These Honored Dead

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  As we took the stairs two at a time, I asked if he had seen the hotel ledger, which I’d left opened to the key page by his side of the bed when I’d gone to sleep the previous night.

  “I did. Well done, Speed. I won’t ask how you obtained it.”

  “Better not to.”

  “I’m not familiar with the inn it’s from, though. Could a man—or woman, for that matter—ride on horseback from there to Menard and back in the course of a single night?”

  I considered this. “It would be possible, I suppose, if the person rode fast enough, subject to exactly when they left.”

  Lincoln nodded. “So what you’ve found is good evidence, but it may not be conclusive. It gives the doctor an alibi for the night of Lilly’s murder, depending on when he was actually at the inn. And the problem is—”

  “The only person who could attest to that is the very same person whom the doctor is accused of murdering,” I said.

  We walked the rest of the way to the courthouse in silence.

  Precisely at the moment the church bells sounded nine o’clock, Matheny shouted for order in the court. When the boisterous, jostling crowd had finally complied, there was a loud knock and Judge Thomas emerged from his anteroom and ascended the bench. He held a smoldering cigar in one hand and clenched several unlit ones in his other fist. The judge nodded at Matheny.

  “Hear-yay, hear-yay,” Matheny squeaked, looking from one side of the dim chamber to the other. He was wearing a tightly knotted cravat under his frockcoat. “The September Term of the Circuit Court for Sangamon County is called to session. All persons having business shall approach and be heard.” Looking at a scroll of parchment in his hands, he added: “The Court calls as its first case of the day The People against Allan Patterson.”

  Judge Thomas sucked on his cigar and looked out at the counsel table where Prickett sat straight at attention, his high-collared, stiff-necked shirt looking brilliant white against his black frockcoat this morning. I thought he’d likely ordered Mrs. Prickett to launder it with particular care for his starring role this week.

  “Are the People ready to proceed?” the judge asked.

  Prickett rose and said, with much authority, “We are, Your Honor.”

  Without looking toward Lincoln or Patterson at the other counsel table in the well, the judge bellowed: “Bring forth the jury box, Clerk.”

  Matheny lugged forward a heavy wooden cube, some ten inches on all sides, with a great brass latch. Sheriff Hutchason, standing guard near Patterson, helped him settle it on the small clerk’s stand at the base of the bench.

  “What’s in there?” my sister Martha asked quietly from beside me.

  “It’s got tickets in it with the names of a couple dozen potential jurors for this Term,” I whispered back. “Any free white citizen who’s a resident of the county, a property holder, and between twenty-one and sixty years is eligible. Matheny will draw twelve names at random for the doctor’s jury.”

  “You mean any free white male citizen,” said Martha.

  “Well, of course.”

  Martha looked as if she had more to say on the subject, but before she could, Matheny had drawn a key from his pocket, unlocked the latch on the wooden box, and swung open the top panel with a great squeak. Looking off in the other direction, he thrust his hand into the box, swirled it around, and drew out a single scrap of paper. The courtroom leaned forward in anticipation.

  “James Short,” called Matheny.

  A sallow-faced man in loose-fitting canvas trousers and a stained work shirt stood up a few rows behind us. Matheny beckoned him forward and pointed to a crowded row of chairs off to the right of the judge’s bench.

  “Is he good for the doctor?” Martha whispered frantically as Short walked past our places. Jane Patterson, who was sitting on the other side of Martha, leaned over to hear my answer as well.

  “Farmer. Born in Kentucky. Should be open-minded, I think,” I replied in a low voice.

  “Burton Judson,” called Matheny, reading from the next ticket. Jane looked at me.

  “Farmer from Tennessee, originally,” I whispered as Judson took a seat next to Short. “Not the swiftest fellow. His mill pond overflowed last spring and drowned all his chickens.”

  “John Alkire,” Matheny announced.

  “Grain merchant from Pennsylvania,” I whispered as he walked past. “Sharp.”

  “I object, Your Honor,” Prickett called as Alkire was opening the gate to the well of the courtroom. “Mr. Alkire has had, I believe, dealings with one of the victims in the course of the trade.”

