The Building of a Mid-Western State
A MAN sat on a horse. A boy hung on behind the man. And the horse jounced along the trail toward the stone State House at Corydon.
Corydon was near the center of population in Indiana, and for that reason had been made the capital.
Two months before this, in April, 1816, James Madison, President of the United States, had signed an Enabling Act which allowed the people of Indiana Territory to vote for delegates to represent them in writing out a State constitution and in arranging a form of State government.
The delegates had been selected at a popular election. And now, every morning in this fine June weather, they were meeting at the very new State House—that proud stone house—inconstitutional convention for the yet newer State, at the sound of the newest possible bell.
Obadiah Holman settled himself on the sharp bones of the old nag's back and said to his father: "Don't you suppose, pa, that it would be a good plan for us to settle in this new State? We are helping with the constitution all we can, and it makes me feel just as though I wanted to be a Hoosier!"
The emigrant-train which was bearing the Holmans' fortunes had left the "river beautiful" far behind and was following a trail "blazed" through a land even more charming than the water path had been.
A big canvas-covered wagon had taken the place of the flatboat. Two oxen tugged the wagon. A horse and a cow ambled behind it. Buckets and tools swung rattling under the bed, clothing dangled at the sides. On the tailgate was spread, three times a day, the jolly good meals that pioneer mothers knew how to cook.
The wagons of the train, all very much alike, kept close together, one behind the other, through the shadowy, sweet-smelling forest. The men walked beside the animals, viewing the land with the inquiring eyes of prospective settlers in this happy Hoosier State where eventhe Indians and wild beasts were less dangerous than elsewhere.
The train had stopped short at Corydon and gone into camp by the wayside, because the men who formed it wanted to stay through the convention and see what happened. As builders of the new West, they wanted to take lessons from these sturdy Hoosiers who were so seriously bent on making Indiana a good State.
"You see, Doby," explained Mr. Holman, "the reason they discuss questions day after day is because they want to find the very best legal provisions that will give the new State civil and religious liberty, protect the rights of every class, help free education, forbid slavery, take care of the poor, keep down rum, and punish lawbreakers."
At the word "lawbreakers" Doby thought of his own troubles in connection with Corydon and the convention, and he began to snuffle audibly.
"Don't cry," said his father, kindly; "this business of an arrest and a trial is not your fault."
The son dried his eyes by rubbing them across the ringed tail which dangled in front of him from the 'coonskin cap on his father's head, as the horse tried to trot.
Doby did not own a handkerchief. Few pioneer boys did. When he wanted a rag to clean a gun, or to scrub a rabbit-trap, or to bind a wounded knee, or to do any of the things a boy needs a handkerchief for, he had to tear a piece from his homespun shirt or use some other substitute.
At this moment the 'coon's tail was the handy thing.
"I'm not cry—cry—cry—ing," he choked. "I'm just thinking how sor—sor—sor—ry I am because it is my knife that makes the trial—be—cause—cause the cobbler's son is such a bad boy that he had to be arrested."
Now the cobbler was a hunched-back dwarf who went from one settler's homestead to another, making shoes for each family. He was a useful guest in the cabins. Everybody liked him. He was as honest as honest could be. But the cobbler's son—a hulking fellow—"took after" his "ma's folks" and was "light-fingered."
The homely treasures of the wagon-train had tempted him. While following his father around he had looted it of small trinkets.
For his father's sake, Corydon had already forgiven him much petty thieving among his townspeople; but when he robbed the town's guests under the assembled eyes of the greatestlawyers in the whole region it seemed like a defiance of the new State, and of the convention and of the constitution as well.
So it was resolved to make an example of this unruly citizen; to arrest, try, and punish him by a due process of law during a recess of the convention.
And Doby, because his knife was the most important thing stolen, was the chief witness against him.
To change the unhappy current of the boy's thoughts, his father said: "It will be hot in the State House to-day. I hope they will move the session out of doors under that big elm close by. They have talked of doing that as a matter of comfort," and Mr. Holman fanned himself with his fur cap.
"To-day they are doing it," Doby declared as they came in sight of the giant elm with its spread of some hundred and fifty feet of grateful shade.
There the delegates were sitting on chairs, boxes, boards, and stumps, and going on most comfortably with the work in hand. And there Doby, pressed into service for the refreshment of the convention, bore a bucket of spring water and a gourd, from one distinguished politician to another, serving the ones whowanted a drink, and looking into their strong faces, listening to their debates, and watching for the important decisions.
These delegates had come together from all parts of the new State. And since there were no turnpikes nor plank roads nor canals any place in the State, some were splattered with the mire of swampy valleys, some were dusty from the windy hilltops, some were in worn hunting garb, and some had on their farming clothes of homespun. Others had been able to pick their way over better trails and by a process of seeming magic were able to bloom out all "dressed up" for the occasion.
