I hastened to the black hole where Tom was confined, and the order for
my admission having arrived before me, I was permitted by the sergeant
of the guard to pass the sentry. I found Tom sitting on a bench
notching a stick with his knife, whistling a slow tune.
"This is kind, Jacob, but not more than I expected of you--I made sure
that I should see you to-night or to-morrow morning. How's poor Mary?
I care only for her now--I am satisfied--she loves me, and--I knocked
out the sergeant's eye--spoilt his wooing, at all events."
"But, Tom, are you aware of the danger in which you are placed?"
"Yes, Jacob, perfectly; I shall be tried by a court-martial and shot.
I've made up my mind to it--at all events, it's better than being hung
like a dog, or being flogged to death like a nigger. I shall die like a
gentleman, if I have never been one before, that's some comfort. Nay, I
shall go out of the world with as much noise as if a battle had been
fought, or a great man had died."
"How do you mean?"
"Why there'll be more than one _bullet-in_."
"This is no time for jesting, Tom."
"Not for you, Jacob, as a sincere friend, I grant; not for poor Mary, as
a devoted girl; not for my poor father and mother--no, no," continued
Tom. "I feel for them, but for myself I neither fear nor care. I have
not done wrong--I was pressed against the law and Act of Parliament, and
I deserted. I was enlisted when I was drunk and mad, and I deserted.
There is no disgrace to me; the disgrace is to the government which
suffers such acts. If I am to be a victim, well and good--we can only
die once."
"Very true, Tom; but you are young to die, and we must hope for the
best."
"I have given up all hope, Jacob. I know the law will be put in force.
I shall die and go to another and a better world, as the parson says,
where, at all events, there will be no muskets to clean, no drill, and
none of your confounded pipe-clay, which has almost driven me mad. I
should like to die in a blue jacket--in a red coat I will not, so I
presume I shall go out of the world in my shirt, and that's more than I
had when I came in."
"Mary and her father are coming down to you, Tom."
"I'm sorry for that, Jacob; it would be cruel not to see her--but she
blames herself so much that I cannot bear to read her letters. But,
Jacob, I will see her, to try if I can comfort her--but she must not
stay; she must go back again till after the court-martial, and the
sentence, and then--if she wishes to take her farewell, I suppose I must
not refuse." A few tears dropped from his eyes as he said this.
"Jacob, will you wait and take her back to town?--she must not stay
here--and I will not see my father and mother until the last. Let us
make one job of it, and then all will be over."
As Tom said this the door of the cell again opened, and Stapleton
supported in his daughter. Mary tottered to where Tom stood, and fell
into his arms in a fit of convulsions. It was necessary to remove her,
and she was carried out. "Let her not come in again, I beseech you,
Jacob; take her back, and I will bless you for your kindness. Wish me
farewell now, and see that she does not come again." Tom wrung me by
the hand, and turned away to conceal his distress. I nodded my head in
assent, for I could not speak for emotion, and followed Stapleton and
the soldiers who had taken Mary out. As soon as she was recovered
sufficiently to require no further medical aid, I lifted her into the
post-chaise, and ordered the boys to drive back to Brentford. Mary
continued in a state of stupor during the journey; and when I arrived at
my own house, I gave her into the charge of the gardener's wife, and
despatched her husband for medical assistance. The application of Mr
Wharncliffe was of little avail, and he returned to me with
disappointment in his countenance. The whole of the next week was the
most distressing that I ever passed; arising from my anxiety for Tom, my
daily exertions to reason Mary into some degree of submission to the
will of Providence--her accusations of herself and her own folly--her
incoherent ravings, calling herself Tom's murderer, which alarmed me for
her reason; the distress of old Tom and his wife, who, unable to remain
in their solitude, came all to me for intelligence, for comfort, and for
what, alas! I dare not give them--hope. All this, added to my
separation from Sarah during my attendance to what I considered my duty,
reduced me to a debility, arising from mental exertion, which changed me
to almost a skeleton.
At last the court-martial was held, and Tom was condemned to death. The
sentence was approved of, and we were told that all appeals would be
unavailing. We received the news on the Saturday evening, and Tom was
to suffer on the Tuesday morning. I could no longer refuse the appeals
of Mary; indeed, I received a letter from Tom, requesting that all of
us, the Dominie included, would come down and bid him farewell. I hired
a carriage for old Tom, his wife, Stapleton, and Mary, and putting the
Dominie and myself in my own chariot, we set off early on the Sunday
morning for Maidstone. We arrived about eleven o'clock, and put up at
an inn in close proximity to the barracks. It was arranged that the
Dominie and I should see Tom first, then his father and mother, and
lastly, Mary Stapleton.
