The Trojan Horse

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sudden darkness is frightening. Few people ever experience the real horrors of the darkness. I don’t mean the darkness of a room when you are fumbling for the light. I mean the darkness that shuts down on you like blindness and you have no power to control. The darkness in that vault was complete and utter. There were no windows or ventilation shafts through which even the faintest glimmer of luminosity could penetrate. It closed in around me, and everything was blank. It was as though my eyes had been walled up. And in that darkness I felt stifled, as though I had been buried alive. The mood of sudden inexplicable confidence in which I had addressed Sedel was gone. I remembered only his final words.

He had said I would go mad. And I knew he was right. The mere thought of that foul box made me clench my teeth to control my hysteria. I knew I could not stand it. As I stood in the impenetrable darkness of that vault, I found I was shaking like a leaf. Then the blackness all about me seemed to close in and I found my way to the wall to convince myself that I was not bounded by limitless darkness. The feel of those cold smooth stones was almost comforting. I think I am no more of a coward than the next man and darkness did not usually hold any terrors for me. But I had never known darkness such as this. It was black and with no change in shade anywhere. It pressed down relentlessly on my wide, staring eyeballs as I searched it.

And then I suddenly remembered my fountain-pen torch. I kept it in the breast pocket of my jacket for use in the blackout. It was still there, and in an instant its pale light flooded the vault. There was my coffin, shining black against the dungeon grey of the walls. I crossed to the vault door and tried it. It was an old iron-studded affair, and, though I shook it with all my strength, it held as firm as though it were a part of the wall. And then, as I leant against it, I noticed a plate of food lying on the floor. Evidently Sedel had brought it in and in the heat of the moment had forgotten to draw my attention to it. There was a roll and some ham. I seized upon it hungrily.

I have never eaten a more peculiar meal. I sat cross-legged on the floor of that vault with the plate on my lap. The monogram JL printed on the plate filled my heart with longing for the commonplace humdrum world somewhere above me. Yesterday, maybe, this plate had been used in a Lyon’s teashop. Now the last meal of a doomed man was being eaten off it. I have not often enjoyed a meal so much, for I was hungry. They had provided me with a knife and fork. The only thing I lacked was water. And my need of it grew. It was not until I had swallowed the last mouthful of ham that I realised how salt it had been. And then a new horror dawned on me and I realised just what a fiend Sedel was. Besides the horror of that box, I was to know the agony of thirst. I pushed the empty plate from me and climbing to my feet, searched frantically round the vault. But the walls were blocks of solid stone about a foot high by two feet long and the iron-studded door was quite immovable. I searched the floor and played the light of my torch on the roof, but I knew there was no hope of escape. And then I suddenly had a fear that my torch would give out. I switched it off and found the darkness bearable since, by the pressure of my finger on the pen clip, I could light my cell. And so, in a mood of utter despair, I settled myself against the wall farthest from the box and tried to sleep. Sleep did not come easily. After a while I fancy I dozed off. But almost instantly, it seemed, I was awake. And I knew I was not alone. My nerves were all to pieces and I opened my mouth to scream. But I think I was too petrified to make the necessary effort. Something was moving on the other side of the vault. Then came the sound of metal against crockery. It had touched my plate. And then my fingers closed about the torch.

In the sudden light I found myself staring across the room at the largest rat I think I have ever seen. It was dark and sleek, with eyes that gleamed redly. It bared its teeth at the light. Then suddenly it dived across the cell and vanished into a corner. I lay for a moment, staring at the empty vault, wondering whether my eyes had played me a trick. But then I remembered that I had heard rats scampering about the floor when I had been inside the tin box. The rat had left behind it a faint unpleasant smell. My mind struggled for a moment to account for the smell. And then I realised suddenly that what I had seen had been a sewer rat. And I almost retched at the thought. There could be no doubt about it. No rat but a sewer rat would be so large and vilely sleek.

Then my mind suddenly remembered a story told me by a City journalist. He had described it as true. The directors of the Bank of England had, some years ago, received an anonymous letter, stating that the writer could gain access to the vaults of the bank at any time. And when they had taken no notice, the fellow had written again, asking them to meet him in the vaults on a given night. And when they went down there, the fellow appeared through the floor from an old sewer. They had paid him the better part of a thousand pounds for his trouble. Supposing the sewers ran close to this vault? The rats came and went. And where the rats could go, perhaps a man could.

