Chapter VI: Part I: I (6)

Trescot rose, cast a smiling glance at Constance, and went on to state his case. He had declined to question the validity of the grant or the wills. He accepted both for his client. He wished neither to delay nor to obstruct. His business was to prove that forty years ago the holder of the Baptiste grant had sold to James Hood, the father of his client, a certain tract of land, for which a deed had been given. He would deal frankly with the matter. The war and the great cotton fire had destroyed the records and also the deeds and surveys once in possession of Mr. Hood’s former agent, General Averill. Even the tax receipts were gone. He would prove, however, that such a deed had existed, that a survey had been made. He would produce the surveyor’s notes, giving the bounds, and prove by his widow his handwriting; and also would produce a plot of the survey appended to the notes.

This survey set forth that from an oak at one time on the bluff the line ran due east sixty-seven perches, more or less, to a tree, a certain live-oak; thence north one hundred perches to a third tree, a walnut; and west again sixty-seven perches to an oak on the bluff. A line carried south between the two trees originally on the bluff completed the original bounds of the tract. Observe, he said, that this left the Baptistes in possession of a tract between Mr. Hood’s land and the river, partly bluff and partly the shore below.

He would produce a witness who assisted the surveyor, and prove that the said surveyor had with him as a guide a deed or paper defining the bounds, and that the witness saw him consult the said paper. He would prove what no doubt opposing counsel would admit,—indeed had admitted,—the erosion of the bluff. He would prove, past dispute, the present existence of the two trees marking the eastern line of the survey, and thus show that lines drawn due westward from said trees the number of perches stated in the survey would carry his client’s claim far out beyond the present low-water mark.

The great storm and flood of seven years before had carried away the projecting headland, had taken the Baptiste shore, their upland on the bluff, Mr. Hood’s front, and his western boundary trees. All of the Baptiste land had gone and a part of Mr. Hood’s. He trusted that he had made it entirely clear.

Greyhurst at first assumed an attitude of careless inattention, but as Trescot went on he began to listen intently, and to take notes.

The fact of Averill’s being no longer of counsel in the case left Trescot free to use his evidence as he could not otherwise have done. He felt that the affection and respect with which the general was regarded by all men were sure to give great weight to what he would say, and enabled Trescot to do without some other and feebler witnesses. As the general, when called, took his oath, Greyhurst said to Colonel Dudley, who sat beside him: “A fortunate illness that, and not very lasting.”

“You do not mean, sir, that General Averill—”

“Oh, no,” said Greyhurst, interrupting him; “of course not.”

Dudley was silent.

“Were you,” asked Trescot, “Mr. Hood’s agent?”

“Yes, I was from the year 1852. I am not now.”

“Did you at any time hold for the defendant a deed for land on the bluff at the bend of the river?”

“I did—both a deed and the survey, made by one Hazewell.”

After further questions he went on to say that, to the best of his remembrance, this deed described the holding as extending westward to land retained by the Baptistes on the bluff. He had paid taxes on the land, but the receipts and his own books had been burned during his absence in the war. He also bore witness to the erosion of the bend.

Greyhurst cross-examined him with extreme courtesy on his failure to remember accurately the terms of the deed.

At last he asked, “What taxes have been paid on this land by you since the war?”

“None; the property was in dispute, and, as the jury knows, taxes may run on unpaid for years without finally affecting the title. That means nothing.”

“Pardon me,” said Greyhurst; “but I object to the witness instructing the jury. It is facts, not opinions, we want.”

The general smiled and was dismissed, when Trescot, interposing, said, “Did the Baptistes, at any time since the war, pay taxes?”

Greyhurst objected, but not in time to prevent the witness from saying, “They did not.”

