My Fire Opal, and Other Tales

As he listens to the muttered ravings of this frenzied creature, he already half regrets the humane impulse that tempted him to brave the horrors of such a night. An hour passes. The man raves on. Terrors, vague and supernatural, begin to seize upon the watcher's unnerved mind. Surely already evil fiends are swooping on their prey – the parting soul! And in the silence that now alternates with these fierce outbreaks of insanity, he half fancies in the dusky room the whirr of their uncanny wings. He wishes to God it were morning, and he well out of this! The night, however, has scarce begun; and so, manfully bracing himself to his task, he resolves to stick to his post, doing his best, let what will come. Suddenly the patient ceases to rave, and seems to struggle gaspingly with some strong and terrible foe!

White foam flecks his blue lips, and great beads of agony start to his brow. Hurrying to his side, Henderson tenderly wipes the pain-distorted forehead, and offers him drink. His teeth are fast clenched. He makes a rude attempt to drive the comforter from him. Obeying the motion, Henderson seats himself and awaits the issue.

By and by the convulsive gasping ceases. Again he bends over the sufferer. How strangely quiet the man is! No motion, no sound – not even a breath! Heaven help him! he has gone at last!

How dismal will the long night be locked in here alone with a corpse! Death sits horribly on these evil features. Upon the hard, set face, one may still trace the footprints of unholy and unbridled desire. The mouth is much drawn. Its strong white teeth show grimly between the blue parted lips, and, to the watcher's nervous fancy, they seem, even in death, to snarl viciously at the beholder. Livid circles underline the sunken eyes, now wide and glassy, beneath their heavy brows, and, as Henderson morbidly conceives, turned wrathfully upon him. If he could but close those terrible eyes! Alas! he dare not with his shaky hand attempt so bold a thing! A moment ago he could have turned his back upon the ugly sight; now it is too late. By some hypnotic fascination beyond his control, his gaze is riveted to the corpse.

The slow hours wear on. The living and the dead, set face to face, grimly confront each other. The dead man never winces. The living man, at last, succumbs to the stress and horror of the situation. The walls of the apartment reel and totter. The corpse dims and fades before him, and he falls limp and unconscious to the floor.

Sensation gradually returning to the overwrought watcher, he finds himself still miserably faint and weak. It is, however, something to have escaped the spell of those death-glazed eyes, and, thanking God, he strives to get upon his feet. In his effort to rise, he stumbles clumsily over a small dark object upon the floor, close beside the bed. Regaining his poise, he discerns that it is the coarse, heavy shoe of a convict. He lifts it, thinking to place it beside its fellow beneath the cot. His hand is weak and nerveless. It escapes his grasp, and falls clattering to the floor. As it strikes, his ear is surprised by the click of some metallic substance. A small shining implement lies at his feet. He picks it up. It is a miniature steel saw, and must somehow have been concealed in this shoe of the dead man. Curiously examining it and the shoe, he discovers (what in the dim light had at first eluded his notice) a displaced inner sole, thin, but firm and nicely fitted. Removing it, he sees that the shoe is still intact, and that this neatly adjusted super-sole was but an ingenious blind, adroitly concealing the precious implement, which, had fate proved less unkind, should have opened to the dead prisoner the long untrodden way of liberty.

It is not in Robert Henderson's nature to peach on a comrade, living or dead, and, carefully restoring the saw to its hiding-place, he readjusts the sham sole, and, with a touch of that reverence which one instinctively yields to the belongings of the dead, puts the shoe aside.

Still weak and trembling, but no longer magnetically drawn to the corpse, he totters to the grated window, which, to eke out the sick man's failing breath, has been left open. Dropping upon the rude stool beside it, he leans his yet dizzy head upon the sill. A wandering breath of the summer night steals gently in. How balmy it is, this tender night wind! And he, a worn creature at a prison grating, might be a gentle lady at her lattice, so softly it caresses his wasted cheek!

Yet, kindly as it is, it does not wholly restore his wonted vigour. At intervals, a deathly faintness oppresses him. A fearful sinking of heart and limb, as if life and courage were, together, oozing away. What if the end were indeed come, and he were to die to-night, unattended and alone; his filmy eyes looking their last upon earth, still confronted by that odious dead face, that, even in the world beyond, may still pursue him, as, for years, another dead face has!

His heart scarce beats at all! Ah, well, it is time he should be gone! But to die alone! Were daylight but here, he might summon help – might get from the dispensary some relieving draught, or soothing powder, wherewith to blunt the dreaded sting of Death.

