A Stranger Here Below

by Charles Fergus

  And no relief can find …

  Eighteen

  Oct. 24. At the service in Panther a deacon spoke briefly, then called for prayers. Some in the congregation asked God to reveal the Truth of what had happened on the grounds of the parsonage. Others beseech’d the Lord Almighty to protect the Rev. from Satan & his Evil Snares. Overall a fatalistic, gloomy atmosphere, with tears streaking many faces. Ad. Thompson was not present, nor my betrothed. As I left the sanctuary, the people looked at me thro’ eyes filled with pity and regret, as if they saw not a Judge, but the Man beneath the outer shell—a pitiful man whose heart must verily be torn asunder.

  At the parsonage found my love seated in a chair with a quilt across her lap. When I took her in my arms, she began to weep bitterly. After a while she quieted, & I knelt before her & took her hands in mine. She said to me, “Promise me you will protect him. He could not have done this wicked thing.” I was wracked with indecision. Should I tell her what her father reveal’d to me yesterday—his past episodes of uncontrollable rage? Surely she must know of his penchant for walking in his sleep. Should I tell her he had all but admitted, to himself & to me, the strong possibility—nay, the likelihood—of his Guilt? I still harbored a hope, albeit faint, & lessening with every hour, that some shred of evidence would appear & exonerate him. Finally I said I was certain the Truth would come out, & that we must accept the Truth whatever it be.

  She began to weep again most disconsolate. There seemed nothing more for me to say, other than that her father was being comfortably kept in the gaol, & her brother might arrive at any time, as I had dispatched a rider with a letter to him. It was with a Heavy Heart that I made my way back to Adamant.

  There followed two weeks during which the judge made only a few terse, impersonal entries in his diary as he prepared to preside over the trial of the Reverend Thomas McEwan, charged with murder in the first degree for killing Nathaniel Thompson. Gideon could barely make himself continue reading, knowing as he did how all of this would end.

  Nov. 10. How Wretched a Man am I, to sit in judgment upon my beloved’s father! Would that I could cast off my judicial robes, & never face this or any other legal decision again, & that by so doing the Lord would return my dear Rachel to me, serene and blithe as she was on that day not long ago, when we walked along the Stream, & gathered blue gentians, & I kissed her innocent hand.

  But Time revolves on its Wheel, & I remain the Judge of this county, & so will endeavor to set down, in hopes of seeing some way thro’ to the end of my task, the events of today.

  The Courthouse full to overflowing, with a large crowd standing outside. R. sat behind the bench where her father, shackl’d in irons, was seated. The Rev. McEwan earlier declar’d he would represent himself during trial. This was not a wise course, & I so advised him in private & once again during conference before the trial began, but he refused to be swayed. Further, the Rev. requested that only a judge—I and I alone!—should hear his case, & not a jury.

  The State’s Atty. has not listed R. as a witness, nor has her father indicated he will call her. It is just as well. Spare her that grim duty, for how could a daughter’s testimony, however Truthful, however Exact, hold sway over what we heard today!

  The prosecution’s first witness was one Micah Carson. He identified himself as “a friend of the deceased” who, on numerous occasions, had accompanied Nat Thompson to Pittsburgh & various other destinations to sell iron. Carson testified that Nat told him about going to work on the Rev. McEwan’s barn, & related the incident in which the Rev. kicked Nat when he found him sleeping, called him a “lazy cur,” & when Nat objected & answered back, the Rev. “flew off the handle” & boxed him on the ear. Mr. Sewell had the witness make clear this was the first time the Rev. struck Nat, & not the later, more serious Assault. The Rev. did not cross-examine.

  The Hendry women both repeated almost verbatim what they said in my chambers on the day the body was found, incl. having heard, on Oct. 17, the day of the assault, the Rev. threaten Nat Thompson’s life—“You will lie dead at my feet!”—at which an audible murmur came from the gallery, & R. hung her head. Again the Rev. elected not to cross.

