The Gadfly, E. L. Voynich [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗
- Author: E. L. Voynich
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“Six o’clock. Your supper, sir.”
He looked with disgust at the stale, foul-smelling,
half-cold mess, and turned his head away.
He was feeling bodily ill as well as depressed; and
the sight of the food sickened him.
“You will be ill if you don’t eat,” said the soldier
hurriedly. “Take a bit of bread, anyway; it’ll do you good.”
The man spoke with a curious earnestness of
tone, lifting a piece of sodden bread from the plate
and putting it down again. All the conspirator
awoke in the Gadfly; he had guessed at once that
there was something hidden in the bread.
“You can leave it; I’ll eat a bit by and by,” he
said carelessly. The door was open, and he knew
that the sergeant on the stairs could hear every
word spoken between them.
When the door was locked on him again, and
he had satisfied himself that no one was watching
at the spy-hole, he took up the piece of bread and
carefully crumbled it away. In the middle was
the thing he had expected, a bundle of small files.
It was wrapped in a bit of paper, on which a few
words were written. He smoothed the paper out
carefully and carried it to what little light there
was. The writing was crowded into so narrow a
space, and on such thin paper, that it was very
difficult to read.
“The door is unlocked, and there is no moon.
Get the filing done as fast as possible, and come
by the passage between two and three. We are
quite ready and may not have another chance.”
He crushed the paper feverishly in his hand.
All the preparations were ready, then, and he had
only to file the window bars; how lucky it was
that the chains were off! He need not stop about
filing them. How many bars were there? Two,
four; and each must be filed in two places: eight.
Oh, he could manage that in the course of the
night if he made haste–- How had Gemma
and Martini contrived to get everything ready
so quickly—disguises, passports, hiding-places?
They must have worked like cart-horses to do
it–- And it was her plan that had been
adopted after all. He laughed a little to himself
at his own foolishness; as if it mattered whether
the plan was hers or not, once it was a good one!
And yet he could not help being glad that it was
she who had struck on the idea of his utilizing the
subterranean passage, instead of letting himself
down by a rope-ladder, as the smugglers had at
first suggested. Hers was the more complex
and difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other
did, a risk to the life of the sentinel on duty outside
the east wall. Therefore, when the two
schemes had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly
chosen Gemma’s.
The arrangement was that the friendly guard
who went by the nickname of “The Cricket”
should seize the first opportunity of unlocking,
without the knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate
leading from the courtyard into the subterranean
passage underneath the ramparts, and should then
replace the key on its nail in the guard-room.
The Gadfly, on receiving information of this, was
to file through the bars of his window, tear his
shirt into strips and plait them into a rope, by
means of which he could let himself down on to
the broad east wall of the courtyard. Along this
wall he was to creep on hands and knees while the
sentinel was looking in the opposite direction, lying
flat upon the masonry whenever the man turned
towards him. At the southeast corner was a half-ruined
turret. It was upheld, to some extent, by
a thick growth of ivy; but great masses of crumbling
stone had fallen inward and lay in the courtyard,
heaped against the wall. From this turret
he was to climb down by the ivy and the heaps of
stone into the courtyard; and, softly opening the
unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage
to a subterranean tunnel communicating with it.
Centuries ago this tunnel had formed a secret corridor
between the fortress and a tower on the
neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and
blocked in many places by the falling in of the
rocks. No one but the smugglers knew of a certain
carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side
which they had bored through to the tunnel; no
one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise
were often kept, for weeks together, under
the very ramparts of the fortress itself, while the
customs-officers were vainly searching the houses
of the sullen, wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At
this hole the Gadfly was to creep out on to the
hillside, and make his way in the dark to a lonely
spot where Martini and a smuggler would be
waiting for him. The one great difficulty was
that opportunities to unlock the gate after the
evening patrol did not occur every night, and the
descent from the window could not be made in
very clear weather without too great a risk of
being observed by the sentinel. Now that there
was really a fair chance of success, it must not be
missed.
