The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (ebook reader android TXT) 📕

>“What time is it?”

 

“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,