  Sam Lingle took the stand. Appeared very uneasy, looking down & shifting in the chair. He stated that on the night of Oct. 18, he had seen in the moonlight a “good-sized man” digging in the parsonage garden with a spade. He testified that the man seemed to be filling in a hole with dirt & tramping it down—which is more than he had described before, at least in my hearing. When prompted by Mr. Sewell, he said, “I am pretty sure it was Rev. McEwan.” The accused raised no objection to this clearly speculative statement, nor did he elect to cross.

  Sheriff Bathgate then testified that Ad. Thompson had come to him, worried because his brother had failed to return to the ironmaster’s residence, where he was domiciled, for two consecutive nights. The sheriff said he had spoken with the Hendry women & Lingle, & described how the party of deputies, along with Ad. Thompson & myself, went to the parsonage where the corpse was unearth’d from the garden & identified as that of Nat. Thompson. The sheriff then desc’d the wounds on the corpse’s face and head. Again no cross by the Rev.

  Mr. Sewell called the ironmaster to the stand. Spoke very calm & direct, not obviously venomous, yet with a grim smile playing upon his visage. He describ’d Nat & his nature (painted his brother as an Upright Being, if somewhat Slothful at times, & with a Wild Streak as many a young fellow will have), how he had failed to come home, rumours of his demise at the hands of the Rev., how he had then alerted the sheriff—& so on up to the discovery of the body & subsequent identification of Nat’s clothing & ring. After Mr. Sewell finished, & it was time for the Rev. to conduct cross—he simply shook his head. The ironmaster sat there on the witness stand, all smug & self-righteous, his arms crossed over his chest, & I had to remind myself that Ad. Thompson is not on trial here, the law must remain impartial & consider the evidence presented & Nothing Else.

  It being the defense’s turn to bring witnesses, I turned the trial over to the Rev. I had tho’t he might change his mind & call his daughter to testify, at the very least to her father’s probity & high character, but perhaps the Rev. wished to shield R. from cross-examination, for he simply stated that he himself would constitute the sole witness for the defense.

  Rising unsteadily, he came forward & mounted to the stand. After swearing upon the Bible, he described, in as much detail as he could summon up, the “scuffle”—for such did he call it—between himself & Nat. Then said Most Emphatick that he did not hit Nat so hard that he couldn’t leap back up again & run off, which the Rev. saw Nat do in the moment during which he himself fell, before striking his own head against the chopping block. Said he did not know what happened after that, as he was unconscious for some span of time—a few minutes, perhaps somewhat longer, until his daughter reviv’d him. But as to the testimony of Sam Lingle, that on the next night he saw the Rev. digging in the garden—the Rev. declared “Before God Almighty, I have no memory of burying a corpse, either that night or at any other time.”

  Mr. Sewell can be rather combative with a defendant, but during his cross he treated the Rev. gently. He asked if the accused possessed a long dark robe & white nightcap. The Rev. said he did own such garments. The prosecutor then led the Rev. thro’ the events culminating in the fight between himself & Nat, asking him if he said to the deceased, as Mrs. and Miss Hendry had testified hearing, that “You will lie dead at my feet.” The Rev. stared down at his lap & nodded. I directed that he answer the question, the witness then saying meekly, “Yes.”

  An undercurrent of whispers swept thro’ the courtroom. My poor beloved began to sob—but could I go & comfort her? I could not. Cries of “Have mercy on a Christian gentleman!” & “He is innocent!” rang out. Such reactions arise from emotion & sympathy toward a respected, beloved figure. With every fiber of my being I wish for the Rev. McEwan to be innocent, but I am a Judge, & cannot be swayed by pity, nor hatred,
nor self benefit, but can only look at the facts in any case & judge them as fairly & honestly as I can, with God as my witness.

  I brought down the gavel & the uproar subsided. Mr. Sewell had no further questions. It being late, I adjourned till tomorrow.

  Now I am alone in my study. These words I have written by the light of two candles. As I sat recording the day’s events, trying to bring order to my Agitation, to the Utter Misery in my mind, the candles burned low. Suddenly, at the same moment, both of them guttered out.

