When silence was proclaimed to the crowded room, Greyhurst rose.
“I propose, your honor, to call two witnesses in rebuttal as to the
utterly worthless character of the witness on whose testimony the
defendant’s case principally rests.”
Thomas Andrews took the stand and was sworn—a fat, brown man, uneasy and
embarrassed. Greyhurst asked the usual formal questions, and then:
“Do you know Thomas Coffin?”
“I do; ever since we were boys.”
“Where did you know him?”
“At home in Tennessee, and in the lumber-camps, and here, too.”
“Do you know his character for truth and veracity in the community in
which he resides?”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
“Bad.”
“Would you believe him on his oath?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Was Thomas Coffin ever charged with any crime?”
Trescot rose. “The question, as your honor well knows, is objectionable;
but, in rising to say so, I desire to state that I shall not urge any
objection.” He sat down.
Greyhurst repeated his question.
“Yes; he killed a man. He was arrested, but he got away from the
sheriff.”
Meanwhile, Trescot used the moments of this damaging statement to
exchange a few words with Coffin.
“That will do,” said Greyhurst.
“One moment,” said Trescot. “I wish to ask a question. Now, Mr. Andrews,
do you know why Coffin killed the man?”
He hesitated.
“Take your time; but remember that you are on your oath to tell the
truth.”
“Well, they said he shot Tom’s brother.”
“_Did_ he shoot Tom’s brother?”
“They said so—I wasn’t there.”
“Ah, was that so? Were you ever in the Confederate service?”
“I was.”
“How long?”
“About three months.”
“You were wounded, were you not?”
“Yes, in the leg; I was took prisoner. It was on the skirmish-line. It
was in a wood; we were too far out.”
The man began to be uneasy, anxious to explain.
“Were you not deserting?”
Greyhurst protested.
“I withdraw the question,” said Trescot, satisfied,—for the man’s face
answered it as he said: “Damn you! no, I wasn’t.”
“That will do,” said Trescot.
“And now,” said Greyhurst, “I must very reluctantly, as a matter of
simple duty, ask Mrs. Trescot to take the stand.”
There was a stir of fresh interest and expectant attention in the
crowded room. People spoke to their neighbors, and then there was entire
quiet as, in reply to the usual summons, Constance went smiling past her
husband. The room was hot and close, and she left her hat on the seat.
As she stood in the witness-box—erect, a little on guard, slightly
flushed—a faint murmur which spoke of admiration was heard throughout
the room.
She hesitated a little as she took the Bible and heard the usual formula
of the oath. Then she answered, “I do.”
“Your name is Mrs. Trescot?”
“Yes; Constance Trescot.”
“You live in St. Ann?”
“I do.”
“You were, I believe, on the sixth of June, at the cabin of Thomas
Coffin?”
“I was.”
“Why did you go there?”
“An errand of my own.”
“Tell the court what first passed on that occasion between you and
Coffin.”
“I asked for a drink of water. I said it was very good water.”
“Pardon me, madam; but we will omit these trifles. What else was said?”
“I told Mr. Coffin something, and he told me something, neither of which
I am at liberty to state.”
“I ask again, What passed between you on this occasion?”
“I decline to answer.”
“I insist that you tell the court and jury.”
“I will not. I cannot betray what, trusting my honor and good feeling,
Coffin said to me. The latter part of what passed I shall be glad to
relate.”
“But,” said Greyhurst, “you appear to forget that this is a court of
justice; you have taken an oath; you have no choice,—nor, indeed, have I
any.”
“I very much regret that I cannot answer,” she returned very quietly.
“I repeat my question.”
She was silent, facing the lawyer, tranquil, firm, faintly smiling at
his evident annoyance.
“I must most reluctantly ask your honor to direct the witness to
answer,” said Greyhurst.
The judge said: “I fear, Mrs. Trescot, that you must reply to the
question put by counsel.”
“With the utmost respect for the court, I decline to answer. I regret,
your honor, that it is impossible.”
The judge sat up, evidently troubled, as Greyhurst turned to him,
saying:
“The matter is in the hands of the court.”
