CHAPTER XVI. AN UNLOOKED-FOR DISCLOSURE.
On the second day of the trial, the court-house was even more densely crowded than on the first. The rank and station which the accused had held in society, as well as the mysterious character of the case itself, had invested the event with an uncommon interest; and long before the doors were opened, a vast concourse filled the streets, amidst which were to be seen the equipages of many of the first people of the country.
Scarcely had the judges taken their places, when every seat in the court was occupied,—the larger proportion of which displayed the rank and beauty of the capital, who now thronged to the spot, all animated with the most eager curiosity, and speculating on the result in a spirit which, whatever anxiety it involved, as certainly evinced little real sympathy for the fate of the prisoner. The bold, defiant tone which Curtis had always assumed in the world had made him but few friends, even with his own party; his sneering, caustic manner had rendered him unpopular; few could escape his censures,—none his sarcasms. It would, indeed, have been difficult to discover one for whom less personal interest was felt than for the individual who that morning stood erect in the dock, and with a calm but stern expression regarded the bench and the jury-box.
As the court continued to fill, Curtis threw his eyes here and there over the crowded assemblage, but in no wise disconcerted by the universal gaze of which he was the object. On the contrary, he nodded familiarly to some acquaintances at a distance; and, recognizing one whom he knew well in the gallery over his head, he called out,—
“How are you, Ruxton? Let me advise you to change your bootmaker, or I would n't say that the Crown lawyers won't put you, one day, where I stand now!”
The laugh which followed this sally was scarcely repressed, when the trial began. The first witness produced was a certain Joseph Martin, the solicitor at whose house Curtis had passed the evening on which the murder was committed. His evidence, of course, could throw little or no light upon the event, and merely went to establish the fact that Curtis had stayed with him till nigh midnight, and left him about that hour to proceed to his home. When questioned as to the prisoner's manner and general bearing during that evening, he replied that he could detect nothing strange or unusual in it; that he talked pretty much as he always did, and upon the same topics.
“Did he allude to the Government, or to any of its officials?” was then asked; and, before a reply could be given, Curtis cried out,—
“Yes. I told Martin that if the scoundrels who rule us should only continue their present game, nobody could regret the ruin of a country that was a disgrace to live in. Did n't I say that?”
“I must remind you, sir,” interposed the judge, gravely, “how seriously such conduct as this is calculated to prejudice the character of your defence.”
“Defence! my Lord,” broke in Curtis, “when did I ever think of a defence? The gentlemen of the jury have heard me more plainly than your Lordship. I told them, as I now tell you, that innocence is no protection to a man when hunted down by legal bloodhounds; that—”
“I must enforce silence upon you, sir, if I cannot induce caution,” said the judge, solemnly; “you may despise your own safety, but you must respect this court.”
“You 'll find that even a more difficult lesson to teach me, my Lord. I can remember some eight-and-forty years of what is called the administration of justice in Ireland. I am old enough to remember when you hanged a priest who married a Protestant, and disbarred the lawyer that defended him.”
“Be silent, sir,” said the judge, in a voice of command; and with difficulty was Curtis induced to obey the admonition.
As the trial proceeded, it was remarked that Colonel Vereker was seen in close communication with one of the Crown lawyers, who soon afterwards begged to tender him as a witness for the prosecution. The proposal itself and the object it contained were made the subject of a very animated discussion; and although the testimony offered seemed of the greatest importance, the court decided that it was of a kind which, according to the strict rules of evidence, could not be received.
“Then you may rely upon it, gentlemen of the jury,” cried Curtis, “it is favorable to me.”
“Let me assure you, sir, to the contrary,” said the judge, mildly, “and that it is with a jealous regard for your interest we have agreed not to accept this evidence.”
“And have you had no respect for poor Vereker, my Lord? He looks as if he really would like to tell the truth for once in his life.”
“If Colonel Vereker's evidence cannot be admitted upon this point, my Lord,” said the Crown lawyer, “there is yet another, in which it is all-essential. He was one of those who stood beside Rutledge on the balcony when the words were uttered which attracted his notice. The tone of voice, and the manner in which they were uttered, made a deep impression upon him, and he is fully persuaded that they were spoken by the prisoner in the dock.”
“Let us listen to him about that,” said Curtis, who now bestowed a more marked attention to the course of the proceeding. Vereker was immediately sworn, and his examination began. He detailed with great clearness the circumstances which preceded the fatal event, and the nature of the conversation on the balcony, till he came to that part where the interruption from the street took place. “There,” he said, “I cannot trust my memory as to the words employed by Rutledge, although I am confident as to the phrase used in rejoinder, and equally certain as to the voice of him who uttered it.”
“You mean to say,” said the judge, “that you have recognized that voice as belonging to the prisoner.”
“I mean to say, my Lord, that were I to hear him utter the same words in an excited tone, I should be able to swear to them.”
“That's a lie!” cried Curtis.
“These were the words, and that the voice, my Lord,” said Vereker; and as he spoke, a deep murmur of agitated feeling rang through the crowded court.
