CHAPTER XXXIX. THE COURT-HOUSE OF KILKENNY.
The character of crime in Ireland has preserved for some years back a most terrible consistency. The story of every murder is the same. The same secret vengeance; the same imputed wrong; the same dreadful sentence issued from a dark and bloody tribunal; the victim alone is changed, but all the rest is unaltered; and we read, over and over again, of the last agonies on the high-road and in the noonday, till, sated and wearied, we grow into a terrible indifference as to guilt, and talk of the “wild justice of the people” as though amongst the natural causes which shorten human life. If this be so, and to its truth we call to witness those who in every neighborhood have seen some fearful event—happening, as it were, at their very doors—deplored today, almost forgotten to-morrow; and while such is the case, the public mind is painfully sensitive as to the details of any guilt attended with new and unaccustomed agencies. In fact, with all the terrible catalogue before us,' we should be far from inferring a great degree of guiltiness to a people in whom we see infinitely more of misguided energies and depraved passions than of that nature whose sordid incentives to crime constitute the bad of other countries. We are not, in this, the apologist for murder. God forbid that we should ever be supposed to palliate, by even a word, those brutal assassinations which make every man blush to call himself an Irishman! We would only be understood as saying that these crimes, dark, fearful, and frequent as they are, do not argue the same hopeless debasement of our population as the less organized guilt of other countries; and inasmuch as the vengeance even of the savage is a nobler instinct than the highwayman's passion for gain, so we cherish a hope that the time is not distant when the peasant shall tear out of his heart the damnable delusion of vindication by blood, when he will learn a manly fortitude under calamity, a generous trust in those above him, and, better again, a freeman's consciousness that the law will vindicate him against injury, and that we live in an age when the great are powerless to do wrong, unless when their inhumanity be screened behind the darker shadow of the murder that avenges it! Then, indeed, we have no sympathy for all the sufferings of want, or all the miseries of fever; then, we forget the dreary hovel, the famished children, the palsy of age, and the hopeless cry of starving infancy,—we have neither eyes nor ears but for the sights and sounds of murder!
We have said that amidst all the frequency of crime there is no country of Europe where any case of guilt accompanied by new agencies or attended by any unusual circumstances is sure to excite so great and widespread interest. The very fact of an accusation involving any one in rank above the starving cottier is looked upon as almost incredible, and far from feeling sensibility dulled by the ordinary recurrence of bloodshed, the crime becomes associated in our minds with but one class, and as originating in one theme.
We have gradually been led away by these thoughts from the remark which first suggested them, and now we turn again to the fact, that the city of Kilkenny became a scene of the most intense anxiety as the morning of that eventful trial dawned. Visitors poured in from the neighboring counties, and even from Dublin. The case had been widely commented on by the press; and although with every reserve as regarded the accused, a most painful impression against old Mr. Dalton had spread on all sides. Most of his own contemporaries had died; of the few who remained, they were very old men, fast sinking into imbecility, and only vaguely recollecting “Wild Peter” as one who would have stopped at nothing. The new generation, then, received the impressions of the man thus unjustly; nor were their opinions more lenient that they lived in an age which no longer tolerated the excesses of the one that preceded it. Gossip, too, had circulated its innumerable incidents on all the personages of this strange drama; and from the venerable Count Stephen down to the informer Meekins, every character was now before the world.
That the Daltons had come hundreds of miles, and had offered immense sums of money to suppress the exposure, was among the commonest rumors of the time, and that the failure of this attempt was now the cause of the young man's illness and probable death. Meekins's character received many commentaries and explanations. Some alleged that he was animated by an old grudge against the family, never to be forgiven. Others said that it was to some incident of the war abroad that he owed his hatred to young Dalton; and, lastly, it was rumored that, having some connection with the conspiracy, he was anxious to wipe his conscience of the guilt before he took on him the orders of some lay society, whose vows he professed. All these mysterious and shadowy circumstances tended to heighten the interest of the coming event, and the city was crowded in every part by strangers, who not only filled the Court-house, but thronged the street in front, and even occupied the windows and roofs of the opposite houses.
From daylight the seats were taken in the galleries of the Court; the most distinguished of the neighboring gentry were all gathered there, while in the seats behind the bench were ranged several members of the peerage, who had travelled long distances to be present. To the left of the presiding judge sat Count Stephen, calm, stern, and motionless, as if on parade. If many of the ceremonials of the court and the general aspect of the assemblage were new and strange to his eyes, nothing in his bearing or manner bespoke surprise or astonishment. As little, too, did he seem aware of the gaze of that crowded assembly, who, until the interest of the trial called their attention away, never ceased to stare steadfastly at him.
