The Captain said, he had brought a prayer book, and did all he could to comfort the poor fellows. But, alas! their grief “knew not consolation’s name.”
Captain Transom read prayers, which were listened to by both of the miserable men with the greatest devotion, while all the while, the poor woman never moved a muscle, every faculty appearing to be once more frozen up by grief and misery. At length, the elder prisoner again spoke. “I know I have no claim on you, gentlemen; but I am an Englishman at least I hope I may call myself an Englishman, and my wife there is an Englishwoman—when I am gone oh, gentlemen, what is to become of her? If I were but sure that she would be cared for, and enabled to return to her friends, the bitterness of death would be past.” Here the poor woman threw herself round her husband’s neck, and gave a shrill sharp cry, and relaxing her hold, fell down across his knees, with her head hanging back, and her face towards the roof, in a dead faint. For a minute or two, the husband’s sole concern seemed to be the condition of his wife.
“I will undertake that she shall be sent safe to England, my good man,” said Mr Bang.
The felon looked at him—drew one hand across his eyes, which were misty with tears, held down his head, and again looked up at length he found his tongue. “That God who rewardeth good deeds here, that God whom I have offended, before whom I must answer for my sins by daybreak to morrow, will reward you—I can only thank you.” He seized Mr Bang’s hand and kissed it.
With heavy hearts we left the miserable group, and I may mention here, that Mr Bang was as good as his word, and paid the poor woman’s passage home, and, so far as I know, she is now restored to her family.
We slept that night at Mr S——‘s, and as the morning dawned we mounted our horses, which our worthy host had kindly desired to be ready, in order to enable us to take our exercise in the cool of the morning. As we rode past the Place d’armes, or open space in front of the President’s palace, we heard sounds of military music, and asked the first chance passenger what was going on. “Execution militaire; or rather,” said the man, “the two sea captains, who introduced the base money, are to be shot this morning—there against the rampart.” Of the fact we were aware, but we did not dream that we had ridden so near the whereabouts.
“Ay, indeed?”—said Mr Bang. He looked towards the Captain. “My dear Transom, I have no wish to witness so horrible a sight, but still—what say you—shall we pull up, or ride on?”
The truth was that Captain Transom and myself were both of us desirous of seeing the execution—from what impelling motive, let learned blockheads, who have never gloated over a hanging, determine; and quickly it was determined that we should wait and witness it.
First advanced a whole regiment of the President’s guards, then a battalion of infantry of the line, close to which followed a whole bevy of priests clad in white, which contrasted conspicuously with their brown and black faces. After them marched two firing parties of twelve men each, drafted indiscriminately, as it would appear, from the whole garrison; for the grenadier cap was there intermingled with the glazed shako of the battalion company, and the light morion of the dismounted dragoon. Then came the prisoners. The elder culprit, respectably clothed in white shirt, waistcoat, and trowsers, and blue coat, with an Indian silk yellow handkerchief bound round his head. His lips were compressed together with an unnatural firmness, and his features were sharpened like those of a corpse. His complexion was ashy blue. His eyes were half shut, but every now and then he opened them wide, and gave a startling rapid glance about him, and occasionally he staggered a little in his gait. As he approached the place of execution, his eyelids fell, his under-jaw dropped, his arms hung dangling by his side like empty sleeves; still he walked on, mechanically keeping time, like an automaton, to the measured tread of the soldiery. His fellow sufferer followed him. His eye was bright, his complexion healthy, his step firm, and he immediately recognised us in the throng, made a bow to Captain Transom, and held out his hand to Mr Bang, who was nearest to him, and shook it cordially. The procession moved on. The troops formed into three sides of a square, the remaining one being the earthen mound, that constituted the rampart of the place. A halt was called. The two firing parties advanced to the sound of muffled drums, and having arrived at the crest of the glacis, right over the counterscarp, they halted on what, in a more regular fortification, would have been termed the covered way. The prisoners, perfectly unfettered, advanced between them, stepped down with a firm step into the ditch, led each by a grenadier. In the centre of it they turned and kneeled, neither of their eyes being bound. A priest advanced, and seemed to pray with the brown man fervently; another offered spiritual consolation to the Englishman, who seemed now to have rallied his torpid faculties, but he waved him away impatiently, and taking a book from his bosom, seemed to repeat a prayer from it with great fervour. At this very instant of time, Mr Bang caught his eye. He dropped the book on the ground, placed one hand on his heart, while he pointed upwards towards heaven with the other, calling out in a loud clear voice, “Remember!” Aaron bowed. A mounted officer now rode quickly up to the brink of the ditch, and called out, “Depechez.”
The priests left the miserable men, and all was still as death for a minute. A low solitary tap of the drum—the firing parties came to the recover, and presently taking the time from the sword of the staff officer who had spoken, came down to the present, and fired a rattling, straggling volley. The brown man sprang up into the air three or four feet, and fell dead; he had been shot through the heart; but the white man was only wounded, and had fallen, writhing, and struggling, and shrieking, to the ground. I heard him distinctly call out, as the reserve of six men stepped into the ditch, “Dans la tete dans la tete.” One of the grenadiers advanced, and, putting his musket close to his face, fired. The ball splashed into his skull, through the left eye, setting fire to his hair and clothes, and the handkerchief bound round his head, and making the brains and blood flash up all over his face, and the person of the soldier who had given him the coup de grace.