Chapter XLI: The Trial and Execution

On the following day The Bend was a scene of great bustle and excitement. News of the murder had spread all over the country, and every man or woman who could make business at the county-seat went there to witness the trial of Daniel Hart. Long before noon the main street was alive with people; wagons stood by the wayside, and a line of saddle-horses extended far down the fence which separated the tavern lot from the highway.

There was no court-house at the county-seat, and Judge Church had made arrangements for the trial to take place in the bar-room of his tavern, which was the most capacious apartment at The Bend. Benches were placed in the body of the room, and, in order to give an air of magisterial dignity to the whole proceedings, a huge arm-chair was raised on a platform within the little enclosure which usually served as a bar. A host of decanters and glasses were removed from the little shelf which ran along the front, and two or three portentous-looking law-books, in new sheep-skin covers, occupied their place. As yet, the Judge had not taken his seat, and a dense crowd was gathered before the tavern, which filled the street almost across to the blacksmith-shop, where our friend, the smith, was hard at work preparing shoes for one of the half-dozen horses that had been brought to his door. Never had the good man worked with so much vigor as on that morning, when all else seemed to have taken a holiday. His face glowed in the fire-light; great drops of perspiration rained from his brow, and he swung the heavy sledge-hammer over his head with an impetuosity that made the anvil ring with deafening noise over the crowd of persons jostling each other and talking warmly about the trial, with their faces turned in eager curiosity towards the county jail.

The murder of Mr. Bentley had caused great excitement in the country, not only because the man himself was a general favorite, but from the fact that Daniel Hart, the person about to be arraigned for the trial, had been held among the most peaceable and honest farmers in the county. Notwithstanding the evidence, there might have been many found in that crowd who openly expressed a firm conviction of his innocence, while others seemed willing to pursue him with that reckless and wild spirit of persecution which is apt to follow the man accused of a capital crime all over the world, and which has but little restraint in many of our frontier States, where the will of the people, even now, often usurps the place of law and justice.

At length there was a slight confusion manifest near the jail, and, while the crowd swayed round that way, Daniel Hart appeared, walking firmly up the street between two constables. His port became more erect as he drew near the crowd; and though somewhat pale, his countenance was both firm and mild in its expression. Once or twice a look of sorrowful reproach came to his eyes, as they happened to fall upon the form of some old friend shrinking back into the crowd, as if afraid that an accused man might address him. Again those deep-set eyes flashed gratefully when a hand was thrust toward him and a friendly voice called out—

“Keep up your courage, neighbor; the darkest hour is always just before day.”

As he approached the tavern, the crowd in the hall and veranda made a rush for the bar-room, while the remainder fell back and formed a lane for the prisoner to pass. He was followed close by three females—Gillian, the blacksmith’s wife, and poor Martha. A rough, hard-featured, but good-hearted woman was the blacksmith’s wife. She was proud of her courage in thus standing by the unfortunate, as she expressed it, and walked through the throng, supporting Martha’s feeble steps, with the mien of a newly-enlisted grenadier. Her navarino bonnet, which had been fashionable some years before, was set back on her head, and its immense sugar-scoop front, flaring up from her honest face, gave a still more decidedly military dash to her appearance. She waved a plump hand, encased in its yarn glove, to her husband, who stood at his shop door nodding his round head in approbation of her proceedings, as she mounted the tavern steps and followed the prisoner, almost carrying her companions, into the temporary court-room.

The Judge had taken his seat in the bar when they brought the prisoner in. On his right hand, but outside the railing, stood the prosecuting attorney, turning over one of the new law-books with intense interest; on the left side was Constable Johnson, with a large sugar-crusher in his hand, which he now and then struck down upon the railing with great emphasis, as he called the court to order.

Hart was brought in and placed on a bench opposite the Judge, who scrupulously averted his eyes from the prisoner’s face, while the jury was impanelled and the whole preliminaries entered upon. Never before had a court been conducted with so much of imposing form at The Bend. Every one looked grave, some even solemn, as the prisoner was arraigned. Hart stood up; his lips turned white, and the hands, which he clasped over his breast, shook a little, but his eyes were bent full on the Judge, and he answered, “Not guilty, not guilty, so help me God!” in a voice that swelled clear and full through the listening crowd.

