Chapter Eighty Six.A Texan Court.It is the dawn of another day. The Aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a West Indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of Texas.Almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the Mexican Gulf, does it salute the flag on Fort Inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at Matagorda and the spurs of the Guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post.The Aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs of the morning.Perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day.Even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. They ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie.This done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to Boniface behind the bar.The men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. Almost every country in Europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the Indians from the “Bloody Ground;” built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the Mississippi. Some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into Texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco.Most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds—not a few of them traffickers in human flesh!There are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling—adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up—whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against Comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the Rio Grande.Their costumes are as varied as their callings. They have been already described: for the men now gathering around Fort Inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of Casa del Corvo—the same with an augmentation of numbers.The present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. It is graced by the presence of women—the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. Some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle—their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle—seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of “carrioles” and “Jerseys.”There is a spectacle—at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.Superfluous to say that it is the trial of Maurice Gerald—known asMaurice the mustanger.Equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of Henry Poindexter.It is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim—neither much known in the neighbourhood.The same Court—it is the Supreme Court of the district, Uvalde—has been in session there before—has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men—thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers—with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence!It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.It is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known.All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution.Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest—friends and relatives of the mansupposed to have beenmurdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime.But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances—independent of each other—have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done—as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side—soldiers and citizens—dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the “Oyez!” of the Court crier—grotesquely pronounced “O yes!”—determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: “May God have mercy on your soul!”There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!The Court is in session.You have before your mind’s eye a large hall, with a raised daïs at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.You see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean.You observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators—not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the Court.You must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a Court of justice on the frontiers of Texas—as unlike its homonym in England as a bond of guerillas to a brigade of Guardsmen.There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided tosit under a tree!And under a tree has it established itself—a gigantic live-oak, festooned with Spanish moss—standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie.A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of Havannah cigars, and another of lucifer-matches.Behind theseparaphernaliasits the judge, not only un-robed in ermine, but actually un-coated—the temperature of the day having decided him to try the case in hisshirt-sleeves!Instead of a wig, he wears his Panama hat, set slouchingly over one cheek, to balance the half-smoked, half-chewed Havannah projecting from the other.The remaining chairs are occupied by men whose costume gives no indication of their calling.There are lawyers among them—attorneys, andcounsellors, there called—with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff and his “deputy”; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half “squatted” or reclining along the grass.It is thejury—an “institution” as germane to Texas as to England; and in Texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge—in England but too freely admitted.Around the Texan judge and jury—close pressing upon the precincts of the Court—is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. Buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats—even under the oppressive heat; frocks of “copperas stripe” and Kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-bluecottonade; shirts of red flannel or unbleached “domestic”; dragoon, rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage.Here and there is seen a more regular costume—one more native to the country—thejaquetaandcalzonerosof the Mexican, with the broadsombreroshading his swarthy face ofpicaresqueexpression.Time was—and that not very long ago—when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired.But then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge—Juez de Letras—was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could putonzasin his pocket.With all its rude irregularity—despite the absence of effete forms—of white ermine, and black silk—of uniformedalguazils, or bright-buttoned policemen—despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth—even savage I hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of Kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe—ay far safer—to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation.Do not mistake those men assembled under the Texan tree—however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye—do not mistake them for a mob of your own “masses,” brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. Do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves—filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism—would that it choked you!—scorning all that is grand and progressive—revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish.I am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself acitizenof this our English country. A citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship—that of choosing your parliamentary representative.You fancy youhavethis right. I have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken.Ay, grandly mistaken, when you imagine yourself standing on the same political platform with those quasi-rude frontiersmen of Texas.Nothing of the kind.Theyare “sovereign citizens”—the peers of your superiors, or of those who assume so to call themselves, and whose assumption you are base enough to permit without struggle—almost without protest!In most assemblies the inner circle is the more select. The gem is to be found in the centre at Port Inge.In that now mustered the order is reversed. Outside is the elegance. The fair feminine forms, bedecked in their best dresses, stand up in spring waggons, or sit in more elegant equipages, sufficiently elevated to see over the heads of the male spectators.It is not upon the judge that their eyes are bent, or only at intervals. The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury, and not very far from the stem of the tree. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner at the bar; the latter the sheriff’s officers in charge of him.It was originally intended to try several other men for the murder; Miguel Diaz and his associates, as also Phelim O’Neal.But in the course of a preliminary investigation the Mexican mustanger succeeded in proving analibi, as did also his trio of companions. All four have been consequently discharged.They acknowledged having disguised themselves as Indians: for the fact being proved home to them, they could not do less.But they pretended it to have been a joke—atravestie; and as there was proof of the others being at home—and Diaz dead drunk—on the night of Henry Poindexter’s disappearance, their statement satisfied those who had been entrusted with the inquiry.As to the Connemara man, it was not thought necessary to put him upon trial. If an accomplice, he could only have acted at the instigation of his master; and he might prove more serviceable in the witness-box than in the dock.Before the bar, then—if we may be permitted the figure of speech—there stands but one prisoner, Maurice Gerald—known to those gazing upon him asMaurice the mustanger.
