Part 13

“Yes; he is puzzled, and thinks there is something he may use in what Coffin concealed. I was not at all surprised when you told me of the attempt to kill you. I had fully warned you. Of course Coffin was not fool enough to answer and confess an attempt to murder. His feud was over, and Mrs. Trescot had won him, as she does all of us. But what a strange business! I don’t wonder the audience was curious. Before we return, let me once more prepare you for some such insolence from Greyhurst as will force you into the quarrel he is sure to seek if he fail in his case.”

“I shall try to keep my head. But Mrs. Trescot, general,—that may be difficult. She will refuse to betray Coffin.”

“Let us hope Greyhurst will not call her; but in any case he will try to be courteous,—indeed, he is sure to be, unless that infernal temper of his gets the better of him. You never can calculate upon what he will do. He is as impulsive as a child, and as dangerous as a wild animal.”

This summary of his antagonist’s character, and his own knowledge of his wife’s nature, left the young man more than a little uneasy.

When Greyhurst left the court, he went alone to a tavern near by for his midday meal, and drank just enough to supply him with the self-confidence which alcohol gives. He was, as a rule, sober.

So far the Yankee lawyer, as he knew, had made out an impregnable case. The chance for a compromise had rested on the presumed weakness of the defendant’s title. It was now most unlikely that, with a strong case, Hood would consent to that which he had refused when his title appeared to be weak. Greyhurst reflected with more comfort that his power over juries had won for him victories when all seemed lost. In fact, he was more an advocate than a lawyer. He was less well satisfied when he considered what might be his future in case of failure. He had debts, and some which were embarrassing; but he owned land beyond the bend which was rising in value. He was competent enough to have had more business, but his insecure temper handicapped a man who should otherwise have done far better. Just now, as he sat alone, the explanatory ghosts of past failures possessed the hour, and haunted him as he went moodily back to the court-house.

Trescot, walking on alone with his wife, said to her: “I am sorry, Constance; but Averill thinks you will be called as a witness. Greyhurst is puzzled and thinks there is something which Coffin concealed, and which is of moment to his case. He is vexed and has the hope that he can show by you that some improper influence was brought to bear on Coffin. It is very absurd; but I see that he may put you and me in a disagreeable situation. You will be called, I fear.”

“I shall not like that”; and still, she admitted to herself that the thought of a contest with Greyhurst strangely pleased her.

It by no means pleased her husband, who walked on in silence, and then at last said: “Try not to make this man angry. Be very quiet and cool.”

“But, George,” she continued, “I really cannot betray Coffin’s confidence. He never meant me to make public that he wished—that he tried to kill you; and he was so simple about it, and so frank! And then, if I speak out and tell the whole story, it will look as if you sent me because you were afraid. Oh, I can’t do it!”

“I hate it. But you will have to speak out.”

“Who on earth can make me?”

“The judge.”

“What you call contempt of court?”

“Yes; contempt of court.”

“George, they will never do here as they might do at home. Only do not let that man annoy you. You shall see that I am able to take care of your wife.”

They were late and he had to leave her. He was still troubled. Not so the woman. As she made her way through the crowd she was sorry not to have been able to dress for the occasion. A gentleman, recognizing her, gave up to her a seat on the front bench.

XV

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.”

XVI