"Verily," said the Dominie, "my heart is heavy, exceeding heavy; my soul
yearneth after the poor lad, who is thus to lose his life for a woman--a
woman from whose toils I did myself escape. Yet is she exceeding fair
and comely, and now that it is unavailing, appeareth to be penitent."
I made no reply; we had arrived at the gate of the barracks. I
requested to be admitted to the prisoner, and the doors were unbarred.
Tom was dressed with great care and cleanliness in white trousers and
shirt and waistcoat, but his coat lay on the table; he would not put it
on. He extended his hand towards me with a faint smile.
"It's all over now, Jacob; and there is no hope that I am aware of, and
I have made up my mind to die; but I wish these last farewells were
over, for they unman me. I hope you are well, sir," continued Tom to
the Dominie.
"Nay, my poor boy, I am as well as age and infirmity will permit, and
why should I complain when I see youth, health, and strength about to be
sacrificed; and many made miserable, when many might be made so happy?"
And the Dominie blew his nose, the trumpet sound of which re-echoed
through the cell, so as to induce the sentry to look through the bars.
"They are all here, Tom," said I. "Would you like to see them now?"
"Yes; the sooner it is over the better."
"Will you see your father and mother first?"
"Yes," replied Tom, in a faltering tone.
I went out, and returned with the old woman on my arm, followed by old
Tom, who stumped after me with the assistance of his stick. Poor old
Mrs Beazeley fell on her son's neck, sobbing convulsively.
"My boy--my boy--my dear, dear boy!" said she at last, and she looked up
steadfastly in his face. "My God! he'll be dead to-morrow!"
Her head again sank on his shoulder, and her sobs were choking her. Tom
kissed his mother's forehead as the tears coursed down his cheeks, and
motioned me to take her away. I placed her down on the floor, where she
remained silent, moving her head up and down with a slow motion, her
face buried in her shawl. It was but now and then that you heard a
convulsive drawing of her breath. Old Tom had remained a silent but
agitated spectator of the scene. Every muscle in his weather-beaten
countenance twitched convulsively, and the tears at last forced their
way through the deep furrows on his cheeks. Tom, as soon as his mother
was removed, took his father by the hand, and they sat down together.
"You are not angry with me, father, for deserting?"
"No, my boy, no; I was angry with you for 'listing, but not for
deserting. What business had you with the pipeclay? But I do think I
have reason to be angry elsewhere, when I reflect that after having lost
my two legs in defending her, my country is now to take from me my boy
in his prime. It's but a poor reward for long and hard service--poor
encouragement to do your duty; but what do they care? they have had my
sarvices, and they have left me a hulk. Well, they may take the rest of
me if they please, now that they--Well, it's no use crying; what's done
can't be helped," continued old Tom, as the tears ran down in torrents;
"they may shoot you, Tom; but this I know well, you'll die game, and
shame them by proving to them they have deprived themselves of the
sarvices of a good man when good men are needed. I would not have so
much cared," continued old Tom, after a pause--"(look to the old woman,
Jacob, she's tumbling over to port)--if you had fallen on board a king's
ship in a good frigate action; some must be killed when there's hard
fighting; but to be drilled through by your own countrymen, to die by
their hands, and, worst of all, to die in a red coat, instead of a true
blue--"
"Father, I will not die in a red coat--I won't put it on."
"That's some comfort, Tom, anyhow, and comfort's wanted."
"And I'll die like a man, father."
"That you will, Tom, and that's some comfort."
"We shall meet again, father."
"Hope so, Tom, in heaven--that's some comfort."
"And now, father, bless me, and take care of my poor mother."
"Bless you, Tom, bless you!" cried the old man, in a suffocating voice,
extending both his hands towards Tom, as they rose up; but the
equilibrium was no longer to be maintained, and he reeled back in the
arms of me and Tom. We lowered him gently down by the side of his wife;
the old couple turned to each other, and embracing, remained sobbing in
each other's arms.
"Jacob," said Tom, squeezing me by the hand, with a quivering lip, "by
your regard for me, let now the last scene be got over--let me see Mary,
and let this tortured heart once more be permitted a respite." I sent
out the Dominie. Tom leant against the wall, with his arms folded, in
appearance summoning up all his energy for the painful meeting. Mary
was led in by her father. I expected she would have swooned away, as
before; but, on the contrary, although she was pale as death, and
gasping for breath, from intensity of feeling, she walked up to Tom
where he was standing, and sat down on the form close to him. She
looked anxiously round upon the group, and then said, "I know that all I
now say is useless, Tom; but still I must say it--it is I who, by my
folly, have occasioned all this distress and misery--it is I who have
caused you to suffer a--dreadful death--yes, Tom, I am your murderer."