It is the dawn of another day. The Aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a West Indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of Texas.
Almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the Mexican Gulf, does it salute the flag on Fort Inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at Matagorda and the spurs of the Guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post.
The Aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs of the morning.
Perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day.
Even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. Along with the first rays of the Aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. They ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie.
This done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to Boniface behind the bar.
The men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. Almost every country in Europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the Indians from the “Bloody Ground;” built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the Mississippi. Some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into Texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco.
Most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds—not a few of them traffickers in human flesh!
There are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling—adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up—whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against Comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the Rio Grande.
Their costumes are as varied as their callings. They have been already described: for the men now gathering around Fort Inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of Casa del Corvo—the same with an augmentation of numbers.
The present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. It is graced by the presence of women—the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. Some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle—their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle—seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of “carrioles” and “Jerseys.”
There is a spectacle—at least there is one looked for. It is a trial long talked of in the Settlement.
Superfluous to say that it is the trial of Maurice Gerald—known asMaurice the mustanger.
Equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of Henry Poindexter.
It is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim—neither much known in the neighbourhood.
The same Court—it is the Supreme Court of the district, Uvalde—has been in session there before—has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men—thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers—with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence!
It is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the Settlement.
It is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known.
All present at Fort Inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution.
Of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. There are others inspired with a still sadder interest—friends and relatives of the mansupposed to have beenmurdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime.
But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances—independent of each other—have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done—as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.
They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.
Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.
There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side—soldiers and citizens—dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the “Oyez!” of the Court crier—grotesquely pronounced “O yes!”—determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: “May God have mercy on your soul!”
There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.
There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!
The Court is in session.
You have before your mind’s eye a large hall, with a raised daïs at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.
You see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean.
You observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators—not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the Court.
You must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a Court of justice on the frontiers of Texas—as unlike its homonym in England as a bond of guerillas to a brigade of Guardsmen.
There is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. But the day promises to be hot, and the Court has decided tosit under a tree!
And under a tree has it established itself—a gigantic live-oak, festooned with Spanish moss—standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie.
A large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of Havannah cigars, and another of lucifer-matches.
Behind theseparaphernaliasits the judge, not only un-robed in ermine, but actually un-coated—the temperature of the day having decided him to try the case in hisshirt-sleeves!
Instead of a wig, he wears his Panama hat, set slouchingly over one cheek, to balance the half-smoked, half-chewed Havannah projecting from the other.
The remaining chairs are occupied by men whose costume gives no indication of their calling.
There are lawyers among them—attorneys, andcounsellors, there called—with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff and his “deputy”; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations.
A little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half “squatted” or reclining along the grass.
It is thejury—an “institution” as germane to Texas as to England; and in Texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge—in England but too freely admitted.
Around the Texan judge and jury—close pressing upon the precincts of the Court—is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. Buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats—even under the oppressive heat; frocks of “copperas stripe” and Kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-bluecottonade; shirts of red flannel or unbleached “domestic”; dragoon, rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage.