As the prisoner sat down again, Martha cast a look over the crowd, rose to her feet, and, supporting her faltering steps by pressing her hand to the wall, went round to the bench he occupied and crept timidly to his side. Gillian followed her, pale as death, but with a firm step, and sat down by her cousin. He did not turn his head or seem to be conscious of the action, but the lines about his mouth began to quiver, and he shut his heavy eyelids hard together once or twice, as if determined to force back the gathering moisture before it had time to form into tears.

This stern effort to subdue the feelings tugging at his heart, joined to the feeble and desolate air with which his daughter had performed her simple act of devotion, had its effect upon the impulsive and ardent beings who surrounded them. That pretty creature, so young, so pure and helpless, as she crept through the outskirts of the crowd, like a weary fawn following the hunted stag even among the hounds, and crouched down by the only being left to her on earth, touched their sympathies more than a thousand orations would have done. Then the proud beauty of Gillian, the solemn dignity with which she attested her faith in the old man’s innocence, had its effect. Though rude backwoodsmen, feeling, good and generous feeling, was vital in the tough hearts which composed the crowd. A whisper ran through the throng, many an unequal breath was drawn, and more than one heavy lip trembled without speaking. The foreman of the jury—a bluff, hale old fellow—drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes two or three times. The Judge turned uneasily in his chair, and seemed to be diligently counting the glasses crowded on a shelf behind him; while the blacksmith’s wife lifted a flaring cotton handkerchief to her face, shook her huge navarino bonnet mournfully, and sobbed aloud.

“This will never do,” whispered the prosecuting attorney leaning toward Michael Hurst, who stood close behind him; “who put the girls up to this stage effect?”

Hurst only replied by a sarcastic and yet ghastly smile. The pompous young lawyer then turned to the judge.

“May it please your honor, I desire that the young women there may be removed from the court until they are called up as witnesses,” he said, pointing toward poor Gillian and Martha.

The blacksmith’s wife flung back her navarino, grasped the handkerchief in her hand and gave the lawyer a look that would have demolished a man of common nerve. The judge turned hastily on his seat, “I’ll see you—” He checked himself just in time, took up one of the law-books, as if to seek for some authority, and then replied with solemn dignity—

“The court has decided that it is no business of yours where the girls sit.”

Daniel Hart, who had grasped his daughter’s hand and half risen, sunk back to his seat again, as these words fell on his ear, and a murmur of approbation passed through the crowd.

The attorney turned very red, muttered something to Hurst in an under-tone, and, after a good deal of ostentatious preparation, arose to open his case. The chain of evidence which he proposed to lay before the court was indeed such as left but little doubt of the prisoner’s guilt. He was ready to prove that Hart and the deceased had come to The Bend together on the night of the murder, the one with no ostensible business, the other to receive a large sum of money. Eager words and gestures had passed between them at the tavern. Hart had insisted on riding home through the storm, though the deceased more than once exhibited great reluctance to go. After the two disappeared in the woods together, Bentley had never been seen again, but two days after his horse was found wandering along the highway, with his saddle torn and soiled with blood, one of the stirrups gone, and the bridle hanging in tatters about his head.

Michael Hurst and two other men from The Bend had gone to the forest in search of the body, but nothing was to be found except the marks of some violent struggle near the cross-roads. Footprints, both of man and horse, sunk deep in the mud, were trampled all over the road, just where a huge oak had been flung across it by the storm. Two or three small branches of the oak, which seemed to have been crushed by some heavy weight falling upon them, were broken, and some of their leaves matted together with blood, while a black stream had flowed over the trunk and stained the earth half a yard round. Most of the blood must have flowed after the rain had ceased, or it would otherwise have been washed away. But further than this, no trace of the body could be found, which would not have been the case had the death been accidental. The same company had proceeded to the double log-cabin which had been the mutual residence of Hart and his victim. There they had found the prisoner, his daughter and Gillian Bentley, the murdered gentleman’s only child, with a couple of black people who lived with them as help. Hart would give no account of Mr. Bentley’s disappearance, but persisted that they had ridden home together the night before, safe and well. A bag of money was found, locked in Hart’s chest; a linen coat with blood-stains on the sleeve was discovered beneath the bed, and Hart’s daughter had acknowledged that the stains were fresh and wet upon it when her father returned home on the night of the storm.

