Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “We’ve just figured out,” said Martha, “that two of the slaves who’ve run off from Roman Hall in the past year were brothers to Sary. Unmarried men, both of them, so they might have been willing to flee the plantation for good.”

  “So Lincoln did see the nub of it,” I said, and Martha nodded excitedly. “Sary secured a spot aboard the War Eagle and has been using the ship to help her brothers escape to the North.”

  “Which she has no right to do,” interposed Tessie. “She should be arrested, or sent back to bondage at the least.”

  “Miss Roman,” said Lincoln, expelling his breath with frustration, “I’m doing my best to figure out how to get your beau acquitted of murder charges. Otherwise, he’s going to be sentenced tomorrow to hang. Do you think we can keep our energies on that task?”

  Tessie recoiled into her chair and stared at Lincoln, speechless.

  “I agree with you as far as you’ve gone, Speed,” Lincoln said, “and certainly it’s plausible Jones learned about the scheme between his visit to Roman Hall and his passage on the War Eagle. But we haven’t answered the questions on which Bingham’s liberty turns. Was it actually Sary herself who killed Jones? If not, who did?”

  “And is it possible to make the jury realize Bingham is innocent without exposing the fact that there was a fugitive slave aboard the War Eagle on the fateful, fatal night?” Martha added.

  Lincoln sighed deeply and nodded. “That too,” he said quietly.

  “Do you think she’s capable of killing Jones?” I asked Martha.

  “Could she have sneaked up behind him and hit him over the head?” Martha shrugged. “I suppose. But it’s hard to imagine her getting his body into the sack and casting him overboard all by herself.”

  “And if she did kill him like that, what about Bingham’s report of seeing someone swimming away from the boat?” I asked. “Why would the fugitive—if that’s who it was—have to flee if the person who was going to expose him was already dead?”

  “We’re forgetting about Pemberton,” said Martha. “Maybe he killed Jones so he could get all the credit for capturing—”

  Lincoln put up his hand, and at once we stopped talking. “I think you two are far afield now,” he said. “I’ve got an idea for tomorrow. It’s not much of one. But I think it’s the only way forward.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The courtroom had barely come to order the next morning when Lincoln was on his feet, advancing toward Telesphore Roman like a hungry man stealing a march on a granary.

  “You dislike Mr. Bingham greatly,” began Lincoln.

  “I make no bones about it,” said Telesphore. “If it was your sister he was after, you’d feel the same.”

  “You came to Alton to do whatever it took to bring your sister back home with you to Roman Hall, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that included lying to the jury yesterday about what Bingham had supposedly said to you.” Lincoln smacked his fist into his opposite palm for emphasis.

  Telesphore did not flinch. “I told them the truth.”

  “You told them what Mr. Prickett and Constable Daumier told you would be necessary to get Bingham convicted.”

  “They told me to tell the truth. Nothing more.”

  “When you arrived in this vicinity yesterday,” continued Lincoln, “the first thing you did was sock Bingham in the jaw.”

  The gallery, which was riveted by the exchange, murmured softly, as if hungering for more blood even at this early hour.

  “You know that’s the case because you stood by and watched me do it, Mr. Lincoln. I daresay you would have intervened if you disagreed with my assessment of the scoundrel.”

  Telesphore’s verbal counterpunch connected, and Lincoln was momentarily flustered and took a step back. Telesphore smiled to himself. But then Lincoln resumed his advance with renewed fury.

  “His hands were bound at the time, as they are now,” said Lincoln, gesturing toward the prisoner.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you think it was a fair fight—you with two good hands against Mr. Bingham with none?”

  “I want my sister freed from his illusion. Our parents need their eldest daughter home safely. Our family’s honor demands it. If that requires actions you deem unfair . . .” Telesphore shrugged. “I make no apologies.”

  “Even if it requires lying to the jury?” said Lincoln.

  Telesphore shook his head and repeated, “I told them the truth.”

  Bingham was watching the witness closely. After the tumultuous end to the testimony the prior day, Judge Thomas had ordered him returned to the state prison by a guard of armed men, and the same men had escorted him back to court through the gathering crowd this morning. I gave the judge credit for this: he was determined to have justice for Bingham meted out inside his courtroom rather than outside on the streets.

  “Miss Roman meant to marry Jones—is that what you testified to yesterday?” asked Lincoln.

  Telesphore did not look at his sister, who was again close by Bingham’s side. “I believe she was on a course to do so, before that scoundrel intervened.”

  “That’s why, as you said, Jones’s loss was a loss deeply felt by your whole family.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your whole, entire family?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lincoln nodded. He’d set the hook. “When, precisely, did your father, the original Jacques Telesphore Roman, learn of Jones’s death?”

  Telesphore hesitated, suddenly sensing the dangers lurking down this path. “I’m . . . I’m not sure, exactly,” he said at last. “You’d have to ask him—but he’s not here, of course.”

  “You’re here, so I’ll ask about you. When did you first hear of Jones’s death?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Isn’t the truth that you, yourself, only learned about Jones’s death when you arrived in Alton yesterday and learned of the existence of this murder trial?”

