“I’m sorry to hear you talk in that way,” he said after a moment; “but I want to tell you this—that although I shall have to tell exactly what happened before the court-martial, I can’t find in my heart the least feeling of revenge against poor old Grubb’s son, and when you are let out of prison, if you’ll come to me, I’ll do what I can for you, because I promised him when he was dying”—Brydell paused, and a slight change came over Esdaile’s face at this, but he said nothing and Brydell turned away.
The next day but one the court met, and it made short work with Esdaile. The testimony was complete, and the offence of striking an officer, under the circumstances, was almost as grave as if it were in time of war.
When Brydell was called upon for his evidence he gave it in a plain and straightforward way, and his examination brought out the fact that the alleged Black was the son of Grubb the marine, who had been known to one or two of the older officers in the court. Brydell could not but make the best showing he could for Esdaile, and something in Esdaile’s face seemed to indicate that a humanizing process was going on within him. It was indeed the turning point in his life. Before that he had not fully realized the wrongdoing of his whole life, but finding himself on trial for a charge that must send him to prison, gave him some awful moments of reflection.
Only a day or two were consumed in the trial. Every time that Brydell saw Esdaile led forward to his place to be tried for what was in military morals and discipline a terrible offence, it gave him a feeling of agony. He thought of his kind old friend, and the tears would come into his eyes in spite of himself. Esdaile was singularly cool and behaved civilly and respectfully to the court.
At last the verdict was given out—five years in prison. Everybody was surprised at its leniency. Esdaile when called up for sentence was asked if he had anything to say.
“Only this, if you please, gentlemen,” he answered calmly, in the tone and manner of an educated man. “The time was when Mr. Brydell and I were not so unequal in our standing. I made a mistake, committed a fault, if you will, in my early youth, that has made me what I am. I had not seen Mr. Brydell since; we had both of us been youths together. On the night of the storm I stood apart from my mates, watching him and envying him. Here, thought I, is he—an officer, suddenly finding himself in the position to reap the greatest credit, with the admiral, the captain, and all the officers in the squadron to witness it, while I, a sailor before the mast, forced to conceal my real name, poor and friendless, might have been where he is. And when I went aloft I scarcely knew what I was doing. When I came down on deck he spoke to me; I believe he acknowledged that he spoke impatiently, and some devil seemed to rise up in me, and I would have killed him if I could. But that has all passed. I have been tried fairly and impartially, and all I can ask is the mercy of the court.”
In the midst of a deep and breathless silence the verdict was read—five years in prison. Esdaile, still wearing his impassive look, neither groaned nor fell as men sometimes do in his awful circumstances; he only said after a painful pause of a few minutes:—
“I thank the court for its very moderate punishment, and I should like the favor of seeing Mr. Brydell.”
Brydell was hastily sent for. He had purposely kept out of the way; the sight of Esdaile’s misery was terrible to him. He was found though, and at once came in response to the summons.
“Mr. Brydell,” said Esdaile in the same composed and reasonable voice, “I have received my sentence and nothing I may say or do now can mitigate it. You will therefore think me sincere when I ask your pardon for my conduct, and tell you that if I live to get out of prison I will lead a different life. Won’t you shake hands with me, sir?”