by John Bailey
A correspondent in 1847 wrote of “the curious scenes” he saw in and around the Presbytere courthouse:
Apple-women take possession of its lobbies. Beggars besiege its vault-like offices. The rains from Heaven sport among its rafters. It has everywhere a fatty, ancient smell, which speaks disparagingly of the odor in which justice is held. And yet in this building (which the poorest Eastern village would blow up before sundown should it appear within its precincts) are held from November until July, six courts, whose officers brave damp and steam enthusiastically and perseveringly. You turn … into a narrow alley and brushing past a greasy crowd are soon within the criminal court, where a judge, perched in a high box, wrangles hourly with half-crazed witnesses;—here you behold jurymen, who of themselves constitute a congress of nations; zealous, fulllunged lawyers; and audacious criminals ranged in boxes, very much to the satisfaction of a mustached district attorney and the merry-looking keeper of the Parish jail.97
It was into this bedlam that Roselius and the Upton brothers led Sally Miller and her backers. They elbowed through the crowds and climbed the stairs to enter one of the courtrooms. Already it was half full. A hush fell on the audience as they turned to stare at Sally Miller, judging her white or black, according to their preconceptions. The lawyers took their seats at the bar table, and Roselius indicated directly behind them, to where Sally, as the plaintiff, should sit.
Grymes arrived a few minutes before court was due to commence. He was a tall, elegant man, in his late fifties, with graying hair and a thin face. He wore a paisley waistcoat and a shiny black coat. A dandy gambler on a steamboat wouldn’t have been better turned out. He came at the head of a team of attorneys and assistants, who waited respectfully until he had chosen his seat, then took their place either side of him. John Fitz Miller, his head held high, and mortified that it had come to this, sat behind them. Grymes nodded to Roselius. They knew each other well, respected each other as formidable opponents and disliked each other immensely. With those curt courtesies over, both men concentrated on the documents placed before them by their more junior associates.
The respective followers of Sally Miller and John Fitz Miller moved to sit directly behind each side’s legal team. Louis Belmonti wasn’t there. He had decided that the litigation was no longer of concern to him, and was well satisfied to leave it to his counsel. The Daily Picayune, in reporting the case, was kind to him, making it clear that he had acted in good faith and that if damages were to be awarded, Miller, and not he, would sustain them.98 As the trial progressed, the press, presumably in the interest of making things simple for their readers, ceased mentioning Belmonti’s name at all.
Precisely at eleven o’clock there was a tapping at a door set in the paneling along the front wall. All rise, called Deputy Sheriff Lewis, in a clear and booming voice, and in obedience there was the scrape of a hundred chairs. The door swung open and with his black robes swishing behind him, Judge Buchanan strode to his judicial upland on which sat a large upholstered chair. He looked around, nodded briefly to Grymes, then to Roselius, and, ignoring the other counsel, threw his robe behind him so that it enveloped his chair, and sat down.
Oyez! Oyez! The Honorable First Judicial District Court of the State of Louisiana is in session, cried the sheriff. All those who have business in the case of the petition of one Sally Miller against Louis Belmonti and John F. Miller come forward and they shall be heard.
Both sides, for quite different reasons, had requested that a judge sitting without a jury should decide the petition. Roselius and Upton had been concerned that if they insisted on a jury, it was likely that most of its members would be slaveowners and disinclined to take away another fellow’s property. Nor might the typical juryman readily accept that a Southern gentleman would be capable of enslaving a young white girl. Grymes, for his part, had been worried about the jury’s reaction to the sight of a white woman seeking her freedom. He had expected (and a quick glance at Sally Miller confirmed this) that she would appear in court groomed in the most respectable of clothing and with a pale skin indicating she hadn’t seen the sun for weeks. To his mind, the defendants’ cause would be best served by drawing a crusty old judge who wouldn’t be swayed by the emotional foolishness of the German witnesses or the charming pretences of the plaintiff.
Grymes couldn’t have wished for anyone better than the judge now facing them. Alexander M. Buchanan was an ex-soldier who frequently used the bench to lecture the citizens of New Orleans on the need for rules and discipline in society. He wasn’t admired for his knowledge of the law, but Grymes saw no disadvantage in that. Here at least was a judge who would decide the case without flourish or adventure and stick to the facts. If Buchanan was known for anything in lawyerly circles, it was for his quick temper and his overconcern for the dignity of his office.
The lawyers stood in turn to announce their appearance: Mr. Roselius with Messrs F. W. Upton and W. S. Upton for the plaintiff; Mr. Grymes, with Mr. Micou and Mr. Lockett, for Mr. Miller; and Mr. Canon for Belmonti.
