University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The trials of Washington and his little army, were
not alone confined to resisting a superior foreign enemy.
His cares never slept, and their sufferings never
ceased. Two-thirds of the year they had to cope
with a force, from which to escape was a triumph;
and during the remainder, they had to wrestle with
foes still more difficult to resist. Hunger, cold, nakedness,
and all their sad consequences, assailed them
from day to day. The wicked never ceased to trouble
them, and the weary were never at rest. While in
winter-quarters, Washington was incessantly employed
in advising, exhorting, and stimulating Congress
and the states, to more vigorous exertions:
devising and recommending new plans of defence
or conquest, and using every effort of argument
and persuasion, to infuse into their hearts a portion of
his own unconquerable energy. It were too much to
assert, that Washington alone saved his country; but

it may be said with truth, that without him, it would
not have been saved.

During the winter of which we are speaking, the
sufferings of the army were more than usually severe,
owing to the want of many comforts essential during
a hard winter among the mountains of the north.
They had borne all patiently, at Valley Forge and
elsewhere; but there is a limit to human patience, as
well as endurance, and the jests, with which they occasionally
strove to keep up their spirits, at length
began to give place to effusions of bitter spleen, or
murmurs of deep dissatisfaction. The rapid depreciation
of continental money, as it was called, bore
heavily on the soldiers; for such was its daily, nay,
hourly decrease in value, that ere they could exchange
it for necessaries or indulgences, it had fallen still
lower. It was like a wagon trundling down hill, the
nearer it got to the bottom, the faster it went. The
soldiers, at length, would light their pipes with it in
disdain. As they sat idle in their huts of evenings,
they would talk of home, and contrast their situation
with that of former times, when their labours were
light, their food wholesome, and their nights refreshed
by undisturbed repose. In short, some of them began
to form little cabals, one of which was incited, as well
as led, by the old corporal who had drilled John, and
who was a foreigner.

Pay-day came round, and there was nothing to pay
with but continental money, the depreciation of which,
no increased quantity could keep pace with. One
bitter night, a party of some half dozen were gathered
together in one of the huts. They had just received

a few thousand dollars, that scarce sufficed to
purchase a small pittance of tobacco and other homely
luxuries, which the old corporal had invited John
to come and share with them. He had complied,
though he neither smoked nor drank, being willing to
be on good terms with his fellow-soldiers, who, in
truth, had no special kind feelings towards him as a
volunteer.

It was now the dead of winter, savage, gloomy, and
severe. The mountains were bare of foliage, save
that of the melancholy evergreen, which, when the
earth is covered with snow, only increases the desolation
of nature by its black hues. The grim, gray
rocks, contrasted with savage grandeur the white
winding-sheet, which was thrown as a pall over the
inanimate corpse of nature. The river was bound in
thick-ribbed chains of ice, and the northeast wind swept
along through the openings of the high hills, howling
mournfully a requiem over the grave of the year.
The only comfort within reach of the poor soldiers,
was plenty of fuel growing at their very doors; and
the party, consisting, besides John, of Corporal Crawley,
Aaron Cronk, Pilgrim Pugsley, Hachaliah, commonly
Hack Foster, and Case Boshin, the younger,
were now gathered about a roaring fire, which would
have been much more agreeable, had not the wind
dashed down from the mountain-tops into the chimney,
occasionally enveloping them in a mystification
of smoke that brought tears to their eyes.

“Boys,” said the corporal, “I've got a treat for you
to-night. I bought a jug of spirits, some pipes, and

three papers of tobacco, to-day, at Peekskill. What
do you think they cost me?”

“More than you're worth, I reckon,” said Case
Boshin.”

“Eight hundred dollars. It swept my pocket from
top to bottom, clear as a whistle. I'm a ruined man;
but come let's enjoy ourselves while they last. Who's
got a piece of something to light my pipe with, for I
see our wooden tongs is on the invalid list.”

