Whitley, in addition to a term of imprisonment, was sentenced to undergo the lash for an offence of which he was not guilty. I was incensed. It was the period of my hot youth, in which I had more enterprise than discretion. I determined to procure his escape at all hazards. The old Sydney prison in which Whitley was confined was situated near Hospital Creek, in which private vessels unloaded their cargoes, and where a barque, whose owner I was well acquainted with, was moored. The gaol was surrounded by a strong high wall, and a numerous guard was mounted day and night. By bribing a turnkey I gained access to my friend’s cell one cloudy night, and forced open the lock with implements I had brought for the purpose, for the turnkey had only bargained to admit me and raise no alarm. A wheelbarrow and a couple of tubs piled on top of each other brought me near enough to the iron _chevaux-de-frise_ of the wall to fasten a stout rope to one of the spikes. We were soon astride of the awkward obstruction, and then, casting the rope on the other side, we slid down to the ground, and congratulated ourselves that we were out of danger. The whizz of a bullet over our heads, followed immediately by the sharp report of a musket, soon undeceived us on that point. A treacherous cloud had for a moment disclosed the previously hidden moon. We were observed by the guard, a shot was fired, and chase was immediately given. We soon outran our pursuers, and all would have been well, but I was unfortunately recognised by the serjeant of the guard, for, immediately after the report of his weapon, he called upon Whitley and myself by name to stand. The boom of a cannon from the signal battery at the north point of Sydney Cove announced to the sleeping town that a prisoner had escaped. The tramp of feet and the flickering of lights from point to point told us that we must be away. As I had previously arranged, we made straight for my friend’s barque in Hospital Creek. He had promised a place of concealment in the hold; but, thinking the pursuit would be too hot for that, he put us in a dingy, and we rowed over to Pinchgut, a small islet a mile and a half from Sydney. This place was a mere rock, whose clefts Joe and I had often searched for oysters (which grew abundantly there) during our holiday rambles. It was occasionally used by the Government for drying powder, but the place was avoided by the townspeople, because upon the summit there stood a gibbet, on which a miscreant who had murdered a colonist in return for half a pint of rum had paid the penalty of his crime. The island was named Pinchgut by some irreclaimable convicts who had been put there on short commons as a punishment. Yet this place of sinister renown was sheeted with the fragrant gold of the feathery mimosa, and was garlanded with bright red creepers, as though nature mutely protested against the vileness of man.