CONDEMNED TO DEATH
Half an hour passed in silence, which was broken only by the footsteps
of the sentries as they tramped, or rather loitered, up and down, or by
the occasional fall of some calcined masonry from the walls of the
burnt-out house. What between the smell of smoke and dust, the heat of
the sun on the tin roof above, and the red-hot embers of the house in
front, the little room where Bessie was shut up grew almost unbearable,
and she felt as though she should faint upon the sacks. Through one of
the cracks in the waggon-house wall there blew a slight draught, and by
this crack Bessie placed herself, leaning her head against the wall so
as to get the full benefit of the air and to command a view of the
place. Presently several of the Boers came into the waggon-house and
pulled some of the carts and timber out of it, leaving one buck-waggon,
however, placed along the wall on the side opposite to the crack
through which Bessie was looking. Then they pulled the Scotch cart over
to her side, laughing about something among themselves as they did so,
and arranged it with its back turned towards the waggon, supporting the
shafts upon a waggon-jack. Next, out of the farther corner of the
place, they extracted an old saw-bench, and set it at the top of the
open space. Then Bessie understood what they were doing: they were
arranging a court, and the saw-bench was the judge’s chair. So Frank
Muller meant to carry out his threat!
Shortly after this all the Boers, except those who were keeping guard,
filed into the place and began to clamber on to the buck-waggon,
seating themselves with much rough joking in a double row upon the
broad side rails. Next appeared Hans Coetzee, his head bound up in a
bloody handkerchief. He was pale and shaky, but Bessie could see that
he was but little the worse for his wound. Then came Frank Muller
himself, looking white and very terrible, and as he came the men
stopped their jokes and talking. Indeed it was curious to observe how
strong was his ascendancy over them. As a rule, the weak part of Boer
organisation is that it is practically impossible to persuade one Boer
to pay deference to or obey another; but this was certainly not the
case where Frank Muller was concerned.
Muller advanced without hesitation to the saw-bench at the top of the
open space, and sat down on it, placing his rifle between his knees.
After this there was a pause, and then Bessie saw her old uncle led
forward by two armed Boers, who halted in the middle of the space,
about three paces from the saw-bench, and stood one on either side of
their prisoner. At the same time Hans Coetzee climbed into the Scotch
cart, and Muller drew a note-book and a pencil from his pocket.
“Silence!” he said. “We are assembled here to try the Englishman, Silas
Croft, by court-martial. The charges against him are that by word and
deed, notably by continuing to fly the British flag after the country
had been surrendered to the Republic, he has traitorously rebelled
against the Government of this country. Further, that he has attempted
to murder a burgher of the Republic by shooting at him with a loaded
rifle. If these charges are proved against him he will be liable to
death, by martial law. Prisoner Croft, what do you answer to the
charges against you?”
The old man, who seemed very quiet and composed, looked up at his
judge, and then replied:
“I am an English subject. I only defended my house after you had
murdered one of my servants. I deny your jurisdiction over me, and I
refuse to plead.”
Frank Muller made some notes in his pocket-book, and then said, “I
overrule the prisoner’s objection as to the jurisdiction of the court.
As to the charges, we will now take evidence. Of the first charge no
evidence is needed, for we all saw the flag flying. As to the second,
Hans Coetzee, the assaulted burgher, will now give evidence. Hans
Coetzee, do you swear, in the name of God and the Republic, to speak
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“Almighty, yes,” answered Hans from the cart on which he had enthroned
himself, “so help me the dear Lord.”
“Proceed, then.”
“I was entering the house of the prisoner to arrest him, in obedience
to your worshipful commands, when the prisoner lifted a gun and fired
at me. The bullet from the gun struck me upon the ear, cutting it and
putting me to much pain and loss of blood. That is the evidence I have
to give.”
“That’s right; that is not a lie,” said some of the men on the waggon.
“Prisoner, have you any question to ask the witness?” said Muller.
“I have no question to ask; I deny your jurisdiction,” said the old man
with spirit.
“The prisoner declines to question the witness, and again pleads to the
jurisdiction, a plea which I have overruled. Gentlemen, do you desire
to hear any further evidence?”
“No, no.”
“Do you find the prisoner guilty of the charges laid against him?”
“Yes, yes,” from the waggon.