Trescot watched the unmoved woman, himself a little anxious, but with
proud pleasure in the courage and quiet good-breeding she had shown.
Then, to the amazement of every one, a voice broke the silence, and
Coffin, seated near by, said:
“Don’t you mind me, Mrs. Trescot; just you tell; I don’t care.”
“Thank you.” Turning to Greyhurst, she said: “The real chivalry and the
good feeling of at least one man for a woman in an awkward situation set
me free. Your honor will, I trust, pardon me. I will now answer Mr.
Greyhurst.”
The judge bowed.
“Well,” said Greyhurst, flushing and ill pleased, “what passed between
you and Coffin?”
“To explain clearly what passed I must tell the entire story, and I hope
I may be allowed to do so.” She paused for a moment; Greyhurst moved
restlessly and seemed about to interfere, but dreading the effect of
objection at this time, remained silent as she went on:
“In the midst of a storm on the night of June 5th, while I had left our
porch for a wrap, a rifle-shot broke a pane of glass over my husband’s
head. The lightning was incessant, and he saw the man who fired. He ran
after him, and was so near that he saw him clearly, and also saw that he
was lame and ran with difficulty. Then my husband fell, and the man got
away; but he was sure it was Coffin. When my husband came back, he told
me all about it, and who the man was. I had heard the shot, of course.
“I was sure it would happen again. I could not sleep that night. I was
most unhappy. I did not tell my husband what I meant to do. I had to do
it. I went next day to see the man. I went alone. I said to him bluntly:
‘Why did you try to kill my husband?’ You see, Mr. Greyhurst, he was
cleaning his rifle, and I knew what that meant. He did not try to lie to
me, but replied: ‘Because Mr. Greyhurst told me your husband was going
to turn me out of my home—the whole of us, like dogs.’”
“It was a lie,” said Greyhurst.
Trescot was up instantly. “You are discourteous, sir. You asked for the
whole truth, and are getting it, and to spare.” He sat down; but as
Greyhurst turned with a sharp reply on his lips, Mrs. Trescot said
quietly: “I did not understand Mr. Greyhurst as asserting me to be
untruthful.”
“Certainly not,” he returned.
“Shall I go on?” she asked in her gentlest voice.
“Yes, if you please.”
“When Coffin said he had been told that he was to have no mercy and be
driven out at once, I told him that it was not true.”
“And was it not?” asked Greyhurst. “Can you say that?”
“I have said it was not. I told him nothing was settled. I then said
that I personally would make him an offer, either of land on the bend
back of the bluff, if we won the suit, or of money. I said my husband
never would consent to drive these poor people out of their homes. They
had been soldiers as he had been, and were to be helped, not robbed.”
“One moment,” said Greyhurst. “I think you said Mr. Trescot authorized
you to make this statement.”
It was a common and feeble device, which always fails with a good
witness.
“Keep cool,” said Averill to Trescot. “I told you he would lose his wits
with his case.”
“No,” replied Mrs. Trescot; “I did not say so.”
“Well, perhaps not.”
Again Averill laid a restraining touch on Trescot’s arm.
“At all events,” said Greyhurst, bitterly, “it should have been a man’s
errand. Pray, go on.”
“I meant to undeceive him. I did. I made clear to him that in any case
he should be paid to move. I asked him to take care of my garden. I pay
him for it. I desired to save my husband’s life. A cruel slander had put
it in peril. I made a friend of an enemy.”
“By George, that’s first-rate!” said a voice in the crowd. Silence was
ordered, and there was need of the order.
Turning to the jury, Greyhurst spoke again in a voice of ill-governed
anger: “A woman may be forgiven for the things this lady has said of me.
I shall look elsewhere for an explanation. I have for her no answer.
She, at least, is irresponsible. May I venture to ask, madam, if, as Mr.
Hood’s or Mr. Trescot’s envoy, you visited the cabin of Coffin at any
other time?”
“No; I did not.”
“But I had the pleasure to meet you.”
“That is true. I had been to see Wilson, one of the squatters.”
“Coffin’s brother-in-law.”
