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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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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,
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RGL e-Book Cover
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AS dangerous a ruffian as there is in the prison. Mark my words, James Braddock'll swing for someone yet." And the chief warder looked round to see if anyone would dare to contradict him.
Reply came from where it was least expected. Oliver Cleave was a young assistant warder, son of a farmer whose land lay under Westerton Tor, not five miles from Moorlands Prison.
"I don't think he's so bad, sir," ventured Cleave; "it's prison makes him what he is."
The chief gave a contemptuous grunt.
"You're young, Cleave. Wait till you know 'em as I do. The Terror would murder you as soon as look at you."
"What's he in for?" asked Cummins, another warder.
"Manslaughter," replied the chief. "He and another collier had a row, and decided to fight it out. They met on the beach. Bare fists. Other man was outed, and fell back dead."
"Rather rough on Braddock getting three years, wasn't it?" remarked Cleave. "He couldn't know the other chap had a weak heart."
"Good job for the public he's in here," retorted the chief. "He's a holy terror. I'd sooner go into any cell in the prison than his."
"All the same, I'm sorry for him," said Cleave.
"Have you been into his cell?" demanded the chief.
"No, sir. But I've had him in a gang."
The chief smiled grimly.
"Very well, it's your turn for that hell to-morrow. We'll see what you'll say to-morrow night."
IT would be idle to say that Oliver Cleave's heart did not beat a little more quickly than usual when he entered the Terror's cell the following morning.
Braddock, a huge man with thews of iron and a face that might have been carved out of mahogany, stood against the wall glaring like a trapped grizzly.
Cleave gave him a quiet "good morning." Braddock's only reply was a quick, suspicious glance. Cleave got through his duties quietly and steadily, and went on to the next cell.
Every morning the young warder gave the Terror the same pleasant salute. For five days Braddock never answered a word. It was said that he had hardly ever spoken since he was brought to Moorlands some seven months previously.
On the sixth morning, to Cleave's great pleasure, Braddock actually growled out a reply.
Now a warder who really means well to a convict has it in his power, without breaking any rules, to do a good deal for him in a quiet way. Cleave lost no opportunity. He was convinced that the man—huge, burly, fierce-tempered brute as he appeared—had real good in him.
Rule 99 of the "Statutory Rules and Orders" says:—"It is the duty of all officers to treat prisoners with kindness and humanity, to listen patiently to and report their complaints and grievances.... they should strive to acquire a moral influence over the prisoners by performing their duties conscientiously, but without harshness."
Cleave, who was a real good sort, always bore these kindly words in mind, and acted on them to the best of his ability. He was delighted beyond words to see that Braddock was slowly beginning to realise that one at least among his guards wished him well.
But this did not in the least change his attitude to other prison officials, and when Cleave's turn of duty took him to another ward, it was not long before Braddock broke out once more.
A stupid warder named Marsh spoke harshly to the big collier. In an instant he was on his back with his nose flattened to his face. Other warders ran up, there was a fearful struggle, and it took six strong men to subdue the mad giant.
Poor wretch, now he'll catch it," said Cleave when he heard.
And he did. Cells. No. 2 diet for twenty-one days, and a loss of marks, which increased the term he would have to serve by fourteen days.
Three weeks passed. and Braddock was back "on the bogs," as they call the farm. He was one of a gang engaged in clearing granite from a new take about a mile from the prison.
It was October, and the foggiest for years.
On the second day after Braddock's return to work, about three in the afternoon, a cloud came sweeping softly, silently over Bellworthy Tor. The warder in charge saw it, and his whistle shrilled to gather the gang for the march back to the gaol.
Ghost-like, but with amazing swiftness the grey smother dropped, and folded the field and its occupants in a feathery veil, and suddenly Braddock flung down his pick took the dry-stone wall at one leap and was gone.
A rifle cracked, but the man was already on the far side of the wall, running hard behind cover. A mounted civil guard galloped furiously, but the ground was a mass of rugged boulders and seamed with the pits from which they had been dug and blasted.
By the time the gang had been rounded up, and Cleave the only warder who could be spared, was over the wall, Braddock was out of sight.
