CHAPTER XIX—HOW AARON IS INDICTED
IT is evening at the White House. The few dinner guests have departed, and Jefferson is alone in his study. As he stands at the open window, and gazes out across the sweep of lawn to the Potomac, shining like silver in the rays of the full May moon, his face is cloudy and angry. The face of the sage of Monticello has put aside its usual expression of philosophy. In place of the calm that should reign there, the look which prevails is one of narrowness, prejudice and wrathful passion.
Apparently, he waits the coming of a visitor, for he wheels without surprise, as a fashionably dressed gentleman is ushered in by a servant.
“Ah, Wirt!” he cries; “be seated, please. You got my note?”
William Wirt is thirty-five—a clean, well-bred example of the conventional Virginia gentleman. He accepts the proffered chair; but with the manner of one only half at ease, as not altogether liking the reason of his White House presence.
“Your note, Mr. President?” he repeats. “Oh, yes; I received it. What you propose is highly flattering. And yet—and yet——”
“And yet what, sir?” breaks in Jefferson impatiently. “Surely, I propose nothing unusual? You are practicing at the Richmond bar. I ask you to conduct the case against Colonel Burr.”
“Nothing unusual, of course,” returns Wirt, who, gifted of a keen political eye, hungrily foresees a final attorney generalship in what he is about. “And yet, as I was about to say, there are matters which should be considered. There is George Hay, for instance; he is the Government’s attorney for the Richmond district. It is his province as well as duty to prosecute Colonel Burr; he might resent my being saddled upon him. Have you thought of Mr. Hay?”
“Thought of him? Hay is a dullard, a blockhead, a respectable nonentity! no more fit to contend with Colonel Burr and those whom he will have about him, than would be a sucking babe. He is of no courage, no force, sir; he seems to think that, now he is the son-in-law of James Monroe, he has done quite enough to merit success in both law and politics. No; there is much depending on this trial, and I desire you to try it. Burr must be convicted. The black Federal plot to destroy this republic and set a monarchy in its stead, a plot of which he himself is but a single item, must be nipped in the bud. Moreover, you will find that I am to be on trial even more than is Colonel Burr. The case will not be ‘The People against Aaron Burr.’ but ‘The Federalists against Thomas Jefferson.’ Do you understand? I am the object of a Federal plot, as much as is the Government itself! John Marshall, that arch Federalist, will be on the bench, doing all he can for the plotters and their instrument, Colonel Burr. It is no time to risk myself on so slender a support as George Hay. It is you who must conduct this cause.”
Wirt is a bit scandalized by this outburst; especially at the reckless dragging in of Chief Justice Marshall. He expostulates; but is too much the courtier to let any harshness creep into either his manner or his speech.
“You surely do not mean to say,” he begins, “that the chief justice——”
“I mean to say,” interrupts Jefferson, “that you must be ready to meet every trick that Marshall can play against the Government. For all his black robe, is he of different clay than any other? Believe me, he’s a Federalist long before he’s a judge! Let me ask a question: Why did Marshall, the chief justice, mind you, hold the preliminary examination of Burr? Why, having held it, did he not commit him for treason? Why did he hold him only for a misdemeanor, and admit him to bail? Does not that look as though Marshall had taken possession of the case in Burr’s interest? You spoke a moment ago of the propriety of Hay prosecuting the charge against Burr, being, as he is, the Government’s attorney for that district. Does not it occur to you that his honor, Judge Griffin, is the judge for that district? And yet Marshall shoves him aside to make room on the bench for himself. Sir, there is chicanery in this. We must watch Marshall. A chief justice, indeed! A chief Federalist, rather! Why, he even so much lacked selfrespect as to become a guest at a dinner given in Colonel Burr’s honor, after he had committed that traitor in ten thousand dollars bail! An excellent, a dignified chief justice, truly!—doing dinner table honor to one whom he must presently try for a capital offense!”
“Justice Marshall’s appearance at the Burr dinner”—Wirt makes the admission doubtfully—“was not, I admit, in the very flower of good taste. None the less, I should infer honesty rather than baseness from such appearance. If he contemplated any wrong in Colonel Burr’s favor, he would have remained away. Coming to the case itself,” says Wirt, anxious to avoid further discussion of Judge Marshall, as a topic whereon he and Jefferson are not likely to agree, “what is the specific act of treason with which the Government charges Colonel Burr?”
“The conspiracy, wherein he was prime mover, aimed first to take Mexico from, the Spanish. Having taken Mexico, the plotters—Colonel Burr at the head—purposed seizing New Orleans. That would give them a hold in the vast region drained by the Mississippi. Everything west of the Alleghenies was expected to flock round their standards. With an empire reaching from Darien to the Great Lakes, from the Pacific to the Alleghenies, their final move was to be made upon Washington itself. Sir, the Federalists hate this republic—have always hated it! What they desire is a monarchy. They want a king, not a president, in the White House.”
