The father and son dined with the General at the "Star." Bradbury and one of his fellows waited as private servants; other officers, in plain clothes, watched back and front.
At three o'clock father and son parted, the son with many tears, the father with dry eyes, but a voice that trembled as he blessed him.
Young Cowen, now Morris, went down to Gravesend with his chief; the criminal back to Newgate, respectfully bowed from the door of the "Star" by landlord and waiters.
At first he was comparatively calm, but as the night advanced became restless, and by and by began to pace his cell again like a caged lion.
At twenty minutes past eleven a turnkey brought him a line; a horseman had galloped in with it from Gravesend.
"A fair wind—we weigh anchor at the full tide. It is a merchant vessel, and the Captain under my orders to keep off shore and take no messages. Farewell. Turn to the God you have forgotten. He alone can pardon you."
On receiving this note, Cowen betook him to his knees.
In this attitude the jailer found him when he went his round.
He waited till the Captain rose, and then let him know that an able lawyer was in waiting, instructed to defend him at Bow Street next morning. The truth is, the females of the "Swan" had clubbed money for this purposes.
Cowen declined to see him. "I thank you, sir," said he, "I will defend myself."