University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Amid all his misfortunes and gloomy anticipations,
Bacon discovered one bright spot in his
horizon. He had inquired of Captain Gardiner
whether Mr. Beverly had accompanied the Governor
to Accomac, and was answered in the
affirmative. This was the source of rejoicing,
because he believed that Virginia was yet in
Jamestown. Harriet Harrison's letter had been
perused over and over again, during the first part
of the voyage, and was one cause of that restless
anxiety to escape which we have attempted to
describe.

He chafed the more as his imagination pictured
his rival leading, or rather forcing Virginia to the
altar, while he was thus ignobly detained. But
now having satisfied himself that Beverly was not
left behind, his mind was comparatively at ease on
that score. Nevertheless his desire to escape was
not diminished; the state of parties might change
in the capital—Beverly might return and perpetrate
his design while he was yet in confinement.
That Sir William Berkley intended more than to
keep him in temporary duress, he could not now
in his cooler moments believe—his repinings
were caused by the interruption to his own cherished

schemes and ardent desires. He had hoped before
this time, to be in Jamestown—a conqueror—
the accepted lover of Virginia Fairfax, and to
satisfy the Recluse himself, that he was deceived
as to his birth and parentage. That there was
some mysterious knowledge of Mrs. Fairfax's
history possessed by that strange man, he doubted
not; but he doubted as little that it had led to
error with regard to himself.

The dark shadows of night had already closed
over the broad expanse of waters on whose bosom
our hero was thus far borne without chance of escape.
He could discern numerous lights flitting
along the circumscribed horizon, which he supposed
to be upon the shores of Accomac, from
the dark curtain which skirted along as far as the
eye could reach, between the sky and the water.
He was not left long in doubt upon this point, for
the sailors were busily engaged furling the broad
sheets of canvass and heaving over the anchor.
In a few moments a bright flash illuminated the
darkness around, followed by the booming sound
of a piece of ordnance let off from the ship. This
was answered by another from the shore, and
Bacon perceived the lights which had before attracted
his attention, moving, as he supposed, toward
the boat landing, there being no facilities
for running the ship close in upon the land. These
he could perceive now rising and falling with the
swelling and receding waves, and very soon faintly
distinguished voices in confused murmurs as

they were borne along the water, and lost amidst
the roar of the waves lashing against the sides of
the vessel, and the confused noise and merriment
of the ship's crew.

Captain Gardiner took up his trumpet and
hailed the approaching boat, after which a dead
silence ensued on board, all hands listening intently
for the expected answer. Hoarse and confused
sounds came sweeping on the wind, as if the person
answering spoke through his hand instead of
a trumpet, but no distinct words could be made
out. Again the captain hailed, “boat ahoy,” and
again with the like result. The wind was unfavourable
for the transmission of sound, and he
gave up the attempt. He had scarcely left the
deck, however, before the boat came riding by on
the buoyant waves, both parties having been deceived
as to the distance, by their inability to
intercommunicate. The Captain ran eagerly upon
deck, and inquired of those in the boat, whether
the Governor had arrived? The answer was in
the affirmative. Bacon now understood the anxiety
of Captain Gardiner to communicate with the shore.
He learned too, from the dialogue going on, that
the Governor and himself were probably crossing
the bay at the same time.

When it was announced to the boat's crew that
the rebel chief, Bacon, was a prisoner on board, a
loud huzza burst simultaneously from twenty
voices, among which Bacon distinctly recognised
those of Ludwell and Beverly. Bitter indeed

were his unavailing regrets that he had left his
army, and thus fallen a prey to his most violent
enemies. He now remembered, with not less regret,
that he had strictly enjoined upon his temporary
successor, not to march into Jamestown
until he should rejoin the troops. This he saw
would effectually prevent his present situation
from becoming known to his friends, until, possibly
it would be too late to render him any assistance.

