GEORGE FORESTER'S DEATH.
Ronald Mervyn led so active a life for some months after the departure
of Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, that he had little time to spend in
thought, and it was only by seizing odd minutes between intervals of
work that he could manage to send home a budget at all proportionate in
size to that which he regularly received. When the courier came up with
the English mails there had been stern fighting, for although the
British force was raised by the arrival of reinforcements from India and
England to over 5,000 men, with several batteries of artillery, it was
with the greatest difficulty that it gradually won its way into the
Kaffir stronghold. Several times the troops were so hardly pressed by
the enemy that they could scarcely claim a victory, and a large number
of officers and men fell. The Cape Mounted Rifles formed part of every
expedition into the Amatolas, and had their full share of fighting.
Ronald had several times distinguished himself, especially in the fight
in the Water Kloof Valley, when Colonel Fordyce, of the 74th, and Carey
and Gordon, two officers of the same regiment, were killed, together
with several of their men, while attacking the enemy in the bush. He was
aware now that his secret was known to the men. He had fancied that
searching and inquisitive glances were directed towards him, and that
there was a change in the demeanour of certain men of his troop, these
being without exception the idlest and worst soldiers. It was Sergeant
Menzies who first spoke to him on the subject. It was after a hard day's
march when, having picketed their horses and eaten their hastily cooked
rations, the two non-commissioned officers lit their pipes and sat down
together at a short distance from the fire.
"I have been wanting to speak to you, lad, for the last day or two.
There is a story gaining ground through the troop that, whether it is
true or whether it is false, you ought to know."
"I guessed as much, Menzies," Ronald said. "I think I know what the
story is, and who is the man who has spread it. It is that I bore
another name in England."
"Yes, that's partly it, lad. I hear that you are rightly Captain
Mervyn."
"Yes, that's it, Menzies, and that I was tried and acquitted for murder
in England."
"That's the story, my lad. Of course, it makes no difference to us who
you are, or what they say you have done. We who know you would not
believe you to have committed a murder, much less the murder of a woman,
if all the juries in the world had said you had. Still I thought I would
let you know that the story is going about, so that you might not be
taken aback if you heard it suddenly. Of course, it's no disgrace to be
tried for murder if you are found innocent; it only shows that some
fools have made a mistake, and been proved to be wrong. Still, as it has
been talked about, you ought to know it. There is a lot of feeling in
the regiment about it now, and the fellow who told the story has had a
rough time of it, and there's many a one would put a bullet into him if
he had the chance. What they say is, whether you are Captain Mervyn or
not is nothing to anybody but yourself. If you were tried and acquitted
for this affair it ought to have dropped and nothing more been said
about it, and they hold that anyhow a man belonging to the corps ought
to have held his tongue about anything he knew against another who is
such a credit to us."
"The man might have held his tongue, perhaps," Ronald said, quietly;
"but I never expected that he would do so. The fellow comes from my
neighbourhood, and bore a bad character. A man who has shot a gamekeeper
would be pretty sure to tell anything he knew to the disadvantage of any
one of superior rank to himself. Well, sergeant, you can only tell any
one who asks you about it that you have questioned me, and that I
admitted at once that the story was true--that I was Captain Mervyn, and
that I was tried for murder and acquitted. Some day I hope my innocence
may be more thoroughly proved than it was on the day I was acquitted. I
daresay he has told the whole of the facts, and I admit them freely."
"Well, lad, I am glad you have spoken. Of course it will make no
difference, except perhaps to a few men who would be better out of the
corps than in it; and they know too well what the temper of the men is
to venture to show it. I can understand now why you didn't take a
commission. I have often wondered over it, for it seemed to me that it
was just the thing you would have liked. But I see that till this thing
was cleared up you naturally wouldn't like it. Well, I am heartily sorry
for the business, if you don't mind my saying so. I have always been
sure you were an officer before you joined us, and wondered how it was
that you left the army. You must have had a sore time of it. I am sorry
for you from my heart."
Ronald sat quiet for some time thinking after Sergeant Menzies left him,
then rose and walked towards the fire where the officers were sitting.