I scrambled hurriedly to my feet and crossed over to the corner where the rat had disappeared. Sure enough, there, between two blocks of stone that did not fit very well, was a hole about the size of a Jaffa orange. I went down on my hands and knees and thrust my torch into it. But I could see nothing. Beyond the stone blocks the hole seemed to widen out. But I could smell. Faintly came a warm fetid stench — the stench of a sewer.

I was really excited now. Perhaps this was more than a rat hole? Perhaps behind the solid-seeming wall was a passage-way leading to the sewers? As I rose to my feet, I brushed against one of the rusty chains and it clinked against the stone. The sight of that chain stirred a chord in my memory. And then suddenly I could have cried aloud in my excitement. For I had remembered that to the right of the entrance door of Marburgs was one of the little blue plaques put up by the City Corporation. I had forgotten the details, but I did remember that it informed a forgetful world that here, on this site, many years ago, stood a prison. And this was one of the old cells. To these chains prisoners had once been fettered. And these deep cells had remained behind the façade of civilisation that Marburgs had raised between Old Broad Street and Threadneedle Street. What more likely than that there had been a passage from the old prison to the ancient sewers of the city? Perhaps it had been used as a convenient method of getting rid of men who had died here? Perhaps it had been a secret means of communication between the prison and the river? I played my torch on the stonework, rubbing away the dirt and feeling the cold blocks with the tips of my fingers. And it seemed to me that the stones here were less rough, as though they had been built in later. I became convinced of this when I noticed that the blocks were shorter on one side, as though they had been specially cut to fit into the space that had originally been the entrance to a passage. The edges, too, were rougher.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly midnight. Sedel would not arrive before eight at the very earliest. That gave me eight hours. But I knew it was a long job I had before me and I set to work feverishly. My only implement was the knife with which I had eaten my meal. God! how I blessed that knife! I could almost forgive Sedel his fiendish trick of supplying me salt ham and nothing to drink.

I started on the block of stone to the right of the rat hole. It was hard, back-breaking work. The mortar was only about a quarter of an inch thick between the blocks and much harder than the stuff that builders use now. Moreover, I had to work largely in the dark, for the light from my torch already had a yellow tinge and I knew it would not last much longer. I was in a sweat of fear lest it would give out altogether, for I dreaded the thought of wandering in an ancient sewer in complete darkness.

But I was happy. Heavens, how happy I was to have something to do other than lie and think about that damned tin box and Sedel’s sneering look as hysteria took me by the throat! After a time, of course, the blade of the knife snapped, but, except for the fact that I could not work so deep, the broken blade proved the more serviceable implement. I don’t think that I ever worked with such a terrible urgency. My back and arm muscles ached until I could have cried out with the pain, and the sweat poured off me. But I did not pause. I dared not pause. The work was so slow. And all the time I smelt faintly that musty decayed stench of an ancient sewer.

For two hours I sawed and hammered and scraped, until at last I could bury my knife to the handle all round the block of stone. But the blade was now only some four inches long and the depth of these blocks was near on a foot. I lay on my back and battered away at the stone with my feet. I kept on with this until at length I lay flat on the stone floor, exhausted. The stone had not budged a fraction. I glanced at my watch again. Half-past two! I got dazedly to my feet and stood breathing heavily and staring at that wall, as though I would walk through it like Alice through the looking-glass.

Then I knew what I must do, and I set to work on the block of stone immediately above the one I had been working on. I must loosen the mortar as deep as I could round every block, working upwards. It was a Herculean task, and, looking back on it, I cannot understand how I found the strength to do it. Those blocks were not one on top of the other. No, each row interlocked, so that every other row I had to loosen two of them.

It was past seven in the morning before I had finished. And during those last hours I had been working like an automaton. I was dazed with fatigue, and only fear kept me at it. I just had to do it, and so I went dazedly on. And when at last it was done, I leant against the wall and went fast asleep. The next I knew it was five to eight and I was lying in a heap on the floor. I climbed stiffly to my feet. I was covered with fine mortar dust from head to foot, and my soul cried out for water. But though it had lost me a valuable hour, that short rest had made all the difference in the world. Without it, I doubt whether I should have been able to do what I had to do. I flexed my muscles to get the stiffness out of them. Then I threw my weight against the wall.