Here and there is seen a more regular costume—one more native to the country—thejaquetaandcalzonerosof the Mexican, with the broadsombreroshading his swarthy face ofpicaresqueexpression.
Time was—and that not very long ago—when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired.
But then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge—Juez de Letras—was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could putonzasin his pocket.
With all its rude irregularity—despite the absence of effete forms—of white ermine, and black silk—of uniformedalguazils, or bright-buttoned policemen—despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth—even savage I hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of Kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe—ay far safer—to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation.
Do not mistake those men assembled under the Texan tree—however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye—do not mistake them for a mob of your own “masses,” brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. Do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves—filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism—would that it choked you!—scorning all that is grand and progressive—revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish.
I am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself acitizenof this our English country. A citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship—that of choosing your parliamentary representative.
You fancy youhavethis right. I have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken.
Ay, grandly mistaken, when you imagine yourself standing on the same political platform with those quasi-rude frontiersmen of Texas.
Nothing of the kind.Theyare “sovereign citizens”—the peers of your superiors, or of those who assume so to call themselves, and whose assumption you are base enough to permit without struggle—almost without protest!
In most assemblies the inner circle is the more select. The gem is to be found in the centre at Port Inge.
In that now mustered the order is reversed. Outside is the elegance. The fair feminine forms, bedecked in their best dresses, stand up in spring waggons, or sit in more elegant equipages, sufficiently elevated to see over the heads of the male spectators.
It is not upon the judge that their eyes are bent, or only at intervals. The glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury, and not very far from the stem of the tree. One is seated, and two standing. The former is the prisoner at the bar; the latter the sheriff’s officers in charge of him.
It was originally intended to try several other men for the murder; Miguel Diaz and his associates, as also Phelim O’Neal.
But in the course of a preliminary investigation the Mexican mustanger succeeded in proving analibi, as did also his trio of companions. All four have been consequently discharged.
They acknowledged having disguised themselves as Indians: for the fact being proved home to them, they could not do less.
But they pretended it to have been a joke—atravestie; and as there was proof of the others being at home—and Diaz dead drunk—on the night of Henry Poindexter’s disappearance, their statement satisfied those who had been entrusted with the inquiry.
As to the Connemara man, it was not thought necessary to put him upon trial. If an accomplice, he could only have acted at the instigation of his master; and he might prove more serviceable in the witness-box than in the dock.
Before the bar, then—if we may be permitted the figure of speech—there stands but one prisoner, Maurice Gerald—known to those gazing upon him asMaurice the mustanger.
Chapter Eighty Seven.A False Witness.There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. Perhaps not any.It is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to the six-shot duel with Calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of an accomplished horse-catcher.All admitted him to be a fine young fellow—handsome, dashing, devoted to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman—free of heart, as most Irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more readily believed.But neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. His daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did his speech degenerate into “small talk.”In his actions there was observable a certainjuste milieu. His words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen.No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer “trade,” as that of catching wild horses—a calling not deemed the most reputable.It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a “born gentleman”—a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where “born noblemen,” both of France and the “Faderland,” may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.A fig for all patents of nobility—save those stamped by the true die of Nature!Such is the sentiment of this far free land.And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him—blazoned like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain.And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin—one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest—a gaze soft, but steadfast—in which fear and fondness seem strangely commingled.There are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale face, half hid behind the curtains of acalèche, is too fair to escape observation.There are few who can interpret it.But among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. It is enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which he is placed.For the moment, it is one of pleasure. He has been told of much that transpired during those dark oblivious hours. He now knows that what he had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter reality of earth.That woman’s face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now seen through the curtains of thecalèche; and the expression upon it tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will be true to the end—even though it be death!The trial begins.There is not much ceremony in its inception. The judge takes off his hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar.After half a dozen draws, he takes the “weed” from between his teeth, lays it still smoking along the table, and says—“Gentlemen of the jury! We are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has been murdered,—the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime. It is my duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. It is yours to decide—after hearing the evidence to be laid before you—whether or not the accusation be sustained.”The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality,—“Guilty, or not guilty?”