What I most thought of was obtaining from him, now that he was dying, the full truth as to the deaths of my father and mother.
Jackson remained so long in this state of stupor, I feared that he would die before I could interrogate him; but this, as it proved, was not to be the case. I waited another hour, very impatiently I must acknowledge, and then I went to him and asked him how he felt. He replied immediately, and without that difficulty which he appeared before to have experienced.
“I am better now—the inward bleeding has stopped; but still I cannot live—my side is broken in, I do not think there is a rib that is not fractured into pieces, and my spine is injured, for I cannot move or feel my legs; but I may live many hours yet, and I thank God for his mercy in allowing me so much time—short indeed to make reparation for so bad a life; but still nothing is impossible with God.”
“Well, then,” replied I, “if you can speak, I wish you would tell me the truth relative to my father’s death, and also about the death of others—as for my father, I know that you murdered him—for you said so last night in your sleep.”
After a pause, Jackson replied—“I am glad that I did, and that you have told me so—I wished to make a full confession even to you; for confession is a proof of repentance. I know that you must hate me, and will hate my memory, and I cannot be surprised at it; but look at me now, Frank, and ask your own heart whether I am not more an object of pity than of hatred. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!’ and has not his vengeance fallen upon me even in this world? Look at me; here I am, separated from the world that I loved so much, with no chance of ever joining it—possessed of wealth which would but a few months ago have made me happy—now blind, crushed to pieces by an avenging God, in whose presence I must shortly appear to answer for all my wickedness—all my expectations overthrown, all my hopes destroyed, and all my accumulated sins procuring me nothing, but, it may be, eternal condemnation. I ask you again, am I not an object of pity and commiseration?”
I could but assent to this, and he proceeded.
“I will now tell you the truth. I did tell the truth up to the time of your father and mother’s embarkation on board of the brig, up to when the gale of wind came on which occasioned eventually the loss of the ship. Now give me a little drink.
“The vessel was so tossed by the storm, and the waves broke over her so continually, that the between-decks were full of water, and as the hatches were kept down, the heat was most oppressive. When it was not my watch, I remained below, and looked out for another berth to sleep in. Before the cabin bulkheads on the starboard side, the captain had fitted up a sort of sail-room to contain the spare sails in case we should require them. It was about eight feet square, and the sails were piled up in it, so as to reach within two feet of the deck overhead; though the lower ones were wetted with the water, above they were dry, and I took this berth on the top of the sails as my sleeping-place. Now the state-room in which your father and mother slept was on the other side of the cabin bulkhead, and the straining and rolling of the vessel had opened the chinks between the planks, so that I could see a great deal of what was done in the state-room, and could hear every word almost that was spoken by them. I was not aware of this when I selected this place as my berth, but I found it out on the first night, the light of the candle shining through the chinks into the darkness by which I was surrounded outside. Of course, it is when a man is alone with his wife that he talks on confidential subjects; that I knew well, and hoped by listening to be able to make some discovery;—what, I had no idea of; but, with the bad feelings which stimulated me, I determined not to lose an opportunity. It was not till about a week after I had selected this berth, that I made any discovery. I had had the watch from six to eight o’clock, and had gone to bed early. About nine o’clock your father came into the state-room. Your mother was already in bed. As your father undressed, your mother said, ‘Does not that belt worry you a great deal, my dear?’
“‘No,’ replied your father, ‘I am used to it now; it did when I first put it on, but now I have had it on four days, I do not feel it. I shall keep it on as long as this weather lasts; there is no saying what may happen, and it will not do to be looking for the belt at a moment’s warning.’
“‘Do you think then that we are in danger?’