Mrs. Hazewell, the widow of the surveyor, and now brought from Indiana, produced a book containing, with other matters, a statement of the boundaries and area of a survey, made by her husband, of land on the Baptiste property for James Hood in October, 1830. With it was a neat plot of the property, indicating certain trees as monuments at the corners. There was also a memorandum of receipt of payment for the work. She identified the book and swore to the handwriting as that of her husband. So carefully had Trescot guarded his witnesses that the utmost surprise was created as the case went on. The book and plot were submitted to the jury, and although the witness was sharply cross-examined, her evidence was not shaken. As the young lawyer developed his case, and it was seen how the dates as given by the witnesses coincided, the elder members of the bar began to listen with growing interest, and to exchange glances of surprise, or whispers of astonishment, that Greyhurst should have ventured to try the case at all.

Several persons swore to the fact of the great flood, and the amount of erosion of the bluffs; and a map showing these changes was also put in evidence. This was not disputed.

To the evident amazement of Greyhurst, the next witness called was Thomas Coffin. After the usual preliminaries, Trescot asked:

“What do you know of the survey of this tract on the bluff?”

“I helped my father. He was a chain-bearer, and blazed the bounds.”

“How old were you at that time?”

“Well, it’s forty years ago. I am fifty-eight now, come February. I was eighteen years old. That was in October, 1830.”

“How were you employed in the survey?”

“I helped; I carried the ax.”

“Can you swear to the trees marking the eastward bound? Those which were blazed?”

“I can.”

“How do you know them?”

“Saw father blaze them. He made two blazes—one on the west side and one on the east. He always did that. He was a mighty careful man.”

“Did he blaze only with the ax?”

“No; he burned the blaze, too, with a hot crowbar. I made the fire.”

Showing him the surveyor’s plot, Trescot asked:

“Do you understand this map?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you say where on it the trees would be you have spoken of—those on the inland side? Look at it carefully; take your time.”

After a little hesitation, during which the stillness of the crowded room deepened, he replied, pointing:

“Yes, sir,—there and there.”

“Here are two pins; put them in at the places.” He did so, and the plot of the survey was submitted to the jury.

“How do you know the trees are those said to have been blazed?”

“I cut them down yesterday, both of them,—those I showed you—me and another man cut them down. Mr. Douglas, he was there. I sawed them through and found the blazes. But before they was felled I knew them by the sinking in of the bark over the blazes.”

“Where are the trees?”

“The blazed parts—that’s the sections with the bark off—is in a wagon back of the court.”

“I shall ask your honor,” said Trescot, “to have them brought in, or, as they are heavy, that the jury shall go out and examine them.”

Greyhurst rose to object that there was no proof of these being the trees in question. Being overruled, the jury went out, inspected the sections, and returned to their seats.

With this unlooked-for evidence the interest became intense, while Constance watched steadily the face of her husband.

“That is all,” said Trescot to Coffin.

“One moment,” said Greyhurst. “I prefer, if counsel does not object, to cross-examine the witness after all the defendant’s evidence is concluded.”

Trescot said, “Although this is unusual, I shall urge no objection.”

Peter Douglas, the county surveyor, was next called. He had been present when the trees were felled and sawed. He had himself driven with the sections to the court-house. He swore that the survey shown him gave correctly the distance between the two trees marking the eastern bound, and that lines carried west as required on the survey shown him would now end far out in the river.

Greyhurst’s cross-questioning of the county surveyor was brief, and served only to make that official angry and to weaken the plaintiffs’ case.

As link on link was added to the chain of evidence, murmurs of surprise ran through the audience; for Greyhurst had talked confidently of the utter weakness of the defendant’s case.

Trescot bowed to the Judge, and then said: “I have done. My witnesses are in your hands, Mr. Greyhurst.”

Coffin was recalled for cross-examination. Greyhurst, unprepared for the ability with which evidence had been collected and guarded, was, as usual, annoyed and even angered.

“Your name is Thomas Coffin?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“What’s your business?”

“I cut and haul wood; been lumbering ’most all my life.”

“You must have a good memory.”

“I always did have.”

“Then perhaps you remember who paid you to find trees you saw in a big wood when you were a boy.”

