DESERVED COMPLIMENT ON MR. VAN BUREN'S EXPLOIT OF THE FLORIDA
WAR--THE AFFAIR OF THE TRUE GRITS AND SERGEANT TRAP--TRUE
GRITS SUFFER A DEFEAT--FLAN SUCKER'S OPINION UPON THE
SUBJECT--HIS ACCOUNT OF AN ACTION AT LAW BETWEEN JOE SNARE
AND IKE SWINGLETREE.
Just at this period the True Grits once more began to give themselves
airs of importance in Quodlibet. The Tigertail affair had stunned them,
as a blow sometimes torpifies a snake; and like that same snake, which
after a long period of consequent inactivity wakes up in the possession
of new powers of mischief, so woke up the True Grits.
The Florida war, which has been raging on the part of the Indians, and
simmering on our part, for nearly five years past, is undoubtedly the
greatest of all Mr. Van Buren's exploits, and that which will be longest
remembered in the history of this energetic President by posterity. It
has developed the genius of our New-Light Democratic administration in
stronger colors, and speaks more conclusively in favor of the
perseverance and resource of our Great Chief, than any other of the
numerous brilliant acts whereby he has illustrated the principles of
that unterrified and unflinching Democracy, to whom fortune and General
Jackson in partnership, have intrusted the destinies of this Republic.
That war was not only the most righteous and unavoidable in its origin,
but it has also been the most chivalrous in its character, the most
economical in its management, and is likely to be the most productive in
its results--if it should ever please Bill Jumper, or Sam Jones, or
Micanopy, or their heirs and representatives, to allow it to come to a
conclusion--that has ever been waged between two great nations; and will
unquestionably cover our Commander-in-chief of the army and navy of the
United States with as thick a coat of glory as it has already covered
the bravest and keenest-nosed of our bloodhounds with a coat of
mud:--and that is, perhaps, about as thick a covering as a hero of the
President's mould might be supposed able to stagger under, in that long
journey of fame by which he is to march down to after-times.
Among other vigorous measures taken in the prosecution of this
stupendous war, was one that produced no small sensation in Quodlibet. A
tall, raw-boned, slender, and very straight figure of a man, of a
singularly red head and remarkably freckled face--the said figure being
decked in a suit of army regimentals highly bedizened with worsted lace
and cord, begirt with a huge saber, and wearing a plume three feet
long--made its appearance recently in the Borough. This personage
rejoiced in the name and title of Sergeant Trap. He was accompanied by a
drummer four feet six inches high, of a remarkably fierce military
aspect; and by a fifer six feet four, quite as remarkable for the
length of his arms and legs, and the shortness of his sleeves and
pantaloons--both inferring, from their general effect upon his exterior,
a rustical and imbellicose mode of life which reluctantly accommodated
itself to the military requisitions of his station.
The Sergeant and drummer were strangers to our folks; but the fifer was
no other than Charley Moggs, long known as the boss loafer of
Bickerbray, and who was famed for a _single_ accomplishment--the
perfection with which he executed, upon an octave flute, that difficult
but favorite piece of music which goes by the name of "Sugar in a
Gourd;" which accomplishment was the foundation of his present
astonishing promotion under Sergeant Trap, who had come to Quodlibet, in
pursuance of orders from Mr. Poinsett, to pick up as many spare heroes
for the Florida war, as might be found in our environs, willing to dog
the Indians in company with our gallant blood-hound allies lately
arrived from Cuba.
The Sergeant took a small frame house next door to Sim Travers's
Refectory--or rather, as Sim called it, his Drinkery. Here he hung out
the stars and stripes, by a pole which was secured in the second story
window, and from which the flag vibrated in graceful undulations, almost
sweeping the street when the wind lulled, and filling the hearts of Sim
Travers's customers with emotions of martial glory.
