The Pirate (Marryat)/Chapter XVII

The Trials
In a week, the Comus arrived at Port Royal, and the captain went up to the Penn to inform the admiral of the successful result of the expedition.

“Thank God,” said the admiral, “we have caught these villains at last! A little hanging will do them no harm. The captain, you say, was drowned?”

“So it is reported, sir,” replied Captain Manly; “he was in the last boat which left the schooner, and she was sunk by a shot from the launch.”

“I am sorry for that; the death was too good for him. However, we must make an example of the rest; they must be tried by the Admiralty Court, which has the jurisdiction of the high seas. Send them on shore, Manly, and we wash our hands of them.”

“Very good, sir: but there are still some left on the island, we have reason to believe; and the Enterprise is in search of them.”

“By-the-by, did Templemore find his lady?”

“Oh yes, sir; and—all’s right, I believe: but I had very little to say to him on the subject.”

“Humph!” replied the admiral. “I am glad to hear it. Well, send them on shore, Manly, to the proper authorities. If any more be found, they must be hung afterwards when Templemore brings them in. I am more pleased at having secured these scoundrels than if we had taken a French frigate.”

About three weeks after this conversation, the secretary reported to the admiral that the Enterprise had made her number outside; but that she was becalmed, and would not probably be in until the evening.

“That’s a pity,” replied the admiral; “for the pirates are to be tried this morning. He may have more of them on board.”

“Very true, sir; but the trial will hardly be over to-day: the judge will not be in court till one o’clock at the soonest.”

“It’s of little consequence, certainly; as it is, there are so many that they must be hanged by divisions. However, as he is within signal distance, let them telegraph ‘Pirates now on trial.’ He can pull on shore in his gig, if he pleases.”

It was about noon on the same day that the pirates, and among them Francisco, escorted by a strong guard, were conducted to the Court House, and placed at the bar. The Court House was crowded to excess, for the interest excited was intense.

Many of them who had been wounded in the attack upon the property of Don Cumanos, and afterwards captured, had died in their confinement. Still forty-five were placed at the bar; and their picturesque costume, their bearded faces, and the atrocities which they had committed, created in those present a sensation of anxiety mingled with horror and indignation.

Two of the youngest amongst them had been permitted to turn king’s evidence. They had been on board of the Avenger but a few months; still their testimony as to the murder of the crews of three West India ships, and the attack upon the property of Don Cumanos, was quite sufficient to condemn the remainder.

Much time was necessarily expended in going through the forms of the court; in the pirates answering to their various names; and, lastly, in taking down the detailed evidence of the above men. It was late when the evidence was read over to the pirates, and they were asked if they had anything to offer in their defence. The question was repeated by the judge; when Hawkhurst was the first to speak. To save himself he could scarcely hope; his only object was to prevent Francisco pleading his cause successfully, and escaping the same disgraceful death.

Hawkhurst declared that he had been some time on board the Avenger, but that he had been taken out of a vessel and forced to serve against his will, as could be proved by the captain’s son, who stood there (pointing to Francisco), who had been in the schooner since her first fitting out:—that he had always opposed the captain, who would not part with him, because he was the only one on board who was competent to navigate the schooner: that he had intended to rise against him, and take the vessel, having often stimulated the crew so to do; and that, as the other men, as well as the captain’s son, could prove, if they chose, he actually was in confinement for that attempt when the schooner was entering the passage to the Caicos; and that he was only released because he was acquainted with the passage, and threatened to be thrown overboard if he did not take her in; that, at every risk, he had run her on the rocks; and aware that the captain would murder him, he had shot Cain as he was swimming to the shore, as the captain’s son could prove; for he had taxed him with it, and he was actually struggling with him for life, when the officers and boat’s crew separated them, and made them both prisoners: that he hardly expected that Francisco, the captain’s son, would tell the truth to save him, as he was his bitter enemy, and in the business at the Magdalen river, which had been long planned (for Francisco had been sent on shore under the pretence of being wrecked, but, in fact, to ascertain where the booty was, and to assist the pirates in their attack), Francisco had taken the opportunity of putting a bullet through his shoulder, which was well known to the other pirates, and Francisco could not venture to deny. He trusted that the court would order the torture to Francisco, and then he would probably speak the truth; at all events, let him speak now.

