I am innocent. God let me be
born of a drunken father--I had to drink too--I had to. The Squire
wouldn't give me work--no one helped me. I enlisted in a New York
regiment. I got drunk and ran away and enlisted in the 71st Pennsylvania.
I stole chickens, and near to the North Anna I was cruelly punished. Then
the Rebs caught me. I had to enlist. Oh, Lord! I am unfortunate. If I
only could have a little whisky."
Mark Rivers for a moment barren of answer was sure that as usual Peter
was lying and without any of his old cunning.
"Peter, this story does not help you. You are about to die, and no
one--can help you--I have tried in vain--nothing can save you. Why at a
time so solemn as this do you lie to me? Why did you desert? and for
stealing chickens? nonsense!"
"Well, then, it was about a woman. Josiah knows--he saw it all. I didn't
desert--I was tied to a tree--he could clear me. They left me tied. I had
to enlist; I had to!"
"A woman!" Rivers understood. "If he were to tell, it would only make
your case worse. Oh, Peter, let me pray for you."
"Oh, pray if you want to. What's the good? If you won't telegraph the
Squire, get me whisky; and if you won't do that, go away. Talk about God
and praying when I'm to be murdered just because my father drank! I don't
want any praying--I don't believe in it--you just go away and get me
some whisky.
Pages:
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555