Martha waited to help Nanny Mae back up the hill, so I raced ahead and caught up with Pound, Hector, and his two escorts just as they were reaching Ryder’s building. All of us walked inside together.
Tessie was in the middle of being questioned by Prickett. The crowd took in its collective breath at the sight of us, and Prickett looked around to see the source of the commotion. A flicker of something passed across his face. But he turned back to his witness and continued his examination. He seemed to be questioning her on the true extent of her devotion to Bingham.
Pound and Hector proceeded to their usual seats along the far wall of the courtroom and sat down without returning the many stares that came their direction. I slid in next to Lincoln.
“How did you manage it?” he whispered.
“I didn’t. It was Nanny Mae.”
He recoiled in surprise. “Her? How?”
“I have no idea.”
“What’s he going to say?”
“I have no idea. But I know he had no intention of testifying until Nanny Mae prevailed upon him.”
“Fair enough,” said Lincoln. “So we pays our money and takes our chances.”
A few minutes later, Prickett concluded his cross-examination of Tessie. From the look of pure adoration Bingham gave her as she returned to his side, it appeared her affirmations of love had been unshakable.
“We call Captain Richard Pound as our next witness,” announced Lincoln.
Pound rose and slowly made his way to the witness chair. Every step was freighted. He looked very old and very tired. The courtroom was hushed with anticipation. Although I didn’t dare take my eyes off Pound, I could tell Nanny Mae had finally made it back, as her knitting needles resumed their clacking.
“Good morning, Captain Pound,” began Lincoln.
Pound nodded but did not open his mouth. His jowls drooped limply.
“For how long have you held the captaincy of the War Eagle?”
“I was the War Eagle’s captain for twenty-one months,” he said. I glanced up at Lincoln, but it appeared he had not noticed the captain’s use of past tense. “Judge John Speed invested me with my command on February the third, 1836.”
“And before that, you held the position of captain on other boats?”
“Many others, for many years.”
“For how many years in total have you steamed or sailed or paddled along the inland waterways of our nation?”
“For the whole of the time given to me by God on His earth,” said Pound. “I’ve known no other life, Mr. Lincoln.” Pound breathed deeply and seemed to be regaining his strength. I wondered whether this was good or bad for Lincoln.
“A ship’s captain,” continued Lincoln, “is responsible for the actions of his ship?”
“Certainly.”
“And he’s also responsible for the actions of all those under his command—would you agree with me?”
“No captain worthy of the title could differ.”
“I’ve heard it said that any good captain knows everything that goes on aboard his ship.”
“When I was the captain of the War Eagle, it was most certainly true of me. There was nothing—nothing—that escaped my notice.”
Lincoln looked at Pound for a long time and then turned back to me. I nodded. The captain’s use of past tense had not escaped him this time. Lincoln murmured to himself and continued.
“So on the War Eagle, you were responsible for everyone, and you knew of everything. Do I have that right?”
“You do.”
The courtroom was as silent as a churchyard at midnight. Even Nanny Mae’s knitting needles had gone quiet.
“A young planter named John W. Jones died aboard your ship last month.”
“Yes.”
“Are you familiar with the circumstances of his death?”
Pound paused. “Yes.”
“How did he die?”
Pound looked out over the audience. Without turning around, I felt confident it was Nanny Mae he was seeking. Then his gaze retracted and he looked inward. He clasped his hands together across his giant belly and closed his eyes. He did not speak.
“Captain Pound?” prompted Lincoln softly. “How did Jones die?”
The courtroom leaned forward. Pound did not open his eyes.
“I killed him.”
A searing gasp raced through the courtroom. Judge Thomas stared at Pound with a wild expression. At first it appeared Lincoln had not even heard the stunning testimony, because he began to ask a new question. “And . . . excuse me?”
“I killed him,” repeated Pound, his eyes open now.
Tessie threw her arms around Bingham and began sobbing violently. The artist looked on the point of tears himself.
Lincoln turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I ask the Court to dismiss the charges against George Bingham immediately. And I’d suggest to my brother Prickett that the People consider bringing charges of murder against the witness.”
