‘Come and look, Butler! Come and see for yourself!’ cried the mate.
Tom rushed aft and stood beside Bates. In a moment or two he turned his face toward me and said, whilst he pointed to the cabin, with his finger a little elevated: ‘Marian, he has hanged himself!’ He then went in. Bates, with a white face, came running to the table for a knife, and then joined Tom. I sat quite still. I had not the courage to view an object which I guessed would haunt my memory as a phantom of ghastly horror whilst life lasted. My heart beat with sick, fast throbs whilst I waited. They were ten minutes in cutting him down and making sure he was dead. They then came out, closing the door behind them, and drew slowly to the table.
‘Miss Johnstone,’ said the mate, ‘he’s stone dead.’
‘Is it not God who wins, surely and always, in the end?’ exclaimed Tom.
POSTSCRIPT
When the venerable lady—the Marian Johnstone of the preceding narrative—had arrived at this point, she declined to proceed. She said she had told enough. If a sequel was necessary, it must be invented. She had several grandchildren, and she did not choose to vex or distress them by unnecessary candour.
With much coaxing, however, and during repeated visits, she let fall enough to admit of a truthful ending to her strange tale, and the few things material omitted by her were supplied by Admiralty records and certain files of shipping papers.
It seems that amongst them they safely carried the little brig Old Stormy to the English Channel, where, hauling in close to the French coast, they spoke a French smack, and Captain Butler went ashore to await Marian Johnstone in some French or Flemish town that had been agreed upon. The brig then stretched across to the English coast and landed Nodder, who died twenty-four hours after his arrival in England. Then, with the assistance of a few ’longshoremen, the vessel was carried to the Thames.