  Judge Thomas’s face had become tinged with red. He pointed at Alkire with an accusing finger, as if it were he in the dock, and asked, “Any reason you can’t be impartial in hearing the evidence in this matter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Lincoln?” queried the judge.

  Lincoln was tipped back in his chair, a look of calm disinterest on his face. “Seems fair enough to me,” he said.

  “I agree,” said the judge. “Overruled.” He motioned impatiently for Alkire to continue forward to the jury box. “Next.”

  And so it went. The twelve-man jury was seated before the bells struck for ten. It comprised six farmers, two merchants, and assorted tradesman—a reasonable selection of the county’s population, I thought, and as fair a jury as Lincoln and Patterson could hope to find.

  Judge Thomas called for a short recess and stalked off the bench. As soon as the antechamber door closed behind him, the courtroom exploded with noise. The men in the audience cursed their misfortune at not having been selected for the jury; the men in the jury box cursed their misfortune at having been so. Martha and Jane traded nervous conversation. All were expectant.

  CHAPTER 29

  David Prickett stood alone in the well of the courtroom. He contemplated the jury through intense, unblinking eyes that peered out beneath thick eyebrows. He gave the barest of tosses to his billowing hair. He straightened his already straight back. He gave his shoulders a luxuriant roll. He tugged on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves and stretched out his powerful fingers. With every subtle movement, the jury leaned a little closer in anticipation. Finally, when the courtroom was on a razor’s edge, he opened his mouth.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” Prickett began, “I am called upon to bring to the view of the court and the jury the circumstances of three murders, each foul and unnatural. Three valuable citizens of our county, each pure in their morals, amiable in their conduct and deportment, and of spotless reputation, have fallen victim to a cruel assassin. Cut off in the prime of life, they have been rudely torn from the embraces of their loved ones. They have been consigned to the silent tomb.

  “This is a case of murder three times. Three times the defendant Patterson made the evil decision to take up a deadly weapon. A knife. A paving stone. His own depraved hands. And three times the defendant Patterson made the evil decision to use that weapon to end the life of a treasured member of our community. Three times he committed murder. I regret, and once you’ve heard the evidence you’ll come to regret as well, that he can hang only once for his crimes.”

  As Jane Patterson gave a gasp from beside me, the crowd murmured its approval. Jane clutched Martha’s arm with gloved hands. Her body was rigid with fear. Sitting next to Lincoln in front of us, Dr. Patterson seemed to draw in his breath.

  “Let me be more specific,” Prickett continued, shifting his weight to his other foot and giving his hair another toss. “Let me be more graphic. It is my duty in this case to bring forth the facts on behalf of the People, and the facts of this case are unavoidably graphic. They are revulsive and graphic and disgusting. I know we have a number of the fair sex in the gallery today, and I have no right to tell you to leave, but I say to the gentlemen in the audience that I told Mrs. Prickett she was to stay away this week and I think many of you will want to give the same direction to your own wives.”

  “Mrs. Prickett would stay away for all time if she
had any sense,” Martha hissed into my ear. I motioned for her to remain quiet.

  Prickett paused, as if giving time for weak-minded wives to decamp, but no one moved. Those lucky enough to have seats had lined up by the courthouse steps starting at seven in the morning. Everyone remained riveted to the prosecutor’s words.

  “The graphic facts are these,” Prickett continued. “The defendant Patterson approached the first victim, the young woman Lilly Walker, in the private setting of her new home. The home she had just found as a shelter, a harbor, for her young, storm-tossed life. The defendant Patterson took up a knife and slashed Lilly’s throat. Slashed it with such violence that her life’s blood drained right out of her.” There were gasps from the crowd.

  “The next victim was Lilly’s younger brother, a kind little boy, an orphan, a harmless chap by the name of Jesse. What was his crime? What had he done to merit this blackguard’s murderous wrath? Not a thing. The boy had never uttered a cross word in his life. And yet, this man, this depraved villain, took a heavy paving stone and crashed it into the boy’s skull. Where a moment earlier his happy face had been dotted with freckles, that same face, now frozen into a death mask, was flecked with his blood. And with bits of his brain.”

