IN WHICH, AS USUAL IN THE LAST CHAPTER OF A WORK, EVERYTHING IS WOUND UP
MUCH TO THE READER'S SATISFACTION, AND NOT A LITTLE TO THE AUTHOR'S, WHO
LAYS DOWN HIS PEN, EXCLAIMING, "THANK GOD!"
I went back to the inn, and ordering the horses to be put to, I
explained to all but Mary the propriety of their now returning home.
Mary was lifted in, and it was a relief to my mind to see them all
depart. As for myself, I resolved to remain until the last; but I was
in a state of feverish agitation, which made me restless. As I paced up
and down the room, the newspaper caught my eye. I laid hold of it
mechanically, and looked at it. A paragraph rivetted my attention.
"His Majesty's ship _Immortalite_ Chatham, to be paid off." Then our
ship has come home. But what was that now? Yet something whispered to
me that I ought to go and see Captain Maclean, and try if anything could
be done. I knew his commanding interest, and although it was now too
late, still I had an impulse to go and see him, which I could not
resist. "After all," said I to myself, "I'm of no use here, and I may
as well go." This feeling, added to my restlessness, induced me to
order horses, and I went to Chatham, found out that Captain Maclean was
still on board, and took boat off to the frigate. I was recognised by
the officers, who were glad to see me, and I sent a message to the
captain, who was below, requesting to see him. I was asked into the
cabin, and stated to him what had occurred, requesting his assistance,
if possible.
"Faithful," replied he, "it appears that Tom Beazeley has deserted
twice; still there is much extenuation; at all events, the punishment of
death is too severe, and I don't _like_ it--I can save him, and I will.
By the rule of the services, a deserter from one service can be claimed
from the other, and must be tried by his officers. His sentence is,
therefore, not legal. I shall send a party of marines, and claim him as
a deserter from the Navy, and they must and shall give him up--make
yourself easy, Faithful, his life is as safe as yours."
I could have fallen on my knees and thanked him, though I could hardly
believe that such good news was true.
"There is no time to lose, sir," replied I, respectfully; "he is to be
shot to-morrow at nine o'clock."
"He will be on board here to-morrow at nine o'clock, or I am not Captain
Maclean. But, as you say, there is no time to lose. It is now nearly
dark, and the party must be off immediately. I must write a letter on
service to the commanding officer of the depot. Call my clerk."
I ran out and called the clerk. In a few minutes the letter was
written, and a party of marines, with the second lieutenant, despatched
with me on shore. I ordered post-chaises for the whole party, and
before eleven we were at Maidstone. The lieutenant and I sat up all
night, and, at daylight, we summoned the marines and went to the
barracks, where we found the awful note of preparation going forward,
and the commanding officer up and attending to the arrangements. I
introduced the lieutenant, who presented the letter on service.
"Good heavens, how fortunate! You can establish his identity, I
presume."
"Every man here can swear to him."
"'Tis sufficient, Mr Faithful. I wish you and your friend joy of this
reprieve. The rules of the service must be obeyed, and you will sign a
receipt for the prisoner."
This was done by the lieutenant, and the provost marshal was ordered to
deliver up the prisoner. I hastened with the marines into the cell; the
door was unlocked. Tom, who was reading his Bible, started up, and
perceiving the red jackets, thought that he was to be led out to
execution.
"My lads," exclaimed he, "I am ready; the sooner this is over the
better."
"No, Tom," said I, advancing; "I trust for better fortune. You are
claimed as a deserter from the _Immortalite_."
Tom stared, lifted the hair from his forehead, and threw himself into my
arms; but we had no time for a display of feelings. We hurried Tom away
from the barracks; again I put the whole party into chaises, and we soon
arrived at Chatham, where we embarked on board of the frigate. Tom was
given into the charge of the master-at-arms as a deserter, and a letter
was written by Captain Maclean, demanding a court-martial on him.
"What will be the result?" inquired I of the first lieutenant.
"The captain says, little or nothing, as he was pressed as an
apprentice, which is contrary to Act of Parliament."
I went down to cheer Tom with this intelligence, and taking my leave,
set off for London with a light heart. Still I thought it better not to
communicate this good news until assurance was made doubly sure. I
hastened to Mr Drummond's, and detailed to them all that had passed.