When Hawkhurst had ceased to address the court, there was an anxious pause for some minutes. The day was fast declining, and most parts of the spacious Court House were already deeply immersed in gloom; while the light, sober, solemn, and almost sad, gleamed upon the savage and reckless countenances of the prisoners at the bar. The sun had sunk down behind a mass of heavy yet gorgeous clouds, fringing their edges with molten gold. Hawkhurst had spoken fluently and energetically, and there was an appearance of almost honesty in his coarse and deep-toned voice. Even the occasional oaths with which his speech was garnished, but which we have omitted, seemed to be pronounced more in sincerity than in blasphemy, and gave a more forcible impression to his narrative.

We have said, that when he concluded there was a profound silence; and amid the fast-falling shadows of the evening, those who were present began to feel, for the first time, the awful importance of the drama before them, the number of lives which were trembling upon the verge of existence, depending upon the single word of “Guilty.” This painful silence, this harrowing suspense, was at last broken by a restrained sob from a female; but owing to the obscurity involving the body of the court, her person could not be distinguished. The wail of a woman so unexpected—for who could there be of that sex interested in the fate of these desperate men?—touched the heart of its auditors, and appeared to sow the first seeds of compassionate and humane feeling among those who had hitherto expressed and felt nothing but indignation towards the prisoners.

The judge upon the bench, the counsel at the bar, and the jury impannelled in their box, felt the force of the appeal; and it softened down the evil impression created by the address of Hawkhurst against the youthful Francisco. The eyes of all were now directed towards the one doubly accused—accused not only by the public prosecutor, but even by his associate in crime,—and the survey was favourable. They acknowledged that he was one whose personal qualities might indeed challenge the love of woman in his pride, and her lament in his disgrace; and as their regard was directed towards him, the sun, which had been obscured, now pierced through a break in the mass of clouds, and threw a portion of his glorious beams from a window opposite upon him, and him alone, while all the other prisoners who surrounded him were buried more or less in deep shadow. It was at once evident that his associates were bold yet commonplace villains—men who owed their courage, their only virtue perhaps, to their habits, to their physical organisation, or the influence of those around them. They were mere human butchers, with the only adjunct that, now that the trade was to be exercised upon themselves, they could bear it with sullen apathy—a feeling how far removed from true fortitude! Even Hawkhurst, though more commanding than the rest, with all his daring mien and scowl of defiance, looked nothing more than a distinguished ruffian. With the exception of Francisco, the prisoners had wholly neglected their personal appearance; and in them the squalid and sordid look of the mendicant seemed allied with the ferocity of the murderer.

Francisco was not only an exception, but formed a beautiful contrast to the others; and as the evening beams lighted up his figure, he stood at the bar, if not with all the splendour of a hero of romance, certainly a most picturesque and interesting personage, elegantly if not richly attired.

The low sobs at intervals repeated, as if impossible to be checked, seemed to rouse and call him to a sense of the important part which he was called upon to act in the tragedy there and then performing. His face was pale, yet composed; his mien at once proud and sorrowful: his eye was bright, yet his glance was not upon those in court, but far away, fixed, like an eagle’s, upon the gorgeous beams of the setting sun, which glowed upon him through the window that was in front of him.

At last the voice of Francisco was heard, and all in that wide court started at the sound—deep, full, and melodious as the evening chimes. The ears of those present had, in the profound silence, but just recovered from the harsh, deep-toned, and barbarous idiom of Hawkhurst’s address, when the clear, silvery, yet manly voice of Francisco, riveted their attention. The jury stretched forth their heads, the counsel and all in court turned anxiously round towards the prisoner, even the judge held up his forefinger to intimate his wish for perfect silence.

