THE TRIAL.
You few that love me,
And dare be bold to weep for such as I—
My gentle friends and fellows, whom to leave
Is only bitter to me, only dying—
Go with me, like good angels, to mine end,
And when the long divorce of death falls on me,
Make of your prayers one most sweet sacrifice,
And lift my soul to heaven.—Shakespeare.
The news of the arrest of Valentine spread rapidly over the city and surrounding country, creating everywhere an intense excitement, and reviving all the deep interest that had been felt two years before, at the epoch of the crime.
This excitement prevailed all around Fannie, yet she knew nothing of it, or at least of its cause. There was no one found willing to carry this sorrowful intelligence to her, whom it most concerned; and she remained in total ignorance of the arrest of her husband until the next day, which being Saturday, she was looking forward, as usual, to an early closing of the shop, and a walk out into the country, to spend the night and the Sabbath with her old mother, and to comfort Valentine, when, unexpectedly, poor Phædra, recovered in some degree from the shock she had received, and accompanied by Elisha, arrived at her daughter's humble little home.
With all possible consideration and gentleness the old negro preacher broke the intelligence of Valentine's imprisonment to Fannie.
But, alas! if all fateful antecedents had not led her to anticipate this consequence, what further possible preparation could fit her to receive such intelligence? And, indeed, in any event, what preparation would soften such calamity?
Poor Fannie's frame was very delicate, and her heart by many blows had become physically feeble, and was, at best, a very imperfect instrument of her will. Had it not been so, the poor girl might have better borne up; as it was, she succumbed to the new blow, and a night of dangerous illness followed.
Yet, the next morning Fannie insisted on leaving her bed, and though apparently more dead than alive, and having to be supported between Phædra and old Elisha, she went to the prison to see Valentine.
All prisons are, of course, wretched places; but the jail of M—— was one of the most wretched of its kind. Comparatively small, shamefully overcrowded, close, ill-ventilated and pestilential, it insured nothing but the safe custody of the bodies of its miserable inmates. Evidently reform had not even looked upon its outer walls, far less opened one of its doors or windows.
For greater security Valentine had been confined in the condemned cell. A slight irregularity, but one of which no one had the right to complain. Although, under circumstances less tragic it must have seemed ludicrous to associate the graceful and almost girlish delicacy of poor Valentine's figure with danger to the security of bolts and bars and prison walls.
Howbeit, in the condemned cell Valentine was placed, and there Fannie and her companions found him.
Valentine received them with great composure, that was only slightly disturbed when Fannie, upon first seeing him, threw herself, with a cry of passionate sorrow, upon his bosom.
When the turnkey had left the cell, and locked them all in together, Valentine addressed himself to soothing Fannie. And after a while, favored by the exhaustion that followed her vehement emotion, he succeeded in quieting her.
After a little conversation, the old preacher invited all to join him in prayer, and, kneeling down, offered up a fervent petition for the divine mercy on the prisoner. Through the whole of the interview, all were impressed by the perfect composure and cheerfulness of Valentine. He seemed like a man who had cast a great weight from his breast, or in some other way had been relieved from a heavy burden. Though his manner was perfectly free from any charge of reprehensible levity, there was certainly an elasticity of spirit in all he said or did, that was as strange as it was entirely sincere and unaffected. Was this because he felt that he had nothing further to hope or fear, and trouble had ceased with uncertainty? Whatever was the cause, his mood happily influenced others, and they grew quiet and cheerful in his company.