Trescot was on his feet in a moment. “I protest, your honor, against the form of the question—against a grave insinuation.”

The judge suggested that counsel put the question differently.

Greyhurst then asked: “How did you happen to inform Mr. Trescot as to these very convenient trees?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Did he on this occasion pay you, or make any promise of pay, if you would find these much-needed trees?”

“He didn’t make any promise, and he didn’t pay me.”

Greyhurst smiled and went on. “Did Mr. Trescot send any one to you about these boundaries?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Now, take care,” said Greyhurst, advancing. He towered above the small, lean woodman. “You have sworn to tell the truth and the whole truth. Did not Mrs. Trescot come to your house in the peanut-patch?”

“She did.”

“What day?”

“I ain’t sure of the day. Guess you know.”

“I want an answer—not insolence. Was it on the sixth of June?”

“Yes, I reckon it was.”

At this bringing of his wife into the case Trescot was, for the moment, annoyed; and then, catching a look from Constance, was strangely set at ease. She was evidently undisturbed. In the court-room almost motionless attention told how increasingly deep was the concern with which the audience watched the unexpected developments of the case.

“Now, take care,” said Greyhurst. “What did Mrs. Trescot say to you? I want all of it. What did she say first?”

“I won’t tell you.”

A faint stir in the hall told of astonishment.

Trescot instantly understood that Coffin was naturally unwilling to confess that he had shot at him. It was this which stopped him.

“Pardon me, Mr. Greyhurst,” he said. “I think I can assist your cross-examination. I am desirous that the witness conceal nothing.”

“I do not ask your assistance, Mr. Trescot. When I want a junior counsel you shall have your chance.”

“Very good,” returned Trescot, and sat down.

“Come, now,” said Greyhurst, “I want an answer. What did Mrs. Trescot say to you, and what did you say to her?”

“I reckon you got my answer.”

“Do you know what will happen if you do not reply as you are sworn to do?”

“I do. I’ll go to jail.”

“Did any one tell you not to answer?”

“Yes,” and Coffin grinned.

“Indeed! Who was it?”

“Thomas Coffin.” The audience laughed.

As Greyhurst turned to address the judge, Trescot rose again. “May I ask your honor if the witness is bound to state what would tend to criminate him? I know and comprehend his difficulty. It has no direct connection with the case. If the learned counsel will ask my witness what passed in relation to the boundary trees, and leave Mrs. Trescot out of the matter, he will attain his end, and I shall be grateful.”

He was most unwilling that his wife should be known to have tried to secure him from the anger of Coffin. He knew what these people, or many of them, would think. He was smiling and courteous as he spoke of his wife, and a murmur of approbation was audible.

“Perhaps,” said Greyhurst, “Mr. Trescot may like to conduct both sides of this case. May it please your honor, I accept this suggestion, and for the present we will leave Mrs. Trescot out of the matter.

“Now, Coffin, what did you say to the lady about the bounds?”

Coffin’s face cleared. “There wasn’t a word said of those trees or this claim until Mrs. Trescot was going away, and then I told her to tell Mr. Trescot I knew about them trees—and I did.”

Greyhurst was disappointed. He said: “Your honor, when I call witnesses in rebuttal I shall deal further with this mystery. That will do, my man.”

“I am nobody’s man but my own. Why don’t you ask me what you said to me about Mr. Trescot the week before I told about the trees?”

The counsel within the rail smiled; the audience tittered; and Greyhurst said angrily: “You may go, do you hear?”

Coffin turned to Trescot. “Do you want me any more?”

“No; certainly not.”

So long as Greyhurst felt his case to be a good one, his very able mind acted well; but in the presence of impending defeat he became irritable, and lost the tranquillity which is needful for quick and perfect use of the mental mechanism.

He had been surprised by the evidence of Coffin. The secret had been well kept, and now he feared that his case was lost. He stated to the court that he was through with the defendant’s witnesses, and at noon the court adjourned to meet at one-and-a-half o’clock.