Such lucky ones wore blue-cloth coats with brass buttons and long tails, buff "small clothes" which were something like a boy's "short pants," fine white ruffled linen shirts with "stocks," hand-knitted silk stockings, low shoes, huge beaver hats, and although it was beginning to go out of fashion, those who had "fine heads of hair" wore a queue much beribboned. Also they carried immense canes. They flourished gold watches almost as large and nearly as noisy as alarm-clocks.
Each expected to be addressed as "squire." And every one of them was so called; and with the greatest respect, too, since nearly every oneof them had earned this title. But then, the plainly clothed delegates were also called "squire," and for the same reason—they had earned it; and the Hoosiers were quick to give honestly deserved honors.
Yet the men in "smart" attire were exactly like the ones in every-day garments in this one thing—they were bent on doing their work on the constitution the way it ought to be done. It was a sacred trust to them.
For this constitution of the State had to lay down the principles which all future laws were to follow. It outlined the different departments and decided upon the duties of each one. In a system of representative government there must be a legislative department composed of men elected to make the laws, an executive department having control of troops and police officers whose business it is to enforce the laws, and a judicial department made up of courts which are meant to secure justice for all persons under the laws.
Then there must be State officers. Doby counted them on his fingers to be sure that he remembered them, for he was in a hurry to grow up and vote. And after he had watched these delegates take such pains with the constitution, he made up his mind that he shouldalways vote for the best man and keep an eye on him to see that he carried out his oath of office.
On his right hand were, after the Governor and Lieutenant-Governor: Thumb—Secretary of State, who puts the big seal on papers; forefinger—Auditor of State, who keeps the accounts; middle finger—Treasurer of State, who takes care of the money; ring finger—Attorney-General, who is lawyer for the Commonwealth; little finger—Geologist, who knows where the good farm-lands are.
On his left hand were: Superintendent of State Schools; Librarian of State Books; clerk of Supreme Court, who keeps records; clerk of decisions, who publishes them; and a statistician whose official name Doby could not pronounce, but whom he regarded as the wisest man of all since his head was full of figures on every possible subject and he could tell any number, from millions down to one-seventeenth of one-nineteenth per cent. of any articles that could be counted.
Besides these, there were enough boards and committees and various minor offices to have numbered all his toes.
Late in the afternoon the convention adjourned. Court sat. The case of the cobbler'sson was called. A stump was spread with the tools of the law. There was a big family Bible for taking the oath, a gourd of home-made poke-berry ink, goose-quills for pens, and a rare sheet or two of paper.
At one side was a magpie nest of small, shining articles—silver spoons and thimbles, gold beads and pewter cups, some pipes and a snuffer. Brave among them was a knife in a "Long Hunter's" sheath—Doby's knife.
How the boy did gloat over that knife!
But he had to let it lie and go to take his place on a log with the other witnesses.
"'Tis far and away the best thing there," thought he as the clerk of the court picked up the leather sheath, took out the curious stone knife, examined it with interest, tried its edge, and then began to sharpen a goose-quill pen-point with it. "I'll keep an eye on it," the nervous owner decided.
A bailiff drummed on the log with a stone until Doby had to shake his ears as though he had been in swimming. This stone gavel called the court to order. A curious crowd of country people, of townspeople, and of delegates gathered under the elm.
Jonathan Jennings, president of the constitutional convention, afterward first Governorof Indiana, and a member of Congress, acting as local or associate judge, sat upon the bench, which in this case was a sturdy, literal bench, it having been borrowed from under the tubs in a neighbor's wash-house.
William Hendricks, afterward third Governor of Indiana and later Senator from Indiana, who was secretary of the convention, became clerk of this local court, by appointment,pro tem.
Both of these empire-builders gave to the case of Doby's old knife the same formal attention that the cause of justice should always command even in the smallest courts.
Jonathan Jennings was young, not much over thirty, and as rosy and blond as Doby himself. His manner was grave and kind as he said: "The court is ready to try the case of the State of Indiana versus Jerry Cobbler. Is the State ready?"
Answer: "It is."
"Is the defendant ready?"
Answer: "He is."
"Then let the case proceed."
The genial clerk, Hendricks, for many years probably the most popular man in Indiana, began, "If it please your Honor, I shall read the information." And then went on to do so, rolling off big words in a sonorous voice, declaring that "'the aforesaid Jerry Cobbler, in the State of Indiana, on the twenty-fifth day of June, 1816, at the town of Corydon, did then and there take and carry away a certain stone knife, said stone knife being then and there the personal goods of one Obadiah Holman, with the felonious intent then and there to deprive the said Obadiah Holman thereof, against the peace and dignity of the State of Indiana.'"
"Guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty."