Now, Sergeant Trap had not the good fortune to be a New Light; but,
on the contrary, had the misfortune to be perfectly neutral in
politics--and, coupled with that, the additional misfortune to be
sometimes in want of money. In the course of some two or three weeks
residence in the Borough, he had contracted a sort of intimacy with
Peter Ounce, the landlord of The Boatman's Hotel at the upper end, and
on the opposite side of the Basin. This intimacy mainly grew out of the
circumstance that Ounce's hotel furnished very pleasant quarters to the
Sergeant, and had also contributed some five or six recruits to his
standard. Peter Ounce, although a Whig, is a kind-hearted, sociable man,
and disposed to make friendships with those about him; and the Sergeant
having run up a score at the bar, fell into the relation of a debtor to
Peter, which it was not always convenient for him, at a moment,
to obliterate. Besides this, Sergeant Trap had, once or twice,
borrowed small sums from the landlord, and received from him sundry
manifestations of good-will, which laid him, in a certain sense, under
obligations to Peter. The result of it all was, that the Sergeant took a
great liking to his landlord--and, following the suggestions of that
feeling, rather encouraged his men, when they had a little money to
spend in slaking their thirst, to throw it in the way of Ounce.
This state of things existed for some time before it was brought into
public observation. Ounce's liquors were good and cheap, the company
about his hotel was jovial, and Peter himself obliging--in consequence
of all which Sergeant Trap's men went as often to the Boatman's Hotel as
they did to Sim Travers's Drinkery, which was next door to the
rendezvous. Sim Travers, who always kept a sharp eye to his business,
was the first to notice the visits of Trap's men to his rival's bar, and
for some time he bore it with a sulky and uneasy silence. After awhile,
sundry inarticulate murmurs escaped him denoting vexation; and at length
he openly began to shake his head and talk about _the duty_ of soldiers
and officers _in the employ_ of the Government. "_We_ work for the
Government," said he, "and the Government ought to work for _us_. If
public money _is_ to be laid out, them that goes through fire and water
has the best claim. These Whigs are ready enough to touch the cash when
there's profit to be got; while them that sticks by Government in all
their eternal choppings and changings is to be lookers-on. To the
Wieters belongs the Spiles; if that ain't a motter, what's the use of
having it? Go it full, or give it up--that's what I say."
Sim continued to repeat these sentiments for some time, without seeing
things alter for the better. Peter Ounce still continued to divide the
profits of the rendezvous with him. At last Sim became violent. "I'll
make it a committee matter," said be. Thereupon he went immediately to
Eliphalet Fox, and opened to him his whole burden of grievances. "I'll
fix it," replied Fox, very much in the tone of a man of business; and
Sim went home in excellent spirits.
The next Whole Hog had a paragraph touching this subject. "If," said
that paper, "there be one principle which has been more sacredly
established than any other by that great revolution through which we
have just conducted the nation, in redeeming it from the oppressions of
Monopolists and Privileged orders, it is the deep and fundamental truth
that, To those who have won the victory belong its fruits. The Democracy
have an unalienable and indefeasible right to all emoluments, issues,
and profits accruing from the expenditures of the public money. And,
moreover, if there be any class of persons who emphatically _belong_ to
the Government, it is the men who are enlisted for the Florida war. Few
of them are destined ever to return again to the character of citizens:
their _lives_ are undoubtedly the property of the administration, as
every man must see who reflects upon the history of that war. And if
their _lives_ are thus devoted to the cause of the administration, much
more, may it be said, are their _little gains_ to be employed in the
same cause. Notwithstanding this self-evident truth, we know of men now
in this Borough, wearing the livery of the Government, who do not
scruple to enrich the coffers of the British Whigs with the money
lavished upon them by the bounty of the Government, and which has been
wrung from the sweat of the poor man's brow. We trust we shall be
understood, without being more explicit. If this abuse continue after
this hint, we shall act in a more efficient form:--a word to the wise."
Notwithstanding this very significant paragraph, and the fact that the
paper containing it was sent to the rendezvous, and even addressed to
Sergeant Trap by name, the practice complained of was in no degree
corrected. On the contrary, as if from sheer perverseness and contumacy,
the evil, if anything, was rather increased. Eliphalet Fox waited a few
days to see how his paragraph worked. Sim Travers came to him with a
face now much more in anger than in grief. "It doesn't work at all,"
said Eliphalet, adverting to his paragraph, and anticipating Sim's
complaint. "Never mind, my friend," continued he, "this is _my_ quarrel.
Go home: leave all to me!"
Sim went home, confident that he should have ample redress. "If I don't
get it," said he, as he walked toward the Drinkery, ruminating over his
wrongs, "blow me if I don't quit the party. I'm not one of them fools to
go thorough-stitch, and get nothing for it--blow me!"
