Simon the Fiddler

by Paulette Jiles

  “I know. The lieutenant has related to me the entire story. Very remarkable, very striking.” The justice dredged up the thick marriage registry and placed it carefully on a high desk. He laid out steel pens and an ink bottle and pen wipers. “In this book are one thousand four hundred and seventy-one stories of human beings joining themselves in Holy Matrimony for better or for worse and done often in a heedless haste and others after years of senseless dithering. Often it does not work out and misery and parting are their lot; at other times mistakes are rectified and another attempt is made but human beings never stop trying their hand at matrimony, it seems to be a universal law. In this book you two are one thousand four hundred and seventy-two.”

  Doris and Simon stood before him like penitent schoolchildren, with Simon in his handcuffs and beat-up face having perhaps done something more felonious than was common.

  “In here are Captain Jefferson Kidd and Maria Luisa Real, the oldest son of the Mavericks and his intended, the Huths of Castroville, Shanghai Pierce and Fanny Lacey.”

  Simon wondered if he said this to every couple that came to be married.

  Lieutenant Whittaker listened carefully, his cap in his hand.

  The judge nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Only a small town on the edge of the world here in Texas, but still terrible things and wonderful stories happen, just like in the books. This is a book.” He turned the pages, looking for the last entry. “This is a book,” he repeated. “Great tragedies, gripping love stories, tales of uncommon heroism. Very profound, very thought-provoking. Enter your names here.”

  Simon wrote, dragging one hand behind the other because of the manacles. Doris stood on her toes to write her name, examined it, tipped her head back and forth, decided it was all right. The justice asked if there was a ring and the lieutenant said, in a rigidly controlled voice, “Here.” He held out a thin band of silver, the kind you could buy at the Military Plaza market next to the bird sellers. The kind young girls saved for and wore on their forefingers to shine in the sun and glitter as they helped their mothers dish out tortillas and chilis, cheap and bright.

  And then Doris said I will, and Simon said I will. He lifted his manacled hands over her head and laid his arms around her neck. He kissed her with great care because of his split lip and also so that he did not lose his balance. He felt her body pressed against him, ignoring the pain of the wound that ran from his navel to his sternum. He stood for what seemed to be a long time with his head bent and his face in her hair and nobody said anything. At last he lifted his handcuffed hands over her head again and stepped back. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and perhaps it was her vision, perhaps he had a glow around his head. He hoped so. He had little else. And so they were married. And then he went to his trial before the officers of the tribunal.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Vance House was northeast of the plazas at Paseo and St. Mary’s. It had been taken over by the Union Army, now simply the United States Army. In the main dining room was convened the last military tribunal of the Texas occupation under the auspices of the office of the judge advocate general this day of the twenty-fifth of February 1867 to consider the matter of a charge of homicide preferred against Simon Boudlin, age twenty-four, musician, resident of San Antonio.

  Simon walked through the front doors with Lieutenant Jacob Whittaker at his elbow. Coming down the hall Whittaker took off his cap and said to him, “Listen, Simon, they wouldn’t hang a fiddler. They’d hang a carpenter, a blacksmith, a gambler, or a horse thief but nobody would ever hang a fiddler.”

  Simon didn’t laugh. What was in his mind was that they might not hang him but there was the possibility of several years behind bars in Huntsville.

  “I am your counsel. Your defender.” The lieutenant pressed back his glasses. He carried the mail sack in one hand and a sheaf of papers carefully annotated under his arm. This case would help him transfer into the judge advocate general’s department. If he could win it. “None of us on the tribunal have to be lawyers, just chosen at random from various branches. The man prosecuting you is Captain Garth. It’s his job, it would not be personal.”

  “Yes.” Simon slowed. “Hold up a minute.” He leaned against the wall, hoping the faintness would go away.

  Whittaker waited patiently. “Take your time,” he said.

  Simon straightened at last. He said, “Lieutenant, I know you held Miss Dillon in great regard.”

