A FIERCE CHARACTER. ATTEMPT TO BURN THE BRIG. THE CONSULTATION. THE SENTENCE. THE YARD ARM! A DREAM. THE TRIAL. A STUBBORN SPIRIT BROKEN. A NOBLE ACT OF JUSTICE! WORTHY OF EMULATION!

The day subsequent to this last fortunate capture, an event took place on board the Constance which ended in a drama of singular interest.

There was a large powerful man, second in command of the prize just taken, who had been transported to the brig for safe confinement. He was a man of remarkable muscular strength, and one whom all noted on his first coming on board, as the prisoner who had caused so much trouble on board the prize before he was taken and bound. For additional security he was confined separate from the rest of the prisoners, not only because he had thus resisted Lovell after the surrender of the ship, but because he had been overheard to make several threats relative to the destruction of the vessel in which he should be confined. This man was, as we have said, of remarkable bodily strength, and he was therefore, if possible, more securely confined than the rest of his companions, but, notwithstanding all this, on the afternoon of the day subsequent to his capture, he managed to free himself from his bonds and place of confinement, which was in the forecastle of the brig.

When discovered, he had gathered a large pile of straw and other combustibles together, to which he had actually communicated fire, and the forward part of the vessel would have been wrapped in flames in five minutes more, but for the opportune discovery of the attempt of the prisoner by one of the crew of the Constance. The foremost man, who made the discovery, and who instantly endeavored to extinguish the flames, was slightly stabbed with his own knife by the Englishman whom we have described, and who was thus endeavoring to send the whole crew to eternity together. At length after a severe struggle he was again secured and placed where he could be more closely watched than he had been heretofore, and in such a manner as to render his escape a second time impossible.

The conduct of the prisoner seemed to all to be of the most blood-thirsty and vindictive character, and the crew called loudly on Captain Channing to make an example of him. Policy, too, urged the necessity of this upon his own mind, for it was evident to the meanest capacity on board, that the large number of prisoners confined in the brig, if not deterred by some decided act of justice, would endeavor to rise and take possession of the brig. So excited had the minds of the crew became on this point, that they rather demanded than asked for the immediate punishment of the man who would thus have destroyed them altogether. In consideration of this emergency, Jack Herbert and William Lovell were each called upon from their separate commands to come on board the Constance to meet the captain in consultation, while the little fleet was hove to. After a somewhat lengthy discussion of the subject, Channing said: ‘You think then, gentlemen, that the execution of this man is necessary?’

‘I would string him up within the hour,’ said Jack Herbert

‘I regret the necessity,’ said Channing, ‘but I must acknowledge that the safety of our lives and that of the brig seems to demand it.’

‘Unquestionably,’ said both.

‘I look at this matter thus,’ continued Lovell. ‘We are like men living over a mine of powder; the least spark of fire brought in contact with that powder will cast us all headlong into eternity; there is one who avowedly seeks an opportunity to apply the match; now should we hesitate for a moment to deprive him of the power?’

‘This is the only light in which the subject can be viewed,’ said Herbert; ‘and a most rational one it is too.’

‘The matter is settled then, gentlemen,’ said Channing, thoughtfully. ‘And this man must die!’

It was thus decided, and they then separated until the hour appointed for the execution of the prisoner.

It was a calm, mild day for the season; the three vessels had hardly reached the colder latitudes of the middle coast, and the day was really remarkable for the season of the year of which we speak. The little fleet lay within hailing distance of each other. The warm sun lay upon the gently swelling breast of the ocean, like the blushing cheek of a lady upon the breast of her lover. Everything about the brig was arranged with a scrupulous regard to order and neatness, and the countenance of every man seemed big with thought. Even honest Terrence Mooney looked uneasy and solemn about his face, which was usually so radiant with good feeling and kindness to all about him. Ever and anon he would give a hitch to his pantaloons, and casting his eye aloft to some arrangement about the rigging of the ship, would then give an ominous shake of his head, as much as to say, there was something going on that did not exactly meet his approbation, and then try to forget, apparently, the thought that troubled him, by whistling loudly some Irish air. It had been decided, as the reader has seen, that the prisoner in question should be executed on the yard arm, and although this was only understood by word of mouth, to the chief officers, yet the intelligent eye of the crew took in the preparations, which had necessarily been made, with a full sense of their purpose.