Cleeve, following by track, ran steadily in pursuit.
NELL CLEAVE, plump white arms bare to the elbow, was busy in the kitchen at Westerton. She was getting supper for her father whom she expected home from Morwall Market.
The terrier, which had been peacefully asleep in the big chair by the fire, sprang up suddenly, barking furiously.
"Why, Clip, what's the matter?" cried Nell. "It must be father."
She went to the back door and looked out. Dark as pitch, raining in sheets, and a gale that took her breath away.
"My, what a night!" she gasped, struggling back. It took all the power of those strong young arms of hers to close the door again.
As she got back into the kitchen, suddenly the inner door, the one leading from the sitting-room, burst open, and in rushed Mrs. Cleave, white and trembling.
"Nell, there's a man broke in!" she gasped, and collapsed, half-fainting, in a chair.
"Man; what do you mean?" But Mrs. Cleave was beyond speech.
Nell never hesitated. Candle in hand, she ran straight into the sitting-room and almost into the arms of a huge figure who had plainly entered by the window, the lower sash of which was open wide. He was bare-headed, the upper part of his body was covered with an old sack; he was streaming with wet, and in his hand was a huge, ragged hedge-stake. With his scratched and bleeding face, his wild blood-shot eyes, he was a sight to frighten anyone.
Nell caught her breath with a shiver. But there was stern Moorland blood in her veins of Oliver Cleave's sister. She pulled herself together.
"What do you want?" she cried boldly.
The man glared at her.
"Food and a change o' clothes, sharp or 'twill be t' worse for ye."
"Nice way to ask for things!" retorted Nell dauntlessly. "Breaking in and frightening mother like you have."
"Quick!" roared the man, tightening his grip on his bludgeon. "They're after me."
Nell cast a quirk glance at the shaven crown. She took in the broad arrows beneath the red mud which covered the coarse stockings and canvas knickerbockers. She knew him for what he was.
"Oh, so you've run from the prison. Well, you don't get anything here, let me tell you." Inwardly she was wondering how far behind were the warders. "If only father would come," she prayed. She was horribly frightened.
The man advanced a step.
"I don't want to hurt a lass," he said, "specially a good plucked 'un like you, but"—with a fierce oath—"if ye don't give me what I ask, I'll take it. I ain't going back there again."
He raised his club.
Still Nell stood bravely between him and the door.
At that moment a quick step rang on the flags outside and a man in warder's uniform sprang lightly through the open window and dashed straight at the convict.
The man heard him. He whirled round and let out with savage force. If the blow had gone home the warder's skull would have been cracked like an eggshell.
But the newcomer was already at close quarters. The bludgeon crashed on a chair, wrecking it completely, and the two men, clutched in one another's arms, were reeling round to and fro by the light of the single candle, fighting like wild cats.
The warder was pluck to the backbone, but he was not half the size of the other. He was a mere child in the grip of those tremendous arms. In another instant he was flat on the floor with the great convict kneeling on his chest and a pair of iron-hard hands on his throat, squeezing the life out of him.
Nell, who had been leaning half-fainting against the wall, sprang forward with a scream, and then for the first time saw that the man on the floor was her brother Oliver.
Like a flash it burst upon her that the convict could be no other than Braddock the Terror, of whom she had so often heard from Oliver.
An inarticulate cry burst from her, and seizing the convict by the collar she made a frantic effort to pull him off.
Nell was a well-built young woman, but she could make no impression on the blood-mad convict.
Those awful hands never relaxed their grip for a fraction of a second.
The victim's face was turning blue, his eyes were starting from his head.
"Oliver, Oliver!" screamed the girl in anguish. "Oh, you wouldn't kill him. He's my brother, my brother Oliver. You're Braddock. You wouldn't kill Oliver Cleave!
Cleave—the name seemed to penetrate some cell of that half-crazed brain. His grip slackened.
"Oliver—Oliver Cleave?" he said slowly. Then, so suddenly and sharply that Nell fairly jumped—"Give me the candle, girl!" He snatched it and held it over the warder's face. "Aye, it's Cleave—Cleave, t' one chap o' all them blackguards up there as was decent to me. An' I've killed him!"