“I learn,” observes Wirt—“I learn, since my arrival, that Colonel Burr has been in Washington.”
“That was three days ago. He demanded copies of my orders to General Wilkinson. When I prevented his obtaining them, he said he would move for a subpoena duces tecum, addressed to me personally. Think of that, sir! Can you conceive of greater impudence? He will sue out a subpoena against the President of this country, and compel him to come into court bringing the archives of Government!”
Wirt shrugs his shoulders. “And why not, sir?” he asks at last. “In the eye of the law a president is no more sacred than a pathmaster. A murder might be committed in the White House grounds. You, looking from that window, might chance to witness it—might, indeed, be the only witness. You yourself are a lawyer, Mr. President. You will not tell me that an innocent man, accused of murder, is to be denied your testimony?—that he is to hang rather than ruffle a presidential dignity? What is the difference between the case I’ve supposed and that against Colonel Burr? He is to be charged with treason, you say! Very well; treason is a hanging matter as much as murder.”
Jefferson and Wirt, step by step, go over the arrest of Aaron, and what led to it. It is settled that Wirt shall control for the prosecution. Also, when the Grand Jury is struck, he must see to it that Aaron is indicted for treason.
“Marshall has confined the inquiry,” says Jefferson, “to what Burr contemplated against Mexico—a mere misdemeanor! You, Wirt, must have the Grand Jury take up that part of the conspiracy which was leveled against this country. There is abundant testimony. Burr talked it to Eaton in Washington, to Morgan in Ohio, to Wilkinson at Fort Massac.”
“You speak of his talking treason,” returns Wirt with a thoughtful, non-committal air. “Did he anywhere or on any occasion act it? Was there any overt act of war?”
“What should you call the doings at Blennerhassett Island?—the gathering of men and stores?—the boat-building at Marietta and Nashville? Are not those, taken with the intention, hostile acts?—overt acts of war?”
Wirt falls into deep study. “We must,” he says after a moment’s silence, “leave those questions, I fear, for Justice Marshall to decide.”
Jefferson relates how he has written Governor Pinckney of South Carolina, advising the arrest of Alston.
“To be sure, Alston is not so bad as Colonel Burr,” he observes, “for the reason that he is not so big as Colonel Burr; just as a young rattlesnake is not so venomous as an old one.” Then, impressively: “Wirt, Colonel Burr is a dangerous man! He will find his place in history as the Catiline of America.”
Wirt cannot hide a smile. “It is but fair you should say so, Mr. President, since at the Richmond hearing he spoke of you as a presidential Jack Straw.” Seeing that Jefferson does not enjoy the reference, Wirt hastens to another subject. “Colonel Burr will have formidable counsel. Aside from Wickham, and Botts, and Edmund Randolph, across from Maryland will come Luther Martin.”
“Luther Martin!” cries Jefferson. “So they are to unloose that Federal bulldog against me! But then the whisky-swilling beast is never sober.”
“No more safe as an adversary for that,” retorts Wirt. “If I am ever called upon to write Luther Martin’s epitaph, I shall make it ‘Ever drunk and ever dangerous!’”
On the bench sits Chief Justice Marshall—tall, slender—eyes as black as Aaron’s own—face high, dignified—brow noble, full—the whole man breathing distinction. By his side, like some small thing lost in shadow, no one noticing him, no one addressing him, a picture of silent humility, sits District Judge Griffin.
For the Government comes Wirt, sneering, harsh—as cold and hard and fine and keen as thrice-tempered steel. With him is Hay—slow, pompous, of much respectability and dull weakness. Assisting Wirt and Hay and filling a minor place, is one McRae.
Leading for the defense, is Aaron himself—confident, unshaken. Already he has begun to relay his plans of Mexican conquest. He assures Blennerhassett, who is with him, that the present interruption should mean no more than a time-waste of six months. With Aaron sit Edmund Randolph, the local Nestor; Wickham, clear, sure of law and fact; and Botts, the Bayard of the Richmond bar. Most formidable is Aaron’s rear guard, the thunderous Luther Martin—coarse, furious, fearless—gay clothes stained and soiled—ruffles foul and grimy—eye fierce, bleary, bloodshot—nose bulbous, red as a carbuncle—a hoarse, roaring, threatening voice—the Thersites of the hour. Never sober, he rolls into court as drunk as a Plantagenet. Ever dangerous, he reads, hears, sees everything, and forgets nothing. Quick, rancorous, headlong as a fighting bull, he lowers his horns against Wirt, whenever that polished one puts himself within forensic reach. Also, for all his cool, sneering skill, Toreador Wirt never meets the charge squarely, but steps aside from it.
Apropos of nothing, as Martin takes his place by the trial table, he roars out:
“Why is this trial ordered for Richmond? Why is it not heard in Washington? It is by command of Jefferson, sir. He thinks that in his own State of Virginia, where he is invincible and Colonel Burr a stranger, the name of ‘Jefferson’ will compel a verdict of guilt. There is fairness for you!”