“Just a minute, just a minute,” said Prickett, struggling to his feet. His face was ashen. “Let me question the witness, Your Honor, before any decisions are made precipitously. We don’t know what we’ve got here.”
“By all means, Prickett,” Judge Thomas said. “I shall not release the defendant until I’m personally convinced this isn’t some type of ruse.”
The judge jammed his cigar back into his mouth and pulled on it madly. Bingham looked frantically at Lincoln, but the lawyer simply gestured for him to maintain his composure.
“You killed Jones?” Prickett asked Pound with disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it the case, sir, that you and I met several times before the trial, and you assured me you had no idea who killed Jones?”
“I was lying to you,” said Pound, “in order to cover up my crime.”
“And now you’re telling the truth?”
“Correct.” Pound’s bearing was steady now. He again bore resemblance to the domineering riverman who had been the unquestioned captain of his domain.
“What conceivable reason would you have had to kill Jones?”
“I was stealing money from the owner of the boat. Jones found out and threatened to expose me. So I killed him.”
I gaped at Pound. All this time, I had been trying to get Pound to admit to the very thing he had just admitted, in open court—and yet, now that he’d said it, I didn’t believe him. Not for a moment.
“You were stealing and Jones discovered it?” repeated Prickett dumbly.
“How did he discover it?” It was the judge speaking this time, not Prickett.
“I had the misfortune to encounter him off the river,” said the captain, “out of my element. It’s always a mistake for a boat captain to leave the waters.” He said this last bit under his breath and shook his head with apparently genuine remorse.
“Be more specific,” commanded the judge.
“I’ve been at the waters for a long time, and I’ve grown weary. I decided to arrange a retirement.” Pound fiddled with his rings. “By taking an extra share of the till over time, I’d managed to accumulate a bit of a pot for myself. One of my passengers told me a planter down in Mississippi named Jacques Roman was partial to old captains and might be able to set me up. So I went to see him and discussed my plans. To my great detriment, this man Jones was present and overheard our discussion. And then he followed me back onto my boat and tried to extort me.”
“It’s all a lie!” shouted a voice from the back of the courtroom. Everyone turned to stare as Telesphore Roman rose to his feet. “That man killed Jones. I know it!” He pointed at Bingham.
“You shall leave the courtroom at once, sir,” thundered Judge Thomas with the full force of his office. “Your only alternative is to spend the coming winter in an open cell in the prison above town.”
Telesphore wavered, but the expression on the judge’s face left no doubt about his sincerity. Young Roman turned and departed, his head held high. The crowd whispered excitedly in his wake.
“Now then,” said the judge, turning back to Captain Pound, who had watched Telesphore’s outburst with a look of bemusement, “do you maintain you committed the crime by yourself and without accomplice?”
“I do.”
“Tell me exactly what happened. How did you do it?”
“There’s strength left in these old limbs of mine, Your Honor,” said Pound, flexing his hands. He launched into an extended narration of a confrontation between him and Jones in his office, hitting the young planter over the head with a candlestick when his back was turned, and then wrapping the body and hoisting it overboard. In the quiet, riveted courtroom, I could hear Nanny Mae’s needles resuming their clacking.
Meanwhile, my head was spinning. Was it possible Pound was telling the truth? That he had been stealing from us, just as I’d suspected, and that Jones had uncovered the proof that had eluded me? It was the simplest explanation. And it avoided this business about a fugitive slave. Maybe I had been right after all to accuse Lincoln of needlessly seeing the issue of slavery lurking around every corner and behind every misdeed. I had been right and Lincoln had been wrong.
“And you swear before your God that everything you’ve told me is the truth?” asked the judge, once Pound had finished describing his crime—if that’s indeed what it was.
“I do,” Pound returned seriously.
“Anything more, Prickett?” The judge looked out at the prosecutor who, a look of defeat on his face, tossed his hands helplessly.
“I accept the confession,” said the judge. “The defendant is discharged.” The gallery exploded with noise. Tessie threw her arms around Bingham.