A sudden thought flashes through his troubled brain. There, just beside the dead man's bed, stands his medicine! A small phial half-filled with dark-brown liquid; he read its label, idly, as he sat beside the sufferer – "Cough Drops." Summoning such strength as he can command, he staggers across the room, and, eagerly seizing the phial, drains it to the dregs. This composite remedy is well-freighted with morphine, and, though perfectly safe in moderate doses, is by no means to be administered ad libitum. Opium, as we know, is dual in effect, inducing irregular and excited brain action, as well as coma. This over-liberal potion of "Cough Drops" works swift wonders in Henderson's sensitive, excitable organism. He is soon upon his feet again, and, as he says gaily to himself, "As bright as ever, and well-nigh as strong." A sensuous delight in existence again thrills his torpid being; a wild eager craving to taste once more its long withheld joy! "Die to-night? Ah, no! How could he have imagined a thing so unlikely? He is but a young man yet, and life lies long and pleasant before him. Stimulated by his energizing draught, he presses eagerly to the window, and, grasping its hindering bars, – in a spurt of the old-time Herculean strength, – wrenches at them mightily. They are fast and strong. In the scuttle they are wider apart, and, apparently, more slender. The summer wind steals deliciously in. Ah! these are but mere thimblefuls. Outside, now, a man might take his fill. The old sea longing is again hot within him. Outside these cruel bars it lies, broad and fair, as of old. The whole wide world is there! Liberty, happiness, and maybe health. At least, leave to die outside of prison walls.

"Why! Men smothering in subterranean dungeons have, like burrowing moles, groped their slow way to freedom; while he" – a swift thought illumines his seething brain, sending the life-tide swifter through his pulses, and electrifying his entire being! The saw! the dead man's saw! There it is, safe in the shoe, and not in vain has Heaven graciously discovered it to him! Still reverent of the belongings of the dead, he takes in his hand the precious shoe, removes from it the secreted implement, and, in a moment more, is eagerly at work. Noiselessly placing a small table beneath the scuttle, he finds it still beyond his reach. Placing a stool upon the table, he mounts it, and is soon sawing away at the bars above him. In this aperture, designed rather for sanitary than illuminating purposes, the bars are comparatively wide apart, and far more slender than the window gratings. The removal of a single bar will give egress to his emaciated form. The saw works well. His task is soon accomplished, – the dead man all the while (as he excitedly fancies) angrily staring from the bed. Faugh! How close the air is in this infernal place! A moment ago he was fast here, locked in with a horrible thing that grins and glares at a man, and is already decomposing! It is over now. In a moment more, he will have left it all; will be free. The coarse covering of an empty cot is soon torn into strong strips. Deftly knotting these together, sailor-wise, he tucks the improvised rope under his arm, and, holding it fast, climbs out upon the roof, and, creeping cautiously on all fours to its extremity, has secured it firmly to the spout.

Clinging desperately to his flimsy tackle, he lowers himself, hand over hand, to its end. He is still at a remove of twenty feet from the ground.

Under normal mental conditions, Henderson might have demurred at so bold a fall; now, no whit appalled, he loosens his hold, and drops, scarcely bruised, to the earth. Kissing in ecstacy the clammy ground, he looks mutely up to heaven. It is a prayer! And, rising to his feet, he hastily puts off his heavy shoes (which in the hurry and excitement of departure he has forgotten to remove), and, listening intently for the night watchman's patrolling step, assures himself that he is at this moment reconnoitering some distant stretch of his beat. Now is the time! Stealthily gaining the wall, he looks cautiously about him; selecting a spot comfortably distant from a sentry-box, with a pile of refuse lumber and some empty lime barrels, providentially at hand, he improvises a rude scaffolding, and, eagerly mounting it, clambers in safety to the top.

A neighbouring clock is striking two. The night is cloudy. There will be no moon, and not a star to be seen. It is an easy thing to manage the rest; and, well beyond the prison walls, it cannot be far to that goal of his longing – the sea.

Safe, though somewhat shaken by his bold fall, he finds his legs and pushes resolutely on. He moves but slowly. Through long disuse, his locomotion has become rusty; yet, keeping steadily to his snail-like pace, he threads the deserted streets, and presently finds himself upon the broad highway. He has grasped his clew; and, following it, presses bravely on. The shoeless feet, already hurt and bleeding, get wearily over the rough, hard ground. The clouds are breaking; and, here and there, a kindly star twinkles upon his pathway.

