Magwitch lay in the prison hospital, very ill. His injuries from the struggle in the river were serious; he had broken two ribs and one of his lungs was damaged. Every day, it became harder for him to breathe. He could only speak in a very low whisper, so he said very little. My only goal now was to sit with him, talk to him, and read to him.
Because he was so sick, the prison officers allowed me to visit him often. I saw him every day, and each time, he looked weaker. He was a man who had given up the fight. He didn't try to make excuses for his past. He was humble and quiet, and he never complained about his pain. Sometimes, when people spoke about his reputation as a dangerous criminal, he would look at me and smile. He knew that I saw the good in him, even when he was just a convict in the marshes long ago.
When the time for the trial came, Mr. Jaggers tried to delay it, hoping Magwitch might die peacefully first. However, the court refused. Magwitch was so weak that he had to sit in a chair during the trial. I stood as close to him as I could, holding his hand.
The trial was short. There was no doubt that he had returned to England illegally. The jury found him guilty.
In those days, it was the custom to sentence many people to death at the same time on the final day of the court. I will never forget that scene. Thirty-two men and women stood together to receive their death sentences. Magwitch was the first among them.
The April sun shone through the windows, but the room felt cold and dark. Some of the prisoners were crying; others looked angry or terrified. The judge spoke directly to Magwitch. He talked about his life of crime, his many years in prison, and his escape. He said that although Magwitch had lived an honest life in Australia, he had broken the law by coming back. For this, the punishment was death.
Magwitch looked at the judge and said quietly, "My Lord, I have already received my sentence from God, but I accept yours."
He was helped out of the room, still holding my hand. The audience in the court pointed at him and whispered, but Magwitch only cared that I was there.
In the days that followed, I tried everything to save him. I wrote formal letters to the government, explaining that he had only returned to England because of his love for me. I walked the cold streets of London at night, waiting for news, but no mercy was shown.
I continued to visit him every day. The prison officers were not cruel to us; they could see he was dying. He spent most of his time looking peacefully at the white ceiling. Sometimes he could not speak at all, but he would squeeze my hand to show he understood me.
On the tenth day after the trial, I saw a great change in him. When I entered the room, his eyes brightened.
"Dear boy," he whispered. "I thought you were late, but I knew you would come."
"I am here," I said. "I wait at the gate every day so I don't lose a moment with you."
"Thank you, dear boy. God bless you. You never left me." He paused, breathing with great difficulty. "And what’s best of all is that you have stayed by my side even now, when I have nothing."
He smiled and placed my hand on his chest. He was very close to the end. The prison governor came over and whispered that I could stay as long as I needed.
"Dear Magwitch," I whispered, leaning close to his ear. "I must tell you something. You understand me?"
He squeezed my hand gently.
"You had a child once," I said. "A daughter whom you loved and lost."
He squeezed my hand harder.
"She lived," I continued. "She found powerful friends and grew up to be a beautiful lady. She is alive now. And Magwitch... I love her."
With a final, weak effort, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he lay back, a peaceful look on his face. His head dropped quietly. He was gone.
I remembered the prayers we had read together. As I looked at my friend for the last time, I said the only words that felt right: "O Lord, be merciful to him, a sinner."