Benjamin’s Redemption.

The Supreme Court sat in the large hall of the wooden building, ornate with all the decorations of the Elizabethan style, which has been referred to in these pages as the Red Tape Office.

The hall was divided by a barrier, on one side of which were arranged the bench, dock, jury-box, and everything else appertaining to the functions of Justice; and on the other side stood the general public. But as yet the Court was not assembled, save for half-a-dozen be-wigged barristers and a few policemen; and the public, crowded like cattle in a pen, discussed in suppressed tones such matters as seemed good.

Presently, a door beside the bench opened, and a very fat bailiff, preceding the Judge himself, who was followed by many minions of the law, advanced into the body of the court, and cried, “Silence for His Honor the Queen’s Judge!” struck the butt of his long staff upon the floor, and proceeded to deliver a long rigmarole, couched in early English, the tenor of which was that the proceedings about to take place were most solemn and dignified, and all men must keep silence in order that His Honour the Judge might hear himself speak.

Then the Judge seated himself on the bench, nodded to all the barristers, who thereupon immediately sat down likewise, and then the policemen, looking fiercely at the harmless, herded public, cried in angry tones for “Silence! Silence! Silence!” though not a man had so much as coughed since the great Judge had entered.

There seeming to be no fear of a demonstration against Law, Order, and Justice, a be-wigged gentleman who sat immediately in front of the Judge, in the manner that the clerk used to sit before the parson in the days of the three-decker pulpit, stood up, and after consulting various little bits of paper, called and empanelled the Grand Jury, a most important body of men, comprising all that was substantial and wealthy in Timber Town—short, fat men; tall, thin men; men of medium height; bullet-headed men, long-headed men, bald-headed men, and one man who was known to dye his hair; men whose stomachs rested on their knees as they sat; men who looked as though they had not had a full meal for a month; men dressed in tweeds; men dressed in black broad-cloth as if for a funeral; men with gay flowers in the button-holes of their coats; bearded men, and shorn men; as varied an assortment of men as could pronounce opinion on any case.

Each member of this queer company having been furnished with a little testament, the legal luminary administered the oath, and they kissed the book literally like one man, and sat down with a shuffling of feet that was truly disgraceful in so sedate an assembly.

They having chosen the fattest man of them all as their foreman, the Judge addressed them: “Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the Grand Jury,” he said, “give me your attention. Great crimes have been committed in your district,”—and not a man of them all but dropped his eyes and looked as if he felt himself guilty—“and great excitement has been caused in the public mind. But it is one of the highest triumphs of civilisation that we possess a wholesome system of procedure, whereby time is afforded to elapse for the abatement of popular excitement,”—here he glanced searchingly at the exemplary public on the other side of the barrier, as though he challenged one of them to move—“before such cases as those which will come before you, are heard.” Here the Judge paused, and the jurymen looked at each other, as much as to say that after all they might escape. “But,” continued His Honor, “we must take all proper precautions in such grave affairs as we are here to consider, lest the eye of reason should be jaundiced by prejudice, or become dazzled by passion, or lest the arm of Justice should smite wildly and without discrimination.” Every juryman looked at the Judge, to see if the state of his eye was clear and in keeping with this grave injunction. “The first case which will come before you is that of John Richard Scarlett, who is charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn and others. I am not sure as to what will be the form of the indictment, but I should suppose there will be four separate indictments, that is to say, the prisoner will be charged with the murder of each man killed. I now ask you to retire and consider this grave case with that perspicacity and unbiassed judgment which I feel sure you are capable of exercising in so large a degree.”

The Judge had made every juryman’s breast swell with pride, and from their box they poured in a long stream, and clattered over the floor of the Court to the jury-room, the door of which stood ajar, ready to receive them.

