The Ouachita Telegraph - Story of 1816 Murder Trial Date: Apr. 2000 Submitted by: Lora Peppers ********************************************** Copyright. All rights reserved. http://usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm http://usgwarchives.net/la/lafiles.htm ********************************************** The Ouachita Telegraph Saturday, November 12, 1870 Page 2, Column 4 [For the Ouachita Telegraph. AN OLD PIONEER'S STORY. Murder Trial in Ouachita in 1816. BY JOHN T. FAULK. Between the years 1807 and 1811 there was a great flow of immigration to Ouachita parish, including many persons who would have done honor to any country, while there were others whose removal was a happy riddance to the place they left. One man among the immigrants who came to Ouachita parish in 1816 was Stephen Maddox. This man had a wife, with whom he lived nearly four years. All of a suden they discovered that they were transgressing the laws of the commonwealth, and they amicably separated. Some few months after this separation, Maddox offered his hand in marriage to Miss Donivan, and by her the offer was accepted. They soon were man and wife. Miss Donivan was one of a connexion (sic) of the most numerous families then in all of Ouachita parish, although Ouachita was then composed of territory fourteen times as large as what is now known as Ouachita parish. The newly married pair settled down about one mile from Mrs. Baker's, the woman we once thought to be the wife of Stephen Maddox. Some thirteen months after the marriage of maddox with Miss Donivan, business called him away to Virginia, the Mother of States. During his absence, — I think, in 1814, — his wife, as was her practice, spent a day with Mrs. Baker, carding and spinning cotton into thread to make cloth, for in those days it was the way in which all were clothed. Both rich and poor, were clothed with home-spun, home-wove, home-made cloth. Reader, those were happy, haleyon days! The day that Mrs. Maddox spent with Mrs. Baker, was her last day on earth. That day there fell a heavy rain. A friendly negro man came to where Mrs. Maddox was, and adressing her in his freedom-like manner— no doubt, as he had done a thousand times, for he belonged to the lady's mother— he said: "Miss Patsy, you had better go home, for you know it rained to-day, and your house leaks badly, and your things are wet. Sure you ought to go home and take care of them." The lady replied: "I will go when I see fit." Three times the negro advised his young mistress to go home and take care of her furniture, she putting him off each time. So it was, she staid until after supper, then took a torch of pine faggots to light her home. She got about half way, and there it appeared her walk on earth ended. On the next morning some one of the neighbors went to Maddox's, but found no one at home. It appeared this personage knew that Mrs. Maddox had spent, or had been, the day before at Mrs. Baker's, for so all had learned was her real name. This neighbor continued on to Mrs. Baker's, and about half-way came upon a large pool of blood, and the spot shewed (sic) much sign of scuffling. Examining around, on each side of the road, a few rods distant on one side there lay the upper portion of a woman's body. The backbone had been severed just above the hips. The lower portion of the body lay off to one side; the two being about 100 yards apart. An infant, as it seemed to those versed in such matters, about four and-a-half months old, with the mother's apron spread over it, lay near by. The news of the murder of Mrs. Maddox was carried over the neighborhood with almost telegraphic speed. — Suspicion fell with leaden weight upon Milly Baker, that she had murdered Patsy donivan, or rather Patsy Maddox; and in a short time Mrs. Baker was a prisoner in the hands of the Sheriff, who had great difficulty in saving the prisoner from being lynched to death. Mind, this was in 1814, and Mrs. Baker was not put upon trial until 1816. Judge Dunlap presided as Judge, and George Eustis was sent from New Orleans to prosecute the prisoner, and he did it with a determined spirit to make an example of her. Guilty, or not guilty, his mind was made up to make an example of Mrs. Baker. The Jury was, with no little trouble, empanneled. Eight of the number were old and staid French gentlemen, one an Englishman, and three of them were Americans, "to the manor born." The prisoner faced the jury, as each one was called, but she refused none. — Not a few, however, were recused, or excused, for having expressed an opinion upon the case. The writer of this was one of the jury. I watched the prisoner closely, and I attended to the words of the witnesses, of whom there was a host. Deep in the second day the testimony was closed, and pleadings commenced. The case was opened by that great lawyer, George Eustis. He made the accused look guilty, and he was a host. But when the great English lawyer, Tom Lewis, rose to his feet and took up the witnesses one by one, he put another phase on the affair. The effort he made in favor of the prisoner was wonderful. After him, the Irishman, Kirkpatrick, made a beautiful and forcible display of English. The criminal code of England was all mercy. Kirkpatrick himself was an Irishman, and all the Irish people I have seen are full to overflowing with the milk of human kindness and an Irishman's mercy to the oppressed knows no bounds. The great Eustis, for great he was, had the closing of the argument, and he could not think of having come from New Orleans to Ouachita to prosecute a murderer; and be worsted by a back-country lawyer. That must not be. It was a struggle of giants. It is true that words are but wind, but much depends upon the way they are dove-tailed together, whether they are to do good, or harm. If words could be made to burn, Eustis and Lewis and Kirkpatrick would have succeeded in making them do so. Since that effort of forensic strength I have heard nothing to equal the efforts made on both sides. The pleadings through, at 12 o'clock on the third day the Judge delivered an able charge to the jury, a part of which was, that if there was a doubt in the minds of the jury as to the guilt of the prisoner, she was entitled to the benefit of the doubt, for better that one hundred guilty persons go clear than one innocent person should suffer. Well, the jury retired, I expect each with an opinion of some sort formed. Mr. Breard, a staid old French gentleman, had been appointed foreman of the jury. In a short time, the foreman put the question thus to the jurors: "Well, fellow-jurors, I expect you are all tired enough; I know I am. What is your opinion in this matter? I wish to know." One replied: "Mr. Breard, you are the foreman, and I think we are entitled to your opinion, and I ask it of you." "And so do I," and "So do I," others said; and thus the request went round for the foreman's opinion. "Well, gentlemen, I must say I can do nothing else but find Milly Baker guilty, as charged in the indictment." So, I think, all proclaimed to believe but one. He answered: "Gentlemen, maybe I am wrong to differ from you, but I differ from you, if it is your opinion that Milly Baker murdered Patsy Donivan." "Whom, then, do you think did that act?" asked a juror. "Gentlemen, that is another matter. It is not my privilege to say who did it." Well, it was deep in the third day that we had been attending on this case. The fourth day came and the jury stood 8 to 4 in favor of conviction, with a strong feeling prevailing against the dissenters. We all began to be extremely cross. Finally, on the sixth day from the time the jury was empanneled, we agreed upon a verdict of NOT GUILTY. But, still, I doubt not that nineteen-twentieths of the people of Ouachita believed that Milly Baker was the murderer of Patsy Donivan. Prepare yourself, reader, to hear the truth. Fully forty years after the murder of Mrs. Maddox, this same negro Joe confessed, on his dying bed, to one of the most truth-loving men in the parish of Ouachita, that he did the deed — that he killed Mrs. Maddox himself! Only three of all that were concerned in that exciting trouble, whether Judge, lawyer, witness or juror, are now living. I lived to learn the truth. I did believe that the negro Joe murdered his young mistress, answering that the dead could tell no tales, and he knew he had done an act that nothing but the sacrifice of his life could atone for. More than forty years did this act lie dormant in the safe-keeping of the murderer's own breast. Just at the approach of his own death he confessed to having done the deed. To whom did he confess it? To Judge Lewis F. Lamy. # # #