“Not guilty,” is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.Cassius Calhoun, and some “rowdies” around him, affect an incredulous sneer.The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.First called is Franz Oberdoffer.After a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like, he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. This is the common routine of a Texan trial.Oberdoffer’s evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how on the night that young Poindexter was missed, Maurice Gerald had left his house at a late hour—after midnight. He had settled his account before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. It was not often Oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. He had started for his home on the Nueces; or wherever it was. He had not said where he was going. He was not on the most friendly terms with witness. Witness only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule—everything, except what the mustanger himself carried off on his horse.What had he carried off?Witness could not remember much in particular. He was not certain of his having a gun. He rather believed that he had one—strapped, Mexican fashion, along the side of his saddle.He could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters, with a bowie-knife in the mustanger’s belt. Gerald was dressed as he always went—in Mexican costume, and with a striped Mexican blanket. He had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. The witness thought it strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. Still stranger, that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning.He had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse—which he kept in the tavern stable. He had started off immediately after returning. He stayed only long enough to settle his account. He appeared excited, and in a hurry. It was not with drink. He filled his flask withKirschenwasser; but did not drink of it before leaving the hotel. Witness could swear to his being sober. He knew that he was excited by his manner. While he was saddling his horse—which he did for himself—he was all the time talking, as if angry. Witness didn’t think it was at the animal. He believed he had been crossed by somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before coming back to the hotel. Had no idea where Gerald had been to; but heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and down the river, in the direction of Mr Poindexter’s plantation. He had been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his sojourn at the hotel—both by day and night—on foot as well as horseback—several times both ways.Such are the main points of Oberdoffer’s evidence relating to the movements of the prisoner.He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised to see him there—partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour.Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door.He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande trace—thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer’s evidence is exhausted.On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald’s having changed his intention as to his time of starting. His manner, described as excited and angry,—perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naïvely confesses to a grudge against him. That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression.But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour—unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits?Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Cassius Calhoun.His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise—alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner—here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son—the defilement of a daughter!A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age—of sad subdued aspect—whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtainedcalèche, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.Is she there of her own accord—by her own free will?So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier’s voice, heard pronouncing the name—“Louise Poindexter!”Calhoun has kept his word.
There are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. Perhaps not any.
It is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to the six-shot duel with Calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of an accomplished horse-catcher.
All admitted him to be a fine young fellow—handsome, dashing, devoted to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman—free of heart, as most Irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more readily believed.
But neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. His daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did his speech degenerate into “small talk.”
In his actions there was observable a certainjuste milieu. His words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen.
No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer “trade,” as that of catching wild horses—a calling not deemed the most reputable.
It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a “born gentleman”—a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.
There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where “born noblemen,” both of France and the “Faderland,” may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.
A fig for all patents of nobility—save those stamped by the true die of Nature!
Such is the sentiment of this far free land.
And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him—blazoned like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain.
And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin—one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!
Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!
Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.
Some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge.
There is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest—a gaze soft, but steadfast—in which fear and fondness seem strangely commingled.
There are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale face, half hid behind the curtains of acalèche, is too fair to escape observation.
There are few who can interpret it.
But among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. It is enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which he is placed.
For the moment, it is one of pleasure. He has been told of much that transpired during those dark oblivious hours. He now knows that what he had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter reality of earth.
That woman’s face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now seen through the curtains of thecalèche; and the expression upon it tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will be true to the end—even though it be death!
The trial begins.
There is not much ceremony in its inception. The judge takes off his hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar.
After half a dozen draws, he takes the “weed” from between his teeth, lays it still smoking along the table, and says—
“Gentlemen of the jury! We are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, I believe, known to all of you. A man has been murdered,—the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime. It is my duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. It is yours to decide—after hearing the evidence to be laid before you—whether or not the accusation be sustained.”
The prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality,—“Guilty, or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone.
