A Boston alienist of "una.s.sailable reputation" took the stand, to argue, for the defense, that Schoenlicht was of a catatonic disposition; he had long, it might be inferred, exhibited symptoms of acute mental disease, which went unrecognized by persons about him, or were interpreted as but traits of character. He had examined the defendant closely, he said, and was satisfied that the man was distinctly abnormal; of a temperament that might well crack under emotional pressure; go berserk; commit a savage crime under compulsion, without being aware of what he did, or remembering it afterward.

This, the prosecution handily countered with the testimony of an alienist for the State, who argued that all criminals might be said to suffer "mental disease"-the proof of it being, they are criminals. And, granted the compulsive nature of most violent crimes, and the lack of conscious volition on the part of the criminal, was it not a felicitous thing indeed, that capital punishment was the law of the land?

Yet more d.a.m.ningly, the prosecuting attorney called attention to the fact that, long before Schoenlicht had "gone berserk" and committed his "savage crime," he and the late Mrs. Peck were widely known to have been behaving in an immoral manner: cohabiting together (with all that implies of the violations of Christian morality, the standards of decent society, good taste, and the like) with no discretion or shame. And if, as it was rumored, Schoenlicht had once studied for the ministry, surely his public embrace of sin must be judged the more reprehensible; for he knew what he did, and might have known what a price would be exacted from him.

In all, the prosecution called thirty-five witnesses, of whom only a few were cross-examined by Bullock, to avoid testimony further damaging to his client; and of these only one, Mrs. Peck's personal maid, evinced any doubt on the witness stand regarding her statement to the police. She had said that she heard the voices of Mrs. Peck and Mr. Schoenlicht, in a room adjacent to her own; yet, some minutes before that, she believed she had heard the voices of two men . . . although she could not swear to it. "And who was the second man?" the prosecuting attorney asked skeptically. But the shy young Filipino woman, who spoke English haltingly, could not answer, and the subject of the "second man" was dropped. Next morning when Bullock tried to pursue it during his cross-examination of the witness, the young woman denied she had heard any such voice-only the voices of Mr. Schoenlicht and Mrs. Peck, which she knew well.

THE TRAGEDY OF one son convicted of murder, and taken forcibly from me might only be compounded by the tragedy of two sons taken from me.

A gamble this veteran gambler dared not take.

(BEHIND THE SCENES of the trial things progressed as badly. By degrees Abraham Licht's money was being drained away in desperate stratagems overseen by the wily Bullock and executed by his secret, unnamed a.s.sistants: the attempted bribery of key prosecution witnesses, those members of the jury who appeared most susceptible to persuasion, the examining physician, the county coroner, and so forth. The manager of the Saint-Leon accepted a generous sum of money to be used on "repairs" in the damaged room in which Mrs. Peck had died, yet on the witness stand spoke distastefully of the defendant as a "cold and calculating youth" who had pretended to be good-natured and charming while doubtless planning his crime for weeks. One of the jurors expressed an initial interest in an arrangement by which, in return for his promise to abstain from voting, and thereby hang the jury, he would receive a generous sum of money as a "donation" he might then give to charity; but when a fellow juror suspected the plan, he hurriedly backed away saying he would vote "as G.o.d, and not the Devil, directed." Several "character witnesses" were found by Bullock, and coached and rehea.r.s.ed in praise of the defendant, but were such poor, unconvincing actors, Bullock conceded it would be a mistake to bring them into court to be cross-examined. The idea of involving Elisha in some way was considered, but finally dropped, for Elisha, even in an ingenious disguise, might be linked by police or newspaper reporters with the Black Phantom of Chautauqua Falls, which would be unfortunate indeed.

The trial proceeded swiftly. The day of summation approached. Abraham Licht's heart was wrung by the pitiful spectacle of his eldest, beloved son a prisoner in the courtroom, in shackles as he was led in and out of the building by uniformed guards; his handsome face ravaged with sorrow, lost to all hope; his gaze steadfastly averted from his father's, in despair and shame. For one Licht must never betray another even to save his own skin. For what could be done in such circ.u.mstances? Abraham Licht urged Bullock to try a higher, more idealized philosophical defense, in the manner of the celebrated Clarence Darrow, where the issue of capital punishment itself would be tried-for in these years, a number of liberal-minded persons opposed execution as a punishment in violation of the United States Const.i.tution. But Bullock countered by saying dryly that he had tried that ploy too often, finding to his chagrin that while an individual judge might be swayed by such humanitarian pleas, juries never were. For a jury was a microcosm of the public and the public wanted hangings.