Case, hereupon pulled out a continental bill, and
twisting it between his fingers, handed it to the corporal,
who very coolly lighted his pipe with it. The
jug was then uncorked, and the party, with the exception
of John, proceeded to make large libations.

“It's a pretty use for money,” at length observed
the corporal, “to be lighting one's pipe with it.”

“Yes,” replied Case, “and it's a pretty service this,
we've got into; all summer running away from the
red coats, and all winter roosting like crows here in
the mountains, half clothed, and a little more than
half-starved. For my part, my time is out in the
course of next spring, and if I don't make tracks home
on a hand-gallop, you may call me a horse, and ride
me bare-backed, if you like.”

“Ah! you're a lucky fellow, Case,” said Hack Foster,
“I've got more than a year yet to serve, the d—I
take me for listing so long, I say. Liberty is a fine
thing, but like gold, it may be bought too dear, I reckon.”

They now began to compare notes, and the result
was by no means satisfactory, most of them having a
considerable time to serve. In the meanwhile, the jug
went round briskly, and by degrees they began to be

somewhat flustered with the mischievous inspiration.
The corporal talked “big,” as the phrase is, and threatened
a mutiny; while the others swore they would go
home in spite of all the articles of war, and the conversation
became equally dangerous to the listeners
as to the speakers. John, who had been absent on a
visit to a certain lady, in other words, thinking of the
last parting, when Jane cast herself on his bosom, and
bade him go and serve his country, was at length
roused to a cognizance of what was passing, just as
Hack was swearing he would give them leg bail before
long.

“You will—will you?” cried he, coming forward.
“you'll desert in spite of the articles of war? You
had better try it, if you want to be shot before the
whole army, and branded as traitors to your country.”

“Booh!” cried the old corporal, puffing out a cloud
of smoke—“you're a gentleman volunteer, John. You
can go when you please, and come when you like,
whenever you want to see your mammy. But you'd
better be quiet and mind your own business. We
listed for pay and rations, and as we get neither one
or the other, I say the bargain is broke, and we have
a right to do as we please with ourselves.”

“To be sure,” echoed Hack Foster, “to be sure we
did. It stands to reason, if one party breaks an agreement,
the other has a right to break it too, and for
that matter, it's broke already. Supposin, now, I
make a bargain with the corporal for a jug of sperrits,
and the jug turns out to be empty, do you think
I'm obliged to pay him for it? Not I; I'm ex—ex—

ex—I can't get out that consarned word; but I know
I'm clear as a whistle off the bargain.”

“That's law,” quoth Pilgrim Pugsley, “'cause I was
onsuited once on a trial afore Justice Day on that
very account. It's jist as much as to say, every
man must do as he would be done by; and so, if anybody
cheats me, I have a good right to cheat him, I
guess.”

“As clear as preaching,” rejoined the corporal, “and
so, my boys, as we get no pay but continental money,
that is, no money at all, we have an incombustible
right to curse and quit just when we like, in spite of
all you can say, mister gentleman volunteer.”

“A pretty conclusion, really,” replied the other,
“and so you only fight for pay and rations. You have
no heart for the cause or the country. As for you,
corporal, you have no country, at least, none you
choose to fight for; for my own countrymen here, I
should think they would be ashamed to desert a cause
which is that of all mankind.”

“Pooh! mister gentleman volunteer, what's liberty
without food, pay, or clothing? You may talk as you
please, but d—n my old shoes, if a man can live upon
liberty. Here's to you boys, take one more pull, and
then the jug will be as empty as my pocket.”