The public portion of the hall was now crowded to excess, and the gallery above the main entrance was quickly filling. The people maintained perfect order, but on every face was an eager look which showed the intense interest that was being taken in the proceedings. But when the Judge retired, pending the decision of the Grand Jury, there broke out a hum of conversation, subdued but incessant. On the public side of the barrier there was nothing to be seen but a sea of faces, the faces of all sorts of men, and of not a few women, all waiting for the appearance of the prisoner. Suddenly at the back of this tightly-packed throng there arose a slight commotion, caused by a wild, unkempt man pushing his way through the doorway into the middle of the crowd. His hair was long and matted, his clothes were torn and covered with clay, his face was anxious yet determined. Having wedged himself into the living mass, his identity soon became merged and lost in the multitude of men, work-stained and way-worn like himself. For almost the entire population of Canvas Town was assembled to hear the case against Scarlett; the aristocratic members of the League had come to see what fate awaited their president; solitary “hatters” had come to witness the discomfiture of “the boss of the toffs”; the female portion of the concourse had been attracted by the romance which was believed to underlie the tragedy; while the townsmen were there out of sympathy with the young banker whom they had all known. Filling all available space in the hall and overflowing into the great quadrangle outside, this motley crowd discussed the case against Scarlett in all its bearings, though there was a dense ignorance on the part of the critics as to the evidence that would be called. To everything he heard the wild, unkempt man turned a deaf ear; regarding, as he undoubtedly did, the self-appointed judges around him with silent contempt and some degree of amusement.

At length the door of the jury-room opened, and the head of a Grand Juror was thrust out. To him a constable immediately whispered. The Grand Jury had come to a decision, and the Judge was summoned from his room.

No sooner had the great man taken his seat, than amid a murmur of excitement the prisoner was placed in the dock. He looked thin and care-worn. On his legs were heavy irons, and handcuffs were upon his wrists. Otherwise he was as when first arrested; he wore the same riding-breeches and leggings, and the same tweed coat. Then the Grand Jury filed solemnly in, and stood in a big semicircle between the barrier and the Court, the foreman standing a little in front of his fellows.

“Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the Grand Jury, how do you find in the case of John Richard Scarlett, charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“A true bill, Your Honour,” answered the foreman.

“How do you find in the case of John Richard Scarlett, charged with the murder of James Kettle?”

“A true bill, Your Honour.”

A like answer was returned in respect to the other three charges, and the Judge then discharged the Grand Jury, who promptly filed out of Court, only to reappear in the gallery above the Judge’s bench.

A Special Jury—which, the Judge was careful to tell Jack, was a great privilege extended to him by the Court—was empanelled to try the case, but not without a great deal of challenging on the part of the Crown Prosecutor and of Jack’s counsel.

“Prisoner at the bar, you are charged with the wilful murder of Isaac Zahn. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

“Not Guilty!”

Scarlett’s voice rang clear through the hall.

There was a shuffling amongst the barristers on the floor of the Court; papers were rustled, law-books were opened or placed neatly in rows, and a general air of business pervaded the scene.

Then the Crown Prosecutor rose and, after clearing his throat several times, declared that he would call certain witnesses to prove that the prisoner was on the road between Timber Town and Canvas Town on the day of the murder, that he was at open variance with the murdered man, Isaac Zahn, that he possessed when arrested certain property belonging to the murdered man, and certain other important facts, all of which went to prove the prisoner’s guilt.

First, he called a constable who deposed as to the finding of the bodies; next, a doctor, who gave evidence as to how Zahn met his death. Then followed a member of the search-committee, who supplied various details respecting the track, the position of the body of Zahn when found, and of the effects found upon it.

These three witnesses but fulfilled the formalities of the Law in proving that the dead man was murdered and robbed, but there was a great stir in the hall when the next witness entered the box.

This was a corn-stalk of a man who wore a long yellow beard, and seemed to consist of legs, arms, and head; his body being of such small importance in the scheme of his construction as to be hardly noticeable.

“John Rutherford,” said the Crown Prosecutor, “kindly tell the jury your trade or calling.”

“Digger,” answered the witness, as laconically as possible.

“The witness means,” said the barrister, turning to the jury, “that he mines for gold,” an explanation which nobody needed. “But be so good as to inform the Court if you know a hostelry named The Lucky Digger.”

A smile stole over the lean witness’s face. “I reckon I’ve bin there,” he said.

“Were you there on the afternoon of Saturday, the 25th of February, last?”

“I might ha’ bin.”

“You can’t be certain?”

