The Luck of the Irish/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV
WILLIAM never saw the hand that struck him down. Whether he had one or ten assailants was likewise to remain in the limbo of mysteries. He always recollected this adventure with the keenest regret. To sink down under the avalanche, fighting to the last moment, accounting for two or three among the many, was never considered a disgrace by any Irishman William knew. He was proud of his strength, and to pass into the land of coma without being permitted to exercise the functions of his hands and feet was galling to the memory.
As he left Madame Rene's dance-hall, so far as he could see the alley was deserted except for himself. Still, there were a dozen black doorways behind him and beyond. The last thing he remembered, he had taken out his old silver watch, not with any idea of ascertaining the time, but rather in surrender to that mechanical impulse common enough in men—when in doubt, look at your watch. Right there the top of heaven fell out.
Hours must have passed before he finally opened his eyes and sensed realities. The blow had been brutal, and doubtless would have permanently cracked a skull less solid. His initial impression was a curious one; he was nothing more than an enormous head, and all the aches known were fighting there for individual supremacy. His second impression was that he was sailing along at the tail of a comet, for no matter which way he looked he saw nothing but showers of sparks. It was when he felt a touch of nausea, thousands of miles away, that he knew for a certainty that his body was still attached to his neck. He attempted to reach up a hand to this freak head, only to learn that he was bound up as snugly as an Italian baby in the winter.
Too weak to struggle, he relaxed and lay back like a sensible but badly punished boxer between rounds. In time the vertigo passed away and slowly his body became normal. But he wisely allowed an hour or more to slip by before he began a serious attempt to free himself.
The damp, musty odor was familiar. He was in some kind of a cellar. A long distance away he was presently able to distinguish a square of dark blue in the jet black. It was a window. He was sitting with his back to a post of stone; he could feel the chill of it against his spine. And the damp of the clay floor penetrated his legs and thighs.
What time was it? Was it still midnight or was it well on toward morning? Before he wasted what little strength he had, he decided to wait for light. After what seemed hours and hours, the square of blue lightened and the velvet blackness took on a deep, foggy gray. Morning was approaching.
He now began to struggle. He would swell his muscles, then relax them suddenly, recalling the skill in this direction of a prestidigitator he had once seen at the vaudeville. By the time the outside world had turned yellow he had gained an inch or so at the wrists; but, in opposition to this, the rope had tightened around his elbows. This phenomenon convinced him that he was trussed up in a single coil of rope several yards long. Somewhere, then, there ought to be a weak spot. He rested his arms and began wriggling his feet.
He had lost considerable blood. His left shoulder was damp and soggy with it, and whenever he moved his head his neck burned and the hair pulled. He was grateful for one thing—they had not gagged him; he could get plenty of air into his lungs. But this fact added a new worry to those already accumulated—his captors did not care whether he yelled for help or not. He was dreadfully thirsty. He would have exchanged all his sovereigns for a dipper of cold water.
The four walls of the cellar began to take form, to stand out distinctly, and he could see about. What he saw troubled him. He was an old hand in the psychology of cellars. This was under a deserted house. Where? Was he across the way from Madame Rene's or had he been carried to another part of the town? While the clay was damp, there were no visible signs of moisture. Thus he reasoned that he was nowhere near the Nile.
By the time it was full morning he could pull one foot up as far as his knee, but beyond that not an inch, nor could he free the foot. The rogues had made a very good job of it.
Naturally there came a period of self-reviling. He had been warned against prowling off by himself at night, especially here on the threshold of the Orient. But he would do it; and here he was, a prisoner with a battered head and a burning thirst. What were they holding him for—ransom? Pity they hadn't broken his fool head completely. … The Ajax! He sucked in his cheeks for a bit of saliva. The Ajax was sailing at three that afternoon, and from the looks of things it was going to sail without William Grogan. He forgot his caution, forgot how little strength he possessed, and fought his bonds as a tiger fights the hunting-net. Snarling and cursing, he sawed his feet and pulled at his wrists. He desisted quickly enough. The sparks began to fly again and the full flood of pain returned. He sank back against the pillar, gasping.
"What a fool! What a fool!"
He had promised Ruth faithfully to return to the hotel as soon as the fights were over. He had broken his promise; and she was all alone. He began hiccoughing, as much in rage as in pain.
Far above a door closed carelessly. William raised his head, listening tensely and trying to strangle the hiccoughs. But the sound of footsteps did not follow the banging of the door. It might have been the wind. Yet, even as he was about to accept this as a solution, the door leading into the cellar swung on its stiff hinges and a small Arab boy came down the stone steps. He wore a kind of smock, ragged and dirty; his legs and feet were bare, and probably had been since the hour of his birth. Perched rakishly on the top of his shaven poll was a dilapidated fez minus the tassel, the stem of which stood up like that of an apple. He was sore-eyed but flyless, his particular bevy of flies having rebelled, doubtless, against the possibility of being immured in darkness. The Cairo fly is a firm believer in sunshine.
The boy carried a loaf of bread under one arm and a water-jar under the other. The water-jar was like those William had often admired on the heads of the graceful balancing Egyptian women. The boy approached William and stared; his glance was neither bold nor timorous, only mildly curious. The boy looked at him quite as William would have looked at a strange fish in the Battery Aquarium at home. Having satisfied his eyes, the boy nonchalantly dropped the bread to the ground and held the water-jar against William's swollen lips. William drank like a spent race-horse. Next the boy offered the bread, but William shook his head.
"Speak English?" he demanded, thickly.
The boy dropped the bread again, rose and walked to the stairs, which he began to mount. He could not have worn a more stolid expression had he been deaf and dumb.
"Hey, come back here!"