Cassius Calhoun, and some “rowdies” around him, affect an incredulous sneer.
The judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent.
The counsel for the State, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution.
First called is Franz Oberdoffer.
After a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like, he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. This is the common routine of a Texan trial.
Oberdoffer’s evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how on the night that young Poindexter was missed, Maurice Gerald had left his house at a late hour—after midnight. He had settled his account before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. It was not often Oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. He had started for his home on the Nueces; or wherever it was. He had not said where he was going. He was not on the most friendly terms with witness. Witness only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule—everything, except what the mustanger himself carried off on his horse.
What had he carried off?
Witness could not remember much in particular. He was not certain of his having a gun. He rather believed that he had one—strapped, Mexican fashion, along the side of his saddle.
He could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters, with a bowie-knife in the mustanger’s belt. Gerald was dressed as he always went—in Mexican costume, and with a striped Mexican blanket. He had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. The witness thought it strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. Still stranger, that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning.
He had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse—which he kept in the tavern stable. He had started off immediately after returning. He stayed only long enough to settle his account. He appeared excited, and in a hurry. It was not with drink. He filled his flask withKirschenwasser; but did not drink of it before leaving the hotel. Witness could swear to his being sober. He knew that he was excited by his manner. While he was saddling his horse—which he did for himself—he was all the time talking, as if angry. Witness didn’t think it was at the animal. He believed he had been crossed by somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before coming back to the hotel. Had no idea where Gerald had been to; but heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and down the river, in the direction of Mr Poindexter’s plantation. He had been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his sojourn at the hotel—both by day and night—on foot as well as horseback—several times both ways.
Such are the main points of Oberdoffer’s evidence relating to the movements of the prisoner.
He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.
Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised to see him there—partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour.
Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door.
He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande trace—thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.
A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer’s evidence is exhausted.
On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald’s having changed his intention as to his time of starting. His manner, described as excited and angry,—perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naïvely confesses to a grudge against him. That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression.
But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour—unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits?
Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?
Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.
One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Cassius Calhoun.
His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.
After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.
The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise—alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner—here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.
These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son—the defilement of a daughter!
A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age—of sad subdued aspect—whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.
But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtainedcalèche, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.
Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.
Is she there of her own accord—by her own free will?
So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.
There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier’s voice, heard pronouncing the name—
“Louise Poindexter!”
Calhoun has kept his word.
Chapter Eighty Eight.An Unwilling Witness.Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.Without flinching—apparently without fear—she faces towards the Court.All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration—that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention—he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin—as though with her eyes she would kill him.Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.“Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?”The question is put by the State counsellor.“At home,—in my father’s house.”“May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?”“I did.”“Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?”“At the hour of midnight—if I rightly remember.”“Were you alone?”“Not all the time.”“Part of it there was some one with you?”“There was.”“Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?”“Certainly not.”“May I ask the name of the individual?”“There was more than one. My brother was there.”“But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?”“There was.”“It ishisname we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it.”“Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald.”The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.There is one on whom it produces a very different effect—the prisoner at the bar—who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!“May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?”“By appointment.”“It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it—in the execution of my duty:—What was the nature—the object I should rather term it—of this appointment?”The witness hesitates to make answer.Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies—“Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal it. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved—whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?”“Not quite,” continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; “I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?”“Quite true.”The answer sends a thrill through the crowd—a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun. It establishes themotiveof the murder!The bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to give. There is a cry of “Hang—hang him!” and, along with it, a demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the jury, “Order in the Court!” cries the judge, taking the cigar from between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him.“My brother did notfollow him in anger,” pursues the witness, without being further questioned. “He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after to apologise.”“Ihave something to say about that,” interposes Calhoun, disregarding the irregularity of the act; “they quarrelledafterwards. I heard them, from where I was standing on the top of the house.”