  Again Telesphore hesitated. He’d been caught out, and etched on his face was a frantic consideration of potential avenues of escape. “That may be true,” he said cautiously.

  “Well, is it or isn’t it? Was yesterday the first time you learned Jones was dead?”

  “Your Honor,” said Prickett, rising to try to throw his witness a life-line, “can Mr. Lincoln please be admonished to ask only one question at a time? He’s confusing the witness.”

  “I don’t believe Mr. Roman is confused in the slightest,” said Lincoln sharply.

  “The objection is sustained, Mr. Lincoln,” said Judge Thomas, though his demeanor did not reflect much sympathy for the witness.

  “Was yesterday the first time you learned that Jones was dead?” repeated Lincoln.

  “It was,” admitted Telesphore. One of the gentlemen of the jury leaned over to whisper to his neighbor.

  “Do you stand by your testimony that your whole, entire family was devastated by the news?”

  “Certainly,” said Telesphore, trying to regain his footing. “That is—I know they will be.”

  “So your original testimony yesterday was a prediction about the future, not a statement of past fact, is that what you’re saying now?”

  “I suppose it is. Yes.”

  “Let me ask you about the things Bingham supposedly said to you as he was leaving Roman Hall. Do you remember that testimony from the end of your examination by Mr. Prickett yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Telesphore settled back into his chair, happy to be returning to more comfortable ground.

  “Now those supposed statements by Mr. Bingham—did those actually happen, or were they just predictions about what he might say, like this business about Jones’s loss being devastating turned out to be a prediction?”

  A hint of red flush crept into Telesphore’s temples. “They actually happened,” he replied.

  “So you’re saying that as Bingham was leaving Roman Hall, he vowed to kill Jones, if that’s what it took to win
Miss Roman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you told us Mr. Jones was departing at the same time as Bingham, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “As far as you knew, they were about to steam off on the very same ship?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And they did steam off together.”

  “As I understand it, yes.”

  “And as he walked out the door, you say you and your father told Jones you’d welcome him back as the future husband and protector of your sister Contessa?”

  “Yes.”

  “You looked forward to calling him ‘brother,’ I think you told the jury yesterday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when your future brother walked away from Roman Hall, side by side with the man you say had just vowed to kill him, what did you do to protect your brother?”

  Telesphore opened his mouth, but no words came out. Lincoln had scored a direct hit, and everyone in the courtroom knew it. “I . . . but . . . there wasn’t anything I could do,” Telesphore stammered.

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . what could I have done?”

  “You could have warned Jones, if what you say is true,” suggested Lincoln. “Or you could have insisted that Jones stay on at Roman Hall, while Bingham went away. Or you could have turned Bingham over to the sheriff. There are any number of things you could have done to protect Jones, if what you say happened actually did happen.”

  “I didn’t do any of them,” Telesphore said after a pause, trying to affect a pose of regret. “I wish I had, obviously.”

  Lincoln nodded and walked a tight circle in the small open area in front of the witness. He’s giving the admission time to sink in, I thought, and readying for his next charge. The crowd murmured. Along the far wall, Captain Pound whispered something into Hector’s ear. The staccato clacking of Nanny Mae’s knitting needles came briefly to the surface.

  “You were not yourself on the War Eagle as it left Commerce and steamed upriver toward Alton, correct?” Lincoln asked.

  “That’s right.” Telesphore’s eyes were fierce, and his jaw was set with renewed determination. He, too, had used the short pause to gather himself. I had little regard for the man, but I did not doubt he truly believed his family’s honor was on the line.

  “So you wouldn’t have any personal knowledge about what actually took place during the voyage?”

  “That’s right. I only know what Bingham told me he intended to do as he was leaving for it.”

  “And likewise,” continued Lincoln, ignoring Telesphore’s jab, “you don’t have personal knowledge about what took place on the night Jones died, correct?”

  “I only know what Bingham told me he intended to do,” repeated Telesphore.

  Lincoln frowned and looked at the judge. “Your Honor, can I ask that you direct the witness to respond—”

  Judge Thomas spit out his cigar and waved off Prickett, who was rising to state his own position. “Yes, yes,” said the judge. “Please answer the question asked, Mr. Roman. There’s no need for the rest—the jury’s already heard your other testimony. The question asked was, do you have personal knowledge of the day Jones died?”

  “I don’t, Your Honor,” said Telesphore.

  Lincoln continued: “In reality, though, you did have a man aboard the War Eagle that night, isn’t that right?”

  Telesphore stared at Lincoln in confusion. The gallery began whispering to one another. I had a sense of what Lincoln was about to attempt. It was going to be difficult to pull off, I thought, even if the cards broke perfectly for him.

  “I don’t think so,” Telesphore said tentatively.

  “You employ a man named Pemberton, isn’t that right?”

  “It is.”

  “Tell the gentlemen of the jury who Pemberton is.”

  Telesphore turned to the jury, glad of the chance to speak with authority for once. “He’s our principal overseer. He and his three underoverseers are responsible for the hundred head who work our fields.”

  “The control and direction of your bondsmen are Pemberton’s charge?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you and your father have control over what Pemberton does?”

