Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

there!” he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman’s arm as if for protection, “look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that man; he—he—wants to kill me!”

“Come, David,” said Gorman soothingly, “it’s only a fancy—there’s nobody there—nobody in the room but me.”

“And who are you?” inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while he gazed vacantly at his friend.

“Don’t you know me, David?”

“Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It’ll be time to take your physic soon.”

“Physic!” cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching Gorman’s arm. “You won’t let him give it me, will you? Oh! say you won’t—promise to give it me yourself!”

Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he did so.

Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, “that it wash ’mposh’ble to git a body f’r love or munny, so if ’e wanted one he’d better cut’s own throat.”

His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side to side and moaned softly.

Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often sat down again without doing anything.

Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which, half full of a black liquid, was labelled “Poison!”

Gorman started up, and this time did not sit down, but with a trembling step moved to the fireplace. He stretched out his hand to grasp the bottle, and almost overturned it, for just at the moment his own figure intercepted the ray of light, and threw the spot where it stood into deep shadow.

“What’s that?” asked Boone.

“It’s only me,” said Gorman, “getting you your physic. I almost upset it in the dark. Here now, drink it off. I can’t find the cup, but you can take it out of the bottle.”

“You won’t let him come near when you give it, will you?” asked Boone anxiously.

“No, no; come, open your mouth.”

Boone hesitated to do so, but Gorman used a little force. His hands were steady now! His heart was steeled to the deed, and the cry which Boone was about to utter was choked by the liquid flowing down his throat.

Gorman had flung him back with such violence that he lay stunned, while the murderer replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece and hurried to the door. A gentle knock at it arrested him, but his indecision was momentary. He opened the door softly, and going out, said to Mrs Craw in a whisper—

“He’s sleeping now. I found it hard to get him to give up talking, for he waked up soon after I went in; but he’s all right now. I suppose the medicine is beginning to operate; he told me he took it himself just before I came in.”

“Took it himself!” exclaimed Mrs Craw. “Impossible.”

“Well, I don’t know, but he’s better now. I would let him rest a while if I were you.”

“Stay, sir! I’ll go fetch a light,” said Mrs Craw.

“Never mind; I know the stair well,” said Gorman hurriedly; “don’t mind a light; I shan’t want it.”

He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light—thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness—it was D. Gorman at that time.

“Took it himself!” repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed the street door. “It’s impossible. He’s got no more strength than an unborn hinfant. I must go an’ see to this.”

Lighting a candle, she went softly into the sick chamber and looked at the invalid, who was apparently asleep, but breathing heavily. She then went to the chimney-piece and began to examine the phials there.

“My!” she exclaimed suddenly, with a look of alarm, “if he han’t bin an’ drunk up all the tinctur’ o’ rhubarb! An’ the laudanum-bottle standin’ close beside it too! What a mercy he didn’t drink that! Well, lucky for him there wasn’t much in it, for an overdose of anything in his state would be serious.”

Full of her discovery, Mrs Craw set the candle on the table, and sat down on the chair by the bedside to think about it; but the more she thought about it the more puzzled she was.

“Took it himself,” she said, reverting to Gorman’s words. “Impossible!”

She continued to shake her head and mutter “Impossible” for some time, while she stared at the candle as if she expected that it would solve the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone’s chin and chest; after which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she resumed her seat and said—

“Took it himself! Impossible!”

Darkness! If ever a man sought darkness in vain, and found light, bright blazing light, everywhere, it was Gorman. At first, in a burst of frenzy, he rushed away at full speed. It was well for him that the wind had increased to a hurricane and the rain was blinding, else had he been stopped on suspicion, so fierce was his mien, so haggard his look, so wild his race. Gradually his pace slackened, and gradually as well as naturally he gravitated to his old familiar haunts; but go where he would, there was light everywhere except within his own breast. It was all darkness there.

It is true the sky was dark enough, for the war of elements was so great that it seemed to have been blotted out with ink, but the shops appeared to have been lit up more brilliantly than usual. Every lamp poured a flood of light around it. The lanterns of the cabs and omnibuses sent rich beams of light through the air, and the air itself, laden as it was with moisture, absorbed a portion of light, and invested everything with a halo. Light, light! all round, and the light of conscience within rendering the darkness there visible, and shining on the letters of a word written in dark red—“Murderer!”

Gorman tried to extinguish the light, but it was a fire that would not be put out. He cursed the shop-windows and the lamps for shining so brightly on him; he cursed the few people whose curiosity induced them to pause and look back at him, and he cursed himself for being such a fool.

On reaching Cheapside he began to recover his self-possession, and to walk in the storm as other men did. But in proportion as his composure returned the enormity of his crime became more apparent to him, and the word written in red letters became so bright that he felt as if every passer-by must read it, unless he dropt his eyes to prevent their seeing through them into his soul.

At London Bridge he became nervously apprehensive. Each unusually quick footstep startled him. Every policeman was carefully avoided, and anything approaching to a shout behind caused him to start into an involuntary run. Despite his utmost efforts to control himself, the strong man was unmanned; a child could have made him fly.

He was about to cross London Bridge, when he observed a policeman taking shelter under the parapet, and apparently watching those who passed him. Gorman could not make up his mind to go on, so he turned aside and descended the nearest stairs.

The policeman had doubtless been watching for someone, or suspected Gorman because of his undecided movements, for he followed him. The latter observed this and quickened his pace. The instant he was hidden from his pursuer, he darted away at full speed, and did not halt until he stood at the foot of one of the stairs where wherries are usually to be found. The sight that met his gaze there might have overawed the most reckless of men.

A hurricane was raging such as is not often experienced in our favoured island. The wind blew, not in gusts and squalls, but in one continuous roar, lashing the Thames into crested waves, tearing ships from their moorings, and dashing them against other ships, which were likewise carried away, and swept downward with the tide. Dozens of barges were sunk, and the shrieks of their crews were heard sometimes rising above the storm.

The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a warehouse, observed him, and came forward.

“An awful night, sir,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.

“Is that your boat?” said he.

“It is,” replied the waterman in surprise, “you don’t want to go on the water on such a night, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Gorman, trembling in every limb; “come, jump in, and shove off.”

At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.

“Are you mad?” exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he sprang toward the boat.

In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away instantly.

Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel’s side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and was swept under it.

Rising to the surface, he uttered a wild shriek, and attempted to stem the current. He was a powerful swimmer, and despair lent him energy to buffet the waves for a short time; but he was again swept away by the irresistible tide, and had almost given up hope of being saved, when his forehead was grazed by a rope which hung from a vessel’s side. Seizing this, he held on, and with much difficulty succeeded in gaining the vessel’s deck.

With his safety Gorman’s fear of being captured returned. He hid himself behind some lumber, and while in this position wrung some of the water out