"I'll see justice done to Sim Travers," said Eliphalet Fox, with an
atrabilious look, when he was left alone, "or die in the attempt--blast
me!"
After this blowing and blasting, Sim went about the Borough telling
every man of the persecution he was suffering from the Whigs; and
Eliphalet Fox went about to get up the old Tigertail Convention and
bring the matter before them.
The next evening the convention met, and a Secret Committee was raised
with instructions to write a _lettre de cachet_ to the President,
explaining the flagitious conduct of Sergeant Trap, and demanding his
immediate dismissal from the army. This letter was written by Eliphalet
Fox, and was signed by him and William Goodlack, besides Sim Travers and
Thomas Crop the constable, which two latter made their mark--these four
being the Secret Committee. The letter was duly dispatched to Washington
to be presented by the Hon. Middleton Flam, who was _required_ by the
committee to render this service, from a suspicion that at bottom he was
not very favorable to the True Grits. "Catch a weasel asleep!" said our
worthy representative when this letter reached him. "Gentlemen, I'll do
your bidding, by all means." And so, being wide awake, and fully
determined to give the True Grits no cause of complaint against him, he
went straight with the _lettre de cachet_ to the President. In a few
days the committee received a letter from Mr. Flam, informing them he
had done everything they had demanded: that the President had read their
confidential communication, and without hesitation replied, that if
Sergeant Trap had been a _civil_ officer, he would have dismissed him
without further inquiry, in deference to the respectability of the
committee;--but that, as Sergeant Trap belonged to the _army_, he found
himself reluctantly compelled to proceed in a more formal manner, and
that consequently he should direct a Military Court of Inquiry to take
cognizance of the case: that this Court would sit in Quodlibet where the
prosecutors were requested to be ready to prove the enormities alleged
against Sergeant Trap.
"A Court of Inquiry!" exclaimed Fox, with great emotion. "Is the thing
to be made public? We are deceived, betrayed:--I know by whom," he
added, significantly nodding his head.
"A Court of Inquiry!--proofs, and all riglar--upon oath?" exclaimed Sim
Travers.
"I'm blest if I go before any court!" said Tom Crop.
"By blazes, I won't!" said Billy Goodlack. "There's _something_ in this
here thing--else why don't the President go smack forward on the
letter?"
"I'm no prosecutor," said Eliphalet Fox.
"I'm not a persecutor, nother," said Tom Crop. "By blood! I scorn it."
"I'm not going to put my hand on the book, upon it," said Sim Travers.
"If a man can't lodge a complaint without being hauled into court, the
party's broke: a fig for the money! who cares about it?"
"That's my identical sentiment!" said Billy Goodlack. "By blazes, I'm
no prosecutioner!"
The committee was certainly thrown into great consternation. The cause
of this is said to have been that in representing the case of Sergeant
Trap to the President by letter, upon which they expected an immediate
order dismissing the offender from service, they had charged him with a
long list of misdemeanors against the welfare of the Great New-Light
Democratic Party; which they knew, in the first place, had no sort of
foundation in fact, and therefore might be found extremely difficult of
proof; and the attempt to investigate which, in the second place, they
were aware might bring the True Grits into collision with each other in
a manner not very conducive to the harmony of the party. They were,
therefore, not a little thrown aback when they were apprised of the
President's determination to make the charges a subject of inquiry.
We cannot sufficiently commend Mr. Van Buren's caution in this matter,
and the sound New-Light Democratic view he took of the subject. Here was
a grave charge preferred against one of his own servants, imputing to
him a disposition to deal with Whigs--nay, an _actual_ dealing with
them, when there was a New Light to be found in the same town capable of
furnishing the same commodity. Doubtless, upon this nefarious
transaction being fully proved, Mr. Van Buren, like a genuine,
unadulterated Quod, as he is, would dismiss the offender from service,
or even inflict on him other punishment, if it fell in his way. But in
so serious a case he was determined not to be premature in his action:
he would not proceed--unless, indeed, the offender had been a civil
officer--upon such testimony as the confidential letter of a committee.
