POOR Bob Henry, shut up in the county jail, had indeed said aright when
he wrote Pembroke that both blacks and whites were “agin him.” Pembroke
could scarcely find one of the negro race to testify to Bob Henry’s
previous good character--and as he sifted his own evidence and surmised
the State’s, he saw that but for the witness Cave had ferreted out,
things would indeed have looked black for Bob Henry. At that time the
apprehension as to the way the negroes in their freedom would behave
toward the whites was as yet sinister, and the Hibbses, whose relative
the dead man was, worked up the feeling against his supposed murderer
with considerable astuteness. They were among the largest subscribers
to Mr. Cole’s salary, and as such they gave their views freely to Mr.
Cole upon the impropriety of his going to see Bob Henry in jail, and
exerting himself to stem the tide against him among the black people.
Mr. Cole’s fair little face flushed up at this criticism delivered from
old Mr. Hibbs in a loud and dictatorial voice on the court house green
before a crowd of persons.
“Mr. Hibbs--I--I--am a minister of the gospel, sir, and my duty is to
condole with the afflicted, sir,--and--however sir,--whatever may be
your opinion of that poor wretch in the jail yonder, and however it
may conduce to--to--unpopularity, I shall continue to visit him. I have
sympathy with the erring,” he said, remembering that terrible evening
at The Beeches.
A heavy hand descended upon Mr. Cole’s shoulder, and Colonel Berkeley’s
handsome face shone at him.
“Right you are, Cole. You’re a little prig sometimes, but you are
something of a man, sir--something of a man!”
Mr. Cole blushed with pleasure at this dubious compliment.
Olivia Berkeley’s heart was touched with pity for the unfortunate
negro. His ailing wife came every day to tell the same rambling and
piteous story. Besides, Cave had been at work with her--and he had
great power with young imaginations. Pembroke felt a certain anxiety
about the case. It was one of those which gave room for the sympathetic
oratory which in the country districts in the South yet obtains. He
felt at first that if he could make the jury weep, his success as a
lawyer would be assured and immediate. But if he failed it would mean
long years of toil at his profession to gain that which by a happy
inspiration he could win at a single _coup_. He worked hard, and
prepared himself--not solely for oratory, because the Hibbses had not
only engaged a formidable array of local talent, but had got one, if
not two great men from afar, and the attorney-general himself, to help
the state. Pembroke went to Cave despondent and nervous about this.
“It is the best thing in the world for you,” answered Cave. “Don’t
you see, the prosecution has taken the form of a persecution? And the
bringing in of outside talent is the greatest luck I ever heard of. The
jury, if I know anything of human nature, will not try the prisoner
according to the law and the evidence. They will try you and the
lawyers from elsewhere--with a strong predisposition in favor of their
own county man. It will go hard with them if they can’t find some way
to discount the outsiders. Of course, I don’t say that this feeling
will be immediately developed, but it will come out just as certainly
as arithmetical progression.”
“I hope so,” Pembroke answered devoutly.
The day of the trial came--a sunshiny one in midwinter. Every man in
the county turned out. Nothing delights a rural Virginian so much as
a forensic argument. He will ride twenty miles to hear it, and sit it
out, in cold, or heat, or wet, or misery, or anything. Then, besides
the interest naturally attaching to the case, was the curiosity to see
and hear Pembroke. He had not added to his popularity by his absence
after the war--and Madame Koller had been a millstone around his neck
latterly. His father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather
had been great lawyers before him--indeed there was no tradition or
history which went back to the time when there had not been a Pembroke
practicing successfully at the bar in the county. So while there was a
current of disapproval against him, there was a strong undercurrent of
local sympathy in his favor also.
Pembroke appeared early on the ground that morning, with Miles. It
was his first opportunity except at the Campdown races to meet the
county people of all classes generally. He went about among them cool,
affable, and smiling.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” the sheriff’s loud voice rang out from the court
house steps--and the crowd poured into the old brick building, and
Pembroke, slipping in by another way entered upon the strain which
lasted for five days and nights.
