“The witness may proceed,” said the judge. “Well, really, Your Honor, I didn’t have so very much to say,” confessed Judge Priest, “and I didn’t expect there’d be any to-do made over it. What I was trying to git at was that cornin’ down here to testify in this case sort of brought back them old days to my mind. As I git along more in years – ” he was looking toward the jurors now – “I find that I live more and more in the past.”
As though he had put a question to them several of the jurors gravely inclined their heads. The busy cud of Juror No. 12 moved just a trifle slower in its travels from the right side of the jaw to the left and back again. “Yes, suh,” he said musingly, “I got up early this mornin’ at the tavern where I’m stoppin’ and took a walk through your thrivin’ little city.” This was rambling with a vengeance, thought the puzzled Durham. “I walked down here to a bridge over a little creek and back again. It reminded me mightily of that other time when I passed through this town – in ‘64 – just about this season of the year – and it was hot early today just as it was that other time – and the dew was thick on the grass, the same as ‘twas then.”
He halted a moment.
“Of course your town didn’t look the same this mornin’ as it did that other mornin’. It seemed like to me there are twicet as many houses here now as there used to be – it’s got to be quite a little city.”
Mr. Lukins, the grocer, nodded silent approval of this utterance, Mr. Lukins having but newly completed and moved into a two-story brick store building with a tin cornice and an outside staircase.
“Yes, suh, your town has grown mightily, but” – and the whiny, humorous voice grew apologetic again – “but your roads are purty much the same as they were in ‘64 – hilly in places – and kind of rocky.”
Durham found himself sitting still, listening hard. Everybody else was listening too. Suddenly it struck Durham, almost like a blow, that this simple old man had somehow laid a sort of spell upon them all. The flattening sunrays made a kind of pink glow about the old judge’s face, touching gently his bald head and his white whiskers. He droned on:
“I remember about those roads particularly well, because that time when I marched through here in ‘64 my feet was about out ef my shoes and them flints cut ‘em up some. Some of the boys, I recollect, left bloody prints in the dust behind ‘em. But shucks – it wouldn’t a-made no real difference if we’d wore the bottoms plum off our feet! We’d a-kept on goin’. We’d a-gone anywhere – or tried to – behind old Bedford Forrest.”
Aunt Tilly’s palmleaf halted in air and the twelfth juror’s faithful quid froze in his cheek and stuck there like a small wen. Except for a general hunching forward of shoulders and heads there was no movement anywhere and no sound except the voice of the witness:
“Old Bedford Forrest hisself was leadin’ us, and so naturally we just went along with him, shoes or no shoes. There was a regiment of Northern troops – Yankees – marchin’ on this town that mornin’, and it seemed the word had traveled ahead of ‘em that they was aimin’ to burn it down.
“Probably it wasn’t true. When we got to know them Yankees better afterward we found out that there really wasn’t no difference, to speak of, between the run of us and the run of them. Probably it wasn’t so at all. But in them days the people was prone to believe ‘most anything – about Yankees – and the word was that they was cornin’ across country, a-burnin’ and cuttin’ and slashin,’ and the people here thought they was going to be burned out of house and home. So old Bedford Forrest he marched all night with a battalion of us – four companies – Kintuckians and Tennesseeans mostly, with a sprinklin’ of boys from Mississippi and Arkansas – some of us ridin’ and some walkin’ afoot, like me – we didn’t always have horses enough to go round that last year. And somehow we got here before they did. It was a close race though between us – them a-comin’ down from the North and us a-comin’ up from the other way. We met ‘em down there by that little branch just below where your present railroad depot is. There wasn’t no depot there then, but the branch looks just the same now as it did then – and the bridge too. I walked acros’t it this momin’ to see. Yes, suh, right there was where we met ‘em. And there was a right smart fight.
“Yes, suh, there was a right smart fight for about twenty minutes – or maybe twenty-five – and then we had breakfast.”
He had been smiling gently as he went along. Now he broke into a throaty little chuckle.
“Yes, suh, it all come back to me this mornin’ – every little bit of it – the breakfast and all. I didn’t have much breakfast, though, as I recall – none of us did – probably just corn pone and branch water to wash it down with.”
And he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as though the taste of the gritty cornmeal cakes was still there.
There was another little pause here; the witness seemed to be through. Durham’s crisp question cut the silence like a gash with a knife.
“Judge Priest, do you know the defendant at the bar, and if so, how well do you know him?”
“I was just comin’ to that,” he answered with simplicity, “and I’m obliged to you for puttin’ me back on the track. Oh, I know the defendant at the bar mighty well – as well as anybody on earth ever did know him, I reckin, unless ‘twas his own maw and paw. I’ve known him, in fact, from the time he was born – and a gentler, better-disposed boy never grew up in our town. His nature seemed almost too sweet for a boy – more like a girl’s – but as a grown man he was always manly, and honest, and fair – and not quarrelsome. Oh, yes, I know him. I knew his father and his mother before him. It’s a funny thing too – comin’ up this way – but I remember that his paw was marchin’ right alongside of me the day we came through here in ‘64. He was wounded, his paw was, right at the edge of that little creek down yonder. He was wounded in the shoulder – and he never did entirely git over it.”
Again he stopped dead short, and he lifted his hand and tugged at the lobe of his right ear absently. Simultaneously Mr. Felsburg, who was sitting close to a window beyond the jury box, was also seized with nervousness, for he jerked out a handkerchief and with it mopped his brow so vigorously that, to one standing outside, it might have seemed that the handkerchief was actually being waved about as a signal.
Instantly then there broke upon the pause that still endured a sudden burst of music, a rollicking, jingling air. It was only a twenty-cent touth organ, three sleigh bells, and a pair of the rib bones of a beef-cow being played all at once by a saddle-colored negro man but it sounded for all the world like a fife-and-drum corps:
If you want to have a good time,
If you want to have a good time,
If you want to have a good time,
If you want to ketch the devil —
Jine the cavalree!
To some who heard it now the time was strange; these were the younger ones. But to those older men and those older women the first jubilant bars rolled back the years like a scroll.
If you want to have a good time,
If yu want to have a good time,
If you want to have a good time,
If you want to ride with Bedford —
Jine the cavalree!
The sound swelled and rippled and rose through the windows – the marching song of the Southern trooper – Forrest’s men, and Morgan’s, and Jeb Stuart’s and Joe Wheeler’s. It had in it the jingle of saber chains, the creak of sweaty saddle-girths, the nimble clunk of hurrying hoofs. It had in it the clanging memories of a cause and a time that would live with these people as long as they lived and their children lived and their children’s children. It had in it the one sure call to the emotions and the sentiments of these people.
And