When the attorney had prepared the court for this evidence, he sat down, and the examination of witnesses commenced. Several persons who had been at The Bend that night were called up, and among them the Mississippi boatman. Michael Hurst was among the last. He gave in his evidence in a clear, straight-forward manner, as if every word had been studied by heart; but his face was ashy-pale, and he never once fixed his eyes on any man, but kept them bent upon the floor, or turning restlessly from one thing to another all the time he was speaking. When he sat down, Martha Hart was called. She arose very feebly, but did not move from her father’s side. When the attorney began to question her, she made an effort to speak, and thought that she did, poor thing, but the whisper that escaped her lips was so faint that no one heard it.

“Tell the truth, gal, tell the truth,” murmured the prisoner from beneath the hand which shaded the agony working in his face. “Tell the whole truth.”

The girl cast one look of anguish on the old man, and, summoning all her energies, found voice to speak. She admitted that her father had reached home late at night; that he came alone, with blood upon his hand, and gave her some money, tied up in a shot-bag, which she had locked up in his chest. But she said also, that her father had insisted that Mr. Bentley had ridden home with him to the door, had watched and waited for him all night, and that he was about setting forth for The Bend in search of his friend when persons came to arrest him.

She sat down, trembling and faint, amid the sobs and murmurs of an excited audience. Gillian was called next. She only confirmed what Martha had said, but ended with an expression of solemn trust in her uncle’s innocence.

The Judge asked Hart if he had any witnesses to produce, and if he had no counsel.

“No,” said the old man, lifting a face on which the agony of a strong spirit was written. “No, Squire Church, you won’t believe me, and I have no other witnesses. I don’t want any counsel.”

The good Judge sank back in his chair with a disappointed look. The attorney arose, wiped his mouth, swallowed a drop or two of water, and commenced a bitter and cruel attack upon the prisoner; but neither the judge nor jury were accustomed to the restraints imposed on their comfort by this protracted flood of eloquence. They sat restlessly in their seats; one tilted his chair back against the wall, another stretched his feet out to the nearest bench, and, at last, the Judge, after trying various changes of posture, turned, with an air of desperation, toward the shelves behind him, and, taking down a box half-full of cigars, selected one for himself and passed the box over to the jury. Two or three of the bystanders helped themselves as the box passed them, at which the Judge nodded a good-humored welcome. Then he kindled a match, and, deliberately igniting his own cigar, leaned back and smoked away with grave composure, only stopping now and then, as some more lofty flight of eloquence broke from the lawyer’s lips, to knock the ashes away from his Havana against the railing of the bar.

“Pass it to him, pass it to him—have you no manners?” whispered the Judge to Constable Johnson, who was leaning forward over the bar, in order to place the box upon its shelf again.

The constable started back and went eagerly up to the prisoner, but Hart refused the kind offer, at which the Judge shook his head two or three times, for he took the refusal of a prime cigar as an evidence of down-heartedness which nothing could overcome.

As the lawyer drew toward a close, the Judge became much agitated; the cigar went out between his lips, and his face looked pale amid the smoky atmosphere that hung around him. When the man sat down, there was silence for more than a minute, profound, death-like silence, and then the Judge arose.

“Daniel Hart—neighbor, neighbor!—have you nothing to say for yourself?” he exclaimed, with a burst of feeling that made the jury start.

Daniel Hart rose to his feet; a clear, strong light was in his eyes, and, though somewhat pale, he stood firm and collected among his old friends.

“Yes, I have something to say. You will not believe me, but I will speak for myself. All that they have sworn against me is true, and yet all that I have said is the truth also. I did come to The Bend with poor Bentley. I loved the man like a brother, for he was my sister Sarah’s husband, and a prince on earth. We came to get the money which Judge Church owed him. I found that man in the tavern.” Here the old man lifted his hand and pointed to Michael Hurst. “He had insulted my daughter—he had outraged my niece and tried to carry her off by force. My blood boiled when I saw him. I had promised the poor gal not to touch him, and yet I found it hard work to keep my fingers from his throat. This was the reason I wanted to get home—this was what I was saying to brother Bentley.

