Chapter XXIII: Court Day

Court Day in old Virginia was an institution. It happened once a month and it served all the purposes of club, exchange, political assemblage, muster, and social meeting time. Pretty nearly the whole adult male population of the county was sure to be present at the county seat on that day, so that the Virginian who wanted to see anybody, whether to collect a note or give one, to make a contract or to cancel one, to arrange a religious meeting or a barbecue, to trade horses or to exchange views concerning the latest philosophy, to make speeches or to listen to them, was sure to find present the people who were in any way related to the matter he had in hand. Those leisurely folk never thought of bothering themselves to visit anybody on business. Whatever the business was, it could wait until Court Day, and it did.

Sometimes there was political speaking or the like on Court Day, but not always. The orators had need of an audience, and if there was anything of interest going on in Court, everybody was sure to be there and the orators had nobody to address.

It was so on this occasion. It was a quarterly Court--a grand jury term of the County Court--and there was a murder trial of sensational character in progress. As a result everybody who could find a square foot of space within the Court room, in which to bestow his person, sought place there the moment the Court opened, and held it tenaciously throughout the session. The struggle for place was all the greater because Jack Towns, just returned from his Rocky Mountain trip, was present as attorney and counsellor for the accused man, and Jack Towns's eloquence was something that everybody wanted to hear. Besides that, his skill in confusing a witness and reducing him to pulp was something that nobody wanted to miss. Jack was a lawyer whose equipment lacked little of perfection. His learning was adequate, his sagacity almost preternatural, and when he had a case to conduct the Commonwealth's Attorney was in a tremor of blue funk from the beginning, the Judge was alertly mindful lest his judgment should be unduly swayed by persuasive eloquence, and the populace was in the humor that possesses an audience when a great star and a great company are to present a great drama or tragedy or comedy as the case may be.

Jack was too deeply engaged with "the work of saving a human life," as he said, to talk for more than half a minute with Westover, when the two met at the stables of the inn.

"I'm going to Wanalah for the night," he said. "Then and there we can talk. At present I have only time to tell you that you are, three times over, the richest man in Virginia and that your wealth includes a practically limitless supply of ready money. I haven't time now to tell you more, but I tell you this in the interest of your campaign. Give all the jamborees you think of; let the money flow like water, and I'll take care of the results."

"But, Jack, I'm not buying my election, and--"

"Of course not. I understand all that. I only want you to know that for legitimate expense your bank account is ample. Now I must go. I've a human life in my hands. I'll be with you at Wanalah to-night. Go home when you get ready. I'll be there when I can. So long."[1]

[Footnote 1: The expression "so long," as here used, is not an anachronism. It was in use in Virginia, and in well nigh universal use in South Carolina before the war. Its adoption at the North came much later, I believe. Mr. James Russell Lowell once suggested to me that it might be a corruption of "salaam."--Author.]

In Virginia in those old, sunny days, hospitality was taken for granted in that confident fashion, and the welcome always justified the assumption.

But before the court was opened, and during its noon recess, which was shortened to three-quarters of an hour because of the importance of the case at bar, Boyd Westover found it difficult to move about, because of the besetting eagerness of his friends to greet him. In answer to questions he frequently repeated a little impromptu speech.

"I was in utter ignorance of my nomination until I saw placards this morning. I haven't even yet found out what it means, and I really care nothing for the place. I'd far rather stay at Wanalah and look after my affairs. But as my friends have nominated me I'm a candidate and I shall stay in the race till the polls close on election day. I learn that some persons--I don't know who--have been suggesting things to my detriment. I am here to ask about that, to challenge every insinuation against my character and every criticism of my conduct. I stand ready to answer. I ask only that those who seek to injure me shall come out into the open, make themselves known and put their accusations into definite form so that they may be met and either refuted or established. I don't relish attacks in the dark or from behind masks, and I am going to make known my opinion of the sneaks and cowards who make such attacks. I'm going to attend every gathering of my fellow citizens between now and election day, and at every one of them I'm going to challenge any and every body as I do now, who has aught to say against my character or my conduct to say it openly like a man. If any one does that, I shall reply in such fashion as I think appropriate in each case. I stand before the community as Westover of Wanalah, a man conscious of his own rectitude and prepared to vindicate the honor of the name he bears at all times, against all comers and at all hazards. That is all I have to say, and it ought to be enough to satisfy honorable men and to silence sneaks and slanderers."

So far as the men of honest mind who were gathered together that day were concerned, this challenge seemed abundantly satisfying. Many who had entertained doubts because of the candidate's absence, abandoned their doubts and frankly declared their purpose to support Westover at the election. As for Webb and his friends, they found themselves sorely embarrassed. Their opportunity had lain in Westover's unexplained absence. His appearance now, and his frank and manly challenge, robbed them of their weapons and their ammunition. They dared not say aught that might be construed into an accusation, and if any of them insinuated aught to Westover's discredit he was sure of a peremptory challenge to say just what he meant.