The last drop causes the cup to overflow, and this
last appeal to the jug, brought the party, our hero excepted,
who had declined to partake in the debauch,
to the very confines of rational self-possession; for, being
the last, each one had taken his full share. They
became noisy, and riotous; blurted out disaffection,
mutiny, and treason, and were proceeding to organize,

as well as their disordered brains would permit, a system
of proceeding of the most aggravated and dangerous
nature. They swaggered, swore and blustered,
in tones so loud and boisterous, that they might
have been overheard by their neighbours in the adjacent
huts, had not the uproar of the scene without,
confounded that within. A violent snow-storm had
commenced; the wind shrieked and moaned among
the bare branches of the trees, the snow beat through
the chinks of the door and windows, almost covering
the earthen floor, and gradually extinguishing the fire,
which was fast expiring. John had vainly attempted
to stay the irritated, intoxicated soldiers; but every
attempt only brought on him new taunts and reproaches,
until, at length, losing all patience, he leapt in the
midst of them, and cried out in a loud, firm voice:

“Soldiers! do you know what you are saying?
Do you know it is my bounden duty to report every
word of it, and that I will do it, as sure as you live,
unless you promise to give up this rascally plot of
yours? Shame on such cowards, I say, that serve
their country as a dog follows his master, because he
gives him a bone!”

“What! you'll betray us—you'll turn spy and telltale,
will you, you chicken-hearted puppy? I never
knew a fellow that refused to drink with his companions,
but would betray them the first chance that came.
But we'll soon stop your wind-pipe for you, if you don't
swear pine blank never to say a word about what
you've just seen and heared. Tell tales of your messmates—a
pretty fellow! come, give us your 'davy that
you won't 'peach to-morrow,” replied the old corporal.

“Not unless you will all swear to abandon your
project, and never allow your tongues such liberty
again. If not, I'll have you all up to-morrow, as sure
as I stand here.”

“You've made up your mind to blab, then,” cried
the other, rising, and staggering towards the corner
where their arms were deposited. “I'll tell you what—
damme what was I saying? before you shall bring us
to the bull-ring—we—will lay you as flat as a flounder—where
you—you shall never get up again except—ex—at
the sound of the last trumpet. Swear—
I say mister gentleman volunteer, or you're as good
as ten dead men. Hip, boys! every man to his arms—
lay hold of the spying rascal, we'll carry him to the
rock just by, push him off, and nobody will be the
wiser for it to-morrow—he'll be snowed under before
that time—lay hold, and gag him!”

The whole party obeyed the order, and were about
to seize their weapons in the corner, when John, placing
himself on guard over that important position,
brandished his sword, exclaiming:

“The first that approaches is a dead man! mind, I
don't wish to hurt you, for you don't know what you
are doing, and I'd as soon eat carrion, as fight with
such staggering bullies. Stand off, I say, I'll not use
my sword against you, but if you come within reach
of my fist, I'll strike fire out of your eyes, brighter
than they ever flashed before.”

This threat, joined to the menacing attitude of the
young volunteer, brought the others to a momentary
pause. But it is the instinct of drunkenness to thrust
its head into the fire; and, accordingly, with threats

and bitter imprecations, the whole party staggered
forward, pell-mell, the consequence of which was,
that one by one they were laid sprawling on the
ground, leaving John unhurt, and master of the field.
A dead silence now prevailed for a moment, except
that the wind howled, the door shook, and the chimney
roared like distant thunder. Presently, however,
voices were heard without, and a push was made at
the door, which opened to a patrol, that entered without
ceremony. They were going the rounds, and had
been attracted to the spot by the confused hum of
voices, all at once succeeded by death-like silence.

John was seen standing guard over the arms, while
the rest of the party lay some on the ground, perfectly
quiet, and others stood see-sawing fore and aft, the
blood streaming down their faces. The officer demanded
an explanation, but received no reply. John
could not find in his heart to become the accuser of
his companions in arms, and the others had nothing
to say. At length, the demand being repeated, the
old corporal, who had been pretty well sobered by the
tremendous thumps he received, aided by the apprehension
of probable consequences if the truth came
out, gathered himself together, and told the story with
great accuracy, only making a single mistake, by putting
himself and his companions in the place of John,
and John in the position of the mutineers. By this
simple arrangement, it appeared that the young volunteer
had invited the party, seduced them into a debauch,
incited them to desert, and finally beaten them
almost to death for rejecting his proposal. “May I
never live to see my country free,” concluded the corporal,

“if I ever saw such a fury as that young chap
is in his liquor!”