I don’t know how many times I did this. But I was aching with the force of my contact with the stone before I ceased. It had not yielded an inch. It was then that a horrible doubt began to assail my mind. Suppose there was no passage? Suppose the rat hole just opened out because behind the stone was earth? In a panic I bent down and looked into it again. But there was no sign of earth. In despair I seized upon the deed-box. Having bent the fork round my torch, so that it remained alight without my holding it, I lifted the box endways in my arms and, using it as a battering ram, charged the wall. The din of the metal striking the stone was terrific. But now I had worked myself into a frenzy of fear that was very near to panic. At any moment Sedel might arrive. After having been allowed the hope of escape, I could not bear the thought of that tin coffin.

Again and again I charged that wall, always driving the corner of the box against one particular block of stone. And when I was staggering with weakness, I noted with a leap of joy that the two blocks below it had given about an inch at the point where they met each other. The light of the torch was becoming so feeble that as often as not I had been driving the corner of the box against these, instead of against the stone above. The discovery gave me strength. A few more charges and I saw that the blocks above and below were caving in. Again and again I charged that wall, making a din like a blacksmith’s forge. And after every blow I found the blocks had given ground. At first it was only an inch. Then it was two or three, and at last as much as six, with all the blocks to the floor moved slightly inwards.

By this time it was past nine. Every minute I expected the electric light to be switched on and the key to grate in the lock. But the terrible urgency gave me strength, and though my limbs ached with tiredness, I yet found the strength to go on battering against the wall with the deed-box. And at last, on a rush, I felt the box follow through slightly. The blow was followed almost immediately by the sound of a heavy stone striking against stone. I drew back. There, at breast height, was a gap where one of the blocks had been forced through. The two above it were sagging slightly. I pushed them with my hand, thrusting at them with the whole weight of my body. And at each thrust they gave slightly, pivoting outwards and away from each other. And then suddenly one of them fell, clattering on to stone. A moment later I pushed the other out. The smell of the sewers was stronger now. It seemed to fill the whole cell. I thrust furiously at the stones below. A few minutes and another had fallen out. There was now a gap like a window in a ruined castle. I got my torch and peered through.

I think, if I had not been so utterly weary, I should have danced a reel and whooped aloud at what I saw. In the dull yellow light, I saw stone steps leading downwards to darkness beyond which my torch’s feeble light could not penetrate. The loosened blocks gave me a footing and, in an instant, I had thrust my legs through the gap. I lowered myself gently on the other side, and by hanging with one hand and playing my torch on the stone steps below, I was able to drop on them without hurting myself.

For a second I hesitated, wondering whether to try to replace the blocks of stone I had dislodged to make the gap. But the size of the blocks was such that I doubted whether, in my weak state, I should be able to lift them into position. In any case, I thought that the time I should spend in rebuilding the wall would be greater than the check it would give to the pursuit. So I turned and hurried down the steps.

The air in that old stairway was warm and damp. The smell of the sewers was strong in my nostrils now, but at the same time the staleness of the atmosphere showed that there was little or no ventilation. It was then that I first began to wonder whether I should ever be able to get out of the place. In my dread of that cell and that horrible box, my discovery of a means of escape had been enough. I had not thought beyond the actual escape from that cell. Only now did I begin to wonder what lay ahead.

The steps soon ceased and I found myself hurrying along a stone passageway that sloped steadily downwards. The walls were dripping with moisture, and here and there were white and yellow fungus growths. The passage was constructed of smaller blocks of stone than those in my cell and the roof was arched and only five feet high, so that I had to stoop. The floor was flagged and in places broken up. Once I came across a small fall and could see the earth behind the stone. I walked hurriedly, the echo of my footsteps sounding behind as well as in front, so that several times I thought I was being followed. Now and then a rat scampered away from me. And always I was peering ahead of me, for besides the weakness of my torch, there seemed to be a kind of mist in the place.

Suddenly my passage came out into a broader one, running at right angles. Left or right? I hesitated. I sensed rather than actually saw that the slope of this was to the right and I chose that direction. There was no doubt about it. This was an old sewer. And I thought that the downward slope would lead me to the river, for what few sewers there were in the old London carried the sewage straight to the Thames.