  I swallowed hard. The crowd was in an uproar. Several men stood and gestured angrily at Patterson, calling out, “String him up!” or “Let him swing!” A number of women looked faint. Next to Martha, Jane trembled. At least three husbands ordered their wives to leave the courtroom immediately. From their row of chairs in the corner of the well, the jurors watched the upheaval closely. Not one of them looked toward Lincoln or Patterson.

  On the bench, Judge Thomas pounded his gavel angrily. Matheny hollered for order. Sheriff Hutchason, who had been standing near to the counsel table where Lincoln and Patterson sat, prowled along the railing, threatening to arrest anyone who was standing and shouting. After several cacophonous minutes, Prickett was finally able to resume.

  “I now come to the third murder, the one perhaps most chilling of all because the defendant Patterson executed it with his bare hands. Having killed with weapons, he now decided he could not let any implement come between himself and his victim. His lust for death requires his skin to touch the victim’s. His hands must encircle the victim’s neck and wring the life from it.”

  There was another outburst from the crowd, which the judge silenced immediately with a shaking fist. I felt a deep pit growing in my stomach.

  “The Widow Harriman was a well-known presence in this county. She was a hardworking woman, a decent woman, who’d persevered after her husband’s untimely death. She was part of the soil, the bedrock, of our community. In an act of Christian charity that brings glory to her and to our whole community, she had opened her arms, her home, to bring Lilly and Jesse in from the storm.”

  Listening to Prickett’s apparently heartfelt tribute, I could not help but think of his very different words about Rebecca that I had overheard in the sheriff’s backyard. At the same time, I could hardly begrudge the prosecutor for giving Rebecca in death the public praise she’d so fully deserved in life.

  “The evidence will show the Widow Harriman had figured out the defendant Patterson was the evil doer who’d struck down her wards. That she had travelled here, to Springfield, to confront him with her knowledge and they had quarreled about her accusation. That, tragically, before she could tell anyone else about her findings, he followed her back to her home and wrung the life out of her pious body.”

  Prickett moved to stand directly in front of the row of jurors, his back now turned toward the gallery. Even from this angle, his self-righteous posture gave him a commanding look.

  “You may be wondering,” Prickett continued, “why the three victims allowed Patterson to get close enough to inflict his fatal wounds. Why did they not fight back? Why did they not flee?

  “There are two reasons, we will prove, both chilling and both sinister. Patterson was, in each case, a doctor to the victims. They knew him well and they trusted him. If a medical man who has treated you approaches and asks a question, surely it is natural you will listen. Surely your first thought is not flight or fear. You gentlemen of the jury may wish to consider how many of your wives have also been treated by the defendant Patterson. How close may your wife have come to the same unspeakable fate at the hands of this scoundrel?”

  Lincoln jumped to his feet and called out, “Objection, Your Honor. My brother counsel should not be able to argue—”

  “Overruled,” Judge Thomas said without turning to look at Lincoln. The judge was reclined back in his chair, which was orientated toward the spot where Prickett stood, and puffing vigorously on his cigar.

  Prickett nodded toward the judge and continued: “The second reason they did not flee is the defendant Patterson gave them, in each case, a foul potion rendering them helpless. Unable to protect themselves. Indeed, unable to move at all as he inflicted the fatal wounds.

  “The evidence will be that Patterson often boasted about his special, powerful liquors. That he went so far as to taunt the other medical men in Springfield about the supposed medicinal properties of his brew. About the secret formula, known only to him. Well, what was truly only known to him was his evil use of the potion. It was not an agent of healing. It was an agent of murder.”

  A round of gasps echoed through the courtroom, although they were more muted this time. I glanced over at the jurors and saw a number of them were whispering to each other and pointing at Patterson. Meanwhile, Prickett walked back to the center of the well.

  “After my turn is done,” Prickett continued, “my brother Lincoln is going to rise and say a few words. Mr. Lincoln has a folksy nature about him, and I’ll admit his stories make even a serious fellow like myself chuckle from time to time.” Prickett attempted what I thought was intended to be a self-deprecating smile, but the mood did not suit him and the smile looked more like a grimace. It was the first false note he’d hit.

