Chapter Forty Three.
Cutting a Way Skyward.
His jailer once gone out of the cell, the captive was left undisturbed to consider the plan of escape so unexpectedly proposed to him. The first question that occurred was: Who could the unknown writer be? It was evidently some one of a refined intelligence; the writing proved this, but more the method in which the instructions were conveyed. These were so cunningly conceived, and so clearly expressed, as to be quite intelligible to him for whom they were intended.
At first he thought of its being some plot on the part of Corvino—a ruse to give the chief a chance of recapturing him, and so taking him in the act of attempting to escape.
Then came the reflection, Cui bono? Corvino could not want an excuse for taking his life. On the contrary, he had every reason for preserving it—at least until some definite answer about the ransom. If the demand should be again refused, the captive knew this would be plea sufficient for putting him to death. The threat of the brigand had been backed by the assurance given him in his conversation with the unfortunate Popetta. He no longer doubted of its being in earnest.
It could not be Corvino who had furnished him with the means of escape. Who then? Certainly not his own countryman. The renegade was his bitterest enemy—ever foremost in persecuting him. Of all the band, his thoughts now turned to Tommaso, simply because there was no other who had shown him the slightest sign of sympathy. Tommaso had done so, during the two days of his attendance; but then he presumed it to be at the instance of the signorina. She was dead; and her influence must have perished along with her. What further interest could the man have in him?
True, he seemed something different from his outlawed associates. He at least appeared less brutal than they—as if he had seen better days, and had not fallen so far below the normal condition of humanity. Henry Harding had noticed this during the slight communication held with him. Beside, there was evidence of it in the conversation he had heard under his window—in relation to the vile designs on Lucetta Torreani. But then—Tommaso’s motive for assisting him? And at such risk to himself! Death would be the reward of any of the band who might aid him in escape, or even connive at it—death sure and cruel. Why should Tommaso place himself in peril? What had he, Henry Harding, done to deserve the sympathy of this man? Nothing.
The last word in the letter of instruction now occurred to him—not the postscript, but the closing sentence of the epistle itself—“Save Lucetta Torreani!”
Was this the explanation? Could this be a clue to Tommaso’s conduct? If so, Tommaso was indeed the writer.
It was at all events an injunction calculated to stimulate the prisoner to action. The thought of the girl’s danger was never for a moment out of his mind. Now that this scheme was brought before him, he ceased his conjectures, and gave himself up to considering how he should carry out the design suggested in such a mysterious manner.
Plainly he could do nothing before night. Any attempt during daylight might be detected by his jailer, coming in with his food. The last meal having been brought him would be the cue for commencement.
During the day he was not idle. He made careful survey of his cell, chiefly the woodwork overhead. The boards appeared in a dilapidated condition, as if they would easily give way to the blade of a knife. His chagrin was great in discovering that the ceiling was too high to be reached—nearly a foot beyond the tips of his fingers, held aloft to their fullest stretch. This was indeed something to disconcert him.
He looked despairingly around the cell. There was nothing on which he could stand—neither stool nor stone—nothing to give him the necessary elevation. The chapter of instructions had been written in vain; the writer had not contemplated this difficulty in their fulfilment.
For a moment the captive believed he would have to abandon the scheme. It seemed impossible of execution.
Ingenuity becomes quickened under circumstances of dire necessity. In Henry Harding’s case this truth was illustrated. Once more scanning the floor of his cell, he perceived the litter of fern leaves that formed his stye-like couch. It might be possible to collect them into a lump, and so obtain the standpoint he required. In his mind he made a calculation of the quantity, and the probable height to which they would elevate him. He did not experiment practically, by massing the litter and so making a trial. Any disturbance of things might excite suspicion. That would be a task easily accomplished, and could be left to the last moment.
And to the last moment it was left. As soon as the morose attendant took his departure for the night—though without even the salutation “Buono notte”—the captive set about carrying out his design.
The fern leaves were collected into a heap and placed near the middle of the floor. He took great care in packing them, so as to form a firm cushion, and confining them within a small space, to increase the elevation. He had also observed the precaution, to select a spot under that part of the ceiling that appeared most assailable.
The stage erected, he mounted on it, knife in hand. He could just reach the boards with his blade; but this appeared enough, and he commenced making an incision. As he conjectured, the wood was half decayed with damp, or dry rot, and gave way before the knife, which by good luck was a sharp one. But he had not worked long, when he found his support sinking gradually beneath him; and, before he had accomplished the tenth part of his task, the fern footstool had become so flattened that he was unable to proceed. He descended to the floor, rearranged it, and then recommenced his cutting and carving. All in silence, or with the least noise possible; for there was his knowledge of a sharp-eared sentry in the ante-chamber, and another keeping guard close by the window of his cell.
Again the cushion sank, with only another fraction of the task accomplished. Again was it repadded; and the work proceeded for another short spell.
A new idea now helped him to keep on continuously. He took off his coat, folded it into a thick roll, placed it on the summit of the fern heap, and then set his feet upon it. This gave him a firmer pedestal to stand upon, enabling him to complete the task he had undertaken. In fine, he succeeded in cutting a trap-like hole through the floor-boards, big enough for his body to be passed through.
It was done before twelve o’clock. He could tell this by the brigands still keeping up their carousal outside. Hitherto the sound of their voices had favoured him, drowning any noise he might have made, otherwise audible to the sentries. Moreover, these were less on the alert during the earlier hours.
About midnight all sounds ceased, and the band seemed to have gone to sleep. It was time for him to continue the attempt at escape. Putting on his coat, he caught hold of one of the joists, and drew himself up through the hole he had cut. Above, as anticipated, he found himself in a sort of garret-loft.
He commenced groping around for some means of egress. At first he could find none, and supposed the space to be enclosed without any aperture. His head coming in contact with the roof, he perceived it to be a thatch of either straw or rushes. He was planning how he should cut his way through it, when a glimmer of light came under his eye, falling faintly along the floor.
Approaching the aperture where it was admitted, he discovered a sort of dormer window, without glass, but closed by a dilapidated shutter. There was no bar, and the shutter turned open to the outside. He looked cautiously through, and scanned the ground beneath, as also the premises adjoining. He saw that it was the back of the house, and that there were no others in the rear. There was no light, or anything, to show that human beings were astir.
He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pass, that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.
The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater. He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one, unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation. The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below. But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on his shoulder.
He was stunned, and lay still—in what appeared to be the bottom of a drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round to discover the cause.
“I’m sure I heard something,” said one of the two.
“Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken.”
“I could swear to it—a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a bundle of fagots.”
“Oh, that was it! there’s the cause then, over your head; that window-shutter flapping in the wind.”
“Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What good does it do there, I wonder?”
And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade, returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking cautiously towards the cover—which he succeeded in reaching without further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.