"Dearest friends," Valentine said, afterward, to Elisha, "these things that have occurred were obliged to happen; no power on earth could have prevented them; and the power of Heaven never intervenes to perform miracles, or to avert evil at the expense of moral free agency. I am not a predestinarian, Brother Elisha, but I know that certain causes must produce certain effects, as surely as given figures produce known results. As I told you before, I always knew that this was to be my fate. From the first moment that I was provoked to strike Oswald Waring, I have seen this crime and this fate before me, like a horrible cloud. I would try to close my eyes to it—try to forget it. In vain—for even in my brightest moments it would fall suddenly like a funeral pall around me, blackening all the light of life. When poor Oswald Waring lay dead before me, I did not realize the crime more intensely than I had by presentiment a hundred times before. And when I shall stand, as I shall very soon do, upon the scaffold's fatal drop, with the cord around my neck, and the cap that is about to shut out the last glimpse of this world's sunshine from my eyes, descending over my face—even in that supreme moment, I know I cannot feel the situation more acutely than I have done prophetically a thousand times before!
"This prophetic feeling was the secret horror of my whole life. I dared not confide it to any one; therefore, it preyed upon my spirits, driving me at times almost to insanity. Yet, friends, there was nothing occult in this presentiment. It was but the swift and sure inference of certain effects from certain causes. It was rather a helpless foresight, than second sight. Well, the worst has come! I am calmer and happier now than I have been for many long, sad years. This fate is not nearly so horrible in reality as it seemed in anticipation. The only earthly trouble that I have is in the thought of my little family. Comfort them, Brother Elisha! Help them to bring all the power of religion to their support. Time and religion cures the worst of sorrows; it will cure theirs. Only, in the meantime—in the hour of their greatest trial, and the first dark days that follow it—watch over them, sustain and comfort them, and lift up their hands to God, Elisha."
"I will—I will, indeed, Brudder Walley," promised the old preacher.
Valentine was not left alone in his trials. The friends of the Methodist church flocked around, and one or another was always with him. The clergymen of every denomination took a great interest in his situation and character. And the better Valentine was known, the deeper this interest grew. In advance of his trial, the press took up his case, and the papers were filled with accounts of visits that this or that gentleman had made him; conversations that one or another clergyman had held with him in his cell; and with descriptions of his good looks, graceful manners, intelligence, knowledge, conversational powers and eloquence—all "so remarkable in one of his race and station." It would seem, indeed, as if, unhappily, the good points of the unhappy young man had never been known or suspected, until crime had brought him prominently before the public. If there was anything to be regretted in the great sympathy that was felt for him, it was that the sympathizers kept up too much fuss around him for the good of one of his excitable temperament, and thus prevented the self-recollection and sobriety that befited the solemnity of his situation. Through the kindness of these friends, the best counsel that could be prevailed upon to take up his hopeless cause was retained, to defend Valentine in the approaching trial.
There was one affecting circumstance that occurred just before the sitting of the criminal court. Mrs. Waring had been subpoenaed to attend as a witness for the prosecution. She came up from Louisiana; and, soon after her arrival in the city, she sought out the poor, little, obscure wife of the prisoner, and gave her what comfort she could impart—telling her, that though she was the principal witness, her testimony would not bear hard upon Valentine, whom she felt persuaded was mad, and unconscious of his acts at the moment she witnessed them. And that she hoped his life might yet be spared, for she felt convinced that capital punishment was in no case a corrector or a preventor of crime. And that, if the trial should terminate unfavorably, she would petition the governor for a commutation of the sentence. And that her petition, under the circumstances, would be the most powerful that could be presented. These and other merciful promises and reviving hopes did the gentle-hearted widow infuse into the poor girl's sinking heart.
And, oh! how Fannie knelt, and covered the lady's hands with loving kisses, and bathed them with grateful tears. And Mrs. Waring, when she left her, went directly to the most eminent lawyer in the city—one who had indignantly repulsed a clergyman who wished to retain him for the prisoner—and, after telling him very much what she had told Fannie relative to the character of her own testimony, succeeded in retaining him to defend Valentine; for this gentleman seemed to think that the favorable opinion and testimony of Mrs. Waring would make a very great difference in the respectability, popularity and security of the cause that he no longer hesitated to embrace.
