Jarrettsville

by Cornelia Nixon

  I was so surprised, I could not speak at first. “What about your baby?”

  She blanched and whispered, “It should die with its father. I wish it would.”

  “You don’t mean that. No woman ever thought like that. Heaven’s sake, Belle and I will take the child. But wait till it’s born, woman. You’ll change your mind.”

  Her face had crumpled into tears, and I knew I was right.

  But still she killed the man, and when she did it, damn! It was a sight to see. She did not hesitate. She was pure action of a kind any man could hope to show. It made me proud. My sister, brave and true. She would hate to hear me say it, but the honor she reclaimed was not only her own. She had given back a bit of honor to the South, what had been sold out by the traitor Robert E. Lee for thirty pieces of silver. She got it back, for a minute, in that place and time. What could I do but follow her example now?

  True, she had usurped my brotherly prerogative, but that no longer bothered me. After all, I had settled with the man already, him and all his kin. Not only his fat brother the Federal and his foolish father—sure, I had dealt with them. I had yet to settle with his cousin, March McComas, who had scouted for the Federals and led them into Bel Air, where they helped enslave the county, trying to make us all sing “The Star Strangled Banner” forever and ever.

  Compared to them, Nick was puny, vermin. But I had still settled up with him when he had the impudence to think he could steal my servants for life, three members of my family, and then spread slurs against my character. As if he were the champion of benevolence to Negroes, when it was all a lie.

  I’ll tell you what. It’s nobody’s business what I did with the girl Sophie. She was mine, always had been, from birth, or at least since my father’s death. When my father died—when Lincoln killed him, the day he seized the sovereignty of Maryland—the care of Sophie and her family fell to me. I took my father’s place, and she was mine, as was her whole family. We belonged to each other. It was the way things were. We served each other, each in our own way. It was theirs to serve and please me, and mine to shelter and protect them. It was no one else’s place to ask what we did. That fool, that scoundrel, had no right to take her or her brother or their mother from my home. I had sheltered and protected them, and they had served me, every way they could. He had no right to them.

  Bad enough that he slid into my home like a viper and thought to take my sister, too. She at least had some say of her own. She was a person of free will. And I blame her for that. I could not entirely forbid her contact with him, any more than Adam could chase the snake out of the garden. But my sister was a being almost like myself, made from my rib. And it has always been a flaw in the divine order, woman’s weakness for the snake. I could not stop her when she took the fatal steps, far from my protecting hand.

  As for the others—Tim and Sophie and Creolia—well, Negroes were not like us. They were not endowed with godlike reason or free will. God gave me dominion over my land, my flocks, my fields, my forests, my womenfolk, and all of my Negroes. Negroes were like children, and like children they needed to be nurtured and held to my bosom. I would have fed and clothed and housed them and all of their issue all their lives, if McComas had not taken them. Taken Sophie in every sense of the word, and for that he would burn in hell. Oh, yes. The man had a long record of indecency. Age thirty-five and never had a wife? No, he preferred to steal his pleasures, seduce the wives and slaves of other men. When he did it to a man’s own virgin sister and left her standing at the altar big with child—well, anyone could see he ought to die.

  And now at last the time had come for me to rise up and restore my sister’s honor. Before the trial began, I had already set the wheels in motion to sacrifice my life while saving hers.

  Mr. Jones called up Frank Street, and I sat back with pleasure to watch the wheels turn. Street knew his job, and in the first ten seconds, he had cast doubt on whether Martha could have fired all six shots by herself.

  “She didn’t have a pistol in her hand till after the second shot,” he said with confidence. “But I saw Richard Cairnes hold a pistol out the window. He pointed it straight out.”

  Pleasure sent a warm flush up my neck. The crowd whispered like a breeze and only quieted when gavels fell and criers cried.

  Farnandis rose to cross-examine Frank. He took his time, serene, pausing to peruse his pocket watch. “And where exactly did you first see Richard Cairnes that day?”

