| |
“When doubtful of proper courtroom parlance, shout, ‘Order in the court!’ at the judge.” – P.D.
When attending formal gatherings and tribunals, it’s important to arrive a tad on the late side to keep them waiting for your grand entrance. I didn’t disappoint. Zippy and I surfed into the courthouse—a normal house on an extensive melon farm. A youth led me to the room where the tribunal was to be held. The air in the house was heavy and warm from the balmy temperatures outside. It didn’t help matters that every fireplace in the house was lit. When the youth began to open the door for my mini mule and me, I held up a hand and scared him away by yelling, “Shoo!” several times.
I took some cleansing breaths before whispering, “Zippy, hold very still for a minute. This is going to get dramatic.” I planted one foot on her back and lifted the other leg, violently kicking open the door to the tribunal room. I fell to the floor, but I managed to clamber onto Zippy’s back before everyone in the room noticed my blunder.
As Zippy trundled into the room, I cast several sweeping glances to get my bearings. It was practically full of people—and furniture. Chairs had been lined up in rows for the audience. Every one of the chairs was filled. Several dozen children and one very short man sat on the shoulders of others to see. A few stray men, women, and dogs were sitting in the aisles. At the far end of the room, Gen. Washington and three other officers sat at a table, drumming their respective fingers against the wood.
Zippy was taking her time to cross the room, so I called out, “Is it my turn to take the stand? Which of the cooks was it? I hope it was Crusty Zo. That woman is a....” I scanned the room and noticed Crusty Zo was in the audience, armed with her soiled ladle. It’s a good thing I was out of arm’s reach.
I’ll take a moment to pause and preface the rest of this, the darkest episode of my life. The tribunal chamber was almost totally devoid of natural light, which was a shame architecturally-speaking. On a non-lighting-related note, that day marked the closest I’ve ever felt to what some describe as shame. The feeling passed, of course, as all things do when they’re outmatched by my unflappable jolliness, but at the time, I was feeling pretty down. With the context set, let’s get back to the story.
Washington raised a small yet dignified trowel and smashed it into a half-ripe melon on the table before him, splattering the first row of the audience with juice. Washington turned and addressed a guard standing behind him, “Is this really the closest thing you could find to a gavel?” The guard shrugged. Then, upon realizing who he’d shrugged at, the soldier saluted. Turning back to the audience, Washington continued, “The court will come to order. We are gathered here to weigh the facts in the court martial of Pritchard Daviess. Take your seat.” Washington gestured at a chair which was angled, so it faced both the audience and the head table. I stepped down from Zippy’s back and strode over to the chair.
Behind me, I heard Zippy let out a squeak. I spun around several times before reaching out and grabbing a piece of furniture to stop myself from being sick. The floor must’ve just been polished. I watched in parental horror as Zippy was tied up by a group of soldiers. They dragged her to the back of the room where she hee-hawed several times in fright before one of the soldiers lodged a cantaloupe in her mouth.
“How dare you vagabonds do this to my mule? She is a lady and deserves better treatment than this.” Laughter erupted from the audience. Perhaps it was just a case of the hiccups, but as when I’d thought the British soldiers in Philly were attempting to separate me from Zippy, a sort of anger began to bubble in my heart.
Washington slammed the trowel into the melon again. That time, the men and women sitting in the front row opened their mouths to catch the squirting juice. Gen. Washington bellowed, “Sit down!” I sat, confused and shocked at what was happening to me. “Will the prosecution rise and state their case?”
I sprung to my feet, but before I could get out even a small paragraph’s worth of words, Washington slammed his trowel, sending me scurrying for my seat. Washington explained rather loudly, “You’re the defendant not the prosecutor. The prosecution will rise and state their case.”
Slowly, Stubby’s “translator” rose from his seat. He smiled at me. Before I could stop myself, I smiled back. I piped up, “I request that my smile be stricken from the record. It was an involuntary bodily response.” Washington had mashed the melon to pieces by this point with his trowel pounding, so a guard replaced it with a fresh specimen.
Stubby’s translator began, “We stand before you, fair and honorable officers of the Continental Army, in this courtroom today to mete justice upon one....” He paused to peer down at a scrap of paper on his desk before continuing, “Pritchard Olin Jambalaya Daviess.” Murmurs of laughter rippled through the audience.
I singled out one cook in particular who’d laughed. “Not cool, Crudeliahildamine. I never made fun of your name to your face.” She left the room in tears.