The noble-hearted crew, now that they saw the event actually about to take place, looked sad and dejected, for though any one of them would have gone into battle, with a jest, and while in the heat of blood, and with the justice of his cause at heart, have slain his enemy without a second thought; yet here they were about to do a very different deed, and one upon which they found time to reflect and ponder. They were about to launch a fellow being, in cold blood, into eternity, and every act of preparation but added to the chill at heart that each man felt. Aye, their very natures were revolting within them at the proposed murder, for so must ever seem the preconcerted taking of human life. It is an awful thing to take away the life we cannot give; and we are one of those who question its justice even in extreme cases, save actually in self defence.

‘Divil a bit do I fancy this work,’ said Terrence Mooney to one of his messmates; ‘it will bring bad luck upon the darling little brig, to have a man dangling by his neck up there, where blocks and ropes only belong. Arah, faith now, what was I after draining of the divil’s tail last night, if it wasn’t all for this yard arm business?’

‘And did’nt I drame too,’ continued Terence, after taking a turn or two between decks, where he was now watching the prisoners, ‘and did’nt I drame, too,’ said he, ‘that the brig run her nose into a water spout at say, and got rig’larly’ corned, a’ drinking salt water, and that she would have tumbled overboard intirely, but that Captain Channing kept all taut some how? Arab, divil a bit would I be after draining this if there was’nt something wrong.’

‘Don’t it all mane this hanging business, to be sure?’ put in his companion, who was the Irishman that joined the brig from the first prize.

‘It may be that, and so it is most like,’ continued Terence, ‘but I’ve had my misgivings, my boy, about lavin’ the ould woman, and not stopping to see her dacently buried, and put under ground.’

‘That was’nt jist rigular, Terence.’

‘And how could I help it at all; was’nt Captain Channing and the brig to sail that very hour that I agreed? to be sure I could’nt help it.’

‘It’s yourself that will be turning out a Jonah, and swallowing the whole of us,’ said his companion half seriously.

‘Way wid ye now,’ said Terence, ‘and don’t bother me.’

A solemn silence now reigned through the brig, which scarcely made a single foot of headway as she rose and fell gracefully in the long heavy swell of the Atlantic.—We have said that it was calm, aye, it was very still, for even the sea seemed as if holding its breath in anticipation of witnessing some unhallowed act. There was hardly a single sign of life manifested on board the Constance, save the sedate and quiet helmsman, or of death either, though to the observant eye resting upon that complicated yet graceful web of ropes and gear, a single whip was visible rigged to the fore yard arm. One end was led inboard, while the other ran along the yard through a block, and descended to the deck. This single rope thus disposed, told a story to the honest seamen, that led their countenances to express the sorrow, nay, almost fear, that we have alluded to. There was to be a fearful act accomplished, and they were to be the agents.

‘I do not like this business at all,’ said Capt. Channing to Lovell.

‘I look upon it as an important duty,’ was the reply.

‘It may be so,’ said Channing, musing.

‘Unquestionably.’

‘And this poor fellow must be hanged?’ said the captain.

‘So we have decided,’ said Lovell.

‘It is a fearful thing, William, thus coolly to take a human life. Who would have thought that mine would ever be the hand, or that I should ever issue the order that should deprive a human being of life. I declare honestly to you that I am hardly equal to the cold blooded deed.’

‘Nay, courage, Fanny,’ said Lovell, (they were alone in the cabin,) ‘you have done nobly thus far, now carry out the affair as it should be done.’

‘And will this be a noble deed?’

‘It is always noble to do our duty.’

‘There is no reprieve, then?

‘I consider it as absolutely necessary for our safety. The fellow has even declared that if he gets another opportunity he will do the same deed over again. Is it safe then that he should live?’

‘The sentence is just,’ said Fanny.

‘Courage, Fanny, all will soon be over.’

