Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

Mr. Basset, I was told, was at court, and I was shown into the office to await his return. The gloomy little den, – I knew it well, with its dirty shelves of dirtier papers, its old tin boxes, and its rickety desk, at which two meanly-dressed starveling youths were busy writing. They turned a rapid glance towards me as I entered; and as they resumed their occupation, I could hear a muttered remark upon my dress and appearance, the purport of which I did not catch.

I sat for some time patiently, expecting Basset’s arrival, but as the time stole by, I grew wearied with waiting, and determined on ascertaining, if I might, from the clerks, some intelligence concerning my brother.

“Have you any business with Mr. Burke?” said the youth I addressed, while his features assumed an expression of vulgar jocularity.

“Yes,” was my brief reply.

“Wouldn’t a letter do as well as a personal interview?” said the other, with an air of affected courtesy.

“Perhaps so,” I replied, too deeply engaged in my own thoughts to mind their flippant impertinence.

“Then mind you direct your letter ‘Churchyard, Loughrea;’ or, if you want to be particular, say ‘Family vault.’”

“Is he dead? Is George dead?”

“That’s hard to say,” interposed the other; “but they’ve buried him, that’s certain.”

Like a stunning blow, the shock of this news left me unable to speak or hear. A maze of confused thoughts crossed and jostled each other in my brain, and I could neither collect myself nor listen to what was said around me. My first clear memory was of a thousand little childish traits of love which had passed between us. Tokens of affection long forgotten now rushed freshly to my mind; and he whom a moment before I had condemned as wanting in all brotherly feeling, I now sorrowed for with true grief. The low and vulgar insolence of the speakers made no impression on me; and when, in answer to my questions, they narrated the manner of his death, – a fever contracted after some debauch at Oxford, – I only heard the tidings, but did not notice the unfeeling tone it was conveyed in.

My brother dead! the only one of kith or kindred belonging to me. How slight the tie seemed but a few moments back! what would I not give for it now? Then, for the first time, did I know how the heart can heap up its stores of consolation in secrecy, and how unconsciously the mind can dwell on hopes it has never confessed even to itself. How I fancied to myself our meeting, and thought over the long pent-up affection years of absence had accumulated, now flowing in a gushing stream from heart to heart I The grave is indeed hallowed when the grass of the churchyard can cover all memory save that of love. We dwell on every good gift of the lost one, as though no unworthy thought could cross that little mound of earth, the barrier between two worlds. Sad and sorrow-struck, I covered my face with my hands, and did not notice that Mr. Basset had entered, and taken his place at the desk.

His voice, every harsh tone of which I well remembered, first made me aware of his presence. I lifted my eyes, and there he stood, little changed indeed since I had seen him last. The hard lines about the mouth had grown deeper, the brow more furrowed, and the hair more mixed with gray, but in other respects he was the same. As I gazed at him I could not help fancying that time makes less impression on men of coarse, unfeeling mould, than on natures of a finer temper. The world’s changes leave no trace on the stern surface of the one, while they are wearing deep tracks of sorrow in the other.

“Insert the advertisement again, Simms,” said he, addressing one of the clerks, “and let it appear in some paper of the seaport towns. Among the Flemish or French smugglers who frequent them, there might be some one to give the information. They must be able to show that though Thomas Burke – ”

I started at the sound of my name. The motion surprised him; he looked round and perceived me. Quick and piercing as his glance was, I could not trace any sign of recognition; although, as he scanned my features, and suffered his eyes to wander over my dress, I perceived that his was no mere chance or cursory observation.

“Well, sir,” said he, at length, “is your business here with me?”

“Yes; but I would speak with you in private.”

“Come in here, then. Meanwhile, Sam, make out that deed; for we may go on without the proof of demise.”

Few and vague as the words were, their real meaning flashed on me, and I perceived that Mr. Basset was engaged in the search of some evidence of my death, doubtless to enable the heir-at-law to succeed to the estates of my brother. The moment the idea struck me, I felt assured of its certainty, and at once determined on the plan I should adopt.

