Finally it was time, and Jeanne finished dressing in her brand-new outfit. Mr. Deshler had asked what clothing she would be wearing to the trial, and she had shown him her maroon skirt and capelet and bonnet and her skirts and blouses. He had advised her to buy another dress similar to the maroon, only not quite so dour. She'd bought a moss-green dress, the skirt with three flounces, and it had long full sleeves, the cuffs trimmed with white lace. The capelet was earth brown with green and white piping. She'd bought a brown bonnet trimmed with green satin ivy leaves and white and peach-colored rosettes. With satisfaction she reflected that she looked as Mr. Deshler had said, "ladylike and not too rich, not too poor, not too frilly, not too plain."
She went downstairs and she, Vince, Ezra, and Roberty left for the courthouse. A crowd of people were gathered on the docks at the Helena Rose, and Jeanne was very grateful to Nathaniel Deshler for sending his carriage for them. Journalists shouted out, "Captain Jeanne! Give us a smile, will you? You gonna tell us all your secrets in court? How are you and Clint the Flint doing? Have you seen him since he got arrested? C'mon, give us something we can print, Cap'n Jeanne!"
"Clint the Flint?" Jeanne asked after they got into the carriage.
"Clint the Flint Fist is his whole name," Vince said. "And I think Bettencourt got off real lucky, the little squealin' pig. I've seen Clint do a whole lot worse to a man than getting a little scratch on his shoulder."
All around the courthouse were horses, buggies, carts, and carriages, and a huge crowd of people. The deputies cleared them away from the walk up to the steps. As Jeanne alighted from the carriage she saw with a sinking heart that most of them looked at her with expressions of disdain. There were a lot of women, many with their husbands, and the looks they gave her were much more sour than the men. For the most part they were silent, and for Jeanne, walking with Vince, it was like running a gauntlet. She kept her eyes straight ahead. There were murmurings and whisperings, and she distinctly heard one woman say, "You can see she's a tramp." Jeanne didn't know it, but behind her Roberty stuck out his tongue and made a horrible face at the woman.
At the double doors to the courtroom a deputy said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, we're keeping the courtroom clear until all of the witnesses arrive. You all will be seated on the front bench, just behind the defendant's table."
They went into the courtroom. Two clerks were sitting at the court officers' table, and two bailiffs stood in front of two doors behind the judge's dais. Two more bailiffs stood at the entrance doors. Mrs. O'Dwyer was sitting on the first bench, along with another lady that Jeanne didn't know. On the second bench behind sat the Gayoso housekeeper, Mrs. Wiedemann, and Dr. Augustus Hightower with a stiff, proud-looking woman that Jeanne assumed must be his wife.
Jeanne sat by Mrs. O'Dwyer, with Roberty, Vince, and Ezra on her left. Jeanne had just started greeting Mrs. O'Dwyer when there was a stir outside in the foyer. Evidently Max had arrived, and he was shouting answers to questions at the crowd. With dread, Jeanne sat staring straight ahead until he got to the prosecutor's table. His left arm and chest were heavily bandaged, his sky-blue velvet frock coat hanging by one shoulder. His face looked pale and drawn, but his blue eyes were bright and he still was an attractive man. He was accompanied by a short, bowlegged man with thinning dark hair and a raggedy black mustache. Bettencourt looked straight at Jeanne and gave her a big shark's grin. Jeanne looked away.
Then the bailiffs opened the doors and let the crowd in. It was like a stampede of cattle. The bailiffs kept calling, "Stop shoving, people! Stop that pushing, or you'll be heading outside instead of inside!"
From the entrance hall, on both sides, the hammering of people running up the stairs to the gallery thundered throughout the building. As the crowds settled down, Jeanne had no desire to look behind, but she could see people in the gallery. It was interesting, she thought, that the middle-class and Quality must be sitting in the courtroom, for every person in the gallery appeared to be the lower classes: roustabouts and their wives, tradesmen, charwomen, shop clerks, maids, and several very flashy women who obviously didn't have what might be called regular employment.
The door opened behind the dais, and the district attorney, Cyrus Jameson, came in and went to sit with Max. He was a big barrel-chested, round-gutted, imposing man with a shiny bald pate with a black fringe of hair and large, round dark eyes. He turned to look at Jeanne and nodded politely to her.
