Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 September 1885 — NUMBER 492. [ARTICLE]

NUMBER 492.

Some years ago I was making a sketching tour in the West country, and found myself one September afternoon on Dartmoor, a few miles from Princes Town. X had been strolling lazily about for some time, when I suddenly came upon a bit of moorlnnd, which, I decided, it was imperatively my duty to transfer to canvas; so I sat down on a mossy bowlder, and was soon diligently at work, and absorbed in the task of trying to represent the lovely autumnal tints ©n stream, rock, and heather. Intent on my picture, I took no note of time, till suddenly I perceived the shadows getting ominously long; and, consulting my watch, I found it was past 5 o’clock, and that, unless I made a speedy start, I should hardly reach Princes Town before nightfall; so I hastily packed up my traps, deciding that I would come and finish the sketch on the following day. I was just lighting my pipe, preparatory to starting, when I fancied that I saw something move behind a large rock a few yards away, and I heard what sounded yery like a smothered cough. I was a bit startled, as, save the birds, no living thing had been near me for hours; but I thought I would see what it was, so I walked up to the spot, and, pushing aside the high bracken, was going to examine the place, when suddenly a figure rose up and confronted me. I am not a nervous man, but J must confess I got a

start as I saw before me a man clothed in convict garb, bareheaded, wild, and dishevelled. Even in my first alarm, I remember I noticed the number 422 on his clothes, and I don’t fancy I shall ever forget that number. I grasped my stick firmly, and thought to myself that I was, so to speak, in a very nice little fix. Convicts are not pleasant neighbors at any time; but a tete-a-tete with an escaped convict on a lonely moor, miles from any honse, is decidedly an interview not to be desired. However, my fears speedily subsided, for my convict did not seem at all disposed to make himself disagreeable, but merely stood looking at me, trembling in every limb, aDd from time to time coughing in a Way that shook his wasted frame all over. Poor chap! he was a piteous spectacle—his cheeks all sunk and hollow, and with his prison dress just hanging about him, he looked like a living skeleton. The situation was awkward to me. As a law-abiding citizen, I felt that it was my duty to take some means of restoring him to the establishment of Princes Town, which he had evidently quitted without leave; while, as an ordinary human being, I felt the sincerest pity for the haggard fellow who stood there, gazing at me with hollow, feverish eyes. However, the contest between duty and compassion was speedily put to an end by No. 492 himself; for, after a more than usual racking cough, his legs gave way under him and he rolled down among the bracken. Duty fled; compassion won the day. I went and picked him up, and propped him with his back against a rock, where he gaßped and ohoked till I really thought he would die then and there. In a minute or two, however, he revived, and in a very faint and feeble voice said: “I’m nigh starved, guv’nor; I guess it’s about up with me." I went back to get some sandwiches out of my case, and offered them to him. He seized them eagerly, and began to eat them ravenously; but again a terrible fit of coughing came on, and he sank back, saying: “It ain’t no Use; I can’t eat now; s’pose I’m gone toe far." Here was a pleasant position. The man was evidently in the last stage of exhaustion; and even my unpracticed

eye could see that No. 492 had his days, or even hours, numbered. I moistened •his lips with some brandy out of my flask, and saw, to my satisfaction, that this produced a decided improvement. But what in the world I should do next perplexed me sorely, so I repeated the dose of brandy, and took counsel with myself as to. the next move. Under the influence of the brandy, my patient propped himself up again, and with great difficulty told me how he had wanderod over the moot, till want of food and exposure had—to use his own words—“spoilt his game,” and he was going back to prison to give himself up. Seeing me sketching, and feeling his strength almost gone, he had decided to come and surrender himself to me; but when he got near, the poor fellow’s courage failed him, and be had crawled away behind the rock where I discovered him. “It ain’t no ÜBe my trying to get ■ ' ', •

away, guv’nor,” said he, sadly; “Fm that weak I can’t walk a step. I couldn't escape now, not if a carriage-and-four was waiting for ma. I’d want a nuss to lift me tip into it Guess I’ll die in quod after all.” I did not .think be would die in quod; but I kept my thoughts to myself, for I felt sure that before the prison could be reached. No. 49*2 would be far enough away, and it would only be a suit of convict clothes or a wasted skeleton that would enter the gloomy gate. ‘ Look here, my poor chap,” said L» “You can’t stop here; you must let me cartv you as well as I can, and I must try and get you hack to the pri-on.” I felt rather mean as I said this, for t did pity him heartily. I knew noth ng about his crimes. He might have been the greatest villain; yet I felt for him, having just tasted liberty, and having to go back to captivity. Still I could do nothing else; and a single glance at him showed pretty plainly that the prison would not hold him long, even if we ever got there. I expected some attempt at resistance; but, to my surprise, he quietly acquiesced, saying: “All right, guv’nor; it can’t be ’eiped. I’ve had my try, but summat told as I wouldn’t succeed.”