"Even if the defendant is innocent?" Abraham asked in so plaintive and sincere a tone that Bullock stared at him, embarra.s.sed, and could think of no reply. For of course he believed that his client was guilty.) SO IT HAPPENED that the sensational, much-publicized murder trial, the People of the State of New Jersey v. "Christopher Schoenlicht," ended within four days; to the disappointment of all, particularly the platoon of newspaper reporters crowded into the front rows of the courtroom, the somber young defendant declined to take the witness stand to plead on his own behalf; the judge, visibly disdainful of both defendant and defense counsel, as if a bad smell permeated his courtroom, gave brief, perfunctory instructions to the jury, without troubling to lay particular emphasis on the principle of "reasonable doubt"-for was any doubt reasonable, in so lurid a case; the twelve frowning jurors retired to deliberate, and vote; and were out of the courtroom, as newspaper banner headlines excitedly reported next day, only eight minutes-a "record-breaking" brevity of time for any murder trial, in any known United States court of law.

Before and during his trial there came to visit Christopher Schoenlicht, in his solitary cell in the Atlantic County jail, a gentleman legal consultant of Mr. Bullock's named "Murray M. Kirk" of Manhattan. An optimistic middle-aged fellow with a habit of pressing his pince-nez against the bridge of his nose, and speaking loudly and clearly (so that the prisoner's guard would not become suspicious); with a handsome, tired face, and shadowed eyes, and a head of thick, fawn-colored hair always impeccably combed; in a three-piece gray woolen suit, a white shirt with a stiff wing collar, a bow tie with ends tucked neatly beneath the collar and a smart black homburg hat. Mr. Kirk carried black gloves and an ebony cane and had folded a fresh white linen handkerchief into his lapel pocket. The very image of legal propriety; and authority; yet how odd, that he should stare with such baffled yearning at the young Schoenlicht, who shifted uneasily on his hard-backed chair, and sat with bowed head reluctant to meet the elder man's gaze.

Son? Don't you know me? Look me, my darling boy, in the eye!

Though Schoenlicht and Kirk were seated not three feet apart, on either side of a narrow pinewood table, yet the younger man continued to avoid the elder's gaze; sighing often, and pa.s.sing a hand over his eyes, as if in a state of extreme agitation. This was apparently quite different from Schoenlicht's normal behavior with others. Though indicted for the most serious offense, except for treason, that could befall him in the United States, the young man was in the habit of of staring stonily into s.p.a.ce; not listening to his attorney's words; showing indifference to his circ.u.mstances, and to his imminent fate. If required to answer a question (as, for instance, Bullock's exasperated, "Son, do you want to live?") he might shrug silently; then revert back into his stony trance. Abraham Licht had told Bullock that in his presence Christopher would "come alive-to a degree" but in fact this had not happened. Not to the degree that Abraham wished.

At one of these meetings, "Mr. Kirk" whipped his white linen handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed at his perspiring face, and said, in a voice edged with avuncular impatience, "Young man, I command you to sit still. I am your legal counsel's a.s.sistant and you must answer my questions. Otherwise you will be lost."

At this, Christopher froze. In a most awkward position, one shoulder hunched forward and his head inclined to the right, as if gravity were dragging him down. Did he hear? Did he comprehend? Something glittered in a corner of his eye but did not spill over. Tight as a fist his face was clenched as if the spirit, the stubborn Licht spirit, had retreated far within.

Abraham was reminded, with a shock of fierce tenderness, how, during his eldest son's single year of college at Bowdoin, he'd had the opportunity to travel north to Maine, to visit the boy; discovering the lad in a tavern near campus, in the company of several friends. Abraham Licht had stood at a short distance listening to the boys' artless speech, punctuated by laughter; he'd surprised himself with the thought How like the others my son is!-if I did not know he was mine, I would never identify him as a Licht. Later, father and son had quarreled over this issue, that Thurston should be on such easy, friendly terms with strangers; that he should be accepting invitations to visit their homes, which Abraham hadn't known; that he should risk exposure, and at the very least a serious diminution of his powers. For how could Thurston perceive these individuals as enemies, if he allowed himself to befriend them in such a way? All men are our enemies, then and now was the ethic by which Abraham Licht lived, and the ethic in which he had trained his children, and how came Thurston, obedient Thurston, his Thurston, to contest it?