At the corner of the gallery facing the jury-box D'Esmonde and Cahill were seated. The Abbé, dressed with peculiar care, and wearing the blue silk collar of an order over his white cravat, was recognized by the crowd beneath as a personage of rank and consideration, which, indeed, his exalted and handsome features appeared well to corroborate. He sustained the strong stare of the assemblage with a calm but haughty self-possession, like one well accustomed to the public eye, and who felt no shrinking from the gaze of a multitude. Already the rumor ran that he was an official high in the household of the Pope, and many strange conjectures were hazarded on the meaning of his presence at the trial.
To all the buzz of voices, and the swaying, surging motion of a vast crowd, there succeeded a dead silence and tranquillity, when the judges took their seats on the bench. The ordinary details were all gone through with accustomed formality, the jury sworn, and the indictment read aloud by the clerk of the crown, whose rapid enunciation and monotonous voice took nothing from the novelty of the statement that was yet to be made by counsel. At length Mr. Wallace rose, and now curiosity was excited to the utmost. In slow and measured phrase he began by bespeaking the patient and careful attention of the jury to the case before them. He told them that it was a rare event in the annals of criminal law to arraign one who was already gone before the greatest of all tribunals; but that such cases had occurred, and it was deemed of great importance, not alone to the cause of truth and justice, that these investigations should be made, but that a strong moral might be read, in the remarkable train of incidents by which these discoveries were elicited, and men were taught to see the hand of Providence in events which, to unthinking minds, had seemed purely accidental and fortuitous. After dwelling for some time on this theme, he went on to state the great difficulty and embarrassment of his own position, called upon as he was to arraign less the guilty man than his blameless and innocent descendants, and to ask for the penalties of the law on those who had not themselves transgressed it.
“I do not merely speak here,” said he, “of the open shame and disgrace the course of this trial will proclaim—I do not simply allude to the painful exposure you will be obliged to witness—I speak of the heavy condemnation with which the law of public opinion visits the family of a felon, making all contact with them a reproach, and denying them even its sympathy. These would be weighty considerations if the course of justice had not far higher and more important claims, not the least among which is the assertion to the world at large that guilt is never expiated without punishment, and that the law is inflexible in its denunciation of crime.”
He then entered upon a narrative of the case, beginning with an account of the Dalton family, and the marriage which connected them with the Godfreys. He described most minutely the traits of character which separated the two men and rendered them uncompanionable one to the other. Of Godfrey he spoke calmly and without exaggeration; but when his task concerned Peter Dalton, he drew the picture of a reckless, passionate, and unprincipled man, in the strongest colors, reminding the jury that it was all-important to carry with them through the case this view of his character, as explaining and even justifying many of the acts he was charged with. “You will,” said he, “perceive much to blame in him, but also much to pity, and even where you condemn deeply, you will deplore the unhappy combination of events which perverted what may have been a noble nature, and degraded by crime what was meant to have adorned virtue! From the evidence I shall produce before you will be seen the nature of the intimacy between these two men, so strikingly unlike in every trait of character, and although this be but the testimony of one who heard it himself from another, we shall find a strong corroboration of all in the consistency of the narrative and the occasional allusion to facts provable from other sources. We shall then show you how the inordinate demands of Dalton, stimulated by the necessity of his circumstances, led to a breach with his brother-in-law, and subsequently to his departure for the Continent; and, lastly, we mean to place before you the extraordinary revelation made to the witness Meekins, by his comrade William Noonan, who, while incriminating himself, exhibited Dalton as the contriver of the scheme by which the murder was effected.
“It would be manifestly impossible, in a case like this, when from the very outset the greatest secrecy was observed and over whose mystery years have accumulated clouds of difficulty, to afford that clear and precise line of evidence which in a recent event might naturally be looked for. But you will learn enough, and more than enough, to satisfy your minds on every point Meekins shall be subjected to any cross-examination my learned brother may desire, and I only ask for him so much of your confidence as a plain unvarying statement warrants. He is a stranger in this country; and although it has been rumored, from his resemblance to a man formerly known here, that he has been recognized, we shall show you that for upwards of thirty years he has been in foreign countries, and while he understands that his parents were originally from the south of Ireland, he believes himself to have been born in America. These facts will at once disabuse your minds of the suspicion that he can have been actuated by any malicious or revengeful feelings towards the Daltons. We shall, also, show that the most strenuous efforts have been made to suppress his testimony; and while it may be painful to exhibit one charged with the administration of justice as having plotted to subvert or distort it, we shall produce on the witness-table the individual who himself made these very overtures of corruption.”