John, though gifted with strong nerves, and great
presence of mind, stood confounded by the audacity
of the corporal, whose story was straightway endorsed
by the rest of the party, with the exception of honest
Hack Foster, who was lying on the ground fast asleep,
or only pretending to be so, snoring like a brave fellow.
The officer perceiving some incongruity in the
story, arising from the fact that John appeared to be
the only sober man in the company, decided on taking
the whole party into custody, and accordingly gallanted
them to the guard-house for further examination
next morning, when an inquiry was had before a
commission of officers, over which General McDougal
presided. The old corporal persisted in his story, and
was sustained by all his companions, with the exception
of Hack Foster, who had become so ill that
he was sent to the hospital, and his testimony dispensed
with. John was then called on for his defence,
which he made with great clearness and precision,
and with an air of truth that failed not to make a
favourable impression. But the odds were too much
against him; and, besides, the accuser, on such occasions,
has always eleven points of the law in his favour.
He was finally placed in custody to await his
trial for offences made capital by the articles of war.

Here was likely to be a precious end to all his aspirations
of love and glory, since the same testimony
which proved sufficient for his committal, would suffice
for his condemnation. What would his countrymen,
and what would his mistress say of him, now that he

lay under the imputation of a baseness, the very
thought of which stung him to the quick, and made
him sick at heart. Instead of honour and renown,
such as he had treasured up as the end of all his efforts,
he was now belike, to become a mark for the finger
of scorn, a bye-word to express the lowest grade of
infamy; a disgrace to his name, his cause, and his country;
a thorn in the bosom of the chosen of his heart;
a convicted traitor, who had fallen himself, and attempted
to drag others down with him to the lowest pit
of infamy. “Heaven and earth,” would he exclaim
mentally, as he smote his forehead, “what will Jane
think of me? She will believe I am guilty, and instead
of lamenting my death, abhor my very name,
and thrill with horror at the thought of having plighted
her faith to one who was not only a traitor himself,
but a seducer of others.”

In these, and such like bitter contemplations of the
past and the future, he was occupying his time, when
the entrance of the captain interrupted his reverie.
The latter had been absent some days, for a purpose
not connected with the course of our tale. The
old soldier stood before him sad and stern, for a moment,
after which he abruptly demanded of him to
declare on his honour, and in the sight of his Maker,
as if with his last breath, if he were guilty of the
crime of which he stood accused. With a clear voice,
and a clear eye, John denied the charge, relating, minutely,
every circumstance of the affair, which had
taken such an unlucky turn for him. The detail carried
conviction to the heart of the parent. The good
man grasped his hand with more than usual fervour,

as the thought came over him, that however innocently,
nay, commendably he might have acted, the
unfortunate youth was now, in all probability, to become
a victim to the guilt of others. “Farewell, my
son,” said he, “and keep a good heart, I am going to
do everything that can be done to save your life and
honour; though, if these scoundrels persist in their
story, and do not contradict each other, I have no
hope for you. You must make up your mind for the
worst. If you are to die even a disgraceful death, it
is still some credit to die like a man. This I know
you will do, and though I may not die with you, my
son, I will seek the first opportunity to die for my
country, that at least one of the name may be buried
with honour.”

The captain, whose dress, air, and expression of
face, had something of the pathetic in them, bade the
young volunteer farewell, once more, and then departed
on his melancholy—almost hopeless errand. As he
proceeded with lingering steps, and John gazed on his
mean attire, his almost worn out frame, his gray curls,
which, from long neglect, now clustered carelessly
about his ears and forehead, he was deeply affected
with a mingled emotion of sorrow and pride. The
tears came into his eyes, and he thought to himself,
what honest worth, steady unpretending bravery, and
sterling patriotism, ennobled that ragged, rusty, war-worn
old soldier.

