Chapter 34

I REMEMBER LEARNING IN SUNDAY SCHOOL THAT FEMALE WITnesses were excluded at the time of Christ. The reason: a woman’s testimony was deemed as reliable as a lunatic’s. Hundreds of years later, things haven’t improved much for our sex.

My day on the witness stand made it patently clear that my word doesn’t carry the clout of a man’s. While Judge Thacher nodded along to Mr. Clarke’s conjectures, my explanations drew raised eyebrows. The disparity was enough to make me tear my hair out. Worse, I must watch my best friend subjected to the same on this second day of the hearing.

Eliza, however, isn’t about to let anyone walk all over her.

“I witnessed her constructing her machine at home starting February ’68,” she declares without a hint of stutter. “She worked on it every night until she attained success at the end of summer.”

Mr. Clarke snickers. “How did you, a seamstress, determine that your friend attained success with a machine?”

“Why, I used the bags the machine made, of course.” Eliza cocks her head as if baffled by such a simplistic question. “There were hundreds in the house from her test runs, so I took them and filled them with meal and sand and even ashes. They worked so well, I took them to market for shopping.”

Mr. Clarke sniffs, unamused by her theatrics. “Have you a specimen of one of these bags?”

“I regret to say I have not,” she replies matter-of-factly.

“You haven’t one?” The lawyer throws up his hands in mock surprise. “Even though there were ‘hundreds’ in the house?”

“When I moved from Springfield to my grandmother’s Boston house at the end of ’68, I could only bring bare necessities. I’m sure you’ll agree, paper bags do not count as a necessity for a young woman changing residences.”

I’m in awe as Eliza parries Mr. Clarke’s jabs time and again. I feared her gentle disposition would crumble against his assaults, but in the past hour, my friend has proven a lioness. No one would guess she struggles with a stammer. And not only is she articulate, she’s not allowing Mr. Clarke’s tricky speech to befuddle her.

“You claim Mr. Annan visited your Springfield residence on September 1, 1868, with the intent of looking at Miss Knight’s wooden machine, correct?”

“I fixed no date,” says Eliza, “but Mr. Annan did visit that month, and it would’ve been a Friday because the contest the next day was on a Saturday.”

Mr. Clarke’s nose twitches. “You are positive that when Mr. Annan called at your residence, Miss Knight’s wooden machine was present?” he plunges on.

“I am certain. She even demonstrated for him by turning out bags.”

“At that time, did you hear Mr. Annan and Miss Knight exchange words?”

“I did.”

“What did they say, specifically? Tell the exact words they exchanged, if you please.”

Eliza’s brow darkens. But rather than losing composure, she maintains the poise of a noblewoman miffed by a buzzing fly. “They said many things, mostly regarding the machine. However, if you wish for me to relate their exact words, I am unable to do so. I did not deem it necessary to memorize their conversation.”

“Did Mr. Annan not say at that time that he had his own machine in his loft that turned out bags by the thousands?”

Eliza’s nostrils flare. “He did not.”

“Did he not say that he had full-size drawings of the machine for making such bags for a long time, got up by other parties, and that he had built such a machine from such drawings?”

“He did not.”

Mr. Clarke folds his arms. “You don’t remember what Mr. Annan said at this supposed demonstration, but do remember what he did not say, do you?”

My teeth gnash. Eliza, however, counters his nastiness with aplomb. “I remember that he said nothing of that sort which your questions imply.”

Mr. Clarke glowers, but Eliza meets him glare for glare. Seconds tick past as the two engage in a silent contest of wills.

Finally, Mr. Clarke breaks his gaze. “That concludes the cross-examination, Your Honor,” he says to the judge.

Judge Thacher glances at the clock on the wall. “Court adjourned at ten o’clock. We will resume in a half hour with the next witness.”

His gavel strikes. The courtroom empties—Judge Thacher and the clerk heading for the judge’s chamber, and Mr. Clarke and Annan going Heaven knows where—leaving me, Mr. Stansbury, Eliza, and Mr. Binney, who has returned to observe the second day of the hearing. As the old investor buries his nose in a newspaper, Mr. Stansbury and I welcome Eliza back from the witness stand.

“You were splendid,” I say, wrapping her in an embrace. “I daresay you’ve nerves of steel.”

She chuckles. “I couldn’t let that scoundrel twist facts, not with your invention and your honor at stake.” She turns to Mr. Stansbury. “Do you think my testimony helped? To tip the scales in Mattie’s favor, I mean.”