His spurious strength – opium-engendered and ephemerally sustained by this new wine of liberty – is waning.

The road lies long before him. He drags wearily on. He stumbles often, and once has even fallen from sheer exhaustion. At last he diverges, instinctively, from the travelled highway. Another weary pull. Now on a scarce-rutted wagon track, across open grassy flats, and then a sudden pause – a thrill of ecstatic joy! The salt sea-breeze is in his eager nostrils! "O God! O blessed God! it is the sea!" and for eighteen weary years he has not once "snuffed brine!" He hears it, singing in the dear old monotone; and, in a moment more, here it is, spread out before him, grand as ever, and wide! Oh, how wide!

Tottering feebly across the sands down to its very foam-fringed edge, he sinks tremblingly upon his knees, and in ecstacy hugs the wet shore. His strained muscles relax, and, too spent to rise, he stretches himself upon the strand. His brain is hazy with morphine. A drowsy bliss balms his tired senses. He looks dreamily at the broad heaven (already flushed with coming day), and, fondly searching its half-forgotten face, mutters drowsily to himself: "What! all that sky? How wide the world is!" He closes his eyes for the moment, oppressed with the weight of immensity! His mood changes suddenly to one of eager, childish delight. Far out at sea, through the soft bloom of dawn's red rose, the sun is emerging from his bath of flame, a huge disk of fire. Raising himself wearily upon his elbow, he watches its unaccustomed face with curious half-recognition. "The sun? yes, this must be the sun! Ages ago he saw it rise out of the sea. Somebody was with him then. Who was it? His name was – what was his name? and where is he now?

"Dead, maybe. Everybody is dead – everybody – Tom, and the other left behind there in the grated pen! He, too, may be dying. He is faint and weary, and has so little breath after that long tramp! Ah, well! he is close to his mother now, and where else should a man die? He is tired, though – dog tired, and must rest awhile before he heaves anchor." The tide is rising. A dash of salt spray spatters his cheek. The sun comes bravely up from the sea; and, yonder, a ship is coming in. In dreamy abstraction he watches it with half-shut eyes. "How drowsy he is! How came he here? Where is he going? What a coil it is! No matter, he is going to sleep now; and by and by he will wake up, and get his bearings. It is all right – all well – he is in her arms! How beautiful she is – the blue-eyed mother! And – hush! hark! she is singing him to sleep!" His mind wanders. He murmurs irrelevantly on – "Poor mother! She is pale and worn! It will grieve her if her boy turns in without a prayer." He tries to fumble to his knees, and fails. Recomposing his limbs, he folds his large hands, childwise, upon his breast, and distinctly and reverently repeats the old, old prayer —

"Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray the Lord my soul to keep,If I should die before I wakeI pray the Lord – "

"Good night, mother – " He is fast asleep.

Henderson has chanced upon an unfrequented strip of shore, and, though it is now high day, no one comes, not even his pursuers, who, in the coarse stiff grass must have missed his shoeless trail.

The tide is still coming in. He does not waken. Now and then an intrusive wave breaks over his feet. By and by one creeps up to his waist; and, directly, the sea gives him a broad, rough douche. He moans, and starts in his dream. Another wave! How strong and fierce it is – this sea – held in the hollow of God's safe hand!

It rouses him at last. He starts to his feet, and towering, for one brief moment, high above the seething waves, sends over the blue expanse a long, loud "Ship ahoy!" Then, shading his eyes with his thin hand, he gazes eagerly expectant – far out to sea. A slow smile breaks, like the dawn, over his face, and, folding his arms, he waits. The waves come curling in, and, breaking at his feet, ruthlessly drench him with foam and spray. He does not heed them. With straining gaze, he waits that inbound phantasmal ship. Another and a happier smile! And, with a keen cry of joy, he waves his eager hand and again sends over the sea a jubilant "Ship ahoy!" He makes a forward pace or two – a wave is coming in, huge and hungry; he sways, totters, and falls. It swallows him and hurries back. And still the sea lies broad and blue beneath the smiling heaven. The white gull skims its azure breast on rhythmic wing. Proud ships bring happy ventures gaily in; or, sailing out and on, dwindle to specks and melt at last, like shapeless dreams, into the distant blue. And still the curling waves creep with slow singing up the sand. With him "there is no more sea!"

THE END

1

Convicts' term for prison.

2

A fact furnished by an aged officer who witnessed this unique eviction.