AT THE BAR OF THE COURT.
When Ralph went to his work at the breaker on the morning after his
return from Wilkesbarre, he was met with curious glances from the men,
and wondering looks and abrupt questions from the boys. It had become
generally known that he claimed to be Robert Burnham's son, and that
he was about to institute proceedings, through his guardian, to
recover possession of his share of the estate. There was but little
opportunity to interrogate him through the morning hours: the flow of
coal through the chutes was too rapid and constant, and the grinding
and crunching of the rollers, and the rumbling and hammering of the
machinery, were too loud and incessant.
Ralph worked very diligently too; he was in the mood for work. He
was glad to be at home again and able to work. It was much better
than wandering through the streets of strange towns, without money
or friends. Nor were his hands and eyes less vigilant because of the
bright future that lay before him. He was so certain of the promised
luxuries, the beautiful home, the love of mother and sister, the means
for education,--so sure of them all that he felt he could well afford
to wait, and to work while waiting. This toil and poverty would last
but a few weeks, or a few months at the longest; after that there
would be a lifetime of pleasure and of peace and of satisfied
ambitions.
So hope nerved his muscles, and anticipation brought color to his
cheeks and fire to his eyes, and the thought of his mother's kiss
lent inspiration to his labor, and no boy that ever worked in Burnham
Breaker performed his task with more skill and diligence than he.
When the noon hour came the boys took their dinner-pails and ran down
out of the building and over on the hill-side, where they could lie on
the clean grass in the warm September sunshine, and eat and talk until
the bell should call them again to work.
Here, before the recess was over, Ralph joined them, feeling very
conscious, indeed, of his embarrassing position, but determined to
brave it out.
Joe Foster set the, ball rolling by asking Ralph how much he had to
pay his lawyer. Some one else followed it up with a question relating
to his expectations for the future, and in a very few minutes the boy
was the object of a perfect broadside of interrogations.
"Will you have a hoss of your own?" asked Patsey Welch.
"I don't know," was the reply; "that depen's on what my mother'll
think."
"Oh! she'll give you one if you want 'im, Mrs. Burnham will," said
another boy; "she'll give you everything you want; she's ter'ble good
that way, they say."
"Will you own the breaker, an' boss us boys?" came a query from
another quarter.
Before Ralph could reply to this startling and embarrassing question,
some one else asked:--
"How'd you find out who you was, anyway?"
"Why, my lawyer told me," was the reply.
"How'd he find out?"
"Well, a man told him."
"What man?"
"Now, look here, fellows!" said Ralph, "I ain't goin' to tell you
everything. It'd predujuice my case too much. I can't do it, I got no
right to."
Then a doubting Thomas arose.
"I ain't got nothin' agin him," he began, referring to Ralph, "he's a
good enough feller--for a slate-picker, for w'at I know; but that's
all he is; he ain't a Burnham, no more'n I be, if he was he wouldn't
be a-workin' here in the dirt; it ain't reason'ble."
Before Ralph could reply, some one took up the cudgel for him.
"Yes, he is too,--a Burnham. My father says he is, an' Lawyer Sharpman
says he is, an' you don't know nothin' 'bout it."
Whereupon a great confusion of voices arose, some of the boys denying
Ralph's claim of a right to participate in the privileges allotted to
the Burnham family, while most of them vigorously upheld it.
Finally, Ralph made his voice heard above the uproar:--
"Boys," he said, "they ain't no use o' quarrellin'; we'll all find out
the truth about it 'fore very long. I'm a-goin' to stay here an' work
in the breaker till the thing's settled, an' I want you boys to use me
jest as well as ever you did, an' I'll treat you jest the same as I
al'ays have; now, ain't that fair?"
"Yes, that's fair!" shouted a dozen boys at a time. "Hooray for Ralph
Burnham!" added another; "hooray!"
The cheers were given with a will, then the breaker bell rang, and the
boys flocked back to their work.