The first thought of the captain, was to summon
the accusers of his son, who all belonged to his company,
for the purpose of questioning them closely, and
comparing their testimony, in order to detect some

contradiction or inconsistency. But against this, his
sense of honour and propriety revolted. It might seem
as if he was tampering with his soldiers, and using
his authority and influence to induce them to prevaricate,
in order to screen his guilty son from merited
punishment. He accordingly determined patiently to
await the decision of the court-martial, and should
the unfortunate young man be convicted, take the
course which honour and patriotism pointed out. Believing
him innocent, he could conscientiously solicit
his pardon.

The day of trial at length came, and the accusing
witnesses having been well drilled by the old corporal,
repeated their testimony without varying from that
given on the previous occasion, or from each other.
They were aware that their own lives depended on convicting
John, who, if acquitted, would, without doubt,
become their accuser. To their united testimony he
had nothing to oppose, but his own bare word; and,
though his account of the affair was given with a
clearness, condour, and manliness, that made a most
favourable impression, he was finally sentenced to be
shot. It ought to be here mentioned, that the testimony
of Hack Foster was not taken, he being confined
in the hospital with a raging fever, accompanied
by delirium.

During the period between sentence and execution,
the unhappy father was employed incessantly in soliciting
the pardon of his son, but his efforts were unavailing.
It was deemed indispensable to check such
attempts on the inflammable materials of a suffering
army, in the bud. Much dissipation, and many cabals

had already been overlooked, in consideration of the
hardships and privations of the soldiers; but it was
now deemed indispensable that an example should be
made, in order to repress a spirit which threatened
the dissolution of the army, and the ruin of the cause.
The decision of the court-martial was therefore confirmed,
and the youth cautioned to prepare for a fate
which was now inevitable.

Having lost all hope of pardon, the old weather-worn
soldier bent his steps towards the guard-house,
where the son lingered in hopeless resignation, if that
may be so called which consisted in utter recklessness,
whether his father succeeded in his solicitations
or not. If pardoned, he was forever a disgraced man,
who could never afterwards look his country or his
mistress in the face; and if any hope lingered in his
heart, it was, that possibly some one of his accusers
might, in a moment of awakened conscience, be
brought to a confession of his perjuries. Nothing
but this could retrieve his blasted reputation, or restore
him to the station he once occupied among the
defenders of his country. He felt that if he lived, his
life would be divested of all that makes it worth preserving;
that wherever he went, he would carry the
burning brand of disgrace on his forehead, the burden
of dishonour, which bears as heavy on the shoulders
of the son of a farmer, as the offspring of a king; and,
above all, he remembered, that come death, come life,
Jane was lost to him forever. She who loved him
because he loved his country, would never mix her
being with a reprieved traitor; nor would the high-spirited
old colonel, who, with all his foibles was a

man of honour, ever be brought to give his only child
to one who could confer on her nothing but a disgraced
name. If, at times, he wished to live, it was only in
the latent hope that, at some future period, he might
be permitted to die in the cause of freedom, and thus
entitle himself to the pity, if not the forgiveness of
his country.

When, therefore, the father entered the prison, the
son addressed him in a cheerful tone, for he saw by
his countenance that his fate was determined. He
felt for the old soldier, and wished to comfort him by
showing he was not afraid to die.

“Father,” said he, “I see by your look and your
walk that all is decided, and I rejoice it is so. I do
not wish to live, but on one condition, which is now
all but hopeless. If I could preserve my honour with
my life, I would grasp at it eagerly. But of this,
there is now no prospect. Tell me, my father; do
not be afraid.”

“It is all over, my son. To-morrow you are to be
shot by your countrymen. I had hoped that if shot at
all, it would have been by your enemies in defending
your country. But the will of God be done.”

