4
It was at the end of January that Rory made his getaway. The day had dawned clear, but the temperature dropped steadily and by mid-afternoon the mist came down quite suddenly, just as Rory had hoped when he felt the windless chill of the air. The head warder blew his whistle to order the gang to fall in to return to cells: with the uncanny awareness of prisoners, the gangers sensed rather than saw Rory’s plunge into the mist through a gap in the wire which he himself had made. Yards away from him a fight developed among the gangers and the warders were fully occupied for a few moments in restoring order, and every minute the mist thickened. Rory heard the shouts and yells, the whistles and orders as he plunged on, bent double, towards a dip in the ground where the mist was densest: he knew it would take the warders a little time to form the gang into ranks and longer to realise that their files were a man short. Rory straightened up and ran, plunging over the rough ground in the direction where he hoped for his stream: he carried the bundle whose twine lashings he had grabbed as he got beyond the wire. Before the “man escaped” siren howled from the prison walls he had found his stream, and the mist closed down on him in dense whiteness, cold and clammy, the sort of mist he had longed for.
5
When he found the stream, Rory sat down and took his boots off: sodden boots are no good to a man who faces weeks of walking. From his bundle he produced the oddest footgear, resembling moccasins, which he had made from bits and pieces of canvas and leather and sacking, sewn together with stolen needle and thread. They would save his feet from getting cut on the stones and rocks in the bed of the stream: and save his feet they did, to a considerable extent. By the time he reached a tributary streamlet and turned uphill in its ice-cold water, he knew his moccasins had served their purpose: bruised his feet might be, but they were not cut.
When he reached the head waters of the streamlet, he sat down and rubbed his feet dry and then put on the socks and boots which he had hung around his neck by the tied laces. They were good boots—one of the advantages of working in an out-of-doors gang: men can’t do field work without decent boots. Then he untied the twine which had bound his raincoat into the smallest possible bundle and he shook the coat out and put it on. He was left with two sacks: one contained his meagre store of hoarded food packed in two tins: the other sack he put around his shoulders. The bundle of sacks and coat and the tins had been hidden in a crevice in the ground beyond the wire days ago. Somehow Rory had contrived to hide that bundle, unseen by the warders, when he was shifting working gear. It seemed an improbable feat to accomplish, but he had succeeded in more improbable jobs when he had been behind barbed wire. And here he was, free: having accomplished the most hazardous jobs of all, he had no fear at all. He had made it.
Having got the raincoat buttoned and one sack draped over his head and shoulders, he moved up the rough hillside through the dense mist: the higher he climbed, the thicker the mist, and he rejoiced in it: the mist meant security. He knew, too, in which direction he was moving, up to the heights of Sheeps Tor: he had often seen its rocky eminence and he knew that no other ground rose as steeply as this from the prison. He was going on, up to the top to the rocky outcrop. Once there, he would hunt for a place where he could burrow a bit with his broken trowel blade, some place under a rocky overhang where he could rest a little, eat the hunk of cheese he had in his pocket, even grub a hole and light a fire: the matches and chips were safe under his shirt.
He stopped to get some water in one of his tins, transferring the tin’s contents to his pockets. As he climbed, with his free hand he grabbed occasional twigs and heather fronds: the mist was so thick he could risk a small fire as darkness fell. He was very cold, but the climb was getting the circulation going in his feet again, and he was warm with satisfaction. He had done what he had planned to do.
When Rory Macshane at last got himself wedged into his burrow under a rocky overhang, with heather branches helping to conceal him yet further, it was doubtful if anybody would have spotted him in full clear daylight. He had stepped into the larger sack and pulled it up to his armpits, shoving the raincoat down around his legs: his odd bits and pieces of gear went into the large pockets of his raincoat: the other sack he pulled over his head and shoulders, a cut piece giving his eyes fair play. The sacks helped to keep him warm and dry, and would be useful cover sometime when cover was needed: a sack is good camouflage in country districts. He did not go to sleep, but he rested and chewed his cheese and crust and he listened