“My lord and gentlemen,” commenced Francisco, “when I first found myself in this degrading situation, I had not thought to have spoken or to have uttered one word in my defence. He that has just now accused me has recommended the torture to be applied; he has already had his wish, for what torture can be more agonising than to find myself where I now am? So tortured, indeed, have I been through a short yet wretched life, that I have often felt that anything short of self-destruction which would release me would be a blessing; but within these few minutes I have been made to acknowledge that I have still feelings in unison with my fellow-creatures; that I am not yet fit for death, and all too young, too unprepared to die: for who would not reluctantly leave this world while there is such a beauteous sky to love and look upon, or while there is one female breast who holds him innocent, and has evinced her pity for his misfortunes? Yes, my lord! mercy, and pity, and compassion, have not yet fled from earth; and therefore do I feel I am too young to die. God forgive me! but I thought they had—for never have they been shown in those with whom by fate I have been connected; and it has been from this conviction that I have so often longed for death. And now may that righteous God who judges us not here, but hereafter, enable me to prove that I do not deserve an ignominious punishment from my fellow-sinners—men!

“My lord, I know not the subtleties of the laws, nor the intricacy of pleadings. First, let me assert that I have never robbed; but I have restored unto the plundered: I have never murdered; but I have stood between the assassin’s knife and his victim. For this have I been hated and reviled by my associates, and for this, is my life now threatened by those laws against which I never had offended. The man who last addressed you has told you that I am the pirate-captain’s son; it is the assertion of the only irreclaimable and utterly remorseless villain among those who now stand before you to be judged—the assertion of one whose glory, whose joy, whose solace has been blood-shedding.

“My lord, I had it from the mouth of the captain himself, previous to his murder by that man, that I was not his son. His son! thank God, not so. Connected with him and in his power I was, most certainly and most incomprehensibly. Before he died, he delivered me a packet that would have told me who I am; but I have lost it, and deeply have I felt the loss. One only fact I gained from him whom they would call my father, which is, that with his own hand he slew—yes, basely slew—my mother.”

The address of Francisco was here interrupted by a low deep groan of anguish, which startled the whole audience. It was now quite dark, and the judge ordered the court to be lighted previous to the defence being continued. The impatience and anxiety of those present were shown in low murmurs of communication until the lights were brought in. The word “Silence!” from the judge produced an immediate obedience, and the prisoner was ordered to proceed.

Francisco then continued his address, commencing with the remembrances of his earliest childhood. As he warmed with his subject, he became more eloquent; his action became energetical without violence; and the pallid and modest youth gradually grew into the impassioned and inspired orator. He recapitulated rapidly, yet distinctly and with terrible force, all the startling events in his fearful life. There was truth in the tones of his voice, there was conviction in his animated countenance, there was innocence in his open and expressive brow.

All who heard believed; and scarcely had he concluded his address, when the jury appeared impatient to rise and give their verdict in his favour. But the judge stood up, and, addressing the jury, told them that it was his most painful duty to remind them that as yet they had heard but assertion, beautiful and almost convincing assertion truly; but still it was not proof.

“Alas!” observed Francisco, “what evidence can I bring forward, except the evidence of those around me at the bar, which will not be admitted? Can I recall the dead from the grave? Can I expect those who have been murdered to rise again to assert my innocence? Can I expect that Don Cumanos will appear from distant leagues to give evidence on my behalf? Alas he knows not how I am situated, or he would have flown to my succour. No, no; not even can I expect that the sweet Spanish maiden, the last to whom I offered my protection, will appear in such a place as this to meet the bold gaze of hundreds!”

“She is here!” replied a manly voice; and a passage was made through the crowd; and Clara, supported by Edward Templemore, dressed in his uniform, was ushered into the box for the witnesses. The appearance of the fair girl, who looked round her with alarm, created a great sensation. As soon as she was sufficiently composed, she was sworn, and gave her evidence as to Francisco’s behaviour during the time that she was a prisoner on board of the Avenger. She produced the packet which had saved the life of Francisco, and substantiated a great part of his defence. She extolled his kindness and his generosity; and when she had concluded, every one asked of himself, “Can this young man be a pirate and a murderer?” The reply was, “It is impossible.”