Wirt glances across, but makes no response to the tirade; for Martin, purple of face, snorting ferociously, seems only waiting a word from him to utter worse things.
The Grand Jury is chosen: foreman, John Randolph of Roanoke—sour, inimical, hateful, voice high and spiteful like the voice of a scolding woman! The Grand Jury is sent to its room to deliberate as to indictments, while the court adjourns for the day.
It is well into the evening when the parties in interest leave the courtroom. As Wirt and Hay, arm in arm, are crossing the courthouse green, they become aware of an orator who, loud of tone and careless of his English, is addressing a crowd from the steps of a corner grocery. Just as the two arrive within earshot, the orator, lean, hawklike of face, tosses aloft a rake-handle arm, and shouts:
“When Jefferson says that Colonel Burr is a traitor, Jefferson lies in his throat!” The crowd applaud enthusiastically.
Hay looks at Wirt. “Who is the fellow?” he asks.
“Oh! he’s a swashbuckler militia general,” returns Wirt, carelessly. “He’s a low fellow, I’m told; his name is Andrew Jackson. He was one of Colonel Burr’s confederates. They say he’s the greatest blackguard in Tennessee.”
Just now, did some Elijah touch the Wirtian elbow and tell of a day to come when he, Wirt, will be driven to resign that coveted attorney generalship into the presidential hands of the “blackguard,” who will receive it promptly, and dismiss him into private life no more than half thanked for what public service he has rendered, the ambitious Virginian would hold the soothsayer to be a madman, not a prophet.
Scores upon scores of witnesses are sent one by one to the Grand Jury. The days run into weeks. Every hour the question is asked: “Where is Wilkinson?” The red-nosed one is strangely, exasperatingly absent.
Wirt seeks to explain that absence. The journey is long, he says. He will pledge his honor for the red-nosed one’s appearance.
Meanwhile the friends of Aaron pour in from North and West and South. The stubborn, faithful Swartwout is there, with his brother Samuel; for, Samuel Swartwout and young Ogden and Adair and Bollman, shipped aforetime per schooner to Baltimore by the red-nosed one as traitors, have been declared innocent, and are all in Richmond attending upon their chief.
One morning the whisper goes about that “Wilkinson is here.” The whisper is confirmed by the red-nosed one’s appearance in court. Young Washington Irving, who has come down from New York in the interest of Aaron, writes concerning that red-nosed advent:
Wilkinson strutted into court, and took his stand in a parallel line with Colonel Burr. Here he stood for a moment swelling like a turkey cock, and bracing himself to meet Colonel Burr’s eye. The latter took no notice of him, until Judge Marshall directed the clerk to “swear General Wilkinson.” At the mention of the name, Colonel Burr turned and looked him full in the face, with one of his piercing regards, swept him from head to foot, and then went on conversing with his counsel as before. The whole look was over in a moment; and yet it was admirable. There was no appearance of study or constraint, no affectation of disdain or defiance; only a slight expression of contempt played across the countenance, such as one might show on seeing a person whom one considers mean and vile.
That evening Samuel Swartwout meets the red-nosed one, as the latter warrior is strutting on the walk for the admiration of men, and thrusts him into a mud hole. The lean Jackson is so delighted at this disposition of the rednosed one, that he clasps the warlike Swartwout in his rake-handle arms. Later, by twenty-two years, he will make him collector of the port of New York for it. Just now, however, he advises a duel, holding that the mudhole episode will be otherwise incomplete.
Since Swartwout has had the duel in his mind from the beginning, he and the lean Jackson combine in the production of a challenge, which is duly sent to the red-nosed one in the name of Swartwout. The red-nosed one has no heart for duels, and crawls from under the challenge by saying, “I refuse to hold communication with a traitor.” Thereupon Swartwout, with the lean Jackson to aid him, again lapses into the clerical, and prints the following gorgeous outburst in the Richmond Gazette:
Brigadier General Wilkinson: Sir: When once the chain of infamy grapples to a knave, every new link creates a fresh sensation of detestation and horror. As it gradually or precipitately unfolds itself, we behold in each succeeding connection, and arising from the same corrupt and contaminated source, the same base and degenerated conduct. I could not have supposed that you would have completed the catalogue of your crimes by adding to the guilt of treachery forgery and perjury the accomplishment of cowardice. Having failed in two different attempts to procure an interview with you, such as no gentleman of honor could refuse, I have only to pronounce and publish you to the world as a coward.
Samuel Swartwout.
The Grand Jury comes into court, and by the shrill mouth of Foreman Randolph reports two indictments against Aaron: one for treason, “as having levied war against the United States,” and one for “having levied war upon a country, to wit, Mexico, with which the United States are at peace”—the latter a misdemeanor.