"Can I speak with you a few minutes, Captain Twentyman?" he said. The
officer at once rose.
"Anything wrong in the troop, sergeant?"
"No, sir; there is nothing the matter with the troop, it is some
business of my own. May I ask if you have heard anything about me,
Captain Twentyman?"
"Heard anything! In what way do you mean, sergeant?"
"Well, sir, as to my private history."
"No," the officer said, somewhat puzzled.
"Well, sir, the thing has got about among the men. There is one of them
knew me at home, and he has told the others. Now that it is known to the
men, sooner or later it will be known to the officers, and therefore I
thought it better to come and tell you myself, as captain of my troop."
"It can be nothing discreditable, I am quite sure, sergeant," the
officer said, kindly.
"Well, sir, it is discreditable; that is to say, I lie under a heavy
charge, from which I am unable to clear myself. I have been tried for it
and found not guilty, but I am sure that if I had been before a Scotch
jury the verdict would have been not proven, and I left the court
acquitted indeed, but a disgraced and ruined man."
"What was the charge?"
"The charge was murder," Ronald said, quietly. Captain Twentyman
started, but replied:
"Ridiculous. No one who knew you could have thought you guilty for a
moment."
"I think that none who knew me intimately believed in my guilt, but I am
sure that most people who did not so know me believed me guilty. I
daresay you saw the case in the papers. My real name, Captain Twentyman,
is Ronald Mervyn, and I was captain in the Borderers. I was tried for
the murder of my cousin, Margaret Carne."
"Good Heavens! Is it possible?" Captain Twentyman exclaimed. "Of course
I remember the case perfectly. We saw it in the English papers somewhere
about a year ago, and it was a general matter of conversation, owing, of
course, to your being in the army. I didn't know what to think of it
then, but now I know you, the idea of your murdering a woman seems
perfectly ridiculous. Well, is there anything you would wish me to do!"
"No, sir; I only thought you ought to be told. I leave it with you to
mention it to others or not. Perhaps you will think it best to say
nothing until the story gets about. Then you can say you are aware of
it."
"Yes, I think that would be the best," Captain Twentyman said, after
thinking it over. "I remember that I thought when I read the account of
that trial that you were either one of the most lucky or one of the most
unfortunate men in the world. I see now that it was the latter."
A few days later, an hour or two before the column was about to march,
a flag hoisted at the post-office tent told the camp that the mail had
arrived, and orderlies from each corps at once hurried there. As they
brought the bags out they were emptied on the ground. Some of the
sergeants set to work to sort the letters, while the officers stood
round and picked out their own as they lay on the grass.
"Here, Blunt, here's one for you," Sergeant Menzies said, when Ronald
came up.
Ronald took the letter, and sauntering away a short distance, threw
himself on the ground and opened it. After reading the first line or two
he leaped to his feet again, and took a few steps up and down, with his
breath coming fast, and his hands twitching. Then he stood suddenly
still, took off his cap, bent his head, put his hand over his eyes, and
stood for a few minutes without moving. When he put his cap on again his
face was wet with tears, his hands were trembling so that when he took
the letter again he could scarce read it. A sudden exclamation broke
from him as he came upon the name of Forester. The letter was so long
that the trumpets were sounding by the time he had finished. He folded
it and put it in his tunic, and then strode back with head erect to the
spot where the men of his troop were saddling their horses. As he passed
on among them a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped before one of
the men and touched him on the shoulder.
"You villain," he said, "you have been accusing me of murder. You are a
murderer yourself."
The man's face paled suddenly.
"I know you, George Forester," Ronald went on, "and I know that you are
guilty. You have to thank the woman who once loved you that I do not at
once hand you over to the provost-marshal to be sent to England for
trial, but for her sake I will let you escape. Make a confession and
sign it, and then go your way where you will, and no search shall be
made for you; if you do not, to-morrow you shall be in the hands of the
police."
"There is no evidence against me more than against another," the man
said, sullenly.
"No evidence, you villain?" Ronald said. "Your knife--the knife with
your initials on it--covered with blood, was found by the body."
The man staggered as if struck.