“Hmm …” Mr. Stansbury rests his chin in his hands. “Regarding your testimony, Miss MacFarland, I couldn’t have asked for better. However, you are Miss Knight’s bosom friend, and you have no mechanical background to speak of, so the court will regard your testimony with a grain of salt. While it’s evened the scale somewhat, for things to actually swing in Miss Knight’s favor will depend on our next witnesses. Speaking of which, it appears Mr. Abbott has arrived.”

He nods toward the door, where Will Abbott’s nose pokes into the courtroom. Catching sight of us, Will calls, “I’m not late, am I?”

“No,” I say, waving him over, “you’re a half hour early.”

As he joins us, I realize he’s drenched in sweat. “You’re soaked, Will,” I say, pouring him water from the pitcher on our table. “Did something happen?”

He downs the drink in one gulp. “Mr. Lincoln asked me to send a telegram before I came here,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Normally it takes a few minutes, but today the line went out the door.” He shakes his head. “Apparently, there’s a huge delay on the Boston and Albany line, so a bunch of folks were sending messages out.”

I nearly drop the pitcher. “The Boston and Albany? What happened?”

“They say the first train out of Albany broke down in Worcester,” he says, causing the color to drain from Eliza’s face. “Is something wrong?”

“That’s Ida’s train,” Eliza wails.

I clutch my head. Ida was supposed to arrive at the depot about now so she could testify on my behalf. Instead, she’s stuck on the railroad tracks.

“Ladies, calm down.” Mr. Stansbury’s command slices through our panic. Turning to Will, he asks, “Mr. Abbott, you said the train broke down. Do you know if it was repaired?”

He nods. “Folks I talked to said the train’s on its way, but they’re expecting it two and a half, maybe three hours late.”

Three hours … That means Ida’s ten o’clock train could arrive as late as one o’clock, and the afternoon session in which Ida’s testimony is scheduled begins at half past one.

Mr. Stansbury frowns, drumming his pencil against the tabletop. “This isn’t ideal, but it isn’t a disaster. Short of the Boston and Albany setting a new speed record on the tracks, we won’t have time to prepare Mrs. Leavilte at the office as planned. That means we must do our best to ready her here before the afternoon session commences. Miss MacFarland?”

Eliza jumps at her name. “Yes?”

“You know Mrs. Leavilte. Go to the depot. When her train arrives, bring her here posthaste. She’s already delayed; we can’t afford her getting lost in the streets of Boston on top of that.”

“Understood.” Eliza snatches her handbag, then grasps my hand. “Don’t worry, Mattie. This may be cutting things close, but I’ll get Ida here in time, I swear.”

The determination in her eyes quells my anxieties, and I squeeze back. “I know you will.”

Though Will was the bearer of bad news this morning, I’ve had no complaints about anything he’s said on the witness stand. Will’s a well-spoken fellow, and in the courtroom, his natural charm translates to utter persuasiveness. I daresay he’s got the judge eating out of his hand. The fact that Will is a man might also factor in the ready acceptance of his testimony. At any rate, I’m simply grateful he hasn’t been pooh-poohed the way Eliza and I were.

This, of course, puts a crease on Mr. Clarke’s brow. When he saw my machinist’s name on the witness list, he probably expected a man cut from the same cloth as Mr. Burnham or Mr. Graham. Will’s glowing testimony about the shuttle guard I invented in Manchester so stunned Mr. Clarke, he sat slack-jawed for most of Mr. Stansbury’s direct examination.

Even so, the spider’s still bent on wresting an advantage when it’s his turn to question Will.

“Mr. Abbott,” he begins, “you stated that Mr. Annan inquired about Miss Knight’s machine at the Lincoln and Graham shop in August ’69, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not, in this conversation, ask Mr. Annan whether he had been experimenting on or getting up his own machine to make square-bottom bags?”

Will taps his chin, mulling the question over. “I think I did. I know I asked if he was interested in purchasing rights to Miss Knight’s machine.”

“Objection,” roars Mr. Clarke. “The last sentence of the response was uncalled for.”

Mr. Clarke and Will turn to the judge. Caught beneath their blazing looks, Judge Thacher wavers, hemming and hawing. Finally, he coughs and says, “Objection upheld.”

Mr. Clarke smirks. My fists clench, itching to punch through his teeth. Will, for his part, regards the round lawyer like a misaligned joint that needs to be whacked.

The cross-examination resumes. “Was not the language of your question to Mr. Annan: ‘I understand you are getting up a machine to make square-bottom paper bags?’”

I repress the urge to roll my eyes. Mr. Stansbury warned me the opposition would try to distort testimony, but Mr. Clarke’s falsehood is such rubbish, I’m surprised his breath doesn’t reek like a dung heap.

Will, of course, is not about to tolerate such nonsense. “No.”