Great as the crowd was at first, it increased every day. Within two
hours of the swearing in of the jury, just what Cave had predicted
came to pass. The prosecution saw that the jury was on the side of a
Pembroke--the Pembrokes had always been prime favorites with juries
in that county, and the present one was no exception. Naturally, this
nettled the attorney-general and the other great men who appeared for
the State. It was certainly an exasperating thing to come so far to
find twelve men obstinately bent on seeing things from the point of
view of a handsome, plausible young advocate. The court, however, was
all that could be desired. The attorney-general expressed his belief to
his colleagues that if French Pembroke relied upon an eloquent speech,
and the precedent of a Pembroke always carrying the winning colors in
a jury trial, he would be mistaken--because Judge Randolph, silent
and grim, looked keenly after the law. It was, as Pembroke knew, no
easy undertaking to face the array of lawyers before him. Like them,
he was shrewd enough to see that it would be a poor triumph to obtain
a verdict that would not stand. Bob Henry became to him merely an
incident. He looked day after day, during the trial, at the negro’s
ashy, scared face in the prisoner’s dock, and sometimes felt a kind of
wonder that a creature so ignorant and so inconsequential could be of
such tremendous importance to any human being. For Bob Henry took up
Pembroke’s mind, his soul, his nights, his days. He worked all day for
him, the tension never weakening from the time he entered the court
room in the morning, until by the light of sputtering candles he saw
Bob Henry walked off in the sheriff’s custody at night. Then Pembroke
would go to his little office, and lighting his lamp, begin work on his
books and his notes. Even Cave and Miles were unwelcome then. He was
engaged in a fierce intellectual struggle that he must fight out for
himself. He had meant in the beginning to keep himself in condition,
but he found out that it was one of the times when the soul triumphs
over the body. He would throw himself on the lounge in his office
toward daylight and snatch three or four hours of heavy and dreamless
sleep, and then wake up with his faculties as keen and tireless as if
he had slept for a week. He did not grow haggard and wild-eyed as men
sometimes do under these excitements. He was pale, but singularly
self-possessed and alert, and looked invariably trim and composed. He
forgot everything in those days but the negro he was trying to save
from the gallows. The lawyers who opposed him pounded him unmercifully.
They too, caught the infection of enthusiasm. It would be scandalous
to be beaten by an untried hand in such a case as that, with such
admirable fighting ground as they had.
One afternoon, when the court adjourned early on account of a slight
illness of one of the jurors, Pembroke mounted his horse and rode off
far into the woodlands. When he was out of sight of the village he put
spurs to his horse and dashed along the country road. It did him good.
He felt already as if he had gained strength enough to last him even at
the rate he was using it up if the trial should last two weeks more.
Presently he brought his horse down to a walk, and enjoyed the strange
restfulness and strength he felt possessing him. Suddenly he came face
to face with Olivia Berkeley, riding quietly along the same road.
It would be no exaggeration to say he had forgotten her existence. He
had not thought once of her or of Madame Koller, or Ahlberg, anybody
but Bob Henry. It had not been ten days since he had seen her, but
he felt as if it had been ten years. She looked very pretty and
Amazon-like on her light-built black, in her close habit.
“Papa tells me great things of you,” she said, after the first
greeting. “He is up, storming and swearing for breakfast by sunrise, so
as to be at the court-house by nine o’clock. I never expected to see
him so happy again in dear old Virginia. It is some excitement for him.
As for Jane, she is beginning to think Bob Henry a martyr and a hero
combined.”
Pembroke smiled. It was not the first praise that had reached his ears,
but the first that he had heeded. He had quite lost sight in the last
few extraordinary days of any outside view of what he was doing--but
praise from a pretty woman--especially praise so obviously sincere, is
dear to man’s heart.
“I am sorry the Colonel should be so uproarious in consequence of the
trial.”
“He is, I assure you. But I--I--too, feel very great interest in your
success. How much more noble this is than dawdling on the continent!
You will not get any money by it, but think--the whole county will
admire and applaud you--and think of those two poor black creatures.”