  A long tense silence and then Whittaker said, “Love and war,” in a stiff voice. “So it goes.” The late sunlight glinted from his small round eyeglasses and the uniform itself seemed to hold him upright in a strict rectitude. “I wish the best for her. Selfless, very noble, I know. But she has made her decision and so deserves every good thing. That might or might not include you and by God it better.” He held the mail sack in one hand, his sliding papers in the other. “I asked to be appointed your defense counsel. I will do whatever is in my power.”

  They walked on. The hall seemed endless. The wallpaper was a dizzying repetition of milkmaids with feet the size of pie wedges dancing in some kind of foliage. Two privates had been posted on either side of the double doors to the dining room. One opened the doors and then shut them as they passed through. Inside, Whittaker came to attention, tucked his cap under one arm, and saluted. The big man with the giant shoulder boards at the middle of the long table stood and returned it, sat down again. He was clearly Colonel Frelich. The other officers he didn’t know. Had no way of knowing.

  He stood before the board with his hands held low to hide the manacles. Doris had soaked her handkerchief and wiped his face, but there were still blood spots and stains on his shirt, his vest, his pants, rimming his nostrils. He saw that the butternut vest was not only missing buttons but it was cut through as was his shirt.

  They began by reading aloud the military statutes that made the tribunal legal, then the state law against homicide in all its variations (willful, negligent, premeditated) and this went on until they finally came around to self-defense. Also charges of resisting an arresting officer and attacking another prisoner in the cells.

  Simon was asked by Judge Advocate Frelich to describe what had happened.

  He paused. Someone poured him a glass of water, but he didn’t drink it because it would have been difficult with the manacles. It would have been humiliating.

  Judge Advocate Frelich observed this and said, “You do not have to stand, you are injured. Sit down. Now, you had fired this Pruitt from off of your music band, did you not?” The man’s stand collar bit into the flesh of his neck; the new spring sun shone on his balding head and the grain of the table, bounced off the opened law books, and reflected into men’s faces.

  Simon sat down in a chair pulled out for him. “Yes sir.”

  “So you differed. You had disagreements.”

  “No. There wasn’t any disagreement. I told him we didn’t want him.”

  An officer who was probably Captain Garth stood to speak. He said, “Someone has said that at Colonel Webb’s dance they overheard you telling Miss Doris Dillon, the Webb family’s governess, that you would strangle Pruitt.”

  “That’s immaterial, it’s unacceptable,” said Lieutenant Whittaker. “Overhearing is not acceptable. Unless it was said directly to this someone, we could not consider it.”

  “Why not?” Judge Advocate Frelich looked around at the others.

  Lieutenant Whittaker said, “Sir, the entire legality of military tribunals trying and sentencing civilians who are not in a state of rebellion is questionable. There are no precedents. We have to go with state law. That is the state law concerning hearsay.”

  Frelich shook his finger in the air. “Yes, there are precedents for trying civilians. Those who conspired to kill Lincoln all were hanged by a military tribunal.”

  “Correct. But they were in a state of rebellion and conspiring to incite more rebellion and an armed uprising. This is what you might call an ordinary homicide case, one civilian
killing another civilian. Much better handled by state authorities, except there are very few local or state authorities at present.”

  Frelich regarded him in silence. Finally: “Are we proceeding with the prewar laws of the state of Texas, then, concerning homicide? Resisting arrest and so on?”

  Captain Garth said, “We have to. We have no other.”

  “Very well. Again I ask you Mr. Boudlin, tell us what happened.”

  Simon said, “I sacked Pruitt and told him to leave the band. The next night he came into the Plaza House Hotel and sat at a table and started shouting for a certain song. I don’t like to play it or sing it. It’s uncommonly filthy. He was trying to embarrass me.”

  “What song?” Lieutenant Whittaker turned toward Simon, curious.

  “‘The Hog-Eye Man.’”

  Several of the officers sitting around the table nodded in a knowing way. Garth made a wry face. Frelich gestured: Go on.

  “Then Miss Dillon came to the door of the Plaza House and called in to me. She had something urgent to tell me. Pruitt kept on singing in a loud voice where she could hear the words, one of which begins with ‘F’; I told him to shut up.”

