Our last obstacle was the D’Arbonne bottoms, a mile-wide swamp that catches the bayou’s overflows between the red clay hills. It did not hinder us much. The bayou was not yet out of its banks for the winter, and a new pole road lay in the low spots. We arrived at the landing below town and crossed on the ferry. The one-armed operator told us that court was indeed in session as he was tired already from his morning’s business.
The courthouse was a new white-frame building in the center of Farmerville. It faced west so people coming up the hill from the landing on the bayou saw it first before the half-dozen saloons that surrounded it port and starboard. Minor said a favorite topic of discussion in these places was the buzzards that liked to perch on the steep roof of the courthouse and what that meant about the goings-on inside. As on most court days, the square was crowded with both town folks and farmers from the countryside. Soldiering-age boys were scarce though, and the girls and ladies had to settle for the company of old men and a few cripples. We tied the horses and Chula on a side street before marching on. Minor’s firm grasp of my hand did little to slow my racing heart.
Court was held in the big front room, and the parish records were kept in a small back chamber. The front door opened into a foyer with steep stairs to the balcony tucked into one corner. Minor and I went directly to the front door and hurried up the stairs. He had his hat pulled down low; I pretended to be his shadow, and no one seemed to notice us. We shared the balcony with three black couples and a half-dozen giggling white boys fresh from a barber. Minor hushed them so we could hear and pulled our bench close to the front rail.
Judge Hezekia Thacker, still adorned with an explosion of gray whiskers, sat behind a table staring at two men arguing before him. The issue was property lines and a blazed persimmon tree. They droned on as I searched the audience of fifty or more. Anatilda stood out. She was dressed in mourning black and sat beside an older woman whom I took to be her mother. Minor spotted Mr. Carter, Lemuel Greenlea, and a few others from Iron Branch. When the judge decided he had heard enough, he told the two men to cut the damned persimmon tree down, split it into stove wood for the school house, and get the property line resurveyed. The men skulked out.
Anatilda’s business was next on the docket. The clerk stood up and addressed the judge: “Your honor, the next matter before the Twelfth Judicial Court is the affairs of Mrs. Anatilda Tubbs Barrett and the succession of the Barrett estate.” I could tell that it took all of Minor’s willpower to keep from leaping over the rail and charging to the front.
The judge ordered the proceedings to begin. The clerk nodded to Anatilda, she went forward, and in spite of swearing before God to tell the truth, lies and deceit filled her practiced drama. She began by telling of her wedding and the cruel war that lured away her gallant, beloved husband. She told of the news of his injury and her desperate efforts to rescue him. Her tale of their joyful reunion in the hospital made my stomach turn. I feared I would be sick there in the balcony. She hurried through the scene of Minor’s drowning. Then she reached into her knit handbag and pulled out the death announcement of Mrs. Barrett on a scrap of the Farmerville Democrat. Her claim to the Barrett estate, she said, was based on the fact that no wills had been discovered and she was the closest surviving heir according to the French laws of Louisiana. Minor whispered to me through clenched teeth that she was better than some of his old professors.
Judge Thacker listened to Anatilda intently. When she stopped, he did not speak for long moments and seemed deep in thought. Then he called the sheriff over to his big table and they spoke in low tones. Anatilda jumped when the judge finally addressed her, “Mrs. Barrett, as you know we have no official record of your husband’s death—only your testimony. This poses a dilemma for the court. Painful though it may be, can you give more specifics of his passing?”
Anatilda was flustered for an instant. “Well he’s dead! I saw it with my own eyes,” she cried. She had not expected this development. “I myself was nearly killed.” She was quick to come to her senses, as I had seen before, and she built a story on the spot. She told of their efforts to cross the treacherous river in between the passing of Yankee boats and how they had almost made it when a slow whirlpool captured them. Everyone in the courtroom hung on her words. A sidewheel packet bore down on their tiny vessel, she continued, and sparks from the pine torch that she desperately waved singed her hair and arms. She drew back the sleeve of her dress to offer the judge imaginary evidence of her wounds. Her arm was long and white, not nearly so dark as mine.
“The Yankees had no watch,” she said. “Poor Minor. He lay in the front of our skiff just where the packet struck. The slave and I were thrown into the air away from the tempest.” She paused for effect. “Knowing that he suffered little is my only solace.”
The judge pondered her words before asking the room, “Is there anyone here today who can affirm or refute this testimony?”
People shuffled and looked around. I knew Minor was waiting for this moment. We were still unnoticed by those below. Slowly he began to stand, but before he was discovered a sudden commotion beneath drew the attention of all. The door burst open and Mink walked down the center aisle to stand in front of the judge.
“I been listening at dat winder, yor honor,” he pointed to the closest of two small portals on the north side of the building, “and der’s no way under Heaven I can let dis pass widout having my say.”
His voice was deep and rich in the hushed courtroom, and I knew I was seeing an act of utmost bravery. Whatever the outcome of the day, Mink could expect nothing but suffering and a good chance of death for his actions.
“My name is Mink. I’s Miz Tilda’s servant.”
Anatilda stood close enough to touch him. I thought her glare would melt him to butter.
“Hellfire the slave testifying rules! Consider yourself under oath,” the judge ordered Mink. “Were you a witness to Minor Barrett’s death?”
“I reckon I wuz one of de las’ persons to see him alive, and he weren’t much alive at dat,” said Mink. He went on to tell the truth—all of it. He said the boat accident did not happen. He told how Anatilda cast Minor, unconscious and wounded, to the perils of the river. He said the only sidewheel packet he knew about was the one they rode from the Vicksburg landing across to Young’s Point the next day.
The judge was as stunned as everyone else in the courtroom. He shuffled the papers on his big desk to break the long silence after Mink’s story. His question to Mink seemed born of pure curiosity rather than legal order. “Why would she do that after such exertions to find him?”
Mink was embarrassed when he spoke. “Miz Tilda say he ruint. Say she need a whole husband to tend her proper.”
Anatilda was in a state like I had never seen. She looked at the judge and said, “You don’t believe that slave, do you? Since when can a nigger testify against a white woman? He’s jealous. He made advances. In fact he attacked me in my tent one night on our journey home!”
The court stirred. Doubts and verdicts flew around the room in tight circles like bats in a cistern. I flew with them as Minor dragged me down the stairs pushing people aside in the foyer in a deliberate charge to the front. We stopped beside Mink and directly before Anatilda.
When she could speak, her voice was thick and sweet. “My darling husband. You are alive. Come to me.” She reached for him with long white arms. For a lingering moment I thought he was lost to me again.
Judge Thacker slapped his own knee twice in the manner of his behavior at the Scholar’s Competition years before.
Minor turned and embraced me. He kissed me on the cheek and then on my mouth until the judge beat his desk with a Colt pistol and demanded order. Yet we remained in this clasp a long time while all about us a chaos of cheers and one solitary wail filled the courtroom.