Stubby’s translator coughed and resumed his boring speech, “We all know that disobeying binding orders from a commanding officer is treasonous. How much worse, then, shall we declare attempting to kill said commanding officer—the leader of the Continental Army no less? My primary witness will now come forward to explain his memory of the incident.”
The witness was a man I’d never met around the camp. He stood and spoke in a shaky voice, “I saw that man.” Here he pointed at me. “I saw him.... He... he fired a cannonball right for General Washington. If the general hadn’t reached down to pick up his spectacles at the selfsame moment, it would’ve offed him.”
“Thank you, Tim. That’s all. You can sit down.” Stubby’s translator nodded at the man.
Washington spoke next. “Thank you for your testimony. It has been added to the record. Did anyone else see that maniac attempt to take my life?” Nearly every hand shot up, including Washington’s.
I piped up, “Don’t I get to cross section Tim?” I couldn’t remember if that was the correct term, but it sounded right in the moment.
Washington bellowed, “You’ll have a chance to speak, Daviess. In the meantime, shut your flapping maw.” They were harsh words coming from a man who couldn’t eat beef jerky without crying. I brushed off Washington’s comment and the spittle which had accompanied it.
Stubby’s translator continued, “I believe there’s nothing more to say. All of these people—good, honest, unbribed people—saw the accused attempt to kill our fledgling nation’s foremost military hero. The prosecution rests.”
Washington turned to me. “I shudder to inform you of this, but it’s now time for you to speak in defense of your actions. Let’s cap the time at five minutes. Go.”
I leapt from my chair and paced around the front of the room, lifting my knees as I walked in mincing strides. “I, Pritchard Olin Jambalaya Daviess, am also an honest man. A man who fights for what matters most to him—that miniature mule held unlawfully captive in the back of the room. I’m a chipper man to a fault line. Is my eyesight poor? Yes. Should I have been allowed to operate a cannon in that state? Perhaps not. Was I merely doing my duty in an attempt to drive back the British? I think so. What you may have forgotten, General Washington, is that it was my mini mule, Zippy, and me who saved you from the fire on the night before the Delaware crossing. If we wished you dead, we could’ve left you where you lay, asleep as the flames crept toward your bed. It’s not our fault that your favorite pair of teeth was destroyed in the conflagration.” Washington shut his mouth, his eyes darting around the room anxiously. It’d been obvious he’d been wearing his spare pair ever since the fire. They had a greenish tint.
“We did what we could to save you because we knew it was the right thing to do. I’d now like to call a character witness, Marky Lafayette.” I glanced over at him. Lafayette’s eyes widened, and he shook his head in the negative. “Don’t be modest, Marky. Get up here.” Again, he refused. I shrugged at the audience, “French people—am I right? To conclude, I think this whole trial is a sham.” I pointed several menacing fingers at Stubby’s translator. “That man isn’t even a lawyer. He’s just a two-bit translator who’s paraphrasing the Baron’s words at best.” I returned to my seat. “The defense rests, comfortably.”
Washington pounded the replacement melon to a pulp. “The court will now recess to charge the accused.” The men at the front table huddled together for what the court reporter later described as “the time it takes to light a match.” Another officer at the table delivered the verdict, “Guilty. Consider yourself dishonorably discharged from the Continental Army. All privileges and pensions which were to have been granted to you following the war have hereby been revoked. Leave this camp and do not return.”
Upon hearing the verdict, I leapt from my chair, knocking it over in the process. I didn’t bother to right it. Instead, I strode over to the table where the panel of officers still stood, taking a moment to shake each of their hands. When I reached Washington, I leaned in and whispered, “Would you still like the invisible ink? One wink for yes, and two winks for you’ll think about it.” Washington blinked once. “Message received, General. I’ll keep the ink flowing.” I walked to where Zippy was being guarded in the back of the room. I knelt down and untied my mule daughter’s fetters and plucked the cantaloupe from her jaws. I kept it for a snack. Picking her up, I hugged Zippy and placed her in my satchel. We left the room without looking back. At least, I didn’t look back. From her vantage point, Zippy could’ve poked her head out of the satchel and taken a final glance at the tribunal.
And so, I, Po J. Daviess, an American hero, was met with personal disgrace. I suppose that’s what happens when you stand up to the translation-industrial complex. Since my court martial, a vision test has been administered to all soldiers who wish to shoot the big guns.
