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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,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
HARMAN stopped short and stood perfectly still, listening intently. The fog which had covered the moor at sunset was now so thick that eyes were useless. The young warder had to depend entirely on his sense of hearing.
But strain his ears as he might, he could catch no sound at all. There is perhaps no other place on earth so still as is the high moor on a calm winter night. The hill ponies have moved down to the lower ground, the snipe and curlew are at rest in the tussocks, and as to sounds made by man, the great distances which divide these lofty wilds from all trace of civilisation cut them off completely.
Yet, in spite of the daunting silence, Harman was convinced that he was not alone in this dreary spot. Before darkness fell he had found the tracks of the fugitive plainly impressed on the still unfrozen mud at the edge of Hollow Mire, and he had made up his mind that Asa Drage must have taken refuge in the old tin mine working at Bittifer.
With that idea in his head he had followed up the course of the Peat Brook, which had its source close under the mouldering mine dumps, and now, though he could not see these moss-clad heaps of refuse, he knew that he was within a few yards of them.
So far he had given no thought to any plan for laying hands on the runaway. All his energies had been concentrated upon finding his way through the frost fog and on escaping from falling either into the brook on one side or the mires which bordered it on the other.
Now he began to realise that the wiser course would have been to return to the prison for help. Although his own knowledge of the moor had enabled him to track Drage so far, yet it would not help him to capture the man.
For Asa Drage was not the sort to submit quietly to the first warder who called upon him to surrender, and, least of all, if that warder were John Harman. It was Harman whom, for some reason best known to himself, Drage hated with all the bitter intensity of his warped nature, and it was Walter Baines, Harman's best friend, whom the powerful brute had treacherously struck down with his shovel before his escape that afternoon.
Presently Harman moved forward again. In spite of the fact that there was a moon somewhere behind the fog, the white frost mist was so thick that he was compelled to probe his way with the stick which was his only weapon. By prison rules warders were not permitted to carry their carbines when in pursuit of fugitives. The cold was intense, and in spits of the fact that his blood was still warm from his long tramp he shivered slightly as he moved slowly and softly up a steep slope.
The mouth of the old mine was, he knew, within a hundred yards or so, but the fog was so baffling that he could not tell exactly where. That Drage was inside the adit he was almost convinced, for the adit was the only refuge for miles round, and no man could hope to live through such a night without shelter of some kind. And if he himself could only gain the mouth of the adit without being overheard there was always a chance that he might be able to catch the convict asleep.
The worst of it was that the short grass was stiff as bristles with the frozen fog. Every tiny spear coated with ice, and in spite of all precautions they crunched gently under the pressure of his heavy boots. Slight as the sound was, it seemed horribly loud in the utter quiet of the winter night.
He had expected to bring up against the loose stone of the dump. But probe as he might with his stick he could touch nothing but grass and heather. And presently he got a nasty shock, for the end of his stick dipped without touching anything, and he realized that he was on the edge of a big hole of some sort.
He felt that he had missed his way, and again he stood still, trying to think where he was. It was some years since he had been on this part of the moor, and his recollection of it had grown hazy.
He had a vague remembrance that there was a big pit or hollow where the miners of old had cut turf for their fires, and so far as he could recall the lie of the land it was in this pit that the Peat Brook had its source. Whatever happened, he must above all things be careful not to fall into this peat bowl, and he felt in every direction with his stick in an effort to make sure of his footing before turning.
There came a sudden sound of rushing feet—so sudden that before he could do anything to save himself, before he could even turn, something butted him like a bull and sent him staggering towards the brink of the pit.
The ground gave way beneath his feet and he pitched out headlong into thin air.
He turned over twice as he fell and landed with a thud that knocked all the wind and most of the senses out of him.
The shock was so great that for some minutes he lay quite still, half stunned and unable to cry out or move. It was the shock of icy-cold water leaking through his clothes that roused him, and, pulling himself together, he managed to struggle to his feet.
He found that he had fallen into a bed of peat-mud, half frozen yet still soft enough to save him from serious damage.
Standing quite quiet, he listened with all his ears, and presently distinctly caught a sound of heavy breathing from somewhere up above.
It was Asa Drage. Though he could see nothing whatever, he had not the slightest shadow of doubt as to the identity of his assailant.
His first idea was to try to deceive the man into thinking that he was dead or at least insensible. In that case the convict would probably creep back to his burrow and give the warder a chance of escape. With this thought in his head Harman remained perfectly quiet.
Presently he heard a slight movement up above, and then all of a sudden a large stone came whizzing down and struck the soft soil within a yard of where he stood. Instinctively he sprang forward and almost at once brought up sharply against the side of the pit.
The sound he made was followed by a burst of jeering laughter.
"Ho, I thought as it would take more'n the tumble to break your neck, Mr. Blooming Screw!" came a hoarse voice from the blackness above. "But don't you worry. You'll cop it afore I'm through with you."
Harman made no answer except to shift quickly but silently along the base of the bank. Just as well, too, that he did so, for stones began to rain down upon the spot he had just left. The stoning went on for many minutes, Drage shouting oaths and insults all the while. But Harman had found shelter under an overhanging portion of the bank, and he was not touched once. At last Drage tired, or perhaps his supply of stones ran short.
"You stay where you be, then," was his final remark. "You stay where you be, and the frost'll finish you afore morning; or if it don't I will."
FOR a long time after Drage had left Harman did not dare to stir. But at last the cruel bite of the frost grew so severe that he felt he must move before he became too numbed to do so. Keeping one hand against the side of the pit, he began to walk cautiously round it. Now and then he stretched up as high as he could reach, but he could never anywhere reach the top.
