University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

We now approached the seat of justice for
— county, and as we mingled in the crowd of
countrymen flocking to the same point, our conversation
was necessarily interrupted. I soon saw
that Balcombe was distinguished, and that he was
an object of interest and curiosity, which was
painful to me. By him it seemed to be unmarked,
and he moved on with a countenance of
quiet serenity, as a man familiar with notoriety,
and secure of himself

The county having been newly laid off, there
was no courthouse. The place was called a

town, though there was but a single rude dwelling,
in one room of which the court was already sitting.
We entered just as the grand jury had been
sent out. Many of the bystanders had followed,
so that at the moment the crowd was thinned, and
there was a pause in business. In one corner, behind
a small table, over which his leg was thrown,
sat a good-looking man, of a sleepy eye and sluggish
air, puffing lazily at the stump of a cigar.
This, I learned, was the judge. At another table
was the clerk, and clustered around were several
persons, various in air, dress, and aspect, whose
bustling manner indicated that they were lawyers.
A little apart sat two gentlemen, whose intelligent
countenances, as they glanced with a cool
inquiring look on all that passed, at times exchanging
whispers, sometimes serious, sometimes playful,
marked them as the master minds of the place.
In one of these I recognised my acquaintance Shaler.
The other was a man of striking appearance.
Though apparently not more than thirty years of
age, he was quite gray; but his complexion was
fresh and ruddy, his features regular and bold, his
forehead broad and high, and his dark gray eye,
quietly moving around the room, dwelt a moment
on each individual, as if reading and thoroughly understanding
all in turn. There was something in
the flush of his cheek that might betoken dissipation,
and a recklessness in his roving eye not compatible
with a very strict code of moral principles;
but the tout ensemble bespoke a man of quick and
clear perceptions, and a bold and vigorous thinker.
Observing me, Mr. Shaler bowed with polite recognition,
and approaching, accosted me with a
courtesy so little like his former careless manner,
as to convince me that he had learned the character
of the parties implicated, and regarded the prosecution
of a man like Balcombe as a very different
affair from that of a poor devil like Keizer. He
was now grave, considerate, and delicate in his
manner of approaching the subject, and inquiring
whether my friend was prepared to take his trial.
He seemed desirous to let me know that he had
restrained the officers of the court from calling the
parties, thinking it would be more agreeable to a
gentleman like Mr. Balcombe to appear uncalled.
In short, I saw plainly that he found himself involved
in a disagreeable business, and would gladly
escape from it; though I had no doubt that when
once fairly pitted, he would do his best to accomplish
the destruction of a man who had never
wronged him, and whom, if he knew anything of
him, he must esteem and admire.

Such is the lot of the intellectual prizefighters of
the bar. Their hearts may sink, like that of Boisguilbert
when battling against the champion of her
he loved best on earth; their powers may fail
them under the crushing weight of sympathy for
their victim, but while their powers remain they
must be exerted.

“Can it be true, as I am told,” said Shaler,
“that Mr. Balcombe has retained no counsel?”

“None,” said I.

“He will at least indirectly have the benefit of
the talents of the other prisoner's counsel.”

“They have none.”

“Poor devils! I suppose they are too poor.
But the court will assign them counsel, and in that
case they will have the best the country affords, as
my friend Whitehead from St. Louis is here and
disengaged.”

“They have no wish nor need for counsel,”
said I.

He looked really distressed when I said this.
“Surely,” said he, “they are not aware of the serious
aspect of the case. Besides,” continued he,
“though we don't deal in the maxims of chivalry,
it really seems ungenerous, that I should come in
aid of the counsel for the prosecution against an
undefended man.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Balcombe?” I
asked.

“I am not. I know him by character, and
should be glad to know him personally, if it were
proper or delicate to seek an introduction.”

“I merely asked,” said I, “because I thought if
you had known him, you would think him no contemptible
adversary.”

“I know he is far from it; common fame testifies
of that, as well as of his high honour and unexceptionable
character; and I sincerely hope that he
may `outlive the envy of this day,' and not be induced

by anything that may pass to deny me the
pleasure of his acquaintace.”

“Yours must be a strange and painful situation,”
said I.

“It is anything but pleasant,” he replied; “and
so impatient of it am I, that I trust I do not break
faith with my client when I hint to you, that Mr.
Balcombe will have more need of the aid of counsel
learned in the law than he is aware of.”

“I believe,” said I, “he would as soon lose his
life, as save it at the expense of honour, as it would
be, if saved by legal quibbles.”

“I am easily persuaded, my dear sir,” said Shaler,
with earnest kindness, “that he has no need of
any defence of that sort; but he will need the aid
of professional skill to protect himself against legal
quibbles.”

“Who will use them?” said I, somewhat
alarmed.

“I shall,” said he. “It is strange how it can be
any man's duty to do so; but it is my duty. The
functions of a lawyer are peculiar, and his duty to
`smite and spare not' is ascertained by considerations
which I have no time to detail, but the soundness
of which cannot be questioned. But this
duty does not commence until the trial, except
that I am not at liberty to disclose the point or
mode of attack. But though I am bound to strike
unsparingly, at the head and at the heart, I am not
bound to beguile my adversary into fancied security,
or to let him rest in it. It would relieve me

from an unpleasant feeling if you would mention
this matter to Mr. Balcombe.”

I did so. He heard me with composed attention,
and then said,

“No, William; I have set my life upon the cast.
I was at one time intended for the bar, and have
some little knowledge of the law; and I am aware
that there are difficulties in the way of which I
have not spoken to you. Such a prosecution as
this in itself is a reproach upon my name, which
can only be wiped off by meeting it with no armour
but that of innocence. An acquittal procured
by the aid of counsel would not remove the stigma;
and sooner than bear that home to the pure bosom
of her that awaits my return, I will peril that utter
destruction which she, I know, will not long survive.
Think of her as she is, William, and you
will not wonder at what I do.”