“By Heaven!” cried Curtis, in a tone of passionate excitement, “I hold my life as cheaply as any man; but I cannot see it taken away by the breath of a false witness: let me interrogate this man.” In vain was it that the practised counsel appointed to conduct his case interposed, and entreated of him to be silent. To no purpose did they beg of him to leave in their hands the difficult game of cross-examination. He rejected their advice as haughtily as he had refused their services, and at once addressed himself to the critical task.
“With whom had you dined, sir, on the day in question,—the 7th of June?” asked he of Vereker.
“I dined with Sir Marcus Hutchinson.”
“There was a large party?”
“There was.”
“Tell us, so far as you remember, the names of the guests.”
“Some were strangers to me,—from England, I believe; but of those I knew before, I can call to mind Leonard Fox, Hamilton Gore, John Fortescue, and his brother Edward, Tom Beresford, and poor Rutledge.”
“It was a convivial party, and you drank freely?”
“Freely, but not to excess.”
“You dined at five o'clock?”
“At half-after five.”
“And rose from table about eleven?”
“About that hour.”
“There were speeches made and toasts drunk, I believe?”
“There were,—a few.”
“The toasts and the speeches were of an eminently loyal character; they all redounded to the honor and credit of the Government?”
“Highly so.”
“And as strikingly did they reflect upon the character of all Irishmen who opposed the ministry, and assumed for themselves the position of patriots. Come, sir, no hesitation; answer my question boldly. Is this not true?”
“We certainly did not regard the party you speak of as being true and faithful subjects of the king.”
“You thought them rebels?”
“Perhaps not exactly rebels.”
“You called them rebels; and you yourself prayed that the time was coming when the lamp-iron and the lash should reward their loyalty. Can you deny this?”
“We had a great deal of conversation about politics. We talked in all the freedom of friendly intercourse, and, doubtless, with some of that warmth which accompanies after-dinner discussions. But as to the exact words—”
“It is the exact words I want; it is the exact words I insist upon, sir. They were used by yourself, and drew down rounds of applause. You were eloquent and successful.”
“I am really unable, at this distance of time, to recollect a word or a phrase that might have fallen from me in the heat of the moment.”
“This speech of yours was made about the middle of the evening?”
“I believe it was.”
“And you afterwards sat a considerable time and drank freely?”
“Yes.”
“And although your recollection of what passed before that is so obscure and inaccurate, you perfectly remember everything that took place when standing on the balcony two hours later, and can swear to the very tone of a voice that uttered but three words: 'That is a lie, sir!'”
“Prisoner at the bar, conduct yourself with the respect due to the court and to the witness under its protection,” interposed the judge, with severity.
“You mistake me, my Lord,” said Curtis, in a voice of affected deprecation. “The words I spoke were not used as commenting on the witness or his veracity. They were simply those to which he swore, those which he heard once, and, although after a five hours' debauch, remained fast graven on his memory, along with the very manner of him who uttered them. I have nothing more to ask him. He may go down—down!” repeated he, solemnly; “if there be yet anything lower that he can descend to!”
Once more did the judge admonish the prisoner as to his conduct, and feelingly pointed out to him the serious injury he was inflicting upon his own case by this rash and intemperate course of proceeding; but Curtis smiled half contemptuously at the correction, and folded his arms with an air of dogged resignation.
It is rarely possible, from merely reading the published proceedings of a trial, to apportion the due degree of weight which the testimony of the several witnesses imposes, or to estimate that force which manner and conduct supply to the evidence when orally delivered. In the present case, the guilt of the accused man rested on the very vaguest circumstances, not one of which but could be easily and satisfactorily accounted for on other grounds. He admitted that he had passed through Stephen's Green on the night in question, and that possibly the tracks imputed to him were actually his own; but as to the reasons for his abrupt departure from town, or the secrecy which he observed when writing to the bootmaker,—these, he said, were personal matters which he would not condescend to enter upon, adding, sarcastically,—
“That though they might not prove very damning omissions in defence of a hackney-coach summons, he was quite aware that they might prove fatal to a man who stood charged with murder.”
After a number of witnesses were examined, whose testimony went to prove slight and unimportant facts, Anthony Fagan was called to show that a variety of bill transactions had passed between the prisoner and Rutledge, and that on more than one occasion very angry discussions had occurred between them in reference to these.
There were many points in which Fagan sympathized with the prisoner. Curtis was violently national in his politics; he bore an unmeasured hatred to all that was English; he was an extravagant asserter of popular rights: and yet, with all these, and, stranger still, with a coarse manner, and an address totally destitute of polish, he was in heart a haughty aristocrat, who despised the people most thoroughly. He was one of that singular class who seemed to retain to the very last years of the past century the feudal barbarism of a bygone age.
Thus was it that the party who accepted his advocacy had to pay the price of his services in deep humiliation; and many there were who felt that the work was more than requited by the wages.
To men like Fagan, whose wealth suggested various ambitions, Curtis was peculiarly offensive, since he never omitted an occasion to remind them of their origin, and to show them that they were as utterly debarred from all social acceptance as in the earliest struggles of their poverty.
The majority of those in court, who only knew generally the agreement between Curtis and Fagan in political matters, were greatly struck by the decisive tone in which the witness spoke; and the damaging character of the evidence was increased by this circumstance.
