Jarrettsville

by Cornelia Nixon

  He gave me a sad look. “Dear lady, I only hope you will be half so eloquent in your daughter’s defense. This is a tragic day indeed. But I will speak to Mr. Jones and see if he can be persuaded to pursue another course.”

  Rising, he took my arm and escorted me across the street, into the courthouse gallery, where I took my seat with more hope than before, feeling as if my chest were scoured out. It would be horrible, what was to come that day. But at least my Richard would be spared.

  The afternoon was warm, and cicadas vibrated in trees outside. The courtroom windows had been raised up high, and sun streamed in, the air sweet with bloom. The defense lawyers began to call on upright citizens to praise my daughter’s virtues, piety, and preference for good works. My brother had long served as a judge in the Orphans’ Court, and they called him first.

  “I’ve known her all her life,” he said, gazing up to where I sat as if to reassure me. “She is my niece, of the highest social standing and of blameless character.”

  When my brother was dismissed, Mr. Farnandis called on two well-respected ministers who said they knew her well. That they did, but only on her best behavior, in church.

  “Her general character is as good as can be in every respect,” said Reverend Abraham Gladden. “There is no young lady of superior social standing in her neighborhood. She is very modest and retiring. There is no levity in her manner or cruelty in her disposition. She is kind and gentle and charitable, particularly so. She has always been very active in cases of sickness, death, and Sunday school celebrations.”

  Our own Reverend Cathcart said the same. “I have never seen any vicious propensities in her such as ill will, resentment, or levity. I’ve never heard a word uttered against her. She studied in my school, and she has been exemplary for her good conduct all the time I’ve known her. No one stands higher than Miss Cairnes or more respected for her virtue and excellence.”

  Mr. Jones stood up to cross-examine him. “How long did she go to school to you?”

  Reverend Cathcart’s eyes were small and jittery behind his spectacles. “Oh, it was a considerable time. A year or two, or even longer.”

  “Yes, and look where it got her!” someone muttered behind me, and my face burned.

  “No good comes of sending them to school!”

  “Hush!” several voices said, and the muttering died down.

  The next witness called was Gabriel Smithson, and as he plodded to the stand, the crowd around me squirmed in anticipation, as if sure he would know something, tavern-keeper that he was, and so close to our farm.

  It was Henry Archer’s turn to do the questioning, and you could not help but admire his dignified bearing. He looked like who he was, nearly elected governor, and brother to a great Confederate general. A statesmanlike figure, tall, broad-shouldered, he had been handsome in his youth, though his fair hair had retreated and the pale skin of his forehead now covered his pate, and his dark eyes drooped as if with great sorrow. He asked Smithson about my daughter’s reputation, and he agreed with the others. But Mr. Archer wanted something more.

  “What did you see the night of April tenth at the hotel in Jarrettsville?”

  Smithson told his view of the events with evident gusto. “I was on my horse in the act of going away and had ridden from the stable in the direction of the porch, when I saw Miss Cairnes appear from the parlor and shoot instantly. She looked pale, and her manner appeared wild and resolute. Her expression was quite different from what it formerly had been. The whole affair didn’t occupy a minute—not half a minute. I could not have done it so quick.”

  Some laughed at that, and the judges gave warning glances around the room.

  “And did you hear her say anything at that time?”

  Smithson nodded. “She said something, but I couldn’t make it out. Some said later—”

  Mr. Jones sprang to his feet. “Objection. Hearsay testimony has no relevancy.”

  Judge Grason agreed. “Objection sustained.”

  “But did you hear her say anything yourself?” Mr. Archer asked again.

  Smithson hesitated. “I didn’t rightly hear, no. But I must say, she seemed quite insane, and I thought to myself, She’ll be a corpse before morning.”