“You are crediting me with more than I deserve,” he said, finding it
difficult to explain that what he was doing had long passed out of
the region of a desire for applause, and indeed, of the feeling of
compassion which had once inspired him. Now it was the overpowering
intellectual and natural bent that was having its own way. Pembroke had
been born a lawyer, although he did not suspect it.
In taking his thoughts back to that remote period before the trial
begun, Olivia had brought Madame Koller to mind.
“Have you seen Elise--Madame Koller--lately?” The first name slipped
out involuntarily. He rarely called Madame Koller by it at any
time--but now, by one of those tricks which memory serves all people,
her name came to his lips not only without his will, but against it.
His face turned a deep red, and he bit his lip in anger and vexation.
Olivia straightened herself up on her horse and smiled at him that
peculiar indulgent smile, and addressed him in those gentle tones that
betokened the freezing up of her sympathies and the coming to life
of her contempt. He knew only too well the meaning of that appalling
sweetness. “No, I have not. But to-morrow I will probably see her.
Shall I remember you to her?”
“If you please,” replied Pembroke, wishing Madame Koller at the devil,
as he often did. Often--but not always.
Then they drifted into commonplace, and presently they parted, Pembroke
galloping back to the village, despising himself almost as much as the
day he had allowed his anger to lead him into the quarrel with Ahlberg.
But when he reached his dingy little office, Olivia Berkeley, Madame
Koller, Ahlberg, all faded rapidly out of his mind. That great game
of skill in which he was engaged, the stake being a human life, again
absorbed him. And then the critical time came, when, after having
tried to prove that the negro’s blow had not killed Hackett, he had
to bring out his theory that a dead and missing man was the murderer.
Hackett’s boon companions, who formed a community of lawless loafers,
had been unaccountably shy about attending the trial. Like the rest
of their class, they regarded a sensational murder trial as the most
fascinating occasion in life. They were great frequenters of the court
house, particularly of its low drinking places during “court week,”
but not one of them showed up in the first days of the trial. Cave
brought this significant news to Pembroke, who knew few persons in
the miscellaneous crowd that he saw every day. It made his heart beat
hard and fast with the hope of a coming success. The Hibbses and their
retainers, and a certain set of people who overcame their dislike to
the Hibbs family out of exaggerated sympathy for a Northern man with
Southern sympathies, for which Hackett had posed, formed a kind of camp
to themselves in the court room.
The lawyers for the State found out that Pembroke knew all the weak
spots in their theory that Bob Henry’s blow killed Hackett, but there
was no suspicion of any evidence forthcoming to support Pembroke’s
theory that another hand struck the blow. Hackett’s association with
the deserters had evidently been carefully concealed by him, as it
would have ostracized him utterly.
Therefore, when Pembroke, putting off until the last possible moment,
summoned John Jones and George Robinson and about a dozen others of
the “deserters’ gang,” as it was called, his opponents were taken
by surprise. One day only was taken up with their evidence. Each
witness, debarred by Judge Randolph’s orders from communicating with
the other, told a rambling, lying, frightened story, out of which
Pembroke gleaned the midnight carousal, a quarrel, a blow--all of them
running away, and leaving Hackett to his fate. In one point, however,
they all agreed--that the man, William Marsh, who was fearfully cut by
Hackett’s knife, and who disappeared to die, was the one who struck
the fatal blow that knocked Hackett senseless, and from which he never
rallied. All were eager to lay it on the dead man, and so to shift
the suspicion from themselves. The State, of course, impugned the
character of the witnesses, but that was a work of supererogation.
They had no characters to impugn. Yet, both judge and jury saw, that
without the slightest objection to perjuring themselves on the part of
this precious gang, they were involuntarily proving that Marsh, not
Bob Henry, was the murderer. Then Cave’s protégé, a small, ragged,
undersized boy of fifteen, was introduced. He was diffident, and shy,
and trembling in every limb, but his testimony was perfectly plain and
straightforward, so much so that an eminent gentleman on the side of
the prosecution, roared out to him, “Now, young man, tell us if this
remarkably straight story of yours didn’t have help from somewhere.
Have you talked with anybody about this evidence?”
