Bermuda Islands -- Fiction; Prisoners -- Fiction; Short stories
half hour of gradually diminished hope.
And Aaron Trow was now like a hunted fox, doomed to be dug out from his
last refuge, with this addition to his misery, that these hounds when
they caught their prey, would not put him at once out of his misery.
When first he saw that throng of men coming down from the hill top and
resting on the platform; he knew that his fate was come. When they
called to him to surrender himself he was silent, but he knew that his
silence was of no avail. To them who were so eager to be his captors the
matter seemed to be still one of considerable difficulty; but, to his
thinking, there was no difficulty. There were there some score of men,
fully armed, within twenty yards of him. If he but showed a trace of his
limbs he would become a mark for their bullets. And then if he were
wounded, and no one would come to him! If they allowed him to lie there
without food till he perished! Would it not be well for him to yield
himself? Then they called again and he was still silent. That idea of
yielding is very terrible to the heart of a man. And when the worst had
come to the worst, did not the ocean run deep beneath his cavern’s month?
But as they yelled at him and hallooed, making their preparations for his
death, his presence of mind deserted the poor wretch. He had stolen an
old pistol on one of his marauding expeditions, of which one barrel had
been loaded. That in his mad despair he had fired; and now, as he lay
near the mouth of the cavern, under the cover of the projecting stone, he
had no weapon with him but his hands. He had had a knife, but that had
dropped from him during the struggle on the floor of the cottage. He had
now nothing but his hands, and was considering how he might best use them
in ridding himself of the first of his pursuers. The man was near him,
armed, with all the power and majesty of right on his side; whereas on
his side, Aaron Trow had nothing,—not a hope. He raised his head that he
might look forth, and a dozen voices shouted as his face appeared above
the aperture. A dozen weapons were levelled at him, and he could see the
gleaming of the muzzles of the guns. And then the foot of his pursuer
was already on the corner stone at the cavern’s mouth. “Now, Caleb, on
him at once!” shouted a voice. Ah me! it was a moment in which to pity
even such a man as Aaron Trow.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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