“Mr Calhoun!” cries the judge rebukingly; “if the counsel for the prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. Meanwhile, sir, you will please not interrupt the proceedings.”After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt!The “chivalry” is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy felt for thebonne fortuneof him who has been so daringly endorsed.Calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. Every word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be fabrications.Again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. Again is heard the cry, “Hang!”—this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever.This time, too, the action is more violent. Men strip off their coats, and fling their hats into the air. The women in the waggons—and even those of gentle strain in the carriages—seem, to share the frenzied spite against the prisoner—all save that one, who sits screened behind the curtain.She too shows indignation; but from a different cause. If she trembles at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. In this dark hour she remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!The clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. There are things said aloud—insinuations against the accused—designed to inflame the passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and more virulent.Judge Roberts—the name of him who presides—is in peril of being deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless Lynch!And then what must follow? For Maurice Gerald no more trial; no condemnation: for that has been done already. No shrift neither; but a quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head!This is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand waiting for some one to say the word—some bad, bold borderer daring enough to take the initiative.Thanks be to God, the spectators are notallof this mind. A few have determined on bringing the affair to a different finale.There is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. They are the officers of the Fort, with the commandant in their midst.Only for a score of seconds does their council continue. It ends with the braying of a bugle. It is a signal sounded by command of the major.Almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade enclosure that extends rearward from the Fort.Having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the direction of the live-oak.Silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an alignment—forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the Court!The crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle, which might be taken for acoup de théâtre.It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted.“Fellow citizens!” he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, “the law is bound to take its course—just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that, since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn’t hang a man without first hearing what he’s got to say for himself? That would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!”“And hasn’t he done murder?” asks one of the rowdies standing near Calhoun. “It’s only sarvin’ him, as he sarved young Poindexter.”“There is no certainty about that. You’ve not yet heard all the testimony. Wait till we’ve examined the witnesses on the other side. Crier!” continues he, turning to the official; “call the witnesses for the defence.”The crier obeys; and Phelim O’Neal is conducted to the stand.The story of theci-devantstable-boy, confusedly told, full of incongruities—and in many parts altogether improbable—rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short—having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.That other is next announced.“Zebulon Stump!”Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng—whom all recognise as Zeb Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the “affidavit,” Zeb is directed to kiss.He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face.The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unwonted agitation.The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.“Wal, Mister Judge!” says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; “I’ve no objection to tell what I know ’beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur, I’d preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then foller wi’ mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him.”“Of what young fellow do you speak?” inquires the judge.“The mowstanger thur, in coorse. Him as stan’s ’cused o’ killin’ young Peintdexter.”“It would be somewhat irregular,” rejoins the judge—“After all, our object is to get at the truth. For my part, I haven’t much faith in old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don’t object, let it be as you say.”The “twelve,” speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the same way of thinking. Frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence to ceremonious forms; and Zeb’s request is concedednemine dissentiente.
Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.
Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.
Without flinching—apparently without fear—she faces towards the Court.
All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration—that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!
One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.
It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.
Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention—he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin—as though with her eyes she would kill him.
Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.
“Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?”
The question is put by the State counsellor.
“At home,—in my father’s house.”
“May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?”
“I did.”
“Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?”
“At the hour of midnight—if I rightly remember.”
“Were you alone?”
“Not all the time.”
“Part of it there was some one with you?”
“There was.”
“Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?”
“Certainly not.”
“May I ask the name of the individual?”
“There was more than one. My brother was there.”
“But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?”
“There was.”
“It ishisname we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it.”
“Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald.”
The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.
There is one on whom it produces a very different effect—the prisoner at the bar—who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!
“May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?”
“By appointment.”
“It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it—in the execution of my duty:—What was the nature—the object I should rather term it—of this appointment?”
The witness hesitates to make answer.
Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies—
“Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal it. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved—whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?”
“Not quite,” continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; “I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?”
“Quite true.”
The answer sends a thrill through the crowd—a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun. It establishes themotiveof the murder!
The bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to give. There is a cry of “Hang—hang him!” and, along with it, a demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the jury, “Order in the Court!” cries the judge, taking the cigar from between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him.
“My brother did notfollow him in anger,” pursues the witness, without being further questioned. “He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after to apologise.”
