A TRAP IS SET
Gering was tried before Governor Frontenac and the full council. It was
certain that he, while a prisoner at Quebec, had sent to Boston plans
of the town, the condition of the defences, the stores, the general
armament and the approaches, for the letter was intercepted.
Gering’s defence was straightforward. He held that he had sent the
letter at a time when he was a prisoner simply, which was justifiable;
not when a prisoner on parole, which was shameless. The temper of the
court was against him. Most important was the enmity of the Jesuits,
whose hatred of Puritanism cried out for sacrifice. They had seen the
work of the saints in every turn of the late siege, and they believed
that the Lord had delivered the man into their hands. In secret ways
their influence was strong upon many of the council, particularly those
who were not soldiers. A soldier can appreciate bravery, and Gering had
been courageous. But he had killed one of the most beloved of Canadian
officers, the gallant Sainte-Helene! Frontenac, who foresaw an end
of which the council could not know, summed up, not unfairly, against
Gering.
Gering’s defence was able, proud, and sometimes passionate. Once or
twice his words stung his judges like whips across their faces. He
showed no fear; he asked no mercy. He held that he was a prisoner of
war, and entitled to be treated as such. So strong, indeed, was his
pleading, so well did his stout courage stand by him, that had Count
Frontenac balanced in his favour he might have been quit of the charge
of spying. But before the trial Iberville had had solitary talk with
Frontenac, in which a request was repeated and a promise renewed.
Gering was condemned to die. It was perhaps the bravest moment of a
brave life.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have heard your sentence, but, careless of
military honour as you are, you will not dare put me to death. Do not
think because we have failed this once that we shall not succeed again.
I tell you, that if, instead of raw Boston sailors, ploughmen and
merchant captains, and fishing craft and trading vessels, I had three
English war-ships and one thousand men, I would level your town from the
citadel to the altar of St. Joseph’s. I do not fear to die, nor that I
shall die by your will. But, if so, ‘twill be with English loathing of
injustice.”
His speech was little like to mollify his judges, and at his reference
to St. Joseph’s a red spot showed upon many cheeks, while to the charge
against their military honour, Frontenac’s eyes lighted ominously. But
the governor merely said: “You have a raw temper, sir. We will chasten
you with bread and water; and it were well for you, even by your strange
religion, to qualify for passage from this world.”
Gering was taken back to prison. As he travelled the streets he needed
all his fortitude, for his fiery speech had gone abroad, distorted from
its meaning, and the common folk railed at him. As chastening, it was
good exercise; but when now and again the name of Sainte-Helene rang
towards him, a cloud passed over his face; that touched him in a tender
corner.
He had not met Iberville since his capture, but now, on entering the
prison, he saw his enemy not a dozen paces from the door, pale and
stern. Neither made a sign, but with a bitter sigh Gering entered. It
was curious how their fortunes had see-sawed, the one against the other,
for twelve years.
Left alone in his cell with his straw and bread and water, he looked
round mechanically. It was yet after noon. All at once it came to him
that this was not the cell which he had left that day. He got up and
began to examine it. Like every healthy prisoner, he thought upon means
and chances of escape.
It did not seem a regular cell for prisoners, for there was a second
door. This was in one corner and very narrow, the walls not coming to a
right angle, but having another little strip of wall between. He tried
to settle its position by tracing in his mind the way he had
come through the prison. Iberville or Perrot could have done so
instinctively, but he was not woodsman enough. He thought, however,
that the doorway led to a staircase, like most doors of the kind in
old buildings. There was the window. It was small and high up from
the floor, and even could he loosen the bars, it were not possible to
squeeze through. Besides, there was the yard to cross and the outer wall
to scale. And that achieved, with the town still full of armed men, he
would have a perilous run. He tried the door: it was stoutly fastened;
the bolts were on the other side; the key-hole was filled. Here was
sufficient exasperation. He had secreted a small knife on his person,
and he now sat down, turned it over in his hand, looked up at the window
and the smooth wall below it, at the mocking door, then smiled at his
own poor condition and gave himself to cheerless meditation.
He was concerned most for his wife. It was not in him to give up till
the inevitable was on him and he could not yet believe that Count
Frontenac would carry out the sentence. At the sudden thought of the
rope--so ignominious, so hateful--he shuddered. But the shame of it was
for his wife, who had dissipated a certain selfish and envious strain
in him. Jessica had drawn from him the Puritanism which had made him
self-conscious, envious, insular.