“Yes; I meant to say so—a dying man in need of luxuries, and even of
good food. My husband and I had helped him.”
“You seem to have cultivated the good-will of the family.”
“I have; I neglected to say that, without the least prompting on my
part, Coffin told me that he could give Mr. Trescot information in
regard to the blazed trees on the corners of Mr. Hood’s land.”
“You appear to have made good use of your opportunities, madam,” said
Greyhurst.
“I have; and I assure you I enjoyed it; and above all, when, as I was
leaving, Coffin said—”
She paused long enough for Greyhurst to say:
“You seem to hesitate, madam; we want the whole of this very remarkable
story.”
“Oh, with pleasure. Coffin assured me that he was, as he said, right
glad he hadn’t killed my husband, and was a good bit ashamed. That was
about the shooting. I understood him to mean that he was ashamed to have
missed him.” This was so wholly in character that court and audience
broke into laughter.
Greyhurst’s face flushed, the color deepening on his dark skin. Averill
sat watchful and uneasy. She had said too much.
“That is all, madam. Thank you,” said Greyhurst.
Trescot said simply: “I have a few questions to ask the witness. I
regret to be obliged to ask them, but the circumstances demand it.” The
bar and the audience were delighted.
Constance turned to him, much amused.
“Did your husband know of your intention to intervene between him and
Coffin?”
“No, he did not.”
“Did he express himself in regard to it when he heard of it?”
“Yes; he objected; he was just a little cross.”
The court smiled, and the crowd laughed.
“That is all,” said Trescot.
This closed the evidence. It now became the duty of the defendant to sum
up for the defense. The judge said:
“The evidence has been so brief that the court will sit out the case,
unless counsel are so lengthy as to forbid it.”
Trescot rose. “May it please your honor, and you, gentlemen of the jury,
I shall be brief.
“In putting before you in its fullness a connected statement of what you
have heard from the witnesses, it may be wise, and certainly is of
interest, to sketch for you the history of this suit.
“James Hood, my client’s father, bought in 1830 a tract of land which
lay within the vast grant held so long by the Baptiste family. Why he
bought it I do not know; it had very little value. The Baptistes
reserved several hundred feet from Mr. Hood’s western line on the bluff,
and, of course, the river-front, perhaps anticipating its future
usefulness. The years go on; no one disputes Mr. Hood’s title. Some
seven years ago comes the flood, and Mr. Hood finds he has lost land,
but has acquired a water-front. The riparian rights thus strangely won
soon become so very valuable that some one advises the unfortunate
people whose land has gone down to the Gulf—some one advises them, I
say, to see what can be made out of an unlucky situation. Many Western
decisions have made it clear beyond dispute that the man whose land the
great river took has no remedy at law, except, perhaps,—and your honor
will pardon the jest,—to sue the Gulf of Mexico as the receiver of
stolen goods. But really this claim of the plaintiffs has its humorous
aspects.
“Then this some one—I do not know who—may have suggested an inquiry into
the possibility of disproving my client’s title. It is not, as I go on,
a very pleasant history. The war had done its sad work—almost every
evidence of title was lost. The surveyor was long dead, and his people
scattered. Apparently no bounds could be proved. Thus encouraged, a suit
for ejectment is brought, and very soon the reason for it appears when
the plaintiffs seek for a compromise—a division of the water-front. This
case has gone on through the hands of three sets of counsel. If Mr. Hood
owns the land on the bluff he now owns the river-front. If he does not
he is practically a squatter, and should have that sympathy which the
learned counsel for the plaintiffs asks for those who are on land they
do not own.”
The court smiled, and there was much laughter.
“It is only too plain that belief in the presumed weakness of my
client’s claim suggested the suit to eject, in the hope that fear of
total loss would force my client to offer or accept a compromise.”
Greyhurst rose. “Does the learned counsel mean that I was concerned in
advising a suit with this sole purpose in view?”
“Oh, no,” said Trescot. “The case was not of your creation. I do not
know who devised that which was clearly what I prefer not to
characterize.”
