The two started to walk down town. Tremont Street was crowded with
running men, and School Street packed close; and as they came in sight
of the Court House they saw that it was surrounded by a line of blue
soldiers.
"Let's go to the Court House," said Harley.
The old gentleman's curiosity made feeble resistance.
"I had a case to see about this morning. Why, there's Judge Wells, the
very man I want to see."
The judge had a body-guard of policemen, and our two friends joined
him as they were slowly forcing a passage through the crowd. When they
came before the old gray stone Court House, they saw two cannon posted
at the corners, and all the windows full of armed troops; and around
the base of the building, barring every door, a heavy iron cable, and
behind this a line of soldiers.
"What the devil is the cable for?" said Mr. Bowdoin.
The crowd, which had opened to let the well-known judge go by, were
now crying, "Let the judge in! Let the judge in!" and then, "Give him
up! Give Simms up! Give him to the sheriff!" and then, "Kidnapped!
Kidnapped!" Just ahead of them our party saw another judge stopped
rudely before the door by a soldier dropping a bayonet across his
breast.
"Can't get in here,--can't get in here."
"I tell you I'm a judge of the Supreme Court of this Commonwealth,"
they heard him say.
"Go around, then, and get under the chain. But the court can't sit
to-day." Mr. Bowdoin bubbled with indignation as he saw the old man
take off his high hat, and, stooping low, bow his white hairs to get
beneath the chain.
"If I do, I'm damned," said Mr. Bowdoin quietly.
"And if I do, I'm--Drop it down, sir, and let me pass: Judge Wells,
of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts."
"And I'm James Bowdoin, of James Bowdoin's Sons, and a good Democrat,
and defendant in a confounded lawsuit before his honor."
"Courts can't sit to-day. Keep back."
"They can't?" cried Mr. Bowdoin. "Since when do the courts of
Massachusetts ask permission of a pack of slave-hunters whether they
shall sit or not?"
Harley was chuckling with suppressed delight. "If only grandma were
here!" thought he.
"Let them in! Let Judge Wells in!" shouted the crowd.
The soldier called his corporal, and a hasty consultation followed; as
a result of which the chain dropped at one end, and the three men
walked over it in triumph.
"Three cheers for Judge Wells! Three cheers for Mr. Bowdoin!" cried
the crowd, recognizing him.
When they got into the dark, cool corridor of the old stone fort,
"That I should ever come to be cheered by a mob of Abolitionists!"
gasped Mr. Bowdoin, mopping his face. "Upon my word, I think I lost my
temper."
"Oh no, sir," said Harley Bowdoin gravely. "But where is the
court-room?"
"Follow the line of soldiers," replied the judge, and hurried to his
lobby.
Up the stone stairs went our friends, three flights in all; soldiers
upon every landing, and, leaning over the banisters and carelessly
spitting tobacco juice on the crowd below, a row of "deputy" United
States marshals, with no uniform, but with drawn swords.
Mr. Bowdoin started. "Harley," said he, stopping by one of them, "I
know that fellow. His name's Huxford, and he keeps a gambling-house; I
had him turned out of one of my houses."
"Very likely," said Harley.
"Move on there, move on," said the man surlily, pretending not to
recognize Mr. Bowdoin.
"What are you doing here, sir?" said that gentleman. "Don't you know I
swore out a warrant against you?"
"Who the h----l are you?"
"James Bowdoin, confound you!" answered that peppery person, and
swung his fist right and left with such vigor that Huxford went down
on one side, and another deputy on the other. Then Harley hurried the
old gentleman through the breach into the upper court-room, where they
were under the protection of the county sheriff in his swallow-tailed
blue coat, cocked hat, gold lace, and sword, and a friendly judge.
"Hang it, sir, they'll be arresting you, next," said Harley.
"By Heaven, I should like to see them do it!" cried our old friend in
a loud whisper, if the term can be used. "Sheriff Clark, do you know
those fellows are all miserable loafers?"
"They are federal officers, sir; I can do nothing," whispered back
that gorgeous official.
"Humph!" returned Mr. Bowdoin. "How about state rights? Do we live in
the sovereign State of Massachusetts, or do we not, I should like to
know?"
"How about the Union, sir?" whispered Harley slyly.
"Hang the Union! Hang the Union, if it employ a parcel of thugs to do
its work!" said Mr. Bowdoin, so loud that there was a ripple of
laughter in the court-room; and the judge looked up from the bench and
smiled, for had not he dined with old Mr. Bowdoin in their college
club once a month for forty years? But a low-browed fellow who was
sitting behind the counsel at the table was heard to mutter "Treason."
Beside him in the prisoner's dock sat the slave; not cowed nor abject,
though in chains and handcuffs, but looking straight before him at the
low-browed man who was his master, as a bird might look at a snake.
"Which of those two is the slave?" asked Mr. Bowdoin in an audible
voice.
Again the room laughed. The clerk rapped order. The low-browed man
looked up angrily, and spoke to a deputy marshal whose face had been
turned away from Mr. Bowdoin before. He rose and started toward them.
"By Heaven," cried Mr. Bowdoin, "it is David St. Clair!"