No trial in years had so interested St. Ann. It was a rich Northern man against poor Southern people who were desperately battling for valuable land. It involved well-known questions of technical interest; erosion of river-frontage, lumber interests, and the value of old blazes as evidence—all these were familiarly discussed as the audience came out; but above all was the excitement caused by Coffin’s refusal to speak freely of what Mrs. Trescot had said.

The lawyers saw which way the case was going, and several of them congratulated Trescot as he joined his wife. They stayed to lunch with the Averills in place of going home. Mrs. Trescot was in high spirits. Her husband’s success satisfied her pride. The dramatic character of the trial, and, above all, Coffin’s refusal to commit himself, and his pleasure in baffling Greyhurst, interested and amused her, so that altogether the trial was to her both novel and entertaining.

The general was as well pleased. Trescot had justified his opinion both of the young lawyer’s legal mind and of his readiness and coolness. He said, turning to Trescot as they smoked alone after the meal:

“If I know Greyhurst, he will lose his head as he loses his case. He _will_ lose it, too; I kept my eye on the jury; but what he will do in summing up will be sure to be unpleasant. You will have no opportunity to answer, and I am sorry for that. He seems to have the skill of the devil in breeding anger. And I very deeply regret that I am not actively in this case.”

“I shall reply beforehand to his summing up, general. I think I know what he will say. It will be a personal attack on Mr. Hood’s harshness. I have my answer, as you are aware. For the rest, I am not easily stirred. What he can do in examining witnesses in rebuttal I do not know. How can he damage us? If Coffin were the worst of men, he is so sustained by facts and by the surveyor’s evidence that to prove he never before in his life had told the truth would not help the case.”

“I do not know. This suit means much to Greyhurst. He will go to all lengths. He is angry. I saw that. He is a proud, over-sensitive man who makes no allowance for the feelings of others, and desires to have his own attentively considered. Now he is hard hit, and, by Jove! do you know, I think he will call Mrs. Trescot.”

“Oh, hardly.”

“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

On the next morning some intervening court business made it late before the case was called for continuance. The crowd was still greater when Greyhurst, as the plaintiffs’ counsel, rose to sum up, with some return of his usual self-confidence.

“May it please your honor, and you, gentlemen of the jury, I represent here to-day the cause of the widow and orphans of a Confederate soldier. The claimant is rich—indeed, far beyond our modest conceptions of wealth. His agent is a young man who served in the war which has left us ruined, oppressed, and insulted. Until just in time for effect in this trial, we heard very little of certain much-vaunted generous intentions. Let us hope that they were more honest than Mr. Hood’s former policy would seem to make credible. The opposing counsel has seen fit to speak of his personal relation to this case. In his use of witnesses he has made implications in regard to me which justify me in saying that I personally, at least, can afford to smile at slander which represents me as lying, and which leaves the statement for use in the safe hands of a female and a vagabond.”

“My heavens, general!” said Trescot, “I cannot stand that.” He rose at once. “Stop!” he said. “Sir, whatever statements have been made,—and you have utterly misrepresented them,—I alone am responsible. No gentleman could have said what you have just now permitted yourself to say!”

Greyhurst laughed: “The shaft has found its mark. I had heard, sir, that in the sense in which Southern gentlemen use the phrase, you did not consider yourself responsible.”

Trescot, still on his feet, said quietly, “I have said that I am responsible.”

The general looked from the one man to the other, uneasy and amazed that Trescot had been badgered into assuming at last a position so opposed to his principles.

Greyhurst returned sharply, “Well, I am relieved to hear it. It was unexpected.” And then, as Trescot resumed his seat, he turned to the jury, saying: “And now for this boasted evidence.”