It was obvious to Webb and his supporters that something must be done to meet and neutralize the effect of Boyd Westover's presence and defiance. They still had "regularity" behind them. Webb was the regularly nominated candidate of the Whig party, strongly dominant in that region, and presumably he would receive the regular party vote. Then, too, as he explained to his partisans, most of the Democrats, who would of course support their own party candidate, were men friendly to Westover, whose votes were so many subtracted from the support that would otherwise be his.

"I regard Sam Butler's candidacy as a thing altogether in my interest," he said confidently, "and then," he jubilantly added, "I have satisfactory assurance that the whole mountain vote will be mine, and so I regard my election as a foregone conclusion, a triumphant assurance of a future that holds human affairs securely within its grasp."

That was a phrase dear to Webb's soul. He had spent half a night in concocting it and committing it to memory. "You know I've been up in the mountains, and I've been royally entertained by Her Majesty the Queen."

"Has she definitely promised you the mountain vote?" asked one who had a passion for exactitude.

"Practically, yes. You know Judy Peters talks in parables and never commits herself; but a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse, and her parting words to me left nothing of assurance to be desired. Now what I want to say is this: My election is secure, but I want my constituency to include as large a proportion of the planters, men of my own class, as possible, and so I have accepted Sam Butler's challenge to meet him and divide time at the Barbecue he's going to give over at Fighting Creek, the day after to-morrow. I suppose Westover will be there by Sam's invitation, and between Sam and me he won't be left a leg to stand on."

"Well, may be so," muttered Foggy, whose experience in politics had bred chronic scepticism in his mind; "but Boyd Westover has been talkin' right out in meetin' to-day, an' besides--"

"What is it, Foggy?"

"Well, Jack Towns is here, you know, an' if he happens to make a speech over there he'll tangle you up like a fish-line after you've caught an eel on it."

"I'm not afraid of him," answered Webb, confidently.

"So much the worse," muttered Foggy. "Maybe he wouldn't do you up so badly if you were properly afraid of him. However, we must take things as we find 'em, and candidates likewise, and I'll be over at Fighting Creek with a lot o' fellows to shout for you, Webb."

When Court opened and everybody made a rush for places in the court house, Boyd strolled over to the inn whose proprietor insisted upon calling it a hotel, and, going to the room he had taken there for the day, threw himself upon the bed for a sleep of two or three hours. At the end of that time he arose refreshed, took a cold sponge bath, and proceeded to change his rough mountain costume for the more conventional garments his body servant had sent him from Wanalah. After the fashion of the time and country, these consisted of a "pleated bosom" shirt, a damask silk vest, a long tailed broadcloth coat, a pair of "doe-skin" trousers, white socks with silken clocks, and a pair of "low quarter" shoes with broad silken ties. It was certain that before mounting his horse again for the journey to Wanalah, Boyd Westover would shed the shoes at any rate and don his high-topped boots instead, but for the present he felt a social obligation upon him to dress conventionally; for he had found at the hotel a note from Major Magister, the leader of the bar, saying:

"Of course you'll dine with me at four o'clock, Westover. The Judge will be present, and I hope Jack Towns and the Commonwealth's Attorney also, prepared to reconcile the differences created by this trial, and become friends again. But none of these is what I mean when I say 'of course' you'll dine with me. The 'of course' takes the much more pleasing form of a charming young gentlewoman from Boston,--Miss Millicent Danvers,--to whom we all want to show every possible attention, and especially to introduce you as a typical young gentleman of Virginia. She is with us only for the day. So don't send any excuses, but come in your own proper person."

Remembering that Boyd Westover was a gallant, hot-blooded young Virginian, and that it had been many moons since he had enjoyed association with young women of his class and caste, it is easy to understand the eagerness with which he welcomed this opportunity to "get himself civilized again," as he framed the thought in his mind.

"From Boston?" he reflected. "I suppose she'll have gold-rimmed spectacles and talk philosophy. I never met a Boston girl, so this will be a new experience. After all, I suppose women are very much alike, no matter where they come from. Doubtless this one has pulses, just as other girls have, and perhaps I shall be able to put my finger on them. At any rate it will interest me to try. My opportunities promise to be good. Major Magister and the Judge and Jack Towns and the Commonwealth's Attorney are sure to fall foul of each other over abstruse law points that the rest of us know nothing about, and that will leave mine hostess and the Boston maid to me."

It was in this mood of pleasurable but by no means enthusiastic anticipation that Westover entered the home of his host, half an hour after the jury had returned a verdict of "not guilty," in the case of Jack Towns's client--a verdict that was based rather upon the absence of evidence that Jack Towns had succeeded in excluding than upon the evidence actually presented at the trial.