Muller made a further note in his book, and went on:
“Then, the prisoner having been found guilty of high treason and
attempted murder, the only matter that remains is the question of the
punishment required to be meted out by the law to such wicked and
horrible offences. Every man will give his verdict, having duly
considered if there is any way by which, in accordance with the holy
dictates of his conscience, and with the natural promptings to pity in
his heart, he can extend mercy to the prisoner. As commandant and
president of the court, the first vote lies with me; and I must tell
you, gentlemen, that I feel the responsibility a very heavy one in the
sight of God and my country; and I must also warn you not to be
influenced or overruled by my decision, who am, like you, only a man,
liable to err and be led away.”
“Hear, hear,” said the voices on the waggon as he paused to note the
effect of his address.
“Gentlemen and burghers of the State, my natural promptings in this
case are towards pity. The prisoner is an old man, who has lived many
years amongst us like a brother. Indeed, he is a _voortrekker_, and,
though an Englishman, one of the fathers of the land. Can we condemn
such a one to a bloody grave, more especially as he has a niece
dependent on him?”
“No, no!” they cried, in answer to this skilful touch upon the better
strings in their nature.
“Gentlemen, those sentiments do you honour. My own heart cried but now,
‘No, no. Whatever his sins have been, let the old man go free.’ But
then came reflection. True, the prisoner is old; but should not age
have taught him wisdom? Is that which is not to be forgiven to youth to
be forgiven to the ripe experience of many years? May a man murder and
be a traitor because he is old?”
“No, certainly not!” answered the chorus on the waggon.
“Then there is the second point. He was a _voortrekker_ and a father to
the land. Should he not therefore have known better than to betray it
into the hands of the cruel, godless English? For, gentlemen, though
that charge is not laid against him, we must remember, as throwing
light upon his general character, that the prisoner was one of those
vile men who betrayed the land to Shepstone. Is it not a most cruel and
unnatural thing that a father should sell his own children into
slavery?—that a father of the land should barter away its freedom?
Therefore on this point too does justice temper mercy.”
“That is so,” echoed the chorus with particular enthusiasm, most of
them having themselves been instrumental in bringing the annexation
about.
“Then one more thing: this man has a niece, and it is the care of all
good men to see that the young shall not be left destitute and
friendless, lest they should grow up bad and become enemies to the
well-being of the State. But in this case that will not be so, for the
farm will go to the girl by law; and, indeed, she will be well rid of
so desperate and godless an old man.
“And now, having set my reasons towards one side and the other before
you, and having warned you fully to act each man according to his
conscience, I give my vote. It is”—and in the midst of the most intense
silence he paused and looked at old Silas, who never even quailed—“it
is _death_.”
There was a little hum of conversation, and poor Bessie, surveying the
scene through the crack in the store-room wall, groaned in bitterness
and despair of heart.
Then Hans Coetzee spoke. “It cut his bosom in two,” he said, “to have
to say a word against one to whom he had for many years been as a
brother. But, then, what was he to do? The man had plotted evil against
their land, the dear land that the dear Lord had given them, and which
they and their fathers had on various occasions watered, and were still
continuing to water, with their blood. What could be a fitting
punishment for so black-hearted a traitor, and how would it be possible
to insure the better behaviour of other damned Englishmen, unless they
inflicted that punishment? There could, alas! be but one answer—though,
personally speaking, he uttered it with many tears—and that answer was
_death_.”
After this there were no more speeches, but each man voted, according
to his age, upon his name being called by the president. At first there
was a little hesitation, for some among them were fond of old Silas,
and loth to destroy him. But Frank Muller had played his game very
well, and, notwithstanding his appeals to their independence of
judgment, they knew full surely what would happen to him who gave his
vote against the president. So they swallowed their better feelings
with all the ease for which such swallowing is noted, and one by one
uttered the fatal word.
When they had all done Frank Muller addressed Silas:
“Prisoner, you have heard the judgment against you. I need not now
recapitulate your crimes. You have had a fair and open trial by
court-martial, such as our law directs. Have you anything to say why
sentence of death should not be passed upon you in accordance with the
judgment?”
Old Silas looked up with flashing eyes, and shook back his fringe of
white hair like a lion at bay.
