A TRAITOR'S END.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XXXXII, Issue 78, 30 March 1900, Page 4

A TRAITOR'S END.

SHOOTING A HORSE-POISONER. A file of men and a cold grey morn, No comrade's word, no hand of friend; An open grave for a thing of scorn, A traitor's end. " A War Correspondent at the Front" writes as follows in the Midland News: —: The Colonel of the Gunners leant sideways and exchanged a few whispered words with the Sappers' Major, and the commander of a company of the Royal Wessex eyed the prisoner curiously. A slight man with sandy hair and straggling beard was the prisoner, and standing between the file of stalwart khaki-clad soldiers he looked, by reason of the contrast, much smaller than .he actually was. His small blue eyes, set deep in his head, glanced nervously from one to the other members of the Court, and red-knuckled hands locked and interlocked incessantly. The President finished his whispered conversation, and addressed himself again to the blue paper lying before him. Clearing his throat he began: " Have you any questions to ask this witness ?" indicating a trooper in the uniform of the Colonial Horse. " Nuffin," muttered the prisoner; " the pass didn't belong to me; I picked it up—what do I want to go into the Boer lines for ? As to the powder, why should I want to hoc—l mean poison—the horses for—never did me no harm." One of the officers sitting at the baize-covered table, a young man, clean shaven and keen-eyed, dropped his pen. ".Were you ever in Robson's stables?" he asked quietly. The prisoner flushed and locked his lips. " What Robson ?" he asked, sullenly enough. " Robson, the trainer at Newmarket." The man shifted his feet uneasily. •' I've never been to England in my life," doggedly. Again a whisper of consultation, and the President spoke: " Pull up your shirt sleeve, my man —not that one; your left." The prisoner was livid, but he slowly unbuttoned the wristband, and pulled the sleeve about a couple of inches up. " Pull it up for him, sergeant," was the stern command; *' none of your nonsense, pull it up." The sleeve was rolled up above the elbow, and some tattoo lettering was exposed. The President left his seat, and the clean-shaven officer followed.

"What's this?" asked the Colonel, reading the lettering. " Horse Poisoner." " Who put that there ?" " Don't know," sullenly. " But I do," .said the yrung officer, returning to his seat, "the lads of Robson's did that when you tried to hocus the stable favorite. I remember you, Jim Boss." I Big beads stood on the prisoner's [forehead. "I had to do it," he muttered, looking down at the ground. " M'Dermot, of the Irish Brigade, owed me a thousand—l didn't mean no haim to the men—just the horses." Another whispered consultation, and then slowly and distinctly the President read over the charge and the written statement of .the evidence.

The Court had decided, and the prisoner again entered the little mission schoolroom in which the trial was being held and stood facing the officers. " a drum-head courtmartial," read the president, "the charge, No. 78, Trooper John Smith " (this was the prisoner's " regimental" name), "a soldier of Her Majesty's regular forces. Ist.: Giving informaion to the enemy of Her Majes'y the Queen in that he did at Ladysmith " j then followed the count. 2nd : " That he did attempt I o wilfully and wickedly destroy the troop horses of his comrades by means of poison, in that at ! Ladysmith"—again the long count. t" The Court finds the prisoner, No. 78, Trooper John Smith, guilty on all counts." The eyes of Jim Boss alias Smith were fixed on the gaudy wall text above the President's head: " The wages of sin is death," and in a trance he heard : " The Court sentences the prisoner, No. 78, Trooper John Smith, to be shot at daybreak," and then collapsed. There was the promise of a glorious day in the first faint flush of dawn, and Jim Boss gulphed down his coffee and fell in between his guards. " Get it over quick," he said, and his teeth chattered, for it was very chilly. The little party stepped out briskly towards the outskirts of the camp. "Anyp ayer?" asked the prisoner, as he kept pace with the soldiers, "any funeral procession, and all that sort of thing ?" The sergeant shook his head, and the spy sighed a sigh of relief. " Shall I hear the words of command," he anxiously inquired, as they neared the motionless firing party, drawn up facing a rewly-dug trench. The prisoner was halted with his back to one end of the trench. He glanced round, and his face twitched. "Ah,yes," he said—his voice was thin and piping, and a tremor ran through itall—"l understand—l don't want i'o handkerchief—must I? Oh, I all right, then. 1 say —have you gone? I -Tell them i.ot to be too long about I it, will yon—l can't stand much of-^ ! 0«!" And they buried him where he fell. —Evening Star.