Of course, there was much diversity of opinion in regard to Mrs. Waring's course. All wondered at her, many censured her, while a few saw in her conduct the perfection of Christian charity. But, like all who have thought and suffered much, and profited by such experience, Mrs. Waring was indifferent to any earthly judgment outside the sphere of her own affections; and so, ignorant and regardless of popular praise or censure, the lady went calmly on her merciful course.
The day of the sitting of the court drew near, when, one morning, a bustle in the gallery leading to Valentine's cell attracted the attention of the latter, and he had just concluded that the officials were bringing in a new prisoner, when the noisy group paused before his own door, unlocked it, and introduced Governor, Major Hewitt's big negro. With a few parting words, the turnkey and the constable left him, went out, and locked the door.
Then, for the first time, Valentine recovered from his surprise, and spoke to the newcomer.
But Governor, standing bolt upright until his tall figure and large head nearly reached the low ceiling, looked the image of stupor, and answered never a word.
Valentine knew, of course, that he was in desperate trouble, or he would not be in that cell. Kindly taking his hand, he led him to the bed, and made him sit down upon it. He was as docile as the gentlest child, though seemingly more stupid than any brute. And it was hours before he recovered sufficiently to tell Valentine the cause of his arrest.
The story gathered from his thick and incoherent talk was this: He himself was a huge, black, unsightly negro, painfully conscious of his personal defects. He was married to Milly, a pretty mulatto woman, whom he loved with the idolatrous affection that often distinguishes his race, and who had loved him in return, for the wealth of goodness under his rude exterior.
And he had been very happy with his wife and two little girls, until the new overseer came.
This person was a young, unmarried man, and his name was Moriarty. He took a fancy to Milly; used to stop every day at the door of her cabin, to ask for a drink of water; then, after a while, he got into the habit of going into her cabin to sit down and rest, and was never in a hurry to go away.
If there was any work to be done in the overseer's house, Milly was always sent for to do it, and always detained a long time. Governor was dispatched to labor upon the most remote part of the plantation; and whenever a messenger was required to go upon a distant errand, Governor was selected.
Poor fellow! he was not acute enough to be suspicious, or bad enough to be jealous. On the contrary, he was very good-natured, stupid and confiding. And he might have gone on forever, without suspecting that there was anything wrong, had not Milly, upon every Sunday and holiday, appeared in finery better than any of her companions could sport, and so excited their envy, quickened their perceptions and stimulated their tongues.
And rudely enough were the poor husband's eyes opened, and from that time no more wretched man than Governor lived upon this earth. He expostulated with Milly, who tearfully confessed to receiving presents from the new overseer, and protested her innocence of everything but their acceptance. And it is probable that up to this time, and for a long time after, Milly, who sincerely loved the ugly, but good-hearted father of her children, was innocent of everything except vanity; and could she have been delivered from the power of the tempter, would have remained blameless.
But there was no such deliverance for her. And now commenced the most troubled life that could be imagined for the husband. He felt that Milly still loved him with undiminished fidelity, but he knew, also, the power of temptation and of example. How many virtuous women were there on that or any other plantation? Why, virtue was not taught them—was not expected of them; and if they were born with the instinct, it was soon lost among a class where licentiousness was the rule and integrity the exception. The generality of this misfortune among his fellow-slaves did not make it any the less painful to this poor man to see his beloved Milly tempted from his bosom.
And he saw, with increasing anguish, that Milly, notwithstanding her penitence and tearful declaration that she would be faithful to Governor forever and forever, could not prevent the daily calls of the overseer at her cabin, and dared not disobey his commands, when he summoned her to work in his house.
Governor was still and ever kept at work upon the most distant parts of the plantation, and the overseer still and ever appropriated as much as he possibly could of Milly's time and services. There was no help for them.
Major Hewitt, in many respects a kind master, had, for his peace, long closed his ears to complaints of the slaves against their overseer, and Governor knew full well that his master would hear not one word against Mr. Moriarty.
Why lengthen a sad story? All the women of the plantation knew that, sooner or later, Milly would have no right to look down from her pride of integrity upon them. Yet it was some time—more than a year—before she was numbered among the frail ones.