  “I should hope so.”

  “If Pemberton goes away from Roman Hall on an excursion of some sort, it’s because you’ve directed him to do so, is that right? He wouldn’t leave—say, for a week or two—as a frolic of his own?”

  “Correct.” Telesphore’s eyes darted around the courtroom, but I couldn’t tell whom or what he was looking for.

  Lincoln walked over to me and whispered, “Do you still have the drawing of your hook-nosed man?” I pulled it from my pocket. In turn, Lincoln handed the sketch to Telesphore.

  “Is this a depiction of Pemberton, this head overseer fellow?”

  “It looks a bit like him, I suppose. Where’d you get that?”

  Ignoring the question, Lincoln showed the drawing to Prickett and handed it to the closest member of the jury. He turned on Telesphore again.

  “Isn’t it the case,” said Lincoln, “that at or about the same time Bingham and Jones left Roman Hall to steam north, Pemberton also left your plantation and headed north?”

  Telesphore thought about this question for a long time before answering it. Finally he said, “Possibly.”

  “Why aren’t you sure?” Lincoln asked. “I thought you just told me he wouldn’t leave except at your direction.”

  “I know he left. I don’t know that he went upriver, specifically. But it’s certainly possible. Likely, even, I’d say.”

  “He left, meaning you sent him off for some reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “What reason?”

  Telesphore gave Lincoln a long look. “A matter having to do with our plantation,” he said at last.

  “What matter?”

  Another long look. “A private one. One I’d rather not discuss before all these people.” Telesphore gestured to the gallery and the jury.

  Lincoln nodded. He’d calculated, correctly so far, Telesphore would be hesitant to disclose the fact that Roman Hall had experienced a spate of runaway slaves. Such a lack of control over their bondsmen would not reflect well on the Romans. As his father’s lieutenant, it would reflect particularly poorly on Telesphore himself. Moreover, the laws in the North regarding the recapture of escaping slaves varied from state to state. It was one thing for Telesphore to send his overseer north in an attempt to recapture an escaping slave, but it was a very different one to admit publicly to doing so.

  “Isn’t it the case,” continued Lincoln, “that Pemberton ended up on the War Eagle, the same ship Jones and Bingham were on?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s possible.”

  “Did you send him to kill Bingham?”

  “No.”

  “Did you send him to kill Jones?”

  “No—why would I do that?”

  “Maybe your actual relations with Jones were very different than what you’ve told the jury. Maybe you viewed Jones as the threat to your sister. Maybe you sent Pemberton to eliminate that threat. And now you’re blaming Bingham as a way to avoid your own guilt.”

  The crowd murmured with excitement. Prickett was on his feet complaining about Lincoln’s tirade, but before he could finish the objection, Telesphore called out, “Ridiculous!”

  “But you sent your man out at the same time Jones and Bingham left, and he ends up on the same ship, and Jones ends up dead. And you won’t tell us why you sent him?”

  “It’s a private matter,” said Telesphore.

  “Something was going on aboard that ship that you don’t want to talk about.”

  It was not a question and the witness did not answer. He sat with his arms folded defiantly across his chest.

  “Were you present yesterday, Mr. Roman, when the crewman Hector suggested Jones had learned about some scheme aboard the War Eagle, and perhaps that’s what had gotten him
killed?”

  “Yes, I was here,” said Telesphore, leaning forward in anticipation of the next question.

  But the next question never came. Lincoln returned to his place and took his seat. There was a look of satisfaction on his face.

  CHAPTER 37

  The crowd was still murmuring with excitement at Lincoln’s examination as Judge Thomas said to Prickett, “Call your next witness.”

  But for once the prosecutor looked unsure of himself. Daumier was sitting beside him this morning, and the two men put their heads together and whispered back and forth frantically. After a bit, Prickett disengaged from the Frenchman and rose.

  “The People rest their case, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” said the judge over the lively hum of the crowd. “You’re up, Mr. Lincoln. Why don’t we take a thirty minute break, so the gentlemen of the jury can get a good long stretch, and then you can present your case.”

  Both the gallery and the jury started to rise from their seats, but before anyone had gotten too far, Lincoln shot up and announced in a loud voice, “We can’t wait to begin, Your Honor. This case has had me burning my candles down to their nubs every evening. I cannot abide a false accusation, as my younger self had to endure—”

  Lincoln paused for a breath. The gallery and jury were half in their seats and half out, looking at one another with confusion. Judge Thomas was staring wide-eyed at Lincoln, seemingly too shocked at his outburst to remember to reprimand him.

  “—so whatever the consequences,” Lincoln continued, talking faster now, “I’m going to lay out precisely what happened aboard the War Eagle. I’m going to call every witness. Adduce every fact.” Judge Thomas’s face was getting redder and redder, and Lincoln picked up even more speed, trying to finish his peroration before the judge burst. “I’m going to get to the heart of what’s been going on here in Alton and all along the river.” The judge opened his mouth, but Lincoln raised both hands modestly, as if in surrender.

  “And I’m going to do it right after this recess. Thank you, Your Honor.”