Then Nathaniel Deshler came in, followed by Clint. There was a distinct murmur from the crowd. Clint's hands weren't bound, and Jeanne saw that he was wearing a plain black frock coat, a gray waistcoat, and a white shirt with a black string tie. He looked amazingly handsome, towering over the average-sized Deshler, his shoulders broad and ruler-straight, his hair black and glossy, his features tanned and rugged. He smiled at Jeanne and the others as unselfconsciously as if they were on the deck of the Helena Rose. When he took his seat he was right in front of Jeanne.
From the gallery above one woman's high-pitched nasal voice was heard clearly. "Ooh, ain't he just dee-licious!" Laughter sounded, and also male grumbles.
The jury came in, and as Jeanne knew they would be, twelve men "good and true"—all of them average-looking men, farmers, shopkeepers, clerks, tradesmen. All of them stared at Clint, but not as long as they stared at Jeanne. She met their gazes equably, and in good time turned to look straight ahead.
After a few more minutes the bailiff stood in front of the dais and shouted, "Oyez, oyez, oyez! All rise for the Honorable Judge Eugene Poynter, presiding over the Phillips County Criminal Court, State of Tennessee!" The distinct rumble of two hundred seventy persons rising to their feet sounded, and Judge Poynter entered the courtroom.
He was of average height and build, but he had a distinguished look, with beautiful thick wavy silver-white hair, a wide brow, and hawk-like blue eyes. He was wearing a simple but beautifully tailored suit, and took his seat above them all with easy patrician grace. The bailiff said, "All be seated. Court is now in session."
Judge Poynter read the particulars of the charges against Clint, which carefully outlined the relationships between Clinton Hardin, Maxwell Bettencourt, and Jeanne Bettencourt. Then he asked formally, "Mr. Jameson, is the prosecution ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Deshler, is the defense ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Jameson, you may make your opening statement."
Cy Jameson rose, walked assuredly to the jury box, and rested his well-manicured hand on the railing in front of them. As he talked he turned alternately to address the jury and the courtroom. He was a charismatic man, and an expert public speaker.
"Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury, and ladies and gentlemen in the courtroom, good morning. This is a simple case. Some of the time lines of events in the lives of the participants may be unusual, but the events of the night that Mr. Bettencourt was shot are all clear and factual and easily understood."
He frowned darkly, and with dismay Jeanne saw at least ten of the male jurors frown right along with him, as if they were mirroring him. Jameson continued, "A soldier, an honorable, oft-promoted, decorated soldier returns from a terrible war. His first and only thoughts are to see his beloved wife, whom he had left with sorrow but with promises between them of undying love and faithfulness. He is as eager as a man can be to rejoin his family, his wife and the child that he has never seen. He finds them, and is overjoyed at the thought of reuniting with them. It's been long lonely years that they've been parted.
"When he visits his wife, full of loving anticipation and joy, he finds only sorrow. She cruelly spurns him, and not only that; she has completely turned his daughter, his only flesh-and-blood, against him. And even worse, he finds that she's living in sin with another man. That man is Clinton Hardin. Mr. Bettencourt comes to understand that his wife and Mr. Hardin are so greedy that they have no intention of letting Mr. Bettencourt reclaim his wife, for they had no wish to share their love nest, a profitable steamboat called th
e Helena Rose, with him.
"The tragic ending to this story is that Mr. Bettencourt visits his wife, and Mr. Hardin, his wife's lover, finds them together and tries to murder him. It is only by the grace of God that Mr. Bettencourt is alive today. But you will find, gentlemen, that the act that caused his wound has nothing to do with grace, or God. Mr. Clinton Hardin shot Maxwell Bettencourt because of jealousy over a woman, and because of money. He is guilty, and I know that you will find him guilty."
Jeanne's hands were shaking when Jameson finished, and her cheeks felt as though they were close to hot flames. She dropped her head, grateful for her bonnet. She saw a small hand reach over and touch hers, then squeeze it gently. Roberty whispered, "Don't be sad, Miss Jeanne."
The judge said, "Mr. Deshler, you may make your opening statement for the defense."
