The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER XXXV
A CRISIS AT THE COURT-HOUSE
In that bare upper room they had shared, the judge, crushed and broken,
watched beside the bed on which the dead man lay; unconscious of the flight of
time he sat with his head bowed in his hands, having scarcely altered his
position since he begged those who carried Mahaffy up the narrow stairs to leave
him alone with his friend.
He was living over the past. He recalled his first meeting with Mahaffy in
the stuffy cabin of the small river packet from which they had later gone ashore
at Pleasantville; he thanked God that it had been given him to see beneath
Solomon's forbidding exterior and into that starved heart! He reviewed each
phase of the almost insensible growth of their intimacy; he remembered Mahaffy's
fine true loyalty at the time of his arrest—he thought of Damon and
Pythias—Mahaffy had reached the heights of a sublime devotion; he could only
feel enobled that he had inspired it.
At last the dusk of twilight invaded the room. He lighted the candles on the
chimneypiece, then he resumed his seat and his former attitude. Suddenly he
became aware of a small hand that was resting on his arm and glanced up;
Hannibal had stolen quietly into the room. The boy pointed to the still figure
on the bed.
"Judge, what makes Mr. Mahaffy lie so quiet—is he dead?" he asked in a
whisper.
"Yes, dear lad," began the judge in a shaking voice as he drew Hannibal
toward him, "your friend and mine is dead—we have lost him." He lifted the boy
into his lap, and Hannibal pressed a tear-stained face against the judge's
shoulder. "How did you get here?" the judge questioned gently.
"Uncle Bob fetched me," said Hannibal. "He's down-stairs, but he didn't tell
me Mr. Mahaffy was dead-"
"We have sustained a great loss, Hannibal, and we must never forget the moral
grandeur of the man. Some day, when you are older, and I can bring myself to
speak of it, I will tell you of his last moments." The judge's voice broke, a
thick sob rose chokingly in his throat. "Poor Solomon! A man of such tender
feeling that he hid it from the world, for his was a rare nature which only
revealed itself to the chosen few he honored with his love." The judge lapsed
into a momentary brooding silence, in which his great arms drew the boy closer
against his heart. "Dear lad, since I left you at Belle Plain a very astonishing
knowledge has come to me. It was the Hand of Providence—I see it now—that first
brought us together. You must not call me judge any more; I am your grandfather
your mother was my daughter."
Hannibal instantly sat erect and looked up at the judge, his blue eyes wide
with amazement at this extraordinary statement.
"It is a very strange story, Hannibal, and its links are not all in my hands,
but I am sure because of what I already know. I, who thought that not a drop of
my blood flowed in any veins but my own, live again in you. Do you understand
what I am telling you? Your are my own dear little grandson—" and the judge
looked down with no uncertain love and pride into the small face upturned to
his.
"I am glad if you are my grandfather, judge," said Hannibal very gravely. "I
always liked you."
"Thank you, dear lad," responded the judge with equal gravity, and then as
Hannibal nestled back in his grandfather's arms a single big tear dropped from
the end of that gentleman's prominent nose.
"There will be many and great changes in store for us," continued the judge.
"But as we met adversity with dignity, I am sure we shall be able to endure
prosperity with equanimity, only unworthy natures are affected by what is at
best superficial and accidental. I mean that the blight of poverty is about to
be lifted from our lives."
"Do you mean we ain't going to be pore any longer, grandfather?" asked
Hannibal.
The judge regarded him with infinite tenderness of expression; he was
profoundly moved.
"Would you mind saying that again, dear lad?"
"Do you mean we ain't going to be pore any longer, grandfather?" repeated
Hannibal.
"I shall enjoy an adequate competency which I am about to recover. It will be
sufficient for the indulgence of those simple and intellectual tastes I propose
to cultivate for the future." In spite of himself the judge sighed. This was
hardly in line with his ideals, but the right to choose was no longer his. "You
will be very rich, Hannibal. The Quintard lands—your grandmother was a
Quintard—will be yours; they run up into the hundred of thousand of acres here
about; this land will all be yours as soon as I can establish your identity."
"Will Uncle Bob be rich too?" inquired Hannibal.
"Certainly. How can he be poor when we possess wealth?" answered the judge.
"You reckon he will always live with us, don't you, grandfather?"
"I would not have it otherwise. I admire Mr. Yancy—he is simple and direct,
and fit for any company under heaven except that of fools. His treatment of you
has placed me under everlasting obligations; he shall share what we have. My one
bitter, unavailing regret is that Solomon Mahaffy will not be here to partake of
our altered fortunes." And the judge sighed deeply.
"Uncle Bob told me Mr. Mahaffy got hurt in a duel, grandfather?" said
Hannibal.
"He was as inexperienced as a child in the use of firearms, and he had to
deal with scoundrels who had neither mercy nor generous feeling—but his courage
was magnificent."