The disagreement, like so many between Abraham Licht and his children, wasn't so much resolved as simply dropped. For Abraham arranged for Thurston to be "expelled" from Bowdoin-a discreet bribe to a residence proctor, a discreet bribe to a dean, and the undergraduate was discovered "in a state of alcoholic inebriation" while returning to campus one night; the only young man of a dozen revelers to be so discovered, apprehended, and charged. It was a measure of Thurston's extreme innocence, Abraham realized, that the boy had never guessed what, or who, lay behind his expulsion. He had simply accepted his fate-"My grades were not so very good, Father, in any case," he'd said sheepishly. And how readily he'd pleased his father by agreeing that it was time to begin his professional career under Abraham's tutelage, and break off his trifling friendships forever.

"Do you hear me, Christopher?" Abraham Licht asked, in a wonderfully controlled voice. "Will you do me the honor of looking at me? I command you."

Slowly, reluctantly, shamefacedly, the young prisoner turned to his visitor. His lips trembled wetly. His gaze wavered. Yes I am your son. Yes I love you. But, Father-So strained was the atmosphere in the airless s.p.a.ce, the uniformed guard dawdling in a corner took a sudden unwanted interest in them, and Abraham had to temper his speech and govern his manner carefully. For now that his unhappy son was facing him, and looking at him, tears gathering in his eyes, a slip of the tongue or a sudden inadvertent gesture might cause him to break into sobs and to throw himself, like a child, into Abraham's arms.

So Abraham spoke judiciously, and calmly. Asking why did "Christopher" refuse to cooperate with his counsel? Why did he show so little interest in his fate? And who was the true murderer of Eloise Peck?-"For if you know, son, you should tell. You should tell me."

For a long moment Thurston stared at him. His young face was drawn, and curiously lined, as if a mask of age had been fitted onto it. When he seemed about to speak, but did not, Abraham whispered, "I command you to speak. Otherwise you will be lost."

Was the guard listening? Could the guard, an ignorant, loutish man, have understood? Yet Thurston, being a Licht, could not trust him; and shaped with his lips the heartrending plea Father, I am lost in any case. Better die one than two. For it must be two if not one. Forgive me, Father! I am lost, Thurston is lost.

The distinguished visitor from Manhattan pressed his pince-nez sharply against the bridge of his nose, and rose to his feet. With an abrupt farewell to the prisoner, he turned away; and asked the guard please to escort him out. He would visit him again, in the interest (or so it would appear to observers) of proffering moral support; but never again would the young prisoner so frankly face him, and never again would the air of the visiting room be so highly charged.

For of course "Christopher Schoenlicht" was found guilty of murder in the first degree.

And no recommendation was made by the jury for mercy.

IT WAS ON a bitterly cold January morning, nearly six months to the day after the death of Eloise Peck, that the young murderer, manacled, hollow-cheeked, appeared before the judge who had presided over his trial, to be told the specific details of his fate.

Had he anything to say to the court, the judge inquired, before sentence was pa.s.sed?

"Christopher Schoenlicht" stood hunched, between his attorney and a bailiff, hearing the judge's words, yet not hearing them; his expression stony; his eyes resolutely downcast; his lower jaw slightly extended beyond the upper, and held rigid.

He had nothing to say.

So it was, nettled, the judge read off his prepared statement, slowly enough so that Schoenlicht might absorb every syllable of every word, to the effect that, his crime being one of inordinate savagery, and his state of mind since his arrest that of a thoroughly unrepentant man, he was thereby sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead, in accordance with the statute of the state of New Jersey, on a date to be determined by the public executioner, such sentence to be carried out on, or before, 1 June 1910.

"LITTLE MOSES"

Crime? whispers Father.

Then complicity.

Complicity?

Then no crime.