Nate Deshler rose and straightened his waistcoat. He made a complete contrast to Cy Jameson, but it was not unflattering to him. He was stately and dignified and naturally soft-spoken. When he raised his voice to be heard, it didn't sound bombastic, his voice and air were dignified and confident and sure.
"Good morning, Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury, and ladies and gentlemen.
"My esteemed opponent, Mr. Jameson, said that this case was simple. It is not. This case is far from simple. Mr. Bettencourt's story is that a jealous, greedy lover came in when he was visiting his wife and shot him. None of these things are true.
"First of all, there is a grave question that must be settled during the course of this case. Is Mr. Maxwell Bettencourt truly the lawful husband of Jeanne Langer Bettencourt, with all the rights and privileges of a husband? That is not a simple question, and it has no simple answer. I contend that Mr. Bettencourt was not, in all particulars, Jeanne Bettencourt's true husband. When you comprehend this, you will see that it dramatically changes the picture of the scene on that night. In fact, you will see that Clint Hardin shouldn't be on trial for assault here today. Max Bettencourt should be.
"Secondly, Mr. Clint Hardin and Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt are not now, and never have been, lovers. They have never been physically intimate. This will be illustrated to you so that you will have no doubts.
"Thirdly, Mr. Clint Hardin is neither jealous, nor greedy. His sole motive for his actions was to defend Mrs. Bettencourt from a brutal attack.
"And that brings me to my last point. Mr. Clint Hardin did not shoot Mr. Max Bettencourt. And I will prove it."
This grave and sure pronouncement by Deshler had a hubbub of a response from the courtroom. Deshler sat back down and Jeanne read Clint's lips as he leaned over and said, "Well done, sir. Thank you."
Judge Poynter said, "Mr. Jameson, you may proceed."
"Thank you, Your Honor. For my first witness I call Mr. Maxwell Bettencourt."
Max rose and went to the witness chair. The same young nasal woman's voice floated on the air: "He's right purty too. Don't she nab the fine ones, though?" This time the laughter was loud and raucous.
Judge Poynter was not amused. He pounded his gavel once, hard. "I will have order in my court! All you people be quiet. Especially you, young lady!" His gaze swept the gallery, which fell utterly silent. As soon as he looked away the girl peeped, "Yessir, Yer Honor." Again the laughter, shorter and much quieter this time.
Judge Poynter looked as grave as death, but he merely said, "Proceed, Mr. Jameson."
Cy Jameson stood by the witness box, to the right of Max, so that Max could see the jury and the entire courtroom clearly. He made a good, credible witness, speaking to the men in the jury box, gesturing with manly grace, looking out over the crowd, occasionally making eye contact with a listener whose face showed sympathy.
Jameson said, "Mr. Bettencourt, what I want you to do is to tell your story to the court, as simply and honestly as you have told me. I will guide you with questions, but I want you to feel free to give full and complete answers. Please begin by telling us of your life in the United States Army."
Max told about how he had lied about his age at sixteen, telling the army that he was eighteen, because he was so anxious to serve his country. He had served in the Indian Territories for seven of the eight years of his career, earning two decorations for bravery, and field promotions until he reached the rank of captain in the artillery. "Then, in 1846, I was assigned to Fort Smith, Arkansas. That was when I met Miss Jeanne Langer."
Jameson said, "Tell us about your courtship of Miss Langer."
"I fell in love with her the first time I saw her," he said quietly, apparently so poignantly. "She was beautiful. She still is. Anyway, she was young then, only sixteen, but she was a polished, intelligent, sweet, bright young woman. The first time I ever set eyes on her she was on the deck of her father's riverboat, the Pearl. She had flowers in her hair, and she was wearing a bright yellow dress, and she looked like sunshine in spring. I wrangled an introduction to her father, the captain and pilot of the boat. Then I made friends with Miss Langer. I went slowly, because she was innocent and pure, and I was older and had certainly seen more of the world. But over time I showed her how much I loved her, and she fell in love with me. Because of her youth, her parents wanted us to wait to be married, and we were engaged for a year and a half. I didn't mind. I loved her so much that I would have waited all my life for her, if she'd wanted me to. But she didn't. We married when she was seventeen."
"Now please tell us something of your marriage, your life together, and how it came about that you went to war," Jameson said encouragingly.