Presently Hannibal was deep in his account of those adventures he had shared
with Miss Betty.
"And Miss Malroy—where is she now?" asked the judge, in the first pause of
the boy's narrative.
"She's at Mr. Bowen's house. Mr. Carrington and Mr. Cavendish are here too.
Mrs. Cavendish stayed down yonder at the Bates' plantation. Grandfather, it were
Captain Murrell who had me stole—do you reckon he was going to take me back to
Mr. Bladen?"
"I will see Miss Malroy in the morning. We must combine—our interests are
identical. There should be hemp in this for more than one scoundrel! I can see
now how criminal my disinclination to push myself to the front has been!" said
the judge, with conviction. "Never again will I shrink from what I know to be a
public duty."
A little later they went down-stairs, where the judge had Yancy make up a bed
for himself and Hannibal on the floor. He would watch alone beside Mahaffy, he
was certain this would have been the dead man's wish; then he said good night
and mounted heavily to the floor above to resume his vigil and his musings.
Just at daybreak Yancy was roused by the pressure of a hand on his shoulder,
and opening his eyes saw that the judge was bending over him.
"Dress!" he said briefly. "There's every prospect of trouble—get your rifle
and come with me!"
Yancy noted that this prospect of trouble seemed to afford the judge a
pleasurable sensation; indeed, he had quite lost his former air of somber and
suppressed melancholy.
"I let you sleep, thinking you needed the rest," the judge went on. "But ever
since midnight we've been on the verge of riot and possible bloodshed. They've
arrested John Murrell—it's claimed he's planned a servile rebellion! A man named
Hues, who had wormed his way into his confidence, made the arrest. He carried
Murrell into Memphis, but the local magistrate, intimidated, most likely,
declined to have anything to do with holding him. In spite of this, Hues managed
to get his prisoner lodged in jail, but along about nightfall the situation
began to look serious. Folks were swarming into town armed to the teeth, and
Hues fetched Murrell across country to Raleigh—"
"Yes?" said Yancy.
"Well, the sheriff has refused to take Murrell into custody. Hues has him
down at the court-house, but whether or not he is going to be able to hold him
is another matter!"
Yancy and Hannibal had dressed by this time, and the judge led the way from
the house. The Scratch Hiller looked about him. Across the street a group of
men, the greater number of whom were armed, stood in front of Pegloe's tavern.
Glancing in the direction of the court-house, he observed that the square before
it held other groups. But what impressed him more was the ominous silence that
was everywhere. At his elbow the judge was breathing deep.
"We are face to face with a very deplorable condition, Mr. Yancy. Court was
to sit here to-day, but judge Morrow and the public prosecutor have left town,
and as you see, Murrell's friends have gathered for a rescue. There's a
sprinkling of the better element—but only a sprinkling. I saw judge Morrow this
morning at four o'clock—I told him I would obligate myself to present for his
consideration evidence of a striking and sensational character, evidence which
would show conclusively that Murrell should be held to await the action of the
next grand jury—this was after a conference with Hues—I guaranteed his safety.
Sir, the man refused to listen to me! He showed himself utterly devoid of any
feeling of public duty." The bitter sense of failure and futility was leaving
the judge. The situation made its demands on that basic faith in his own powers
which remained imbedded in his character.
They had entered the court-house square. 'On the steps of the building Betts
was arguing loudly with Hues, who stood in the doorway, rifle in hand.
"Maybe you don't know this is county property?" the sheriff was saying. "And
that you have taken unlawful possession of it for an unlawful purpose? I am
going to open them doors-a passel of strangers can't keep folks out of a
building their own money has bought and paid for!" While he was speaking, the
judge had pushed his way through the crowd to the foot of the steps.
"That was very nicely said, Mr. Betts," observed the judge. He smiled widely
and sweetly. The sheriff gave him a hostile glare. "Do you know that Morrow has
left town?" the judge went on.
"I ain't got nothing to do with judge Morrow. It's my duty to see that this
building is ready for him when he's a mind to open court in it."
"You are willing to assume the responsibility of throwing open these doors?"
inquired the judge affably.
"I shorely am," said Betts. "Why, some of these folks are our leading
people!"
The judge turned to the crowd, and spoke in a tone of excessive civility.
"Just a word, gentlemen!—the sheriff is right; it is your court-house and you
should not be kept out of it. No doubt there are some of you whose presence in
this building will sooner or later be urgently desired. We are going to let all
who wish to enter, but I beg you to remember that there will be five men inside
whose prejudices are all in favor of law and order." He pushed past Hues and
entered the court-house, followed by Yancy and Hannibal. "We'll let 'em in where
I can talk to 'em," he said almost gaily. "Besides, they'll come in anyhow when
they get ready, so there's no sense in exciting them."
