William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

Alberton?”
    “Yes,” Breeland agreed, a flicker of warmth at last lighting his face. “She is a person of the deepest compassion and honor. She understood the Union cause and espoused it herself immediately.”
    Rathbone would have wished he had phrased it in more romantic terms, but it was better than he had foreseen. He must be careful not to lead Breeland so his emotions seemed coached.
    “You found you had in common the most important values and beliefs?”
    “Yes. My admiration for her was greater than I had expected to feel for any woman so young and so unacquainted with the actuality of slavery and its evils. She has an extraordinarygift for compassion.” His face softened as he said it and for the first time there was something like a smile on his lips.
    Rathbone breathed a sigh of relief. The jurors’ expressions relaxed. At last they saw the human man, the man in love, with whom they could identify, not the fanatic.
    He did not look at Merrit, but he could imagine her eyes, her face.
    “But in spite of all both you and Miss Alberton could do to change his mind,” he continued, “Mr. Alberton did not agree to go back on his word to Mr. Trace, and sell you the guns instead. Why did you not simply go to another supplier?”
    “Because he had the finest modern guns available immediately, and in quantity. I could not afford to wait.”
    “I see. And what plans did you make as a result of this, Mr. Breeland?”
    Breeland sounded slightly surprised.
    “None. I confess, I was very angry with his blindness. He seemed incapable of seeing that there was a far greater issue at stake than one man’s business reputation.” The hard edge had returned to his voice and he directed his attention entirely towards Rathbone. Merrit seemed to have gone from his mind. He leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness-box. “He could see nothing but the narrow view, his own word and what Philo Trace thought of him. He was a man without vision. No matter what I told him of the evils of slavery.” He waved his hand in a small dismissive gesture. “And all your gentlemen here have no idea what a cancer of the human soul it is when you have seen human beings treated with less dignity than a good man treats his cattle.” His voice rang with the fire of his anger; his face burned with it. Rathbone could easily see why Merrit had fallen in love with him. What was less easy to see was what tenderness or patience he could give her in return, what laughter or tolerance or simple joy in daily life, what gratitude for little things—above all, perhaps, what forgiveness for failing and understanding of its needs. He had no compassion for weakness.
    But Rathbone was in his middle forties; Merrit was sixteen. Perhaps she had years ahead before she would come to realize the value of such things. Now Breeland was a hero, and heroes were what she wanted. She knew his vulnerabilities and loved him the more for them. She did not see his limitations.
    “We have heard that you quarreled with Mr. Alberton on the night of his death, and on leaving his house you told him that you would win in the end, regardless of what he might do. What did you mean, Mr. Breeland?”
    “Why, that the Union cause was just and in the end would prevail against any ignorance or self-interest,” Breeland replied clearly, as if the answer should have been obvious. “It was not a threat, simply a statement of the truth. I did not harm Mr. Alberton, as God is my judge!”
    Rathbone kept his voice calm, almost matter-of-fact, as if he had barely heard Breeland’s denial or the passion in him.
    “Where did you go after you left Mr. Alberton’s house?”
    “Back to my rooms.”
    “Alone?”
    “Of course.”
    “Did you make any agreement with Miss Alberton that she would follow you?”
    Breeland opened his mouth to respond instinctively, then changed his mind. Perhaps Breeland remembered Rathbone’s warnings about the sympathies of the jury. “No,” he said gravely. “I had no wish to come between Miss Alberton and her family. My intentions towards her were always honorable.”
    Rathbone knew that he was on dangerous ground, full of pitfalls. He wished he could have avoided asking at all, but the omission would be so glaring it would have done more harm.
    “You went to your rooms. Mr. Breeland, had you, for any reason, taken back from Miss Alberton the watch you gave her as a keepsake?”
    Breeland did not hesitate. “No.” His gaze was