“Well!” says Mr. Gabbett, with the air of one who was but partly convinced, “I s’pose it is.”
“All the more reason of getting it off quick. Another thing, when the boys know there’s fever aboard, you’ll see the rumpus there’ll be. They’ll be ready enough to join us then. Once get the snapper chest, and we’re right as ninepenn’orth o’ hapence.”
This conversation, interspersed with oaths and slang as it was, had an intense interest for Rufus Dawes. Plunged into prison, hurriedly tried, and by reason of his surroundings ignorant of the death of his father and his own fortune, he had hitherto–in his agony and sullen gloom–held aloof from the scoundrels who surrounded him, and repelled their hideous advances of friendship. He now saw his error. He knew that the name he had once possessed was blotted out, that any shred of his old life which had clung to him hitherto, was shrivelled in the fire that consumed the “Hydaspes”. The secret, for the preservation of which Richard Devine had voluntarily flung away his name, and risked a terrible and disgraceful death, would be now for ever safe; for Richard Devine was dead–lost at sea with the crew of the ill-fated vessel in which, deluded by a skilfully-sent letter from the prison, his mother believed him to have sailed. Richard Devine was dead, and the secret of his birth would die with him. Rufus Dawes, his alter ego, alone should live. Rufus Dawes, the convicted felon, the suspected murderer, should live to claim his freedom, and work out his vengeance; or, rendered powerful by the terrible experience of the prison-sheds, should seize both, in defiance of gaol or gaoler.
With his head swimming, and his brain on fire, he eagerly listened for more. It seemed as if the fever which burnt in his veins had consumed the grosser part of his sense, and given him increased power of hearing. He was conscious that he was ill. His bones ached, his hands burned, his head throbbed, but he could hear distinctly, and, he thought, reason on what he heard profoundly.
“But we can’t stir without the girl,” Gabbett said. “She’s got to stall off the sentry and give us the orfice.”
The Crow’s sallow features lighted up with a cunning smile.
“Dear old caper merchant! Hear him talk!” said he, “as if he had the wisdom of Solomon in all his glory? Look here!”
And he produced a dirty scrap of paper, over which his companions eagerly bent their heads.
“Where did yer get that?”
“Yesterday afternoon Sarah was standing on the poop throwing bits o’ toke to the gulls, and I saw her a-looking at me very hard. At last she came down as near the barricade as she dared, and throwed crumbs and such like up in the air over the side. By and by a pretty big lump, doughed up round, fell close to my foot, and, watching a favourable opportunity, I pouched it. Inside was this bit o’ rag-bag.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Gabbett, “that’s more like. Read it out, Jemmy.”
The writing, though feminine in character, was bold and distinct. Sarah had evidently been mindful of the education of her friends, and had desired to give them as little trouble as possible.
“All is right. Watch me when I come up to-morrow evening at three bells. If I drop my handkerchief, get to work at the time agreed on. The sentry will be safe.”
Rufus Dawes, though his eyelids would scarcely keep open, and a terrible lassitude almost paralysed his limbs, eagerly drank in the whispered sentence. There was a conspiracy to seize the ship. Sarah Purfoy was in league with the convicts–was herself the wife or mistress of one of them. She had come on board armed with a plot for his release, and this plot was about to be put in execution. He had heard of the atrocities perpetrated by successful mutineers. Story after story of such nature had often made the prison resound with horrible mirth. He knew the characters of the three ruffians who, separated from him by but two inches of planking, jested and laughed over their plans of freedom and vengeance. Though he conversed but little with his companions, these men were his berth mates, and he could not but know how they would proceed to wreak their vengeance on their gaolers.
True, that the head of this formidable chimera–John Rex, the forger–was absent, but the two hands, or rather claws–the burglar and the prison-breaker–were present, and the slimly-made, effeminate Crow, if he had not the brains of the master, yet made up for his flaccid muscles and nerveless frame by a cat-like cunning, and a spirit of devilish volatility that nothing could subdue. With such a powerful ally outside as the mock maid-servant, the chance of success was enormously increased. There were one hundred and eighty convicts and but fifty soldiers. If the first rush proved successful–and the precautions taken by Sarah Purfoy rendered success possible–the vessel was theirs. Rufus Dawes thought of the little bright-haired child who had run so confidingly to meet him, and shuddered.
“There!” said the Crow, with a sneering laugh, “what do you think of that? Does the girl look like nosing us now?”
“No,” says the giant, stretching his great arms with a grin of delight, as one stretches one’s chest in the sun, “that’s right, that is. That’s more like bizness.”
“England, home and beauty!” said Vetch, with a mock-heroic air, strangely out of tune with the subject under discussion. “You’d like to go home again, wouldn’t you, old man?”
Gabbett turned on him fiercely, his low forehead wrinkled into a frown of ferocious recollection.
“You!” he said–“You think the chain’s fine sport, don’t yer? But I’ve been there, my young chicken, and I knows what it means.”
There was silence for a minute or two. The giant was plunged in gloomy abstraction, and Vetch and the Moocher interchanged a significant glance. Gabbett had been ten years at the colonial penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour, and he had memories that he did not confide to his companions. When he indulged in one of these fits of recollection, his friends found it best to leave him to himself.
Rufus Dawes did not understand the sudden silence. With all his senses stretched to the utmost to listen, the cessation of the whispered colloquy affected him strangely. Old artillery-men have said that, after being at work for days in the trenches, accustomed to the continued roar of the guns, a sudden pause in the firing will cause them intense pain. Something of this feeling was experienced by Rufus Dawes. His faculties of hearing and thinking–both at their highest pitch–seemed to break down. It was as though some prop had been knocked from under him. No longer stimulated by outward sounds, his senses appeared to fail him. The blood rushed into his eyes and ears. He made a violent, vain effort to retain his consciousness, but with a faint cry fell back, striking his head against the edge of the bunk.
The noise roused the burglar in an instant. There was someone in the berth! The three looked into each other’s eyes, in guilty alarm, and then Gabbett dashed round the partition.
“It’s Dawes!” said the Moocher. “We had forgotten him!”
“He’ll join us, mate–he’ll join us!” cried Vetch, fearful of bloodshed.
Gabbett uttered a furious oath, and flinging himself on to the prostrate figure, dragged it, head foremost, to the floor. The sudden vertigo had saved Rufus Dawes’s life. The robber twisted one brawny hand in his shirt, and pressing the knuckles down, prepared to deliver a blow that should for ever silence the listener, when Vetch caught his arm. “He’s been asleep,” he cried. “Don’t hit him! See, he’s not awake yet.”
A crowd gathered round. The giant relaxed his grip, but the convict gave only a deep groan, and allowed his head to fall on his shoulder. “You’ve killed him!” cried someone.
Gabbett took another look at the purpling face and the bedewed forehead, and then sprang erect, rubbing at his right hand, as though he would rub off something sticking there.
“He’s got the fever!” he roared, with a terror-stricken grimace.
“The what?” asked twenty voices.
“The fever, ye grinning fools!” cried Gabbett. “I’ve seen it before to-day. The typhus is aboard, and he’s the fourth man down!”
The circle of beast-like faces, stretched forward to “see the fight,” widened at the half-uncomprehended, ill-omened word. It was as though a bombshell had fallen into the group. Rufus Dawes lay on the deck motionless, breathing heavily. The savage circle glared at his prostrate body. The alarm ran round, and all the prison crowded down to stare at him. All at once he uttered a groan, and turning, propped his body on his two rigid arms, and made an effort to speak. But no sound issued from his convulsed jaws.
“He’s done,” said the Moocher brutally. “He didn’t hear nuffin’, I’ll pound it.”