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Updated: June 8, 2025
Something in the tone or manner of the speaker affected Kirkland to disgust, for, spurning the offered hand, he uttered a cry and then, holding up his irons with his hands, he started to run for the water. "Halt! you young fool," roared Troke, raising his carbine. But Kirkland kept steadily on for the river. Just as he reached it, however, the figure of Mr. North rose from behind a pile of stones.
Troke's jaw fell. "See Dawes?" he repeated. "Yes. Where is he?" Troke was preparing a lie. The imperious voice, and the clear, steady gaze, confused him. "He's here." "Let me see him." "He's he's under punishment, mam." "What do you mean? Are they flogging him?" "No; but he's dangerous, mam. The Commandant " "Do you mean to open the door or not, Mr. Troke?" Troke grew more confused.
For a moment he saw the lights from the stern windows of the anchored vessels low in the distance, Grummet Rock disappeared on his left, then, exhausted, breathless, and bruised, he closed his eyes, and the drifting log bore him swiftly and silently away into the darkness. At daylight the next morning, Mr. Troke, landing on the prison rock found it deserted.
At the sound of the friendly tones, however, he looked up, and saw a tall, gaunt man, dressed in a shabby pepper-and-salt raiment, and wearing a black handkerchief knotted round his throat. He was a stranger to him. "I beg yer pardon, Mr. North," said Troke, sinking at once the bully in the sneak. "I didn't see yer reverence." "A parson!" thought Dawes with disappointment, and dropped his eyes.
Troke and Hailey, alarmed by her vehemence, dragged the stretcher out into the light, and hastily cut the lashings. Dawes rolled off like a log, and his head fell against Mrs. Frere. Troke roughly pulled him aside, and called for water. Sylvia, trembling with sympathy and pale with passion, turned upon the crew. "How long has he been like this?" "An hour," said Troke.
He would send down an official "return" of the unfortunate occurrence by the same vessel that carried his enemy, and thus get the ear of the Office. Meekin, walking on the evening of the flogging past the wooden shed where the body lay, saw Troke bearing buckets filled with dark-coloured water, and heard a great splashing and sluicing going on inside the hut. "What is the matter?" he asked.
"Here you are again, you see. How do you like this sort of thing?" Dawes, glaring, makes no answer. "You shall have fifty lashes, my man," said Frere. "We'll see how you feel then!" The fifty were duly administered, and the Commandant called the next day. The rebel was still mute. "Give him fifty more, Mr. Troke. We'll see what he's made of."
Troke knew this; and on the evening in question hit upon an excellent plan. Admitting himself noiselessly into the boat-shed, where the gang slept, he crept close to the sleeping Dawes, and counterfeiting Mooney's mumbling utterance asked for "some tobacco". Rufus Dawes was but half awake, and on repeating his request, Troke felt something put into his hand.
"You had better retire, gentlemen," said Troke. "I see them getting out their knives." We made for the gate, and the crowd closed in like a sea upon the two constables. I fully expected murder, but in a few moments Troke and Gimblett appeared, borne along by a mass of men, dusty, but unharmed, and having the convict between them.
He had been flogged before. Troke appeared with Gabbett grinning. Gabbett liked flogging. It was his boast that he could flog a man to death on a place no bigger than the palm of his hand. He could use his left hand equally with his right, and if he got hold of a "favourite", would "cross the cuts".
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