“You’ve hit it, mister—I can’t be certain.”

“Then we’ll try to assist your memory. Do you know the prisoner at the bar?”

The witness looked at Scarlett with a grin. Then he turned, and confronted the lawyer. “I know him,” he said. “He was boss of the gentlemen diggers.” “Did you know the deceased, Isaac Zahn, with whose murder the prisoner is charged?”

“I did—he bought gold of me.”

“Did you ever know the two men, John Scarlett and Isaac Zahn, to quarrel?”

“I did.”

“Please be so good as to describe to the jury the nature of the quarrel.”

“I was standin’ in the bar of The Lucky Digger, havin’ a pint with a friend,” said the long, thin witness, “when I heard the prisoner exchangin’ words with Zahn.”

“Ah! a very important matter,” said the counsel for the Crown. “What was the subject of their conversation?”

“Seemed to me they were both sparkin’ up to the bar-maid,” said the digger, “an’ consequently there was bad blood between ’em, specially on the part of Scarlett.”

“Did he strike the deceased?”

“Certainly. Struck ’im in the bar, in the passage, an’ kicked ’im into the street.”

“You swear to that?”

“Decidedly. I seen ’im do it.”

“Thank you. You may stand down—unless, of course, my friend the counsel for the defence would like to ask a question.”

Scarlett’s barrister, a man of jovial countenance, smiled, and shook his head.

“Call Rachel Varnhagen.”

The pretty Jewess, dressed in black, walked modestly into the Court, mounted the step or two which led to the witness-box, and bowed to the Judge and jury.

“I should be pleased to spare you the pain of appearing as a witness in this case,” said the barrister for the Crown, looking his softest at the lovely Rachel, “but the importance I attach to the evidence I believe you will give, is so great that I am forced to sacrifice my private feelings upon the altar of Justice. I believe you know the prisoner at the bar?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Rachel, in a very low voice.

“Did you know Isaac Zahn, with whose murder he is charged?”

“I did.”

“Is it a fact that you were engaged in marriage to Isaac Zahn?”

“I was, but the engagement was broken off some six weeks before his death.”

“And that you afterwards became engaged to John Scarlett?”

“I was never engaged to marry the prisoner.”

“Ah, then I have been misinformed. Were not the prisoner and the deceased rivals for your hand?”

“I believed them to be so.”

“Did you ever know them to quarrel?”

“I once saw the prisoner throw Isaac Zahn out of a house.”

“What house?”

“I was passing along the street, when through the door of a public-house I saw the prisoner throw or kick Isaac Zahn into the street, and he fell on the pavement at my feet.”

“Can you remember the name of the public-house?”

“It was The Lucky Digger.”

The barrister sat down, and looked at the ceiling of the Court—he had finished his examination—and the Judge motioned the fair Rachel to stand down.

The next witness to be sworn was Amiria.

“Do you remember the 3rd of March last?” asked the Crown Prosecutor.

The brown eyes of the Maori girl flashed, and, drawing herself up with dignity, she said, “Of course, I do. Why should I forget it?” “What did you do on that day—where did you go?”

“I went for a ride, though I can’t see how that can interest you?”

“Did you go alone?”

“No.”

“Who accompanied you?”

“Mr. Scarlett.”

“Indeed. Where did you ride to?”

“In the direction of Canvas Town.”

“Well, well. This is most important. Did you accompany the prisoner all the way?”

“No. We parted at the last ford before you come to the mountains, and I returned alone to Timber Town.”

“What time of day was that?”

“Between nine and ten in the morning.”

“And which way did the prisoner take after leaving you?”

“He crossed over the ford, and went towards Canvas Town.”

“Thank you.” Then the counsel for the Crown turned to the Judge. “I have finished with the witness, Your Honour,” he said.

“But I have not finished,” cried Amiria, lifting her voice so that it rang through the Court. “There were others on the road that day.”

“Ah!” said the Judge. “I understand you desire to make a statement?”

“I desire to say that at the ford were four horrible-looking men.”

The Crown Prosecutor laughed. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You would tell the Court that there were others on the road besides yourself and the prisoner. What were the names of the men to whom you refer?”