The boat very soon returned in order to ascertain
the Governor's pleasure with regard to his
prisoner, and Bacon waited with the most intense
anxiety for their return. His unavailing regrets
were rapidly forgotten in a fierce and burning desire
to be confronted with his enemies, alone and
unsupported as he was. His noble mind could
scarcely conceive of that malignity which could
trample upon a solitary and defenceless individual,
placed by accident in the hands of numerous personal
enemies. He had yet to learn a bitter lesson
in the study of human nature. His own impulses
were all high and generous, and he naturally
looked even upon his foes as to some extent capable
of the like magnanimity. He imagined that
Sir William Berkley, Ludwell, and Beverly
would feel and acknowledge his indignant appeals
to their honour and chivalry. How these youthful
and sanguine expectations were realized will
be seen in the sequel. The boat soon returned
with orders from Sir William Berkley to detain

the prisoner on board during the night, and to
send him ashore as soon in the morning as it
should be announced by a shot from a piece of ordnance,
that the court had assembled. That he was
to be tried by a court-martial had barely entered
his imagination.

At dawn of day a gun from the shore announced
the assembling of the court, and Bacon was brought
upon deck by the orders of the Captain. He perceived
that the ship's boat was already in the water,
supported on each side by larger ones from
the shore, filled with armed soldiers. However
much he may have been surprised by these prudential
preparations, he was still more surprised,
and more fully began to realize his situation, when
he perceived a man standing ready to secure his
hands in irons. At first sight of this contemplated
indignity, he shrank back instinctively with something
of the natural feelings of youth, but the impression
was only momentary; he shook it off
and walked firmly to the smith, near whom stood
Captain Gardiner, and a guard to do his bidding in
case of necessity. As the youthful Chieftain approached,
the hardy veteran of the seas was evidently
embarrassed. He was reluctant to offer
such a needless affront to one of so bold and manly
a bearing. An indistinct apology was commenced,
of which the only parts that Bacon distinguished
or cared to learn was, that the precaution was
taken by the orders of Sir William Berkley. “I
doubt it not—I doubt it not, sir,” he replied;

“Do your duty—I am in his power for the present,
and must submit with the best grace I can;
but a day of retribution is coming; and even should
I be basely murdered upon these distant shores, as
seems not unlikely from these preparations, and
the tribunal of which I hear they are the precursors,
my death will not go unavenged.”

His hands were soon confined within the iron
bands, connected by chains some two feet in length,
and then, with the assistance of the Captain and
crew, he was let down into the boat. He was not
long in discovering that the military escort in the
two outer boats was commanded by Mr. Philip
Ludwell. No sign of recognition took place between
them, notwithstanding they had moved in
the same circles at the Capital before the irruption
of the civil war. Bacon was too much of a soldier
himself, and too well versed in the duties of a subordinate
to throw any of the blame of his present
condition upon his quondam acquaintance, and
would readily have exchanged the courtesies due
from one gentleman to another, had he not perceived
a suppressed smile of triumph upon the
countenance of Ludwell as he entered the boat.
Whether the latter viewed him as rebel or patriot
he felt indignant at his ungentlemanly conduct,
and folding his chained arms upon his manly
chest, took no farther notice of its author.

As they approached the shore, and the mists of
early morning began to break away before the
rising sun, Bacon recognised many landmarks

which had not altogether been unknown to him in
happier days. The house at which Sir William
Berkley now exercised his vice-regal functions,
surrounded by such of the Cavaliers as still adhered
to his fortunes, became also visible. This
Bacon recognised as the property of the officer in
command of the guard surrounding his own person.
The shore was covered with tents, marquées
and soldiers, the latter being the English mercenaries,
and marshalled for his reception in imposing
array. Two lines were formed from the landing
to the house, between which he was now marched
in the centre of his guard.