  The courtroom went still, and even I felt chilled. Was I glad she had not killed herself? I did not want to look at her but could not help it. My eyes turned toward her fleetingly, through the rail of the gallery. She stared straight ahead, her face uncovered and so vulnerable, it made me wince. I looked back to the witness, determined not to care. She had borne a bastard and committed murder, and she alone must pay for it.

  Mr. Jones stood up to cross-examine Smithson. “Were you acquainted with the victim?”

  Smithson’s eyes went red, and he blinked rapidly. “I had been with him a great deal. He was my friend, from boyhood till his death.”

  “What was your object in riding back to the porch?”

  Smithson seemed to haul in a big breath before he could speak. “My object was to have some words with him before I left, on a particular subject.”

  “What was the subject?”

  “When he first landed on the porch, he had a little altercation with Frank Street, and I rode up to see if I could help. But my attention was attracted by the appearance of the lady and the flash of the pistol. She fired wildly, and I wheeled the horse about.”

  “Why did you wheel?”

  Smithson gave a sheepish grin. “The action was too hot for me.”

  Some in the court guffawed, though others shushed them, and I felt all eyes slide toward the prisoner’s dock. I had to look again. Was her bare face contrite? It certainly was not. A spark seemed to light her big bold eyes—she almost laughed. Oh! To think I had almost forgiven her!

  Belle took hold of me. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded and pulled myself upright. I had to stand it now.

  Mr. Jones went on evenly. “Tell us about Nick McComas’s altercation with Frank Street. What was the subject of their dispute?”

  Smithson flushed deep red and looked unwilling to go on. The crowd leaned forward. He was under oath, and he would have to say.

  “It was about some talk going round the neighborhood.”

  “Go on. What was the talk?”

  “Talk touching Miss Cairnes.”

  “What sort of talk?”

  “It’s too indelicate to say.”

  “I think you can go on in general terms. What did the talk concern?”

  With a great flounce and rustle, several ladies rose and bolted from the gallery, as did several from the floor below. Some men eyed their womenfolk and seemed to wonder if they ought to take them out. For a few minutes the room was in chaos, the fainthearted making for the doors. I had blamed her one minute before, but now I hated those who left for their certainty that such a thing could not happen to them and that my daughter’s story might sully them.

  “Silence! Silence!” called the court crier.

  Judge Grason rapped his gavel hard three times. “Ladies and gentlemen, I must warn you once again. All those making indecorous exclamations will be expelled from this courtroom. Silence is the only acceptable course for you.”

  The witness waited until all who could not bear to hear had left the room.

  Looking down, he spoke softly. “Talk touching her and a black man. It was all over the county by that time, and many believed it. Nick had told me there was no truth in it, and it was low and slanderous. He always defended her, and she killed him anyway.”

  He lifted hot blue eyes toward the dock, where for once my daughter had the decency to sit with eyes cast down, all laughter gone.

  When Mr. Smithson was dismissed, the prisoner seemed to waver as she sat, and a lady stepped boldly across the hardwood floor, a glass of water in her hand. With her back to me, I did not know her, but she was tall and graceful, her mass of white hair elegantly dressed, rows of black lace flounces on her skirt, a black lace cap and gloves. The sheriff trie
d to stop her but she went on to the dock, held out the glass. Judge, jury, lawyers, and audience alike went still, and even the reporters stopped scratching to watch.

  Leaning down, she said something my daughter, who shook her head as if to refuse the glass. But the lady persisted, and my daughter took it and drank. When the lady turned to walk back to her seat, I saw she was Mrs. Stevenson Archer, sister-in-law of the Confederate general and a great lady in Bel Air. Even in old age she was quite beautiful, with soft turquoise eyes and a famous heart-shaped face.

  But what was that Mr. Farnandis had just announced in his clear voice? All eyes on the floor and in the gallery had turned to gaze at me. Down on the floor, Farnandis beckoned, but I sat frozen in my seat.

  Belle took my elbow. “It’s time. They have called you up, dearest. Here, lean on me.”