Thereupon the witnesses were sworn to testify to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
All eyes turned on Doby. He was seized by bashfulness and by the bailiff. Between the two he went through his examination with small credit to himself. He was glad to get back to his seat. He listened to the other witnesses, then to the counsel for the defense, and then to the prosecutor again. It was hard for him to follow the arraignment and the defendant's plea.
"I can see the tracks of a badger better than I can the steps of the law. What's the use of all this talk?" he thought. "Everybody knows that Jerry stole the stuff even if he did say'Not guilty.' They ought to take it from him, hand it to the owners, give him a lickin' and get back home to supper."
The written law of a State requires that a trial by judge shall go through a certain legal form; the unwritten law of the people of a State demands that a trial shall be dramatic and entertaining. Only thus can the people's power and the force of their justice be shown to them as upon a stage. So this trial had followed the usual course.
The clerk had read the information. The prosecutor had made his accusation. Counsel for defense stood with the prisoner. Witnesses had testified against and for him. Upon the evidence, the judge decided the case in accordance with the law in the matter.
The verdict was against the cobbler's son. He was the thief beyond doubt and he was pronounced "Guilty!"
Then came the sentence.
"You must pay a fine of twelve and one-half cents," decided the judge.
"'Ain't got 'n' money," answered the prisoner.
"Perhaps your friends can pay it for you," suggested his attorney.
"'Ain't got 'n' friends," said the prisoner, with perfect truth.
"The cobbler has friends," murmured the crowd.
Alas! Most of the cobbler's friends were as poor as himself. Those who were well-to-do did not like to part with real money for so undeserving a cause. In those days when most debts were paid by produce and business was done by barter, twelve and a half cents was no small sum. No one offered to pay the fine.
Then Judge Jennings said, "According to the law, if you cannot pay the fine, you must go to jail."
Whereupon the guilty one drawled, "'Ain't got 'n' jail." This also was true.
The one building in town which had a few times been officially dubbed a jail, was now, in the stress of the emergency of a crowded convention time, turned into a temporary boardinghouse. In other words, the jail was full of statesmen!
There was no room in it for Jerry.
The crowd stirred. Some showed pride in this state of affairs; some were plainly disgusted; others amused. Doby didn't know what to think.
Then said the judge to Jerry, "I may release you on your own cognizance."
"'Ain't got 'n' cone-ans," objected the stupid Jerry.
The judge explained: "That means the sentence is suspended. You may be a free man as long as you do not steal any more."
Then the judge gave to his audience a short lecture on honest citizenship and loyalty to the new State. It was so simple that Doby understood its every word, and so earnest that it brought the ready tears to his eyes as he stood close beside the judge, looking up at him.
The court adjourned. Day was closing. Victims of the robberies hastened to prove their properties. They must get back to the wagons by milking-time.
The trial was over. Every one was satisfied—except Doby.
"Don't cry," said his father, impatiently this time, to the boy behind him on the homeward-bound horse.
"I want my knife!" wailed Doby.
His father pulled up short. "We have taken up hours of valuable time! We have stopped the making of a State to get it for you! What more do you want?"
"I—want—my—knife!"
"Hav'n't you got your knife?"
"No!"
"Who has it?" demanded his father.
"Hehas," stuttered Doby. "Hehas. He will come past this cross-trail in a few minutes. He said he was going home this way. Can't we wait and ask him for it?"
"Who?" cried his father. "Ask whom?"
"Him," gulped Doby. "Him. I don't want anybody to arrest him. I love him."
Bewildered, Mr. Holman stared. "What do you mean?"
Doby swallowed hard. He began again: "The clerk picked up my knife and sharpened a goose-quill into a pen-point. Then he gave the knife to the judge. The judge cut a pen for himself. Then he put the knife in his pocket while he was talking to the clerk. My knife is—in—the judge's—pocket—this—minute!"
Mr. Holman protested: "But, Doby, you went to the judge and asked him for it. I saw you do that."
"Yes, I told him to please give me what he had in his pocket. And he put his hand in his pocket to get it for me as he was telling me not to feel so sorry about the trial. He said I must not cry about it. Then he pulled his handkerchief instead of my knife from his pocket, and he wiped my eyes and he gave me the handkerchief, and he patted me on the head and wentaway—" Here poor Doby broke down completely and used the Jennings linen freely.
Mr. Holman was greatly amused to find that the absent-minded judge had given the boy the handkerchief which was needed in place of the knife which was wanted.
How heartily the people's idol—the adored Jonathan Jennings—the great man of the convention—would laugh at his own mistake! How quickly he would "trade back" the knife for the handkerchief, and how happily Doby's tears over the loss of his property would be changed to smiles over its recovery!
The chuckling father and the weeping son reined up beside the trail.
Mr. Holman said to Doby: "I can see the judge coming now. We will stop him. You must speak to him yourself. It will please his sense of justice to have you demand reparation because you feel sure of his kindness. When he gives you the knife he will give you his affection with it. He will be your friend for life."