"LITTLE MOSES," HUSKY for a child of ten, isn't he, sweet-tempered and dim-witted, obedient, faithful, uncomplaining, yes, black as pitch, yes, able and willing to do the work of a near-grown man, and, yes, he will grow, and grow, and grow, and he will work, and work, and work, and being sweet of temper and dim of wit and black, black as pitch, he is faithful as a dog, he will be loyal for life, he has no thought of anything save work, he has no thoughts as you and I do, as white folks do, and, being of course the son, that is the grandson, of Alabama plantation slaves-will he not repay his cost numberless times over the next fifty years?

And his cost, sir, is so reasonable, sir, I will whisper it in your ear so that he cannot hear: $600 cash.

LEMUEL SHATTUCK, FARMER, of Black Eddy, Michigan; Alvah Gunness, farmer, of La Porte, Minnesota; Ole Budsberg, blacksmith, of Dryden, Minnesota; William Elias Schutt, candymaker, of Elbow Lake, Illinois; Jules Rulloff, farmer, of Horseheads, New York; the Abbotts, dairy farmers, of Lake Seneca, New York; the Wilmots, cotton manufacturers, of North Thetford, Pennsylvania . . . And his cost, sir, is so reasonable, sir, I will whisper it in your ear so that he cannot hear: $600 cash.

Though the prosperous Uriah Skillings, stableowner of Glen Rapids, Ohio, paid $1,000. And Estes Morehouse, retired cla.s.sicist, of Rocky Hill, New Jersey, paid $800.

For these gentlemen, and for some others, "Little Moses" strutted, and cavorted, and grinned, and rolled his white, white eyeb.a.l.l.s, and sang: "Come listen all you gals and boys I'm just from Tuck-y-hoe I'm goin' to sing a lee-tle song My name's Jim Crow!

Weel about and turn about And do jis so Eb'ry time I weel about I jump Jim Crow!"

In the autumn and winter of '98, through the spring of '99, they crisscrossed the countryside, frequently by night, frequently by back roads, Solon J. Berry and his obedient "Little Moses," Mr. Berry possessed of a broad heavy melancholy face, close-trimmed salt-and-pepper whiskers, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, a farmer who had lost his eighty-acre farm, a mill owner who had lost his mill, a former railroad agent for the Chesapeake & Ohio, a former druggist of Marion, Ohio, a casualty of the recession, once proud now humbled, once a man who owned property free and clear now a man hounded by creditors, ashen skin, pouched eyes, queer nicks and blemishes in his cheeks, forced to certain actions, compromises, pragmatic measures which, in his prime, he would never have considered-being a Christian, after all, of stolid Calvinist faith.

Solon J. Berry, or Whittaker Hale, or Hambleton Fogg, but always "Little Moses," for he was plucked from the bulrushes, yes, more or less, yes indeed, an Act of G.o.d, saved from certain drowning when the mighty Wabash River overflowed its banks in April '89 in Lafayette, Indiana, a howling black baby discovered amid drowned dogs, drowned chickens, drowned rats, snagged by an iron hook and pulled to sh.o.r.e, lifted from a nest of matted gra.s.s and filth that teemed with spiders, a living infant!-a black infant!-abandoned by his mother yet living, still, thrashing with life, mouth opened wide to howl, to shriek, a vast O of a mouth, wailing, wailing!-why, the pitiful thing yet lives.

And has grown husky, hasn't he?

And uncomplaining, and zealous, and patient, and doesn't eat too much, and can work twelve hours a day, farmwork, lifting and carrying, scouring pans, digging ditches, did I say twelve hours?-fourteen; sixteen; as many as a task requires. And doesn't need to sleep more than three, four hours, most nights, yes it is the black blood, yes his people were Alabama plantation slaves, the best West African stock, pitch-black, strong as horses, never sick a day until, at the age of ninety-nine, they drop over dead, why that won't be till the year 2000, almost!-and here he is grinning, strutting, obedient as a puppy, clever as a little monkey, dull-witted as a sheep, reliable as an ox, and, when the mood is on him, a genuine entertainment right in the home, rolling his eyes, and snapping his fingers, and kicking up his heels, here is "Zip c.o.o.n," here is "Poor Black Boy," here is "'Possum Up a Gum-Tree," but the piece de resistance, the ne plus ultra, the flagrante delicto, stand back, give him room, it's wild "Jim Crow" himself!

AND ALL FOR $600. And no one ever to know, precisely, the terms of the orphan's contract.