“We started home. The storm was awful—trees fell around us like grass before a scythe. It was terrible dark, but we kept together till a great oak was torn up and fell crash almost over us. Then I thought Bentley was knocked from his horse. I saw him on the ground, and—so help me God, I speak the truth!—for one moment it seemed to me as if another man was bending over him. I rode toward him, but the lightning went out, and, while I was calling to him, he rode up to my side. I had his hand in mine once. The lightning struck again and I saw his face: it was white as a corpse, and did not look natural, but the voice sounded like his, though it was smothered by the noisy wind. I left him at the door to put out the horses, and went into the cabin with the bag of money, for he put it in my hand as I gave up my bridle. The gal was right: my hand was wet with blood when I went in. I was not hurt—the blood was not mine. It might have been his. The God of heaven knows I did not shed it!”

The prisoner sat down, but rose again in an instant.

“Neighbors!” he said, stretching forth his hand to the jury, while his eye flashed and his stout form dilated with intense feeling; “neighbors, I have told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!”

He sat down amid the breathless crowd; no one spoke, no one moved, but a sound rung over them from the blacksmith’s anvil, clear and full, like the quick toll of a bell. All at once that ceased, and the silence was profound. It was broken at length by the blacksmith’s wife, who started up, forcing her way to the door and went out. When she came back her husband was with her. He made way for himself and wife up to the bar, and addressed the judge, who had just arisen to commence his charge to the jury.

“I say, squire, supposing you give me a chance first,” said the smith, rolling down his sleeves; “I reckon as likely as not that I shall have a considerable finger in this pie before it’s cooked.”

“Do you wish to give evidence? Do you know any thing about it?” inquired the Judge, eagerly.

“Well, I should think it likely that I did, squire, so just give me the oath. But first bend down your head here.”

The Judge bent his head while the smith whispered something in his ear. He then gave some directions to the constable in a low voice, and that dignitary moved round to the other side, and took his station by the door.

The oath was administered, and then the blacksmith unrolled a dirty handkerchief which he carried under his arm, and took out a muddy boot, a horse-shoe, and a scrap of red silk. He had scarcely laid these things down before the Judge, when some confusion arose at the door. Michael Hurst had attempted to pass out, and the constable was forcing him back again. In the struggle Hurst’s face was turned to the crowd; it was ghastly white, and when he raised his voice to expostulate, it was choked, and so husky that very few heard him.

“Order, order—keep still,” resounded through the crowd, and Hurst, restored to some presence of mind, drew back to his old station.

“Well,” said the blacksmith, “I want to tell you how I came by these things, and get back to my work again. Well, neighbors, you remember the night of the storm, some of you were in town, I shod your horses and worked late to get through. Well, among the rest, Michael Hurst, there, came, in a terrible hurry, and wanted a shoe put on that handsome bay critter that he rides. The animal has a delicate hoof, so I was obliged to make nails on purpose for it—small nails, such as I never made for any other horse on earth.

“Hurst took the horse away just before the storm came on; he never took that trouble before, but yet I thought nothing about it till a good while after. I saw Hart there and Mr. Bentley ride away from the tavern: just after that a man came prowling round the stoop and along the fence. Still, I didn’t think much about it, but after I’d done work went home, feeling rather uneasy about a coal-pit that I had set to burning on some land of mine, down below the cross-roads.

“I got up in the morning, before daylight, and rode down to the coal-pit, expecting to find it blown into ten thousand flinders by the hurricane. The road was blocked up with trees and brush, but I got along tolerably well till I came to the cross-roads, where I meant to cut through the woods. I found a tree choking it up, and was walking my horse round it, when what should I see but the body of a man lying among the branches. It was Mr. Bentley, as dead as a door-nail—at any rate I thought so then.”

“Was he alive? Was he murdered? What did you do with him?” exclaimed several voices from the crowd.

“Keep cool, neighbors, keep cool,” cried the smith; “there, you have nigh about set that poor gal into fits,” he continued, pointing to Gillian, who was bending toward him with clasped hands and a look of wild anxiety in her face. “I shouldn’t wonder now if she faints clear away when I tell you that her poor father was cold and stiff, with a knife-hole in his side, but yet there was a breath of life in him.”

