Crooked River (11 page)

June 1812

The judge arrived a few days before the trial was set to begin.

It was the first week of June when he came riding into our settlement. The weather had been warm and dry, and the corn had been in the ground for a good while. The beets and potatoes were already coming up in the garden, and we had more onions than we cared to eat.

Our gossiping neighbor Mrs. Evans was the one who came barreling down the path to our house to tell us the judge had arrived.

Hammering her big knuckles on the door frame to get our attention, Mrs. Evans gasped, out of breath,
“That judge we been waiting for is here. My husband seen him with his own eyes.”

If you ranked men in order of importance, the most important man to meet would likely be the president, next the governor, and right after that would be the traveling judges who came for the court days.

Since none of us had a prayer of ever meeting President Madison and not likely Governor Meigs either, everyone was always anxious to get a glimpse of the judges when they passed through our settlement like minor kings. They always had fine-cut frock coats from the city, handsome riding horses, and a collection of mysterious leather bags and round portmanteaus tied to their saddles.

“It's Judge James Randolph Noble,” Mrs. Evans continued. “That's what my husband said.”

Judge James Randolph Noble.

I don't know why, but hearing his fancy name gave me some hope. I pictured the judge in his flowing black robes, looking like Moses giving out the Ten Commandments. A judge named James Randolph Noble would see to it that justice was done for Peter Kelley and Indian John, surely he would.

Mrs. Evans, who was an everlasting talker, said the courtroom for the judge was being set up under the big shady tree next to Mr. Perry's store. “Anybody who can fill up a foot of space and put the fear of God in that wretched savage is invited to come and hear it, they says—even women and children and babes in arms,” Mrs. Evans rattled on.

Mrs. Evans peered at us. “I reckon both of you is gonna be there with your Pa and brothers, ain't you?”

When me and Laura didn't answer, Mrs. Evans leaned forward, eyeing us more closely. “Now you ain't just gonna stay here in your old house, are you? Don't you want to see that Indian get his comeuppance for what he done? Setting here by yourselves won't be half as good as watching all that.”

She shook her finger at Laura. “You just tell that Pa of yours to let you come and watch. I don't see why Major Carver would find fault with letting his girls come to a savage's trial. You tell him Mrs. Evans will keep an eye on you. Just tell him that.” She turned to leave. “And I'm gonna borrow one of your milk buckets while I'm here, too, if you don't mind.”

And without waiting to hear a word from us, she headed out the door in the direction of our barn and was gone.

After Mrs. Evans left, Laura heaved a deep sigh. “I don't care to go to that trial at all,” she said. “Let everybody leave us to ourselves. You and me, we'll take a pinch or two of loaf sugar and make some fancy little cakes in the reflector oven. Like the ones Ma used to have for company. And we'll put on our good bonnets and find a place to sit near the cabin, and we'll drink green tea and eat our fancy little cakes. Let Pa and the men do what they will.”

To tell the honest truth, I didn't want to see the trial either. I knew what Peter Kelley had told me— how he was going to win. And I knew what my Pa and the settlement all believed. And I knew that Judge James R. Noble was there to see that fair justice was done. Looking at it from all of these directions,
I believed that nothing good could possibly come out of the trial for anyone.

But Pa wouldn't hear of us staying home.

“Carvers is gonna be at the trial,” he said when Laura tried to reason with him at supper that night. She told him that we were planning to do some baking and keep an eye on Mercy rather than going to watch the trial proceedings.

“You just bring Mercy along with you and make her mind,” he said in a hard voice. “And you make your bread and such some other day. All of us is gonna be at the trial.”

On the day of the trial, we didn't leave until the sun was nearly above the tops of the trees, long after Pa and my brothers had left. It seemed as if we had been awake for hours. Days, even. I had tossed and turned all night, fearing what would happen. Laura looked worn to shadows, too.

It had been awful hard listening to Pa and the men getting Indian John ready in the morning. I don't think me or Laura ever imagined they would use the soot from our own kettles and fat from the grease pot to paint stripes on Indian John's face. By the time they left with Indian John, both our stomachs were turned. Only Mercy had an appetite for her breakfast, while me and Laura didn't eat much more than a mouthful of ours.

