At last, on the 15th of December, several admirals and captains assembled to hold a court-martial on board the Culloden, and we ten men, accused of mutiny, were brought up for trial. It was quickly proved that four of our number had been captured while attempting to fire the guns behind the barricade, and that the whole of us had been found below when the rest of the ship’s company had returned to their duty. We were asked singly what we could say for ourselves.
Trickett was the first who spoke. He pleaded that he had been led away by others, that he did not know their object, and had no idea that matters would have proceeded to extremities. “I wished to see my shipmates righted, but I should have advised them, had they allowed me, to employ only legal means. As a proof that I was not one of the ringleaders, permit me to present this paper which came into my possession, and which, as you will see, does not contain my name.”
As he spoke, he produced a paper, and presented it to the President, who, after glancing over it, read it aloud. It began, I remember, “We, the undersigned, bind ourselves to hold fast to each other, and to take all the means in our power to obtain our rights, and have our grievances redressed; we resolve that no consideration shall hinder us, and that if our petition is not listened to, we will take possession of the ship, and carry her over to the French.” The paper wound up with terrible oaths, calling God to witness that nothing should make them give up their object.
“I see by the names attached to this precious document,” said the President, “that they are all those of the prisoners on trial, with the exception of that of the man who handed it in, which doesn’t appear,” and he slowly read out the names. Among the last was that of Pratt, then came that of Reginald Berkeley, and lastly, to my horror and dismay, was my own.
“I never signed that paper!” I exclaimed; “nothing should have induced me to put my hand to it.”
“Can you swear that your name is not Willand Wetherholm, and that
this is not your signature?” asked the President, and the paper was shown me, “That is my name, and that is my signature, but I didn’t put it to any document of that sort. I was writing a letter to my wife, just before the mutiny broke out, when the man whose name appears above mine, came and asked me to put my name as a witness to his signature, stating that it was required for legal purposes, in order to enable him to obtain a property to which he was entitled.”
“A likely story,” observed one of the members of the court. “Reginald Berkeley, as you call yourself, is this man’s story correct? Did you ask him to witness your signature for such a purpose as he states?”
I saw Iffley and Berkeley exchange glances.