He takes the only just course--(in this I have reason to believe he was
fully seconded, perhaps even prompted, by our sagacious representative,
the Hon. Middleton Flam)--and that is a formal, solemn, judicial inquiry
into the conduct of Sergeant Trap, to ascertain whether he _really had_
purchased liquors to the prejudice of the Great New-Light Quodlibetarian
Democratic Party. Truly have we reason, day by day, to rejoice in a
President of such magnanimity, such justice, such innate republicanism,
and withal such dignity!
The Court of Inquiry met. It was composed of officers of high rank.
After a long and patient investigation, and the most accurate
ascertainment of the number of gills of rum, whisky, and brandy sold to
Trap's recruits by Sim Travers, and by Peter Ounce, and a careful
arithmetical computation of the value thereof in money; and, after a
laborious examination into Sim Travers's politics, as also into those of
Peter Ounce, the trial resulted in the conclusion that Sim Travers was
not so good a New Light as he professed to be, (this was founded on
evidence that Sim had said "he would leave the party if he couldn't get
his share of spiles,") and that Peter Ounce's politics were, in fact,
not known to Sergeant Trap at the time he dealt with him: whereupon Trap
was acquitted of each and every charge brought against him; although
Theodore Fog, the Counsel for the Secret Committee, took upon himself to
inform the Sergeant, somewhat authoritatively, that as he was now aware
of the dangerous tendency of Ounce's principles, the President would
expect him to close all accounts at the said Peter's bar, and to be more
circumspect the next time.
It was generally admitted, and indeed was the common talk of the
Borough, that in this notable trial Eliphalet Fox dodged, that Billy
Goodlack dodged, that Sim Travers dodged, and that Tom Crop actually
skulked. And the general effect of the whole was to cut the combs of the
True Grits so thoroughly, that it is believed they will never rise
again. Flan Sucker made a jest of this, very much to the annoyance of
his friends--for Flan had taken a violent fancy to Sergeant Trap, and
even at one time, it was supposed, had an idea of enlisting. He used to
sit up with the Sergeant of nights and drink a good deal with him
through the day, and by this means very naturally became quite a crony.
He therefore exulted much more than a True Grit, it was conceived,
ought, at the Sergeant's triumphant acquittal. "Sargeant Trap," said he,
"Locumsgillied Liphlet Fox;" and as this expression requires an
explanation, he gave it, to this effect.
"Joe Snare, the bailiff over here in Tumbledown, fotch a suit before
Squire Honeywell, agin Ike Swingletree for twenty-five dollars, on a
cart which Joe sold him. Joe drawed up a note of hand for Ike to sign,
which Ike did; and Ike never thought no more about it. Joe kept askin'
for his money, year after year, year after year, tell at last he got
tired, and so fotch the suit. Ike found out at the trial that the Squire
was goin' to give judgment agin him; so what does he do but sashrary the
case!--whereby the case was tuck up to the Court. Well, when they came
on to trial there, Ike had a lawyer who found out that the note of hand
was more than three years old, and there hadn't been no promise to pay
in the mean time. Thereupon the Court told Joe Snare, if he hadn't
nothing to say agin' it, they must give judgment for Ike on the Statute
of Lamentations. Is it that, your honor? said Snare--for Joe being
bailiff was pretty well up to law, and pled his own cause;--well, may it
please your honor, maybe the statue is agin me, but, your honor, I
drawed up the note of hand myself, and if you'll just be so kind to look
in the corner under the dog's-ear, you'll see two letters at the eend of
Ike Swingletree's name tantamount to L. S., which, as I understand, your
honor, goes for _Locumsgilly_--whereby it takes twelve years, if I'm not
mistaken, to kill the note of hand, bekase that's a bond. The judge
looked and looked, and then sot up a laugh; and Ike Swingletree began to
turn a little pale. Joe, says the judge, you're right, says he: that
alters the case, and you must have the judgment. Joe, says he, you have
beaten the lawyer and his client both--you're a clever fellow, and will
get your money. So Joe accordingly got the judgment, and came off
mightily pleased. And when he was tellin' me about the matter next day,
he burst out in a great haw-haw, and couldn't hardly talk for laughing:
Ike Swingletree, said he, sashraried _me_, but I reckon I Locumsgillied
_him_.
"Well, that's just what Sergeant Trap has done to Liphlet
Fox--LOCUMSGILLIED him beautiful."