I was able to walk upright now. The rounded tunnel had long since ceased to function as a sewer. But as I ploughed down the centre of the runway, the water was over my ankles. The walls were running with water, and every now and then, beyond the dim circle of light cast by my torch, I heard the sound of a rat in the water.

I seemed to plough through that ancient sewer for hours. Yet it could have only been for a few minutes. The uncanny sounds of the place frayed my nerves. I was gradually overcome by one terrible fear — that my torch would give out before I reached daylight. My brain dwelt with a horrible fascination on all the most unpleasant stories I had read of men who died, stark raving mad, because they had not been able to find their way out of some underground labyrinth. There were Catacombs, old Cornish tin mines and strange caves from which there was no escape. My brain dwelt on these, until I found myself almost running down that old culvert.

And then suddenly I stopped. The sewer ended. Facing me was a blank wall. But it was not of stone. It was brick, and it curved away from me. For a moment a sensation of complete despair overtook me. And then I had taken heart again. Those bricks gave me hope. Bricks meant a more modern construction, probably sewers now in use. And that curved construction was not made to bear localised pressure from the outside. I raised my foot and brought the heel of my shoe down against the bricks. I repeated this several times. But the leather of my shoes was so sodden with water that I did more injury to the shoes than to the brickwork.

So I turned back and went in search of a stone. I was fortunate. About fifty yards back there was a gap in the arch of the roof, and feeling about in the water, I found a big stone that had fallen. Those fifty yards back to the brickwork seemed a long way. The stone was heavy and very slimy. But at last I got it there. Using this as a hammer, I soon had the satisfaction of feeling the bricks give. I knocked out several of the bricks and heard them fall with a splash. More followed at the next blow. I shone my torch through the gap. Below me was a slow-flowing turgid stream. And on the side nearest me ran a narrow slippery-looking pathway, something like a tow-path. Few people can ever have been so glad as I was to see a sewer.

As I raised the stone to widen the gap in the brickwork, I heard an unfamiliar sound. I paused and half turned. It came echoing down the old sewer along which I had just come. It was the sound of voices. They sounded strange in that peculiar setting — strange and fearful. I turned and attacked the brickwork like a maniac. The hunt was up and I knew that I had little chance if they caught up with me.

Three strong blows and the brickwork had crumbled away sufficiently for me to tumble through the gap. I slipped on the slimy path and sprawled half into the actual runway of the sewer. I scrambled to my feet, wet to the knees. Fortunately I still held my torch, and in its feeble glimmer I hurried, almost running, along the narrow pathway of the sewer, following the flow of the water.

Unlike the old sewer, this was full of sound. The murmur of the slow-flowing sewage water was everywhere. And ahead of me rats in their thousands, it seemed, scampered and plopped into the water. And the place stank most foully. But unpleasant though it was, it had the friendliness of something associated with man. It had none of the haunting lostness of the unused culvert from which I had just come. And then I caught my first glimpse of daylight. What a blessed sight that was! And how unattainable! It came from one of the ventilation shafts. I paused for a moment beneath it. There was a circular hole in the roof and far above me I saw a little circle of very white light. It was like looking up the shaft of a well. And down that shaft came a friendly sound — the sound of a London bus. For a moment it was quite distinct. Then it was gone, merged into the gentle murmur of traffic in the roadway far above and in the nearer sound of moving water.

I was just starting forward again, when a sound made me turn. It was the sound of voices, distant, but clear as in a speaking tube. Behind me flashed the light of torches. They must have been nearly a quarter of a mile away, for the sewer ran straight as a die. For a second I was riveted to the spot. Not by fear, but by my first glimpse along the sewer. The curve of the walls showed black and glistening and the tunnel seemed to narrow down to those pinpoints of light. The shape of the sewer was that of an egg. The roof was nicely rounded, like the tubes of the Underground, but the walls came sharply inwards as they fell and finished almost in a point. And constructed out of the wall nearest me was the little platform on which I was standing. To the right of that platform, the water moved sluggishly towards me, black and unpleasant. The Styx itself could not have looked more grim. And between me and those pinpoints of light were rats — thousands of them.