  My legs trembled so hard, I did not think that I could stand. A woman I did not even know rose to take my elbow on the other side, and she and Belle assisted me out of the gallery and to the stairway down.

  There I was met by Colonel Stump, tall and mighty with a gentle face, and he supported not only my arm but also my waist, so I felt lifted off the floor. Belle went with me anyway, down to the gate into the court. I wanted to hold on to her like Naomi embracing Ruth.

  Colonel Stump half carried me across the floor to the witness stand, and I fought off the panicked feeling that it was me they meant to hang or stone or drown as a witch, humiliate me any way they could, show that some flaw in my soul had made me spawn a murderess.

  But it was far worse when I turned and faced their eyes. Never had so many people stared at me. My wedding had been small, just family, and it was my back they watched that day. That day at the altar, I had been asked only one question, and anyone could answer that.

  But here? What would they ask?

  “Dear Mrs. Cairnes,” Colonel Stump said gently and held a Bible toward me, asked me to put my left hand on it and raise the right. “Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  I nodded but knew that was not enough.

  “I do,” I whispered, just as I had that far-off day in church, and Stump withdrew.

  Mr. Archer had been selected to question me, as if his mournful looks would only be appropriate, and when he spoke it was with noticeable gentleness.

  “Mrs. Cairnes, could you describe your relationship with the prisoner?”

  My voice almost vanished in the droning afternoon, and the crowd went extremely still, leaning forward to catch my quiet words. “I am her mother.”

  “Does she reside with you?”

  “She has always lived at home.”

  “And what was your relationship with the deceased?”

  The crowd shifted uneasily, as if it were indecent to question me about the man my child had killed. I closed my eyes. “I had known him for several years.”

  “In what capacity?”

  I shuddered. But I knew I had to gather my resolve, and my voice came out stronger. “My daughter and he were engaged to be married.”

  “Objection,” the attorney general said, and rose. “Deposing to the declarations of the deceased does not tend to show the guilt or innocence of the prisoner. The state contends that no excuse can justify deliberate killing, and no provocation within the range of imagination can be adduced as justification for that act. If the other side intends to argue that this lady, when she violated the laws of God and man, was not in her right mind, then the only evidence allowed should be to that effect.”

  The witness box stood so close to the judges’ bench that I could hear Judge Grason’s chair creak and his robes rustle as he leaned forward to look over his spectacles at Mr. Archer.

  “Counsel for the defense will explain his line of questioning.”

  Mr. Archer’s sad eyes sagged with unusual fervor. “The question asked was meant to show the intimate relations between the deceased and the prisoner. The state has the right to go back to prove malice, and the defense has the same right to go back to prove friendly feeling.”

  But the attorney general stayed on his feet. “The state submits that the evidence should be confined to the condition of the prisoner’s mind at the time of the occurrence.”

  More creaking and rustling as the three judges bent their heads together for a long minute. Judge Grason lifted his head. “The court has decided that, according to custom, the antecedent relations existing between the parties may be brought in evidence.”

  A mutter rose around the room, as if “antecedent relations” were too nice a way of putting it, and my face flamed. The judge glared and scattered his disapproval like buckshot around the room. Ladies opened fans and rapidly agitated the warm, charged air.

  “Did you give consent to the marriage?” Mr. Archer asked with a hint of accusation.

  “He had asked for and obtained it,” I said curtly.

  “And when exactly did he ask for it?”

  “In November 1865, a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Did he set a date for the wedding?”

  I lifted my chin. Let them accuse me, but I had done everything I could. “There was a sense that it would happen before spring. We had the wedding clothes made up.”

  “But was a firm date set, in fact?”

  I pressed my lips together, but I knew I had to say. “Several dates were set at various times. But he always delayed it.”

  I could see bonnets bobbing in the gallery, and ladies eyed each other with significance. I knew what they thought, because I had thought it, too: A long engagement might mean patience in a man, but eagerness showed more virtue. All over the courtroom, heads nodded with satisfaction, and fans twitched back and forth like a flock of wings.

