The Evangeline by D. W. Buffa

because he thought a jury would like him; he called him because Trevelyn was the only one of the survivors of the Evangeline who would talk.
    The jury despised Aaron Trevelyn. Part of it was the twitching insincerity in his eyes, the way he never looked at anything or anyone for very long. What might have been interpreted as nervousness or fear at the beginning of his testimony yielded to a judgment far less forgiving once they detected the caustic resentment in his voice. Others had died, but he had lost a foot. The others had no meaning to him. They were abstractions, names of the sort we read in the papers; names of people we never knew. Why would he think about them when a part of him was missing? Why would he grieve over anyone else when, for the rest of his life, he would bear the pain and the curse of his own disfigurement?
    Roberts had been visibly stunned by Trevelyn’s brusque indifference. A boy had been chosen to die, and it was as simple as that? No emotion, no regret, not so much as a passing thought for the tragedy of a life lost at such an early age? The only clear feeling, glaring and almost obscene, vindictiveness about what others had done? Whether Roberts, with his eyes fixed on the witness, had seen the horrified looks that spread over jurors’ faces, he could sense the change of mood. He tried to rescue what he could.
    ‘It must have been awful, what you went through. But the jury was not there; they only know what you tell them.’
    ‘And perhaps not even that much!’ exclaimed William Darnell in a loud voice from his chair at the other side of the courtroom.
    Roberts shot him an angry look. ‘Your Honour, I…’
    ‘My apologies, your Honour,’ said Darnell, rising part way up from his chair.‘Sometimes I hear myself talking when I thought I was only thinking something to myself.’
    With a single glance, Homer Maitland cut dead the laughter that rippled through the courtroom. He peered over his glasses and, with a certain suppressed admiration at Darnell’s incorrigible smile, shook his head. ‘Don’t depend too much on the tolerance of the court, Mr Darnell. You might find the consequences somewhat disagreeable should I find it necessary to give voice to what at moments like this I might be thinking. Are we clear?’
    ‘Yes, your Honour,’ said Darnell, the smile stretching further across his face. ‘Crystal clear.’
    ‘Good.’ Maitland looked at Roberts. ‘You may continue. But, please, Mr Roberts—ask a question.’
    Roberts moved to within an arm’s length of the witness. ‘You said the boy was chosen—chosen to die.Who made that decision?’
    Trevelyn pointed at Marlowe.‘Him. He did. It was his decision.’
    Grim-faced, impassive, Marlowe had been staring straight ahead. At Trevelyn’s answer, his eyes flashed open and his head turned sharply. He seemed to be challenging him to repeat it. Trevelyn lowered his eyes and sank back in the witness chair.
    ‘Mr Trevelyn?’
    Trevelyn looked up, his eyes hostile and suspicious. He cast a defiant glance at Marlowe to show that he had not been defeated, but Marlowe had already looked away.
    ‘It was his decision,’ repeated Trevelyn. ‘His decision how the decision should be made.’
    ‘Explain that, please,’ said Roberts quickly.
    ‘We had been out there ten days, two weeks … I don’t know for sure. That last ship passed us, and—what was his name? Wilson?—went in after it. We knew it was all over. We were thousands of miles from land. We could catch a little water—not much, a few drops—but we were out of food.’
    ‘You had a hook and line—you could catch fish. Isn’t that what you said?’
    ‘We did, for a while; but it wasn’t much good and then we lost even that. Someone was supposed to watch it, have their hand on it all the time, but in one of the storms…’
    ‘Mr Trevelyn?’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Trevelyn, coming back to himself. ‘What was the question? Yes, I remember,’ he said, forcing