A long and minute narrative followed—every step of the conspiracy was detailed—from the first communication of Dalton with Noonan, to the fatal moment of the murder. Noonan's own subsequent confession to Meekins was then related, and lastly the singular accident by which Meekins came in contact with the Abbé d'Esmonde, and was led to a revelation of the whole occurrence. The lawyer at last sat down, and as he did so, a low murmuring sound ran through the crowded assemblage, whose mournful cadence bespoke the painful acquiescence in the statement they had heard. More than one eager and sympathizing look was turned to where the old Count sat; but his calm, stern features were passive and immovable as ever; and although he listened with attention to the address of the advocate, not a semblance of emotion could be detected in his manner.
Meekins was now called to the witness-box, and as he made his way through the crowd, and ascended the table, the most intense curiosity to see him was displayed. Well dressed, and with a manner of decent and respectful quietude, he slowly mounted the stairs, and saluted the bench and jury. Although an old man, he was hale and stout-looking, his massive broad forehead and clear gray eye showing a character of temperament well able to offer resistance to time.
There was an apparent frankness and simplicity about him that favorably impressed the court, and he gave his evidence with that blended confidence and caution which never fails to have its effect on a jury. He owned, too, that he once speculated on using the secret for his own advantage, and extorting a considerable sum from old Dalton's fears, but that on second thoughts he had decided on abandoning this notion, and resolved to let the mystery die with him. The accidental circumstance of meeting with the Abbé D'Esmonde, at Venice, changed this determination, and it was while under the religious teachings of this good priest that he came to the conviction of his sad duty. His evidence occupied several hours, and it was late in the afternoon when the cross-examination began.
Nothing within the reach of a crafty lawyer was left undone. All that practised skill and penetration could accomplish was exhibited, but the testimony was unshaken in every important point; and save when pushing the witness as to his own early life and habits, not a single admission could be extorted to his discredit. But even here his careless easy manner rescued him; and when he alleged that he never very well knew where he was born, or who were his parents, nor had he any very great misgivings about having served on board a slaver, and “even worse,” the jury only smiled at what seemed the frank indifference of an old sailor. Noonan had given him a few scraps of Mr. Dalton's writing. He had lost most of them, he said; but of those which remained, although unsigned, the authenticity was easily established. Old Peter's handwriting was familiar to many, and several witnesses swore to their being genuine. In other respects, they were of little importance. One alone bore any real significance, and it was the concluding passage of a letter, and ran thus: “So that if I 'm driven to it at last, Godfrey himself is more to blame than me.” Vague as this menacing sentence was, it bore too home upon the allegations of the witness not to produce a strong effect, nor could any dexterity of the counsel succeed in obliterating its impression.
Seeing that the counsel for the prosecution had not elicited the testimony he promised, respecting the attempted subornation of Meekins, the defence rashly adventured upon that dangerous ground, and too late discovered his error, for the witness detailed various conversations between Grounsell and himself, and gave with terrible effect a scene that he swore had occurred between young Dalton and him in the jail. It was in vain to remind the jury that he who alone could refute this evidence was stretched on a bed of sickness. The effect was already made.
When questioned as to the reasons Dalton might have had for conspiring against his brother-in-law, he confessed that Noonan only knew that Godfrey had refused him all assistance, and that he believed that after his death he, Dalton, would inherit the property. His own impression was, however, that it was more vengeance than anything else. The Daltons were living in great poverty abroad; there was scarcely a privation which they had not experienced; and the embittering stings of their misery were adduced as the mainspring of old Peter's guilt. This allusion to the private life of the Dalton family was eagerly seized on by Mr. Wallace, who now “begged to ascertain certain facts on a subject which, but for his learned brother's initiative, he would have shrunk from exhibiting in open court.” Meekins could, of course, but give such details as he had learned from Noonan, but they all described a life of suffering and meanness,—their contrivances and their straits; their frequent change of place, as debt accumulated over them; their borrowings and their bills; and, lastly, the boastful pretexts they constantly brought forward on the rank of their uncle, Count Dalton, as a guarantee of their solvency and respectability. So unexpected was the transition to the mention of this name, that the whole assembly suddenly turned their eyes to where the old General sat, mute and stern; but the look he returned might well have abashed them, so haughty and daring was its insolence.
