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.”