  “I saw him come into the bar. He come in first, ahead of Miss Cairnes.”

  Oh, this was good. It wasn’t true, but it was good. I was a man of honor, and I had promised my sister I would not fire first. I intended to finish him if need be, though I doubted I would have to, knowing her. And in the event, I had not had to do that.

  Street’s eyes shone with sincerity as he gazed at Farnandis, never wavering.

  “Where did he come from?”

  “He came along the passage from the door outside, a bit before she come through.”

  “And did he have a gun in his hand?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t remark it at that time.”

  “When did you notice it?”

  “I saw it after the first shot, just after it. The one that killed the man. Hers all went wild.”

  “Mr. Street!” the judge said sharply. “Don’t give us your opinion unless we ask for it. You are to answer each question as simply as you can.”

  The witness closed his lips with a knowing look and passed a hand over the lock of brown hair that hung on his forehead. “Yes, sir.”

  Farnandis went on patiently. “And what did you see exactly, after the first shot?”

  “I saw Richard Cairnes stand at the window of the barroom with a pistol in his hand.”

  “What was he doing with it?”

  “He was lowering it with his arm out straight.”

  “Did you see him fire the gun at anyone?”

  “He had been pointing it out the window at Nick McComas.”

  “Did you see him fire?” Mr. Farnandis asked.

  “I saw him bring his arm down. It were raised out straight and I saw him bring it down.”

  He seemed to want to say more, but the lawyers didn’t ask him to, and the judge had an eye on him. As he left the stand I saw him throw a mild look of contempt at Martha, as if she had overstepped herself to say she killed a man. He did not know her and had never seen her shoot. But when his eyes met mine as he went back to his seat, I gave him the smallest nod of thanks.

  Now Martin Jarrett took the stand and spoke at length about the wounds.

  “One ball penetrated about the center of the breast bone, two inches above the stomach, about opposite the fifth and sixth ribs.” He gestured with his lean, tanned fingers as if poking in the wounds. “The ball entered obliquely to the left and probably passed through the left lung. Another ball struck the thigh in the vicinity of the femoral artery and in all probability struck another artery nearly as large. Death might have been produced from either.”

  Jones looked calm, his face outlined by his trim beard. “And in your opinion, from what angle was the first bullet fired?”

  “From the direction of the doorway to the bar.”

  “Might it have come from the window next to it instead?”

  That made the crowd buzz like yellow jackets in a jar.

  “Silence, please!” the crier called.

  Grason banged his gavel down. “Ladies and gentlemen, the court is aware of the intense interest in this case. However, no breach of decorum will be tolerated. You will listen in silence. The witness will answer the question posed.”

  Jarrett looked wary. “I suppose the first shot might have been fired from the window. It’s close enough to the doorway there.”

  The crowd buzzed anew, and calm had not yet been restored when Farnandis rose to cross-examine him. But they soon quieted. Farnandis had always been worth listening to.

  “We all appreciate your expert testimony, Dr. Jarrett. If yo
u would be so good, there are a few more things we need to know. The deceased was found to have a pistol in his own pocket at the time of his death, isn’t that so?”

  “It is.”

  “And in your opinion, would it have been possible for him to have fired off the pistol in his pocket and inflicted on himself the fatal wound to his own thigh?”

  The crowd gasped, apparently outraged, maybe because Jarrett had been called to help the prosecution, not the defense. I could make out some muttering.

  “What did you expect? The man’s a known Secesh. He was CSA!”

  “Two-faced traitor!”

  “What side’s he on?”

  Jones stood up to object. “The state questions the propriety of the defense carrying their inquiry into probabilities only admissible in the examination of a witness for the prisoner.”

  The three judges bent their heads together and conferred at length.

  “Objection overruled,” Grason said. “Witness will answer the question.”

  Jarrett looked relieved. “No, it isn’t possible. The pistol in his pocket would have made an entry wound quite opposite from that inflicted. The wound to the thigh was consistent with having been shot by a gun held by a standing person a yard away, when the victim lay on his back on the ground.”