When they arrived within the hall he found the
martial tribunal ready assembled for his trial. A
long table was placed in the centre of the room,
upon which lay swords, caps, and feathers. At the
farther end from the entrance sat Sir William
Berkley, as president of the court, and on either
side some eight or ten of his officers, all clad in
the military costume of the day. Their gay doublets
had been exchanged for buff coats, surmounted
by the gorget alone, for the vambraces, with
their concomitants, had been abandoned during
the commonwealth. Some of the cavalry and
pikemen, indeed, still wore head and back pieces,
in the king's army,[1] but the Virginian officers
were generally dressed at that time as we have described
them.

Among the number of officers now confronting
the prisoner, sat Francis Beverly. He seemed
perfectly calm and collected, and not in the least
aware that there was any impropriety in his sitting
in judgment upon the prisoner standing at the
foot of the table.

Bacon drew himself up to his utmost height, as
he again folded his arms and ran his indignant eye
over his accusers and judges; as it rested in its
course upon Beverly, a fierce indignation lighted
up its clear hazle outlines, but it was only for an
instant—his glance wandered on over the other
members of the court, while his lip curled in a
settled expression of scorn and contempt. The
old Cavalier at the head of the board rose in visible
agitation—his eyes flashed fire and his hands
trembled as he took the paper from the scribe and
read the charge against the prisoner.

The merest form of an impartial trial was indecently
hastened through. Witnesses were not
wanting indeed, and those too, who could testify
to every thing the Governor desired, but no time
had been allowed the prisoner to procure testimony
in his own behalf, or prepare his defence.

The times were perhaps somewhat out of joint;
but the state of the colony was by no means such
as to require that a prominent citizen, standing
high in the affection of his countrymen, should be
deprived of those inestimable privileges secured
by the laws of England, to every one under accusation
of high crimes and misdemeanors; and

these laws had been adopted and were in full force
in the infant state. At the very outset of the
trial, Gen. Bacon objected to the military character
of the court, as well as to the indecent haste
and the retired nature of the place in which it
was held. He contended that his crime, if crime
he had committed, was a civil offence, and ought
to be tried by the civil tribunals of the country.
All these weighty objections were answered by a
waive of the president's hand, and the trial proceeded
to its previously well known conclusion,
without farther interruption.

Before the final vote was taken upon the question
whether the prisoner was guilty of high treason or
not, he was ordered to be removed from the court-room
for a few moments, in order that their deliberations
might be uninterrupted. As the guard
marched the prisoner through the house into the
back court of the establishment, his step still proud
and his carriage elevated with the sense of conscious
rectitude, he was at once brought to a stand
by the sight of a spectacle which sent the blood,
chilled with horror, back to his heart. This was
a gibbet or gallows, erected in the very court to
which they were conducting him, and upon it
hung two of his own soldiers![2] All evidence of
vitality had long since departed, and their bodies
swung round and round, under the impulse of the
morning breeze, in horrible monotony. Bacon's

first sensation was one of unmixed horror, but
this was succeeded by indignation; not a thought
for his own safety occurred to his mind while under
the first impressions of the fearful spectacle. But
as fierce indignation stirred up his torpid energies
to thoughts of revenge, the means began to present
themselves, and then it was that he shook
the iron fetters which bound him, in savage and
morose despair. Perhaps a chill from some more
personal feeling ran through his veins, when he
reflected how short had been the passage of his
two humble followers from the sloop which had
borne them across the bay on the preceding night,
to eternity. They had evidently suffered some
hours previous—perhaps during the night. They
were the two subaltern officers—selected by himself
for his expedition down the river, and chosen
for their desperate bravery at the battle of Bloody
Run. And now to see their manly proportions
ignominiously exposed upon a gibbet, after having
been most inhumanly murdered, was more
than he could calmly bear. Bitter and unavailing
were his reflections as he stood a spectator of this
outrage, while his own life hung suspended by a
hair.

He was not left long a spectator of this cruel
scene; the guard was ordered to present the prisoner
again before the court to receive sentence.