The next day Mr Wharncliffe went with me to the Admiralty, where I had
the happiness to find that all was legal, and that Tom could only be
tried for his desertion from a man-of-war; and that if he could prove
that he was an apprentice, he would, in all probability, be acquitted.
The court-martial was summoned three days after the letter had been
received by the Admiralty. I hastened down to Chatham to be present.
It was very short; the desertion was proved, and Tom was called upon for
his defence. He produced his papers, and proved that he was pressed
before his time had expired. The court was cleared for a few minutes,
and then re-opened. Tom was acquitted on the ground of illegal
detention, contrary to Act of Parliament, and he was _free_. I returned
my thanks to Captain Maclean and his officers for their kindness, and
left the ship with Tom in the cutter, ordered for me by the first
lieutenant. My heart swelled with gratitude at the happy result. Tom
was silent, but his feelings I could well analyse. I gave to the men of
the boat five guineas to drink Tom's health, and, hastening to the inn,
ordered the carriage, and with Tom, who was a precious deposit, for upon
his welfare depended the happiness of so many, I hurried to London as
fast as I could, stopped at the Drummond's to communicate the happy
intelligence, and then proceeded to my own house, where we slept. The
next morning I dressed Tom in some of my clothes, and we embarked in the
wherry.
"Now, Tom," said I, "you must keep in the background at first, while I
prepare them. Where shall we go first?"
"Oh, to my mother," replied Tom.
We passed through Putney Bridge, and Tom's bosom heaved as he looked
towards the residence of Mary. His heart was there, poor fellow! and he
longed to fly to the poor girl and dry her tears; but his first duty was
to his parents.
We soon arrived abreast of the residence of the old couple, and I
desired Tom to pull in, but not turn his head round, lest they should
see him before I had prepared them; for too much joy will kill as well
as grief. Old Tom was not at his work, and all was quiet. I landed and
went to the house, opened the door, and found them both sitting by the
kitchen fire in silence, apparently occupied in watching the smoke as it
ascended up the spacious chimney.
"Good morning to you both," said I; "how do you find yourself, Mrs
Beazeley?"
"Ah, deary me!" replied the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes.
"Sit down, Jacob, sit down," said old Tom; "we _can_ talk of him now."
"Yes, now that he's in heaven, poor fellow!" interposed the old woman.
"Tell me, Jacob," said old Tom, with a quivering lip, "did you see the
last of him? Tell me all about it. How did he look? How did he
behave? Was he soon out of his pain? And--Jacob--where is he buried!"
"Yes, yes;" sobbed Mrs Beazeley; "tell me where is the body of my poor
child."
"Can you bear to talk about him?" said I.
"Yes, yes; we can't talk too much; it does us good," replied she. "We
have done nothing but talk about him since we left him."
"And shall, till we sink down into our own graves," said old Tom, "which
won't be long. I've nothing to wish for now, and I'll never sing again,
that's sartain. We shan't last long, either of us. As for me,"
continued the old man with a melancholy smile, looking down at his
stumps. "I may well say that I've _two_ feet in the grave already. But
come, Jacob, tell us all about him."
"I will," replied I; "and my dear Mrs Beazeley, you must prepare
yourself for different tidings than what you expect. Tom is not yet
shot."
"Not dead!" shrieked the old woman.
"Not yet, Jacob;" cried old Tom, seizing me by the arm, and squeezing it
with the force of a vice, as he looked me earnestly in the face.
"He lives; and I am in hopes he will be pardoned."
Mrs Beazeley sprang from her chair and seized me by the other arm.
"I see--I see by your face. Yes, Jacob, he is pardoned; and we shall
have our Tom again."
"You are right, Mrs Beazeley; he is pardoned, and will soon be here."
The old couple sank down on their knees beside me. I left them, and
beckoned from the door to Tom, who flew up, and in a moment was in their
arms. I assisted him to put his mother into her chair, and then went
out to recover myself from the agitating scene. I remained about an
hour outside, and then returned. The old couple seized me by the hands,
and invoked blessings on my head.
"You must now part with Tom a little while," said I; "there are others
to make happy besides yourselves."
"Very true," replied old Tom; "go, my lad, and comfort her. Come,
missus, we mustn't forget others."
"Oh, no. Go, Tom; go and tell her that I don't care how soon she is my
daughter."
Tom embraced his mother, and followed me to the boat; we pulled up
against the tide, and were soon at Putney.
"Tom, you had better stay in the boat. I will either come or send for
you."