“It is just as well that you should explain, and the explanation comes
none too soon,” said Greyhurst. “You may think your explanation
satisfactory. I do not.”
Trescot made no reply.
“As the case stands, you, gentlemen of the jury, have been led to think,
to believe, if that were possible, that it is we who are the plaintiffs,
we who complain; we, and not an act of nature, who are the oppressors.
“May I further tax your patience before returning to the essential
facts? So much has been said that is personal, both in and out of the
court, that I shall ask leave to say a few words not in immediate
relation to the case. I shall be brief.
“I came hither as the agent and legal adviser of Mr. Hood. I found
myself, a Northern soldier, in a community naturally aggrieved and
hostile. I have sought honestly to give no offense, and I have been able
to induce my client to deal most generously with his many debtors, and
to make kindly and even liberal provision for the squatters who, long
undisturbed, had come to believe they had a right to their holdings. No
single debtor of Mr. Hood’s will, before long, have the slightest cause
for complaint. Some attempt has been made to affect public sentiment by
word of mouth, as you have heard, and I regret to say in print also, and
this, too, while arrangements were being made to deal justly and even
generously. I cannot believe that such efforts have had any influence on
this jury. So fully do I—so fully did I trust the honor and justice of
the men I have learned to like in this city that, as you know, I made no
objection to any juryman. My learned friend was less easily pleased.”
As he paused, taking up a paper, Greyhurst rose.
“Do I understand your charges to allude in any way to me?”
“I do,” said Trescot; “and I refer the counsel to Coffin’s evidence as
to what you said to him.”
“The man who said so lies, and the man who now says so lies.”
The judge at once called Greyhurst to order, and he sat down, saying:
“Well, we shall see.”
Trescot went on, making no allusion to the insult. He stated, with
admirable clearness, the conclusions to be drawn from the evidence of
the survey and the plan of the river as it had been and as it had come
to be. With singular power of lucid statement he dealt with the
evidence, admitting the validity of the old French grant as an essential
to his own case. He emphasized the fact that no one had doubted his
client’s title until the erosion of the river-frontage made it valuable.
He wound up by an appeal for simple justice, and gathering his papers
together, sat down.
It was now so late that the judge asked Greyhurst how long a time he
would require. Upon his saying he could not tell, the court adjourned to
meet at ten the next day.
Greyhurst walked sullenly away from the group of older lawyers who
gathered with warm praise about Trescot. Mrs. Trescot having left to
attend to some household matters, Averill said to Trescot as they left
the court: “That fool called you a liar.”
“Yes, he said that I lied. I presume he meant Coffin also.”
“I think, Trescot, that you will have to ask him what he meant, or
invite him to withdraw his words.”
“No, I shall not, general.”
“But, my dear Trescot, your position is really untenable, or at least it
is so here. To accept a charge of lying and to do nothing! You would
lose caste—oh, utterly.”
“Then I must risk that. To ask him would mean an acceptance of added
insult or a duel. My own beliefs, and I may say the peace-making effect
of a rebel bullet, make a duel impossible.” He laughed as he added: “I
might hit a house with my left hand, but, my dear general, I come from a
community where a duel is as absurd as to you, I dare say, such a state
of feeling may be. I am much of George Washington’s opinion as concerns
the matter.”
“I know,” said Averill; “but he never lived in St. Ann. Do you go
armed?”
“I? No—of course not.”
“You had better.”
Trescot laughed. “My best weapon among people like yours is the fact,
well known to Greyhurst and many, that I do not carry arms, and am
crippled. Don’t worry, general; the man will quiet down, and I shall be
careful.”
“You do not know Greyhurst.”
He was touched by the old man’s kindness, and, having no malice toward
any one, went away elated with the certainty of success.
When, in the morning, Constance and he talked over the trial, she said:
“I do not want to hear or see that man again, George. When will it be
over?”
“Greyhurst must close. Then the judge will sum up; but how long the jury
may be out I do not know. I will send you word, as I may be detained.”
“You will not forget me?”
“Do I ever forget you, Constance?”
“Never; but I shall be so very uneasy.”