"I knew I had lost it," he said, as if to himself, "but I didn't know I
dropped it there."
At this moment the bugle sounded.
"I will give you until to-morrow morning to think about it," and Ronald
ran off to mount his horse, which he had saddled before going for his
letter.
Sergeant Menzies caught sight of his comrade's face as he sprang into
the saddle.
"Eh, man," he said, "what's come to you? You have good news, haven't
you, of some kind? Your face is transfigured, man!"
"The best," Ronald said, holding out his hand to his comrade. "I am
proved to be innocent."
Menzies gave him a firm grip of the hand, and then each took his place
in the ranks. There was desperate fighting that day with the Kaffirs.
The Cape Mounted Rifles, while scouting ahead of the infantry in the
bush, were suddenly attacked by an immense body of Kaffirs. Muskets
cracked, and assegais flew in showers. Several of the men dropped, and
discharging their rifles, the troopers fell back towards the infantry.
As they retreated, Ronald looked back. One of the men of his troop,
whose horse had been shot under him, had been overtaken by the enemy,
and was surrounded by a score of Kaffirs. His cap was off, and Ronald
caught sight of his face. He gave a shout, and in an instant had turned
his horse and dashed towards the group.
"Come back, man, come back!" Captain Twentyman shouted. "It's madness!"
But Ronald did not hear him. The man whose confession could alone
absolutely clear him was in the hands of the Kaffirs, and must be saved
at any cost. A moment later he was in the midst of the natives, emptying
his revolvers among them. Forester had sunk on one knee as Ronald,
having emptied one of his revolvers, hurled it in the face of a Kaffir;
leaning over, he caught Forester by the collar, and, with a mighty
effort, lifted and threw him across the saddle in front of him, then
bending over him, he spurred his horse through the natives. Just at this
moment Captain Twentyman and a score of the men rode up at full speed,
drove the Kaffirs back for an instant, and enabled Ronald to rejoin his
lines. Three assegais had struck him, and he reeled in the saddle as,
amidst the cheers of his companions, he rode up.
"One of you take the wounded man in front of you," Lieutenant Daniels
said, "and carry him to the rear. Thompson, do you jump up behind
Sergeant Blunt, and support him. There is no time to be lost. Quick,
man, these fellows are coming on like furies."
The exchange was made in half a minute; one of the men took George
Forester before him, another sprang up behind Ronald and held him in his
saddle with one hand, while he took the reins in the other. Then they
rode fast to the rear, just as the leading battalion of infantry came up
at a run and opened fire on the Kaffirs, who, with wild yells, were
pressing on the rear of the cavalry.
When Ronald recovered his senses he was lying in the ambulance waggon,
and the surgeon was dressing his wounds.
"That's right, sergeant," he said, cheeringly, "I think you will do. You
have three nasty wounds, but by good luck I don't think any of them are
vital."
"How is Forester?" Ronald asked.
"Forester?" the surgeon repeated in surprise, "Whom do you mean,
Blunt?"
"I mean Jim Smith, sir; his real name was Forester."
"There is nothing to be done for him," the surgeon said. "Nothing can
save him; he is riddled with spears."
"Is he conscious?" Ronald asked.
"No, not at present."
"Will he become conscious before he dies, sir?"
"I don't know," the surgeon replied, somewhat puzzled at Ronald's
question. "He may be, but I cannot say."
"It is everything to me, sir," Ronald said. "I have been accused of a
great crime of which he is the author. He can clear me if he will. All
my future life depends upon his speaking."
"Then I hope he may be able to speak, Blunt, but at present I can't say
whether he will recover consciousness or not. He is in the waggon here,
and I will let you know directly if there is any change."
Ronald lay quiet, listening to the firing that gradually became more
distant, showing that the infantry were driving the Kaffirs back into
the bush. Wounded men were brought in fast, and the surgeon and his
assistant were fully occupied. The waggon was halted now, and at
Ronald's request the stretchers upon which he and Forester were lying
were taken out and laid on the grass under the shade of a tree.
Towards evening, the surgeon, having finished his pressing work, came to
them. He felt George Forester's pulse.
