Geary, the accommodating Geary, the repenter of his repentance, came next; answered No, to Lord Mansfield’s questions, like the rest: to Lord Halifax’s, whether desirous of the Bill, replied No, but have no objections to it, if it will be to the satisfaction of anybody; and that he knew nothing for mercy but the sentence and letter. “Could you,” said Lord Fortescue, “if the Act should pass, explain the sentence better?” “My oath of secrecy,” said Geary, “will not let me say more.” Captain Boyce gave his three noes to the questions. So did Moore to Lord Mansfield’s. When asked by Lord Halifax, if desirous of the Bill? he said, “I am very desirous of it, that I may be absolved from my oath; I have been under concern when I took it—I don’t mean on this point.” To the other question relative to the King and mercy, he said, “I don’t think myself at liberty to answer while bound by my oath.” To Lord Fortescue, whether, if absolved, he could better explain the sentence and letter? he replied in these equivocal words, “I could give better reasons for my signing.” Simko, Douglas, and Bentley, were unanimous in negatives to all the questions. Then Keppel appeared. Being asked if he knew anything unjust?—after long silence and consideration, he replied, No. Whether the sentence was obtained through undue practices? No. Whether desirous of the Bill? “Yes, undoubtedly.” Whether he knew anything necessary for the knowledge of the King, and conducive to mercy? Keppel: “I cannot answer that, without particularizing my vote and opinion.” Lord Halifax asked him whether he thought his particular reasons had been asked now? He replied, No. He retired. If Keppel had had no more to tell, than that he had been drawn into the harsher measure by the probability of the gentler preponderating at last, he had in truth been much misunderstood: his regret had worn all the appearance of remorse. How he came to appear so calm and so indifferent at the last moment, in which either regret or remorse could hope to have any effect, I pretend not to decide. Such as showed any compunction of any sort I would excuse to the utmost. Those who determined no compunction should operate, and those who, like Moore and Geary, abandoned their contrition to make their court, I desire not to absolve. The former were gratified, the latter were rewarded. Dennis was the last who appeared, and took care to have no more tenderness before the Lords than he had exerted in the House of Commons.
Lord Temple then desired that the Court-Martial might be absolved from their attendance; and that the depositions might be read over. When finished, he said (what indeed in his situation he could not well help saying, considering how few questions had been put, except the captious ones of Lord Mansfield, and how little satisfaction had been obtained, and that even Keppel himself had not said half so much as he had said in the House of Commons,) Lord Temple, I say, after congratulating the King and nation on the temper that had been observed, said, the discussion might produce an opinion that the sentence was just: he had had doubts, but now they were all removed: yet he would ask, whether still it were not better to indulge the conscientious with the Bill, especially as it would clear all doubts in others?
Lord Marchmont and Lord Hardwicke objected warmly to that proposal, and treated the House of Commons with the highest scorn. The former said, he had the utmost contempt for the Bill, and hoped their Lordships would set their mark on all who had traduced the Court-Martial, whose very countenances had shown their breasts. He begged the House no further to load his Majesty, but to reject the Bill. Lord Halifax acknowledged, that all who read the preamble, must have concluded that they had something material to divulge: yet not one had produced any one circumstance. For himself, he was never ashamed to retract, when the ground had gone from him. Yet he thought they still must have had reasons for their extraordinary behaviour, and wished for the Bill to clear up that wonderful sentence and letter. But Lord Hardwicke authoritatively put an end to the Debate; said the recital to the preamble had been false; that they had sworn there had been no undue practice, and that it appeared upon what no grounds the House of Commons had proceeded; which he hoped would tend to ease the mind of his Majesty. He proposed, and it was ordered, that the whole examination should be printed.
The affair having concluded in this extraordinary manner, the friends of Mr. Byng could no longer expect any mercy. If he could be brought to the verge of death after such a sentence and such a recommendation from his Judges; if the remorse of those Judges could only interpose; undoubtedly their retracting all distress of conscience, and upholding their sentence in a firmer manner than when they first pronounced it, could neither give the King a new handle to pardon, nor any hopes to the Admiral’s well-wishers. They despaired, though they ceased not to solicit. Of the Court-Martial,[83] it must be remembered, that Norris, who had faltered, was never after employed—that Keppel was—that Moore had immediately assigned to him the most profitable station during the war.
I hasten to the conclusion of the tragedy: a few intervening incidents I shall resume afterwards.
The 14th of March was appointed for execution. Yet one more unexpected event seemed to promise another interruption. The city of London had all along assumed that unamiable department of a free government, inconsiderate clamour for punishment. But as a mob is always the first engine of severity, so it is generally the foremost, often the sole body, that melts and feels compassion when it is too late. Their favourite spectacle is a brave sufferer. This time they anticipated tenderness. On the 9th, at eleven at night, four Tory Aldermen went to Dickinson, the Lord Mayor, to desire he would summon a Common Council, intending to promote a petition to the King to spare the Admiral. The motion was imputed to Mr. Pitt. The magistrate, as unfeelingly formal as if he had been the first magistrate in the kingdom, replied, it was too late; he would be at home till noon of the next day. On the morrow they sent to him not to dismiss his officers, but he heard no more, though they continued squabbling among themselves till two in the morning. Thus the last chance was lost. Had the first midnight emotion been seized, it might have spread happily—at least the King could not have pleaded his promise of severity pledged to the city. I hesitate even to mention what I will not explain, as I cannot prove my suspicion: but I was eye-witness to a secret and particular conference between Dickinson and another man, who, I have but too much reason to think, had a black commission.
The fatal morning arrived, but was by no means met by the Admiral with reluctance. The whole tenour of his behaviour had been cheerful, steady, dignified, sensible. While he felt like a victim, he acted like a hero. Indeed, he was the only man whom his enemies had had no power to bend to their purposes. He always received with indignation any proposal from his friends of practising an escape; an advantage he scorned to lend to clamour. Of his fate he talked with indifference; and neither shunned to hear the requisite dispositions, nor affected parade in them. For the last fortnight he constantly declared that he would not suffer a handkerchief over his face, that it might be seen whether he betrayed the least symptom of fear; and when the minute arrived, adhered to his purpose. He took an easy leave of his friends, detained the officers not a moment, went directly to the deck, and placed himself in a chair with neither ceremony nor lightness. Some of the more humane officers represented to him, that his face being uncovered, might throw reluctance into the executioners; and besought him to suffer a handkerchief. He replied, with the same unconcern, “If it will frighten them, let it be done: they would not frighten me.” His eyes were bound; they shot, and he fell at once.[84]
It has often been remarked that whoever dies in public, dies well. Perhaps those, who, trembling most, maintain a dignity in their fate, are the bravest: resolution on reflection is real courage. It is less condemnable, than a melancholy vain-glory, when some men are ostentatious at their death. But surely a man who can adjust the circumstances of his execution beforehand; who can say, “Thus I will do, and thus;” who can sustain the determined part, and throws in no unnecessary pomp, that man does not fear—can it be probable he ever did fear? I say nothing of Mr. Byng’s duels; cowards have ventured life for reputation: I say nothing of his having been a warm persecutor of Admiral Matthews: cowards, like other guilty persons, are often severe against failings, which they hope to conceal in themselves by condemning in others: it was the uniformity of Mr. Byng’s behaviour from the outset of his persecution to his catastrophe, from whence I conclude that he was aspersed as unjustly, as I am sure that he was devoted maliciously, and put to death contrary to all equity and precedent.[85]