As he went on, Trescot sat still, conscious of having been goaded by insult to commit himself to what he knew to be wrong. As he sat, he thought a moment of Alexander Hamilton, whom he greatly admired. Then he said to himself: “When the evil takes shape I will deal with it,” and began again to listen to his antagonist. Greyhurst dwelt long on the untrustworthy character of the evidence given by Coffin,—on his convincing reasons for offering assistance to the defendant with utter disregard of the truth. Trescot, again self-controlled, and listening quietly, felt at ease as to his case. His opponent’s criticisms left his witnesses’ testimony uninjured. What doubt was possible was thrown on the absence of deeds, on the slight value of the surveyor’s notes so providentially preserved, on the failure to pay taxes. In fact, as an old lawyer whispered to Trescot, “he has no case at all, and had better throw it up.” He finished with a passionate appeal to the jury to see the equity of the situation—where natural causes had swept away land and given to the greed of avarice a motive to add one more cause of poverty to the ruin of an old and honored family.

A murmur of applause in the audience assured him, as he sat down, that he must have equally affected the jury.

The court adjourned to meet for the judge’s charge in the afternoon.

The case was of unusual importance, and the charge of the judge to the jury was of great length. He gave the usual caution as to the weight and consideration to be given to the facts as stated, and as to the credibility of witnesses. He charged the jury that if these and the extraordinary discovery and production of the blazes, and the description of the land, were proved to their satisfaction, they must of need find for the defendant. He urged that the unfortunate personalities of the trial be set aside, and that, with no regard to the sectional prejudices which, with as little relation, had been brought forward, they should decide as true men.

Besides dealing with the evidence, he had felt obliged to make entirely clear the decisions as to the changes in ownership of riparian rights made by these frequent erosive alterations in the courses of the great Western rivers. The lamps around the walls of the court-room were lighted before the judge had finished, and it was late when he gave the case to the jury and retired to await their verdict.

No one moved. The interest the case excited was such as to keep people in their seats, although the room was hot and the air oppressive. Within the rail, where the lawyers sat, there was equal interest, and a feeling, expressed in undertones, that the words which had passed between counsel must soon or late result seriously.

During the hour in which men waited to hear the verdict Greyhurst sat still. He had scarce a hope of success, and to fail would be for him a grave calamity. He reflected on this, or considered plans for future litigation, as he sat still; or, seeing the hands of the clock pass the hour, began to believe in a disagreement of the jury. But ever at times his face, which he had never learned to control, changed, as, with his eyes half closed, he frowned and gripped the arms of his chair. He thought of the way in which he had been fooled by Coffin and baffled by this frail-looking young lawyer. He recalled the amused faces of the listening counsel, the exasperating quiet and gentle manners of Trescot. “Damn him!” Now and again a flash of anger lit his face with passion, as the lightning illuminates for a second the darkness of a stormy night.

Meanwhile, Trescot, confident and happy, chatted with Averill or others.

Time ran on, and it was now late. At the close of an hour the judge, returning to his seat, recalled the jury. “It is plain, gentlemen,” he said, “that you may require some time to reach a conclusion. I shall remain in my room until eight o’clock to hear from you. I shall then leave. If, after that hour, you are of one mind and will return to the clerk of the court a written verdict, he will instruct you that it must be signed by every one of you and sealed. You will then be discharged, and avoid the necessity of being detained here all night.” With this the court broke up, and the audience left.

It will be unnecessary to dwell at length upon the effect which this delay had upon the several persons concerned. Trescot went home confident as to the lawsuit, and intent on concealing the gravity of the personal question he had yet to face. His wife was uneasy, and was also doing her best to hide her anxiety.