"Not so, Mary, the folly was my own," replied Tom, taking her hand.
"You cannot disguise or palliate to me, dearest Tom," replied Mary; "my
eyes have been opened, too late it is true, but they have been opened;
and although it is kind of you to say so, I feel the horrid conviction
of my own guilt. See what misery I have brought about. There is a
father who has sacrificed his youth and his limbs to his country,
sobbing in the arms of a mother whose life is bound up with that of her
only son. To them," continued Mary, falling down upon her knees, "to
them I must kneel for pardon, and I ask it as they hope to be forgiven.
Answer me--oh! answer me! can you forgive a wretch like me?"
A pause ensued. I went up to old Tom, and kneeling by his side, begged
him to answer.
"Forgive her, poor thing--yes; who could refuse it, as she kneels there?
Come," continued he, speaking to his wife, "you must forgive her. Look
up, dame, at her, and think that our poor boy may be asking the same of
heaven to-morrow at noon."
The old woman looked up, and her dimmed eyes caught a sight of Mary's
imploring and beautiful attitude; it was not to be withstood.
"As I hope for mercy to my poor boy, whom you have killed, so do I
forgive you, unhappy young woman."
"May God reward you, when you are summoned before Him," replied Mary.
"It was the hardest task of all. Of you, Jacob, I have to ask
forgiveness for depriving you of your early and truest friend--yes, and
for much more. Of you, sir," addressing the Dominie, "for my conduct
towards you, which was cruel and indefensible--will you forgive me?"
"Yes, Mary, from my heart, I do forgive you," replied I.
"Bless thee, maiden, bless thee!" sobbed the Dominie.
"Father, I must ask of you the same--I have been a wilful child--forgive
me!"
"Yes, Mary; you could not help it," replied old Stapleton, blubbering;
"it was all human natur'."
"And now," said Mary, turning round on her knees to Tom, with a look
expressive of anguish and love, "to you, Tom, must be my last appeal. I
know _you_ will forgive me--I know you have--and this knowledge of your
fervent love makes the thought more bitter that I have caused your
death. But hear me, Tom, and all of you hear me. I never loved but
you; I have liked others much; I liked Jacob; but you only ever did make
me feel I had a heart; and alas, you only have I sacrificed. When led
away by my folly to give you pain, I suffered more than you--for you
have had my only, you shall have my eternal and unceasing love. To your
memory I am hereafter wedded, to join you will be my only wish--and if
there could be a boon granted me from heaven, it would be to die with
you, Tom--yes, in those dear arms."
Mary held out her arms to Tom, who falling down on his knees, embraced
her, and thus they remained with their faces buried in each other's
shoulders. The whole scene was now at its climax; it was too
oppressive, and I felt faint, when I was aroused by the voice of the
Dominie, who, lifting up both his arms, and extending them forth,
solemnly prayed, "O Lord, look down upon these Thy servants in
affliction; grant to those who are to continue in their pilgrimage
strength to bear Thy chastening--grant to him who is to be summoned to
Thee that happiness which the world cannot give; and O God most mighty,
God most powerful, lay not upon us burdens greater than we can bear.--My
children let us pray."
The Dominie knelt down and repeated the Lord's prayer; all followed his
example, and then there was a pause.
"Stapleton," said I, pointing to Mary. I beckoned to the Dominie. We
assisted up old Tom, and then his wife, and led them away; the poor old
woman was in a state of stupefaction, and until she was out in the air
was not aware that she had quitted her son. Stapleton had attempted to
detach Mary from Tom, but in vain; they were locked together as if in
death. At last Tom, roused by me, suffered his hold to be loosened, and
Mary was taken out in a happy state of insensibility, and carried to the
inn by her father and the Dominie.
"Are they all gone?" whispered Tom to me, as his head reclined on my
shoulder.
"All, Tom."
"Then the bitterness of death is past; God have mercy on them, and
assuage their anguish; they want His help more than I do."
A passionate flood of tears, which lasted some minutes, relieved the
poor fellow; he raised himself, and drying his eyes, became more
composed.
"Jacob, I hardly need tell my dying request, to watch over my poor
father and mother, to comfort poor Mary--God bless you, Jacob! you have
indeed been a faithful friend, and may God reward you. And now, Jacob,
leave me; I must commune with my God, and pray for forgiveness. The
space between me and eternity is but short."
Tom threw himself into my arms, where he remained for some minutes; he
then broke gently away, and pointed to the door. I once more took his
hand and we parted.