When Bacon stood once more at the foot of the
table, surrounded by his unrelenting enemies, his
countenance evinced a total change. When first

he stood in the same place, he had not fully realized
his situation; he was stupified with overwatching
and fatigue. The young are always slow to
apprehend the darker shadows in their own prospective,
and instinctively cling to the brighter
aspect of events and circumstances, until some
sudden calamity or unexpected reverse in their
own immediate career, opens their eyes to the
stern reality. When such a change is brought
immediately before the senses, then indeed the
dreadful truth speaks direct to the apprehension.
Few criminals at the moment of receiving sentence
of death, realize more than a horrid and oppressive
sense of present calamity—all hope has not yet
entirely forsaken them. But could they see
upon the spot a fellow criminal undergoing the last
penalty of the law, they would at once realize the
truth in all its terrors.

The sight of his unfortunate followers had thus
opened the eyes of the youthful general, to the
desperate character of his enemies, and the awful
fate which immediately awaited him, but it was
not fear which now revived his stupified powers
to action. His look was bold and daring, while a
preternatural brilliancy shot from his proud eye,
as the president of the court, with an assumed calmness,
pronounced upon him the sentence of death.
As the last fatal word fell from the lips of the
stern old knight, the prisoner's countenance was
rigid, cold and deathlike for an instant, as he
struggled to master his rebellious and scornful

feelings into such a state of discipline as would
enable him to express the little he had to say, with
clearness and precision.

Although the usual question, “if he had any
thing to say why sentence of death should not
be pronounced against him,” was not asked, he
stepped boldly up to the end of the board, and
notwithstanding the magisterial waive of the president's
hand for silence, and a simultaneous order
to the officer of the guard to remove him—gave
utterance to his feelings in these words, and with
a manner powerfully subdued, yet energetic; his
voice issuing from between his rigidly set teeth
like that of one under the influence of reckless
desperation.

“If it may so please the president, and gentlemen
of the court-martial, I will not tamely and
silently submit myself to be butchered in cold
blood, without raising my voice and protesting
against the jurisdiction of the court—the time—
the place—the manner of the trial—the persons
who compose the court, and especially him who
presides over your deliberations.

“Was it treason I committed, when I boldly and
openly marched from Jamestown to Orapacks, at
the head of the brave men who drove before them
the savages by whom the dwellings of the Colony
had been burned, and its women and children murdered.
Did not the house of burgesses request the
Governor to sign the commission, which the people
had unanimously put into my hands? Did he

not pledge his knightly word that the commissions
should be ratified? Under the authority of
that commission and that promise, have I not
driven the enemies of civilized man before me, as
I marched through the Peninsula? Have I not
done what has never before been done? cut out
a broad line of separation between the habitations
of the white man and the savage? Have I not
avenged the murders committed on the night of
the massacre? Have I not avenged injuries committed
against more than one member of this very
court, by the bloody confederation? Have I not,
with these hands, rescued the sister-in-law of the
president of this very tribunal from the murderous
tomahawk of the savages? True, it was only
to die—but it was worthy of all my poor exertions
to rescue her body from their unhallowed hands,
that it might rest in consecrated ground. Have I
not annihilated the confederation itself, cut to pieces
the assembled tribes—rescued the prisoners, razed
to the ground the fortifications at the falls, and
made prisoners of the brave remnant of those misguided
nations who erected it? If this be treason,
then indeed am I a traitor!

“Why is it that this great and glorious country,
opened to the oppressed and crowded nations of
the old world by a kind and beneficent Providence,
must so often become the theatre of struggles for
personal aggrandizement and power? Why is it
that our arms must be turned against ourselves in
fratricidal conflict, when so many enemies have

been swarming upon our frontiers, and devastating
our settlements? Must the great and evident designs
of the Creator be thus constantly retarded?
the great destinies of this vast land obscured in the
dawn, by the petty struggles of contending chieftains?
Who can tell how far to the mighty west
the tide of civilization and emigration would have
rolled their swelling waves, but for the scenes
of personal rivalry and contention like the present,
which have disgraced our annals?