Ralph was as good as his word. Every morning he came and took his
place on the bench, and picked slate ten hours a day, just as the
other boys did; and though the subject of his coming prosperity was
often discussed among them, there was never again any malice or
bitterness in the discussion.
But the days and weeks and months went by. The snows of winter came,
and the north winds howled furiously about the towering heights of
Burnham Breaker. Morning after morning, before it was fairly light,
Ralph and Bachelor Billy trudged through the deep snow on their way to
their work, or faced the driving storms as they plodded home at night.
And still, so far as these two could see, and they talked the matter
over very often, no progress was being made toward the restoration of
Ralph to his family and family rights.
Sharpman had explained why the delay was expedient, not to say
necessary; and, though the boy tried to be patient, and was very
patient indeed, yet the unquiet feeling remained in his heart, and
grew.
But at last there was progress. A petition had been presented to
the Orphans' Court, asking for a citation to Margaret Burnham, as
administrator of her husband's estate, to appear and show cause why
she should not pay over to Ralph's guardian a sufficient sum of money
to educate and maintain the boy in a manner befitting his proper
station in life. An answer had been put in by Mrs. Burnham's attorney,
denying that Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham, and an issue had
been asked for to try that disputed fact. The issue had been awarded,
and the case certified to the Common Pleas for trial, and placed on
the trial list for the May term of court.
As the time for the hearing approached, the preparations for it grew
more active and incessant about Sharpman's office.
Old Simon had taken up his abode in Scranton for the time being, and
was on hand frequently to inform and advise. Witnesses from distant
points had been subpoenaed, and Ralph, himself, had been called on
several occasions to the lawyer's office to be interrogated about
matters lying within his knowledge or memory.
The question of the boy's identity had become one of the general
topics of conversation in the city, and, as the time for the trial
approached, public interest in the matter ran high.
In those days the courts were held at Wilkesbarre for the entire
district. Lackawanna County had not yet been erected out of the
northern part of Luzerne, with Scranton as its county seat.
There were several suits on the list for the May term that were to be
tried before the Burnham case would come on, so that Ralph did not
find it necessary to go to Wilkesbarre until Thursday of the first
week of court.
Bachelor Billy accompanied him. He had been subpoenaed as a witness,
and he was glad to be able to go and to have an opportunity to care
for the boy during the time of the trial.
Spring comes early in the valley of the Susquehanna; and, as the train
dashed along, Ralph, looking from the open window of the car, saw the
whole country white with the blossoms of fruit-bearing trees. The
rains had been frequent and warm, and the springing vegetation, rich
and abundant, reflected its bright green in the waters of the river
along all the miles of their journey. The spring air was warm and
sweet, white clouds were floating in the sky, birds were darting here
and there among the branches of the trees, wild flowers were unfolding
their modest beauty in the very shadow of the iron rails. Ralph saw
and felt it all, his spirit rose into accord with nature, and hope
filled his heart more abundantly than it ever had before.
When he and Bachelor Billy went into the court-room that afternoon,
Sharpman met them and told them that their case would probably not
be reached that day, the one immediately preceding it having already
taken much more time in the trial than had been expected. But he
advised them not to leave the city. So they went out and walked about
the streets a little, then they wandered down along the river bank,
and sat there looking out upon the water and discussing the method and
probable outcome of the trial.
When supper-time came, they went to their boarding-house, a cottage in
the suburbs, kept by a man who had formerly known Bachelor Billy in
Scranton.
The next morning when they went into court the lawyers were making
their addresses to the jury in the case that had been heard on the
previous day, and Ralph and Billy listened to the speeches with
much interest. The judge's charge was a long one, and before it
was concluded the noon-hour had come. But it was known, when court
adjourned, that the Burnham case would be taken up at two o'clock.
Long before that time, however, the benches in the court-room were
filled with people, and even the precincts of the bar were invaded.