  A chill ran down Gideon’s spine. True saw this. When the two of them lay drowsing in bed on the night of the day when he had discovered Hiram Biddle’s body, True had envisioned two candles guttering and going out, and two people arguing and in pain. Had she somehow perceived the anguished thoughts that must have gripped the judge’s mind as he read this passage in his diary—before he loaded his gun, set it on the table, picked up the poker, and pressed the trigger?

  Did she really have second sight? He told himself again that there could not be an unglimpsed world that paralleled the real world in which people lived and breathed.

  Shaken and confused, he lowered the judge’s journal to his lap. In his mind’s eye he imagined a youthful Hiram Biddle penning these words: a young man who seemed to have a wonderful life ahead of him, who had finally found a woman worthy of his love, and she in love with him—only to have his dreams utterly shattered. Then in a blink of an eye, the judge finds himself old and gray, alone in the world, and he sees with piercing clarity how his life has been so bitterly diminished.

  Gideon felt his throat close as his own personal hellish vision came again. He fought against that image and pictured his mother alive and happy, saw her warm smile, conjured up her soft words and merry laughter and loving touch. Then her visage darkened and her features twisted. He saw her writhing in agony with each blow of the knife. He heard her screaming in pain as a whirlwind of evil overwhelmed her and carried her away.

  He held his face in his hands. He longed for the hot rushing release of weeping. But try as he might, he could not let the tears flow.

  With a hard, deceitful heart

  And a wretched, wand’ring mind

  Nineteen

  The final entry in the judge’s journal bore no date. Gideon noted that the penmanship had gone slack and imprecise, though the thoughts and observations recorded by Hiram Biddle remained cogent.

  It is finished. After court conven’d & almost before the spectators had taken their seats, the Rev. stood & said he wished to make a statement. He turned to the gallery, wherein his daughter sat. He said he had looked into his Soul and found there Anger & Defiance toward God. In his Sinful Pride, he had placed himself above his fellow men, upbraiding them & at times treating them cruelly. The Rev. stated that he had set himself up as a Judge, & now he himself would be judged.

  He said that when he went back to his cell yesterday, he reviewed in his mind the attack he had made upon Nat Thompson. He also hearkened back to several incidents in the past when, at night, tho’ sound asleep, he got up out of his bed, & walked about, & did things that required dexterity and great strength. Later, he had no memory of those doings.

  He said he remembered that on the morning after the night when Sam Lingle saw someone digging in the parsonage garden, he awoke to find his robe on the floor, lying in a heap at the foot of his chair. He always took care to hang it neatly on the back of the chair before going to bed. Calling it “a Sign from Above,” he said he could come to but One Conclusion Only: He must have risen in the night, left the parsonage, gone out searching in the woods, & there found the body of Nat Thompson, the victim of his violent temper. He then carried the corpse to the garden, buried it, covered the spot with grass & branches—did all of those things in his sleep.

  A commotion swept thro’ the gallery. I saw R. weeping & being held by Mrs. Whitehill; it pierced my own heart to see her bro’t so low. The Rev. turned to the people. Standing straight and tall, he thunder’d at them, bade them look upon a man who could recite the Commandments given us by our Lord, yet who had failed to follow those Commandments himself, including the most important one, Thou shalt not kill.

  He reaffirmed his belief in the Lord our God, Maker of Heav’n & Earth, & His Son Jesus Christ. A base sinner, he commended his soul unto God. He cried out then, “I plead guilty to the murder of Nat Thompson!”

  A man rushed outside shouting the news. Thro’ the door came a swelling of voices—cries & wails—a wild lament. The ironmaster sprang to his feet & bellow’d “An eye for an eye!”

  I pounded the gavel. I had not expected events to tumble so rapidly to a close. I was not prepared to sentence the Rev., had been considering what a just sentence would be, should a conviction result, & whilst the penal code specifies Death by Hanging for the crime of willful murder, & the Rev. admitted to telling the deceased that he should “lie dead at my feet”—yet I felt the evidence pointed to his having struck the man in a fit of rage rather than in a cold & calculating manner. But all my considerations were for naught.

  He turned to me, the father of my beloved, that most unfortunate man, & said forcefully that he did not wish to Languish in prison. He begged me to sentence him then & there. He cried out, “And let the sentence be death!”