“The rosy tints of the morning dawn of destiny
have scarcely risen in the east of this mighty continent—the
boldest and the wildest imagination
cannot soar into futurity, and predict its noonday
glories, or count up the tides and floods of human
beings, that shall be wafted to these shores,
and thence roll in successive waves, to the dark
and as yet unknown west.

“I have been but an humble instrument in the
hands of the Great Mover of these mighty currents,
and for this ye seek my life. But death to this
frail body cannot arrest the great movement, in
which I have been an actor. I have indeed been
the first to point out the importance of drawing a
broad line of separation between the European and
the native, the first to show the necessity of rolling
to the west the savage hordes, as the swelling
numbers of our own countrymen increase upon
our hands. Future emigration must advance westward
in a semicircular wave—like a kindred billow

of the watery ocean, sweeping all obstruction
before it.

“If the natives flee before this rolling tide, and
survive its destructive progress, well and happy
will it be for them; but if they attempt to buffet
the storm, ruin hangs upon their tardy footsteps.
I confess that I have been the first to maintain the
impossibility of the two species living together in
peace, and to execute the primitive and opening
step in this great revolution of nations. If this be
treason, then am I a traitor. But if I fall, think
not that the great movement shall fall with me.
The Great Ruler of the universe has opened these
fertile hills and dales to his oppressed creatures;
and he has likewise pointed out the necessity of
driving back them who make no use of these blessings,
and who rise not from their idolatry and
ignorance to a state fitted to render glory to their
Creator. The tide will move on to the westward,
in spite of such tribunals as this. If I am to die
here in this insulated neck of land, by the hands
of those who are themselves prisoners, so be it—
I shall die contented in the knowledge that I have
not lived in vain, and that future generations will
rescue from oblivion the name of him who first
opened an avenue to the mighty and unknown
west, and however illegally my life may be taken,
I will show you that I can die as becomes a soldier
and a Cavalier. One request I would fain make,
even of them whose actions I abhor and despise;

it is this; as you have tried and condemned me
by a military tribunal, that you inflict upon me
the death of a soldier. This is a request which I
would alike make to a heathen or an infidel.”

“Take him immediately to the gallows,”
shouted Sir William Berkley.

The officer of the guard approached with his
myrmidons, and laid hold of the prisoner, in accordance
with the mandate of the Governor; but
three or four members of the court rose at once,
and expressed their willingness to allow the prisoner
until the succeeding day to prepare for execution.

“Away with him, away with him,” again
vociferated the president, at the same time, menacing
the official who stood holding the prisoner,
doubtful how to act, and apparently willing to listen
to the more merciful suggestion. By this time
the whole court was in confusion and uproar; every
member was upon his feet, together with the president,
each one endeavouring to be heard. A
large majority of the members were for the longest
time, and these now demanded of the Governor to
submit the question to the court; but the old
knight, having probably discovered that Ludwell
and Beverly were his only supporters, clamorously
persisted in ordering the prisoner to instant
execution.

Bacon himself, during this time, at first stood
with his arms folded and a bitter smile of contempt
playing upon his features, until the turmoil growing

louder and more protracted, he too attempted to
obtain a hearing. “It is perfectly indifferent to
me,” said he, “whether I am murdered to-morrow,
or at the next moment; let the hour come
when it may, my blood be upon your skirts!”

His manly bearing served to reanimate those who
contended for delay, and the strife continued to
grow more noisy and turbulent, until, as if by
magic, a side door of the apartment opened, and a
new actor appeared upon the scene. The court was
instantaneously hushed to silence, and Sir William
Berkley stood as if he beheld an apparition, while
Bacon bounded forward and clasped Virginia, who
rushed into his outstretched (but fettered) arms.

When she first gently pushed open the door, not
one of the court or of the attendants perceived her.
She was clad in the loose folds of the sick chamber—her
blond curls fell in unheeded ringlets over
her brow, temples and shoulders—her face was pale
as monumental marble, and her frame weak and
trembling, while a preternatural excitement of the
moment shot from her eyes, as she gazed through
the partly opened door, to ascertain if her ears had
not deceived her.

