I.
The prison gate opened, and Number 73 for a minute or so leaned against the wall to steady himself. The strange clamour of the streets smote upon his ear like dagger strokes into his heart, and his breath came in quick, short gasps.
Some one was speaking to him—a little, pale-faced, red-whiskered man with watery eyes—and Challoner, once “Number 73,” staring stupidly at him, tried to understand, but foiled. Then, sidling up to him, the little man took one of Challoner's gaunt and long hands between his own, and a stout, masculine female in a blue dress and poke bonnet and spectacles clasped the other and called him “brother.”
A dull gleam shone in his sullen eyes at last, and drawing his hands away from them, he asked—
“Who are you?”
The stout woman's sharp tongue clattered, and Challoner listened stolidly. Sometimes a word or two in the volley she fired would cause him to shake his head wearily—“happiness in the life heternal,” “washed in the blood of the Lamb,” and “cast yer sins away an' come an' be saved without money an' without price.”
Then he remembered who he was and who they were—the warders had told him of the Prison Gate Brigade. He turned to the man and muttered—
“I want to get away from here,” and stepped past them, but the woman laid her fat, coarse hand on his sleeve.
“Come 'ome with us, brother. P'r'aps yer 'ave a mother or a wife waitin' to 'ear from yer, an' we——”
He dashed her hand aside savagely—“Blast you, no; let me go!”
Then with awkward, shambling gait he pushed through the curious crowd at the prison gate, crossed the street, and entered the nearest public-house.
“Another soul escaped us, Sister Hannah,” squeaked the little man; “but we'll try and rescue him when he comes out from the house of wickedness and abomination.”
“Better leave him alone,” said a warder in plain clothes, who just then came through the gate, “he won't be saved at no price, I can tell yer.”
“Who is the poor man?” asked Sister Hannah, in a plaintive, injured voice.
“Sh! Mustn't ask them questions,” said the little man.
But he knew, all the same, that the tall, gaunt man with the sallow face and close-cropped white hair was Harvey Challoner, once chief officer of the ship Victory, sentenced in Melbourne to imprisonment for life for manslaughter, but released at the end of ten years.
The Victory murder trial had not attracted much public attention, and the prisoner had been defended at the public expense. On the voyage from London to Australia the crew had become discontented. They had reason for their discontent. Captain Cressingham, for all his suave, gentlemanly shore manners, was an adept at “hazing,” and was proud of the distinction of making every ship he commanded a hell to the fo'c's'le hands. Sometimes, with sneering, mocking tongue, he would compliment Challoner upon the courteous manner in which he “addressed the gentlemen for'ard.” As for the other two mates, they were equally as brutal as their captain, but lacked his savage, methodical vindictiveness.
When only a few weeks out, Harman, the second mate, one day accused one of the men of “soldiering,” and striking him in the face, broke his nose, and as the man lay on the deck he kicked him brutally. Challoner, who was on deck at the time, jumped down off the poop, and seizing Harman by the arm, called him a cowardly hound.
“And you're a d———d old woman,” was the retort.
Challoner's passion overpowered him, and at the end of five minutes Harman was carried below badly knocked about, and à stormy scene ensued between Challoner and the captain.
“You have all but killed Mr. Harman. I could, and should, put you in irons for the rest of the voyage,” the captain had said.
There was a steely glitter in the mate's dark eyes as he answered—
“In dealing with ruffians such as Harman and yourself one doesn't stop at an extra blow or two.”
From that time Cressingham was his bitter enemy; but Challoner did his duty as chief officer too faithfully to give the captain a chance against him.
Day after day had passed. The sullen discontent of the crew had changed into outspoken hatred and a thirst for revenge upon the captain and Harman and Barton—the latter the third mate—and Challoner, who knew what was brewing, dared not open his mouth to any one of the three upon the subject. Between himself and Cressingham and the other two there had now sprung up a silent yet fierce antagonism, which the crew were quick to perceive, and from which they augured favourably for themselves.
