"And I pledge my hand and word," said Vesey, "that I shall never allude to you except as the man to whose humane exertions I am indebted for my life."
He extended his hand to the soldier, who respectfully pressed it between his own, saying—"Let it be so, I am fully satisfied." He saluted the Count and departed.
In about two months after an exchange of prisoners was effected. The Count and Vesey parted with mutual regret and assurances of lasting friendship. A few minutes before they parted, the Count mentioned that he had procured for Vaughan the grade of sergeant. Vaughan asked and was granted an opportunity of bidding the Captain a respectful farewell. The military operations of the English were for some time extensive and diversified; and during eleven years Vesey did not revisit Ireland. He had been in India and in America; and he again became a prisoner to the French in 1756, when the Duc de Richlieu captured Minorca. There he again met with the Count de St. Woostan. Their friendship was renewed, and Vesey, who had attained to the rank of colonel, obtained permission, upon parole, to visit Paris, whither the Count was proceeding with despatches. He casually enquired for Vaughan, and was informed by the Count that soon after their parting at Lille, Vaughan's brother, Sylvester, had arrived from Ireland, and joined the regiment. He was killed at the battle of Raucoux, where Martin was severely wounded, and had consequently become an inmate of the Hotel des Invalides. There Colonel Vesey again saw the man, whose escape from an ignominious death had often occasioned perplexing conjectures to his prosecutor. The old sergeant evinced great pleasure at the Colonel's visit, attended him through the establishment, and having conducted him into one of the arbors, which the veterans of the Invalides have, from the very commencement of the institution, cultivated with peculiar care and taste, he offered the Colonel a seat under an agreeable shade, and requested him to listen to a narration of the escape which had been effected from Old Kilmainham. "I need not now, sir," he added, "ask any condition from you, for the man who arranged the affair is dead. No one can now be injured by the disclosure. I have bitterly mourned the disgraceful act that subjected me to capital punishment, which I only escaped by flying for ever from my native country, and which also led to the loss of my poor brother, whom I persuaded to join in it and some other similar deeds. God knows my heart. I would willingly make restitution of your property, but I shall never possess the means. It was a great consolation that I was able to do you a little service after Fontenoy, and I felt a certain happiness in receiving your forgiveness when we parted at Lille."
"My good friend," said the Colonel, "as to the affair at Castleknock, I would wish you never to mention it again. I have, however, a great curiosity to know how you managed to avoid the fate which, to say the truth, I thought you had undergone."
"We took the money, sir," said Martin, "and placed it in a strong canvas bag. We hid it in neither house, garden, nor field, but in a deep part of the river Liffey, below the Salmon Leap. There was a stout cord from the bag to a heavy weight, so that it might be easily caught by a drag. Well, I was convicted and sentenced, and there were four others condemned at the same Commission, and we were all to be executed on the same day. One was a forger, and three were housebreakers. We each occupied a separate cell in the condemned yard. It was a horrible place, for I well recollect that on each side of the yard a full length figure of Death was painted,[1] holding in his skeleton hands a scythe and hour-glass; so that wherever our eyes turned, we were reminded of our hapless condition and coming sufferings. The gaoler came in two or three times daily, whilst our cells were open, and I soon remarked that he took very little notice of the others, but spoke pretty often to me. On the fifth or sixth day after my sentence, I was in my cell, counting my days, and trying to count my hours; making pictures in my despairing mind of the cart and the crowd, and cringing as if I already felt the slippery noose of the soaped halter closing round the creeping flesh of my neck; thinking of the happy days of innocent childhood, and feeling some consolation in my misery that my brother had not been condemned; that I left no wife or family, and that both my parents were dead, and spared the shame and sorrow of their son's public execution. This was the state of my mind when the gaoler entered the cell. He closed the door, and addressed some kind expressions to me, hoping that I was resigned to the great change that was impending, and enquiring if he could do anything for my comfort or consolation. In a stout but low tone I replied, that I would rather get rid of the business without being hanged at all. He closed the door, and sat down on the block-stool, and we remained silent for a few minutes; but there were looks passing between us; we were reading each other's hearts. At length he said—'Have you the money?'
"'It is safe, every guinea of it,' I replied, 'but useless to me and to every one else, if I am to stay here for the few remaining days of my life. Moreover, I could not give it all, for there would be very little use in going out of the prison if I had not the means of going far and going fast; but I have fifteen hundred pounds for a friend, who would be a real friend.'
"'Mr. Vesey is gone,' said the gaoler, 'we are perfectly secure from any observation or interference on his part; I am running a great risk, but I shall try the chance. I am, I admit, in great want of money. Give me fifteen hundred pounds, and I will allow your brother to pass through my rooms to the top of the prison, and to bring a rope ladder with him. He can descend into the yard, and there he will find a key in the door of your cell; this can be done at twelve to-morrow night; and you may be far away before nine the following morning. Your brother will be here to see you by-and-by, you can arrange with him, but there is no time to be lost.'
"'My brother,' I replied, 'shall have nothing to do with the business, except to bring the money, I shall not cross the wall, I must go out by the door, I must be let out, or stay until I am disposed of along with the rest.'
"'It is impossible,' said the gaoler.
"'It is not impossible,' I replied, 'but very easy, if you can get a little assistance. I must be sick, very sick; fever, gaol fever, is to be my complaint; I must die, and be sent out in a coffin.'