“Many, many thanks,” answered Peters; and opening his letter, which was folded, but not sealed, he added a postscript, pointing out the mark by which the boy would be identified. “You could not have done me a greater favour, Adams; and now you must promise me one more, which is to look after my poor Ellen when—”
“I understand, my good fellow, and I will,” replied Adams. “There is the chaplain outside, who is all ready for service if you would like to see him,” continued the old man, passing his hands over his humid eyes.
“Ask him to come in, Adams; he is a good man, and an honour to his profession. I shall be glad to see him.”
Adams went to the door, and soon returned with the chaplain. He saluted Peters, who respectfully bowed to him, and said: “I have long made my peace with God and man, sir, and am as well prepared to die, as sinful mortal can be in faith and charity with all men. Many thanks to you, sir, for your kindness; but, sir, you may be of use here yet. Can you,”—and his voice faltered—“can you, sir, help that poor young woman? Cannot you reason her into some kind of tranquillity, some degree of submission to God’s will? Oh, do that, sir, and you will confer a favour on me indeed.”
The chaplain approached Ellen, who lay on the deck in a state of mental stupefaction, and, addressing her in mild accents, persuaded her to rise and take a seat on the form; he kindly contrived to bring it forward to the iron-grated port, so that she could not witness the motions of Peters, and, with a low, yet energetic and persuasive voice, attempted to reason her into patience and resignation. His efforts were in vain. She occasionally looked upon him with a vacant stare, but her thoughts were elsewhere. During the period, Peters had time to shave himself, and dress in clean attire, preparatory to being summoned to his fate.
The time was approaching fast; one bell after eight o’clock, designating the half hour, had struck; at two bells (nine o’clock) he was to be summoned to his doom. The clergyman rose from his useless endeavours—“Let us pray,” said he, and sank upon his knees—Peters, Adams, and the child followed his example; and, last of all, poor Ellen, who seemed to recover her recollection, sank on her knees, but, unable to keep her position, fell towards the clergyman, who, as he supported her in his arms, poured forth a fervent and eloquent appeal in behalf of the one who was about to appear in the presence of his Maker, and of those who were left in tribulation behind. It was scarcely over when the door opened, and the provost-marshal claimed his prisoner.
The prayer of the chaplain seemed to ring in Ellen’s ears, and she remained supported by the worthy man, muttering parts of it at intervals, during which time the limbs of her husband were freed from the shackles. All was ready; and Peters, straining the child to his bosom in silence, and casting one look at his dear Ellen, who still remained in a state of stupefaction, denied himself a last embrace (though the effort wrung his heart), rather than awaken her to her misery. He quitted the cell, and the chaplain, quietly placing Ellen in the arms of Adams, followed, that he might attend and support Peters in his last moments.
The prisoner was conducted on the quarter-deck previously to being sent forward to execution. His sentence was read by Captain A—; and the remark may perhaps be considered uncharitable, but there certainly appeared to be an ill-concealed satisfaction in his countenance as he came to that part where it stated that the prisoner was to “suffer death.” Peters heard it read with firmness, and asked permission to address the ship’s company. This was at first refused by the captain; but, at the request of the officers, and the assurance of the chaplain that he would vouch for the language of Peters being such as would have a proper tendency to future subordination on the part of the ship’s company, it was assented to. Bowing first to the captain and officers, Peters turned to the ship’s company who were assembled on the booms and gangway, and addressed them as follows:—
“Shipmates, the time may come when our country shall be at peace, and your services no longer be required. Then, when you narrate to your children the events of this unhappy mutiny, do not forget to add instruction to amusement, by pointing out to them that it ended in the disgrace and death of the ringleaders. Tell them that, in your presence, one of them acknowledged on the quarter-deck the justice of his sentence, and returned thanks to his Majesty for his kindness in pardoning others who had been led into the same error. Tell them to do their duty, to fight nobly for their King and country, and warn them by our example—”
At this moment Willy, who had eluded the vigilance of old Adams, who was occupied in supporting the inanimate Ellen, pushed his way between the legs of the marines, who were drawn up in ranks on the quarter-deck, and, running to his father, laid hold of the loose sailor’s trousers in which he was attired, and looked anxiously and inquisitively in his face. Peters’s voice faltered; he attempted to continue his address to the men, but could not; and waiving his hand, and pointing to the child, in mute explanation of the cause, after struggling in vain against the overflowings of a father’s heart, he bent over the boy and burst into tears.
The effect was electrical. The shock was communicated to all; not an eye but was dimmed; sobs were heard in the crowd; the oldest officers turned away to conceal their emotions; the younger, and more fresh in heart, covered their faces, and leant against the bulwarks; the marines forgot their discipline, and raised their hands from their sides to wipe their eyes. Many a source, long supposed to be hermetically sealed, was re-opened, many a spring long dry reflowed rapidly; even Captain A—was moved.
By a singular coincidence, the grouping of the parties at this moment was nearly the same as when we first introduced our little hero to the reader—the officers and marines on the after part of the deck, the ship’s company forward, and little Willy standing between the two. Again he appears in the same position;—but what a change of feeling had taken place! As if he had been a little spirit of good, waving his fairy talisman, evil passions, which in the former scene were let loose, had retired to their darkest recesses, and all the better feelings of humanity were called forth and displayed in one universal, spontaneous, and unfeigned tribute to the melancholy and affecting scene.
The silence was first broken by Willy—“Where are you going, father; and why do you wear that night-cap?”
“I am going to sleep, child—to an eternal sleep! God bless and protect you,” said Peters, taking him up and kissing him. “And now, sir, I am ready,” continued Peters, who had recovered his self-possession; “Captain A—, I forgive you, as I trust to be forgiven myself. Mr—,” said he, addressing the first-lieutenant, “take this child by the hand, and do not permit him to come forward—remember, he is the ‘King’s Own.’ ” Then, bowing to the chaplain, who had scarcely recovered from the effects that the scene had produced upon him, and looking significantly at the provost-marshal, Peters bent his steps forward by the gangway—the noose was fastened—the gun fired, and, in a moment, all was over.
Loud as was the report of the gun, those who were appointed to the unpleasant duty of running aft with the rope on the main-deck, which swung Peters to the yard-arm, heard a shriek that even that deafening noise could not overpower. It was the soul of Ellen joining that of her husband—and, before the day closed, their bodies were consigned to the same grave—
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
Chapter Five.
Lord of himself, that heritage of woe.
Byron.
Our novel may, to a certain degree, be compared to one of the pantomimes which rival theatres annually bring forth for the amusement of the holiday