“My lord,” said Edward Templemore, “I request permission to ask the prisoner a question. When I was on board of the wreck of the Avenger, I found this book floating in the cabin. I wish to ask the prisoner, whether, as that young lady has informed me, it is his?” And Edward Templemore produced the Bible.

“It is mine,” replied Francisco.

“May I ask you by what means it came into your possession?”

“It is the only relic left of one who is now no more. It was the consolation of my murdered mother; it has since been mine. Give it to me, sir; I may probably need its support now more than ever.”

“Was your mother murdered, say you?” cried Edward Templemore, with much agitation.

“I have already said so; and I now repeat it.”

The judge again rose, and recapitulated the evidence to the jury. Evidently friendly to Francisco he was obliged to point out to them, that although the evidence of the young lady had produced much which might be offered in extenuation, and induce him to submit it to His Majesty, in hopes of his gracious pardon after condemnation, yet, that many acts in which the prisoner had been involved had endangered his life and no testimony had been brought forward to prove that he had not, at one time, acted with the pirates, although he might since have repented. They would of course, remember that the evidence of the mate, Hawkhurst, was not of any value, and must dismiss any impression which it might have made against Francisco. At the same time he had the unpleasant duty to point out, that the evidence of the Spanish lady was so far prejudicial, that it pointed out the good terms subsisting between the young man and the pirate-captain. Much as he was interested in his fate, he must reluctantly remind the jury, that the evidence on the whole was not sufficient to clear the prisoner; and he considered it their duty to return a verdict of guilty against all the prisoners at the bar.

“My lord,” said Edward Templemore, a few seconds after the judge had resumed his seat; “may not the contents of this packet, the seal of which I have not ventured to break, afford some evidence in favour of the prisoner? Have you any objection that it should be opened previous to the jury delivering their verdict?”

“None,” replied the judge: “but what are its supposed contents?”

“The contents, my lord,” replied Francisco, “are in the writing of the pirate-captain. He delivered that packet into my hands previous to our quitting the schooner, stating that it would inform me who were my parents. My lord, in my present situation I claim that packet, and refuse that its contents should be read in court. If I am to die an ignominious death, at least those who are connected with me shall not have to blush at my disgrace, for the secret of my parentage shall die with me.”

“Nay—nay; be ruled by me,” replied Edward Templemore, with much emotion. “In the narrative, the handwriting of which can be proved by the king’s evidence, there may be acknowledgment of all you have stated, and it will be received as evidence; will it not, my lord?”

“If the handwriting is proved, I should think it may,” replied the judge, “particularly as the lady was present when the packet was delivered, and heard the captain’s assertion. Will you allow it to be offered as evidence, young man?”

“No, my lord,” replied Francisco; “unless I have permission first to peruse it myself. I will not have its contents divulged, unless I am sure of an honourable acquittal. The jury must deliver their verdict.”

The jury turned round to consult, during which Edward Templemore walked to Francisco, accompanied by Clara, to entreat him to allow the packet to be opened; but Francisco was firm against both their entreaties. At last the foreman of the jury rose to deliver the verdict. A solemn and awful silence prevailed throughout the court; the suspense was painful to a degree.

“My lord,” said the foreman of the jury, “our verdict is—”

“Stop, sir!” said Edward Templemore as he clasped one arm round the astonished Francisco, and extended the other towards the foreman. “Stop, sir! harm him not! for he is my brother!”

“And my preserver!” cried Clara, kneeling on the other side of Francisco, and holding up her hands in supplication.

The announcement was electrical; the foreman dropped into his seat; the judge and whole court were in mute astonishment. The dead silence was followed by confusion, to which, after a time, the judge in vain attempted to put a stop.

Edward Templemore, Clara, and Francisco, continued to form the same group; and never was there one more beautiful. And now that they were together, every one in court perceived the strong resemblance between the two young men.

Francisco’s complexion was darker than Edward’s from his constant exposure, from infancy, to a tropical sun; but the features of the two were the same.

It was some time before the judge could obtain silence in the court; and when it had been obtained, he was himself puzzled how to proceed.