  Again I let fall the gavel, struck it down again and again, until it dawn’d in my grieving brain that all in the courtroom had fallen silent, & were sitting there watching me, watching my pain’d and futile blows.

  As I passed sentence, as the words I spoke made of my heart a stone, the Rev. smiled radiantly, seeming to exult in his doom.

  This evening, alone in my chambers, sick at heart & with no desire to eat, or even to rise from my chair, I heard the door open. Rachel came in, a lanthorn in her hand. I confess I had been too much of a Coward to have gone to comfort her after the verdict & sentencing. Now her face was wild; her hair undone. Setting down the light, she took hold of both my hands, kissed them feverishly & press’d them against her bosom. She told me I was sending an Innocent Man to the gallows. I sought to reason with her, telling her that her father had confessed, that he took a man’s life with malice aforethought, & concealed the body, a capital offense. “In this the Law is specific,” I said. “I have no say in the matter, truly I do not.”

  I tried to take her in my arms, but she struck my hands aside & drew back, crying out that if I truly loved her, I would go with her now & set him free! She brought out a purse, said the sheriff could be bribed, he would listen to me, he would say the Rev. overpowered him, broke gaol & escaped. I told her that even were the gaol house door flung open & the way clear, her father would not flee, for he knows that what he did was grievously wrong. To redeem himself before God, to expunge this great sin, he is ready to accept his punishment.

  I caught hold of her again, & immediately she grew still & looked upon me in such a cold & icy way that I fell silent. She said that I was their last hope, that I and I alone could protect them from the Evil that has come to ensnare them. When I did not reply, she removed herself from my hands. “No,” she said, “I see that you will not save us.” She took from her finger the ring I had given her & placed it on my desk. Then she turned & walked away.

  It is finished

  There were no more entries in the book, only blank pages. Staring into the fire, Gideon thought about how True had somehow seen this final, bitter conflict. He thought of what True’s grandmother had told him, about the hanging on that long-ago day in Adamant, how the crowd had parted for the preacher and the death cart. He could almost hear the murmur of voices, the squeal of the fife and the beating of the drum. The old oak would have held the last of its withered leaves, through which the wind must have keened. In his mind’s eye he saw the cart driven out from under Thomas McEwan, the preacher kicking at the end of the rope, Adonijah Thompson watching with his cruel smile. And he saw Hiram Biddle bowed down with anguish as, in his official capacity, he witnessed Thomas McEwan forfeiting his life.
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  Gram Burns had said that Rachel and her brother buried their father and were never seen again.

  Alonzo had said that people claimed “the judge was never the same, after he sent the reverend to hang.”

  Hiram Biddle must have gone over this story in his mind again and again as the months and the years flowed past. But why had the judge decided now, with thirty years gone by, that life no longer could be borne? Was it simply the long and finally crushing accretion of grief and guilt? Or had there been something else, some triggering event that pushed him to take that final, irrevocable step?

  He thought again of their last hunt together. At its end, the judge calling him “Gideon” and giving him his day’s take of game. Of agreeing to go hunting for ducks on the morrow—and then changing his mind.

  He must have known I would find his body, Gideon thought again, and felt again a flush of resentment that Judge Biddle should have laid this burden on him.

  Why didn’t he at least leave a letter? Why didn’t he explain?

  Remember you are hast’ning on

  To death’s dark gloomy shade

  Twenty

  Old Nick’s bell went silent. Gideon closed in. He spied the dog, crouched and quivering. He heard the grouse’s querulous pert-pert call and the thunder of its wings, which, even though he was expecting it, still made his heart jump. The bird came thrashing out of the thicket in swift flight. The judge’s shotgun leaped to Gideon’s shoulder. The swarm of shot stopped the grouse in midair like a huge invisible hand.

  Gideon called “Fetch!” and the setter broke point, dashed ahead, and picked up the fallen grouse. He came padding back, wagging his tail. Gently he laid the bird in Gideon’s hand.

  Gideon pouched the grouse and set about reloading. As he worked with powder and shot, he stared out into the brush, hoping he might see, for just a moment, an erect, sober-faced, gray-haired man.