In the court-house, Murrell, bound hand and foot, was seated between
Carrington and the Earl of Lambeth in the little railed-off space below the
judge's bench. Fear and suffering had blanched his unshaven cheeks and given a
wild light to his deeply sunken eyes. At sight of Yancy a smothered exclamation
broke from his lips, he had supposed this man dead these many months!
Hues had abandoned his post and the crowd, suddenly grown clamorous, stormed
the narrow entrance. One of the doors, borne from its hinges, went down with a
crash. The judge, a fierce light flashing from his eyes, turned to Yancy.
"No matter what happens, this fellow Murrell is not to escape—if he calls on
his friends to rescue him he is to be shot!"
The hall was filling with swearing, struggling men, the floor shook beneath
their heavy tread; then they burst into the court-room and saluted Murrell with
a great shout. But Murrell, bound, in rags, and silent, his lips frozen in a
wolfish grin, was a depressing sight, and the boldest felt something of his
unrestrained lawlessness go from him.
Less noisy now, the crowd spread itself out among the benches or swarmed up
into the tiny gallery at the back of the building. Man after man had hurried
forward, intent on passing beyond the railing, but each lead encountered the
judge, formidable and forbidding, and had turned aside. Gradually the many pairs
of eyes roving over the little group surrounding the outlaw focussed themselves
on Slocum Price. It was in unconscious recognition of that moral force which was
his, a tribute to the grim dignity of his unshaken courage; what he would do
seemed worth considering.
He was charmed to hear his name pass in a whisper from lip to lip. Well, it
was time they knew him! He squared his ponderous shoulders and made a gesture
commanding silence. Battered, shabby and debauched, he was like some old war
horse who sniffs the odor of battle that the wind incontinently brings to his
nostrils.
"Don't let him speak!" cried a voice, and a tumult succeeded.
Cool and indomitable the judge waited for it to subside. He saw that the
color was stealing back into Murrell's face. The outlaw was feeling that he was
a leader not overthrown, these were his friends and followers, his safety was
their safety too. In a lull in the storm of sound the judge attempted to make
himself heard, but his words were lost in the angry roar that descended on him.
"Don't let him speak! Kill him! Kill him!"
A score of men sprang to their feet and from all sides came the click of
rifle and pistol hammers as they were drawn to the full cock. The judge's fate
seemed to rest on a breath. He swung about on his heel and gave a curt nod to
Yancy and Cavendish, who, falling back a step, tossed their guns to their
shoulders and covered Murrell. A sudden hush grew up out of the tumult; the
cries, angry and jeering, dwindled to a murmur, and a dead pall of silence
rested on the crowded room.
The very taste of triumph was in the judge's mouth. Then came a commotion at
the back of the building, a whispered ripple of comment, and Colonel Fentress
elbowed his way through the crowd. At sight of his enemy the judge's face went
from white to red, while his eyes blazed; but for the moment the force of his
emotions left him speechless. Here and there, as he advanced, Fentress
recognized a friend and bowed coolly to the right and left.
"What does this ridiculous mockery mean?" he demanded harshly. "Mr. Sheriff,
as a member of the bar, I protest! Why don't you clear the building?" He did not
wait for Betts to answer him, but continued. "Where is this man Hues?"
"Yonder, Colonel, by the captain," said Betts.
"I have a warrant for his arrest. You will take him into custody."
"Wait!" cried the judge. "I represent Mr. Hues. I desire to see that
warrant!"
But Fentress ignored him. He addressed the crowded benches.
"Gentlemen, it is a serious matter forcibly to seize a man without authority
from the courts and expose him to the danger of mob violence—Mr. Hues will learn
this before we have done with him."
Instantly there was a noisy demonstration that swelled into a burst of
applause, which quickly spent itself. The struggle seemed to have narrowed to an
individual, contest for supremacy between Fentress and the judge. On the edge of
the railed off space they confronted each other: the colonel, a tall,
well-cared-for presence; the judge shabby and unkempt. For a moment their eyes
met, while the judge's face purpled and paled, and purpled again. The silence
deepened. Fentress' thin lips opened, twitched, but no sound came from them;
then his glance wavered and fell. He turned away.
"Mr. Sheriff!" he called sharply.
"All right, Colonel!"
"Take your man into custody," ordered Fentress. As he spoke he handed the
warrant to Betts, who looked at it, grinned, and stepped toward Hues. He would
have pushed the judge aside had not that gentleman, bowing civilly, made way for
him.
"In my profound respect for the law and properly constituted authority I
yield to no man, not even to Colonel Fentress," he said, with a gracious
gesture. "I would not place the slightest obstacle in the way of its sanctioned
manifestation. Colonel Fentress comes here with that high sanction." He bowed
again ceremoniously to the colonel. "I repeat, I respect his dependence upon the
law!" He whirled suddenly.