"He is sinking fast," he said, in reply to Ronald's anxious look. "But I
will see what I can do."
He poured some brandy between George Forester's lips, and held a bottle
of ammonia to his nose. Presently there was a deep sigh, and then
Forester opened his eyes. For a minute he looked round vaguely, and then
his eye fell upon Ronald.
"So you got me out of the hands of the Kaffirs, Captain Mervyn," he
said, in a faint voice. "I caught sight of you among them as I went
down. I know they have done for me, but I would rather be buried whole
than hacked into pieces."
"I did my best for you, Forester," Mervyn said. "I am sorry I was not up
a minute sooner. Now, Forester, you see I have been hit pretty hard,
too; will you do one thing for me? I want you to confess about what I
was speaking to you: it will make all the difference to other people."
"I may as well tell the truth as not," Forester said; "though I don't
see how it makes much difference."
"Doctor," Ronald said, "could you kindly send and ask Captain Twentyman
and Lieutenant Daniels to come here at once? I want them to hear."
George Forester's eyes were closed, and he was breathing faintly when
the two officers, who had ridden up a few minutes before with their
corps, came up to the spot.
The surgeon again gave the wounded man some strong cordial.
"Will you write down what he says?" Ronald asked Captain Twentyman.
The latter took out a note-book and pencil.
"I make this confession," Forester said, faintly, "at the request of
Captain Mervyn, who risked his life in getting me out from among the
Kaffirs. My real name is George Forester, and at home I live near
Carnesford, in Devonshire. I was one night poaching in Mr. Carne's
woods, with some men from Dareport, when we came upon the keepers. There
was a fight. One of the keepers knocked my gun out of my hand, and as he
raised his stick to knock me on the head, I whipped out my knife, opened
it, and stuck it into him. I didn't mean to kill him, it was just done
in a moment; but he died from it. We ran away. Afterwards I found
that I had lost my knife. I suppose I dropped it. That's all I have to
say."
"Not all, Forester, not all," said Ronald, who had listened with
impatience to the slowly-uttered words of the wounded man; "not all. It
isn't that, but about the murder of Miss Carne I want you to tell."
"The murder of Miss Carne," George Forester repeated, slowly. "I know
nothing about that. She made Ruth break it off with me, and I nearly
killed Ruth, and would have killed her if I had had the chance, but I
never had. I was glad when I heard she was killed, but I don't know who
did it."
"But your knife was found by her body," Ronald said. "You must have done
it, Forester."
"Murdered Miss Carne!" the man said, half raising himself on his elbow
in surprise. "Never. I swear I had nothing to do with it."
A rush of blood poured from his mouth, for one of the spears had pierced
his lung, and a moment later George Forester fell back dead. The
disappointment and revulsion of feeling were too great for Ronald
Mervyn, and he fainted. When he recovered, the surgeon was leaning over
him.
[Illustration: _George Forester's death._]
"You mustn't talk, lad; you must keep yourself quite quiet, or we shall
have fever setting in, and all sorts of trouble."
Ronald closed his eyes, and lay back quietly. How could this be? He
thought of Mary Armstrong's letter, of the chain of proofs that had
accumulated against George Forester. They seemed absolutely convincing,
and yet there was no doubting the ring of truth in the last words of the
dying man. His surprise at the accusation was genuine; his assertion of
his innocence absolutely convincing; he had no motive for lying; he was
dying, and he knew it. Besides, the thing had come so suddenly upon him
there could have been no time for him to frame a lie, even if he had
been in a mental condition to do so. Whoever killed Margaret Carne,
Ronald Mervyn was at once convinced that it was not George Forester.
There he lay, thinking for hours over the disappointment that the news
would be to Mary Armstrong, and how it seemed more unlikely than ever
that the mystery would ever be cleared up now. Gradually his thoughts
became more vague, until at last he fell asleep.
Upon the following day the wounded were sent down under an escort to
King Williamstown, and there for a month Ronald Mervyn lay in hospital.
He had written a few lines to Mary Armstrong, saying that he had been
wounded, but not dangerously, and that she need not be anxious about him
any more, for the Kaffirs were now almost driven from their last
stronghold, and that the fighting would almost certainly be over before
he was fit to mount his horse again. "George Forester is dead," he said.
