“It is, that you will yourself be sacrificed in these horrid dungeons. Your constitution is failing, and you cannot much longer sustain this wear and tear of body and mind.”
“Do not let these thoughts trouble you, my friend,” replied the colonel. “Having made your peace, as I trust, with God, let these last moments be peaceful also; and fear not for me. I know no other, and I seek no other path than that of duty. There is a sun always shining over that path, through whatever trials it may lead. If it is Heaven’s will that I be sacrificed, what better can I do than fulfil Heaven’s decree?”
“But, colonel,” said the sick man, “it is rumored, in the ship, that an exchange is about to be offered to you. Many of the prisoners are in despair lest you should leave them, for you are their only comfort. I know your character, and fear that your sense of duty may lead you to refuse to accept an exchange. Let me pray you not thus to lay down your life.”
“Nay, nay,” said the colonel, “fear nothing on that score. I am aware that my health is failing, and I know that I could not much longer endure the kind of life I have led. If an exchange is made, it is not for me to refuse. I assure you, however, I would not leave these poor prisoners to their fate if the hope was not presented that, in being released, I might make representations to the British officers, and an appeal to the American people, which should effect something in their behalf. I have great hopes of obtaining something from the noble heart of Sir Guy Carleton, who has succeeded the weak and heartless Sir Henry Clinton.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said the sick man, earnestly. “I am now relieved from every anxiety. Farewell, colonel; you must now go to the other prisoners. I trust we shall meet in a happier world than this.”
Colonel Joinly pressed the poor man’s emaciated hand beneath both his own, while the tears fell down his cheeks. The sick man folded his arms upon his breast, and closed his eyes. The pallid and wasted features showed the havoc of suffering and disease upon a countenance still youthful; but, amid the ghastly aspect of death, there was a smile, which seemed to show that the soul within was at peace. Colonel Joinly remained in his chair some moments, his face buried in his hand. With a strong effort, he then arose, and turned to depart. He now met his son, who had stood aside during the scene we have described.
We shall not dwell upon the first interview of the father and son. The story of the latter was soon told, and Colonel Joinly was apprized at once of his own liberation and the gallant achievement by which it had been accomplished. Nearly overpowered with his feelings, he was desirous of leaving the ship and going to his own room. He, therefore, mounted to the deck, for the purpose of departing; but a scene awaited him here which he had not anticipated.
The rumor of his exchange had reached the prisoners, and a large number of them had now assembled to express their thanks and give vent to their sorrow. They formed a line on each side, from the companion-way to the ladder, and, as he passed along, they reached out their hands in token of farewell. Many of them were in tears, and several were earnest in their supplications to the colonel to do something for their families, or, perhaps, make an effort for their own deliverance from their dungeon.
This painful and trying scene was at last over, and the father and son soon reached the apartment of the former. A short time was spent in mutual inquiries and explanations, and then preparations were made for their departure. Colonel Joinly’s first steps, however, were in behalf of the suffering soldiers for whom he had labored so long. He visited several of the British officers in New York, and especially Sir Guy Carleton. A promise was given—and we are happy to say that it was fulfilled—that the prisoners, thenceforward, should receive the care and attention due to Christian men.
The father and son now set out for Saybrook, where they arrived in due season. The colonel was greatly changed by the suffering he had endured. His tall and robust form was emaciated and bent over; his hair had grown thin and white, and his countenance had become at once sallow and deeply furrowed with traces never to be effaced.