He sat down and began to eat some of the
bread. It at least did not disgust him like the
rest of the prison food, and he must eat something
to keep up his strength.
He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to
get a little sleep; it would not be safe to begin
filing before ten o’clock, and he would have a hard
night’s work.
And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking
of letting him escape! That was like the Padre.
But he, for his part, would never consent to it.
Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it
should be his own doing and that of his comrades;
he would have no favours from priests.
How hot it was! Surely it must be going to
thunder; the air was so close and oppressive. He
moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged
right hand behind his head for a pillow;
then drew it away again. How it burned and
throbbed! And all the old wounds were beginning
to ache, with a dull, faint persistence. What
was the matter with them? Oh, absurd! It was
only the thundery weather. He would go to
sleep and get a little rest before beginning his
filing.
Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How
many more were there left to file? Surely not
many. He must have been filing for hours,—
interminable hours—yes, of course, that was what
made his arm ache–- And how it ached; right
through to the very bone! But it could hardly be
the filing that made his side ache so; and the
throbbing, burning pain in the lame leg—was
that from filing?
He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he
had been dreaming with open eyes—dreaming of
filing, and it was all still to do. There stood the
window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever.
And there was ten striking from the clock-tower
in the distance. He must get to work.
He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing
that no one was watching, took one of the files
from his breast.
… . .
No, there was nothing the matter with him—
nothing! It was all imagination. The pain in
his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such
thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of
this insufferable prison food and air. As for the
aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous
trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes,
that was it, no doubt; want of exercise. How
absurd not to have thought of that before!
He would sit down a little bit, though, and let
it pass before he got to work. It would be sure
to go over in a minute or two.
To sit still was worse than all. When he sat
still he was at its mercy, and his face grew gray
with fear. No, he must get up and set to work,
and shake it off. It should depend upon his will
to feel or not to feel; and he would not feel, he
would force it back.
He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud
and distinctly:
“I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have
those bars to file, and I am not going to be ill.”
Then he began to file.
A quarter-past ten—half-past ten—a quarter to
eleven–- He filed and filed, and every grating
scrape of the iron was as though someone were filing
on his body and brain. “I wonder which will
be filed through first,” he said to himself with a
little laugh; “I or the bars?” And he set his
teeth and went on filing.
Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though
the hand was stiff and swollen and would hardly
grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest;
if he once put the horrible thing down he should
never have the courage to begin again.
The sentinel moved outside the door, and the
butt end of his carbine scratched against the lintel.
The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file still
in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
A little round pellet had been shot through the
spy-hole and was lying on the floor. He laid down
the file and stooped to pick up the round thing.
It was a bit of rolled paper.
… . .
It was a long way to go down and down, with
the black waves rushing about him—how they
roared–-!
Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick
up the paper. He was a bit giddy; many people
are when they stoop. There was nothing the
matter with him—nothing.
He picked it up, carried it to the light, and
unfolded it steadily.
“Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket
will be transferred to-morrow to another service.
This is our only chance.”
He destroyed the paper as he had done the
former one, picked up his file again, and went
back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.
One o’clock. He had been working for three
hours now, and six of the eight bars were filed.
Two more, and then, to climb––
He began to recall the former occasions when
these terrible attacks had come on. The last had
been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as
he remembered those five nights. But that time
it had not come on so suddenly; he had never
known it so sudden.
He dropped the file and flung out both hands
blindly, praying, in his utter desperation, for the
first time since he had been an atheist; praying
to anything—to nothing—to everything.
“Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow!
I will bear anything to-morrow—only not to-night!”
He stood still for a moment, with both hands
up to his temples; then he took up the file once
more, and once more went back to his work.
Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar.
His shirt-sleeve was bitten to rags; there was
blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes,
and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed,
and filed, and filed–-
… . .
After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was
utterly worn out with the restless misery of the
night and slept for a little while quietly; then he
began to dream.
At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken
fragments of images and fancies followed each
other,
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