Edward and Francisco, who had exchanged a few words, were now standing side by side.

“My lord,” said Edward Templemore, “the prisoner consents that the packet shall be opened.”

“I do,” said Francisco, mournfully; “although I have but little hope from its contents. Alas! now that I have everything to live for—not that I cling to life, I feel as if every chance was gone! The days of miracles have passed; and nothing but the miracle of the reappearance of the pirate-captain from the grave can prove my innocence.”

“He reappears from the grave to prove thine innocence, Francisco!” said a deep, hollow voice, which startled the whole court, and most of all Hawkhurst and the prisoners at the bar. Still more did fear and horror distort their countenances when into the witness-box stalked the giant form of Cain.

But it was no longer the figure which we have described in the commencement of this narrative; his beard had been removed, and he was pale, wan, and emaciated. His sunken eyes, his hollow cheek, and a short cough, which interrupted his speech, proved that his days were nearly at a close.

“My lord,” said Cain, addressing the judge, “I am the pirate Cain, and was the captain of the Avenger! Still am I free! I come here voluntarily, that I may attest the innocence of that young man! As yet, my hand has not known the manacle, nor my feet the gyves! I am not a prisoner, nor included in the indictment, and at present my evidence is good. None know me in this court, except those whose testimony, as prisoners, is unavailing; and therefore, to save that boy, and only to save him, I demand that I may be sworn.”

The oath was administered, with more than usual solemnity.

“My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I have been in court since the commencement of the trial, and I declare that every word which Francisco has uttered in his own defence is true. He is totally innocent of any act of piracy or murder; the packet would, indeed, have proved as much: but in that packet there are secrets which I wished to remain unknown to all but Francisco; and, rather than it should be opened, I have come forward myself. How that young officer discovered that Francisco is his brother I know not; but if he also is the son of Cecilia Templemore, it is true. But the packet will explain all.

“And now, my lords, that my evidence is received, I am content: I have done one good deed before I die, and I surrender myself, as a pirate and a foul murderer, to justice. True, my life is nearly closed—thanks to that villain there; but I prefer that I should meet that death I merit, as an expiation of my many deeds of guilt.”

Cain then turned to Hawkhurst, who was close to him, but the mate appeared to be in a state of stupor; he had not recovered from his first terror, and still imagined the appearance of Cain to be supernatural.

“Villain!” exclaimed Cain, putting his mouth close to Hawkhurst’s ear; “doubly d—d villain! thou’lt die like a dog, and unrevenged! The boy is safe, and I’m alive!”

“Art thou really living?” said Hawkhurst, recovering from his fear.

“Yes, living—yes, flesh and blood; feel, wretch! feel this arm, and be convinced: thou hast felt the power of it before now,” continued Cain, sarcastically. “And now, my lord, I have done. Francisco, fare thee well! I loved thee, and have proved my love. Hate not, then, my memory, and forgive me—yes, forgive me when I’m no more,” said Cain, who then turned his eyes to the ceiling of the court-house.—“Yes, there she is, Francisco!—there she is! and see,” cried he, extending both arms above his head, “she smiles upon—yes, Francisco, your sainted mother smiles and pardons—”

The sentence was not finished; for Hawkhurst, when Cain’s arms were upheld, perceived his knife in his girdle, and, with the rapidity of thought, he drew it out, and passed it through the body of the pirate-captain.

Cain fell heavily on the floor while the court was again in confusion. Hawkhurst was secured, and Cain raised from the ground.

“I thank thee, Hawkhurst!” said Cain, in an expiring voice; “another murder thou hast to answer for: and you have saved me from the disgrace, not of the gallows, but of the gallows in thy company. Francisco, boy, farewell!” and Cain groaned deeply, and expired.

Thus perished the renowned pirate-captain, who in his life had shed so much blood, and whose death produced another murder. “Blood for blood!”

The body was removed; and it now remained but for the jury to give their verdict. All the prisoners were found guilty, with the exception of Francisco, who left the dock accompanied by his newly-found brother, and the congratulations of every individual who could gain access to him.