Memoirs of a griffin

by Francis John Bellew

The troops of various arms, European and native, were drawn up when I reached the parade, and formed in three sides of an immense square, facing inwards. The arms were “ordered,” and a portentous silence prevailed, broken only occasionally by the clank of a mounted officer’s sword, and the tramp of his horses hoofs as he rode slowly down the ranks. The morning mists were beginning to disperse, and the bright sun was darting his long and almost level rays across the parade ground, and gleaming brightly on a forest of steel and dazzling accoutrements—the last sunrise the unhappy criminal was ever destined to behold.

The roll of the dram now announced his arrival, and soon the procession, in which he occupied a conspicuous position, rounded the flank of one of the sides of the square.

First marched, at a slow pace, a party bearing the coffin of the condemned, followed by the execution-party; then the band, playing the Dead March in Saul: it was a frightful scene, and sent a damp to my heart—what must have been its effects on the unhappy man himself?

Last in the melancholy procession came a litter (doolie), borne on the shoulders of men; and in it, with a white cap on his head, and a face calm and resigned, but deadly pale, sat the unfortunate soldier, for whom, I confess, I felt most deeply. By his side, arrayed in full canonicals, walked the chaplain, his book open in his hand, reading those prayers and promises—speaking of pardon and hope—which are calculated to cheer the parting hour, and to soften the bitterness of death.

The procession having passed slowly along the front of each regiment, which, from the great extent of the square, occupied a considerable time, now drew off to the centre of what, if complete, would have constituted the fourth side of the parallelogram: there it halted.

The coffin-bearers placed their burden on the ground and retired; the execution-party drew up at some distance from it. The prisoner left his doolie, and, accompanied by the clergyman, walked slowly and with a firm step towards the coffin; on this they both knelt, with their faces towards the troops, and prayed with uplifted hands.

Profound was the silence. A soul was preparing for eternity! Being a spectator at large, I selected my position, and being close to the spot, saw all distinctly.

After some time had been occupied in prayer, the chaplain retired, when the judge advocate, on horseback, came forward, and, drawing forth the warrant for the prisoner’s execution, read it with a firm and audible voice; at the conclusion, the chaplain once more advanced, and, kneeling on the coffin, again, with uplifted hands, and deep and impressive fervour, imparted the last spiritual consolations to the condemned.

What feelings must have torn the bosom of that unhappy being at that moment! Set up as a spectacle before thousands—an ignominious death before him—and perhaps the thoughts of those he loved, of kindred and of home, never more to be seen, adding another drop to his cup of bitterness! But yet he quailed not—no muscle trembled—and a stern determination to die like a man was stamped upon his care-worn and marbly countenance.

The tragedy was now drawing to a close. The chaplain, with apparent reluctance, rose and retired, and at the same moment the sergeant of the execution-party advanced and bound a handkerchief over the prisoner’s eyes, also pinioning his arms. Still not a muscle moved; there were no signs of weakness, though the situation might well have excused them, and the chest was thrown out and squared to receive the leaden messengers of death.