  “And if a date was set, why did the wedding not occur?”

  If they ever let me off this stand, I might never speak again. “He put it off from month to month on one pretext or another.”

  “And was the engagement ever broken off?”

  “It most certainly was not. We merely heard that he had left the neighborhood.”

  A hiss of whispers issued from the gallery, and men of every description, young and old, in farmers’ clothes or lawyers’ suits, looked disengaged as if they were not in the room as the ladies all absorbed the fact that Nick had run. Mothers raised eyebrows at daughters, as if to say, “You see, that’s what a man can do.” For some reason, that heartened me.

  The attorney general half-rose from his seat, mildly. “Objection. Hearsay evidence.”

  This time Judge Grason did not consult the others. “Objection overruled.”

  “When was the last time fixed for the wedding?” Mr. Archer asked gently, and the courtroom held its breath to hear the gruesome particulars of my daughter’s disgrace.

  “The last time fixed for the marriage was last November,” I said in a low voice, the silence now so deep it seemed to carry to the rafters. “But he did not appear on the day set for the wedding. We had everything prepared, with family and friends assembled there as witnesses, but he never came to our house that day or ever again. My daughter sat up past midnight to wait for him, and since that time she has hardly left her bed.”

  “And why was she put to bed for so long?”

  I closed my eyes. “She was confined not long after he failed to appear, and she did not get up again until last month.”

  Mr. Archer prompted me almost in a whisper. “Why was she confined?”

  I glared at him for asking what everyone in that room knew. My voice came in a singsong, like a nursery rhyme. “She was confined to childbed. She is now the mother of a little child. Mr. McComas knew she would be when he last promised to marry her.”

  The silence was broken only by the pen strokes of the newsmen, so quiet that I could hear hooves clop around the square outside and birds whistling in trees.

  “Did he recognize himself as the father of that child?” Mr. Archer asked and brushed a hand before his face, as if to shoo a f
ly.

  “Objection,” Mr. Jones called and stood up. “The defense may not show by the declarations of the deceased that this intimacy was immoral.”

  From behind his round glasses, Judge Grason fixed a long, disappointed look on the attorney general. “Objection not sustained. Witness must answer the question.”

  “He agreed to its keep. And before that he said he would marry her.” I could not bring myself to glance toward her, but I gestured that way. “He gave her a wedding ring. It was his grandmother’s. It’s on her finger now.”

  All eyes turned to look at her, a general rustling on all sides. Helpless to stop myself, I glanced quickly, and there it was, a gold ring catching afternoon sunlight and glinting on her finger. But she bowed her head and covered it with her other hand, as if to save it from their sight. For some reason I felt tears spring to my eyes.

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Mr. Archer said and retired to his seat.

  The attorney general stood up to cross-examine me, and he greeted me pleasantly. “Tell me, Mrs. Cairnes, did your daughter enjoy the company of the deceased?”

  This reeked of suggestion, as if agreement might prove she had asked for everything he did, and I took offense. Icy cold around my heart, I felt all these men were arrayed against me and my daughter, wanting to kill us both. My voice quavered out.

  “She was always cheerful in his company, and as cheerful as could be expected in the company of others. But she has shown great distress of mind for the past fifteen months.”

  Mr. Jones’s measured voice continued in a cheerful way. “Did she ever object to his attentions or try to discourage them?”

  I could see where this was going, and I glowered in silence.

  “Please, Mrs. Cairnes,” Judge Grason said. “Just answer yes or no.”

  I could not help it, and my voice came hot. “Of course she did not. My daughter cared for him. She was engaged to marry him.”

  Ladies shot startled looks in the direction of the dock, and I wanted to shake them. What, had they thought she was just lewd? Born debased, of tainted blood? No. Look at her. Look at her! She had loved the man. There was a time when she was innocent!