The suit had aroused so much interest and excitement that hundreds
of people came simply to see the parties and hear the evidence in
the case.
At two o'clock Mr. Goodlaw entered, accompanied by Mrs. Burnham and
her little daughter, and all three took seats by a table inside
the bar.
Sharpman came in a few minutes later, and Simon Craft arose from his
place near the railing and went with him to another table. Ralph, who
was with Bachelor Billy down on a front bench, scarcely recognized the
old man at first, there was so marked a change in his appearance. He
had on a clean new suit of black broadcloth, his linen was white and
well arranged, and he had been freshly shaven. Probably he had not
presented so attractive an appearance before in many years. It was all
due to Sharpman's money and wit. He knew how much it is worth to have
a client look well in the eyes of a jury, and he had acted according
to his knowledge.
So Old Simon had a very grandfatherly air as he took his seat by the
side of his counsel and laid his cane on the floor beside him.
After arranging his papers on the table, Sharpman arose and looked
back over the crowded court-room. Finally, catching sight of Ralph,
he motioned to him to come inside the bar. The boy obeyed, but not
without embarrassment. He saw that the eyes of all the people in the
room were fixed on him as he crossed the open space and dropped into a
chair by the side of Craft. But he had passed Mrs. Burnham on his way,
and she had reached out her gloved hand and grasped his little one and
held him by her for a moment to look searchingly and longingly into
his face; and she had said to him some kind words to put him at his
ease, so that the situation was not so very trying, after all.
The clerk began to call a jury into the box. One by one they answered
to their names, and were scrutinized closely by the lawyers as they
took their places. Then Sharpman examined, carefully, the list of
jurors that was handed to him, and drew his pen through one of the
names. It was that of a man who had once suffered by reason of the
lawyer's shrewdness, and he thought it best to challenge him.
"Call another juror," he said, passing the list to Goodlaw, who also
struck a name from it, added a new one, and passed it back.
The jury was finally settled, the challenged men were excused, and the
remaining twelve were duly sworn.
Then Sharpman arose to open his case. With rapid detail he went over
the history of Ralph's life from the time of the railroad accident
to the day of the trial. He dwelt upon Simon Craft's kindness to the
child, upon his energetic search for the unknown parents, and, later,
for the boy himself; of his final success, of his constant effort in
Ralph's behalf, and his great desire, now, to help him into the family
and fortune to which his birth entitled him. "We shall show to you all
of these facts, gentlemen of the jury," said Sharpman, in conclusion.
"We shall prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this boy is
Margaret Burnham's son and an heir to Robert Burnham's estates; and,
having done so, we shall expect a verdict at your hands."
The lawyer resumed his seat, spent a few moments looking over his
papers, and then said, in a tone of mingled respect and firmness:--
"We desire, if your Honor please, to call Mrs. Burnham for the purpose
of cross-examination."
"That is your privilege under the law," said the judge.
"Mrs. Burnham," continued Sharpman, "will you kindly take the stand?"
"Certainly," replied the lady.
She arose, advanced to the witness-stand, received the oath, and took
her chair with a matronly dignity and kindly grace that aroused the
sympathy and admiration of all who saw her. She gave her name, the
date of her marriage to Robert Burnham, the fact of his death, and the
names and ages of her children. In the course of the examination, she
was asked to describe the railway journey which ended in the disaster
at Cherry Brook, and to give the details of that disaster as she
remembered them.
"Can you not spare me that recital, sir?" she said.
"No one would be more willing or glad to do so, madam," responded
Sharpman, "than I, but the whole future of this fatherless boy is
hanging upon this examination, and I dare not do it. I will try to
make it easier for you, however, by interrogation."
She had hidden her face in her hands a moment before; now she raised
it, pallid, but fixed with strong determination.
"Go on," she said, "I will answer you."