“I don’t know. How should I know their names?”

Again the Crown Prosecutor laughed. But Scarlett’s counsel was on his feet in a moment.

“Would you recognise them, if you saw them again?” he asked.

“I think so,” answered the Maori girl.

“What should you say was their occupation?”

“I don’t know, but they looked much more like murderers than Mr. Scarlett did.”

“Look if you can see the men you speak of, in Court.”

The dark girl glanced at the sea of faces on the further side of the barrier.

“They may be here, but I can’t see them,” she said.

“Just so. But do you see any persons like them?”

“In dress, yes. In face, no.”

“Very good, don’t trouble yourself further. That will suffice.”

And Amiria was ushered from the Court.

“Call William Tomkin Tomkinson.”

The Bank Manager stood trembling in the box, all the timidity of his soul brought to the surface by the unusual situation in which he found himself.

“What quantity of gold do you suppose your agent, Mr. Zahn, was bringing to town when he was thus foully murdered?” asked the Crown Prosecutor.

“I really don’t know the exact amount, but I should imagine it was between £15,000 and £20,000.”

“You know the prisoner?”

“I have met him in the way of business?”

“What was the nature of his business?”

“He came to ask the Bank to send an agent to the field for the purpose of buying gold.”

“And you told him you would send one?” “I called Mr. Zahn into my room. I told him he would be sent to the field, and I suggested that the prisoner should conduct him to Canvas Town.”

“Was that suggestion acted upon?”

“No. Scarlett was willing to comply, but Zahn refused his offer.”

“Why did he refuse?”

“He was frightened to trust himself with the prisoner.”

“This is very important, Mr. Tomkinson. I must ask you to repeat the murdered man’s exact words when he refused to accompany the prisoner to the field.”

“I do not recollect his exact words. As nearly as I can remember, he said that he would rather run the risk of getting lost in the bush than be thrown over a precipice.”

“Did you know they had quarrelled previously?”

“I learnt so, at the time to which I refer.”

“Thank you, sir. Your evidence has proved to be valuable, very valuable indeed. I shall ask the witness no more questions, Your Honour.”

Scarlett’s counsel was contemplatively tapping his front teeth with his forefinger throughout this examination. He now rose, and informed the Judge that though he desired to ask the witness no questions at the present time, perhaps he might ask for him and the witness Amiria to be recalled at a later stage of the proceedings.

The next witness was a digger, a short man with a bushy, red beard. But even more extraordinary than the man’s beard was his casual, almost insolent, bearing. He glanced at the Judge contemptuously, he looked pityingly at the jury, he regarded the barristers with dislike, and then he settled himself resignedly against the front of the witness-box, and fixed his eyes superciliously upon the Sergeant of Police.

“Are you the owner of a claim on Bush Robin Creek?”

“I am, and it’s a good claim too.” The witness evidently considered himself on familiar terms with the counsel for the Crown.

“Did you sell gold to Isaac Zahn?”

“I did, an’ he give me £3 15s. an ounce. The result of a month’s work, yer Honour.”

“How much did you sell?”

“Forty-six ounces fifteen pennyweights; but, bless yer, I’d on’y begun to scratch the top of the claim.”

The idea of the witness blessing the Crown Prosecutor convulsed the bar with merriment; but, looking straight at the witness, the Judge said, “I beg you to remember, sir, that you are in a Court of Law, and not in the bar of a public-house.” To which admonition the digger was understood, by those nearest to him, to murmur, “I on’y wish I were.”

“Was there anything unusual in the appearance of the gold that you sold to Zahn?”

“It was very ’eavy gold,” replied the witness, “an’ there was one nugget that ’e give me extry for, as a curio.”

“Indeed,” said the counsel, as though this fact was quite new to him. “What was it like?”

“It weighed close on two ounces, an’ was shaped like a kaka’s head.”

“What is a kaka, my man, and what shape is it’s head?”

“I thought you’d ha’ known—it’s a parrot, mister.”

“Would you know the nugget, if you saw it again?”

“’Course, I would,” replied the witness with infinite contempt. “I got eyes, ain’t I, an’ a mem’ry?”

