Irene visited poor Diggs in prison and found him on the verge of despair. He had wept until his eyes were swollen. He would not eat or sleep, and his abject terror, his want of food and sleep had made him a pitiable-looking object. She remained only a few moments, but they were the only moments of comfort he had known since his sentence was passed, for Irene came to tell him it had been arranged that Captain Tompkins should go to Washington to intercede with the President on his behalf. Almost daily Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Jones, who had known Diggs from his babyhood, came to visit him. They both had sons in the rebel army, and so could sympathize with poor Diggs. These were the only faces from the outside world that he saw, except the guard, who were sometimes kind-hearted, allowing him all possible privileges, but often rough and surly, adding to his misery by coarse taunts and harsh treatment.
A man with a heart of stone might have felt compassion for Diggs. The little fellow's vanity and boasting were gone. He was humble and meek, and he seldom spoke. Even his fellow prisoners treated him with consideration, and endeavored to cheer and encourage him. Captain Tompkins obtained leave of absence, went to the Junction, and took the first train for Washington. He knew that if he could see the President, a pardon would be obtained, but to secure an interview with the President, when the country was in such a condition as it was at that time, was no easy matter. Days and weeks might elapse and leave him still waiting for an opportunity. The village pastor found in Diggs a ready convert now, but while he professed to have found peace for his soul, he was by no means anxious to quit this world. Hour after hour dragged slowly by, until the day was gone, and no news from Captain Tompkins. The next day and the next came and passed, the doomed man waiting anxiously, hour by hour, the captain's return. He had heard of James Bird, the hero of Lake Erie, celebrated in song and story, how he had been condemned to death and pardoned, and how the messenger came bearing the pardon a few seconds too late, even while the smoke of the executioner's gun yet hung in the air, and feared that this fate would be his. It was now Wednesday, and the captain had not come and had sent no word. Diggs did nothing but pace his narrow cell—he was closely confined—bemoaning his fate and imploring every one, who came to see him, to save him from his horrible fate, from being cut off in the prime of life. Thursday dawned, and the captain did not come. Even if he did return, he might not bring the pardon. It was a day of agony to poor Diggs. To-morrow, that dread to-morrow, he must die. The minister remained with him most of the day, and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Williams stayed with him several hours. Singing and prayers were frequently heard from the cell of the condemned man, who, most of the time, crouched in the corner with his face bowed in his hands.
The fatal morning dawned. Poor Diggs! despair had seized him. His most intimate friends would not have recognized that haggard, wild-looking face. The minister, at his request, came early to his cell, also the sympathizing old ladies, who had passed so many weary hours with him. But the morning hours now seemed to fly. No message or messenger came. The minister looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes before ten. All was silence, save an occasional sob from the prisoner or the old ladies. No one dared speak. The minister sat silently holding his watch, noting the swift flying moments, his lips moving in silent prayer for the soul of the man, who was soon to appear at the bar of God.
Ten o'clock came. There was a rattling of keys, a sliding of iron bolts and bars, and the jailer called the name of
"Patrick Henry Diggs!"
The minister and all, in the doomed man's cell, bowed for a moment in silence, then the good man lifted up his voice to that God, whom all the universe worships, in a prayer for a soul about to take flight.
Two soldiers entered and supported the prisoner beyond the prison walls, the minister following with the guard.
The dread place was reached. Sergeant Swords and Corporal Grimm had charge of the execution. At the farther extremity of the field was a fresh dug grave—a rude coffin beside it—and, standing in line beneath an oak tree, were twelve soldiers with muskets in their hands. The sight was too much for Diggs and he again fainted. The regimental surgeon administered restoratives, and the officers in charge advanced to prepare the prisoner for his fate.
The minister approached Sergeant Swords, asking permission, before this was done, to offer a last prayer. It was granted.
The prayer was long and earnest, appealing to the Ruler of the universe, in universal terms. The minister prayed for the prisoner, he prayed for his executioners; he prayed for the officers who composed the court-martial; he prayed for the soldiers, who were to execute the sentence; he prayed for the army, for both armies, for all the armies in the world, for all the armies that had been, and for all that might be. Having completely finished up the army business, the preacher commenced on civilians, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed, until both soldiers and officers looked at him and at each other in amazement.