There were more cheers and Liddicoat acknowledged them as if they were directed at him. He was a shrewd enough politician to know how strong local feeling had been against the incarceration of the three men, and the arrival of an anonymous letter, postmarked Sheffield, can only have further concentrated his mind.
He had passed it to the local paper which revealed that it contained,
A series of disgusting oaths, calling the Mayor by the most outrageous names for having issued the warrant for the apprehension of the survivors of the Mignonette. He had no right to take such a course as the men had not committed murder and the writer concluded by saying he intended to come to Falmouth the next week to shoot the Mayor for having issued the warrant and thereby entailed more suffering upon men who had already gone through so much. The letter was evidently written in a disguised hand and was upon two half sheets of paper, the style being incoherent.
As he had promised Tom, John Burton offered to stand surety for him. His offer was greeted with yet more cheers and shouts of ‘Good old Burton’ from the crowd.
Both Stephens and Brooks named people in Southampton as their guarantors. J. H. Cocksey, the chairman of the Southampton magistrates, was one of those named as ready to stand bail for Stephens, but although anxious not to have the public mood swing back against him, Liddicoat could not grant bail simply on the strength of names unknown to the bench, no matter how respectable they might be. ‘Is there no Falmouth man who will stand bail for these men?’ he said.
After a brief silence, John Burton again stood up. ‘I’ll go bail for fifty pounds for each of them if any other person will stand surety for the other half.’
There were no volunteers. Liddicoat then allowed Stephens and Brooks to leave the dock and cross the courtroom to where Burton was standing. After a brief, muttered conversation, he told the bench, ‘I’ll stand surety for all of them in the full amount.’
The cheers rose to a crescendo as Daniel Parker walked over and shook hands with each of the defendants in turn. It was a very public exoneration from the dead boy’s closest relative.
To Tom’s infinite relief, the majority of the back-slapping crowd did not pursue them far down the street once they left the court. By the time they reached the market square, the group following them had dwindled to a handful of people.
Tom hailed a hansom cab, then shook Tilly’s hand. ‘Thank you for what you have done for us.’
‘I’ve done little enough yet,’ Tilly said, though his face was flushed with pride. ‘The true test will come in a week’s time when we shall have to try and persuade the bench not to commit you for trial. That will not be so easily done. But I’m glad that you can at least now return to your loved ones.’ He walked away down the hill with his clerk.
Tom turned to the others. For five months they had been confined together — on a ship, a dinghy and in a gaol. Even if only temporarily, they were now at last free to go their separate ways. Once more he struggled to contain his tears. He had cried more times since his rescue than in his whole life beforehand, often for the most trivial of reasons. He could find no apposite words to say to them and after muttering, ‘Until next Thursday, then,’ he climbed into the cab and was driven away.
Cheesman was waiting at the station to see him off. He shook Tom’s hand and expressed the hope that his temporary release would soon be made permanent. He had also brought two valuable items with him, Tom’s sextant and chronometer, which were not required as evidence and had been released by the police.
Tom arrived at Paddington by the mail train at four the next morning. He shuffled along the platform, wearing slippers because his legs were still so swollen that he was unable to bear the pressure of shoes. Although she had been ill all week, Philippa was there to meet him, accompanied by two friends. They crossed London by hansom cab and caught the five-fifty train from Victoria to Sutton.
A few people were waiting at Sutton station to welcome him home and show their support for him. He shook each hand that was offered to him and managed a few words of thanks, but his thoughts were focused only on reaching his house and seeing his children.
At the sound of the gate-latch, the two elder children, Philippa and Winifred, came running from the house. Julian tottered after them; he had taken his first steps while Tom was at sea. As he hugged them to him, Tom cried as if his heart would break.
Philippa’s first action was to pack him off to bed and send for their doctor to examine him and dress his wounds. While they waited for the doctor, Tom gave her the letter he had written to her in the dinghy.
She read and reread it, then laid the letter down. Their tears mingled as they wept on each other’s shoulders, while the children clustered around them, crying too, without knowing why.
Later, while Philippa plied him with food and drink, Tom told her the story of the sinking and the ordeal in the dinghy. By the time the doctor arrived, a group of reporters was waiting outside the house. Despite his weariness, Tom spoke to them at length, repeating his account of the voyage and the death of Richard Parker.
Philippa added her own trenchant defence of her husband, pointing out his role in saving Richard’s life when he was drowning, and in keeping the crew alive by risking his own life to search for provisions before abandoning the Mignonette. He had plugged the hole in the side of the dinghy, made the sea-anchor that stopped it from foundering, had insisted on raising a sail against the objections of the others, and time and again had ‘stopped them from committing suicide’ by drinking sea-water.
When the reporters had at last departed, Philippa led Tom inside and closed and barred the door. As he settled into his wing-chair with the children playing on the rug at his feet, Tom felt at peace for the first time in all the months since the Mignonette had sailed.
Stephens and Brooks had taken longer to reach home. After Tom had left them, Brooks insisted on heading for a tavern to celebrate their release. Although Stephens was desperate to see his family, the thought of travelling alone filled him with an illogical but undeniable fear, and he clung to his shipmate’s side.
In his wasted condition, two mugs of ale were enough to make Brooks drunk, and by the time they staggered down to the station, they had missed the through mail train to Southampton. They did not arrive there until Friday lunchtime.
A number of reporters were among the crowd of family, friends and curious onlookers waiting for them at the station. Those who knew them were shocked at their haggard appearance. As the local paper reported, ‘Both men bore on their features the impress of privation.’
Stephens appeared daunted by the crowd. His eyes darted from side to side seeking his wife, and he seemed unable to understand the questions shouted at them by reporters and bystanders. Ann stepped out of the crowd, embraced him, and led him away.
Brooks proved more willing to speak. ‘We had not the least idea that we should be apprehended in Falmouth,’ he said. ‘If people would only imagine for a moment what our sufferings were in the boat, such charges made against us would be about the last thing that would be thought of.’
There were some shouts of support, but also a number of boos and hostile questions. Just as in Falmouth, most of them centred on the men’s failure to draw lots before killing Richard Parker. Brooks looked around, very aware that he was merely a lodger in the dead boys home area.