Evening Star Newspaper, March 10, 1935, Page 76

O e scape 2 One Hour of THIS WEEK (;OLDEN JEAGLE ()RDINARY Love? Which Should He (hoose? Aaron Burr, Great Traitor and Great [over, Gives a Daring Answer A Short Story By WiLL1AM PoLKk IKE a chip on a muddy stream, the stagecoach to Richmond floundered along the red-clay road meandering sluggishly over the green Carolina hills. The prisoner sat stoically upright, wedged between two sergeants. The rain had found a crack in the roof of the coach. When he leaned forward, the water dripped on the black silk bow that held his powdered queue and thence waddled playfully down his spine; when he slumped back in the seat, it spat tered on his ruffled white stock; therefore he sat upright and caught it in his three-cornered hat. Captain Bushrod Spaight, whose Gar- gantuan body in full regimentals covered the opposite seat, addressed his prisoner: This damnable weather, Colonel, doesn’t seem to bother you much.” The prisoner turned his serene gaze from the window. ‘When a man has very little weather left,"” he said calmly, ‘“he’ll be glad to take any that comes along." Captain Spaight. who was by birth a Virginian, growled. “You've got the ad- vantage of us. We've got to come back through this god-forsaken country, while you can stay in Richmond and be hanged."” The prisoner contemplated the mud- covered silver buckles on his rather small slippers. Then he gazed through the window at the streaming fields of cotton and the dripping forests of pines and oaks. The imminence of his execution had occu- pied his mind since his capture in Alabama. He felt that he ought not to be convicted, but he had practiced law too long to have much confidence in the machinery of justice. ‘‘Law is anything,”” he had once said, ‘‘which is boldly asserted and plausib!yv maintained.” He had reason to believe that the Sage of Hlustrated by A. N. Simpkin Monticello, now wielding presidential power, would leave no juror and no witness unturned to convict him. Therefore he considered it not unlikely that due process of law would leave him in a state of suspended inanimation. And he did not want to be hanged. He was still vigorous and handsome; the fire of life burned brightly in him; and he asked nothing better than to continue to enjoy such wine, meat, books, women and adventures as this earth had already shown itself capable of affording. He sat staring through the watery window. His brow was high and philosophically calm. His mouth was well-formed but large — the mouth of a generous, humorous man — the chin was firm, even pugnacious, but the large hazel eyes beneath the dark arched brows, they were what you noticed both first and last, sometimes full of piercing fire, and some- times, as now, brooding and melancholy, the eyes of a poet adventurer. The problem of escape had at no time been absent from his resourceful mind. Until re- cently it had been out of the question. Now, however, something might be done. The watchfulness of his keepers had relaxed, he was no longer bound, and the Atlantic was distant not cver a day's ride. Foreign vessels at Norfolk or Edenton would hardly dis- courage a cash-fare fugitive. America might be too small for him, but France would be roomy enough, and the boot of Italy would not pinch. Of course, it would be pleasant to be vindicated after a trial, he reflected, feeling a twinge of pity for himself who had so nar- rowly missed being President of the United States and Emperor of Mexico — but, on the other hand, it would be very embarrassing to be hanged. The time to escape was ripe, to- morrow it might be rotten. As the coach rolled into Warrenton, the rain stopped, the clouds in the west split, and the low September sun stared red-eyed at the green courthouse square. A crowd of men, together with some boys and a few negro slaves with baskets on their heads, lined the road, waiting for the coach. The Colonel noted this with deliberation. When the coach reached the midst of the gathering, he flung open the door and jumped out. “‘Citizens of North Carolina,”’ he cried, *'l am Aaron Burr, illegally imprisoned by the Federal Government. I ask the protection of vour State.” The crowd drew back and stood undecided. Many of them turned for guidance toward a gaunt bespectacled man sardonically viewing the scene from the courthouse steps. He shook his head, turning down the comers of his mouth. ‘“To hell with the traitor!" he shouted. The crowd stood still. Captain Spaight and the two sergeants ran up. The Captain lifted Burr in his arms, and carried him ignominiously to the coach and threw him in. “It's lucky old Gid Bullock was there,” said Captain Spaight as the coach rumbled ofi. “You never know what a crowd will do without a leader.’’ Burr's eyes narrowed as he ransacked his memory. He marveled that he couvld have ever forgotten the rough-hewn physiognomy of Gideon Bullock, Senator from Norti . March 10, 1955 Carolina and close friend of the President. What unlucky chance had brought him from Washington to Warrenton? Was it a coinci- dence, wondered Burr, or another sign of the meticulous vigilance of his arch enemy in the White House? He glanced back. Gid was haranguing the crowd. The Golden Eagle Ordinary was a one-story building with a row of dormer windows in the roof, so constructed to evade the tax on two- story houses. The tap room was large and dingy. In the center, smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe, Mr. Stewart, the proprietor, with half a dozen habitués, sat talking. In one comer a flight of rickety stairs led to the rooms above. The waning sunlight fell on the dark polished wood of the bar and glowed in the bottles and pewter that lined the wall. Colonel Burr, clothed in a long dark purple coat, white brocaded waistcoat, knee breeches and white stockings, entered erect, flanked by the sergeants. His heart leaped up, his eyes opened wide, and he bowed gallantly; for behind the bar, touched by a beam of the red sunlight, was a golden girl of such beauty as was to Burr the fosterer of courage, the shar- pener of wit, and the quintessence of joy. The evening sun became Shirley Stewart well, heightening the reddish sheen of her brown hair, bringing out the gold lights in her dark brown eyes, and showing her little lips twisted a bit with compassion for this fine gentleman in the muddy silken clothes with his arms tied behind him. While Captain Spaight was arranging with Stewart for a lodging for the night, a hubbub of angry voices arose outside. Gid Bullock's harangue had evidently had its effect. “Keep them out!"’ Captain Spaight ordered Stewart. “Bar the door!"’ Stewart ran to it, slammed it shut, and slipped the hickory bar in place. The girl's eyes met Burr’s. ‘'He is no taller than I am,"”” she thought, ‘‘and his hands are tied, but there is no sign of fear on his face." In a moment there was a great banging on the door, and a stern voice called ‘‘Open!” It was Gideon Bullock. Stewart started to the door. Bullock’s voice rose louder, persuading the crowd to stand back. ‘“Keep out!” he shouted. “Aaron Burr will be hanged in Richmond. He's the Government's meat, not yours.’" Stewart opened the door slightly and bony Gideon slipped through, and Stewart barred it again. “Gentlemen,” said Burr, walking to the bar, ‘‘ he warmth of your reception over- whelms me. Let's have a drink.” He turned to Shirley. “I've heard of your apple brandy. There’s no better drink- ing day than a rainy day. Sergeant, will you see if there's any money in my pocket?" All took wup their glasses except Burr. “Oh,"” cried Shirley, ( Continued on page9) ‘“You Fools,”” Said Shirley, “If You Touch Him, Ill Kill You. Hold Your Hands Up High, Both of You!’