"He was mortally wounded when fighting bravely against the Kaffirs. I
fear, dear, that your ideas about him were mistaken, and that he, like
myself, has been the victim of circumstantial evidence; but I will tell
you more about this when I write to you next."
While lying there, Ronald thought over the evidence that had been
collected against George Forester, and debated with himself whether it
should be published, as Mary had proposed. It would, doubtless, be
accepted by the world as proof of Forester's guilt and of his own
innocence; and even the fact that the man, when dying, had denied it,
would weigh for very little with the public, for men proved indisputably
to be guilty often go to the scaffold asserting their innocence to the
last. But would it be right to throw this crime upon the dead man when
he was sure that he was innocent? For Ronald did not doubt for a moment
the truth of the denial. Had he a right, even for the sake of Mary's
happiness and his own, to charge the memory of the dead man with the
burden of this foul crime? Ronald felt that it could not be. The
temptation was strong, but he fought long against it, and at last his
mind was made up.
"No," he said at last, "I will not do it. George Forester was no doubt a
bad man, but he was not so bad as this. It would be worse to charge his
memory with it than to accuse him if he were alive. In the one case he
might clear himself; in the other he cannot. I cannot clear my name by
fouling that of a dead man."
And so Ronald at last sat down to write a long letter to Mary Armstrong,
telling her the whole circumstances; the joy with which he received her
news; his conversation with George Forester, which seemed wholly to
confirm her views; the pang of agony he had felt when he saw the man who
he believed could alone clear him, in the hands of the Kaffirs, and his
desperate charge to rescue him; and then he gave the words of the
confession, and expressed his absolute conviction that the dying man had
spoken the truth, and that he was really innocent of Margaret Carne's
murder.
He then discussed the question of still publishing Ruth Powlett's
statement, giving first the cause of George Forester's enmity against
Margaret Carne, and the threat he had uttered, and then the discovery of
the knife.
"I fear you will be ashamed of me, Mary, when I tell you that, for a
time, I almost yielded to the temptation of clearing myself at his
expense. But you must make allowance for the strength of the temptation:
on the one side was the thought of my honour restored, and of you won;
on the other, the thought that, now George Forester was dead, this could
not harm him. But, of course, I finally put the temptation aside; honour
purchased at the expense of a dead man's reputation would be dishonour
indeed. Now I can face disgrace, because I know I am innocent. I could
not bear honour when I knew that I had done a dishonourable action; and
I know that I should utterly forfeit your love and esteem did I do so. I
can look you straight in the face now; I could never look you straight
in the face then. Do not grieve too much over the disappointment. We are
now only as we were when I said good-bye to you. I had no hope then that
you would ever succeed in clearing me, and I have no hope now. I have
not got up my strength again yet, and am therefore perhaps just at
present a little more disposed to repine over the disappointment than I
ought to do; but this will wear off when I get in the saddle again.
There will, I think, be no more fighting--at any rate with the Sandilli
Kaffirs--for we hear this morning that they have sent in to beg for
peace, and I am certain we shall be glad enough to grant it, for we have
not much to boast about in the campaign. Of course they will have to pay
a very heavy fine in cattle, and will have to move across to the other
side of the Kei. Equally of course there will be trouble again with them
after a time, when the memory of their losses has somewhat abated. I
fancy a portion of our force will march against the Basutos, whose
attitude has lately been very hostile; but now that the Gaikas have
given in, and we are free to use our whole force against them, it is
scarcely probable they will venture to try conclusions with us. If they
settle down peaceably I shall probably apply for my discharge, and
perhaps go in for farming, or carry out my first idea of joining a party
of traders going up the country, and getting some shooting among the big
game.