Apparently to show the knowledge possessed by the witness on matters of private detail,—but, in reality, to afford an occasion for dilating on a painful subject,—the whole history of the family was raked up, and all the sad story of Nelly's toil and Kate's menial duties paraded in open court, wound up, at last, with what was called young Frank's enlistment “as a common soldier of the Austrian army.”
The greater interests of the trial were all forgotten in these materials for gossip, and the curiosity of the listeners was excited to its highest pitch when he came to tell of that mingled misery and ambition, that pride of name, and shameless disregard of duty, which he described as characterizing them; nor was the craving appetite for scandal half appeased when the court interrupted the examination, and declared that it was irrelevant and purposeless.
Meekins at last descended from the table, and Michel Lenahan was called up. The important fact he had so resolutely sworn to some weeks before he had already shown a disinclination to confirm, and all that he could now be brought to admit was, that he had believed Meekins was his old acquaintance, Black Sam; but the years that had elapsed since he saw him before, change of dress, and the effect of time on each of them, might well shake a better memory than his own.
“Jimmy Morris might know him again, my Lord,” said he, “for he never forgot anybody,——but he is n't to the fore.”
“I have the happiness to say that he is,” said Hipeley. “He has arrived from Cove, here, this morning. Call James Morris, crier;” and soon after, a very diminutive old man, with a contracted leg, mounted the table. He was speedily sworn, and his examination commenced. After a few questions as to his trade,—he was a tailor,—and where he had lived latterly, he was asked whether he remembered, amongst his former acquaintance, a certain bailiff on the Corrig-O'Neal estate, commonly called Black Sam?
“By coorse I do,” said he; “he was always making mischief between Mr. Godfrey and ould Peter.”
“You have not been asked that question, sir.” interposed Wallace.
“No, but he shall be by-and-by,” cried Hipsley. “Tell me, now, what kind of a man was this same Black Sam?”
“As cruel a man as ever you seen.”
“That is not exactly what I am asking. I want to hear what he was like.”
“He was like the greatest villain—”
“I mean, was he short or tall; was he a big man and a strong man, or was he a little fellow like you or me?”
“Devil a bit like either of us. He 'd bate us both with one hand,—ay, and that fellow there with the wig that's laughing at us, into the bargain.”
“So, then, he was large and powerful?”
“Yes, that he was.”
“Had he anything remarkable about his appearance,——anything that might easily distinguish him from other men?”
“Tis, maybe, his eyes you mane?”
“What about his eyes, then?”
“They could be lookin' at ye when ye 'd aware they were only lookin' at the ground; and he 'd a thrick of stopping himself when he was laughing hearty by drawing the back of his hand over his mouth, this way.”
As the witness accompanied these words by a gesture, a low murmur of astonishment ran through the court, for more than once during the morning Meekins had been seen to perform the very act described.
“You would probably be able to know him again if you saw him.”
“That I would.”
“Look around you, now, and tell me if you see him here. No, no, he's not in the jury-box; still less likely it is that you 'd find him on the bench.”
The witness, neither heeding the remark nor the laughter which followed it, slowly rose and looked around him.
“Move a little to one side, if ye plase,” said he to a member of the inner bar. “Yes, that's him.” And he pointed to Meekins, who, with crossed arms and lowering frown, stood still and immovable.
The bystanders all fell back at the same instant, and now he remained isolated in the midst of that crowded scene, every eye bent upon him.
“You 're wearing well, Sam,” said the witness, addressing him familiarly. “Maybe it's the black wig you 'ye on; but you don't look a day oulder than when I seen you last.”
This speech excited the most intense astonishment in the court, and many now perceived, for the first time, that Meekins did not wear his own hair.
“Are you positive, then, that this man is Black Sam?”
“I am.”
“Are you prepared to swear to it on your solemn oath, taking all the consequences false evidence will bring down upon you?”
“I am.”
“You are quite certain that it's no accidental resemblance, but that this is the very identical man you knew long ago?”
“I'm certain sure. I'd know him among a thousand; and, be the same token, he has a mark of a cut on the crown of his head, three inches long. See, now, if I 'm not right.”
Meekins was now ordered to mount the witness-table, and remove his wig. He was about to say something, but Wallace stopped him and whispered a few words in his ear.
“I would beg to observe,” said the lawyer, “that if an old cicatrix is to be the essential token of recognition, few men who have lived the adventurous life of Meekins will escape calumny.”
“'T is a mark like the letter V,” said Jimmy; “for it was ould Peter himself gave it him, one night, with a brass candlestick. There it is!” cried he, triumphantly; “did n't I tell true?”