“Amen—so be it. I have now but one consolation,
I shall die an innocent man; and hope that, by thus
suffering here for an offence I never committed, I may
obtain pardon hereafter for those of which I have
been guilty.”

“Say no more—say no more, John. You only make
it more hard to part with you,” and the old soldier
shed tears.

“Father,” said the young man, after a pause, “I

have a request to make of you,” and he paused again,
overcome by his feelings. “Father, you are acquainted
with Colonel Hammond and his daughter. I ought
to have told you before, that she was to have been my
wife, on conditions which can now never be fulfilled.
Here is a letter, I wish, I entreat you, to send as directed,
by the first opportunity.”

He then proceeded to relate what the reader is already
acquainted with, and concluded in a tone of
bitter despondency.

“All my hopes are now forever blasted. Instead of
coming home with honour to claim the colonel's promise,
I am going to my grave, where I can claim nothing
but infamy. Had I died in defence of my country,
and its cause, Jane would have cherished my memory
and recollected me with pride; but now, unless
she should believe my last words to her, she will, if
she remembers me at all, only cherish a serpent in her
bosom to sting her to death. Still, I could not make
up my mind to die without one last effort to preserve
an honourable place in her memory, and to implant
in one pure heart, at least, a feeling of pity unaccompanied
by contempt and abhorrence. Will you be
sure that she gets this letter, sir?”

The sorrowing old man received the letter in silence,
for he could not speak; but there was that in
his silence which gave a solemn pledge that it should
be as John wished. That night they passed together,
in sad communion on subjects to which the near approach
of an eternal separation gave a painful and
affecting interest. As daylight dawned, and when the
morning gun announced the rising sun, John begged

his father to leave him for an hour, as he wished to
be alone. The good man understood him, and he was
left to prepare for his last great trial. But the captain
did not go far. He remained pacing to and fro
in front of the guard-house, with such an air of deep
and overwhelming sorrow, that the sentinel regretted
he had not proposed to John to escape the night before.
At the expiration of the hour, he returned, and
sat down to breakfast with his son. But neither ate
anything, and they were sitting in mournful silence
chewing the cud of bitter fancies, when the distant
roll of the drum roused them from their deep despondency.

“The hour is come!” exclaimed John, starting upon
his feet, as if the signal was a relief.

“My son,” said the captain, “there is one thing I
must tell you, for you ought to know it. Do not think
hardly of your father when you see the very men who
swore away your life, drafted to execute the sentence,
and learn, as perhaps you may, that it was at my earnest
solicitation. I had my motives for this, but if they
should not be answered, I beseech you to die blessing
me—will you?”

“With my last breath,” cried John, throwing himself
on his bosom.

A guard now appeared to conduct the young volunteer
to the spot, whence his soul was to take its flight
to the region of immortality. To make the example
more impressive and awful, the whole army was
drawn up in a line to witness the spectacle, and take
warning from the example. It was a grand and impressive
scene, in which both nature and art combined

to produce sublimity. The pure, unsullied snow, soon
to be sprinkled with the blood of the victim, not of
his own guilt, but that of others, lay like a winding-sheet
over the dead body of nature, save where the
dark projecting masses of precipitous rocks presented
a gloomy contrast to the whiteness all around; the
sun glistened on the snow-capt peaks of the western
shore; the smoke from a thousand huts curled upwards,
in perpendicular columns, to the skies; the air
was death-like calm, the atmosphere pure and transparent;
the soldiers stood under arms, silent and immovable;
the stern music of war roused the echoes
of the Highlands, as the young volunteer was brought
forth to receive his doom.