“Ihave something to say about that,” interposes Calhoun, disregarding the irregularity of the act; “they quarrelledafterwards. I heard them, from where I was standing on the top of the house.”
“Mr Calhoun!” cries the judge rebukingly; “if the counsel for the prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. Meanwhile, sir, you will please not interrupt the proceedings.”
After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.
She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt!
The “chivalry” is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy felt for thebonne fortuneof him who has been so daringly endorsed.
Calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. Every word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be fabrications.
Again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. Again is heard the cry, “Hang!”—this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever.
This time, too, the action is more violent. Men strip off their coats, and fling their hats into the air. The women in the waggons—and even those of gentle strain in the carriages—seem, to share the frenzied spite against the prisoner—all save that one, who sits screened behind the curtain.
She too shows indignation; but from a different cause. If she trembles at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. In this dark hour she remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a murderer!
The clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. There are things said aloud—insinuations against the accused—designed to inflame the passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and more virulent.
Judge Roberts—the name of him who presides—is in peril of being deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless Lynch!
And then what must follow? For Maurice Gerald no more trial; no condemnation: for that has been done already. No shrift neither; but a quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head!
This is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand waiting for some one to say the word—some bad, bold borderer daring enough to take the initiative.
Thanks be to God, the spectators are notallof this mind. A few have determined on bringing the affair to a different finale.
There is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. They are the officers of the Fort, with the commandant in their midst.
Only for a score of seconds does their council continue. It ends with the braying of a bugle. It is a signal sounded by command of the major.
Almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade enclosure that extends rearward from the Fort.
Having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the direction of the live-oak.
Silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an alignment—forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the Court!
The crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle, which might be taken for acoup de théâtre.
It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.
Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.
Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted.
“Fellow citizens!” he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, “the law is bound to take its course—just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that, since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn’t hang a man without first hearing what he’s got to say for himself? That would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!”
“And hasn’t he done murder?” asks one of the rowdies standing near Calhoun. “It’s only sarvin’ him, as he sarved young Poindexter.”
“There is no certainty about that. You’ve not yet heard all the testimony. Wait till we’ve examined the witnesses on the other side. Crier!” continues he, turning to the official; “call the witnesses for the defence.”
The crier obeys; and Phelim O’Neal is conducted to the stand.
The story of theci-devantstable-boy, confusedly told, full of incongruities—and in many parts altogether improbable—rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.
The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short—having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.
That other is next announced.
“Zebulon Stump!”
Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng—whom all recognise as Zeb Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.
Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.
The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the “affidavit,” Zeb is directed to kiss.
He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.
Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face.
The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.
After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unwonted agitation.
The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.
“Wal, Mister Judge!” says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; “I’ve no objection to tell what I know ’beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur, I’d preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then foller wi’ mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him.”
“Of what young fellow do you speak?” inquires the judge.
“The mowstanger thur, in coorse. Him as stan’s ’cused o’ killin’ young Peintdexter.”
“It would be somewhat irregular,” rejoins the judge—“After all, our object is to get at the truth. For my part, I haven’t much faith in old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don’t object, let it be as you say.”
The “twelve,” speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the same way of thinking. Frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence to ceremonious forms; and Zeb’s request is concedednemine dissentiente.