"Cavendish—Yancy—Carrington—I call upon you to arrest John Murrell! I do this
by virtue of the authority vested in me as a judge of the United States Federal
Court. His crime—a mere trifle, my friends—passing counterfeit money! Colonel
Fentress will inform you that this is a violation of the law which falls within
my jurisdiction," and he beamed blandly on Fentress.
"It's a lie!" cried the colonel.
"You'll answer for that later!" said the judge, with abrupt austerity of
tone.
"For all we know you may be some fugitive from justice! Why, your name isn't
Price!"
"Are you sure of that?" asked the judge quickly.
"You're an impostor! Your name is Turberville!"
"Permit me to relieve your apprehensions. It is Turberville who has received
the appointment. Would you like to examine my credentials?—I have them by me—no?
I am obliged for your introduction. It could not have come at a more timely
moment!" The judge seemed to dismiss Fentress contemptuously. Once more he faced
the packed benches. "Put down your weapons!" he commanded. "This man Murrell
will not be released. At the first effort at rescue he will be shot where he
sits—we have sworn it—his plotting is at an end." He stalked nearer the benches.
"Not one chance in a thousand remains to him. Either he dies here or he lives to
betaken before every judge in the state, if necessary, until we find one with
courage to try him! Make no mistake—it will best conserve the ends of justice to
allow the state court's jurisdiction in this case; and I pledge myself to
furnish evidence which will start him well on his road to the gallows!" The
judge, a tremendous presence, stalked still nearer the benches. Outfacing the
crowd, a sense of the splendor of the part he was being called upon to play
flowed through him like some elixir; he felt that he was transcending himself,
that his inspiration was drawn from the hidden springs of the spirit, and that
he could neither falter nor go astray. "You don't know what you are meddling
with! This man has plotted to lay the South in ruins—he has been arming the
negroes—it—it is incredible that you should all know this—to such I say, go home
and thank God for your escape! For the others"—his shaggy brows met in a
menacing frown—"if they force our hand we will toss them John Murrell's dead
carcass—that's our answer to their challenge!"
He strode out among the gun muzzles which wavered where they still covered
him. He was thinking of Mahaffy—Mahaffy, who had said he was still a man to be
reckoned with. For the comfort of his own soul he was proving it.
"Do you know what a servile insurrection means?—you men who have wives and
daughters, have you thought of their fate? Of the monstrous savagery to which
they would be exposed? Do you believe he could limit and control it? Look at
him! Why, he has never had a consideration outside of his own safety, and yet he
expects you to risk your necks to save his! He would have left the state before
the first blow was struck—his business was all down river—but we are going to
keep him here to answer for his crimes! The law, as implacable as it is
impartial, has put its mark on him—the shadow in which he sits is the shadow of
the gallows!"
The judge paused, but the only sound in that expectant silence was the heavy
breathing of men. He drew his unwieldy form erect, while his voice rumbled on,
aggressive and threatening in its every intonation.
"You are here to defend something that no longer exists. Your organization is
wrecked, your signals and passwords are known, your secrets have become public
property—I can even produce a list of your members; there are none of you who do
not stand in imminent peril—yet understand, I have no wish to strike at those
who have been misled or coerced into joining Murrell's band!" The judge's sodden
old face glowed now with the magnanimity of his sentiments. "But I have no
feeling of mercy for your leaders, none for Murrell himself. Put down your
guns!—you can only kill us after we have killed Murrell—but you can't kill the
law! If the arch conspirator dies in this room and hour, on whose head will the
punishment fall?" He swung round his ponderous arm in a sweeping gesture and
shook a fat but expressive forefinger in the faces of those nearest him. "On
yours—and yours—and yours!"
Across the space that separated them the judge grinned his triumph at his
enemy. He had known when Fentress entered the room that a word or a sign from
him would precipitate a riot, but he knew now that neither this word nor this
sign would be given. Then quite suddenly he strode down the aisle, and foot by
foot Fentress yielded ground before his advance. A murderous light flashed from
the judge's bloodshot eyes and his right hand was stealing toward the frayed
tails of his coat.
"Look out—he's getting ready to shoot!" cried a frightened voice.
Instantly by doors and windows the crowd, seized with inexplicable panic,
emptied itself into the courthouse yard. Fentress was caught up in the rush and
borne from the room and from the building. When he reached the graveled space
below the steps he turned. The judge was in the doorway, the center of a
struggling group; Mr. Bowen, the minister, Mr. Saul and Mr. Wesley were vainly
seeking to pinion his arm.
"Draw—damn you!" he roared at Fentress, as he wrenched himself free, and the
crowd swayed to right and left as Fentress was seen to reach for his pistol.
Mr. Saul made a last frantic effort to restrain his friend; he seized the
judge's arm just as the latter's finger pressed the trigger, and an instant
later Fentress staggered back with the judge's bullet in his shoulder.