Truxton King: A Story of Graustark

by George Barr McCutcheon

At last the boat crept out into the rainy, starless night. He drew the skirts of his own mackintosh over her shoulders and head. A subdued command came from the man in the bow; the oars slipped into the deep, black waters of the river; without a splash or a perceptible sound the little craft scudded toward midstream. The night was so inky black that one could not see his hand before his face.

At least two of the occupants opened up their throats and lungs and gulped in the wet, fresh air. Never had anything been so glorious to Truxton King as these first tremendous inhalations of pure, free air. She felt his muscles expand; his whole body grew stronger and more vital. Her heart was pounding violently against his leg; he could feel its throbs, he could hear the quick, eager panting of her breath.

It was now that he began to wonder, to calculate against the plans of their silent escort. Whither were they bound? When would his chance come to strike the final, surprising blow? Only the greatest effort at self-control kept him from ruining everything by premature action; his exultation was getting the better of him. Coolness and patience were greater assets now than strength and daring.

The boat turned in mid-stream and shot swiftly up the river, past the black fortress with its scattered sentry lights, where slept a garrison in sweet ignorance of the tragedy that was to come upon them when the sun was high. The lights of the city itself soon peeped down into the rain-swept waters; music from the distant cafés came faintly to the ears of the midnight voyagers. A safe haven at their very elbows, and yet unattainable.

The occasional creak of an oar, a whispered oath of dismay, the heavy breathing of toilers, the soft blowing of the mist-that was all; no other sound on the broad, still river. It was, indeed, a night fit for the undertaking at hand.

Truxton began to chafe under the strain. His uneasiness was increased by the certain conviction that before long they would be beyond the city, the walls of which were gradually slipping past He could not even so much as guess at their destination. There was also the likelihood of encountering reinforcements, sent out to meet the boatmen, or for protection at the time of landing. A hundred doubts and misgivings assailed him. To suddenly open fire on the rascals went against the grain. A dashing, running fight on shore was more to his liking. An ill-timed move would foil them even as success was in their grasp.

He considered their chances if he were to overturn the frail boat and strike out for shore in the darkness. This project he gave up at once: he did not know the waters nor the banks between which they glided. They were past the walls now and rowing less stealthily. Before long they would be in a position to speak aloud; it would be awkward for him. The situation was rapidly growing more and more desperate; the time was near at hand when the final effort would have to be exerted. He slipped the revolver from his pocket; somehow he was unable to keep his teeth from chattering; but it was through excitement, not fear.

Suddenly the boat turned to the right and shot toward the unseen bank. They were perhaps half a mile above the city wall. Truxton's mind was working like a trip-hammer. He was recalling a certain nomad settlement north of the city, the quarters of fishermen, poachers and horse-traders: a squalid, unclean community that lay under the walls between the northern gates and the river. These people, he was not slow to surmise, were undoubtedly hand in glove with Marlanx, if not so surely connected with the misguided Committee of Ten. This being the eve of the great uprising, it was not unlikely that a secret host lay here awake and ready for the foul observance of the coming holiday; here, at least, chafed an eager, vicious, law-hating community of mendicants and outcasts.

He had little time to speculate on the attitude of the denizens of this unwholesome place. The prow of the boat grated on the pebbly bank, and Peter Brutus leaped over the edge into the shallow water.

"Come on, Julius—hand her over to me!" he cried, making his way to the stern.