Like a fool, I had turned with my torch still alight. In an instant, I heard the faint echo of ‘There he is.’ That broke the spell. I turned and ran. But I was hampered by the dimness of my torch and I could sense my followers closing up on me. Every fifty yards or so I passed beneath a ventilation shaft, and occasionally I heard the murmur of the street above. And behind me was the ever-present sound of running feet, hollow and distorted by the echo. I passed several subsidiary sewers. These were much smaller than the main sewer and had no platform along which to walk. I dared not turn off up any of these, because my pursuers could see my movements and I feared being trapped in a dead end. That same fear prevented me from hiding in any of the exit shafts I passed. These were dark openings in the wall of the sewer that led to a brick shaft. As I ran past them, the light of my torch showed dimly the lower rungs of an iron ladder. These were the exits for the sewer men and led to the pavement above. But I knew that, without the iron key with which to unlock the metal trap-door at the top, it would only lead to my capture.

By now I must have run more than a mile along that main sewer. I was almost dropping with fatigue and was rapidly losing the will to go on. I felt my capture was inevitable and I wanted to give in. At the same time I was spurred automatically on by the fear that was in my heart. My torch was very dim by now. But that no longer worried me. The sewers seemed a friendly place. My imagination no longer dwelt upon the horror of wandering alone in the darkness in this evil-smelling rat-infested, subterranean rabbit warren. All my thoughts were centred upon that box again. Anything was better than that. And at every stop I felt my pursuers gaining on me.

The horror of it was that I knew my strength would soon give out. I had had no sleep. I had laboured as I had not laboured in years throughout the night, and now I was running for my life. I could not keep it up for ever. I knew enough about London’s sewers to know the main sewers run down to the Barking flats. There the sewage is separated, the water is purified and run out into the Thames and the sludge is carried out in barges to be dumped out by the Nore lightship. And Barking was miles away!

I had reached the conclusion that the only thing to do was to hide in one of the exit shafts and hope for the best, when I noticed that the sewer was bearing away to the right. The bend proved quite a sharp one, doubtless following the roadway above. I followed it round, and when the walls straightened out again, I glanced back over my shoulder. All was dark behind me. My pursuers were lost round the bed. I increased my pace, breathing heavily. I had developed a painful stitch and I knew that I was at the end of my tether.

Then I saw what I wanted. The black circle of a tributary sewer showing in the wall to my right. There was no pathway along it. The water ran steadily out from the tunnel dark and filthy. I did not hesitate. I stepped down into that tunnel and splashed up it. The sewage was about a foot and a half deep. But it did not worry me. With a last burst of energy, I surged through it, glancing every now and then over my shoulder for the glow of light that would tell me that the chase had reached the entrance. When I saw that glow outlining the circular opening of my sewer, I switched off my torch and slowed up so that I made no sound as I pushed steadily on through the sewage water.

I saw the flash of their torches as they passed the entrance and went on down the main sewer, and I breathed a sigh of relief. But that relief was shortlived, for within a minute the beam of a powerful torch was shone along the sewer. Impeded by the water and my weak condition, my progress had been slow, so that I was still no more than a hundred yards from the entrance. A shout echoed eerily along the tunnel, and a second later there was a loud report and a bullet sang past me, hit the wall ahead and went singing up the sewer.

But the light of the torches had showed me a bend in the tunnel ahead. The sound of that bullet whistling up that narrow tunnel gave me fresh strength. I splashed furiously on. Another shot was fired, but I think the bullet must have hit the water behind me, for it never reached me. A few moments later and I had rounded the bend. I could have cried out for joy then for the sewer forked. I took the right-hand branch, for I saw there was no bend in it.

My pursuers no longer had the advantage of their torches for it was impossible to push ahead through the water at anything but a slow rate. It was up to my knees. Moreover, I was able to save my torch, for the sewer was a circular pipe and I could feel the middle with my feet. I could touch the wall, too, on either side. And as I staggered on a faint luminosity grew behind me until I could actually see the sweating concrete of the tunnel on either side of me. My pursuers had guessed which fork I had taken.

I could have sat down and cried like a child for weariness and despair. The tunnel ran straight before me and, at any moment, they would sight me and I should be under fire again.

