Ambrose Gardner was indeed bound over for trial, just as the Reynolds County sheriff had predicted, and Charlotte returned the following week to testify. The turmoil at Daybreak after Josephine’s discovery had affected her unexpectedly. Everyone else was anxious and fearful, but Charlotte felt an odd combination of mournfulness and determination. She imagined it to be something like the sentiment James had talked about of soldiers going into battle—the near-certain knowledge that their actions were not likely to make any difference, and the fear that all would be lost, but the need born out of something, whether discipline or habit, to carry on with the fight despite its evident futility. Newton had called the usual community meeting for Thursday, and she supposed that was his way of trying to calm everyone. He would show that they would not be made hasty or untrue to their principles. Yet an air of desperation reigned.
Knowing that nothing would be done until the Thursday meeting, Charlotte left for Gardner’s trial with a clear mind. Over his objections, she had hired an attorney, a local man named Sikes, who had taken the case with a groan, and only done so because Charlotte had cash in hand. “Prosecutor’s going to ride you up one side of the valley and down the other,” Sikes said. “He’s not going to want to look weak right now.”
She visited Gardner in jail in the afternoons, bringing him bread and preserves, anything to brighten his gloomy mood. The jail itself was an eight-by-eight square of hewn logs with a grid of iron rods over the windows that looked like they had been salvaged from a building site, and nails randomly studding the log walls, to discourage anyone from trying to saw through them, she supposed. As if anyone had the poor sense to saw through an eight-inch log in the middle of the courthouse square in a town as small as Centerville.
Inside was a bunk with a bucket for his relief stored under it, a chair in the corner, and a small table. She swapped out the stack of books on the table with new ones she had brought from his house.
“Glad you brought the Gibbon,” he said. “He matches my mood, plus he takes a long time to read.”
“You won’t be in here much longer.”
“Appreciate the thought, but you’ve heard Sikes. They want to make an example of me.”
“That’s just the prosecutor. The jury will be people like yourself, fair-minded people.”
Gardner shrugged and didn’t answer for a minute, his expression miserable. “I miss my woods. This is a good time of year to be in the woods. Lots of color, no ticks, fat deer everywhere.”
Charlotte stood up from her chair and looked out the window. The trial was scheduled for tomorrow morning, whenever the judge arrived. “Are they feeding you properly? There’s trouble ahead for the cook if they’re not.”
Her remark seemed to restore some of Gardner’s good humor. “Better than I’m used to! And it’s rich, too. Eggs and potatoes every day, and milk with the cream still in it. Sheriff Carter’s wife does the cooking, and you’ll not hear me complain.”
There was a quiet tap on the door. “Ma’am, it’s time to leave,” a deputy’s voice said.
“All right,” Charlotte said. As she turned toward the door, Gardner stood up from his bunk and embraced her. “Thank you for the bread and jam,” he said. “Between you and Mrs. Carter, I may not want to get out here.”
She kissed him at length, holding the back of his head with one hand. “Oh, I think you will,” she said as they parted.
“I expect you’re right,” he said with a smile.
In the small room she had rented for the duration of the trial, Charlotte let her brave face drop. She had thought all that shooting and violence was behind them once life had settled down from the war and its aftermath, but here they were again, a new generation of guns and knives and killing. If only Ambrose hadn’t gotten caught up in it, but what else could he have done? Shout at the man? Flee?
She slept little in the night amid the unfamiliar sounds, the barking of dogs, voices, the creaking of the house. But in the morning she felt refreshed and ready, despite her restlessness. In the anteroom she murmured to herself her description of the events of the night, trying not to overhear the voices from the courtroom through the door. And then it was time.
The jurymen sat squeezed into their narrow jury box, twelve men mostly in jeans and brogans, although a couple of them with finer aspirations wore frock coats and pantaloons. Their glances bounced off her as she took the stand, as if they didn’t want to stare or seem excessively interested. She avoided Gardner’s gaze to maintain her composure.
Sikes strolled toward her after she had been sworn in. “Mrs. Turner, you are a friend of the defendant?”
“I am.”
“And you were visiting Mr. Gardner on the date in question?”
“I was.”
“And did you see Mr. Yancey, the deceased, on that date?”
“I did.”
“Could you please recount how you came to see Mr. Yancey?”
“Certainly.” She cleared her throat and glanced at the men, knowing that she needed to sanitize the experience to stay credible. “We had been visiting and realized that it had gotten too late for me to return home before dark, so Mr. Gardner gave me his bed and went out to make himself a pallet.” She decided not to mention that the pallet was on the floor beside her unless asked. “I fell asleep, but woke up later in the night. I think a noise was what woke me up.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I walked out to the front room to see what was going on. I wanted to ask Mr. Gardner whether he had heard anything.”
“And did you?”
“No. He was not there, but had gone outside.”
“What did you do then?”
“I walked to the window and looked out, and that’s when I saw Mr. Yancey.”
“You could see him clearly?”
“Yes. The moon was bright, and he was standing in the moonlight.”
Charlotte sensed herself going down a storytelling path as she spoke, one that tailored her story to her desired end at the expense of strict accuracy. This was how good people ended up as liars, she thought. The story hardens with each retelling, grows more pointed and inflexible, until every skirmish has become a pitched battle and every bystander a general.
“Mrs. Turner?”
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?”
“How far away from Mr. Yancey were you?”
“About three feet.”
“And was he doing anything?”
“Yes. He was lifting the latch on the front door.”
“What happened next?”
“I heard Mr. Gardner call out to him. It turns out he was already outside, standing at the corner of the house.”
“What did he say?”
She paused. “Something like ‘What are you doing?’ or ‘What’s going on?’ I don’t exactly recall.”
“And was he armed?”
“Yes. He was carrying his rifle, cradled under his arm.”
“Like this?” Sikes took a walking stick from one of the jurymen and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, with the end pointing toward the floor.
“Yes.”
“Very well. And how far apart were the two men?”
Charlotte drew a breath. In for a sheep as for a lamb. “Six or seven feet.” She sensed Gardner stirring in his chair but avoided his gaze.
“And what happened next?”
“I saw Mr. Yancey turn away from the door toward Mr. Gardner, and he took one or two steps toward him. He was holding his knife about waist level, or a little higher. And a moment later, Mr. Gardner raised his gun and fired.”
“Just the one shot?”
“Yes.”
The lawyer’s questioning continued, but Charlotte added little to her answers. The heavy work had already been done. After a few minutes of halfhearted questions from the prosecuting attorney, the judge gave the case to the jury, which took twenty minutes to return a not guilty verdict. If she knew anything about men, Charlotte thought with mildly morbid satisfaction, it was that none of them would ever countenance a threatening stranger at their door in the middle of the night without popping a cartridge into him. The sacred hearth and home, that was the watchword, and so what if she had played to that prejudice? All she had done was make the story a little more dramatic.
Gardner seemed lost in thought as he climbed into the wagon alongside her for the trip home. He didn’t speak until they had crossed the West Fork on their way east. “I’m grateful to you,” he said. “I just hate that you felt the need to lie.”
Charlotte considered what to say for a mile or so. “I’ve loved two men and lost them both. I didn’t want to take a chance on a third.”
“But it’s not in your nature.”
“Turns out I’ve got more sides to my nature than I knew about. Maybe I’ll take up lying for a hobby.”
Gardner’s laugh, true and deep at last, was a welcome sound.
Charlotte thought about the road ahead. “It’s a long ride from here, and dark comes soon,” she said. “We may have to sleep in the wagon along the way. We’ve got a stack of blankets in the back.”
He took her hand. “Can’t imagine a finer accommodation.”