One night, just as Challoner had relieved the second mate, some of the hands from both watches marched boldly aft and asked him if he would take command of the ship. He had only to say the word, they said. They were tired of being “bashed” and starved to death by the skipper and two mates, and if he would navigate the ship to Melbourne they would keep him free from interference, and take the consequences, &c.
“Go for'ard, you fools,” said Challoner, with assumed harshness, “don't talk mutiny to me.”
A step sounded on the deck behind him, and Cressingham's sneering tones were heard.
“Discussing mutiny, are you, Mr. Challoner? By God, sir, I've suspected you long enough. Go below, sir; or go for'ard with these fellows. You'll do no more mate's duty aboard of this ship. Ah, Colliss, you're one of the ringleaders, are you?” And in an instant he seized a seaman by the throat, and called loudly for Barton and Harman to help him.
Before they could respond to his call the poop was black with struggling men. Cressingham, mad with passion, had Colliss down trying to strangle him, and Challoner, fearing murder would be done, had thrown himself upon the captain and tried to make him release his grip of the man's throat. At that moment a sailor called out—
“Stand by, chaps, for Barton and Harman, and drop 'em the moment they shows up. Mr. Challoner's got the old man safe.”
But Messrs. Harman and Barton were tough customers. The loud cries on deck and heavy tramping of feet told them that a crisis had occurred, and they dashed up, each with a revolver in hand—only to be felled from behind ere they could fire a shot. Challoner, letting the captain free, sprang to their aid. But he came too late, for before, with blows, kicks, and curses, he could force his way through the swaying, surging mass of men that hid the fallen officers from his view, he heard a sound—the sound of a man's skull as it was smashed in by a heavy blow.
“He's done for,” said a voice, with a savage laugh, “scoot, chaps, scoot. This shindy will keep the old man quiet a bit, now one of his fightin' cocks is gone,” and the men tumbled down off the poop as quick as their legs could carry them, leaving Challoner and the two prone figures behind them. Cressingham had gone below for his revolver.
“Steward,” called Challoner, “bring a light here, quick, and see where the captain is,” and, stooping down, he tried to raise Harman, then laid him down with a shudder—his brains were scattered on the deck. Barton was alive, but unconscious.
As Challoner was about to rise, Captain Cressingham stood over him and raised his arm, and dealt him a crashing blow with a belaying pin. When he regained consciousness he was in irons.
A month later and he stood in the dock charged with murder. The principal witnesses against him were his captain and Barton, the third mate. The crew, who, of course, were also witnesses in the case, didn't worry much about him. It wasn't likely they would run their necks into a noose if it could be placed round any one else's. And in this instance—superinduced by a vision of the gallows—fo'c's'le hands stuck to one another and lied manfully together. None of them “had hurt Mr. Harman.”
But it was upon Cressingham's evidence that his fate hung; and Cressingham, suave, handsome, and well-dressed, told the court how Challoner had once attempted to murder Harman in the earlier part of the voyage. Barton, with his arm in a sling, corroborated the lie with blunt cheerfulness.
His Honour summed up dead against the prisoner, and the jury, impressed by the calm, gentlemanly appearance of Captain Cressingham, and the haggard, unshaven, and guilty look of the man whose life they held in their hands, were not long in considering their verdict.
The prisoner was found guilty, but with a recommendation to mercy.
And then the judge, who was cross and tired, made a brief but affecting speech, and sentenced him to imprisonment for life.
He went into his prison cell with hair as black as night, and came out again as white as a man of seventy.
******
In a back room of the public-house he sat and waited till he had courage and strength enough to face the streets again. And as he waited, he gave himself up to visions of the future—to the day when, with his hand on Cressingham's lying throat, he would see his face blacken and hear the rattling agonies of his gasps for breath. He leaned back in his chair and laughed hoarsely. The unearthly, hideous sound startled him, and he glanced round nervously as if he feared to betray his secret. Then he drank another glass of brandy, and with twenty-six shillings of prison money in his pocket and ten years of the blackest hatred in his heart, he went out again into the world to begin his search—for Cressingham and revenge.