  “Something urgent?” Frelich lifted his eyebrows.

  “Yes, urgent,” said Garth. “Colonel Webb had insisted that the sheriff put out a warrant for Mr. Boudlin’s arrest. Miss Dillon had rushed out to warn him.”

  Frelich’s foot tapped in a slow beat under the table. He said to Simon, “Then you are in a fistfight with this man.”

  “No, sir.” Simon sat and tried to gather his words. “The fight with Pruitt was over in about thirty seconds.”

  “But you are beat up,” said Frelich.

  Lieutenant Whittaker spun an earpiece of his eyeglasses in one hand and then put them back on with slow care. “Mr. Boudlin was taken to jail, the cells behind city hall. Then apparently the sheriff put a man into his cell with him. Man called Tom Shettle, a notorious brawler. There are five cells back there, only two of them were occupied, and yet the sheriff put Shettle in with Mr. Boudlin, with the results that you see.”

  “The sheriff then is derelict in his public duty and liable for charges of battery.”

  “Yes, sir, but we will take that up presently. That is another matter.”

  Frelich settled in his chair in a certain indefinable way, with a slight narrowing of the eyes. The other officers had said very little. They were here for the fireworks and it appeared the fireworks were about to begin.

  Frelich said, “Colonel Webb has no authority to order a sheriff to write out a warrant for anybody.”

  “Well, sir, we are not sure about military authority to enforce any laws whatsoever on civilians. We’re under martial law and to tell you frankly, it leaves me confused.”

  “He has no authority,” said Frelich in a stubborn voice, the voice of somebody who is not to be moved, not by arguments, gunfire, avalanches, or plague. “None. What was the warrant for?”

  “Intention to abduct Miss Dillon.”

  Frelich laughed. “He invented that. It is no law. Not anywhere.”

  Simon listened to them wrangle with the law and thoughts about the law, what kind of law should be in force now that the war was over. What was military law as applied to civilians? Garth was eloquent, Whittaker came in repeatedly with allusions to ancient lawmakers, Frelich became bored.

  “Be quiet,” Frelich said. “All of you. Mr. Boudlin, continue. He was singing this song, this Hawk-Eye Man song. Miss Dillon comes in to warn you of something, this Pruitt keeps on singing. You tell him to shut up.”

  “Yes. Then she came in directly to the saloon, although I called out to her not to. It is not a place for a respectable woman. Then Pruitt grabbed her skirt and called out one of the lines of the song that was a terrible insult. He actually grabbed hold of her skirt and jerked at it as she came near him.” Simon paused to regain his balance, his breath. “I hit him with my fiddle bow and broke it across his face. He came out with a knife and brought it up underhand. I had the sharp broken end of the bow in my hand and I stabbed him with it.”

  Silence fell. All talk of the law stopped. This is what the law came down to, this bar fight, this stream of blood spraying from a man’s heart.

  “And did he harm you?”

  “Yes, sir. He got me in the belly.”

  “Let us see the wound.”

  They unlocked the manacles. Simon stood carefully and opened his vest, unbuttoned his bloodied shirt. The streak of the wound went from below his drooping belt to his sternum. A line of dried blood and swollen flesh cut straight up his abdominal muscles. Clearly a knife wound.

  Frelich considered it a moment with an expert eye. He said, “This was meant to spill the guts. What is the word? I can’t think of it.”

  “Eviscerate,” said Whittaker.

  “Yes, eviscerate.” He gestured to Simon. “Enough.”

  Simon buttoned up and sat down again. A guard came forward with the manacles, but Frelich held up a hand and the guard went back to stand by the door.

  Whittaker said, “So you see, he acted in self-defense.”

  Captain Garth said, “Perhaps. Perhaps. However, just the day before Mr. Boudlin stated that he intended to kill Mr. Pruitt at a public gathering and if you will not accept the words of the man who overheard him tell Miss Dillon that he intended to strangle Pruitt, then we will have to call Miss Dillon herself as a witness. I am sorry to have to do that. But this leads us to premeditation and I intend to pursue it.”

