we only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor
Tom.
The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an
eye that all was over.
I believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers
once more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the
poor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade and carried, groaning and
bleeding, into the log-house.
Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint,
fear, or even acquiescence from the very beginning of our troubles till
now, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die. He had lain like
a Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order
silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score
of years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was
to die.
The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand,
crying like a child.
Be I going, doctor? he asked.
Tom, my man, said I, you re going home.
I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first, he replied.
Tom, said the squire, say you forgive me, won t you?
Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire? was the answer.
Howsoever, so be it, amen!
After a little while of silence, he said he thought somebody might read
a prayer. It s the custom, sir, he added apologetically. And not long
after, without another word, he passed away.
In the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully
swollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various
stores--the British colours, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink,
95