Sharpman stood for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, then he
asked: "Did you and your husband, accompanied by your child Ralph and
his nurse, leave your home in Scranton on the thirteenth day of May,
1859, to go by rail to the city of Philadelphia?"
"We did."
"Was the car in which you were riding well filled?"
"It was not; no, sir."
"How many children were in that car besides your son?"
"Only one."
"A boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"About how old?"
"About Ralph's age, I should think."
"With whom was he travelling?"
"With an elderly gentleman whom he called, 'Grandpa.'"
"Before you reached Philadelphia, did the bridge over Cherry Creek
give way and precipitate the car in which you were riding into the bed
of the stream?"
"It did; yes, sir."
"Immediately before that occurred where was your child?"
"He was sitting with his nurse in the second seat ahead of us."
"And the other child, where was he?"
"Just across the aisle."
"Did you see that other child after the accident?"
"I did not; I only know that he survived it."
"How do you know it?"
"We learned, on inquiry, that the same old gentleman and little
child went on to the city in the train which carried the rescued
passengers."
"You and your husband were both injured in the disaster, were you
not?"
"We were."
"And the nurse lost her life?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long was it after the accident before you began the search for
your child?"
"It was nearly three days afterward before we were sufficiently
recovered to be able to do anything."
"Did you find any trace of him?"
"None whatever."
"Any clothing or jewelry?"
"Only a few trinkets in the ashes of the wreck."
"Is it your belief that Ralph perished in that disaster?"
"It is; yes, sir."
"Would it take strong evidence to convince you to the contrary?"
"I think it would."
"Ralph," said Sharpman, turning to the boy, "stand up!"
The lad arose.
"Have you seen this boy before?" continued the lawyer, addressing the
witness again.
"I have," she replied, "on several occasions."
"Are you familiar with his face, his expression, his manner?"
"To a great extent--yes, sir."
"Do you recognize him as your son Ralph?"
She looked down, long and searchingly, into the boy's face, and then
replied, deliberately, "No, sir, I do not."
"That is all, Mrs. Burnham."
Ralph was surprised and disappointed. He had not quite expected this.
He had thought she would say, perhaps, that she would receive him as
her son when his claim was duly proven. He would not have wondered
at that, but that she should positively, under oath, deny their
relationship to each other, had not been to him, before, within the
range of possibility. His brightness and enthusiasm were quenched
in a moment, and a chill crept up to his heart, as he saw the lady
come down from the witness-stand, throw her widow's veil across her
face, and resume her seat at the table. The case had taken on a new,
strange, harsh aspect in his sight. It seemed to him that a barrier
had been suddenly erected between him and the lady whom he had learned
to love as his mother; a barrier which no verdict of the jury or
judgment of the court, even though he should receive them, would help
him to surmount.
Of what use were these things, if motherly recognition was to be
denied him? He began to feel that it would be almost better to go back
at once to the not unpleasant home with Bachelor Billy, than to try to
grasp something which, it now seemed, was lying beyond his reach.
He was just considering the advisability of crossing over to Sharpman
and suggesting to him that he was willing to drop the proceedings,
when that person called another witness to the stand. This was a
heavily built man, with close-cropped beard, bronzed face, and one
sleeve empty of its arm. He gave his name as William B. Merrick, and
said that he was conductor of the train that broke through the Cherry
Brook bridge, on the night of May 13, 1859.
"Did you see, on your train that night," asked Sharpman, "the witness
who has just left the stand?"
"I cannot be positive," the man replied, "but, to the best of my
recollection, the lady was a passenger in the rear car."
"With whom was she travelling?"
"With a gentleman whom I afterward learned was her husband, a little
boy some two or three years of age, and the child's nurse."
"Were there any other children on the train?"
"Yes, one, a boy of about the same age, riding in the same car in
company with an elderly gentleman."
"Did you see either of these children after the disaster?"
"I saw one of them."
"Which one?"
"I supposed, at the time, that it was the one who accompanied the old
gentleman."