“You have inserted an advertisement regarding a Mr. Burke,” said I, as soon as the door was closed, and we were alone together. “What are the particular circumstances of which you desire proof?”

“The place, date, and manner of his death,” replied he, slowly; “for though informed that such occurred abroad, an authentic evidence of the fact will save some trouble. Circumstances to identify the individual with the person we mean, of course, must be offered; showing whence he came, his probable age, and so on. For this intelligence I am prepared to pay liberally; at least a hundred pounds may be thought so.”

“It is a question of succession to some property, I have heard.”

“Yes; but the information is not of such moment as you may suppose,” replied he, quickly, and with the wariness of his calling anticipating the value I might be disposed to place on my intelligence. “We are satisfied with the fact of the death; and even were it otherwise, the individual most concerned is little likely to disprove the belief, his own reasons will probably keep him from visiting Ireland.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, the word escaping my lips ere I could check its utterance.

“Even so,” resumed he. “But this, of course, has no interest for you. Your accent bespeaks you a foreigner. Have you any information to offer on this matter?”

“Yes; if we speak of the same individual, who may have left this country about 1800 as a boy of some fourteen years of age, and entered the ‘École Polytechnique’ of Paris.”

“Like enough. Continue, if you please; what became of him afterwards?”

“He joined the French service, attained the rank of captain, and then left the army; came back to Ireland, and now, sir, stands before you.”

Mr. Basset never changed a muscle of his face as I made this declaration. So unmoved, so stolid was his look, that for a moment or two I believed him incredulous of my story. But this impression soon gave way, as with his eyes bent on me he said, —

“I knew you, sir, I knew you the moment I passed you in the office without; but it might have fared ill with you to have let my recognition appear.”

“As how? I do not understand you.”

“My clerks there might have given information for the sake of the reward; and once in Newgate, there was an end to all negotiation.”

“You must speak more intelligibly, sir, if you wish me to comprehend you. I am unaware of any circumstance which should threaten me with such a fate.”

“Have you forgotten Captain Crofts, – Montague Crofts?” said Basset, in a low whisper, while a smile of insulting malice crossed his features.

“No; I remember him well. What of him?”

“What of him! He charges you with a capital felony, – a crime for which the laws have little pity here, whatever your French habits may have taught you to regard it. Yes; the attempt to assassinate an officer in his Majesty’s service, when foiled by him in an effort to seduce the soldiery, is an offence which might have a place in your memory.”

“Can the man be base enough to make such a charge as this against me, – a boy, as I then was?”

“You were not alone; remember that fact.”

“True; and most thankful am I for it. There is one, at least, can prove my innocence, if I can but discover him.”

“You will find that a matter of some difficulty. Your worthy friend and early preceptor was transported five years since.”

“Poor fellow! I could better bear to hear that he was dead.”

“There are many of your opinion on that head,” said Basset, with a savage grin. “But the fellow was too cunning for all the lawyers, and his conviction at last was only effected by a stratagem.”

“A stratagem!” exclaimed I, in amazement.

“It was neither more nor less. Darby was arraigned four several times, but always acquitted. Now it was defective evidence; now a lenient jury; now an informal indictment: but so was it, he escaped the meshes of the law, though every one knew him guilty of a hundred offences. At last Major Barton resolved on another expedient. Darby was arrested in Ennis; thrown into jail; kept four weeks in a dark cell, on prison fare; and at the end, one morning the hangman appeared to say his hour was come, and that the warrant for his execution had arrived. It was to take place, without judge or jury, within the four walls of the jail. The scheme succeeded; his courage fell, and he offered, if his life was spared, to plead guilty to any transportable felony for which the grand Jury would send up true bills. He did so, and was then undergoing the sentence.”

“Great heavens! and can such iniquity be tolerated in a land where men call themselves Christians?” exclaimed I, as I heard this to the end.