He walked with a firm step, escorted by a guard,
towards the place of execution, and preceded by his
coffin borne by two soldiers. His dress was a white
cotton gown, resembling a winding-sheet, and over
the spot where his heart beat, was placed the representation
of a heart painted black to serve as a mark
for his executioners. The procession moved forward
with measured steps to the music of the dead march
of Old Rosin Castle, played by muffled drums and
mournful fifes, to a large, open field, in the centre of
which was a heap of fresh earth, which marked the
spot where the young soldier was to meet his death
and find his grave. Around this, the whole army was
drawn up in a hollow square to witness the ceremony.
The coffin was placed beside the grave. He was
told to kneel down on the former, and the officer, under
whose direction the execution was to take place,
was about to tie a white cap over his head, when he

so earnestly entreated that he might be permitted to
look his accusers in the face, that his request was
granted. His kneeling was the signal for the executioners
to advance, and they came forward, taking
their station some twelve or fifteen yards distant,
flinching, like guilty cowards, as John looked them
sternly in the face. The officer raised his sword, the
signal for taking aim. He then struck the drum a
single tap, and the echoes of the guns leaped from hill
to hill till they died in the distance. The smoke cleared
away, and the young volunteer was seen still kneeling
on his coffin, apparently unhurt.

“Scoundrels!” exclaimed the officer, who gave the
command to fire, “load again, and see that you take
better aim, or you may fill the place of yonder soldier.”

Their guns were this time loaded under the immediate
inspection of the officer, and while this was doing,
the captain walked deliberately past, giving a
look of mingled reproach and entreaty, which they
well understood. Again the officer raised his sword,
and paused a moment, to give them time to take aim,
before he struck the drum.

At this instant, Aaron Cronk threw down his gun,
and exclaimed:

“Don't strike! he is as innocent as the general
himself!”

This assertion, of course, arrested the ceremony;
Cronk and his companions were immediately carried
to head-quarters; and, being confronted with Aaron,
finally confessed the whole conspiracy. Hack Foster,
also, who had his conscience awakened by the fear of
death, now came forward to make a disclosure, and

John was declared not only innocent, but entitled to
the highest praise, by the unanimous voice of the
whole army. “Young soldier, if I don't mistake, you
are just such a man as I have occasion for at times.
We shall be better acquainted, soon,” said the father
of his country, as he condescended to congratulate
him on his providential escape.

We pass over the scene between father and son,
after this strange adventure, in order to explain the
seeming miracle of his escape from the first fire of his
executioners. It is certain, that the great majority of
villains, consists of men, who, though perhaps they
would not shrink from swearing away the life of a
fellow-creature, are brought with difficulty to witness
and still greater, to become the actual instruments of
his execution. Their imaginations, are, indeed, familiarized
with guilt, but their senses shrink from its perpetration.
Of this class, were the accusers of our
hero. They could endure the thought of having caused
his death by wilfully forswearing themselves; nay,
they could endure to hear of his execution, or, even
to become witnesses to the catastrophe, but they could
not bear to inflict the deed with their own hands.
This required a degree of hardened insensibility to
which they had not yet attained.

When, therefore, at the earnest instances of the
captain, they had been selected to put the sentence in
execution, they were horror-stricken; for, such is the
pliability of a seared conscience, that it is prone to
make distinctions in its own favour, where none exist
in the code of moral guilt. There was, however, no
escape; and each one, without communicating with

his comrade, settled in his own mind to evade the consummation
of his crime, by firing wide of the mark.
Thus, though the young man would undoubtedly be
killed, all imagined they would be innocent of his
actual murder. The result has been just detailed.
When, however, they were ordered to fire a second
time, and with such an ominous intimation of the
consequences of again missing, all but Aaron Cronk,
decided that self-preservation required them to take
good aim this time. Aaron, however, could not go the
length of such atrocity, and, accordingly grounded
his arms, and surrendered at discretion. Thus was
the life of an innocent man preserved as if by miracle;
and thus was triumphant guilt arrested in the final
moment of its consummation. The mutineers were
tried and condemned to be shot, with the exception
of Cronk and Foster, who were drummed out of the
army. The others, however, managed to escape, and
were, without doubt, sooner or later overtaken by the
justice of heaven.