Not a word was uttered louder than a deep impassioned
whisper, until Virginia perceived the
chains upon his hands, when seizing the iron by
the middle she stepped forward and boldly elevating
her head, addressed Sirl William —“Whence
these chains, sir?—tell me quickly; tell me that
they have not been put on by your orders—before

I curse the hour that united my destiny in any
manner with yours!”

“Not only were they imposed by my orders,
but they were so put on in preparation for a ceremony
which shall alike cure you of your vagaries
and release me from his hated presence for ever!
Guard, lead her to her chamber, and the prisoner
to execution!”

Scarcely had the words died upon his lips, ere
she sprang from the grasp of the officer, and locked
her hands around the neck of her lover, exclaiming,
“Now you may shoot him through me—no
ball enters his body but through mine. You may
hack off my arms with your swords, but until
then I will never leave him!”

The Governor and Beverly now came forward,
and each of them seizing a hand, they tore her
from his embrace, in the midst of a wild hysterical
laugh, hot however before Bacon had imprinted
a kiss upon her pale forehead, and uttered a
brief and agonizing farewell. He then seated himself
upon a chair, and covering his face with his
hands, gave himself up to emotions which had not
before been awakened during his trial.

As they were leading Virginia from the room,
she suddenly recovered her composure, sprang
from their grasp, and placing herself against the
wall, between two of the officers of the court, who
were still standing, clung to their arms while she
thus addressed Frank Beverly—“And this is the
method you have taken to win your way to my

favour—this is the plan you have devised to rid
yourself of a rival. And you too, his deadly enemy—to
sit in judgment upon him, and mock
justice by the cowardly device. Out upon you,
sir, for a craven-hearted dastard. Is this the way
you were to meet and conquer him in battle?
Where are your trophies for my bridal turban,
taken from the standards of his followers? You
take trophies from Bacon in battle! One glance
of his manly eye would drive the blood chilled
to your craven heart, and wither the muscles of
your coward arm.”

Again she was seized, and dragged from the
court-room by the Governor and Beverly. In a
few moments the president returned, and found
the court proceeding in his absence deliberately
to take the question on granting the prisoner until
the succeeding day to prepare for death, and allowing
him the attendance of a clergyman. Sir William
was fearful perhaps, that by resisting the will
of the majority, he should defeat his purpose, and
therefore acquiesced in what he could not prevent,
with more amenity than might have been expected
from his previous violence.

The prisoner had not so suddenly regained his
equanimity; he was indeed making strenuous exertions
to that end, but now and then a piercing
scream from the upper chambers of the mansion
thrilled through his nerves, and more than
once he suddenly sprang to his feet, and made an
attempt to rush past his vigilant keepers, but was

as quickly reminded of his helplessness by the
jarring sound of his fetters, and the ready grasp of
the officials. After several such attempts, he at
length folded his arms, and gave himself up to bitter
reflections—a wretched smile flashing athwart
his countenance indicating the violence of the
internal struggle and the cruel pangs that rent his
bosom.

The majority of the court having triumphed in
the first matter, the question was again raised as
to the manner of his death, and Bacon's countenance
was actually lit up by a smile when he heard
the decision of the court in favour of his own request,
that he might die the death of a soldier.
The guard were at the moment leading him from
the court room to his prison house, and his step
became more firm and elastic, and he could now
look upon the wretched spectacle in the court,
without the same degree of horror which he had
before evinced.

When he had marched several paces in his progress
round the mansion, he halted suddenly and
wheeled round to survey the dormer windows
peering through the roof, as was the fashion with
the long low houses of the time. His eye rested
from its piercing and steady gaze, in sadness and
disappointment, and he threw down his chained
hands with a violent motion, as he resumed his
march between the soldiers. They conducted him
to the door of a cellar at the end of the house,

which was secured with double defences; in the
next moment he was rudely thrust into a damp
cellar, without a ray of light, and the door was
closed and securely bolted.