SOMETIMES "LITTLE MOSES" slept for an hour or two in his new master's house, in a corner of the woodshed where rags had been tossed, in the back room in Grandpa's old urine-stained bed, once in a hayloft with mice and rats, once in a cardboard box beside a woodburning stove whose embers smoldered with a slow dull cozy heat, sometimes, more often, "Little Moses" didn't risk sleep at all but lay awake, waiting, quietly waiting, for the white folks to settle down for the night.

Then he would slip away, not a creaking floorboard to betray him, not a barking dog, "Little Moses" running hunched over, head down, crawling if need be, making his stealthy way from one shadowy area to the next, in case his new master was watching from a window (but how could he be watching, the fool was fast asleep with the rest), trotting out to the moonlit country road where, in the two-seater gig, "Solon J. Berry" waited, napping, as he liked to say, with one eye open.

"IS IT TRUE, Father," Elisha asked doubtfully, "-that you found me in the Wabash River?-in a flood?"

Abraham Licht smiled, and lay a warm protective hand on the boy's woolly hair, and said, after a pause of perhaps ten seconds, "No, 'Lisha. It was the Nautauga, back East, but folks hereabouts might not have heard of it; and I don't want to arouse their suspicions."

"IS IT TRUE, Father," Elisha asked, "that the white folks is devils, and all of them enemies? Or is some of them different, like you?"

And Abraham Licht smiled, and sucked zestfully on his cigar, and said, "Now look here, 'Lisha-I'm not white. I may look white, and I may talk white, but I stand outside the white race, just like you, and all of my people stand outside the white race, because they are devils, and they are enemies, each and every one."

BUT NONE OF the enemies reports Mr. Berry, or Mr. Hale, or Mr. Fogg to the police.

And none of the enemies reports "Little Moses" missing.

"Nor will they ever, the wretches!" Abraham Licht says, baring his big white teeth around his Cuban cigar, counting his cash, "that, Baby Moses, we are a.s.sured of."

So they crisscross the countryside, keeping to the back roads, upon occasion traveling fast-very fast-along a main artery-no time to dally, no time to browse-but for the most part ambling along in no great hurry: for the land is beautiful, the North American continent is beautiful: no matter (as Abraham Licht says with an upward twist of his lip) that human beings have begun to foul it.

(Does Elisha sometimes doubt that people, white or black, are devils?-and only the Lichts can be trusted?-Father then reads him tales from the newspapers, the confessions of the hard-hearted murderer Frank Abbott-Almy of Vermont, the "true story" of the monstrous Braxtons of Indiana, and, most ghastly of all, the saga of Widow Sorenson of Ohio, who acquired twenty-eight husbands by way of matrimonial journals, and, over a period of two decades, killed them for their money, and fed their remains to the hogs.

The lesson being, as Elisha learns to shape with his lips, while Father speaks: All men are enemies, then or now; but, Brothers by blood are brothers by the soul.) THEN ONE DAY Abraham Licht declares that he is Licht again, and Elisha is Elisha; and very suddenly he is homesick for Muirkirk; and his beloved Sophie; and dear little Millicent, whose seventh birthday-is it the seventh?-he has missed, laboring here in the vineyards, casting his pearls before swine.

So, within an hour or two, he sells the two-seater gig, and the sway-back horses, and buys some new clothes for himself and his boy, and arranges for them to travel to Chautauqua in a private Pullman car, now he is Licht again, now he can breathe again, now he can hold his head high again, $4,500 in clear profits, $6,200, perhaps it is as much as $9,000, and not one of the enemies reports the affair to the police, not Shattuck, nor Gunness, nor Budsberg, nor Schutt, nor Rulloff, nor the Abbotts, nor the Wilmots, nor the others, the many others, the contemptible execrable fools, not a one! not a one!

"And do you know why, 'Lisha?" Abraham asks.

'Lisha grins and nods; 'Lisha knows; in mock solemnity wheeling, and turning about, and mouthing the words, the terrible words, I jump Jim Crow!

When, in the spring of '89, Abraham Licht brought the squalling black baby home with him, the red-haired woman with whom he was living-not Arabella, who had run off the previous year, and not Morna the minister's daughter, whom he wasn't to meet for several months-this woman, this ignorant woman, what did she do but push at Abraham and the baby both, laughing, incensed: "What is it! Keep it from me! I can't be that thing's mother."