"I know that, disappointed as you will be with the news contained in
this letter, it will be a pleasure to you to tell the girl you have made
your friend, that after all the man she once loved is innocent of this
terrible crime. She must have suffered horribly while she was hiding
what she thought was the most important part of the evidence; now she
will see that she has really done no harm; and as you seem to be really
fond of her, it will, I am sure, be a great pleasure to you to be able
to restore her peace of mind in both these respects. I should think now
that you and your father will not remain any longer at Carnesford, where
neither of you has any fitting society of any sort, but will go and
settle somewhere in your proper position. I would much rather that you
did, for now it seems absolutely certain that nothing further is to be
learned, it would trouble me to think of you wasting your lives at
Carnesford.
"You said in your last letter that the discovery you had made had
brought you four years nearer to happiness, but I have never said a word
to admit that I should change my mind at the end of the five years that
your father spoke of. Still, I don't know, Mary. I think my position is
stronger by a great deal than it was six months ago. I told my captain
who I was, and all the other officers now know. Most of them came up and
spoke very kindly to me before I started on my way down here, and I am
sure that when I leave the corps they will give me a testimonial, saying
that they are convinced by my behaviour while in the corps that I could
not have been guilty of this crime. I own that I myself am less
sensitive on the subject than I was. One has no time to be morbid while
leading such a life as I have been for the last nine months.
Perhaps----but I will not say any more now. But I think somehow, that,
at the end of the five years, I shall leave the decision in your hands.
It has taken me two or three days to write this letter, for I am not
strong enough to stick to it for more than half an hour at a time; but
as the post goes out this afternoon I must close it now. We have been
expecting a mail from England for some days. It is considerably
overdue, and I need not say how I am longing for another letter from
you. I hear the regiment will be back from the front to-night; men and
horses want a few days' rest before starting on this long march to
Basutoland. I shall be very glad to see them back again. Of course, the
invalids who, like myself, are somewhat pulled down by their wounds, are
disgusted at being kept here. The weather is frightfully hot, and even
in our shirt sleeves we shall be hardly able to enjoy Christmas day."
The Cape Rifles arrived at King Williamstown an hour after the post had
left, and in the evening the colonel and several of the officers paid a
visit to the hospital to see how their wounded were getting on. Ronald,
who was sitting reading by his bedside, and the other invalids who were
strong enough to be on their feet, at once got up and stood at
attention. Stopping and speaking a few words to each of the men of his
own corps, the colonel came on. "Mervyn," he said, as he and the
officers came up to Ronald, "I want to shake your hand. I have heard
your story from Captain Twentyman, and I wish to tell you, in my own
name and in that of the other officers of the regiment, that we are sure
you have been the victim of some horrible mistake. All of us are
absolutely convinced that a man who has shown such extreme gallantry as
you have, and whose conduct has been so excellent from the day he
joined, is wholly incapable of such a crime as that with which you were
charged. You were, of course, acquitted, but at the same time I think
that it cannot but be a satisfaction for you to know that you have won
the esteem of your officers and your comrades, and that in their eyes
you are free from the slightest taint of that black business. Give me
your hand."
Ronald was unable to speak; the colonel and all the officers shook him
by the hand, and the former said: "I must have another long talk with
you when we get back from the Basuto business. I have mentioned you very
strongly in regimental orders upon two occasions for extreme gallantry,
and I cannot but think that it would do you some good in the eyes of the
public were a letter signed by me to appear in the English papers,
saying that the Sergeant Blunt of my regiment, who has so signally
distinguished himself, is really Captain Mervyn, who in my opinion and
that of my officers is a cruelly injured man. But we can talk over that
when I see you again."
After the officer left the room, Ronald Mervyn sat for some time with
his face buried in his hands. The colonel's words had greatly moved him.
Surely such a letter as that which Colonel Somerset had proposed to
write would do much to clear him. He should never think of taking his
own name again or re-entering any society in which he would be likely to
be recognised, but with such a testimonial as that in his favour he
might hope in some quiet place to live down the past, and should he
again be recognised, could still hold up his head with such an
honourable record as this to produce in his favour. Then his thoughts
went back to England. What would Mary and her father say when they read
such a letter in the paper? It would be no proof of his innocence, yet
he felt sure that Mary would insist upon regarding it as such, and would
hold that he had no right to keep her waiting for another four years.
Indeed he acknowledged to himself that if she did so he would have no
right to refuse any longer to permit her to be mistress of her own
fate.