  “Pursue away,” said Whittaker. “You cannot call her. A wife cannot testify against her husband, not by any law.”

  Silence.

  “Eh?” Frelich leaned forward. “What?”

  “They are married,” said Whittaker.

  “Since when?” Frelich leaned forward, attentive.

  “Since this morning at eight o’clock by the San Fernando bells.”

  Simon, now that his hands were free, took up the glass of water and poured it all down his throat. His expression said, Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it. He set the glass down with a click.

  “This is irregular,” said Garth.

  “In what way?” Whittaker regarded him with a blank face, innocent of all trickery or wrongdoing.

  “Who married them?” Garth sounded a bit desperate. “Perhaps he does not have the authority. Was it a duly recognized Justice of the Peace?”

  “Appointed by Governor Throckmorton. Or reappointed.”

  The officers sat back in their chairs. Whittaker noted arms crossed, shrugs.

  “So.” Whittaker pressed down his glasses again. “A wound clearly proving assault with intent on Pruitt’s part and a great many witnesses to the same. All Simon had to fight back with was a broken fiddle bow. He defended Miss Dillon against assault and insult with nothing but a fiddle bow. There will be no testimony regarding prior threats, and I ask not only for acquittal of all charges but adequate compensation from Sheriff Patterson.”

  Again, a long, ticking silence. Frelich the judge advocate sat with the final word in his head, his right to pronounce guilt or innocence, his ability to override any vote by those officers inferior to him in rank.

  “Compensation for what?” he said.

  “His fiddle. The sheriff either broke it up himself or allowed a prisoner to do so.” Whittaker bent down to the U.S. Mail sack and lifted it to the table. He stood, opened it, and lifted out every smashed, ruined piece of Simon’s fiddle.

  Frelich’s mouth dropped open. “Gott in Himmel!” He bent forward and picked up the splintered neck with its delicate scroll. He turned it to see the maker’s name on the inner top block. “This is a Markneukirche!”

  Whittaker did not smile. He barely moved. He said, “Yes.”

  He knew he had won.

  “This is a sin against God himself.” Frelich turned a piece of the face in his hands; it had parted at the f hole. “Did the sheriff not have to write down the possessions the prisoner came in with?”r />
  “He didn’t even write down Simon’s name properly,” said Whittaker.

  Frelich picked up one of the sprung bouts, moved his fingers across the rich, broken woods. He looked up at Simon.

  “I don’t want any compensation,” said Simon. “It would take time.”

  Frelich carefully returned the pieces to the U.S. Mail sack. Watching him do it Simon realized that the Markneukirche had saved him one last time. One last time.

  “Do you want this?” asked Frelich.

  “I would like to keep the scroll.”

  Frelich drew the strings out of the hole in the inner rods, dropped them to the floor, and then expertly pushed the pegs in tight with the heel of his hand. He held out the scroll. Simon reached with his broken, discolored hand to take it. Frelich glanced down at his hand and then sat back. He gestured to the two privates to remove the accused. They stepped forward and Simon rose from the chair. They took him by the upper arms.

  “Please wait outside,” he said.

  Simon sat on a bench out in the hall, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed. He felt a tap at his shoulder and looked up to see one of the guards holding out a dipper of water. He said thank you and drank it down. It seemed his injured body could never get enough water. Then the guard lit and held out to him a cigarillo; Simon took it with a nod and smoked part of it, and then bent to toss it into a cuspidor. Fell back against the wall again.

  Simon was cleared of all charges. Verdict: self-defense. The bells of San Fernando rang out five o’clock. The bird sellers with their caged finches sat on the dirt of Military Plaza offering these captive wild creatures to any passerby. The fires of the evening were lit, the fallen leaves of the mesquites in the campo santo stirred among the graves like rattling minute petitions to the living, and the great shining paddles of Guenther’s mill turned over the waters of the San Antonio River again and again as if searching for some running treasure that flows through our hands and is finally lost to the sea.