It was very unwillingly that Tom consented, but I overruled his
entreaties, and he remained. I walked to Mary's house and entered. She
was up in the little parlour, dressed in deep mourning; when I entered
she was looking out upon the river; she turned her head, and perceiving
me, rose to meet me.
"You do not come to upbraid me, Jacob, I am sure," said she, in a
melancholy voice; "you are too kind-hearted for that."
"No, no, Mary; I come to comfort you, if possible."
"That is not possible. Look at me, Jacob. Is there not a worm--a
canker--that gnaws within?"
The hollow cheek and wild flaring eye, once so beautiful, but too
plainly told the truth.
"Mary," said I, "sit down; you know what the Bible says--`It is good for
us to be afflicted.'"
"Yes, yes," sobbed Mary, "I deserve all I suffer; and I bow in humility.
But am I not too much punished, Jacob? Not that I would repine; but is
it not too much for me to bear, when I think that I am the destroyer of
one who loved me so?"
"You have not been the destroyer, Mary."
"Yes, yes; my heart tells me that I have."
"But--I tell you that you have not. Say, Mary, dreadful as the
punishment has been, would you not kiss the rod with thankfulness, if it
cured you of your unfortunate disposition, and prepared you to make a
good wife?"
"That it has cured me, Jacob, I can safely assert; but it has also
killed me as well as him. But I wish not to live; and I trust, in a few
short months, to repose by his side."
"I hope you will have your wish, Mary, very soon, but not in death."
"Merciful heavens! what do you mean, Jacob?"
"I said you were not the destroyer of poor Tom--you have not been; he
has not _yet_ suffered; there was an informality, which has induced them
to revise the sentence."
"Jacob," replied Mary, "it is cruelty to raise my hopes only to crush
them again. If not yet dead, he is still to die. I wish you had not
told me so," continued she, bursting into tears; "what a state of agony
and suspense must he have been in all this time, and I--I have caused
his sufferings! I trusted he had long been released from this cruel,
heartless world."
The flood of tears which followed assured me that I could safely impart
the glad intelligence. "Mary, Mary, listen to me."
"Leave me, leave me," sobbed Mary, waving her hand.
"No, Mary, not until I tell you that Tom is not only alive, but--
pardoned."
"Pardoned!" shrieked Mary.
"Yes, pardoned, Mary--free, Mary--and in a few minutes will be in your
arms."
Mary dropped on her knees, raised her hands and eyes to heaven, and then
fell into a state of insensibility. Tom, who had followed me, and
remained near the house, had heard the shriek, and could no longer
retain himself; he flew into the room as Mary fell, and I put her into
his arms. At the first signs of returning sensibility, I left them
together, and went to find old Stapleton, to whom I was more brief in my
communication. Stapleton continued to smoke his pipe during my
narrative.
"Glad of it, glad of it," said he, when I finished. "I were just
thinking how all these senses brought us into trouble, more than all,
that sense of love; got me into trouble, and made me kill a man--got my
poor wife into trouble, and drowned her--and now almost shot Tom, and
killed Mary. Had too much of HUMAN NATUR' lately--nothing but moist
eyes and empty pipes. Met that sergeant yesterday, had a turn up; Tom
settled one eye, and, old as I am, I've settled the other for a time.
He's in bed for a fortnight--couldn't help it--human natur'."
I took leave of Stapleton, and calling in upon Tom and Mary, shaking
hands with the one, and kissing the other, I despatched a letter to the
Dominie, acquainting him with what had passed, and then hastened to the
Drummonds and imparted the happy results of my morning's work to Sarah
and her mother.
"And now, Sarah, having so successfully arranged the affairs of other
people, I should like to plead in my own behalf. I think that after
having been deprived almost wholly of your dear company for a month, I
deserve to be rewarded."
"You do, indeed, Jacob," said Mrs Drummond, "and I am sure that Sarah
thinks so too, if she will but acknowledge it."
"I do acknowledge it, mamma; but what is this reward to be?"
"That you will allow your father and mother to arrange an early day for
our nuptials, and also allow Tom and Mary to be united at the same
altar."
"Mamma, have I not always been a dutiful daughter?"
"Yes, my love, you have."
"Then I shall do as I am bidden by my parents, Jacob; it will be
probably the last command I receive from them, and I shall obey it; will
that please you, dear Jacob?"
