CHAPTER ONE Hemingway gets off the train and looks around in the early morning dark. The grey stone station is out in the sticks. "Land speculation," the Station Master tells him. "Somebody got wind the railway was looking and land got too expensive in the city. But there''s a shuttle," he says. "We hook the sleeping car up to it. We''ll get you downtown." In the waiting room, everyone is talking about the prison break.
This isn''t the first attempt on Warden John C. Ponsford''s watch. The prison is a terrible place, they say, where terrible things happen. No wonder people want to get out. There is a copy of yesterday''s The Daily British Whig abandoned on a train station bench. Hemingway picks it up. "Where''s McAdoo''s Woods?" he asks the Station Master. "Northwest of here.
Not too far." The Station Master motions for Hemingway to come closer. "From what I hear," he whispers, "Red Ryan met this guy McMullen on a train. They''re both bank robbers. They were on the way to Kingston Pen. Buddy of mine''s a conductor. He says the two of them got pretty darn chummy during the trip." "Who was in charge of that?" Hemingway asks rummaging in his pocket for his notebook to start writing things down.
The Station Master rolls his eyes. "The last time Red Ryan was in the Pen, before he pulled this last job, they let him out to fight in the war. Gave him a full pardon." "That''s probably where he learned about smoke screens," Hemingway says. He laughs and begins making notes, drafting the story in his mind. Use short sentences. Use short first paragraphs. Use vigorous English.
The rules he learned before the war as a teenage reporter on the Kansas City Star. The Station Master walks toward the door, cigarette and matches in his hand. Hemingway follows him scouring the landscape in the semi-darkness. From what he can see, everything north of the station looks like dense, wooded terrain. It shouldn''t be too hard to lay low. The sound of the shuttle coupling with the Pullman car makes the Station Master throw down his cigarette and stamp it out with his black boot. "You better get going, young fella. They''ll be leaving without you.
" Hemingway swings on board on and climbs back up to his berth. As they roll toward the city, he thinks of the men loose in the bush. If it was him, he''d know how to survive on the run. His father taught him how to hunt at their summer place in northern Michigan. Hell, he''s even hunted pigeons in the parks of Paris to stay alive; wringing their necks before they had a chance to squawk. The shuttle train follows a gentle slope down to the banks of a river. He can see hard-edged buildings here and there. Almost as if someone had shaken them like dice and then let them fly across the landscape.
Every now and then, as they rattle along, there is a house with a golden glow spilling out from a window. Nothing like Paris, crowded and glittering all night long. They clatter over the mangle of rail lines that cross the bottom of the city. There is a grain elevator and huge cargo ships in the harbour. The fall sun is still below the horizon but the mist that''s hanging over the water is starting to glow red. Last night in the club car, he heard more rumours than a freshman in a locker room. Some people think the convicts are in the city; some people think they''re hiding in a barn. Some people think they stole a rumrunner''s boat and headed across the river to the U.
S. of A. Everybody has a theory but nobody knows. The brakes squeak as they bump to a stop at the inner station. It''s only 5:30. He asks about hotels and gets sent to a grey stone building down the street. "Good morning sir," the hotel clerk says to him as puts his valise down on the front desk. "Welcome to the Prince George Hotel.
" "Hemingway, Toronto Star. I need a room and a photographer." "You''re just in time for breakfast," the clerk says swivelling the hotel register around for Hemingway to sign. The smell of bacon frying fills the air.