And then I had my first real bit of luck. I saw a square opening in the tunnel on my left. I peeped into it as I passed and saw daylight shining upon an iron ladder. Quite distinctly I heard a voice say, ‘Mind where you’re treading, Bert.’ I stopped, and down that ladder appeared the heavy waders of a sewer man. I had an overwhelming urge to reach the light of day. But I suppose a sixth sense held me back. In an instant my brain took up the argument of my instinct. I should not be able to get there before the pursuit was upon me. I must look a terrible sight. Apart from the mess my clothes were in, I was unshaven and hollow-eyed. At best I should be taken to a police station, and if Marburgs charged me as one of their clerks with some petty crime, I might have considerable difficulty in clearing myself. And the engine was due to leave London in two nights’ time.

All this flashed through my mind as the man’s waders came slowly into view. I knew instantly that I dared not risk it. I hurried on up the sewer, making as little noise as possible. And then it began to bend. I think I must have been round that bend before the chase came into the straight behind me. And then the sound of voices echoed and re-echoed along the tunnel. The best that I could have hoped for had happened. The sewer men had stepped out into the tunnel to find out who was coming through the sewer. The long altercation faded away behind me. The sewer forked again. Then I came to a ventilation shaft, the top of which was scarcely ten feet above my head. I could see wheels crossing over it and the roar of traffic was practically continuous. I guessed I must be somewhere near the river now, for I had turned right from the main sewer, which must have been leading in the direction of Barking, and I was now clearly in a low-lying part of London. The number of tributary sewers — little more than pipes — became increasingly numerous, so that I guessed I was in a district of congested, narrow streets. The concrete circular walls of the sewer in which I was walking had now given place to stone, and I realised that this must be one of the old sewers still in use. The rats, too, seemed more numerous here. My legs were perpetually brushing against them.

I was beginning to wonder how I was to get out. I had hoped, once I had shaken off my pursuers, to climb one of the exit shafts, and by shouting and beating on the cast-iron trap-door at the top to attract the attention of a passer-by. But there seemed to be no exit shafts to this sewer.

I think it was the fear that I might have to retrace my steps and risk the possibility of capture if I were ever to get out, that made me pause before a patch of bricks. The bricks formed a large square, like the entrance to a passage, in the left-hand wall of the sewer. I peered at them closely in the dull glimmer of my fading torch. One or two near the top were missing and the mortar was crumbling badly. I pulled two or three away and, pushing my torch into the gap, I gazed through. There seemed to be a sort of passageway with walls of stone that reminded me of the old sewer I had got into from the Marburg vaults. But it was not that so much as the air that decided me. The atmosphere of the old tunnel was cool and almost fresh in comparison with the warm stench to which I had become accustomed.

The bricks presented little difficulty. They came away quite easily, and in a short space of time I had made a hole big enough to climb through. There was no doubt about it. This was an old sewer. And it led, I felt certain, in the direction of the river. This seemed to be confirmed by the fact that it sloped gently in the direction in which I was going. But progress was slow. My torch was reduced to such a feeble glimmer that it made no impression upon the darkness unless thrust very closely to the floor. The culvert was in a very bad state of repair. Probably it had not been used for more than a century.

Soon my torch gave out completely. I went forward, feeling my way, my hands stretched out on either side to touch the wet slimy stone of the walls. The darkness was the darkness of the vaults from which I had escaped. It pressed down against my eyes. I was filled with a terrible lassitude and I was hungry, and above all thirsty. But I kept doggedly on because the air on my face was fresh and I knew there must be an opening somewhere.

Often I looked at the luminous dial of my watch — not to see the time, but to see its friendly little face shining at me in the darkness. I was determined not to use a match until it was absolutely necessary, for the box in my pocket was half empty. For hours and hours I groped my way along that culvert. There were no ventilation shafts. I could see nothing, only the Stygian blackness. But the warm stench of the sewers was behind me, and for that I was thankful.

I had entered the culvert shortly after ten. I think it was about one o’clock that I slipped and lay on the stones, exhausted. I slept fitfully for a while. And when at last I had recovered strength enough to climb to my feet, I found it was three o’clock. I was soaked to the skin, for there was a certain amount of water in the culvert, and I was shivering with cold.

