I could have fallen on my knees and thanked him, though I could hardly believe that such good news was true.
“There is no time to lose, sir,” replied I, respectfully; “he is to be shot to-morrow at nine o’clock.”
“He will be on board here to-morrow at nine o’clock, or I am not Captain Maclean. But, as you say, there is no time to lose. It is now nearly dark, and the party must be off immediately. I must write a letter on service to the commanding officer of the depôt. Call my clerk.”
I ran out and called the clerk. In a few minutes the letter was written, and a party of marines, with the second lieutenant, despatched with me on shore. I ordered post-chaises for the whole party, and before eleven we were at Maidstone. The lieutenant and I sat up all night, and, at daylight, we summoned the marines and went to the barracks, where we found the awful note of preparation going forward, and the commanding officer up and attending to the arrangements. I introduced the lieutenant, who presented the letter on service.
“Good heavens, how fortunate! You can establish his identity, I presume.”
“Every man here can swear to him.”
“’Tis sufficient, Mr Faithful. I wish you and your friend joy of this reprieve. The rules of the service must be obeyed, and you will sign a receipt for the prisoner.”
This was done by the lieutenant, and the provost marshal was ordered to deliver up the prisoner. I hastened with the marines into the cell; the door was unlocked. Tom, who was reading his Bible, started up, and perceiving the red jackets, thought that he was to be led out to execution.
“My lads,” exclaimed he, “I am ready; the sooner this is over the better.”
“No, Tom,” said I, advancing; “I trust for better fortune. You are claimed as a deserter from the Immortalité.”