“Y--y--yes, sir,” stammered the boy, frightened half out of his life.
“Who was it?” thundered the lawyer.
“Mr.--Mr.--Cave.”
“Aha, I thought so. Now, sir, tell us what Mr. Cave said to you--and be
careful--very careful.”
The boy looked perfectly helpless and hopeless for a moment. Pembroke
almost felt himself tremble.
“He said--he said, sir, some of the lawyers would holler at me, and
maybe confuse me--but if I jes’ stuck to the truth, and didn’t tell
nothin’ but what I seen with my own eyes, I’d come out all right!”
Shouts of applause greeted this, which the sheriff vainly tried to
quell. The great man remarked to his personal staff, _sotto voce_,
“It’s all up. Pembroke’s case is too strong for us.”
It was late in the afternoon of the fifth day when Pembroke’s closing
argument was over, and the jury had been instructed and had retired.
The Judge’s instructions rather damped Pembroke’s hopes. The testimony
of the deserters, while actually of great effect, was legally not worth
much--their motive in shoveling the blame on Marsh was too obvious. And
Cave’s protégé, although his testimony was remarkably straightforward,
was little better than a vagabond boy. Pembroke was not so sanguine of
his own success as his opponents were.
The court house was dimly lighted by a few sputtering candles and an
ill-burning lamp. The Judge sat up straight and stern, fatigued with
the long trial, but willing to wait until six o’clock, the usual hour
of adjournment, for the jury. The shabby court-room was filled with
men, eager, talkative, but almost breathless with excitement--for by
some occult means, they divined that the jury wouldn’t be long making
up its verdict.
The negro sat in the dock, more ghastly, more ashy than ever. Pembroke
rose to go to his office. He felt his iron nerve beginning to give way,
but a voice--piteous and pleading--reached him.
“Fur God’s sake, Marse French, doan’ go ’way. I want you fur ter stay
by me.”
Pembroke sat down again, this time a little nearer the poor prisoner,
whose eyes followed him like a dog’s.
A hush settled down upon the audience. There was no pretense of
attending to any other business. The opposing lawyers rested wearily in
uncomfortable postures about the court-room. They talked in whispers
among themselves. Pembroke knew by instinct what they were saying. It
was that the jury was hopelessly gone, but that there remained hope yet
in the stern and silent Judge, whose instructions had been brief and
in no way indicative of which way his judgment inclined. It was not
the result of this trial which concerned them, it was the prospect of
another.
Among practiced lawyers, nothing is easier to tell than the views of a
judge on a criminal case--after the decision has been rendered. About
an hour of the suspense had been endured when a message came that the
jury had agreed upon a verdict. The expectant crowd suddenly became
hushed and motionless. Not as wise as the lawyers, there was utter
uncertainty among them as to--not only whether the prisoner was guilty
or not, but whether Pembroke alone and single-handed, had vanquished
the veterans before him.
The jury filed in and took their places, and the formalities were gone
through, when the foreman said in a loud voice, “Not guilty.” A wild
and tumultuous cheering broke forth. Like the poor prisoner, Pembroke
felt dazed. The end was not yet by any means. The opposing lawyers were
on their feet in a moment--the sheriff shouted for order--and in the
midst of this, a sudden silence came and Pembroke found himself--he
hardly knew how--on the platform shaking hands with Judge Randolph.
“I congratulate you, sir,” he heard the Judge’s voice saying afar off.
“You have maintained the reputation of your distinguished father for
the tact and judgment with which you have defended your client. You
have a great career before you. It is most encouraging to see such an
example among the younger members of the bar.”
Then there was a wild commotion. Pembroke felt himself choking,
trembling, utterly unable to reply. The pause to hear what he would say
became painfully prolonged. He began “Your Honor”--and after repeating
it twice, became utterly dumb.
“You may retire, Mr. Pembroke,” said Judge Randolph, with a smile,
“your modesty is equal to your abilities.”