“Iniquity!” repeated he, in mockery; “to rid the country of a ruffian, stained with every crime, – a fellow mixed up in every outrage in the land? Is this your notion of iniquity? Not so do I reckon it. And if I have told you of it now, it is that you may learn that when loyal and well-affected men are trusted with the execution of the laws, the principle of justice is of more moment than the nice distinction of legal subtleties. You may learn a lesson from it worth acquiring.”

“I! how can it affect me or my fortunes?”

“More nearly than you think. I have told you of the accusation which hangs over your head; weigh it well, and deliberate what are your chances of escape. We must not waste time in discussing your innocence. The jury who will try the cause will be more difficult of belief than you suspect; neither the opinions you are charged with, your subsequent escape, nor your career in France, will contribute to your exculpation, even had you evidence to adduce in your favor. But you have not; your only witness is equally removed as by death itself. On what do you depend, then? Conscious innocence! Nine out of every ten who mount the scaffold proclaim the same; but I never heard that the voice that cried it stifled the word ‘guilty.’ No, sir; I tell you solemnly, you will be condemned!”

The tone of his voice as he spoke the last few words made my very blood run cold. The death of a soldier on the field of battle had no terrors for me; but the execrated fate of a felon I could not confront. The pallor of my cheek, the trembling of my limbs, must have betrayed my emotion; for even Basset seemed to pity me, and pressed me down into a chair.

“There is one way, however, to avoid all the danger,” said he, after a pause; “an easy and a certain way both. You have heard of the advertisements for information respecting your death, which it was surmised had occurred abroad. Now you are unknown here, – without a single acquaintance to recognize or remember you; why should not you, under another name, come forward with these proofs? By so doing, you secure your own escape and can claim the reward.”

“What! perjure myself that I may forfeit my inheritance!”

“As to the inheritance,” said he, sneeringly, “your tenure does not promise a very long enjoyment of it.”

“Were it but a day, – an hour!” exclaimed I, passionately; “I will make no compromise with my honor. On their own heads be it who sentence an innocent man to death; better such, even on a scaffold, than a life of ignominy and vain regret.”

“The dark hours of a jail change men’s sentiments wonderfully,” said he, slowly. “I have known some who faced death in its wildest and most appalling shape, shrink from it like cowards when it came in the guise of a common executioner. Come, sir, be advised by me; reflect at least on what I have said, and if there be any path in life where a moderate sum may assist you – ”

“Peace, sir! I beg of you to be silent. It may be that your counsel is prompted by kindly feeling towards me; but if you would have me think so, say no more of this, – my mind is made up.”

“Wait until to-morrow, in any case; perhaps some other plan may suggest itself. What say you to America? Have you any objection to go there?”

“Had you asked me the question an hour since, I had replied, ‘None whatever.’ Now it is different; my departure would be like the flight of a guilty man. I cannot do it.”

“Better the flight than the fate of one,” muttered Basset between his teeth, while at the same instant the sound of voices talking loudly together was heard in the hall without.

“Think again, before it is too late. Remember what I have told you. Your opinions, your career, your associates, are not such as to recommend you to the favorable consideration of a jury. Is your case strong enough to oppose all these? Sir Montague will make liberal terms; he has no desire to expose the calamities of a family.”

“Sir Montague! – of whom do you speak?”

“Sir Montague Crofts,” said Basset, reddening, for he had unwittingly suffered the name to escape his lips. “Are you ignorant that he is your relative? a distant one, it is true, but your nearest of kin notwithstanding.”

“And the heir to the estate?” said I, suddenly, as anew light flashed on my mind; “the heir, in the event of my life lapsing?”

Basset nodded an assent.

“You played a deep game, sir,” said I, drawing a long breath; “but you never were near winning it.”

“Nor you either,” said he, throwing wide the door between the two rooms; “I hear a voice without there, that settles the question forever.”

At the same instant, Major Barton entered, followed by two men.

“I suspected I should find you here, sir,” said he, addressing me. “You need scarcely trouble my worthy friend for his bail; I arrest you now under a warrant of felony.”

“A felony!” exclaimed Basset, with a counterfeited astonishment in his look. “Mr. Burke accused of such a crime!”