Chapter Eighty Nine.The Confession of the Accused.Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded.Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff’s officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear.It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto “chirping” among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation—as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, hisconfession.“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; “you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.“First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial—which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable—my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself—which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.“It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.“But it isnottrue that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship—I might say affection—on mine.“Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation.”“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. “Where did it take place?”“About four hundred yards from the spotwhere the murder was committed.”The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!“You mean the place where some blood was found?” doubtingly interrogates the judge.“I mean the place whereHenry Poindexter was assassinated.”There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court—expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing—kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death—only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.“You are sure he is dead, then?” is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.“Quite sure,” responds the accused. “Had you seen him as I did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one.”“You saw the body?”“I must take exception to this course of examination,” interposes the counsel for the accused. “It is quite irregular.”“Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn’t be allowed,” adds the Cis-Atlantic attorney. “The counsel for the prosecution wouldn’t be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination.”“That’s the law here, too,” says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. “Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to say.”“I have spoken of a reconciliation,” resumes the accused, “and have told you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.“It has been made known to you how we parted—Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.“On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wishhimto know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night—as may be remembered by many of you—and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time I reached the hotel.“The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.“I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr Oberdoffer.”“And the money with which you paid him?” asks the State prosecutor, “where did you get—?”“I protest against this!” interrupts the counsel for the accused.“Bedarrah!” exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or ratherduelling pistols, at the State counsellor; “if yez were to go on at that rate in a Galway assize, ye’d stand a nate chance of gettin’ conthradicted in a different style altogether!”“Silence, gentlemen!” commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. “Let the accused continue his statement.”“I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it—on the prairie, or under the roof of myjacalé. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak; and that would be as soon as I desired.“I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal—where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.“Then I heard the stroke of a horse’s hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.“I had got round the corner—where the trace makes a sharp turn—and was hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming on at a trot.“It might be somebody I wouldn’t care to encounter?“That was the reflection I made; though I wasn’t much caring who. It was more from habit—by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians—that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.“He did so shortly after.“You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don’t speak of myself—only him.“Was he still in the same temper? Had he been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained?“Gentlemen of the jury! I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.“I was determined there should be no concealment—no cowardly shrinking on my part. I was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others—not mine—not hers. I loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!”Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with theabandonthat love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored reason—by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!
Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded.
Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff’s officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear.
It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto “chirping” among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation—as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, hisconfession.
“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; “you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.
“First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial—which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable—my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.
“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”
The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.
“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself—which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.
“It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.
“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.
“But it isnottrue that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”
Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.
“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship—I might say affection—on mine.
“Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation.”
“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. “Where did it take place?”
“About four hundred yards from the spotwhere the murder was committed.”
The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.
It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!
“You mean the place where some blood was found?” doubtingly interrogates the judge.
“I mean the place whereHenry Poindexter was assassinated.”
There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court—expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing—kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death—only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.
This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.
“You are sure he is dead, then?” is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel.
“Quite sure,” responds the accused. “Had you seen him as I did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one.”
“You saw the body?”
“I must take exception to this course of examination,” interposes the counsel for the accused. “It is quite irregular.”
“Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn’t be allowed,” adds the Cis-Atlantic attorney. “The counsel for the prosecution wouldn’t be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination.”
“That’s the law here, too,” says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. “Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to say.”
“I have spoken of a reconciliation,” resumes the accused, “and have told you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.
“It has been made known to you how we parted—Miss Poindexter, her brother, and myself.
“On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wishhimto know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night—as may be remembered by many of you—and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time I reached the hotel.
“The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, I took it into my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night.
“I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr Oberdoffer.”
“And the money with which you paid him?” asks the State prosecutor, “where did you get—?”
“I protest against this!” interrupts the counsel for the accused.
“Bedarrah!” exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or ratherduelling pistols, at the State counsellor; “if yez were to go on at that rate in a Galway assize, ye’d stand a nate chance of gettin’ conthradicted in a different style altogether!”
“Silence, gentlemen!” commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. “Let the accused continue his statement.”
“I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. I was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where I should spend it—on the prairie, or under the roof of myjacalé. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak; and that would be as soon as I desired.
“I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal—where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.
“Then I heard the stroke of a horse’s hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind.
“I had got round the corner—where the trace makes a sharp turn—and was hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming on at a trot.
“It might be somebody I wouldn’t care to encounter?
“That was the reflection I made; though I wasn’t much caring who. It was more from habit—by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians—that I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself.
“He did so shortly after.
“You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don’t speak of myself—only him.
“Was he still in the same temper? Had he been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained?
“Gentlemen of the jury! I shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when I saw who it was.
“I was determined there should be no concealment—no cowardly shrinking on my part. I was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others—not mine—not hers. I loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her still!”
Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.
Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.
It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.
She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with theabandonthat love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!
If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored reason—by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!