His predictions were right. With a single gasp, Gillian fell across her uncle’s lap quite senseless, but every one present was so occupied with the witness that she remained unnoticed.

“I have powerful strong arms,” continued the blacksmith, extending his great hands, “so I took the poor fellow up and carried him down to the coal cabin. There was a bunk full of straw in one end, and a spring of water close by. After I had worked over him a while, he came to a little, and asked where I had found him. Of course, I was rather curious to know how he came to be bleeding in the brush. He seemed loth to tell, but at last owned that when he was riding with Daniel Hart through the storm, some one fell upon him in the dark, flung him from the horse, plunged a knife in his side, and left him senseless on the ground. He suffered terribly, poor fellow, and the thought that Hart had attempted his life seemed to hurt him worse than his wound. He begged me not to mention the matter, as he was determined not to prosecute the old man, and he feared that the affair could not be hushed up if people knew that he was wounded. It came hard for me to believe that Hart was a murderer and robber. I was in hopes that something would turn up to clear him, so I made up my mind to keep quiet. I doctored the poor gentleman up as well as I could, and went home, promising to come back after dark with a wagon, and take him home with me.

“When I came to the cross-roads again, on my way home, I searched about among the brush to see if I could find any thing. There was a little hollow close by the road, and up one side I saw that the sods were torn, as if a horse had lost his foothold and slipped down; a sassafras bush, close by, was broken, and one of its roots torn up, and right there, tangled with the root, I picked up a horse-shoe. I knew it in a minute, for the small nails had been torn from the hoof, and stuck in the shoe yet, and I declare for the first minute my heart flew into my mouth. Well, I searched round in hopes of finding something more, but this scrap of silk, with a bit of twine tied to it, was all that I could find. It did not seem of much consequence, but I brought it home with the horse-shoe.

“As I came into town, Hurst’s horse stood in a crook of the fence down in the judge’s house-lot, so I just climbed the bars and examined his hoofs. The one that I had shod, the night before, was bare as my hand. By this time I was pretty well satisfied who was the murderer, but yet any other man might not have been as certain as I was. I went over to the tavern, and asked about Hurst of the folks in the kitchen. They told me that he was sick in bed, and had been all night dying with the toothache. Just then the hostler came down with my gentleman’s dandy boots in his hand; he had brushed one, when I happened to see something that made me anxious to get the dirty boot. The hostler went out a minute. I snatched up the boot and made for home.

“Well, squire, I took the horse and wagon, and went after Mr. Bentley that night. My old woman, here, is a first-rate nurse, and he began to get better after a while, but this minute he’s as weak as a baby, trying to sit up a little for the first time this very day. I never told him a word about Hurst, nor any thing concerning the trial of Hart, for he was so weak that it might have killed him. Besides that, I wanted to see what kind of a lawyer I should make. Now, squire,” continued the blacksmith, “I’ve taken oath that this shoe is the one which I put on Michael Hurst’s horse at eight o’clock the night of the storm, and that I found it just after daylight on the very spot where Mr. Bentley was stabbed. Now look at this boot; the clay upon it is red, such as can be found at no spot hereabouts, except just at the cross-roads. I took the boot with my own hands, and measured it by half a dozen of the tracks left on the spot. They fitted it like a glove. Now, squire, here is the piece of silk; it seems, to me that if you’ll just examine the pattern closely, it looks very much like the silk handkerchief that Hurst, there, has got around his neck. He had on the same concern the night I shod his horse.”

Every eye in the room was turned upon Hurst, who cast a sharp glance behind him, and made another desperate effort to force his way through the door. By this time the crowd was in a state of wild commotion; those outside pressed up against the windows, eager to learn what was passing in the court-room, where the excitement was increasing every moment.