Roselius waited to catch the judge’s eye so that he could commence his opening address. Behind him, every seat had been taken and some of the overflow spectators were lined against the side walls. There was a witness stand on Roselius’s left; to the right was a small desk for Deputy Sheriff Lewis. In the well of the court, directly in front of the lawyer’s bench, was a rail enclosure capped in brass knobs, where Mr. Gilmore, the clerk of the courts, waited, ready to write notes of the proceedings. Shorthand wasn’t a skill he possessed, so he wrote his notes in an abbreviated, narrative form, by omitting the questions and only recording the answers.*
Roselius spoke for most of the morning, reordering the elements of an intricate drama into a simple sequence of events. He spoke quietly. There was no stage thunder, no arm waving, no appeals to emotion. His tone was of a plain fellow, come to tell of an awful wrong, and seeking the court’s help in putting things right. He told of the journey of German immigrants to the United States, how one such family—a widower, Daniel Müller, and his children—upon their arrival in New Orleans had become redemptioners in Attakapas, and how Attakapas was where Miller had several plantations. He explained how Sally Miller had arrived on the doorstep of the Schuber house a year ago and how the people who gathered there had instantly recognized her. He read the petition and Miller’s answer, pausing to list the witnesses he would call and what evidence they would present.
He pointed out to Buchanan the unusual features of the lawsuit now before the court. He said that almost always the petitioners in freedom cases were people with some African blood in their veins, offering this explanation or that as to why they should no longer be held in chains. However, in this case the petitioner was saying that she had nothing of Africa in her. She was incapable of being made a slave. She should never have had her childhood stolen from her or have been forced to labor for others. Why not? Because she was always a free white woman.
Roselius turned to face Sally Miller. Everyone in the courtroom followed his gaze. This woman, he declared, is of pure German descent. She is pure white. In the name of justice, she must be freed. He turned back to Buchanan. This is the unique issue at the core of this case. This is the important matter you have to decide.
When Roselius was done, Grymes, without rising from his chair, announced that the defendants would make their opening address after the plaintiff’s case had concluded.
It was time for Roselius to make his apologies. After inclining his head in respect to the bench, he explained that he had a case at the Supreme Court he must attend to. His esteemed colleague, Mr. Wheelock Upton, ably assisted by his brother, Mr. Frank Upton, would take over from here.
Even before Roselius had packed up his belongings, Wheelock Upton was standing in his place. In a nervously loud voice, he asked the sheriff to call his first witness.
A woman of many years, dressed in clothes that spoke of poverty, made her way slowly through the crowd into the body of the court.
Sheriff Lewis motioned her forward and then, offering his arm, aided her into the witness stand. After she had settled herself, the clerk of court placed a Bible in her hand. She spoke very little English, she said. Spanish was her tongue. An interpreter was summoned and with great solemnity Mr. Gilmore took her through the oath of truthfulness.
Upton approached and bowed low. He asked her name and where she lived. Her answers came through the interpreter: Madame Poigneau, and she lived in the Third Municipality.
Did she know the woman seated behind him? Yes, she did. She had known her since she was eleven or twelve. She had seen her at Miller’s sawmill. Then, without any further prompting, she added that the girl had the color of a white person, so she remembered her from that. She had the appearance, the mien, the eyes, and the color of a white person.
And what accent had she when she talked? asked Upton. Was it French, Spanish, whatever?
She had a German accent, said Madame Poigneau.
Upton glanced toward Buchanan, confirming that he understood the significance of her words.
Are you sure that this is the same person? pressed Upton. He directed Madame Poigneau’s gaze toward Sally Miller. Are you sure this is the same person you saw as an eleven- or twelve-year-old girl, speaking like a German in the yards of Miller’s mill?
Madame Poigneau nodded. Yes, she was sure.
Upton sat down. His examination of Madame Poigneau had taken only a few minutes, but he had planned it that way. The essential point was so important, he didn’t want it lost in other evidence. He could hear a buzz of excitement from the German people sitting behind him. He glanced behind him and saw the smile on Eva Schuber’s face and her certainty that now they must be believed.
Grymes rose slowly to his feet, began to ask a question, then stopped himself. He glanced at the clock. Buchanan took the hint. They would resume at two o’clock, he announced.
As Upton left the courtroom, a jubilant crowd of Sally Miller’s supporters surrounded him as if he had done something wondrous. So, she spoke with a German accent! It was all they needed, wasn’t it? Then, with the proof of the moles on her thighs to come, victory must be theirs. Never had there been such a clear-cut case.
After lunch, the crowd in the courtroom was greatly reduced. Many from the German side, well pleased at how the morning had gone, hardly saw the need to continue to show their support. The business of the day awaited. Miller had lost some of his supporters as well, but he had gained one. A tall, balding man in his mid-forties sat next to him. He was dressed in a snuff-colored frock coat and nursed a crisp Panama hat on his knee. Upton didn’t know who he was, but he was clearly someone, because Grymes got out of his seat to welcome him. Upton asked his brother to find out about the newcomer. He returned with the news that the man was General Lewis, the commander of the state militia. He was, it seemed, to be called as a witness for Miller.
Grymes began his cross-examination of Madame Poigneau gently enough. When had she first seen Sally Miller? She appeared unsettled by his question. She couldn’t exactly remember. It was at least twenty years ago.
Well then, asked Grymes, what street were you living in then?