At this Pembroke felt himself seized by the legs. The crowd carried
him out into the night air where another crowd yelled and shouted, he
struggling and breathless, and presenting a more undignified appearance
than he had ever imagined himself capable of looking. The next thing he
found himself on the court-house steps. While in the din and confusion,
he recognized occasionally faces by the light of the swinging lantern
in the porch of the building. In a moment the attorney-general of the
State appeared by his side--a handsome florid man of sixty. He waved
imperiously for silence, and the crowd obeyed.
“My friends,” he said, in a strong, musical voice, “our young friend
here has made a magnificent fight.” (Yells and cheers.) “He has done
more than make an eloquent speech. He has mastered the law in the
case.” (More yells and shouts.) “It was the intention of my colleagues
and myself to move for a new trial. We have abandoned that intention.”
(Yells and shouts wilder and wilder.) “We might possibly get a new
trial on technicalities. It would cost the county much, and it would
not subserve the cause of justice--for I cheerfully acknowledge to you
here, that our young friend has proved conclusively that whoever caused
the death of the dead man, the prisoner did not. Now will you not unite
with me in giving him three cheers and a tiger!”
The uproar was terrific. Pembroke could say nothing, could do nothing,
but bow. Suddenly an inspiration came to him. He turned to the
attorney-general who stood behind him and shook hands with him warmly.
The other lawyers crowded around him and shook hands. Somebody made
way through the crowd for Bob Henry. The negro on seeing Pembroke
broke into loud sobbing, and seizing him in both arms called down
blessings on him. Then Colonel Berkeley shouldered his way up to him
with Miles. At every minute the enthusiasm of the crowd increased.
Pembroke was growing deadly pale. The excitement, the sleeplessness,
of the last week was telling on him at last. Colonel Berkeley, after a
sharp glance at him, took him by the arm, and by dint of hauling and
pulling succeeded in wedging his way with Pembroke through the crowd,
which in the hullaballoo and semi-darkness, did not know that the
hero of the hour was gone, and yelled fiercely, “Speech! Speech!” The
attorney-general gratified them.
Colonel Berkeley hustled Pembroke down, back through the court-room,
out of a side door, and through byways to where the Isleham carriage
stood, and clapped him in it, jumping in after him.
“Cave will look after Miles,” he said, and shouted to Petrarch, who was
on the box, “Home.” The coachman laid the whip on his horses and they
made the five miles to Isleham in half an hour.
When they reached the house, everything was too recent with
Pembroke--his final speech, the excitement, the relief, the
collapse--for him to have recovered himself. Olivia met them in the
hall. Her father, who relished a new sensation as only a man who loves
sensations can, was joyous.
“Congratulate him, my love,” he called out in his merry, jovial voice.
“He is a true son of old French Pembroke. Great Cæsar! Haven’t I seen
your father carry everything before him just like this! Would that he
were alive this night! My darling, you should have heard his speech--a
regular Burr and Blennerhassett speech, Olivia--and the effect--by
Jove, my dear, I can’t describe it--and the Judge called him up on the
bench to congratulate him--and--and--”
The Colonel surged on, telling everything at once. Olivia listened with
shining eyes. She had held out her hand to Pembroke in the beginning,
and as her father talked she continued to hold the hand in her little
strong clasp. For the first time Pembroke was burnt by the fire in
her eyes. What a woman for a man full of ambition to have! He had
seen Elise Koller wildly enthusiastic about herself--but Olivia had
forgotten all about herself. She was coloring, smiling, and sympathetic
about him.
“How glad I am--how splendid of you--for that poor negro, too. God will
reward you,” she said.
“Now, my boy,” cried the Colonel, “What do you want? Your dinner or
your bed?”
“My bed,” answered Pembroke, smiling, but ready to drop. “I want
nothing but sleep, and I want to sleep a week. Thank you, Olivia.”
He had never called her by her name since they were boy and girl
together. The Colonel in his excitement did not notice it, but Olivia
turned a beautiful rosy red. The Colonel dragged Pembroke off to his
room. Petrarch put him to bed. Before he slept though, his thoughts
returned to Olivia’s soft eyes--while Colonel Berkeley, walking the
drawing-room floor downstairs, retailed in flamboyant language, to
Olivia, the triumphs of the day.