The crowded galleries creaked under the pressure of the eager spectators, who now bent forward and gazed on this strong proof of identification.
“Is there any other mark by which you could remember him?”
“Sure, I know every fayture in his face,—what more d'ye want?”
“Now, when did you see him last,—I mean before this day?”
“The last time I seen him was the mornin' he was taken up.”
“How do you mean' taken up'?”
“Taken up by the polis.”
“Taken by the police,——for what?”
“About the murder, to be sure.”
A thrill of horror pervaded the court as these words were spoken, and Meekins, whose impassive face had never changed before, became now pale as death.
“Tell the jury what you saw on the morning you speak of.”
“I was at home, work in', when the polis passed by. They asked me where Black Sam lived; 'Up the road,' says I.”
“How far is your house from his?”
“About fifty perches, your honor, in the same boreen, but higher up.”
“So that, in going from Mr. Godfrey's to his own home, Sam must have passed your door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This he did every day,—two or three times,—did n't he?”
“He did, sir.”
“Did you usually speak to each other as he went by?”
“Yes, sir; we always would say, 'God save you,' or the like.”
“How was he dressed on these occasions?”
“The way he was always dressed,——how would he be?”
“That's exactly what I 'm asking you.”
“Faix! he had his coat and breeches, like any other man.”
“I see. He had his coat and breeches, like any other man; now, what color was his coat?”
“It was gray, sir,——blue-gray. I know it well.”
“How do you come to know it well?”
“Bekase my own boy, Ned, sir, bought one off the same piece before he 'listed, and I couldn't forget it.”
“Where were you the day after the murder, when the policemen came to take Sam Eustace?”
“I was sitting at my own door, smoking a pipe, and I see the polis comin', and so I went in and shut the door.”
“What was that for? You had no reason to fear them.”
“Ayeh!—who knows?—the polis is terrible!”
“Well, after that?”
“Well, when I heard them pass, I opened the door, and then I saw enough. They were standing at Sam's house; one of them talking to Sam, and the other two rummaging about, sticking poles into the thatch, and tumbling oyer the turf in the stack.
“'Isn't this a pretty business?' says Sam, calling out to me. 'The polis is come to take me off to prison because some one murdered the master.' 'Well, his soul's in glory, anyhow,' says I, and I shut the doore.”
“And saw nothing more?”
“Only the polis lading Sam down the boreen betune them.”
“He made no resistance, then?”
“Not a bit; he went as quiet as a child. When he was going by the doore, I remember he said to one of the polis, 'Would it be plazing to ye to help me wid my coat; for I cut my finger yesterday?'”
“Did n't I say it was with a reaping-hook?” cried Meekins, who, in all the earnestness of anxiety, followed every word that fell from the witness.
His counsel sprang to his feet, and pulled him back by the arm; but not before the unguarded syllables had been heard by every one around. Such was the sensation now produced, that for several minutes the proceedings were interrupted, while the counsel conferred in low whispers together, and all seemed thunderstruck and amazed. Twice Meekins stood forward to address the court, but on each occasion he was restrained by the counsel beside him; and it was only by the use of menaces that Wallace succeeded in enforcing silence on him. “When the moment of cross-examination arrives,” said he to the jury, “I hope to explain every portion of this seeming difficulty. Have you any further questions to ask the witness?”
“A great many more,” said Hipsley. “Now, Morris, attend to me. Sam asked the police to assist him, as he had cut his hand with a reaping-hook?”
“He did, indeed, sir,” said the witness; “and a dreadful cut it was. It was hard for him to get his hand into the sleeve of the jacket.”
“I perceive; he had difficulty in putting on the jacket, but the policemen helped him?”
“They did, sir; and one of them was hurting him, and Sam called out, 'Take care, take care. It's better to cut the ould sleeve; it's not worth much, now.'”
“And did they cut it?”
“They did, sir; they ripped it up all the way to the elbow.”
“That was a pity, was n't it, to rip up a fine frieze coat like that?”
“Oh, it was n't his coat at all, sir. It was only a flannel jacket he had for working in.”
“So, then, he did not wear the blue-gray frieze like your son's when he went to jail?”
“No, sir. He wore a jacket.”
“Now, why was that?”
“Sorry one o' me knows; but I remember he didn't wear it.”
“Did n't I say that I left my coat at the bog, and that I was ashamed to go in the ould jacket?” screamed out Meekins, whose earnestness was above all control.
