“By the allusions in this letter, John Weston learned that there must have been several other letters that preceded this one, and had never reached him.
“He did not reply to it; he had no heart to do so. He preferred to let Joseph and Lil dream their dream of the imaginary future a little longer, while he himself dreamed of escape or of—suicide.
“Early one morning after this he was at work under the timber cliffs, where many convicts were employed cutting down trees, and lopping off their branches, many others in rolling the huge boles down to the beach, and others still—among whom was John Weston—were toiling at the hardest work, up to their waists in water, harnessed like mules to these immense logs, and hauling them to the distant ship-yard.
“So early was the hour at which they had been called to work that it was as yet scarcely light on that cool autumn morning.
“John Weston, driven to desperation by the misery and hopelessness of his condition, suddenly determined to make a dash for freedom or for death. While preparing to harness himself to the great bole to be hauled, he suddenly threw ropes and chains over his head, leaped for the deeper water, and struck out for the open sea. He was a strong and skilful swimmer, whose muscular strength had been greatly developed by hard work in the open air; he was stimulated by desperate hope, and everything was in his favor. The tide was going out and the sea was calm.
“If he could only reach that rugged promontory nine miles distant up the coast, a point totally inaccessible by land, and almost so by water also, except by such a desperate wretch as himself.
“If he could reach that point, climb that cliff, lose himself in that impenetrable wilderness, why, then, he might starve or freeze to death in time, might be killed by the bushmen, or devoured by wild beasts; but he could never be recaptured, and he might eventually escape.
“A forlorn hope! But he seized it for all and more than all it was worth.
“Ah! but scarcely had he taken his leap for life before the alarm was given, and shot after shot was fired. One struck him, grazing the tip of his ear. He dived instantly, and that gave the rise to the report of his death—‘shot while trying to make his escape!’ No more shots were fired after that! When he rose again to the surface he was so far from the shore that his small cropped head was lost to view among the billows.
“He never reached the promontory, however. His strength gave out, or was giving out, when he swam for a floating log that had been washed away from the timber cliffs. Around this he clasped himself, and kept himself up, as well as he could, to put off death as long as possible.