That evening the day was fixed, and now I must not weary the reader with
a description of my feelings, or of my happiness in the preparations for
the ceremony. Sarah and I, Mary and Tom, were united on the same day,
and there was nothing to cloud our happiness. Tom took up his abode
with his father and mother; and Mary, radiant with happiness, even more
beautiful than ever, has settled down into an excellent, doting wife.
For Sarah, I hardly need say the same; she was my friend from childhood,
she is now all that a man could hope and wish for. We have been married
several years, and are blessed with a numerous family.
I am now almost at a conclusion. I have only to acquaint the reader
with a few particulars relative to my early friends. Stapleton is still
alive, and is wedded to his pipe, which, with him, although the taste
for tobacco has been considered as an acquired one, may truly be
asserted to be human nature. He has two wherries with apprentices, and
from them gains a good livelihood, without working himself. He says
that the boys are not as honest as I was, and cheat him not a little;
but he consoles himself by asserting that it is nothing but human
natur'. Old Tom is also strong and hearty, and says that he don't
intend to follow his legs for some time yet. His dame, he says, is
peaking, but Mary requires no assistance. Old Tom has left off mending
boats, his sign is taken down, for he is now comfortable. When Tom
married, I asked him what he wished to do; he requested me to lend him
money to purchase a lighter; I made him a present of a new one, just
launched by Mr Drummond's firm. But old Stapleton made over to him the
200 pounds, left to him by Mr Turnbull, and his mother brought out an
equal sum from her hoards. This enabled Tom to purchase another
lighter, and now he has six or seven, I forget which; at all events he
is well off, and adding to his wealth every year. They talk of removing
to a better house, but the old couple wish to remain. Old Tom,
especially, has built an arbour where the old boat stood, and sits there
carolling his songs, and watching the crafts as they go up and down the
river.
Mr and Mrs Wharncliffe still continue my neighbours and dearest
friends. Mrs Turnbull died a few months back, and I am now in
possession of the whole property. My father and mother-in-law are well
and happy. Mr Drummond will retire from business as soon as he can
wind up his multifarious concerns. I have but one more to speak of--the
old Dominie. It is now two years since I closed the eyes of this worthy
man. As he increased in years so did he in his abstractions of mind,
and the governors of the charity thought it necessary to superannuate
him with a pension. It was a heavy blow to the old man, who asserted
his capabilities to continue to instruct; but people thought otherwise,
and he accepted my offer to take up his future residence with us, upon
the understanding that it was necessary that our children, the eldest of
whom, at that time, was but four years old, should be instructed in
Latin and Greek. He removed to us with all his books, etcetera, not
forgetting the formidable birch; but as the children would not take to
the Latin of their own accord, and Mrs Faithful would not allow the rod
to be made use of, the Dominie's occupation was gone. Still, such was
the force of habit, that he never went without the Latin grammar in his
pocket, and I have often watched him sitting down in the poultry-yard,
fancying, I presume, that he was in his school. There would he decline,
construe, and conjugate aloud, his only witnesses being the poultry, who
would now and then raise a gobble, gobble, gobble, while the ducks with
their _quack, quack, quack_, were still more impertinent in their
replies. A sketch of him, in this position, has been taken by Sarah,
and now hangs over the mantel-piece of my study, between two of Mr
Turnbull's drawings, one of an iceberg, on the 17th of August '78, and
the other showing the dangerous position of the _Camel_ whaler, jammed
between the floe of ice, in latitude ---, and longitude ---.
Reader, I have now finished my narrative. There are two morals, I
trust, to be drawn from the events of my life, one of which is, that in
society we naturally depend upon each other for support, and that he who
would assert his independence throws himself out of the current which
bears to advancement; the other is, that with the advantages of good
education, and good principle, although it cannot be expected that
everyone will be so fortunate as I have been, still there is every
reasonable hope, and every right to expect, that we shall do well in
this world. Thrown up, as the Dominie expressed himself, as a tangled
weed from the river, you have seen the orphan and charity-boy rise to
wealth and consideration; you have seen how he who was friendless
secured to himself the warmest friends; he who required everything from
others became in a situation to protect and assist in return; he who
could not call one individual his relation, united to the object of his
attachment, and blessed with a numerous family; and to amass all these
advantages and this sum of happiness, the only capital with which he
embarked was a good education and good principles.
Reader, farewell!