“Is that it?” The barrister handed a bit of gold to the witness.

“That’s the identical nugget,” replied the witness: “you may make your mind easy on that. I sold it to Zahn soon after he come to the field.” “Thank you,” said the Crown Prosecutor, and, turning to the jury, he added, “That nugget, gentlemen, is an exhibit in the case, and is one of the effects found on the prisoner at the bar, when he was searched after his arrest.”

The witness left the box amid a murmur of excitement, and from the gestures of the jurymen it was clear that his evidence had impressed them. The case against Scarlett wore a serious aspect, and the Crown Prosecutor, smiling, as though well pleased with his work, was preparing to examine witnesses to prove the prisoner’s arrival at Canvas Town on the night of the murder, when there arose a considerable commotion amongst the public, by reason of a wild, unshorn man pushing his way violently towards the barrier. The Police Sergeant and his constables cried, “Silence in the Court!” but amid noisy protestations from the crowd, the ragged, struggling figure reached the barrier, vaulted over it, and stood on the floor of the Court. The barristers rose to stare at the extraordinary figure; the Judge, open-mouthed with astonishment, glared at everybody generally; the Sergeant made three strides towards the intruder, and seized him roughly by the arm.

“I desire to give evidence!” cried the disturber of the proceedings. “I wish to be sworn.”

With his clothes in tatters and earth-stained, his boots burst at the seams and almost falling to pieces, his hair long and tangled, his beard dirty and unkempt, thus, in a state of utter disreputableness, he unflinchingly faced the Court; and the crowd, forgetful of the prisoner, Judge, and jury, gave its whole attention to him.

Beckoning with his hand, the Judge said, “Bring this man forward. Place him where I can see him.”

The Police Sergeant led the would-be witness to the space between the dock and the jury-box.

“Now, my man,” said the Judge, “I imagine that you wish to say something. Do you wish to give evidence bearing on this case?”

“I do, Your Honour.”

“Then let me warn you that if what you have to say should prove frivolous or vexatious, you will be committed for disturbing the Court.”

“If what I have to say is irrelevant, I shall be willing to go to gaol.”

The Judge looked at this ragged man who used such long words, and said sternly, “You had better be careful, sir, exceedingly careful. What is your name?”

“Benjamin Tresco.”

“Oh, indeed. Very good. T-r-e-s-c-o-e, I presume,” remarked the Judge, making a note of the name.

“No, T-r-e-s-c-o.”

“No ’e’?”

“No, Your Honour; no ’e’.”

“Benjamin Tresco, of what nature is the evidence you desire to give?”

“It tends to the furtherance of Justice, Your Honour.”

“Does it bear on this case? Does it deal with the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“It does.”

“Would it be given on behalf of the Crown, or on behalf of the prisoner?”

“I can’t say. It has no bearing on the prisoner, except indirectly. It affects the Crown, perhaps—the Crown always desires to promote Justice.” “Let the man be sworn.”

So Benjamin was placed in the box, and stood prominent in his rags before them all. After he had been sworn, there was a pause; neither the prosecution, nor the defence, knowing quite what to make of him.

At length the counsel for the Crown began, “Where were you on March the 3rd, the supposed day of the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“I don’t keep a diary. Of late, I haven’t taken much account of dates. But if you refer to the date of the thunderstorm, I may state that I was in my cave.”

“Indeed. In your cave? That is most interesting. May I ask where your cave may be?”

“In the mountains, not far from the track to Canvas Town.”

“Dear me, that’s very novel. When you are at home, you live in a cave. You must be a sort of hermit. Do you know the prisoner?”

“Slightly.”

“Did you meet him in your cave?”

“No; but there I saw the men who ought to be in the dock in his stead.”

“Eh? What? Do you understand what you are saying?”

“Perfectly.”

“Perfectly? Indeed. Have you come here to give evidence for the Crown against the prisoner at the bar?”

“I have nothing to do with the prisoner. I have come to disclose the guilty parties, who, so far as I am aware, never in their lives spoke two words to the prisoner at the bar.”