“If this go on, it is impossible that I can continue to conduct this case, my Lord,” said Wallace. “While no attempt has been made to refute one tittle of the great facts I have mentioned, a system of trick has been resorted to, by which my client's credit is sought to be impugned. What care I if he was known by a hundred nicknames? He has told the court already that he has lived a life of reckless adventure; that he has sailed under every flag and in every kind of enterprise. Mayhap, amid his varied characters, he has played that of a land bailiff; nor is it very strange that he should not wish to parade before the world the fact of his being arrested, even under a false accusation; for he was discharged, as he has just told you, two days after.”
A large bundle, carefully sealed, was now carried into the court, and deposited before Mr. Hipsley, who, after a few seconds' consultation with Grounsell, rose, and addressed the court,——
“My learned friend complains of being surprised; he will, perhaps, have a better right to be so in a few moments hence. I now demand that this man be consigned to the dock. These affidavits are all regular, my Lord, and the evidence I purpose to lay before you will very soon confirm them.”
The judge briefly scanned the papers before him; and, by a gesture, the command was issued, and Meekins, who never uttered a word, was conducted within the dock.
“I will merely ask the witness two or three questions more,” added Hipsley, turning towards the jailer, who alone, of all the assembly, looked on without any wonderment.
“Now, witness, when did you see the prisoner wear the blue-gray coat? After the death of Mr. Godfrey, I mean.”
“I never seen him wear it again,” was the answer.
“How could ye?” cried Meekins, in a hoarse voice. “How could ye? I sailed for America the day after I was set at liberty.”
“Be silent, sir,” said the prisoner's counsel, who, suffering greatly from the injury of these interruptions, now assumed a look of angry impatience; while, with the craft of his calling, he began already to suspect that a mine was about to be sprung beneath him.
“You have told us,” said Hipsley,—and, as he spoke, his words came with an impressive slowness that made them fall deep into every heart around,—“You have told us that the coat worn habitually by the prisoner, up to the day of Mr. Godfrey's murder, you never saw on him after that day. Is that true?”
“It is, sir.”
“You have also said that this coat——part of a piece from which your son had a coat——was of a peculiar color?”
“It was, sir; and more than that, they had both the same cut, only Sam's had horn buttons, and my son's was metal.”
“Do you think, then, from the circumstances you have just mentioned, that you could know that coat if you were to see it again?”
A pause followed, and the witness, instead of answering, sat with his eyes fixed upon the dock, where the prisoner, with both hands grasping the iron spikes, stood, his glaring eyeballs riveted upon the old man's face, with an expression of earnestness and terror actually horrible to witness.
“Look at me, Morris,” said Hipsley, “and answer my question. Would you know this coat again?”
“That is, would you swear to it?” interposed the opposite counsel.
“I believe I would, sir,” was the answer.
“You must be sure, my good man. Belief is too vague for us here,” said the prisoner's lawyer.
“Is this it?” said the solicitor, as, breaking the seals of the parcel before him, he held up a coat, which, ragged and eaten by worms, seemed of a far darker color than that described by witness.
The old man took it in his hands and examined it over carefully, inspecting with all the minute curiosity of age every portion of the garment The suspense at this moment was terrible; not a syllable was spoken; not a breath stirred; nothing but the long-drawn respirations of the prisoner, who, still leaning on the iron railing of the dock, watched the old man's motions with the most harrowing intensity.
“Let me see it on him,” said the witness, at last
“Prisoner, put on that coat,” said the judge.
Meekins tried to smile as he proceeded to obey; but the effort was too much, and the features became fixed into one rigid expression, resembling the look of hysteric laughter.
“Well, do you know me now?” cried he, in a voice whose every accent rang with a tone of intimidation and defiance.
“I do,” said the witness, boldly. “I 'll swear to that coat, my Lord, and I 'll prove I 'm right. It was the same stuffing put into both collars; and if I 'm telling you the truth, it 's a piece of ould corduroy is in that one there.”
The very grave was not more still than the court as the officer of the jail, taking off the coat, ripped up the collar, and held up in his hand a small piece of tarnished corduroy.
