Knight Without Armour

And so on. After a quarter of an hour or so A.J. felt he had succeeded pretty well. He had learned all about the positions and arrangements of the prisoners, their daily habits, and the way in which they were guarded; and, most important of all, he had given the guard a note to be delivered secretly to the Countess. He wrote it in French; it merely said that he was on the spot and ready to help her to escape, and that she must be prepared to do her share in any way and at any time he should command. He told the guard it was merely a family message. “I am a Red,” he added, “but I do not see what harm there can be in treating a woman prisoner with ordinary courtesy. No more harm, anyway, than in smuggling tobacco for the men.” The guard agreed eagerly. “You are quite right, your honour—and I have said the same, even to my comrades. Why not be more civil and polite to people before you shoot them? It is not the shooting that makes so much bad feeling but treating people like dogs.”

The next time the guard was on duty A.J. received back his note together with an answer. It was a verbal one—merely a conventional ‘Thank you,’ which, though not very enlightening, seemed, in the circumstances, sufficient. He felt, anyhow, that something was being accomplished. He knew that she was in a ground-floor cell overlooking a yard which was patrolled by sentries day and night. Any romantic escapade with ropes and ladders was thus out of the question. The tobacco-smuggling guard, whose name was Balkin, had stressed how carefully she was watched, and after much thought and the formation of many tentative plans, A.J. reached the conclusion that escape could only take place, if at all, during some general commotion that would temporarily upset the prison routine. This, as clays passed, seemed more likely to happen, for the clamour of the extremists increased and there were strong rumours that at any moment Polahkin’s writ might cease to run. Then no doubt, there would be a brief civil war, culminating in a mob- attack on the prison and the massacre of its occupants.

A.J. argued thus: the attack on the prison would probably take place at night, if only because at such a time men’s spirits were always most inflamed with speechmaking and drink. The prison-guards might or might not attempt any resistance, but in either case it was unlikely that the regular routine of the sentry-patrol would remain unaffected. Most likely there would be either fighting or hilarious fraternisation. In the darkness a good many of the invaders would not know where they were, or where to look for the prisoners; there would be confusion of all kinds. Most fortunately, as it happened, the Countess’s cell was among the last that could be reached, being the end one in a long corridor. And let into the corridor wall close by was an ordinary unbarred window overlooking the yard. If only the prisoner were once outside her cell, it would not be too difficult to climb out through that window. A.J. did not wish to rely too much on Balkin’s assistance, for he did not seem a man of either trustworthiness or intelligence; the only promise to be exacted was that, as soon as there might be any hint of trouble, he should slip a small revolver through the bars of the cell. “You sec, Balkin, you are a kindhearted fellow, and I don’t mind telling you the truth—the poor creature wishes to kill herself rather than fall into the hands of the soldiers. Personally, I sympathise with her in that, and you also, I am sure, will feel the same. Is it not enough that she should die, without being torn to pieces to amuse a crowd? Let her have a decent death—the sort that a soldier, if he could choose, would ask for.” Balkin, greatly stirred, put his hand sentimentally on A.J.’s shoulder. “You are quite right, your honour. It is only fair that she should die properly. Why, I will shoot her myself rather than let her fall into the hands of those ruffians!”

“No, no—all you need do is to give her the revolver. She is no coward, and would rather do the job in her own way. It is more dignified—more seemly. Do you not understand?”

Balkin at length and with great melancholy admitted that he did understand; and he agreed also to take a further message to the woman. A.J. wrote it out and handed it over with the revolver.