Underfoot, the ground was covered with thick bog moss. The top was frozen, but water oozed up at every step. He counted his steps as he went. At the thirty-fifth step he suddenly sank. The mud was like quicksand. It was all he could do to get back before it was too late.
Breathing hard he turned and went the other way. This time he counted steps and then again broke through thin ice into fathomless bog, and for the second time escaped by the skin of his teeth.
His heart sank as he realised his plight. He was imprisoned in a roughly circular pit somewhere about a hundred yards in circumference. The mouth was barred by one of those terrible upland mires which are deadly as any quicksand, while the sides were too high to allow of climbing out.
And the cold was terrible. The sky was clearing. Already the moon was dimly visible. Soon the last of the mist would roll off and the temperature would sink to twenty or more degrees below freezing-point. No human being could live till morning exposed to such a degree of frost.
But Harman was not the sort to give in without a struggle. It occurred to him it might be possible to cut his way to the top of the bank. Taking out his knife, he set to cutting steps in the wall-like side. But the stuff was rotten, as only peat can be, and every time that he got his foot upon one of these steps the stuff crumbled away and let him down.
He wasted an hour or more in this way, and at last gave it up as a bad job.
The fog was gone now. The air was clear, calm and cruelly cold. The moonlight showed that the banks surrounding his prison were at least fifteen feet high. The light gleamed on the thin ice which covered the water in the middle of the cavity and in the mire at the open end.
Harman looked at his watch. Barely nine o'clock. Nearly ten hours to daylight. His teeth chattered. He knew that he must get shelter or die.
He considered a few moments, then set to work again with his knife and began to hew out a hole at the bottom of the bank. This would serve a double purpose. It would protect him from the cold and from Drage's stones.
The stuff was soft and wet. It cut like cheese, and in another hour he had excavated a cavity about three feet high and four deep. He got inside, spread his oilskin cape on the damp ground, and set to work to wall up the opening until there was only a tiny crevice left for air to come through. Then the blade of his knife struck on a piece of hard rock and broke off. However, he sat down and shivered miserably. But gradually a degree of warmth crept over him, and after a time he actually closed his eyes.
So, between dozing and waking, the endless night dragged slowly by, and the grey dawn looming over the frost-bound moor found him stiff and aching but still alive.
It seemed to Harman that hours passed before the red sun-rays broke into the frosty prison. They showed him nothing that gave him any comfort. There was no way out of the great peat pit except across the mire. And that, by the look of it, was as deep and deadly as any bog that he had ever seen. He was trapped as hopelessly as an ant in the pit of an ant-lion, and unless help came the place must be his grave.
Presently a figure, looking gigantic against the ruddy sky, stood on the bank opposite. It was Drage, and in spite of cold and the ugly pangs of hunger Harman smiled grimly at the puzzled expression on the ruffian's face. Evidently he was completely at a loss as to what had become of his victim.
Drage moved along the bank, peering over constantly; but Harman had been careful to pick up every scrap of scattered turf, and Drage could by no means discover the warder's hiding-place.
Harman himself remained very quiet in his den. He knew that he was safe enough from the convict.
Presently he heard the man's voice.
"I knows you're somewheres down there," he growled. "Come out of it and show your ugly mug."
By the sound Drage was almost overhead, and again Harman chuckled silently.
But his chuckle ended almost before it had begun. There was a rattle of falling turf, a hoarse cry. Then, with a heavy thud, Drage himself landed on hands and knees at the bottom of the wall only a few yards away from Harman's hiding place.
With eager hands Harman tore at the turves which barred the mouth of his den. They were frozen hard, and before he could break them down Drage was on his feet again. The man stood glaring around him dazedly, but Harman saw with dismay that he was unhurt by the fall.
Harman redoubled his efforts, for he knew how slim were his chances if Drage caught him before he could get clear.
The two things happened at the same moment. Harman plunged out into the open, and Drage, catching sight of him, gave a bellow of rage and made a dash for the spot.
Harman's joints were stiff with cold. He tried to dodge, but was not quite quick enough. The two went over together.
For a moment there was a wild mix up. Quite what happened Harman never remembered. All he knew was that such a stab of pain shot through his right hand and arm as made him sick and faint. Instinctively he kicked out with all his might, and the sole of his boot caught the convict full in the chest and sent him spinning.
In an instant Harman was on his feet again. But his right hand was useless. The thumb was either broken or dislocated. He had lost his stick in the fall overnight; he had no weapon of any sort and he knew Drage's tiger-like temper far too well to expect anything but the worst.
Before he had time to think Drage was up again.
"I'll swing for you yet, you dirty screw!" he bellowed, and charged again.
Harman had no choice. He turned and ran, Drage panting at his heels.
Almost before he knew it Harman was on the mire. Just as a skater can skim in safety over ice so thin that it would not bear his weight for an instant if he stood still, so the frost-caked surface of the mire bore Harman's long flying strides. Within a few seconds he felt firm ground again beneath his feet, and, turning, dashed up the steep slope to the left.
As he reached the top a scream rang from below—a scream that echoed terribly across the frozen moor.
Carried away by his mad desire for vengeance, Drage had followed Harman across the mire, followed in the very same footsteps! But the frozen crust, cracked already by the warder's weight, would not bear the convict's massive frame.
As Herman looked back be saw the man already waist deep in the bog.
The quaking surface heaved and rocked as Drage struggled madly, but every effort only sent him deeper into the slime. And all the time wild screams for help burst from his terror-twisted lips.
"Spread your arms! Keep still!" shouted Harman. "I'll get a plank from the mine."
It was not more than three minutes before he was back, panting and breathless and carrying a pit prop over his shoulder.
But before he reached the edge of the mine the screams had ceased. Great black bubbles rising in a round pool of liquid slime were the only sign of the spot where Drage had gone to his doom.
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.