All betokened the approach of a gale of wind, and, as night set in, the signs of bad weather thickened. Scarcely had the sun set, when it became dark as pitch; the wind, which had lulled for a brief space previous, now sprung up, and the sea fretted and chafed against the rocks with that peculiar sharp chirping sound that presages “wind.” The clank of chain cables, the plashing noise of falling anchors, the loud shouts of the sailors as they prepared to meet the gathering storm, even now heard, while in the changing position of the different lights of the bay I could discern the movements of the various vessels as they sought shelter or made ready for sea, in expectation of the “gale.” The impenetrable darkness, the roaring wind, the flashing of the lights, the cries of the seamen, the hurrying of feet along the quays, and the sounds of different boats' crews departing in haste,—all gave a charm to a scene of which the obscurity increased the interest. A large French steamer was to have sailed that night for Marseilles; but I overheard a voice from the street foretelling that the “Gazonne” might leave without her passengers, “as no one would go on board of her on such a night.” A red lantern at the peak indicated the vessel, and I could see that she had changed her position and “taken up a berth” farther out in the bay.
I cannot tell by what instinct I selected her as a peculiar object of my interest, but so it was. I watched her unceasingly, and rarely took my eyes from the quarter where she lay; and when the heaving motion of the “red light” showed that she was tossing in a heavy sea, I listened too with eagerness to catch anything from those that passed beneath that might concern this vessel, which now engrossed all my sympathy. “Were I once but on board of her,” thought I, “the wildest hurricane that ever blew would be sweeter to me than all the balmy airs that ever bore the odor of orange-blossom through my barred window!” I would have braved the stormiest seas, the maddest gale, shipwreck itself, rather than longer remain the helpless, hopeless thing a life of imprisonment was making of me. “Would that the alternative were given me,” said I to myself: “the free choice to change these four walls for the deck over which the waves are dancing in foamy sheets! with what a thankful heart would I take the offer!”
The last visit of the turnkey, who came to see all safe, broke in for a moment upon these musings; and now the double-locked door, and his retiring footsteps, told me that no further molestation was to be feared, and that I was, at least till daybreak, the undisturbed master of my own reveries. I opened the window, pushed back the iron stanchion, and walked out upon the terrace. It was a night of storm and wild hurricane. The rain swept by in great plashes, increasing the darkness, and mingling its hissing noise, with the breaking crash of the sea, as it beat furiously against the rocks. The dancing, bobbing motion of the lights on board the different craft showed what “a sea” was raging in the bay; while, even in the city itself, the clatter of falling tiles and chimneys told the violence of the gale. I stood upon the terrace; and as the rain penetrated my frail garment, and the wind wafted my wet hair across my cheeks, I felt a sense of ecstasy that nothing in all my previous life had ever equalled. It was the sensation of freedom; it was the burst of delight with which the captive welcomes the long-lost liberty. “Better this,” thought I, “than the snuggest chamber that ever called itself a prison.”
It was past the hour when any further visit from the turnkey might be expected. Already the outer door of my chamber had been locked and barred with all that scrupulous attention to noise and clank that are supposed only essential in a melodrama. The sentry had just been relieved on the esplanade beneath the terrace, so that I might consider myself disencumbered from all fear of interruption in any quarter. I sat down upon the parapet, and peered into the dark depth below me, where the hazy glimmer of the sentry's lamp served to mark the height. At first it seemed a terrific drop; but after a while I began to satisfy myself that the darkness contributed to this effect; and as my sight grew more accustomed to the gloom, I was able to trace different objects,—among others, the conical roof of the sentry-box, at a distance of scarcely more than fifteen feet beneath me.
Thus far I could reach by making a rope of my bed-clothes, and attach one end to a portion of the battlement of the parapet; but how should I venture on a descent in such a place? how risk the almost certainty of recapture by the sentry himself? This was a formidable difficulty, and demanded much consideration; and yet, were I to select any other spot, I might chance to be disabled by the fall, and then all my efforts were fruitless, since a broken bone, or even a sprained ankle, would be certain ruin.
Never was a knotty point more canvassed, nor the clew to a difficulty more zealously searched for! As generally happens in such cases, first thoughts are best, and the bold course the safest. By descending on the sentry-box, I should at least reach the ground without injury; and if I were to have a “tussle” for it with the guard, it would be without the disadvantage of a previous damage. Besides this, the incessant noise of the tempest, the crashing of the sea, and the deep booming of the thunder gave hopes that my descent might be unheard. Nay, more, the sound of my heavy body over his head would be rather an admonition to stay quietly within than risk himself outside, to the danger of tumbling tiles or masses of masonry from the parapet. The more I reflected upon this, the clearer I saw that the storm was a Heaven-sent accident for me; that the darkness, the tumult, and the deserted streets were all accessories the most favorable; that to neglect such an occasion of escape would be downright madness. If I took some time to arrive at this conclusion, I made up for the delay by the rapidity of my subsequent movements. I hastily returned to my room; and had I been bred a ropemaker, my two sheets and counterpane could not have been fashioned into a three-stranded rope more handily; and, my sailor's experience favoring, I adjusted the cord in a “timber hitch” round one of the battlements, and well satisfied myself that I might trust to the other extremity,—“Con Cregan and his fortunes.”
I then took a hurried survey of my room, trimmed my lamp that it might burn till morning, secured the three or four papers of value which still remained to me, and then issued forth to my enterprise.
A cannon-shot from the bay rung out as I again stepped upon the terrace, and I accepted the augury as an omen of welcome. I will not deny that my hands trembled as I examined, for the last time, the fastening of the cord; nor do I seek to conceal that as I buttoned my coat, the beating of my heart smote heavily against my fingers. I even hesitated for an instant; and during that instant, brief as it was, I could have faced death itself rather than the uncertainty before me. The weakness passed quickly away, and, with a short but fervent prayer, I grasped the rope and slipped noiselessly over the parapet.
A sudden gust of wind swept past at the moment, and swung me out from the wall as though I had been a thing of no weight, calling for all my strength to prevent me from being blown away! And now I was buffeted about, tossed here and thrown there, with a violence that almost dislocated every joint in my body. The jerking motion and the chafing of my rope on the parapet made me tremble for my security, and not without cause; for in one great swing, in which I described an arc no other pendulum, living or dead, ever compassed before, I came back with such force against the roof of the sentry-box, striking it with both my feet together at the same instant, that my cord snapped short in the very centre.