"I resigned from the army just before Jeanne and I married, and I went to Memphis to get a job. I found work at the Victory Ironworks and Armory, as an artillery specialist and gunsmith. It was hard at first, because my army pay wasn't enough that I had much saved back, and though my pay at the ironworks was better, it would take awhile for me to be able to support us in some comfort. But Jeanne's father was very generous with us, and gave us some money to help us get started. We got a small upstairs two-room apartment in Memphis, and I worked hard. We were very happy. Jeanne was young, but she was a joyful, loving wife, and I adored her more and more every day. We were ecstatic when we found out that Jeanne was expecting our first child."
Here he sighed and looked deeply regretful. "I'm afraid that I found the civilian life very difficult, however. From the time I was just a small child I wanted to join the army, and I loved that adventurous, exciting life. I admit that I missed it. I'm afraid that at heart I am a true soldier."
"True, and brave, a warrior," Cy Jameson intoned. "And is that why you left Mrs. Bettencourt, to return to the military life?"
"Oh, no," Max said, appalled. "I would never have left her for such a selfish reason. No, it was all because I found out that if I joined the Sikh Army in what was called the Anglo-Sikh War, to train their artillery, I could earn a fortune. I was told that the maharajah would pay trained artillerists four hundred dollars a month! At the armory I was making five hundred dollars a year! When I told Jeanne this, she was hesitant, but then she saw that I could work overseas for only six months and earn over two thousand dollars. When she realized how much that would help us, she encouraged me to join. We believed that I would be gone, at most, for only eight months, a month's travel each way—paid by the maharajah, you understand—and six months spent training the Sikh artillery. It seemed like a dream come true, especially for a young couple just starting a family. Jeanne and I were devastated at being parted, but we both believed it was for the best. We promised each other, as when we had taken our solemn wedding vows, to love, honor, and cherish the other, unless death should part us."
Dreamy sighs were audible from several ladies in the courtroom. Cy Jameson paused for effect, then said in a low, sympathetic voice, "But, Mr. Bettencourt, all of your dreams for this venture turned into a nightmare, did they not?"
"It was a nightmare from the first day I set foot in that godforsaken land," Max said grimly. "We had been deceived by the maharajah's emissaries. When we arrived to join the army, we
virtually became prisoners. We were kept under armed guard night and day. Our living quarters were worse than prison cells. For the first two months, we received not one rupee in pay. Only after I made a plea to our colonel on behalf of all of us American and British soldiers that were trapped there, did we begin to receive a hundred rupees a month, which was about twelve dollars in American money. It was a pittance, for we were half-starved, we had no uniforms provided, and their only concession for our living accommodations was a single crude tent for the thirteen of us.
"They are a cruel, sly, and sophisticated people. We were given chits each month, IOUs if you will, from the maharajah, showing that he owed us the balance, basically three hundred and eighty-eight dollars, each month and would be paid this balance at the end of our service. Of course, we all knew that we would never be paid that money," he said bitterly.
"I was half crazy when I found out I wouldn't be able to send money to Jeanne and our unborn child," he continued dramatically. "And it was even worse, for me, when I found out that we had no access to any mail at all. I wrote Jeanne long letters, full of love and begging her forgiveness for my stupidity. But none of them could ever be mailed.
"And of course, we were also deceived when we were told that we could enlist in the Khalsa—the Sikh Army—for any period we chose. I had enlisted for six months; I ended up a virtual prisoner there for six years. The Sikhs lost the war, and I had to flee the country secretly to avoid being executed. I came home with no glory, no honorable satisfaction as that of a soldier who knows he has done his job well, and certainly with no money. All I had left were the clothes on my back—and my family."
From here on out Max's story closely followed Cy Jameson's opening statement. He spoke movingly of his joy at finding Jeanne and Marvel, and of his devastation when she spurned him. He even teared up, and wiped his eyes. "All I wanted was my loving Jeanne, and to show my daughter how much I had missed her and loved her," he said in a ragged voice. "Jeanne grievously wounded my heart, and then that brute tried to shoot me in the heart. He dragged me off the boat and threw me down in the mud, wounded and bleeding. He threw his gun in the river and then he snarled at me, "You're a dead man, Bettencourt, and no one on this earth will know or care who killed you. Now get out of my sight!"
The River Rose Page 31