  Jones’s face betrayed no excitement when he was allowed to counter-question after the defense. “So, Doctor, is it your opinion that either wound could have been inflicted in any other way than from a gun held by Miss Cairnes?”

  The crowd seemed to hold its breath.

  Jarrett’s voice quavered slightly. “Do you mean, do I think she inflicted the fatal wound? Why, yes, I think she did. She certainly intended to. And she does know how to shoot.”

  I was disappointed with old Jarrett here, but had better hopes when the prosecution called his youngest brother next. Joshua was one of us, and he knew the plan. In the daylight he looked something like his older brother, only skinny and freckled, with the expression of a curious colt.

  Jones asked him to describe the shooting, and he obliged with great enthusiasm, then told how he had followed Martha on George Andrew’s horse.

  Jones asked, “Did she say anything to you?”

  “Yes, sir. She said, ‘I told him I’d do it, and I done it.’”

  This was not at all what he had agreed to say, and I glared at him. He was clearly making that up, and I hoped the jury could hear it, too. If Martha had ever said “I done it” in her life, our mother would have made her write it out correctly two hundred times.

  “After the first shot, how did the victim look to you?”

  “He looked pale and had the appearance about the eyes of a dying man.”

  “Did you see Richard Cairnes?”

  “I did. He was at the window from the barroom, looking out onto the porch. I didn’t notice him particular at first. But he had a gun, all right.”

  “And what was he doing with the gun?”

  “Why, he was pointing it right out the window to the porch.”

  “And did you see him fire it?”

  Josh sat with his mouth open and glanced at me. I gazed back and willed him to be brave.

  “Why—why—yes, I did,” he finally said, as if out of breath. A small commotion made me glance toward Martha. She was standing up again, shaking off Isie’s hands and glaring hard at Farnandis, her demeanor demanding he stand up also and do something. But Farnandis only gestured at her to sit down, though she did not until the sheriff stood in front of her, his hands on the pistols in his belt.

  The prosecution called the wife of the innkeeper at the Jarrettsville Hotel. She was our cousin, an easygoing, plump woman, but she seemed nervous now, glancing at Martha and the jury. She twisted her handkerchief and looked ready to sob.

  “Mrs. Street, tell us exactly what you saw.”

  Her voice was almost inaudible. “I saw Martha gallop to the front door.”

  “Please speak up, Mrs. Street, so we can hear you properly,” the judge admonished her.

  She looked cornered, but spoke louder. “I saw Martha gallop to the front door, and her brother pulled her off her horse. She flung the reins at him and climbed the steps into the ladies’ parlor, and I met her there. I tried to stop her going in the bar, because I knew Nick was there.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I said, ‘This is no place for you.’ But she didn’t listen. ‘Where is Nick McComas?’ she said.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went into the bar to find my husband, and he tried to stop her going in the bar. He’s a big man, and he blocked the doorway from the ladies’ parlor. But she faced up to him and said, ‘It’s Nick McComas I’ve come to see.’”

  “What did your husband say to that?”

  “He said, ‘Nick was here, but he’s gone away.’”

  “What happened then?”

  “She just shoved by him, and she was taking out the Colt’s. It was in the pocket of her dress, and she held it out and ran through the bar onto the porch.”

  “Did you see what happened out there on the porch?”

  “I did,” she said too quietly. Grason asked her to speak up again.

  She looked terrified. “I saw Nick McComas sitting on the rail in his blue uniform. The sunset was almost over, and it was pretty dark out there. But I saw him see her as she came through the door, and he stood up to greet her. She held out one arm—I thought she might be reaching out to him. But then I saw the powder flash. It was all over in a second.”

  “Where was the powder flash exactly?”

  “It came from in front of her. In front of Martha Jane.”

  “And how did McComas look to you then?”

  “I saw him—I saw him leaning back against a pillar.”