In uttering these last words, his voice faltered for
the first time, and he seemed more deeply moved
than I had ever seen him. He presently recovered
himself, and added, “Will you do me the favour
to say to the gentleman, that if he apprehends
no very decided impropriety in an introduction to
me, I shall be glad to have an opportunity of acknowledging,
personally, my sense of his kindness.”

I mentioned his wish to Shaler, who immediately
approached, and was introduced to Balcombe.
“I owe you my acknowledgments, sir,”
said he, “for the interest you express in me, and

the reluctance with which you enter on a duty,
rendered painful by the kindness of your feelings
towards a stranger. It gives me pleasure to be
thus guarded against misconstruction of what you
may do to-day, and to say that I hope hereafter to
find occasions to show my sense of your honourable
frankness.”

Shaler tried to say something in reply, but his
words stuck in his throat. He turned away, and
threw himself into a chair by his companion, and I
heard him say, “By God! Whitehead, you must help
these poor fellows out, if you find that damned fool
going to decide any important point against them.”

Whitehead made no reply, but turned his head,
and twisting his tobacco in his mouth, fixed an eye
of cold and heartless scrutiny upon Balcombe; then
rising, he squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice
through his teeth, thrust his hands into his breeches
pockets, and walked away.

The grand jury now appeared, and returned
true bills against George Balcombe, James Scott,
and John Keizer for the murder of Andrew Ramsay.
After some conversation between Shaler and
the circuit attorney, it was asked whether the accused
were ready for trial. Balcombe promptly
answered that he and Scott were, but that Keizer
had not appeared. He was accordingly called,
when, to my great relief, he answered, and bustled
into court. He was more soiled and shabby than
I had ever seen him, with a double portion of blood
and grease on his leather clothes, and his thin beard

seemed to have been for weeks a stranger to the razor.
I had never before seen him exhibit any signs
of weariness. Now he looked fagged and jaded,
and though the fire of his keen black eye was not
quenched, it showed the want of sleep. As it fell
on Balcombe it resumed its expression of cheerful
confidence, and he approached his patron with an
outstretched hand.

“Where upon earth have you been, John?” said
Balcombe.

“Why, you see, colonel, I was just tired of doing
nothing, and as the hunting season was come, I
thought I'd just take a turn a while in the prairies,
and be back to court.”

“Well, are you ready for trial?”

“Oh, yes! if you say so, sir.”

Balcombe accordingly informed the court that
all were ready; and being asked whether the accused
wished to be tried separately, he replied that
they did not. An offer to assign counsel was also
respectfully and modestly declined. Copies were
now handed to Balcombe of the panels of jurors
to be examined, while they were called into court.
Glancing his eye over that which belonged to his
own case, he rose, and said,

“Before we proceed to swear the jury, sir, I
have one word to say, which will stand instead of
all those cavilling exceptions to the qualifications
of jurors, which I have no wish to make. I am
not a man to pass through life without enemies.
Now, sir, the name of the gentleman who has subscribed

this panel as returning officer is new to
me. I cannot, therefore, be understood as ascribing
to him any improper bias; but it somehow so
happens, that there is not a man in the county of
whose enmity I have cause to be proud, or whose
unkind feelings I have occasion to lament, but I
find his name on this paper. I thank God they are
not many; but their array looks somewhat formidable,
at the very head of this list, where they
seem to require of me to commence the preparations
for the trial by exhibiting the unfavourable
symptom of a captious disposition. If any such
expectation is entertained, it shall be disappointed.
I am not so uncandid as to deny that I see here the
names of men, from whom, notwithstanding private
hostility, I should expect nothing but justice.
But if there be any who are conscious to themselves
of a malignity which would delight in the
ignominious death of an innocent man, I shall rest
in the hope that they will first sit in judgment on
themselves, and voluntarily declare their own disqualification.
I shall pry into the secret of no
man's heart. There is One to whom all are open,
and he will judge between them and me.”

As Balcombe said this, I saw marks of emotion
on almost every face in the room. In no two, perhaps,
precisely the same; it varied in degree and
character in each individual. Respect, sympathy,
admiration, or malignity was displayed in every
countenance, two only excepted. The stolid apathy
of the judge was unmoved. Whitehead, who

had resumed his seat near Shaler, turned his head
again as Balcombe began to speak, and fixing on
him a look of intense but undefinable interest, continued
his scrutiny until long after he had finished
his remarks.

The jury were now successively called to the
book. The first who appeared, a fine-looking man
of good address and an intellectual countenance,
unhesitatingly declared his hostility to Balcombe.

“I am perfectly aware of it, sir,” said Balcombe;
“it has been shown openly as becomes a man;
but I make no objection on that account.”

“Perhaps,” said Shaler, “the gentleman has
formed or delivered an opinion in the case. If so,
I shall challenge him.”

“I have not,” replied the juror, quietly, and took
his seat.

Another, another, and another were called, and
making the same objection, were permitted to withdraw.
The influence of Balcombe's appeal, and of
the example of the first juror, was such, that I am
persuaded it effectually purged the panel of all Balcombe's
enemies but two or three by whom he chose
to be tried. Having got through them, he quietly
went on, rejecting none but men whose appearance
and manner indicated a low intellect or degraded
and vicious minds. In the end a jury was
obtained, on which it was impossible to look without
seeing that they were men to whom innocence
might safely trust for a defence against anything
but perjury.