While to them the result of the trial was, for many reasons, a matter of interest, to Greyhurst it meant far more. He went slowly homeward in the dusk, a troubled, anxious, irritated man. He ate his supper hastily and sat down in his library, resolving to rid his mind of the cares of a disappointing day. He took up a book. His taste in literature was good, and the loneliness his temperament fostered had helped to make him a reader. But now the thoughts of the day’s passions could not easily be dismissed. He closed a volume of Burke, and sat still; but whether he reflected on his gathering debts, his political ambitions, or the loss an adverse verdict would mean, he recurred, as was habitual with him, to some human instrument as responsible; and now it was, above all, the Yankee lawyer whose triumph would cost him so dear, and who had insulted him, and, although Greyhurst did not confess it, had preserved that serenity of temper which so exasperates those for whom a slight is an outrage, and a hasty word an insult. He knew full well the mischief-making capacity of his temper, and at times dreaded the possible results of such consequent outbreaks as others feared, and as had cost him many hours of regretful penitence. He was no master of himself, and now an evil mood possessed the hour. He drank more than was his habit, and at last went to bed, only to pass a restless night and to awaken unrefreshed.

A great crowd was pouring into or gathering around the court-house next morning. As Greyhurst passed through it, sullen and anxious, he fancied men were smiling at him and his probable defeat. Trescot nodded to him coldly as he entered within the bar, but the elder man stared at him with set face, and without returning the salutation.

A little after ten the jury entered; the judge took his seat amid profound silence. The clerk announced that at half-past nine the night before the jury, having agreed, had all signed a verdict which had then been sealed. The clerk having handed the paper to the foreman, it was opened and read aloud: “We, the undersigned, find a verdict for the defendant.” Each juryman was asked, in turn, if this were his verdict, and the jury was discharged.

Amid the buzz and stir this announcement made in the court-room, a few pleased, the larger number disappointed, Greyhurst moved toward Trescot, and then, as if otherwise minded, turned aside and gathered up his papers. No one spoke to him, while Averill and several of the older members of the bar gathered about Trescot. As they discussed some of the points of the case, a young lawyer who had left the court-room returned and said to Trescot:

“Mrs. Trescot is waiting outside. She asked me to tell you to come to her at once. She desired me to say it was very important.”

Trescot turned to Averill and said: “My wife is outside and has sent for me in haste. I shall be back in a few minutes.”

He hurried out of a side door and found Constance waiting.

“I heard it, George. You have won. Oh, I am glad! Mr. Randolph told me. But come over here in the shade. How pale you are!”

“Yes; my arm is giving me pain.”

“I am sorry, George. Come over here to that bench under the trees. I have bad news.”

“What is it? A telegram?”

“Yes; read it. Uncle Rufus is dead. I thought you ought to know of it at once.”

He read:

“TO MRS. GEORGE TRESCOT:

“Uncle died last night, at eleven o’clock, suddenly. Knowing of the
trial, and your great anxiety, I add that there is no will. I am sure
of this. We are the sole heirs. Let George act as seems best. I shall
approve. See letter to follow.

“SUSAN HOOD.”

That Constance felt the shock of her uncle’s sudden death was certain, but far more to her was her husband’s interest, and just now even his safety. She had tried not to let him see her anxiety. It was very great, for she had not failed to see the material of a serious quarrel in the scenes of the court-room; and now here was death bringing peace, and power to consider generously the people concerned in the suit, and, above all, release from fear, and freedom to fly to more congenial surroundings.

He was very grave as he twice read the telegram. Constance sat still. There was much to think about.

“You are the sole heirs,” he said; “and I suppose, dear, it is a great estate.”

“Yes, yes; but now—at once—use this, George. Do settle at once. Give them half—give them all.”

He smiled at her urgency. He was pleased to be set at liberty to act kindly, but his nature did not admit of the excitement which Constance felt. He said, as they sat in the shade: “Nothing can be done in haste. We must wait for Susan’s letter.”

“Yes, yes; I know; but you can at least see the general now—at once—and ask him to let these poor people know that we intend to be reasonable; my uncle never was.”

He sat for some minutes talking, and at last said:

“You are practically Susan’s attorney. At all events, she will do as we think best. It is a vast relief.”

He read the telegram again.

“It is a strange fate, Constance. She says he died at eleven. Had he died before the verdict was signed,—that was at half-past nine,—it would have been a mistrial and all to go over again. I should not have been sorry to have compromised matters without a trial.”