‘Aye, but it is a fearful business. Lovell, do you realize it?’

‘I do, indeed, but think we have decided for the best.’

Overcoming all her woman’s feelings, Fanny summoned her wonted spirit, and ordered the prisoner to be brought before her. He soon made his appearance, strongly bound, and led a couple of the crew. He was a noble specimen of a man in his physical formation. Of good height, broad and full across the chest, with heavy yet well formed limbs. His hair was short, black as jet, and curled closely to his head. He came in looking sullenly down upon the cabin floor, resembling a lion at bay, his huge, muscular form expanding with rage at the feeling of his bonds. He stood before the captain of the brig who sat in a large easy chair, while on either side stood Lovell and Herbert.

It was a scene of strange and peculiar interest. There stood that huge Hercules of a man before that gentle hearted girl to be adjudged to death. Her deep soul seemed to be reading the prisoner’s inmost thoughts through the blue of her beautiful eye. Her voice did not tremble, her hand was firm, and she was a man at heart. The woman feeling which was so lately called into action in her breast, was banished, and nothing save stern justice might be expected to come from out those lips which displayed at that moment a decision of purpose and character which Lovell had never marked there before.

‘Prisoner,’ said Fanny, in her low musical tone of voice, and yet with singular distinctness, ‘do you know that my counsellors have decided upon your death at the yard arm, within this very hour?’

‘I saw the whip rigged aloft, as I came along the deck,’ was the meaning reply of the prisoner.

‘Have you nothing to offer before we execute this resolve?’

‘Nothing,’ said the man, his eyes still bent upon the floor. ‘It would seem most probable that a person about to lose his life would have some wish to express. If you have any, speak them, and if they be reasonable they shall be granted.’

‘I have none,’ was the reply.

‘Prisoner,’ continued Fanny, ‘have you no wife, children, of friends?’

Here she was interrupted by a groan from the Englishman, that showed she had touched him upon a vulnerable point.

‘Speak, sir.’

‘I have both wife and children,’ he said, without raising his head from his breast, while his broad manly chest heaved with visible emotion.

‘And you have no reward to leave for them, no wish to express before your execution?’ asked Fanny.

‘None! They will know that I died loyal!’

‘You have offered threats against this vessel and us, a second time since your being again secured, I am told. Is this so?’

‘It is; the enemies of my king are the enemies of God, and I would pursue them to the last gasp. Thou art a rebel, sir Captain, and all these about thee. Should they be spared if I could rid the king of them, by the loss of my own life? No!’ During all this time he had not even lifted his head, but as if humbled by his bonds, his eyes still sought the floor.

‘Would you not embrace such a proposal,’ said Fanny, ‘as should restore your wife to your bosom, and your children to your arms.’

The man started—his Herculean proportions assuming an attitude that would have struck an artist with admiration. His head was erect, his eyes bent eagerly upon the captain, and his form seemed to be at least a half a head taller than before. In a moment more his head dropped again as if the spirit that had actuated him for a moment had passed away, and he even doubted that he had heard aright. Relapsing into his former state, he made no reply to the question that had so moved him.

‘Say, prisoner,’ continued Fanny, ‘would you again see those you have left in your native land—your home, your wife and children, and those you love?’

‘I shall meet them in Heaven,’ was the calm reply.

‘And is it loyalty to thy king that has incited thee to this mistaken course?’ asked Fanny.

‘What else could actuate a British sailor?’

‘Unbind him!’ said Fanny to the guard, who stood by his side.

‘Do I command this vessel?’ asked Fanny, rising and drawing her naked sword, and grasping it for action.

‘Certainly, sir.’ said one of the men, ‘but your honor, we———’

‘Do you hear, fellows? Unbind him!’

Lovell and Herbert were unprepared for this, and did not venture a word, while the guard did as they were ordered. In a moment more the Englishman stood unbound, and at liberty before her, his fine manly face evincing the utmost surprise, while he stood motionless with astonishment.

‘I think I have not mistaken you, sir, ‘said Fanny, addressing the prisoner, ‘and if I have read you aright, it best behoves us to hold converse with such as thou art on equal terms. You are now free!’