Among the scenes of angry altercation between the prisoner and Rutledge, Fagan spoke to one wherein Curtis had actually called the other a “swindler.” Rutledge, however, merely remarked upon the liberties which his advanced age entitled him to assume; whereupon Curtis replied, “Don't talk to me, sir, of age! I am young enough and able enough to chastise such as you!”
“Did the discussion end here?” asked the court.
“So far as I know, my Lord, it did; for Mr. Rutledge left my office soon after, and apparently thinking little of what had occurred.”
“If honest Tony had not been too much engrossed with the cares of usury,” cried out Curtis from the dock, “he might have remembered that I said to Rutledge, as he went out, 'The man that injures Joe Curtis owes a debt that he must pay sooner or latter.'”
“I remember the words now,” said Fagan.
“Ay, and so have I ever found it,” said Curtis, solemnly. “There are few who have gone through life with less good fortune than myself, and yet I have lived to see the ruin of almost every man that has injured me!”
The savage vehemence with which he uttered these words caused a shudder throughout the crowded court, and went even further to criminate him in popular opinion than all that had been alleged in evidence.
When asked by the court if he desired to cross-examine the witness, Curtis, in a calm and collected voice, replied:
“No, my Lord; Tony Fagan will lose a hundred and eighty pounds if you hang me; and if he had anything to allege in my favor, we should have heard it before this.” Then, turning towards the jury-box, he went on: “Now, gentlemen of the jury, there's little reason for detaining you any longer. You have as complete a case of circumstantial evidence before you as ever sent an innocent man to the scaffold. You have had the traits of my temper and the tracks of my boots, and, if you believe Colonel Vereker, the very tones of my voice, all sworn to; but, better than all these, you have at your disposal the life of a man who is too sick of the world to stretch out a hand to save himself, and who would even accept the disgrace of an ignominious death for the sake of the greater ignominy that is sure to fall later upon the unjust laws and the corrupt court that condemned him. Ay!” cried he, with an impressive solemnity of voice that thrilled through every heart, “you 'll array yourselves in all the solemn mockery of your station; you 'll bewail my guilt, and pronounce my sentence; but it is I, from this dock, say unto you upon that bench, the Lord have mercy upon your souls!”
There was in the energy of his manner, despite all its eccentricity and quaintness, a degree of power that awed the entire assembly; and more than one trembled to think, “What if he really were to be innocent!”
While this singular address was being delivered, Fagan was engaged in deep and earnest conversation with the Crown prosecutor; and from his excited manner might be seen the intense anxiety under which he labored. He was evidently urging some proposition with all his might, to which the other listened with deep attention.
At this instant Fagan's arm was tapped by a hand from the crowd. He turned, and as suddenly grew deadly pale; for it was Raper stood before him!—Raper, whom he believed at that moment to be far away in a remote part of the country.
“What brings you here? How came you to Dublin?” said Fagan, in a voice tremulous with passion.
“We have just arrived; we heard that you were here, and he insisted upon seeing you before he left town.”
“Where is he, then?” asked Fagan.
“In his carriage at the door of the court-house.”
“Does he know—has he heard of the case before the court? Speak, man! Is he aware of what is going on here?”
The terrified eagerness of his whisper so overcame poor Raper that he was utterly unable to reply, and Fagan was obliged to clutch him by the arm to recall him to consciousness. Even, then, however, his vague and broken answer showed how completely his faculties were terrorized over by the despotic influence of his master. An indistinct sense of having erred somehow overcame him, and he shrank back from the piercing glance of the other, to hide himself in the crowd. Terrible as that moment of suspense must have been to Fagan, it was nothing to the agony which succeeded It, as he saw the crowd separating on either side to leave a free passage for the approach of an invalid who slowly came forward to the side-bar, casting his eyes around him, in half-bewildered astonishment at the scene.
Being recognized by the Bench, an usher of the court was sent round to say that their Lordships would make room for him beside them; and my father—for it was he—with difficulty mounted the steps and took his seat beside the Chief Justice, faintly answering the kind inquiries for his health in a voice weak and feeble as a girl's.
“You little expected to see me in such a place as this, Walter!” cried out Curtis from the dock; “and I just as little looked to see your father's son seated upon the bench at such a moment!”
“What is it? What does it all mean? How is Curtis there? What has happened?” asked my father, vaguely.
The Chief Justice whispered a few words in reply, when, with a shriek that made every heart cold, my father sprang to his feet, and, leaning his body over the front of the bench, cried out,—
“It was I killed Barry Rutledge! There was no murder in the case! We fought with swords; and there,” said he, drawing the weapon, “there's the blade that pierced his heart! and here” (tearing open his vest and shirt)—“and here the wound he gave me in return. The outrage for which he died well merited the penalty; but if there be guilt, it is mine, and mine only!”
A fit of choking stopped his utterance. He tried to overcome it; he gasped convulsively twice or thrice; and then, as a cataract of bright blood gushed from nostrils and mouth together, he fell back and rolled heavily to the ground—dead.
So exhausted was nature by this last effort that the body was cold within an hour after.