“Your Honour,” said the bewildered barrister, “I have nothing further to ask the witness. I frankly own that I consider him hardly accountable for what he says—his general appearance, his manner of life, his inability to reckon time, all point to mental eccentricity, to mental eccentricity in an acute form.”

But the counsel for the defence was on his feet.

“My good sir,” he said, addressing the witness, with an urbanity of tone and manner that Benjamin in his palmiest days could not have surpassed, “putting aside all worry about dates, or the case for the Crown, or the prisoner at the bar, none of which need concern you in the slightest degree, kindly tell the jury what occurred in your cave on the day of the thunderstorm.”

“Four men entered, and from the place where I lay hid I overheard their conversation. It referred to the murder of Isaac Zahn.”

“Exactly what I should have imagined. Did you know the four men? Who were they? What were their names?”

“I knew the names they went by, and I recognised their faces as those of men I had met in Timber Town.”

“Tell the jury all that you heard them say and all that you saw them do in the cave?”

“I had returned from exploring a long passage in the limestone rock, when I heard voices and saw a bright light in the main cave. For reasons of my own, I did not desire to be discovered; therefore, I crept forward till I lay on a sort of gallery which overlooked the scene. Four men were grouped round a fire at which they were drying their clothes, and by the light of the flames they divided a large quantity of gold which, from their conversation, I learned they had stolen from men whom they had murdered. They described the method of the murders; each man boasting of the part he had played. They had stuck up a gold-escort, and had killed four men, one of whom was a constable and another a banker.”

“That was how they described them?”

“That is so. The two remaining murdered men they did not describe as to profession or calling.” “You say that you had previously met these fiends. What were their names?”

“They called each other by what appeared to be nicknames. One, the leader, was Dolly; another Sweet William, or simply William; the third was Carny, or Carnac; the fourth Garstang. But how far these were their real names I am unable to say.”

“Where did you first meet them?”

“In The Lucky Digger. I played for money with them, and lost considerably.”

“When next did you meet them?”

“Some weeks afterwards I saw two of them—the leader, known as Dolphin, or Dolly, and the youngest member of the gang, named William.”

“Where was that?”

“On the track to Bush Robin Creek. I had come out of the bush, and saw them on the track. When I had hidden myself, they halted opposite me at a certain rock which stands beside the track. From where I lay I heard them planning some scheme, the nature of which I then scarcely understood, but which must have been the sticking-up of the gold-escort. I heard them discuss details which could have been connected with no other undertaking.”

“Would you know them if you saw them again?”

“Certainly.”

“Look round the Court, and see if they are present.”

Benjamin turned, and looked hard at the sea of faces on the further side of the barrier. There were faces, many of which he knew well, but he saw nothing of Dolphin’s gang.

“I see none of them here,” he said, “but I recognise a man who could bear me out in identifying them, as he was with me when I lost money to them at cards.”

“I would ask you to point your friend out to me,” said the Judge. “Do I understand that he was with you in the cave?”

“No, Your Honour; I knew him before I went there.”

“What is his name?”

“On the diggings, he is Bill the Prospector, but his real name is William Wurcott.”

“Call William Wurcott,” said the Judge.

William Wurcott was duly cried, and the pioneer of Bush Robin Creek pushed his way to the barrier and stood before the Court in all his hairiness and shabbiness.

Tresco stood down, and the Prospector was placed in the box. After being sworn according to ancient custom, Bill was asked all manner of questions by counsel and the Judge, but no light whatever could he throw on the murder of Isaac Zahn, though he deposed that if confronted with the visitors to Tresco’s cave, he would be able to identify them as easily as he could his own mother. He further gave it as his opinion that as the members of the gang, namely, Sweet William and his pals—he distinctly used the words “pals” before the whole Court—had drugged him and stolen his money, on the occasion to which Tresco had referred, they were quite capable, he thought, of committing murder; and that since his mate Tresco had seen them dividing stolen gold in his cave, on the day of the thunderstorm, he fully believed that they, and not the prisoner at the bar, were the real murderers.

All of which left the minds of the jury in such a confused state with regard to the indictment against the prisoner, that, without retiring, they returned a verdict of Not Guilty, and Jack left the Court in the company of Rose, the Pilot, and Captain Sartoris.