“My Lord! my Lord! will you let a poor man's life be swore away—”
“Silence, sir,—be still, I say,” cried the prisoner's counsel, who saw the irremediable injury of these passionate appeals. “I am here to conduct your defence, and I will not be interfered with. Your Lordship will admit that this proceeding has all the character of surprise. We were perfectly unprepared for the line my learned friend has taken—”
“Permit me to interrupt the counsel, my Lord. I need scarcely appeal to this court to vindicate me against any imputation such as the learned gentleman opposite would apply to me. Your Lordship's venerable predecessors on that bench have more than once borne witness to the fairness and even the lenity of the manner in which the crown prosecutions have been conducted. Any attempt to surprise, any effort to entrap a prisoner, would be as unworthy of us as it would be impossible in a court over which you preside. The testimony which the witness has just given, the extraordinary light his evidence has just shown, was only made available to ourselves by one of those circumstances in which we see a manifestation of the terrible judgment of God upon him who sheds the blood of his fellow-man. Yes, my Lord, if any case can merit the designation of Providential intervention, it is this one. Every step of this singular history is marked by this awful characteristic. It is the nephew of the murdered man by whom the first trace of crime has been detected. It is by him that we have been enabled to bring the prisoner into that dock. It is by him that a revelation has been made which, had it not occurred in our own day and under our own eyes, we should be disposed to class amongst the creations of fiction. The learned counsel has told you that these articles of clothing have been produced here by surprise. This affidavit is the shortest answer to that suspicion. From this you will see that, early this morning, young Mr. Dalton requested that two magistrates of the city should be brought to his bedside, to take down the details of an important declaration. The fever which for several days back had oppressed him, had abated for the time, and he was, although weak and low, calm and collected in all his faculties. It was then, with remarkable accuracy, and in a manner totally free from agitation, that he made the following singular revelation.” The counsel then recited, at more length than would suit our reader's patience to follow, the story of Frank's visit to Ireland when a boy, and his accidental presence in the grounds of Corrig-O'Neal on the very night of the murder. “At first the magistrates were disposed to regard this revelation as the mere dream of an erring intellect; but when he described every feature of the locality, and the most intricate details of scenery, their opinion was changed; and when at last he designated the exact spot where he had seen a large bundle buried, it only needed that this should be confirmed to establish the strict truth of all he alleged. With every care and precaution Against deception, the magistrates proceeded to visit the place. They were accompanied by several persons of character and station, in presence of whom the examination was made. So accurate was the narrative, that they found the spot without difficulty, and, on digging down about two feet, they came upon the articles which you now see before you. These, without any examination, they at once sealed up in presence of the witnesses, and here for the first time have they been displayed to view.”
As the counsel had reached thus far, the fall of a heavy body resounded through the court, and the cry was raised that the prisoner had been seized with a fit.
“No, my Lord,” exclaimed the lawyer; “fatigue and weariness alone have produced this effect. My unhappy client is no more proof against exhaustion than against slander.”
“My Lord! my Lord!” cried the prisoner, as, holding by the spikes of the dock, he leaned forwards over it, “can't I get justice? Is it my coat—”
“Sit down, sir,” said his counsel, angrily; “leave this to me.”
“What do you care what becomes of me?” cried the other, rudely. “Where's Father Cahill? Where's——” At this instant his eyes met those of D'Esmonde, as, seated in the gallery immediately above him, he watched the proceedings with an agonizing interest only second to the prisoner's own. “Oh, look what you've brought me to!” cried he, in an accent of heart-broken misery; “oh, see where I'm standing now!”
The utterance of these words sent a thrill through the court, and the judge was obliged to remind the prisoner that he was but endangering his own safety by these rash interruptions.
“Sure I know it, my Lord; sure I feel it,” cried he, sobbing; “but what help have I? Is there no one to stand by me? You're looking for marks of blood, ain't ye?” screamed he to the jury, who were now examining the coat and cap with great attention. “And there it is now,—there it is!” cried he, wildly, as his eyes detected a folded paper that one of the jurymen had just taken from the coat-pocket “What could I get by it?—sure the will could n't do me any harm.”
“This is a will, my Lord,” said the foreman, handing the document down to the bench. “It is dated, too, on the very-night before Mr. Godfrey's death.”
The judge quickly scanned the contents, and then passed it over to Mr. Hipsley, who, glancing his eyes over it, exclaimed, “If we wanted any further evidence to exculpate the memory of Mr. Dalton, it is here. By this will, signed, sealed, and witnessed in all form, Mr. Godfrey bequeathed to his brother-in-law his whole estate of Corrig-O'Neal, and, with the exception of some trifling legacies, names him heir to all he is possessed of.”