“I have nothing to say. If you will do murder, do it, black-hearted
villain that you are! I might point to my grey hairs, to my murdered
servant, to my home that took me ten years to build—destroyed by you! I
might tell you how I have been a good citizen and lived peaceably and
neighbourly in the land for more than twenty years—ay, and done
kindness after kindness to many of you who are going to butcher me in
cold blood! But I will not. Shoot me if you will, and may my death lie
heavy on your heads. This morning I would have said that my country
would avenge me; I cannot say that now, for England has deserted us,
and I have no country. Therefore I leave the vengeance in the hands of
God, who never fails to avenge, though sometimes He waits for long to
do it. I am not afraid of you. Shoot me—now if you like. I have lost my
honour, my home, and my country; why should I not lose my life also?”
Frank Muller fixed his cold eyes upon the old man’s quivering face and
smiled a dreadful smile of triumph.
“Prisoner, it is now my duty in the name of God and the Republic, to
sentence you to be shot to-morrow at dawn, and may the Almighty forgive
you your wickedness and have mercy upon your soul.
“Let the prisoner be removed, and let a man ride full speed to the
empty house on the hillside, where the Englishman with the red beard
used to live, one hour this side of Wakkerstroom, and bring back with
him the clergyman he will find waiting there, that the prisoner may be
offered his ministrations. Also let two men be set to dig the
prisoner’s grave in the burial-place at the back of the house.”
The guards laid their hands upon the old man’s shoulders, and he turned
and went with them without a word. Through her crack in the wall Bessie
watched him go till the dear old head with its fringe of white hairs
and the bent frame were no more visible. Then at last, benumbed and
exhausted by the horrors she was passing through, her faculties failed
her, and she fell forward in a faint there upon the sacks.
Meanwhile Muller was writing the death-warrant on a sheet of his
pocket-book. At the foot he left a space for his own signature, but for
reasons of his own he did not sign. What he did do was to pass the book
round to be countersigned by all who had formed the court in this mock
trial, his object being to implicate every one there present in the
judicial murder by the direct and incontrovertible evidence of his
sign-manual. Now, Boers are simple pastoral folk, but they are not
quite so simple as to be deceived by a move like this, and hereon
followed a very instructive little scene. To a man they had been
willing enough to give their verdict for the execution of Silas, but
they were by no means prepared to record it in black and white. As soon
as they understood the object of their feared and respected commandant,
a general desire manifested itself to make themselves individually and
collectively scarce. Suddenly they found that they had business
outside, to which each and all of them must attend. Already they had
escaped from their extemporised jury-box, and, headed by the
redoubtable Hans, were approaching the entrance to the waggon-house,
when Frank Muller perceived their design, and roared in a voice of
thunder:
“Stop! Not a man leaves this place till the warrant is signed.”
Instantly they halted, and began to look innocent and converse.
“Hans Coetzee, come here and sign,” said Muller again, whereon that
unfortunate advanced with as good a grace as he could muster, murmuring
to himself curses, not loud but deep, upon the head of “that devil of a
man, Frank Muller.”
However, there was no help for it, so, with a sickly smile, he put his
name to the fatal document in big and shaky letters. Then Muller called
another man, who instantly tried to shirk on the ground that his
education had been neglected, and that he could not write, an excuse
which availed him little, for Frank Muller quietly wrote his name for
him, leaving a space for his mark. After this there was no more
trouble, and in five minutes the back of the warrant was covered with
the sprawling signatures of the various members of the court.
One by one the men went, till at last Muller was left alone, seated on
the saw-bench, his head sunk upon his breast, in one hand holding the
warrant, while with the other he stroked his golden beard. Presently he
ceased stroking his beard and sat for some minutes perfectly still—so
still that he might have been carved in stone. By this time the
afternoon sun had sunk behind the hill and the deep waggon-house was
full of shadow that seemed to gather round him and invest him with a
sombre, mysterious grandeur. He looked like a King of Evil, for Evil
has her princes as well as Good, whom she stamps with an imperial seal
of power, and crowns with a diadem of her own, and among these Frank
Muller was surely great. A little smile of triumph played upon his
beautiful cruel face, a little light danced within his cold eyes and
ran down the yellow beard. At that moment he might have sat for a
portrait of his master, the devil.
Presently he awoke from his reverie. “I have her!” he said to himself;
“I have her in a vice! She cannot escape me; she cannot let the old man
die! Those curs have served my purpose well; they are as easy to play
on as a fiddle, and I am a good player. Yes, and now we are getting to
the end of the tune.”