  “And how did he appear to you?”

  “Why—why, he looked like a man who climbs up a silo and can’t find a handhold at the top. He knew he was going to fall. And then he did. He fell backwards off the porch.”

  “Did you see Richard Cairnes?”

  “No, sir. I did not see him at all, after he pulled her off the horse.”

  “Did you see him fire a gun out of the window of the bar?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  Damn! I was worried now. Why didn’t I talk to her before the trial? It had never occurred to me that they would call a woman up to testify, with so many men who saw it all more clearly from the porch and lawn outside.

  But, thank God, Jones called her husband, Tom Street, next. Street was a large man with a steady, rocking gait. Jones asked if he had seen me in the window of the bar.

  A muscle twitched in Street’s jaw, and he may have glanced toward where his wife was sitting, back in the audience. “Yes, I did. I saw him in the window of the bar, and I saw him shoot his Colt’s.” He seemed compelled to repeat it to make sure, his eyes round. “He was there—he was there, all right—in the window, in the window, yes, and he fired his gun straight out toward where McComas stood.”

  “Did it seem to you that his shot hit its mark? Did it hit McComas?”

  “Why, yes, I think it did. I think it hit him before he fell back off the porch.”

  That was better, and for the first time I felt a finger of cold fear. Was this going to work?

  I glanced around quickly, hoping to see Belle, and there she was, beside my mother in the front row of the gallery. Her sweet young face beamed down at me, surrounded by gold banana curls, a locket brooch with my photo and a lock of my hair clasped at her high lace collar. She had asked for the hair to wear against her throat always when I was gone, and her eyes seemed to send a beam of pure blue strength to me. I fastened mine on hers. Yes. This was what heroes felt, what Stonewall Jackson knew before he died, what Jeb Stuart and Henry Kyd Douglas had felt. John Pelham had been only twenty-three when he died for his beliefs, and I could, too.

  The traitor, Jones, announced, “The state calls Shadrach Street.”

  Shadr
ach was a farmer getting on in years, and he owned land near mine, beside the fork for Jarrettsville, and lived with his sister there. He described how he had seen me on the day of the parade, riding past with a little girl behind me on the horse.

  “And did you see Richard Cairnes again that day?”

  Street looked across the room to where I sat, his eyes rheumy and red, and I held his gaze so he would not falter with the tale.

  His voice dropped low and tremulous. “Yes, I did.”

  “What was he doing then?”

  He had to breathe a few times before he could speak. “I saw him gallop toward his own place, with his wife’s brother, Charles Nelson.”

  “And after Cairnes and Nelson rode by your place, did you see what happened next?”

  Street nodded and seemed to be panting. “I saw them meet his sister Martha on the road. She was walking quite fast toward Jarrettsville. They spoke to her, then galloped away toward Richard’s place, fetched her horse, and galloped back.”

  He paused and did not seem to want to go on.

  “Then what happened?” Jones asked gently.

  “Richard got off his horse and threw her up on hers, and they all galloped off toward Jarrettsville. Miss Cairnes galloped off first. The last I saw of them, she was in the lead.”

  This remark prompted some snickering from the row of journalists, as if they thought she had humiliated me with her superior riding, and I felt two spots of heat bloom on my cheeks. Damn them anyway. Damn all of them. They would see what kind of dignity a hero had.

  “And what time would you say that was, when they galloped off?”

  “I remember particular. I looked at my pocket watch. It was about half past five o’clock. Not twenty minutes before the shots were fired, and they were headed there all right, to Jarrettsville, deliberate-like.”

  A murmur rose at this, like a flock of sparrows rising in delight, and I sat back, pleased. I might as well enjoy this, I thought suddenly, since it might be the last thing I would ever see.

  Jones cocked his head thoughtfully at Shadrach Street. “From what you could see, did it appear to be Miss Cairnes’s own idea to go to town? Or was it Richard Cairnes who told her to do that?”