“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.