“Let me out of this,—leave me free!” shouted the prisoner, whose eyeballs now glared with the red glow of madness. “What brought me into your schemes and plots?—why did I ever come here? Oh, my Lord, don't see a poor man come to harm that has no friends. Bad luck to them here and hereafter, the same Daltons! It was ould Peter turned me out upon the world, and Godfrey was no better. Oh, my Lord! oh, gentlemen! if ye knew what druv me to it,—but I did n't do it,—I never said I did. I'll die innocent!”
These words were uttered with a wild volubility, and, when over, the prisoner crouched down in the dock, and buried his face in his hands. From that instant he never spoke a word. The trial was prolonged till late into the night; a commission was sworn and sent to the inn, to examine young Dalton and interrogate him on every point. All that skill and address could do were exerted by the counsel for the defence; but, as the case proceeded, the various facts only tended to strengthen and corroborate each other, and long before the jury retired their verdict was certain.
“Guilty, my Lord!” And, well known and anticipated as the words were, they were heard in all that solemn awe their terrible import conveys.
The words seemed to rouse the prisoner from his state; for, as if with a convulsive effort, he sprang to his legs, and advanced to the front of the dock. To the dreadful question of the Judge, as to what he had to say, why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon him, he made no answer; and his wild gaze and astonished features showed an almost unconsciousness of all around him. From this state of stupor he soon rallied, and, grasping the iron spikes with his hands, he protruded his head and shoulders over the dock, while he carried his eyes over the assembled crowd, till at last they lighted on the spot where Cahill and D'Esmonde were seated,—the former pale and anxious-looking, the latter with his head buried in his hands. The prisoner nodded with an insolent air of familiarity to the priest, and muttered a few broken words in Irish. Again was the terrible demand made by the Judge; and now the prisoner turned his face towards the bench, and stood as if reflecting on his reply.
“Go on,” cried he at last, in a tone of rude defiance; and the judge, in all the passionless dignity of his high station, calmly reviewed the evidence in the case, and gave his full concurrence to the verdict of the jury.
“I cannot conclude,” said he, solemnly, “without adverting to that extraordinary combination of events by which this crime, after a long lapse of years, has been brought home to its guilty author. The evidence you have heard to-day from Mr. Dalton—the singular corroboration of each particular stated by him in the very existence of the will, which so strongly refutes the motive alleged against the late Mr. Dalton—were all necessary links of the great chain of proof; and yet all these might have existed in vain were it not for another agency, too eventful to be called an accident; I allude to the circumstance by which this man became acquainted with one who was himself peculiarly interested in an fathoming the mystery of this murder; I mean the Abbé D'Esmonde. The name of this gentleman has been more than once alluded to in this trial; but he has not been brought before you, nor was there any need that he should be. Now the Abbé, so far from connecting the prisoner with the crime, believed him to be the agency by which it might have been fastened on others; and to this end he devoted himself with every zeal to the inquiry. Here, then, amidst all the remarkable coincidences of this case, we find the very strangest of all; for this same Abbé,—the accidental means of rescuing the prisoner from death at Venice, and who is the chief agent in now bringing him to punishment here,—this Abbé is himself the natural son of the late Mr. Godfrey. Sent when a mere boy to St. Omer and Louvain to be educated for the Roman Catholic priesthood, he was afterwards transferred to Salamanca, where he graduated, and took deacon's orders. Without any other clew to his parentage than the vague lines of admission in the conventual registry, the checks for money signed and forwarded by Mr. Godfrey, this gentleman had risen by his great talents to a high and conspicuous station before he addressed himself to the search after his family. I have no right to pursue this theme further; nor had I alluded to it at all, save as illustrating in so remarkable a manner that direct and unmistakable impress of the working of Providence in this case, showing how, amidst all the strange chaos of a time of revolution and anarchy, when governments were crumbling, and nations rending asunder, this one blood-spot—the foul deed of murder——should cry aloud for retribution, and, by a succession of the least likely incidents, bring the guilty man to justice.”
After a careful review of all the testimony against the prisoner, the conclusiveness of which left no room for a doubt, he told him to abandon all hope of a pardon in this world, concluding, in the terrible words of the law, by the sentence of death,——
“You, Samuel Eustace, will be taken from the bar of this court to the place from whence you came, the jail, and thence to the place of execution, there to be hung by the neck till you are dead—”
“Can I see my priest,——may the priest come to me?” cried the prisoner, fiercely; for not even the appalling solemnity of the moment could repress the savage energy of his nature.
“Miserable man,” said the judge, in a faltering accent, “I beseech you to employ well the few minutes that remain to you in this world, and carry not into the next that spirit of defiance by which you would brave an earthly judgment-seat. And may God have mercy on your soul!”