We washed the breakfast dishes in silence. I
scrubbed the plates in small circles while Laura dried them just as slow. After the dishes were done, we took our time combing our hair, and I mended a torn hem in Laura's good dress. Twice.

Finally, when there wasn't any more time to be wasted—and we knew Pa would be looking for us—we pulled on our bonnets and tucked our hair carefully inside. Before we closed the cabin door, Laura took a pinch of camphor from one of our tins and put it in her workbag. The sight of her bringing that along filled me with dread. Camphor was for funerals and sitting up with somebody's remains. It brought you back to your senses if you were overcome. I asked Laura why she would take it to the trial, and she said there was no telling what we would see that day, no telling at all.

Holding tight to Mercy's little hands, we made our way down the road toward the settlement. White gnats flew in clouds around us and we had to keep a sharp eye for snakes curled up on the warm dirt. “Where we going?” Mercy kept on asking, and Laura kept on answering, “Hush.”

As we drew closer to the settlement, I figured we would surely hear the trial.

But we didn't hear a word until we came out of the woods and saw the silent crowd of spectators gathered around Mr. Perry's store. I had never seen so many people in one place in all my life. Not for Independence Day or a cabin raising or a funeral either. They didn't fit in the shade of the big tree but spilled out in every direction.

“Lord, look at the people,” Laura gasped. “Reb, look at all the people.”

The crowd sat on all manner of things—wagon boxes, planks, upended logs, and fancy chairs. Whatever they could find or bring, I supposed. Around the edges, there were bed quilts and blankets scattered across the scraggled grass, filled with women and children.

As me and Laura drew closer, we caught sight of the jury men. They sat on two rows of planks near the front of the crowd. There were twelve of them, and I noticed a few faces I knew among them—our neighbor Mr. Evans, the shoemaker Hiram Nash, old Vinegar Bigger, the rough Hoadley brothers, who were rumored to be overly fond of drinking whiskey slings, Mr. Hawley—and a half dozen others. Most of the men looked mighty uncomfortable in their good suits of clothes, with their faces still sunburnt from planting. I could see their pocket handkerchiefs moving up to wipe their foreheads.

Judge James R. Noble was next to the jury. He sat behind a table that was placed on a raised box.

I studied him. He wasn't exactly like the picture I had drawn in my mind. I had imagined someone tall and white-haired. Someone who would make everyone take notice and tremble. But Judge Noble was a round and fleshy-faced sort of man. His brown hair had retreated far back, leaving a wide white forehead that caught the shine of the sun. And his black robes hung in loose folds around him.

When we reached the edge of the crowd, the judge was talking to someone sitting on the right side of him in what seemed to be the witness chair.

The man was dressed in a dark suit of clothes, and he had a good brown hat resting in his lap.

It gave me a start to realize that the man sitting there, being spoken to by the judge himself, was my very own Pa.

Mrs. Evans caught sight of us and waved us over to a row where she was sitting. “Your Pa's up there testifying to the truth right now,” she hollered out, loud as an old crow, and my cheeks flushed when people's heads turned to stare.

As we sat down next to Mrs. Evans, we heard the judge say that the jury would now hear the testimony of the witness, Major Lorenzo Carver.

I saw Augustus Root stand up and move toward my Pa. He was a lawyer from the East who had been living in our settlement for nearly two years. But I must confess, me and Laura never took much of a liking to him. Mr. Root seemed to think more highly of himself than a person should and was terribly fond of listening to the sound of his own voice.

He was also the only man we knew who still
dressed in knee breeches and stockings. And truth to speak, Mr. Root's legs were nothing to look at neither. Scrawny old bird legs in white stockings. When no one was around, me and Laura called him Rooster Root on account of his legs and his peculiar habit of puffing out his chest when he spoke.

“Tell us, Major Carver,” he said, moving in quick steps toward the witness chair. “Tell us in your own words exactly what happened in regards to the Indian we have brought before us this morning.”

“Well, now.” My Pa gazed at Mr. Root and answered slowly. “I think you and everybody else on the jury knows exactly what happened. I don't need to go and repeat all the details, do I, Augustus?” He looked out at the crowd. “We all live 'round here and we ain't the kinds to keep secrets, is we?”

But I could tell that the judge was none too pleased with this answer. His shoulders rose up so his robe was almost touching his ears, and he leaned forward to stare at my Pa in the witness chair.