It was now getting late, and the sun was just down, so there was no time to be lost, as we had a long way to go and I was rather doubtful about my powers of carrying him, for he was, or had been, of a tolerable size and weight; but now he looked such a mere bundle of bones, that I thought I might manage it. At any rate, there was nothing to do but to try; so I hoisted him up on my back and started off in the direction of Princes Town. I shall not easily forget that journey; it soon grew quite dark, as I toiled on over the lonely road, ’ with frequent halts to rest, while poor No. 492 grew weaker and weaker, and his terrible cough more and more frequent. We had gone, I suppose, about three miles, wlien I began to feel that it was quite impossible for me to accomplish the remaining distance, as it was so dark that I stumbled painfully over the rough path, and at each stumble my burden groaned with pain, and coughed so dismally that I felt my well-meant endeavors were only putting him to complete torture; so I stopped, laid him down on the grass, and told him that we would not try to go on until the moon rose; “All right, guv’nor,” said he, feebly, and fell back fainting; so I administered the last few drops of brandy I had left, covered him up as well as I could with my coat, propped his head upon my sketch-ing-case, sat down by his side, and wondered what would be . the end of my adventure. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 9 o’clock. The moon, I knew, would not rise till nearly midnight, so we had three hours to wait. I think those three hours were the longest I ever passed in my life. The- silence and the loneliness of the moor were terrible, and No. 492 lay with liis eyes closed, and,save for an occasional groan, might have been dead. Once or twice he tried to speak, but apparently it was beyond his powers, and he fell back again exhausted. Once he put out his hand, caught mine, and, to my great surprise, carried it to his lips and kissed it. lam not much used to having my hand kissed at any time, and should probably, under any circumstances, feel the situation embarrassingrlrairto have it kissed by a dying convict out on Dartmoor, in the middle of the night, was a novel experience. I did not mean to hurt the feelings of No. 492, but I drew it away somewhat hastily; and then, seeing his lips move, as if he was trying to say something, I bent over him to listen, and in a voice little more than a whisper he said: “Beg your pardon, sir; but you’ve been precious kind to me, and I feel weak and silly; didn’t mean no offense.” I hastened with some compunction to assure him that I was not offended; and again he closed his eyes; and around us once more was silence. At last, to my great joy, the sky brightened up a bit; the outlines of the trees became more distinct, and the moon appeared over the hills, and shot a flood of silver light all over the moor. My spirits, which had fallen below zero, revived considerably; darkness has at all times a depressing influence, and, under my peculiar circumstances, had reduced me to a most profound melancholy. I felt quite glad to see the moon rise, though, beyond the fact of being able to see where we were, it did not materially assist me out of the fix I was in.

I looked at No. 492, and he seemed to be asleep. I did not like to wake him, so I got up quietly, intending to walk to the top of the hill close by, and see if I discover the lights of Princes Town, or any house nearer, to which I might direct my steps. I was not gone long—perhaps half an hour; and when I came back, I found 492 with his eyes wide open, and to my great surprise—though I do not know why 1 should have been so surprised—tears running down his cheeks. Really, my ideas about convicts were becoming quite upset; one who furtively kissed my hand, and who wept, was, I thought, indeed an anomaly. I bent over him and asked if he was in worse pain, or what was the matter. Poor fellow! he lifted his wasted hand, drew it across r his eyes, and said : “No; I ain’t in no pain now, sir; but I woke from a bit of a doze and saw that you was gone; and I thought as how you had left me; and somehow I felt lonesome ana afeard;” and then a great sob shook him. I assurod him that I was not going to leave him, and he appeared comforted. Then, after a pause, said: “I ain’t one as has been much afeared in my time, sir; but, • somehow,' now I can’t ’elp it; it seems all of a tremble: and it looks uwful dark ahead of me, and I be so weak I don’t seem able to face it nohow.” I longed truly to bo able him, and wished it with all my heart that I could do it bq|ter; but feeling rather ashamed, I tried to tell No. 492 something about ' a strong Hand which will help in the dark valley, and One who will be near ns when, of ourselves, as he said: '“We don’t seem able to face it, nohow.” He listened attentively, and then closed

his eyes, murmuring something I could not catch. After a pause, I asked him if he would try to go on again. “All right, guv'nor; yon knows best,* was his answer, but very faint add feeble. Well, I picked him up again, and off I started. By«this time the. moon was high up, so we progressed a good deal faster than before, and had traversed a considerable distance before I had to stop and put my burden down. Even then, I could have gone a bit further, but No. 492 whispered: “Stop, sir, now; it ain’t no nse; I shan’t get no further.” I laid him down, and saw at a glance that our journey together was about to end. In the moonlight he looked ghastly and wan; and as I laid him down, a violent fit of coughing came on, and after it a red stream flowed from his mouth. Poor fellow! thought I; and yet I could hardly pity him really, for to him death must have come as a true friend. He lay quiet for some time, and I wiped the blood from his lips; then just as the first gray streak of dawn appeared, he raised himself on his elbow and whispered: “I’ve been a bad ’un, I knows; but I didn’t ’ave no chance. Say a bit of prayer for me, sir.” There was no refusing; and as I finished, his face lighted up, and again repeating his formula, “All right, guv’nor,” he fell back—dead. He had succeeded in his escape, after all. I covered up the body, and thinking no one would be likely to come near the spot, I drew it aside near the rock which I should recognize again, and" started off, walking briskly to Princes Town, considering many things by the way. I went to the prison, and came back with some warders to show them the spot: and, as I was obliged to await the inquest, I attended the funeral of poor No. 492. I trust that in the “Other Land” it may be for him—as for many of us for whom it has been all' wrong—“ All right.” —Chambers’ Journal.