I could not utter a word; indignation and shame overpowered me, and merely motioning with my hand that I was ready to accompany him, I followed to the door, at which a carriage was standing, getting into which we drove towards Newgate.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PERIL AVERTED

If I have dwelt with unnecessary prolixity on this dark portion of my story, it is because the only lesson my life teaches has lain in similar passages. The train of evils which flows from one misdirection in early life, – the misfortunes which ensue from a single false and inconsiderate step, – frequently darken the whole subsequent career. This I now thought over in the solitude of my cell. However I could acquit myself of the crime laid to my charge, I could not so easily absolve my heart of the early folly which made me suppose that the regeneration of a land should be accomplished by the efforts of a sanguinary and bigoted rabble. To this error could I trace every false step I made in life, – to this cause attribute the long struggle I endured between my love of liberty and my detestation of mob rule; and yet how many years did it cost me to learn, that to alleviate the burdens of the oppressed may demand a greater exercise of tyranny than ever their rulers practised towards them. Like many others, I looked to France as the land of freedom; but where was despotism so unbounded! where the sway of one great mind so unlimited! They had bartered liberty for equality, and because the pressure was equal on all, they deemed themselves free; while the privileges of class with us suggested the sense of bondage to the poor man, whose actual freedom was yet unencumbered.

Of all the daydreams of my boyhood, the ambition of military glory alone survived; and that lived on amid the dreary solitude of my prison, comforting many a lonely hour by memories of the past. The glittering ranks of the mounted squadrons; the deep-toned thunder of the artillery; the solid masses of the infantry, immovable beneath the rush of cavalry, – were pictures I could dwell on for hours and days, and my dearest wish could point to no higher destiny than to be once more a soldier in the ranks of France.

During all this time my mind seldom reverted to the circumstances of my imprisonment, nor did I feel the anxiety for the result my position might well have suggested. The conscious sense of my innocence kept the flame of hope alive, without suffering it either to flicker or vary. It burned like a steady fire within me, and made even the dark cells of a jail a place of repose and tranquillity. And thus time rolled on: the hours of pleasure and happiness to thousands, too short and flitting for the enjoyments they brought. They went by also to the prisoner, as to one who waits on the bank of the stream, nor knows what fortune may await him on his voyage.

A stubborn feeling of conscious right had prevented my taking even the ordinary steps for my defence, and the day of trial was now drawing nigh without any preparation on my part. I was ignorant how essential the habits and skill of an advocate are in the conduct of every case, however simple; and implicitly relied on my guiltlessness, as though men can read the heart of a prisoner and know its workings. M’Dougall, the only member of the bar I knew even by name, had accepted a judicial appointment in India, and was already on his way thither, so that I had neither friend nor adviser in my difficulty. Were it otherwise, I felt I could scarcely have bent my pride to that detail of petty circumstances which an advocate might deem essential to my vindication; and was actually glad to think that I should owe the assertion of my innocence to nothing less than the pure fact.

When November at length arrived, I learned that the trial had been deferred to the following February; and so listless and indifferent had imprisonment made me, that I heard the intelligence without impatience or regret. The publicity of a court of justice, its exposure to the gaze and observation of the crowd who throng there, were subjects of more shrinking dread to my heart than the weight of an accusation which, though false, might peril my life; and for the first time I rejoiced that I was friendless. Yes! it brought balm and comfort to me to think that none would need to blush at my relationship nor weep over my fate. Sorrow has surely eaten deeply into our natures, when we derive pleasure and peace from what in happier circumstances are the sources of regret.

Let me now hasten on. My reader will readily forgive me if I pass with rapid steps over a portion of my story, the memory of which has not yet lost its bitterness. The day at last came; and amid all the ceremonies of a prison I was marched from my cell to the dock. How strange the sudden revolution of feeling, – from the solitude and silence of a jail to the crowded court, teeming with looks of eager curiosity, dread, or perhaps compassion, all turned towards him, who himself, half forgetful of his condition, gazes on the great mass in equal astonishment and surprise!