His reply is firm, decisive. And it does not deter Mr. Clarke in the least. Bold as brass, he leans over the witness stand railing. “Are you certain you did not say that?”

Will inclines his head toward Mr. Clarke. “I. Am. Very. Certain.”

The menace in his tone would’ve made most fellows quake in their boots, but Mr. Clarke is unflinching. “Did you not tell Mr. Annan that Miss Knight’s machine was very poorly arrayed, that you had to alter it all over, and expected to be obliged to change its whole organization, and almost despaired of doing anything with it?”

I nearly gag. Thank Heaven it is not Mr. Burnham on the witness stand. No doubt he would’ve affirmed that and worse.

Will, on the other hand, has gone from indignant to bewildered, stupefied by Mr. Clarke’s audacity. Shaking his head, he replies, “No. Never.”

“Are you certain?” presses Mr. Clarke, perceiving Will’s shock as weakness.

Will’s mouth presses into a firm line. “I am very certain I never used those terms.”

“Then did you say anything to the same effect?”

Silence hangs as Will gawps at Mr. Clarke. Then he reclines against his backrest. “If I did tell Mr. Annan anything about Miss Knight,” he says, cracking his knuckles, “it was that I have nothing but the greatest respect for her abilities, and that all the machinists that refused her business missed the opportunity to work with a fine customer.”

Mr. Clarke sniffs. Looking as if he’s swigged vinegar, the lawyer sidles off to pace the floor, and Mr. Stansbury stifles a chuckle. “Mr. Abbott’s a tougher nut than Mr. Clarke anticipated,” he whispers into my ear. “He won’t drag the cross-examination much longer.”

He’s right. After a few failed attempts to attribute my machine’s workings to Will’s inventive ability, Mr. Clarke concludes his querying.

Judge Thacher strikes his gavel. “Court adjourned at half past noon. We reconvene in one hour.”

As the judge exits with the clerk in tow, Mr. Stansbury shakes Will’s hand. “Excellent job, son. I couldn’t have asked for better.”

Will’s ruddy complexion deepens two shades. “I only wish I could’ve helped more,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You still need someone to speak to Mattie’s inventing while she was in Springfield.”

“True,” says Mr. Stansbury. “God willing, Mrs. Leavilte will supply that testimony. Speaking of whom, perhaps we should relocate outside to await her arrival.” His gaze slides to a corner of the courtroom, where Annan and his lawyer are holding a hushed conversation.

“Good idea,” I say. Lingering in the same room as those lowlifes can only bring trouble.

Will accompanies us to the courthouse porch. Then, with a wink and a flourish of his hat, he takes his leave. “Send word to the shop once it’s over,” he calls as he jogs back to work. “Everyone’s got fingers crossed for you.”

“I will,” I shout, waving him off.

No sooner has he rounded a corner than I spy Eliza’s hat bobbing through the crowd below. My heart leaps—and then crashes when I see she’s alone.

“Eliza,” I yell, rushing to the sidewalk with Mr. Stansbury close behind. “Where’s Ida?”

We practically collide at the base of the stairs, and Eliza’s heaving body collapses in my arms. At first I think she’s fainted from exertion and her corset stays. But then her head snaps up, and I realize her gasps are sobs. “Sh-she wasn’t there, Mattie,” she cries. “The tr-train came, but Ida wasn’t there!”

My fingers dig into her shoulders. “Are you absolutely certain? She had a second-class ticket. Did you check those cars?”

“I did. All of them. I even checked the lavatories. I called her name a good ten minutes on the platform, but …” Her voice trails off, her tears streaming afresh.

My eyes dart to Mr. Stansbury, whose sunny mood has clouded. “Mr. Stansbury,” I say, “What should we do?”

His reply is calm but grim. “A person does not disappear into thin air. If Mrs. Leavilte was not on that train, my guess is she is either on the next train or she is not coming at all.”

My stomach drops at his second guess. Ida wouldn’t fail me. She promised …

Mr. Stansbury turns to Eliza. “Do you know when the next train is expected to arrive?”

She nods. “Three o’clock.”

Mr. Stansbury’s frown deepens. “The court does not like to wait, but I can argue for extenuating circumstances. However, it’ll reflect badly on us if we delay proceedings and the witness never arrives. Miss Knight, is there anyone we can telegram to confirm Mrs. Leavilte is on her way?”

“Ida’s mother-in-law and children are always at home,” I reply, praying that there’s no line at the telegram office. “I’ll send a telegram to her house and—”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Knight,” booms a voice over the sidewalk bustle. “I can tell you now Ida Leavilte has been unavoidably detained in Springfield.”

Our eyes leap toward the speaker, and my jaw drops at a familiar hooked nose and stovepipe hat.

“Mr. Yates!”