Nevertheless, the sleep had done me good. But with my recovered strength I found my brain no longer dulled. And my imagination, always a little too vivid, pictured myself groping along that tunnel unendingly till I died. Once I nearly panicked. Only the dial of my wrist-watch saved me. It was a friendly face and gave me courage. The culvert twisted and turned and my feet were sore and bruised with stumbling against the blocks of broken stone that had fallen from the roof. My one great fear was that I should bear away from the open air on a branch of the culvert. But always I had the satisfaction of feeling cool air on my face. As long as I felt that cool air in front of me, I knew I should find strength to go on. Pains were beginning to shoot through my belly, pains of hunger. But they were nothing to the thirst, which swelled my tongue and clove it to the roof of my mouth. And all the time I was slopping through water, which I still had sense enough not to touch.

Suddenly the walls on either side of me opened out. I lost contact with them. I stopped and pulled out my box of matches. But I found them sodden by the water in which I had lain asleep. I went back a few steps, found the left-hand wall and began to follow it. Almost immediately it fell away again and I had to turn a sharp left to keep in touch with it. Before I had gone more than a few paces I realised that I was no longer facing into the cool air, and faint, but quite distinguishable, I smelt the sewers again. I knew then that I had come to a point at which two of these old sewers met. I retraced my steps, found my own sewer, and began following the right-hand wall. The same thing happened. After that, I turned my face towards the cool air and moved slowly, blindly forward, feeling my way with my feet. Soon my hands which were outstretched in front of me touched the wet cold surface of a stone wall. I followed it and found that I was still facing the cool air.

After a time, I stopped and, facing directly away from this wall, went forward a few paces. The ground sloped away to water. I stumbled against a stone and found my feet sinking into mud. Then the ground rose again and I came up against another wall. I knew then that I was in a much wider sewer, and my spirits rose.

It was now nearly four. If I did not reach the entrance soon, darkness would have fallen. I knew it would be folly to attempt to get out into the Thames, presuming that that was where the sewer led, in the dark. And I had no desire to spend the night in the place. Where I had fallen and slept there had been hardly any rats. But here there seemed to be thousands of them. The sound of their movement was everywhere, like the soughing of a wind up the sewer.

Soon I encountered slimy weed on the wall along which I was feeling my way, then my feet began to slither and squelch on a thin layer of mud, which extended close up to the wall. I knew then that I must be nearing the Thames, and a new fear assailed me. Until that moment I had had no thought of what the exit of the sewer into the river would be like. I had just been intent on reaching that exit — nothing else. The mud got deeper until it was pulling at my sodden shoes. Then I found I was floundering through a few inches of water. I had a sudden awful fear that the sewer might come out into the river underwater. Or supposing the water came right up the sewer at high tide? Should I be able to find my way back faster than the water flowed up the culvert? It was an unpleasant thought. But I went doggedly on, encouraged by the cool air on my face, which could now be described as almost a breeze.

Soon I was in nearly a foot of water. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly a quarter to five. And then I noticed a peculiar thing. That friendly little face was not as bright as it had been. I peered closely at the watch. But there was no doubt about it. The luminosity was dulled. I stared around me in the darkness. Was it my imagination, or had it lightened? Was there a tinge of grey in the inky blackness?

I stumbled hurriedly on, the wall curving away to the right. Soon I was left in no doubt at all. The darkness was lifting. Ahead of me I could begin to make out vaguely the bend of the sewer. A little farther and the darkness had become definitely grey. Soon I could see the walls, all weedgrown and slimy. And then the sewer itself took shape — a sixteen-foot-wide arched culvert made of great stone blocks, beneath which a sheet of water stretched from wall to wall.

The relief of seeing daylight filtering through into that disused tunnel! I went forward at an increased rate, my hunger and thirst and weariness forgotten in my joy at the sight of that grey light. The sewer bore away to the left, and as I rounded the bend, the water now over my knees, I saw the actual opening into the river. There before me was an arch of daylight that almost hurt my eyes. And across that arched sewer exit was a lattice-work of iron bars, like a portcullis.

It was the last straw. I think I should have burst into tears if I had not been so buoyed up by the sight of that grey half-circle of daylight. Beyond it, I could see some sort of wharf. The great wooden piles were wrapped in green weed, and around them the river slopped. There was a wooden ladder, too, its rungs rotting, but giving promise of a way to safety, if only I could get through those iron bars. They reached right to the arched roof of the sewer. But there was a cross-bar near the water level. I could stand on that and perhaps by shouting I should be able to attract attention to my plight.