Prickett rose slowly to his feet. “On behalf of the People of the State of Illinois, I hereby charge you, Captain Richard Pound, with murder with malice aforethought.”
He gave a signal to Daumier, who—with a reluctance so great it was almost painful to observe—walked over to Bingham, untied his hands, and used the same rope to bind Pound.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Bingham,” said the judge with a curt nod.
Bingham grabbed Lincoln and pumped his hand while Tessie embraced Lincoln and gave him a demonstrative kiss on the cheek, which made Lincoln turn a shade of crimson. Cries of excitement arose from the gallery, which started to rise from their seats, but the judge shouted everyone down, saying, “Court is not adjourned. Stay put!”
Daumier, for once red-faced and flushed, led Pound out of the courtroom and toward the holding cell that had been set up in the basement of the offices. Meanwhile, Judge Thomas appointed the circuit rider Ninian Edwards as Pound’s attorney, and the judge and the lawyers began discussing when further proceedings on his case would take place. I paid little attention, as my mind was still consumed by Pound’s explanation.
Whether or not Pound had actually been stealing from my family didn’t matter to Lincoln and Bingham—Pound had confessed to Jones’s murder, and the artist had been set free. But as my initial shock at the testimony began to wear off, I realized it mattered a great deal to me and to my ability to rescue Judge Speed from his financial peril. I had to question Pound one last time and—finally—get the truth.
As the lawyers and judge droned on, I left my seat and crept toward the stairs leading to the basement. This, I knew from previous visits, was cluttered with the junk of Ryder’s business: old castings, anchors, oars, riggings, and miles of nautical rope. It also proved a handy place to stash defendants when they weren’t needed in the courtroom.
At the top of the stairs, I abruptly halted. Two voices were talking in urgent whispers. One was Pound. The other was a throaty, feminine one, a voice that carried a soft lilt I associated with New Orleans. I was certain I had never heard this second voice before.
I rushed down the stairs. In my haste, I did not think to be quiet. All at once, there was a cry of surprise, a stifled moan, the unmistakable sound of lips coming together, and then . . . silence. By the time I emerged into the dim, jumbled basement, all I could see was Pound—bound by thick dock rope to an old, rusty anchor—staring out an open window. Beyond him, the silhouette of the chambermaid Sary, long and proud, moved rapidly toward the landing.
“What was that about?” I called, even as my brain told me there was only one possible answer.
Pound did not turn around. In a muted tone, he replied, “I’ve said all I’m going to say.” And though I peppered him with questions for the next ten minutes about the boat’s finances, my father, Jones, and even Sary, he did not once remove his gaze from the path Sary had taken nor utter another syllable.
* * *
Half an hour later, a civic procession left Ryder’s shipping offices and headed toward the state prison. At the head of the procession was Hector, the giant Spaniard, loyally leading his captain until the last. After him came Pound, round and dignified, his captain’s buttons shining in the weak November sun. I had to admit, Bingham’s artistic flights of fancy notwithstanding, they looked like nothing so much as the badges of a proud river captain. The prison guard Runkin and several other armed men clustered near Pound, although no one seemed very concerned about a mob forming up to attack Pound while Hector remained close at hand.
Following along next were four or five gentlemen of the jury, who seemed to consider themselves deputized to be the court’s representatives in the parade. Thereafter came several dozen members of the courtroom gallery, who were unwilling to see the affair end. Martha and I walked along with this last group. Assorted townspeople came out of their houses or places of business as we passed to see what the commotion was about; not a few joined the parade.
The procession went down the hillside to the river bank, along the shoreline path, past the brilliant Piasa Bird on the cliffs—as always a warning of the unknown predator—and then cut its way sharply up the side of the ravine toward the looming whitewashed walls of the prison.
Martha and I reached the plateau in front of the prison gates just as the warden was coming out to receive his new prisoner. Pound turned and embraced Hector. Tears streamed down the face of the giant Spaniard. Then Pound submitted to his guards and, without a backward glance, allowed himself to be led through the prison gates. Just before he disappeared from view, I noticed that the golden rings from the fingers of his right hand had vanished.