He turned the woman out that very day.

Forgot her name within a week.

And soon Elisha, sickly little Elisha, was as dear to him as his own boys, or very nearly: for the pitiful creature had no mother, or father, or name, or place of birth: as d.a.m.ned by the black G.o.d, it seemed, as by the white.

In neither of whom, Abraham Licht boasted, he believed.

Was it true that Elisha had been hooked and snagged out of a flooded river, pulled to sh.o.r.e, saved from drowning? . . . was it true that Abraham Licht, returning to his hotel room in the Nautauga Falls Arms, saved the baby himself?

Indeed yes.

Very certainly-yes.

Though it had not been the Nautauga River but a rain-swollen ditch that ran beside a wooden sidewalk, just down the hill from the hotel, a filth-choked ditch three or four feet deep, the dark water swirling and gurgling and rushing along, as noisy, or nearly, as the great Nautauga itself.

So the little black thing was s.n.a.t.c.hed up, and saved.

So the little black thing, howling, mouth opened to an enormous O, was s.n.a.t.c.hed up, and saved, and hugged to the breast of the fashionably dressed white gentleman (chesterfield coat with black velvet collar, silk top hat, ivory-headed cane) whose cheeks were flushed and spirits gratified by a long evening of poker, at worthwhile stakes, at a private Nautauga Falls men's club.

"Why, the devil-!" Abraham Licht exclaimed, as the wailing creature soiled his coat sleeve, and thrashed about with a remarkable energy, "-it is the Devil! And am I to be its father?"

AT THIS PROBLEMATIC time in Abraham Licht's life Thurston was five years old, Harwood two, motherless boys for whom Abraham must find a mother, a decent mother, and soon: and he yearned, too, for a daughter: for would not a daughter complete his soul, indeed?-and help to make amends for the cruel treatment he had received at the hands of Arabella. He was obliged, too, to resume his business, or businesses, being not overly flushed with cash; most eager to launch the secret Society for the Reclamation & Restoration of E. Auguste Napoleon, the "true heir" of the Emperor. (To this end, Abraham had prepared for the printer certain genealogical charts, certificates, and model shares pertaining to the Society; and had scattered the vague hint, to credulous newspaper editors in the East, that the French government was conspiring to cheat a number of American citizens-some two hundred, or five hundred, or more-of their rightful inheritance as descendants of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d heir.) So it was not a very felicitous time for him to take on a Negro infant, no matter that there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow!

Yet Abraham Licht wouldn't give up the pitiful creature, to turn it over to the tender mercies of the township. Instead he took it home with him, determined to love it, and make it his. "'Poor, bare, forked animal!'-I baptize these Elisha, my 'salvation,'" he whispered, bent over the baby, which slept now peaceably as a kitten atop his bed, and kissing its forehead.

And never would Abraham Licht regret his decision.

And never, until Elisha's twenty-first birthday in the early winter of 1910, when the black foundling dared challenge him, would he love the boy less than he loved the children of his own loins.

And it happened that, shortly after Elisha came to live with him, as if by magic Abraham Licht's uncertain luck changed for the better. He acquired the wonderfully capable Katrina as a housekeeper-this mysterious, formidable woman who was a great-aunt of his, or a cousin several times removed, from the remote area beyond Mount Chattaroy; and he met, and at once fell in love with, Miss Morna Hirshfield, pursuing the lovely young woman with such ardor that she was won within three weeks; and, in the early euphoria of her love for Abraham Licht, vowed she would love his sons, all his sons, the Negro no less than the white, as well. (For Morna Hirshfield, daughter of a Unitarian minister and granddaughter of fervent Abolitionists, believed herself a paragon of Christian and womanly virtues; and yet, the year being 1890, a bravely modern person-independent enough to live with a man she loved "bereft of clergy" and even to bear him, in time, a child.) And, too, Abraham was able to purchase the auctioned property of the Church of the Nazarene, Risen, for a mere pittance; and to move his now-large household there, to the beautiful wilds of Muirkirk, for greater safety, as he believed-"and safekeeping."

Did it seem puzzling, and vexing, and somewhat shameful to Thurston and Harwood and, later, to Millie, that they had a Negro brother?-it did not.