I went forward resolutely. The iron grille was only about fifty yards from me. The water rose to my waist. It was bitterly cold and there was a scum of oil floating on its dark surface. At each step my feet sank deeper into mud. I had soon lost both my shoes, but I did not mind, for it lightened my feet. When the water was up to my chest, I launched out, using a long sweeping breast stroke and ducking my head at each thrust of my arms. I made good pace and I was within a few yards of the bars before my muscles had grown tired with the weight of my waterlogged clothes.

Four more strokes and I was clutching the bar near the centre. But the cross-bar, which from a distance of fifty yards had seemed so near the water level, was over three feet above my head. In my exhausted condition, I knew I could never draw myself up to it. I looked back, The darkness of that tunnel, full of inky water, appalled me. I could not face the prospect of going back. Besides, I was doubtful whether I could make it.

Twenty yards beyond the grille the water slopped tantalisingly against the lower rungs of the ladder to the wharf. I thought if I clung to the bars for a time, the incoming tide might lift me to the cross bar. But then, out beyond the green timbers of the wharf, I saw a barge drifting slowly downstream, and I knew then that the tide was still on the ebb. The centre of the river was whipped into brown waves by the tide and the wind, and beyond was a drab line of wharves and cranes. How homely and safe they seemed! I had many times looked at such a scene from the security of London Bridge, and I longed to be back there, treading its firm pavements.

My left hand suddenly slipped on the rust-coated bar. I quickly took a fresh grip. The cold was beginning to tell on me. Soon my hands would be numb and I should have to let go and attempt to get back into the sewer. And perhaps I should never have the strength to swim out to the grille again. I had to do something. I began to shout. I shouted till my throat was rough. My calls echoed back at me from the sewer. The big stone archway rang with my cries. But no one came. I began to scream. The panic feeling of a drowning man had seized me. But it was Saturday. No one was about. And when no one came or answered, blank despair suddenly fell upon me. I was suddenly silent, clutching the cold bars with my hands and looking out upon the river with my chin just above the water. And with my silence, came a mental calm, and I knew that I must either go back or find a means of going forward. And whichever I did, I should have to do it quickly.

There was only one possible chance of going forward. I took a deep breath, shut my mouth and then, with my hands on the bars, pushed myself under the water. It seemed a long way that I went down, and all the time my feet were against the bars. My lungs felt as though they would burst. But one more thrust of my arms and my feet were no longer touching the bars. I felt about, but there were no bars where my feet were. Another thrust and they sank into the mud. I let go my hold of the bars and struggled to the surface, where I gulped in fresh air in great mouthfuls.

I rested for a moment, clutching the bars again. I reckoned there was a gap of about two feet, or perhaps a little more, between the end of the bars and mud. But it was a long dive and there was the mud. I had an awful fear of being caught in that mud. And then there might be spikes sticking out on the other side, which would prevent me from rising.

It was a long time before I could pluck up the necessary courage. But with every minute I was getting colder. And so, suddenly, like a diver taking his first plunge of the year, I took a deep breath and began thrusting myself down hand over hand. It was done before I had time to think about it. In no time, it seemed, my feet were clear of the bars. I thrust myself sideways, pulling my body down with my hands, like a monkey crawling across the face of his cage. I felt the pointed end of a bar. The water was singing in my ears. I thrust myself farther down. I felt my body press against mud that yielded and bubbled unpleasantly. I had the point of a bar in the palm of my hand. I thrust myself under it. For a moment my foot became entangled with the points of the bars. My lungs now felt as though they must burst my chest apart. I wrenched my foot clear, and in the same movement, thrust myself upwards, letting go my hold on the bars.

I thought I should never reach the surface. But I did, and as I panted for breath, I found the tide carrying me slowly towards the wharf. It was perhaps as well, for I was very weak now. But I had sense enough to realise that the tide might grow stronger and sweep me past the ladder if I did not fend for myself. I summoned my last remaining energy, and with a few desperate strokes, reached the ladder and hung there, gasping and half crying.

I never thought a ladder twenty feet high could seem so far. My clothes, sodden with water, added to my weight, and my exhausted muscles, now relaxed in the relief of safety, would scarcely pull me from one rung to the next.