, and hurried down the hill.
'Latham! Latham!' The voice was so faint and hoarse that at first Latham fancied he had imagined the call.
It came again.
'Latham, is that you?'
'Yes. Here I am!'
Out of the dense folds of the mist a figure staggered into sight.
'Cradock!' exclaimed Latham between joy and amazement. 'So you came, after all!'
'I—I promised!' said Cradock thickly.
And Latham caught, him as he fell.
'What is it?' asked the warder, sharply. 'Are you hurt?'
'Done!' whispered the other. 'A—a farmer chap saw me, and chased me. I—I managed to get away, but I fell into an old working, and broke something inside me, and I thought I'd never get here in time! Lay me down, please! I can't last much longer!'
'You poor beggar!' said Latham pityingly, as he bent over his prisoner.
Cradock lay still a moment. Then he opened his eyes, and a smile played about his white lips.
'I don't mind, Latham! I—I?m glad! You see, I was in time. I saw her!'
He drew a long breath.
'We're not all bad,' he said, 'even if we do wear these clothes.'
'I know. I recognised that. That's why I trusted you, Cradock. If they were all like you—'
'Thank you, Latham! I'll never forget it!' he whispered.
Then a shiver shook him, and he was still.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.