My thoughts at once recurred to a former moment of my life, when I stood accused among the Chouan prisoners before the tribunal of Paris. But though the proceedings were less marked by excitement and passion, the stern gravity of the English procedure was far more appalling; and in the absence of all which could stir the spirit to any effort of its own, it pressed with a more solemn dread on the mind of the prisoner.

I have said I would not linger over this part of my life. I could not do so if I would. Real events, and the impressions they made upon me, – facts, and the passing emotions of my mind, – are strangely confused and commingled in my memory; and although certain minute and trivial things are graven in my recollection, others of moment have escaped me unrecorded.

The usual ceremonial went forward: the jury were impanelled, and the clerk of the Crown read aloud the indictment, to which my plea of “Not guilty” was at once recorded; then the judge asked if I were provided with counsel, and hearing that I was not, appointed a junior barrister to act for me, and the trial began.

I was not the first person who, accused of a crime of which he felt innocent, yet was so overwhelmed by the statements of imputed guilt, – so confused by the inextricable web of truth and falsehood, artfully entangled. – that he actually doubted his own convictions when opposed to views so strongly at variance with them.

The first emotion of the prisoner is a feeling of surprise to discover, that one utterly a stranger – the lawyer he has perhaps never seen, whose name he never so much as heard of – is perfectly conversant with his own history, and as it were by intuition seems acquainted with his very thoughts and motives. Tracing out not only a line of acting but of devising, he conceives a story of which the accused is the hero, and invests his narrative with all the appliances to belief which result from time and place and circumstance. No wonder that the very accusation should strike terror into the soul; no wonder that the statement of guilt should cause heart-sinking to him who, conscious that all is not untrue, may feel that his actions can be viewed in another and very different light to that which conscience sheds over them.

Such, so far as I remember, was the channel of my thoughts. At first mere astonishment at the accuracy of detail regarding my name, age, and condition in life, was uppermost; and then succeeded a sense of indignant anger at the charges laid against me; which yielded gradually to a feeling of confusion as the advocate continued; which again merged into a sort of dubious fear as I heard many trivial facts repeated, some of which my refreshed memory acknowledged as true, but of which my puzzled brain could not detect the inapplicability to sustain the accusation, – all ending in a chaos of bewilderment, where conscience itself was lost, and nothing left to guide or direct the reason.

The counsel informed the jury that, although they were not placed in the box to try me on any charge of a political offence, they must bear in mind, that the murderous assault of which I was accused was merely part of a system organized to overthrow the Government; that, young as I then was, I was in intimate connection with the disaffected party which the mistaken leniency of the Crown had not thoroughly eradicated on the termination of the late rebellion, my constant companion being one whose crimes were already undergoing their but too merciful punishment in transportation for life; that, to tamper with the military, I had succeeded in introducing myself into the barrack, where I obtained the confidence of a weak-minded but good-natured officer of the regiment.

“These schemes,” continued he, “were but partially successful. My distinguished client was then an officer of the corps; and with that ever-watchful loyalty which has distinguished him, he determined to keep a vigilant eye on this intruder, who, from circumstances of youth and apparent innocence, already had won upon the confidence of the majority of the regiment. Nor was this impression a false one. An event, apparently little likely to unveil a treasonable intention, soon unmasked the true character of the prisoner and the nature of his mission.”

He then proceeded to narrate with circumstantial accuracy the night in the George’s Street barracks, when Hilliard, Crofts, and some others came with Bubbleton to his quarters to decide a wager between two of the parties. Calling the attention of the jury to this part of the case, he detailed the scene which occurred; and, if I could trust my memory, not a phrase, not a word escaped him which had been said.

“It was then, gentlemen,” said he, “at that instant, that the prisoner’s habitual caution failed him, and in an unguarded moment developed the full story of his guilt. Captain Bubbleton lost his wager, of which my client was the winner. The habits of the service are peremptory in these matters; it was necessary that payment should be made at once. Bubbleton had not the means of discharging his debt, and while he looked around among his comrades for assistance, the prisoner steps forward and supplies the sum. Mark what followed.