The boy disappeared. Later the street door banged.
"Well, what do you know about that?" asked William, addressing his shoes. "Not a sound out of him! Not a blink! Well, it's up to me to climb out of this and climb quick. … Hell!" he cried as a stabbing pain pierced his eyes.
The window was eight feet above the floor. In a corner stood a smoothly worn plank of teakwood, which had evidently been used as a chute for boxes or bales from the outside, perhaps cotton bales, as there were tufts of cotton here and there about the corners. From this point of view this was a complete inventory. William hitched sideways; the other half of the cellar was as bare as his palm. But in turning he made a discovery which at the time suggested nothing—a spike in the stone pillar, a foot above his head. The outlook was not at all promising. His jailers would probably keep him confined until night, when they might safely liberate him—that is, if it was not ransom. Well, they hadn't struck much oil, and wouldn't. Four sovereigns and a watch which had two values, sentimental and intrinsic, one hundred minus ninety-eight, if you reckoned pawnbroker style; for two dollars marked the high-water rate of exchange at Uncle Mose Cohen's over on Eighth Avenue.
Bang! It was the outer door again. The boy returned with two Syrian oranges. He squatted at William's side, split the fruit, and solemnly poked the scarlet slices into the yawning mouth eager to receive them. When the oranges had vanished, the boy tilted the water-jar scientifically and William was no longer thirsty. But he lowered his head suggestively. The boy understood the movement, for he sluiced William's head generously.
"You're the real Samaritan, all right, boy. And when you go to Paradise I hope they'll give you a harem two blocks long."
In return for this excellent wish the boy, without the least sign of greediness, proceeded to rifle William's pockets; and he was as thorough as a German chemist. The result of this immoral procedure was a penknife, the key to William's steamer trunk, two double piasters from a vest pocket which had been overlooked by the boy's elders, four receipted hotel bills, and a picture post-card. The boy tucked these ill-gotten gains under his fez and sprang up.
This was too much for William's risibles. He chuckled.
"In business for yourself, huh? Well, you're welcome. Going? Take care of yourself. Anyhow, I guess you've saved one Irishman's life."
Alone once more, he renewed his efforts to loosen the rope. Again he was forced to give up. After this he fell asleep. The banging of kettledrums and the mournful wailing of reeds awoke him. The sounds passed and dwindled. He heard the bleating protest of a camel. The angle of sunshine appalled him. It must be somewhere around five o'clock in the afternoon. He had slept the major part of the day. The Ajax was already on its way down to the Red Sea.
He sidled toward the water-jar, wondering if he could get a drink without wasting the precious fluid. His tongue was hot with fever again. Chance directed his gaze toward the spike in the pillar, and this time an idea was born. If he could manage to get his wrists on the level with that spike. …
It was an arduous task. After half an hour spent in wriggling and twisting and balancing, he gained his feet. Then he leaned toward the spike and began carefully to work the knot against it.
An hour later he kicked the rope off his feet. He knew better than to rush to the window immediately. He needed life in his tingling legs and arms. Yet, he hadn't much time. The boy or his elders might now return at any moment. He drank deeply, ate some bread, took out his handkerchief (which the boy had ignored for lack of understanding), and bathed the cut. Despite this refreshment, he felt weak and dizzy.
He then proceeded to place the chute against the window-ledge, crawled up with infinite labor, and wormed himself through. As he rose to his feet he heard the shrill whistle of a railway engine. He could not have asked for a more timely bit of aid. He started off in the direction of this glorious whistle at a shambling trot. His progress resembled that of a drunken man, for he was growing more and more light-headed. But he stuck to it doggedly. The houses careened at times, and the dusty road had a peculiar way of sinking and rising like the waves of the sea.
He was in the native quarters; but none hindered his advance. They knew, these experienced brown men, that it was not wise to trifle with red-headed drunken men. Some children tagged along at his heels, however, shrilling insults and ribald jests, knowing themselves to be immune from any attack more serious than a chance smack of the hand or a boot's end. By and by they desisted; the sport was too tame. I doubt if William saw or heard them.
He had picked out a spot in the sky and was marching toward the world directly under it. That whistle had come out of there somewhere, and nothing should deter him from reaching that somewhere. A wild compass to steer by. He had neither sea-lore nor wood-lore; he had not the least comprehension of what a range meant, yet he found the railway.
When he came around to a clear understanding of time and place—for he had made this remarkable journey in a semi-delirious condition—the night wind was roaring in his face and ears, and the desert, endless reaches of dull silver under the touch of moonshine, was racing past. He was crouching among the heavy folds of canvas which partially covered a box-car in a long goods-train, speeding in what direction only God knew.
At four o'clock in the morning the train drew into a small town and thence out onto a long cement pier south of which lay a broad stretch of water. There were many ships at anchor. Thus, by the kindly grace of God, who watches over fools, drunken men, and particularly lovers, William had reached the port of his heart's desire, Suez.
After making several inquiries, he found the coal-lighters were in readiness to move out the moment the Ajax dropped off Port Ibrahim. He went aboard one of these. The Arabs did not molest him. Quite within reason they thought he was some drunken stoker who had lost his ship at Port Said. He certainly looked disreputable enough.
When he saw the Ajax slip out of the canal, when he heard the metallic music of her chains, he laid his dizzy head upon his knees. It seemed almost impossible that he had accomplished it. There was a big gap. He could remember nothing from the moment he had left his prison until he sensed his surroundings aboard the goods-train.
"Sister," he murmured, "but for you I'd never have made it, believe me! Maybe God ain't good to one red-headed Mick! Now, who's this man Orestes who was with Colburton that night in Venice? That's the guy I'm looking for."