‘And to what end?’ asked the man in amazement.

‘I would reason with you.’

‘I am attentive,’ said the Englishmen, evincing by his manner and speech a degree of refinement, that he had not before shown.

‘Dost thou know,’ asked Fanny, ‘of the oppression that has driven the North American Colonies of Great Britain to the course they have adopted? what flagrant wrongs they have endured; what servile and debasing treatment they have suffered at the hands of the evil advisers of the king?’

‘I only know that the North American Colonies have rebelled against their lawful king,’ said the Englishman, moodily.

‘You know not,’ continued Fanny, warming in her subject, as she proceeded, her deep blue eyes sparkling with animation and spirit, ‘of the sanctuarys defiled, of homes made desolate, the prostration of trade, and the consequent distress of thousands! You know not that the messengers of the people have been spurned from the throne, thus adding insult to injury?—Would it not belie our English origin to bear all this tamely Should we be worthy the stock from whence we spring, did we not resent them, and endeavor by our own right hands to obtain justice?’

‘You tell me news, indeed,’ said the Englishman, thoughtfully.

‘Let not this spirit of revenge live any longer in thy breast,’ said Fanny, ‘but consider first what has caused this resort to arms, and then judge who is in the wrong. If it should seem to thee to be the Colonists, do not disgrace thy nature by seeking revenge against them by any blood thirsty act; and if the King, then do not again lift your arm against this people.’

‘I feel that I have erred!’ said the Englishman, nobly willing to acknowledge the wrong he had done.

‘So,’ said Fanny, ‘I know that I may trust you!’

The Englishman sprang forward, seized the extended hand of Fanny, and after pressing it warmly, left the cabin without uttering a word.

Fanny in her ready wit and judgment, read something of the true character of the prisoner, and after a little conversation, as we have seen, she was strengthened in her supposition with regard to it. She had rather resort to almost any expedient than that of the execution of the man, and to avert it she was willing to run some risk in the matter of trusting him.

The treatment proved salutary. A stubborn spirit was conquered by kindness and reason, the only weapons that one responsible being should use with another. The Englishman’s spirit had undergone a complete change; he would have lain down his life for the captain of the Constance; and from the hour of his liberation, was an ardent supporter of the cause of the American people, though he was never actively engaged in the war. He did not betray the confidence that had been so placed in him, but served faithfully as a common sailor to the end of the voyage.

There is a moral that we are tempted to put down here, simple perhaps, but a great one nevertheless, yet fearing the censure of the general reader, who sometimes decries in no measured terms these moral digressions, we leave the inference to which we have only alluded, for the good judgment and discernment of the reader, but let us venture to urge its consideration.

Lovell was struck with the good judgment and ingenuity which Fanny had displayed in this trying case, and found therein a new trait of goodness and understanding, to love and respect her for; and when they were again alone he asked her.

‘Why did you not tell me of this plan of action, dear Fanny; was I not deemed worthy of the trust?

‘I had not entertained the idea beforehand, William; it was the promptings of the moment, suggested by the noble bearing of the man, and the feeling and emotion he evinced at the mention of his home and family. It was easy enough to see then, William, that his heart was in the right place, and susceptible to the influence of kindness.’

‘It could not have been better managed,’ said Lovell, ‘or more skill and judgment of human nature displayed.’

‘I have relieved my heart of a heavy load of responsibility,’ said Fanny; ‘for the last few hours I have been quite miserable.’

‘You have done nobly, my dear girl.’

‘What, sir?’

‘I beg pardon—sir, I mean that your conduct is deserving of all praise, Captain Channing,’ said Lovell, with a mock show of respect.

‘If you are not careful, William,’ said Fanny, ‘you will expose me to the crew, and who knows what might be the consequence?’

‘True, true,’ said Lovell, ‘I will be all respect in future, depend upon my discretion. But have you no fears or misgivings, Fanny, as to the good faith of this man you have liberated?’

‘Not the least. I fear not to trust him with my life.’

‘Heaven grant him honest,’ said Lovell as they parted.