Cassie cocked her head to one side.
Mary pointed at the ceiling with her finger, thunder clapping overhead again, closer this time. “Baroodisick,” she said.
“Ba-rude …”
“Baroodisick.”
“Baroodisick. Thunder?”
Mary nodded. “Thunder. Baroodisick.”
Cassie raised her hand, hesitating a moment. She could feel a flush rising through her cheeks. She reached to touch a button at the front of Mary’s dress. “What is this, Mary?” she whispered.
“Agamet.”
“Agamet,” Cassie repeated. “Button?”
The Indian woman nodded. Then she said, “Mary go.” She turned and stared directly into Cassie ’s face. “Mary go home,” she said. Her first English sentence.
The jury foreman was a man named Newman Hoyles, a short, portly St. John’s merchant. He was nearly bald, his forehead permanently creased by the band of his hat. He stood from his chair and pulled at the cuffs of his jacket to bring the sleeves down to his wrists. He held a single sheet of paper. There was an obvious tremor in his hands that shook the paper as he read and Peyton could not tell if it was habitual or a result of the task he was undertaking. He felt the tremor all the way across the room. That slight unsettling motion in his gut.
Hoyles said, “‘The Grand Jury beg leave to state to the Court that they have as far as possible investigated the unfortunate circumstances which occasioned the loss of life to one of the Red Indian Tribe near the River of Exploits, in a late rencontre which took place between the deceased and John Peyton Senior and John Peyton Junior; in the presence of a party of their own men to the number of eight in all and in sight of several of the Indians of the same tribe. The Grand Jury are of opinion that no malice preceded the transaction, and that there was no intention on the part of the Peyton party to get possession of any of the Red Indians by such violence as would occasion bloodshed. And, further, that the obstinance of the deceased warranted the Peytons acting on the defensive.’”
There was a glass of water on the rail of the jury box and Hoyles paused to wet his lips. He looked quickly across the room at Peyton and then again at the paper he held. “‘At the same time as the Grand Jury declare these opinions arising from the only testimony brought before them, they cannot but regret the want of other evidence to corroborate the foregoing, viewing it as they do a matter of the first importance, and which calls for the most complete establishment of innocence on the part of the Peytons and their men. The Grand Jury therefore recommend that four of the party be brought round at the end of the fishing season for that purpose, or that a magistrate within His Majesty’s Royal Navy be assigned to travel to the Bay of Exploits to collect what evidence may bring a more satisfactory resolution to these circumstances.’”
As Hoyles took his seat a murmur buckled through the public gallery and the presiding judge knocked his gavel, calling for order. Peyton crossed and uncrossed his legs. He didn’t hear anything that followed of the judge’s comments and didn’t move from his seat even after everyone else in the room rose and began shuffling towards the exit. Governor Hamilton came across to him and laid a hand on his arm. There was a pained, conciliatory expression on his face. “I suppose,” he said, “we shall have to delay your appointment a while longer.”
He ate by himself at the London Tavern that evening and spent several hours after his meal drinking alone. The governor had apologized repeatedly for the jury’s odd request that afternoon. “Completely unforeseen,” he said quietly. There was an air of uncertain concern about him, as if he wasn’t sure any longer where it was safest to place his sympathies. He said, “I don’t believe there’s anything binding in such a verdict. My guess is it will simply languish and we ’ll hear no more of it.”