NOW, when the horse-faced Andy finds himself in the Cumberland country,
he begins to look about him. Being a lawyer, his instinct leads him
to consider those opposing ranks of commerce, the debtor and creditor
classes. He finds the former composed of persons of the highest honor.
Also, their honor is sensitive and easily touched, being sensitive and
touchy in proportion as the bulk of their debts is increased. The debtor
class, as the same finds representation about those two Cumberland
forums, Nashville and Jonesboro, holds it to be the privilege of
every gentleman, when dunned, to challenge and if practicable kill his
creditor honorably at ten paces.
So firm indeed is the debtor class in this belief, that the creditor
class, less warlike and with more to lose, seldom presents a bill.
Neither does it refuse the opposition credit; for the debtor class also
clings to the no less formidable theory, that to refuse credit is an
insult quite as stinging as a dun direct.
In short, the horse-faced Andy discovers the region to be a very Arcadia
for debtors. Their credit is without a limit and their debts are never
due. He resolves to disturb these commercial Arcadians; he will break
upon them as a Satan of solvency come to trouble their debt paradise.
The horse-faced Andy, as has been noted, is Scotch-Irish. Being Irish,
his honor is as sensitive and his soul as warlike as are those of
the most debt-eaten individual along the Cumberland. Being Scotch, he
believes debts should be paid, and holds that a creditor may ask for
his money without forfeiting life. He urges these views in tavern and
street; and thereupon the creditors, taking heart, come to him with
their claims. He accepts the trusts thus proffered; as a corollary,
having now flown in the face of the militant debtor class, he is soon to
prove his manhood.
The horse-faced Andy files a declaration for a client, on a mixed claim
based upon bacon, molasses and rum. The defendant, a personage yclept
Irad Miller, genus debtor, species keel boatman, is a very patrician
among bankrupts, boasting that he owes more and pays less than any
man south of the Ohio river. Also, having been already offended by the
foppish frivolity of that ruffled shirt and grass-green surtout, he is
outraged now, when the ruffled grass-green one brings suit against him.
Breathing fire and smoke, the insulted Irad lowers his horns, and starts
for the horse-faced Andy. His methods at this crisis are characteristic
of the Cumberland; he merely grinds the horse-faced Andy's polished boot
beneath his heel, mentioning casually the while that he himself is “half
hoss, half alligator,” and can drink the Cumberland dry at a draught.
This is fighting talk, and the horse-faced Andy so accepts it. He
surveys the truculent Irad with the cautious tail of his eye, and finds
him discouragingly tall and broad and thick. The survey takes time, but
the injured Irad prevents it being wasted by again grinding the polished
toes.
Andy the strategic suddenly seizes a rail from the nearby fence, and
charges the indebted one. The end of the rail strikes that insolvent
in what is vulgarly known as the pit of the stomach, and doubles him up
like a two-foot rule. At that, he who is “half hoss, half alligator,”
gives forth a screech of which an injured wild cat might be proud, and
perceiving the rail poised for a second charge makes off. This small
adventure gives the horse-faced Andy station, and an avalanche of claims
pours in upon him.
Having established himself in the confidence of common men, it still
remains with our horsefaced hero to conquer the esteem of the bar. The
opportunity is not a day behind his collision with that violent one of
equine-alligator genesis. In good sooth, it is an offshoot thereof.
The bruised Irad's case is up for trial. His counsel, Colonel
Waightstill Avery, hails from a hamlet, called Morganton, on the thither
side of the Blue Ridge. Colonel Waightstill is of middle age, pompous
and high, and the youth of Andy--slim, lean, eager, horse face as
hairless as an egg--offends him.
“Your honor,” cries Colonel Waightstill, addressing the bench, “who,
pray, is the opposing counsel?” The boyish Andy stands up. “Must I,
your honor,” continues the outraged Colonel Waightstill, “must I cross
forensic blades with a child? Have I journeyed all the long mountain
miles from Morganton to try cases with babes and sucklings? Or perhaps,
your honor”--here Colonel Waightstill waxes sarcastic--“I have mistaken
the place. Possibly this is not a court, but a nursery.”
Colonel Waightstill sits down, and the horsefaced Andy, on the leaf of a
law book, indites the following:
_August 12, 1788._
_Sir: When a man's feelings and charector are injured he ought to seek
speedy redress. My charector you have injured; and further you have
Insulted me in the presunce of a court and a large aujence. I therefore
call upon you as a gentleman to give me satisfaction for the same;
I further call upon you to give me an answer immediately without
Equivocation and I hope you can do without dinner until the business
is done; for it is consistent with the character of a gentleman when he
injures a man to make speedy reparation; therefore I hope you will not
fail in meeting me this day._
_From yr Hbl st.,_
_Andw Jackson._
The horse-faced one spells badly; but Marlborough did, Washington does
and Napoleon will spell worse. It is a notable fact that conquering
militant souls have ever been better with the sword than with the
spelling book.