The intensity of emotion in the man's deep tones appalled the girl. But she kept her head.
"Put him on the sofa!" she cried. "I'll get water."
She flew back to the kitchen. Her mother had fainted. But Nell paid no attention to her. She scooped a jug of cold water from a full pail and dashed back.
Braddock had Oliver on the couch and was working his arms to try to restore the action of the lungs. He seized the jug from Nell and dashed the water in the face of the unconscious man.
It was the strangest sight imaginable to see those two, the burly convict, in his dripping, mud-stained garments, and the girl in her clean print dress, working together over the man in warder's uniform who lay so still and deathlike on the sofa.
A couple of minutes passed. No sign of life.
"It's no good," groaned Braddock. "I've killed him—killed the one chap as were decent to me. There's a curse on me. Heaven knows I didn't mean it, any more'n I meant to kill t' poor fellow on t' beach, him as they quodded me for."
The strong man's emotion was terrible to see.
Suddenly Neil give a cry. Not of fear, but of joy.
"He's not dead. His eyelid moved. Keep on, Mr. Braddock, keep on, he's coming round!"
A crash outside. The front door burst open. A warder, rifle in hand, dashed in, half a dozen more at his heels.
"Here he is. Hands up, Braddock!" he roared. "You're caught, and if you play the fool I shall shoot."
Braddock's gloomy eyes blazed. Threats drove his invincible spirit to fury. Another instant and he would have flung himself upon the warders, when suddenly Nell spring into the breach.
"Don't threaten him!" she cried. "He'll go back quietly. I give you my word he will. Won't you?" turning swiftly to Braddock.
The convict's fierce face softened.
"My lass. I'll do even that if it'll please you," he said quietly.
The warders stared. They could not believe their ears. None of them had ever heard Braddock, the Terror of Moorlands, speak like this. One and all had been prepared for a fearful struggle.
"My brother had a fall," explained the girl, lying bravely. "Mr. Braddock's been helping me to bring him round." The convict gave her a glance of deepest gratitude. "You won't be too hard on him, Mr. Eaves," she went on, turning to the principal warder.
"Not if he'll go back quietly, Miss Cleave," replied the other, who was a good-hearted man. "Your brother's coming round, I see. We'll leave him here for the present. Now Braddock are you ready?"
"Yes," replied the giant quietly, and held out his hands.
"Don't put those on him," begged Nell, as the warder produced the handcuffs from his pocket.
Eaves stared hard at Braddock.
"My man, will you give me your word you won't bolt again?"
A grim smile parted Braddock's lips.
"Not till I get back anyway," he replied .
"Right," said Eaves curtly. He was something of a judge of men. "Now, then, no time to lose, March."
Braddock gave a last glance at Nell.
"Good night miss," he said. "And God bless you. I'll not forget you in a hurry."
Then they were gone, and Nell turned back to her brother, who, though still unconscious, was breathing easily.
A MONTH later Oliver Cleave, home on leave, was sitting in the old farmhouse kitchen, talking to his sister.
"Nell, you've done wonders for that chap, Braddock," he said with a smile. "He took his gruel like a man."
"Did they punish him very heavily?" asked Nell anxiously.
"No. Colonel Peyton—the governor, you know—had a long yarn with him next day, and seemingly Braddock promised to be good. Peyton's a regular old martinet, but he knows how to handle men."
"And he let him off?"
"Well, no. He couldn't quite do that. An escape is a serious offence. But he let him down lightly. Braddock hasn't given on ounce of trouble since, and, what's more, I don't believe he ever will."
"I'm certain he won't," declared Nell, with conviction.
She was right. In little more than two years Braddock—the Terror no longer—received his ticket, and at once applied to Oliver's father for work.
He got it, did it well, saved money, and in another couple of years was able to take a small place for himself, where he is prospering greatly.
He and Oliver often meet and Braddock will say with earnestness—"Rule 99, Cleave. That's what saved me. And it 'ud save many other chap if every warder stuck to it."
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.