II

The third day of the trial had come, and with it a crisis.

During the first two days nothing of any note had taken place. The

general consensus of opinion was in favor of Pierre Lafitte. But the

State, in the person of Hemingway, was by no means discouraged.

The general public well knew that the issue was not merely a question of

Pierre Lafitte being an accessory to piracy. A far greater principle was

at stake. The outcome of this trial would decide one thing, above all

others. It would determine the further status of the Baratarians—whether

they were to bear the appellation of “pirates” and thus bring upon

themselves, legally, official condemnation, together with punishment

to the full extent of the law—the death penalty; or whether the

Baratarians, which included, most naturally, one Monsieur Jean Lafitte,

would be honorably cleared and thus enabled to continue their careers as

respectable “privateers.”

Public opinion in New Orleans was most decidedly in on channel. The

majority of the inhabitants—merchants, bankers, professionals and

prominent citizens—Creoles and natives for the most part—were strong

adherents to the cause of the Baratarians. And a large majority of the

State Legislature were also in this class.

Nor was this state of affairs unnatural. A large number were connected

in some way with the smugglers, and many, together with the whole of the

lower portion of the state, were greatly benefited by their presence and

activities. Then again, the Creoles cordially disliked the new régime and

all its works, notwithstanding the fact that many of them served in the

State Legislature. Therefore, they had all the more reason to be friendly

toward the Lafittes and their followers.

On the other hand, the newcomers, the Americans, were for the most

part disliked and sided instinctively with the Governor and his

followers. This may be due to the inherent loyalty to government that was

instinctive—a feeling that, not long after, was planted and nourished in

the hearts of the Creoles. The latter transformation, however, did not

take place until those stirring days of the British attack on New Orleans.

Therefore, the friends and enemies of the Lafittes were ranged on two

sides and the supporters of the Baratarians were undoubtedly the most

numerous.

By the third day of the trial, the battle between the lawyers, Livingston

and Grymes, on one side, and Hemingway and his battery of assistants,

on the other, had become heated. It was not long before personalities

were indulged in, as witness after witness was called, examined,

cross-examined and questioned again.

Hemingway was speaking on a question of law.

“And so, if we are at variance,” he cried, turning now and again to the

jury, but addressing the main body of his remarks full at his rival—“if

we are at variance, I say, it is because the question under discussion is

not fully understood.” He paused, breathing heavily, and stared balefully

at the debonair Grymes. “Nor should I expect it to be understood, nor

appreciated,” he went on, “for it would take a gentleman, who has the

understanding and sensibilities of gentlemen, to comprehend it.”

There was a well-defined stir in the jury box. A rustle of whisperings

swept over the crowded body of the large chamber, while His Honor

noticeably gave a start.

This was nothing less than a direct fling at his opponents, a gratuitous

insult.

Livingston was thoroughly angry, but wise enough to repress his emotions.

Before he could make any movement toward reprimanding the prosecution,

his colleague was on his feet, an ugly glitter in his usually kind eyes.

“Am I to understand,” asked Grymes, quietly, though boiling inwardly,

“that you intimate that counsel for the defense are not gentlemen?”

The judge made a motion toward Hemingway, but he, apparently, was

ignorant of it. Livingston began to rise. A sudden hush came over the

great room—a frozen silence, fraught with unimaginable possibilities.

Hemingway leered.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, venomously, “although I had but one person

in mind. The other I hold in the highest respect.” He half bowed to

Livingston. The latter spoke before the enraged Grymes could answer, his

voice icy.

“Kindly explain yourself, sir!” said he sternly. The judge nodded, but no

one noticed him.

Hemingway drew a long breath and then took the plunge. He had stepped

into the Rubicon. He must cross it now or drown.

“Just what I said,” he ejaculated, half frightened at his own temerity in

thus bearding the two distinguished attorneys. “And I will not retract

a word! Mr. Grymes,” he said, sternly, looking at that individual, “I

hereby repeat my belief that you are not a gentleman!”

For a moment Grymes merely stared at him, too astonished at this sudden,

unwarrantable charge, to answer it, if that were possible. Hemingway

rushed on, with a pseudo-fury.

“No, Mr. Grymes, you are not a gentleman ... for you are without honor!

You, who have bartered it, sold it to the highest bidder, for twenty

thousand pieces of silver. Mr. Grymes, as God is my witness, I am ashamed

to think of ever having been associated with you, who have stepped from

the path of honor, bribed by pirate gold!”

It was out!

Within his soul John Grymes, laughed, ironically, bitterly. The

fee for which he had resigned his honored office was indeed twenty

thousand silver pieces. And now it was denounced as a bribe! Thoughts

passed like lightning through his brain as he stared, unseeing, almost

uncomprehending, at the sneering figure of his accuser. And then a truly

royal rage filled the soul of the hot-headed Virginian. For a moment a

murderous glint sparkled in his eye. To be thus accused, thus branded,

in the presence of all New Orleans—all the world! He, John Grymes, a

Virginian of the old Cavalier stock, to be thus insulted, thus held up to

the scorn of a relentless world, the cynosure of cynical eyes. He rocked

in the throes of an internal tempest that threatened to uproot the very

moorings of his soul.

There was but one thing to be done and he did it.

Half suffocating with rage, his eyes flashing, and an unconquerable sob

welling up in his throat, he threw the gauntlet into the enemy’s teeth.

There was only one way out.

“Mr. Hemingway,” he exclaimed, acutely conscious of the fact that

all eyes were focused upon him, “gentleman or not, you must give me

satisfaction for this or I will horsewhip you to death on the Place

d’Armes!”

The prosecuting attorney bowed, ostensibly ironical, but in reality sick

at heart. Strange as it was, he had not counted on this. Duels were but

survivals of a barbarous age, he had always maintained ... the practice

which merely enabled obscure nonentities to challenge, and perhaps kill,

prominent men—really great men. But he could not withdraw with honor. If

he did, he would be forever disgraced.

“I am entirely at your service, sir,” he said, determined to make the

best of it. “Your most obedient!” He bowed again, but his lips were gray.

“My friend will call on you—on anyone you designate,” returned Grymes, as

courteously as possible, though striving mightily to control his temper.

Then, because he could trust himself no longer, he faced the judge,

muttered something unintelligible, and, turning around, walked slowly up

the main aisle of the court-room, head high and chin thrust outward. John

R. Grymes was undoubtedly a thoroughbred.

A redbird, perched on the branch of a magnolia, just outside the

courthouse, chirped loudly, calling to its mate.

Herbert Hemingway stared for a moment at the retreating figure of the man

to whom he had just offered a deadly insult, and then slumped into his

chair, his gaze on the floor. He was learning that a gesture was very

satisfying for the moment but very dangerous in its after effects.

Edward Livingston, with a contemptuous look at the prosecuting attorney,

pointedly gathered up his papers, arose from the table, and walked

across the inclosure to a side table. The insinuation was obvious.

The judge took this opportunity to announce an adjournment. But when the

great room had emptied, he still sat there, under the great stained-glass

window, the bars of colored sunlight slanting across his robes in billets

and lozenges of vert and gule and azure.

His Honor was sore perplexed. But so was New Orleans.