The judge is a gentleman of quick and apprehensive eye, as frontier
jurists must be.
Also, he is of finest sensibilities, and can appreciate the feelings of
a man of honor. He sees the note shoved across to Colonel Waightstill
by the horse-faced Andy, and at once orders a recess. The judge, with
delicate tact, says the Cumberland bottoms are heavy with the seeds of
fever, and that it is his practice to consume prudent rum and quinine at
this hour.
While the judge goes for his rum and quinine, Colonel Waightstill and
the horse-faced Andy repair to a convenient ravine at the rear of the
log courthouse. A brother practitioner attends upon Colonel Waightstill,
while the interests of the horse-faced Andy are conserved by Mr.
Overton, who espouses his cause as a fellow boarder at the widow
Donelson's. Mr. Overton has with him his invaluable hair triggers; and,
since he wins the choice, presents them politely, butt first, to the
second of Colonel Waightstill, who selects one for his principal. The
ground is measured and pegged; the fight will be at ten paces.
As Mr. Overton gives the horse-faced Andy his weapon, he asks:
“What can you do at this distance?”
“Snuff a candle.”
“Good! Let me offer a word of advice: Don't kill; don't even wound. The
_casus belli_ does not justify it, and you can establish your credit
without. Should your adversary require a second shot, it will then be
the other way. His failure to apologize, coupled with a demand for
another shot, should mean his death warrant.”
The horse-faced Andy approves this counsel. And yet, if he must not
wound he may warn, and to that admonitory end sends his ounce of lead
so as to all but brush the ear of Colonel Waightstill. That gentleman's
bullet flies safely wild. After the exchange of shots, the seconds hold
a consultation. Mr. Overton says that his principal must receive an
apology, or the duel shall proceed.
Colonel Waightstill's second talks with that gentleman, and finds him
much softened as to mood. The flying lead, brushing his ear like the
wing of a death angel, has set him thinking. He now distrusts that
simile of “babes and sucklings,” and is even ready to concede the
intimation that the horse-faced Andy is a child to be far-fetched.
Indeed, he has conceived a vast respect, almost an affection, for his
youthful adversary, and will not only apologize, but declares that, for
purposes of litigation, he shall hereafter regard the horse-faced Andy
as a being of mature years. All this says Colonel Waight-still, under
the respectful spell of that flying lead; and if not in these phrases,
then in words to the same effect.
The horse-faced Andy shakes hands with Colonel Waightstill, and they
return to the log courthouse, where the rum-and-quinine jurist is
pleasantly awaiting them. The trial is again called, and the horse-faced
Andy secures a verdict. What is of more consequence, he secures the
respect of bench and bar; hereafter no one will so much as dream of
disputing his word, should he lay claim to the years of Methuselah. That
careful grazing shot at Colonel Waightstill, ages the horse-faced Andy
wondrously in Cumberland estimation.
Good fortune is not yet done with Andy of the horse face. Within hours
after the meeting in that convenient ravine, he is given new opportunity
to fix himself in the good regard of folk.
It is on the verge of midnight. A gentleman, unsteady with his cups,
seeks temporary repose on the grassy litter which surrounds the tavern
haystack. Being comfortable, and safe against a fall, he of the too many
cups refreshes himself with his pipe. Pipe going, he falls into thought;
and next, in the midst of his preoccupation, he sets the hay afire. It
burns like tinder, and the flames, wind-flaunted, catch the thatched
roof of the stable.
The settlement is threatened; the wild cry of “Fire!” is raised; from
tavern and dwelling, men, women and children come trooping forth, clad
in little besides looks of terror. The scene is one of confusion and
misdirection; no one knows what to do. Meanwhile, the flames leap from
the stable to the tavern itself.
It is Andy the horse-faced who brings order out of chaos. Born for
leadership, command comes easy to him. He calls for buckets, and with
military quickness forms a double line of men between the river and
the flames. The full buckets chase each other along one line, while the
empties are returned by the second to be refilled. When the lines are
working in watery concord, he organizes the balance of the community
into a wet-blanket force. By his orders, coverlets, tablecloths,
blankets, anything, everything that will serve, are dipped in the river
and spread on exposed roofs. In an encouragingly short space, the fire
is checked and the settlement saved.
While the excitement is at its height, that pipe incendiary, who started
the conflagration, breaks through the double line of water passers, and
begins to give orders. He is as wild as was Nero at the burning of
Rome. Finding this person disturbing the effective march of events, the
horse-faced Andy--who is nothing if not executive--knocks him down with
a bucket. The Cumberland Nero falls into the river, and the ducking,
acting in happy conjunction with the stunning thump, brings him to the
shore a changed and sobered man. That bucket promptitude, wherewith he
deposed Nero, becomes one of those several immediate arguments which
make mightily for the communal advancement of Andy the horse-faced.