Again his question caused her difficulty. She didn’t know the name of the street. You can’t remember? asked Grymes solicitously. She said she couldn’t, but then added that she had always lived in the lower part of the city.
Did she know the name of the faubourg? She didn’t know that either. Grymes smiled sympathetically. She gave the names of some of the people she knew in her street.
How does that help the court? said Grymes, with the slightest of sneers. Do you expect the judge to know these people?
The woman made no response.
So, you don’t know where you were living?
It was about half a square from Mr. Miller’s mill.
It’s difficult after such a long time, isn’t it? said Grymes.
Madame Poigneau agreed.
Grymes turned to a different topic. Had she ever visited Miller in his house?
No, she hadn’t.
Had she ever visited his mother, Mrs. Canby? No.
Well, then, why were you on Miller’s land?
I went to the yard to visit among the old Negresses.
These would be slave women you were visiting, Madame Poigneau?
The witness mumbled a reply. He repeated the question.
Yes, she said more loudly.
Suddenly there was a hardness in Grymes’s voice. So, you heard Sally Miller speaking with a German accent, while you were visiting old slave women?
Yes. She always spoke German.
But you were visiting slave women?
Yes.
Because they were your friends, these slave women? That was why you visited them?
Yes. Bridget always spoke German.
You are now saying that this woman spoke German, are you? Not just had a German accent, but spoke German?
She always spoke German.
She spoke German to you?
Yes, she always spoke German.
Ahh, said Grymes. Could you speak a little German for us?
She looked at him in confusion. Grymes sighed in mock empathy. Gone, has it?
I used to be able to speak German back then, but it’s forgotten. It’s because I only speak Spanish now. But Bridget spoke German then. I heard her.
And what did you talk about.
I never had a conversation with her. I just heard her talking.
Well, what was that?
I once said: Well young girl, you are running about with your feet naked and your calico robe on.
I see, said Grymes. How old are you, Madame Poigneau?
I don’t know. We Creoles don’t count our ages.
No, I suppose not.
I was born in New Orleans, though, added Madame Poigneau, and grew up during the rule of Governor Galvez.
Grymes’s face beamed. Governor Galvez, the Spanish governor? You remember him? The witness did.
Bernardo De Galvez’s rule in Louisiana had ended sixty-five years earlier. Grymes looked at Judge Buchanan and shook his head in a knowing way, implying that Madame Poigneau’s mind had long since departed her. Oh dear, said the lawyer in a stage whisper as he sat down.
Somewhat shaken after watching Grymes maul his first witness, Upton next called Madame Hemm. She was a middle-aged German woman of dour respectability, whom he felt sure would have no difficulty in remembering where she lived. Nor was there any possibility that she would have spent her time visiting elderly slave women.
Madame Hemm went through the story of how she had accompanied her parents from Württemberg to Holland, and how, once they had arrived in Amsterdam, her father had used the last of their savings to pay for the family’s passage to Philadelphia. Later they heard that the man who had taken their money had become bankrupt. They had been cheated and they had nowhere to go. They had spent five months in Helder and it was there that she had met Salomé Müller. She guessed that Salomé’s age was then three or four. Eventually the Dutch government made them return to Amsterdam, where they waited until they came to America. Many, many of them had died.
And that child you saw in Holland, do you see her now in the court? asked Upton.
Oh, yes, said Madame Hemm in a clear voice, pointing to Sally Miller. I recognized her as belonging to the same family. She is the person I saw in Amsterdam.
How did you recognize her as the same person? he asked.
There was the family likeness in her face, which I saw as soon as she came in the door.
The lawyers packed up their books and papers, and walked back to their office. The first day in court had ended, and Madame Hemm would continue to give her testimony in the morning. The German supporters of Sally Miller accompanied the Upton brothers part of the way. There was none of the excitement that had accompanied the parade to the Presbytere that morning. Would it go for much longer? they asked. Weeks yet, they were told. They nodded; they had thought
as much.
Before he let Sally Miller go, Wheelock Upton asked her about General Lewis. He had visited Miller’s household a lot, she told him. That was many years ago. He had spoken to her plenty of times. What had they talked about? Nothing, really. Nothing important. Nothing that she could remember. She had waited on his table and carried coffee to him and Miller while they chatted on the veranda. He was always friendly to her. He was always polite. Sometimes he asked her about her children. That was all. But what did she say to him? Nothing, replied Sally. She couldn’t imagine what he was coming to give evidence about.
The Upton brothers continued on their way. It had been a day of mixed fortune. Madame Poigneau hadn’t been the savior they had hoped for, but Madame Hemm had done well. Still, there was Grymes’s cross-examination to come.
The next morning Upton asked Madame Hemm a few questions about the dispersion of the immigrants once they had arrived in New Orleans. Madame Hemm said that she never knew where Shoemaker Müller’s children had gone and it was only lately that she had learned that Sally Miller was alive. Upton asked her again to explain how she recognized Sally after all those years. She gave the same answer: she immediately saw the family likeness.