  Prickett seemed to realize as much himself, because he quickly reverted back to his haughty pose and continued: “I want you to listen closely to what he says. Listen to the substance of what he says, not merely the amusing digressions.” For the first time, the prosecutor gestured toward the table where Lincoln and Patterson sat, and the eyes of the jury followed the sweep of his arm.

  “More particularly, listen to hear if there is any substance to what he says. Can Mr. Lincoln prove Dr. Patterson did not know each of the victims? Can Mr. Lincoln prove Dr. Patterson did not render each of them insensible with his foul potion? Can Mr. Lincoln prove—”

  Lincoln was on his feet again, but before he could get the word “objection” out of his mouth Judge Thomas said, pointing at him with the burning end of his cigar, “It’s only attorney argument, Mr. Lincoln. I’m not going to stop him. You’ll need similar latitude, I’ve no doubt. You may proceed, Attorney Prickett.”

  “Can Mr. Lincoln prove,” Prickett repeated, a sly smile of triumph on his face, “that someone other than Dr. Patterson was the one who struck the fatal blows? Who killed Lilly Walker, and little Jesse, and finally the Widow Harriman? The answer is he will not be able to prove any of these things. Mr. Lincoln is a shrewd advocate, but even he cannot spin gold from dross.

  “The truth—the unspeakable, unthinkable, and yet, you will soon see, unavoidable truth—is that Patterson did commit these crimes. The defendant did commit these murders, all three of them. And once you’ve spoken for the now-silent victims with your verdict, gentlemen, Sheriff Hutchason will hand Patterson over to the last man he’ll see on God’s Earth. The dispenser of final justice. The hangman.”

  Prickett took his seat as Jane slumped against Martha’s shoulder. Shouts of approval and vigorous applause bounced around the spectator section. Judge Thomas sucked on his cigar for a few extra moments, letting the noise fill the courtroom. When it died down, he looked over at the jury and said, “We’re in recess for the midmorning break, gentlemen. Feel free to stand
and stretch if you’d like. Then we’ll hear from Mr. Lincoln.”

  CHAPTER 30

  During the fifteen minutes that followed, Lincoln did not speak to anyone, not even his own client. At one point, he rose from his chair and sat atop the wooden counsel table, his long legs dangling nearly to the floor. His socks, one black and the other a sort of grubby gray, were readily visible beneath his hitched-up pants. Lincoln leaned forward and rested his prominent chin on his palm in a thoughtful posture. He remained frozen in this position even when Matheny called the courtroom back to order and Judge Thomas ascended the bench.

  “You may proceed, Mr. Lincoln,” the judge said.

  The gentlemen of the jury stared at my friend expectantly. He remained motionless and mute.

  “Mr. Lincoln?” the judge said again. “If you’ve got anything to say by way of an opening statement, now’s your time.” Another pause. “Because otherwise, Prickett should begin—”

  Abruptly, Lincoln straightened up and slid off the table to stand on the floor. There was a collective intake of breath from the courtroom, as if a marble statue of antiquity had suddenly sprung to life. Lincoln stared out at the gallery, then back at the judge and jury, like a man trying to gain his bearings upon waking from a long sleep.

  “I was thinking . . . ,” he began, before trailing off. He cocked his head back and forth and gesticulated with his arms. Then he seemed to win—or lose (it was impossible to say which)—the argument he’d been having with himself, and he began again.

  “I was thinking of the first time I piloted a steamboat,” Lincoln said. “I suppose it was the only time I’ve piloted a steamboat, but the way it lodges in my mind, it was the first time I’d done so. It was March, a few years back, the year eighteen hundred and thirty-two. I was living up in New Salem, right along the Sangamon River, where I was helping to run a small general store.”

  Lincoln was standing in the middle of the well by now, addressing himself directly to the jury, which looked back with an admixture of confusion and wonder. Both Martha and Jane gave me questioning glances. I shrugged my shoulders; I had no greater understanding of Lincoln’s method than did they.