"Why did you suppose so?"
"Because I saw a child who bore marks of having been in the wreck
riding in the car which carried the rescued passengers to the city,
and he was in company with an elderly man."
"Was he the same elderly man whom you saw with the child before the
accident?"
"I cannot say; my attention was not particularly called to him before
the accident; but I supposed he was the one, from the fact of his
having the child with him."
"Could you, at this time, recognize the man whom you saw with the
child after the accident?"
"I think so. I took especial notice of him then."
"Look at this old gentleman, sitting by me," said Sharpman, waving his
hand toward Craft, "and tell me whether he is the one."
The man turned his eyes on Old Simon, and looked at him closely for a
full minute.
"Yes," he replied, "I believe he is the one. He has grown older and
thinner, but I do not think I am mistaken."
Craft nodded his head mildly in assent, and Sharpman continued:--
"Did you take particular notice of the child's clothing as you saw it
after the accident; could you recognize, at this time, the principal
articles of outside wear that he had on?"
"I think I could."
Sharpman paused as if in thought.
After he had whispered for a moment with Craft, he said to the
witness:--
"That is all, for the present, Mr. Merrick." Then he turned to the
opposing counsel and said:--
"Mr. Goodlaw, you may take the witness."
Goodlaw fixed his glasses more firmly on his nose, consulted briefly
with his client, and then began his cross-examination.
After drawing out much of the personal history of the witness, he went
with him into the details of the Cherry Brook disaster.
Finally he asked:--
"Did you know Robert Burnham in his lifetime?"
"A gentleman by that name called on me a week after the accident to
make inquiries about his son."
"Did you say to him, at that time, that the child must have perished
in the wreck?"
"I think I did; yes, sir."
"On what did you base your opinion?"
"On several circumstances. The nurse with whom he was sitting was
killed outright; it would seem to have been impossible for any one
occupying that seat to have escaped instant death, since the other
car struck and rested at just that point. Again, there were but two
children on the train. It took it for granted that the old man and
child whom I saw together after the accident were the same ones whom I
had seen together before it occurred."
"Did you tell Mr. Burnham of seeing this old man and child after the
accident?"
"I did; yes, sir."
"Did you not say to him positively, at that time, that they were the
same persons who were sitting together across the aisle from him
before the crash came?"
"It may be that I did."
"And did you not assure him that the child who went to the city, on
the train that night after the accident was not his son?"
"I may have done so. I felt quite positive of it at that time."
"Has your opinion in that matter changed since then?"
"Not as to the facts; no, sir; but I feel that I may have taken too
much for granted at that time, and have given Mr. Burnham a wrong
impression."
"At which time, sir, would you be better able to form an opinion,--one
week after this accident occurred, or ten years afterward?"
"My opinion is formed on the facts; and I assure you that they were
not weighted with such light consequences for me that I have easily
forgotten them. If there were any tendency to do so, I have here a
constant reminder," holding up his empty sleeve as he spoke. "My
judgment is better, to-day, than it was ten years ago. I have learned
more; and, looking carefully over the facts in this case in the light
I now have, I believe it possible that this son of Robert Burnham's
may have been saved."
"That will do," said Goodlaw. The witness left the stand, and the
judge, looking up at the clock on the wall, and then consulting his
watch, said:--
"Gentlemen, it is nearly time to adjourn court. Mr. Sharpman, can you
close your case before adjourning time?"
"That will be impossible, your Honor."
"Then, crier, you may adjourn the court until to-morrow morning at
nine o'clock."
The crier made due proclamation, the spectators began to crowd out of
the room, the judge left the bench, and the lawyers gathered up their
papers. Ralph, on his way out, again passed by Mrs. Burnham, and she
had for him a smile and a kind word. Bachelor Billy stood waiting at
the door, and the boy went down with him to their humble lodgings in
the suburbs, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts, and his heart
with conflicting emotions.