And then, as guilt is so much more circumspect than innocence, poor Governor was deceived into a fool's paradise of confiding love, and led to believe that the overseer had entirely abandoned the persecution of Milly.
This blind confidence lasted until one day, when one of those sudden little breaks of water, so small that its surface might be covered with two hands, yet, withal, the herald of that terror of the Gulf planters, a devastating "crevasse," appeared in the midst of a valuable field, and it became necessary to arrest its progress at once.
A party of negroes was dispatched to the spot, and Governor was sent with them. In the course of a few hours, the crevasse had made dangerous progress, and they had to work until very late at night. But it was early when the overseer left them.
It was between eleven and twelve o'clock when a young negro from the quarters came down to the works, and, taking Governor aside, whispered something in his ear.
Down went the man's shovel, and away he sprang, and—all on fire with rage and jealousy—a man no longer, but an unreasoning brute—ran and leaped, bounding over everything that came in his way, and taking a bee-line to his cabin, the door of which he burst open.
A moment and the overseer lay dead, slain by the hand of the injured husband.
Governor did not hurt a hair of Milly's head; even in his mad and blind rage he had spared her, still so beloved. Neither did he attempt to save himself by flight, but lay moaning and groaning upon the cabin floor until he was taken into custody.
This was the substance of the story related to Valentine.
"I'se sorry I killed him, Brudder Walley! dough I hardly knowed what I was a doin' of. I'se sorry, dough it was all so tryin' from fuss to las'. Yes! I is berry sorry, dough it ain't no use to say it, 'cause I knows how, ef it wur to do ober agin', I should be sure to do it ober agin'! so, what's de use o' pentin'?"
Valentine pressed his hand in silence, scarcely knowing what to reply just then, sadly thinking of the many thousands whose positions were just as false, as trying, as maddening, as his own and Governor's had been.
About noon that day, Major Hewitt came into the cell to see his slave. The Major was very much overcome at the sight of Governor, and spoke with great feeling.
"Oh, Governor! my heart bleeds for you, and for what you have done, my poor fellow! Oh! Governor, why, why did you take your revenge in your own hands, in this horrible manner? Why did you not, long ago, complain to me? I would have seen you righted."
"Ah, Marse Major, you never would hear no 'plaints we-dem made against the oberseer. It's been tried often, and you never would!"
"Yes, but my poor fellow! in such a case I would have listened to your complaint. I would have protected your family peace at every cost. If necessary, I would have discharged Moriarty. Yours was an exceptional case, and I would have attended to it."
"Ah, Marse Major, honey! I dessay you think you would now, as it has come to dis yer! But you wouldn't o' done it, Marse Major, honey! 'deed you wouldn't, 'cause you see it has been tried afore, an' you never would listen to nothin' 't all 'bout de oberseer. It's on'y 'cause it's come to dis yer you thinks different," said Governor, sadly, but respectfully, and even affectionately.
Major Hewitt did not reply; perhaps he felt that the slave had spoken the truth, for he looked extremely distressed, and told him that he would engage the best counsel to defend him; that no cost should be spared, even to the half of his estate, to save him.
And Major Hewitt kept his word, and hastened to secure the best legal aid to be had for Governor.
The day of the trial was at hand. It was known that two were to be tried for similar offenses. But every one was interested in Valentine, and no one, except his master, seemed to care one farthing for Governor. Those who saw him said he was "an ill-looking fellow," and there left the subject.
Valentine was the first arraigned. When his case was fully investigated, it was obvious to all minds that on the fatal encounter in which Mr. Waring fell, Valentine had struck only in self-defense—only after his own blood had been drawn, and he had been once felled to the floor. But then the blow had been fatal. And though he was well and ably defended, yet the verdict rendered against the prisoner was "Willful Murder." Valentine heard the verdict, and afterward received his sentence quietly, as a matter of course. At its conclusion, he bowed gravely, and was conducted from the court-room.