“Off with his handkerchief! off with it!” thundered from various parts of the room. But Hurst flung the officer back, and struggled desperately against their attempts to untie the square of crimson silk twisted carelessly around his neck, but it was secured at last and, handed to the Judge. The jury crowded around the bar, eagerly watching the Judge as he unfolded the handkerchief. A corner was torn away, and the fragment produced by the blacksmith perfectly fitted the rent. Besides this, a pattern of black ran over the crimson groundwork, which rendered the handkerchief somewhat peculiar, and this pattern was also in the fragment. The jury had scarcely satisfied itself of the fact when a portmanteau was brought into court, which an officer, who had been sent to search Hurst’s room, had found under the bed. It was unstrapped, and a hunting-frock drawn forth, torn and mouldy, but, notwithstanding this, traces of blood were, found upon the skirt. When this object was held up before the jury, the excitement became intense. Three or four men leaped through the window into the bar-room, packing the crowd still more closely together. The hall was filled with stern, eager faces, pressing forward to the door, and men stood so thickly together that lights had to be passed from hand to hand overhead, as those who carried them found it impossible to force a passage into the court-room.

“Make room, make room, I tell you!” cried a female voice from the crowd; “she will be stifled here,” and, with her arm flung round the drooping form of Gillian Bentley, the blacksmith’s wife forced a passage for the poor girl where half a dozen men would have failed. Wherever her immense navarino rose upon the crowd, men fell back, and made way for her where no room seemed to exist. As she passed through the door, Hurst darted forward, and in a moment would have been safe in the dense mass of human beings that filled the darkened hall. But Johnson saw the movement just in time, and flung him back against the bar.

“He is trying to escape—he will get clear,” cried a voice from the window. The cry was followed by a moment of comparative silence; men bent their faces together and whispered in groups, while the crowd outside uttered words that made the Judge turn pale. The accused man heard them also, and, springing over the bar, drew his knife and called upon the Judge to protect him, in a voice sharp with agony, that rang over the multitude like the cry of a hunted animal. His cap was off, his throat was bare, and the breath, as it panted through, seemed choking him. His face and hands were deathly-white, but a spot of scarlet burned, like a live coal, in either cheek, and specks of foam flew from his mouth. The sight of a knife, drawn in their midst, exasperated the crowd, and when the desperate man leaped over the bar, with the weapon gleaming in his hand, many thought that he was about to attack the Judge. Those in front were pushed up against the bar till the railing cracked beneath the sudden pressure. Half a dozen hands were outstretched to pull the man away, but he drew back of the Judge, and made an insane effort to intimidate them with his knife.

The object which possessed the crowd, up to this moment, had only been a vague determination to secure the accused man and lodge him in some place of confinement. The people were greatly excited; their sense of justice had been outraged, an honest and innocent neighbor had been hunted within a step of the gallows, before their eyes, by the wicked man who stood armed and menacing them in the very bar of justice. All the elements which lead to violence were aroused in their hearts; still the wretched man might have been safe but for this display of his knife, which concentrated the wild passions already fermented into a stern resolve. There was no shout; the tumult grew less than it had been; men turned their fierce eyes on each other, and a hoarse whisper ran through the crowd—

“He will escape—he will escape the law.”

These were the words that went hissing from lip to lip through the room, out from the open windows, and along the street. Still there was no tumult, but the crowd closed slowly up—up till the bar gave way. A sea of eyes—dark, fierce, terrible eyes—met the wretched man everywhere; they glared on him from beneath the light, they glared on him through the dark windows, and far down a vista in the hall. He dropped his knife, his limbs gave way, and, like a branch lopped suddenly from an oak, he sunk down behind the Judge, who spread forth his arms and strove to protect him. It was in vain—all in vain! The good Judge pushed some of the foremost back, he besought them to respect the laws, he shouted to those in the street, entreating them to come up and save their neighbors from a great crime. But still they closed around him, stern, silent and fierce, with a thirst for blood which no heart present had ever felt till then. They tore the miserable wretch out from behind his protector. They passed him, on a bridge of uplifted hands, to the window, and so out into the open street.

The blacksmith had returned to his work, and the blaze of his forge reddened over the fierce crowd, as it fell in toward his shop, and formed a wall of human beings before it.

“The handkerchief! the handkerchief!” passed from mouth to mouth. Instantly a mass of crimson silk was disentangled from some fragments of the bar, and tossed over the crowd. The red light shone through it as it rose and fell, and a hoarse cry followed its progress.

Oh, the next scene was horrible—I cannot describe it!