by DL Fowler
A cacophony of cheers and hisses fill the room. My ears are beset by ringing.
I swallow. “I release my supporters and urge them to vote for a man who will carry a strong anti-Nebraska message to Washington City. In my humble opinion, that man is Judge Lyman Trumbull.”
On the tenth ballot, Trumbull wins. My body goes slack, weak. We succeed in sending an anti-Nebraska man to the Senate who will challenge Douglas at every turn. But once again, I fall short of my aim.
A wave of new energy washes over me, sparked by a fresh idea. I smooth the wrinkles from my suit, straighten my tie, and pull back my shoulders before walking over to Trumbull’s office. I ask him and his supporters straight out whether they will support my effort to unseat Senator Douglas when he stands for re-election in 1858. They receive me warmly and assure me I’ll have their votes in four years.
Later I find Mother seated in our carriage at the base of the Capitol steps with a blanket covering her legs. Her face is as stern as granite.
I climb aboard and sit next to her. “Mother,” I say, taking her hand, “we’ll make another go of it when Douglas’ seat is up, and we will win.”
She pulls her hand away. With her eyes still straight ahead she says, “I shall never speak another word to that Trumbull woman as long as I live.”
In late August, I write a letter to Speed just before going on the Circuit. First, circumstances separated us; next, marriage widened the breach. Now, as the agitation over slavery threatens to rip our country apart, we face the death of our long, intimate friendship. He is dependent on slaves, while I bleed tears over the abuse of one human by another.
Dear Speed;
You know I dislike slavery; and you admit the abstract wrong of it. So far there is no cause of difference. But you say that sooner than yield your right to the slave—especially at the bidding of those who are not themselves interested—you would see the Union dissolved. I am not bidding you to yield that right. I leave that matter entirely to yourself.
I acknowledge your rights and my obligations under the Constitution in regard to your slaves. I confess I hate to see the poor creatures hunted down and caught and carried back to their stripes and unrewarded toils; but I bite my lip and keep quiet.
In 1841 you and I made a tedious low-water trip by steamboat from Louisville to St. Louis. You may remember that from Louisville to the mouth of the Ohio there were on board a dozen slaves, shackled together with irons. That sight was a continual torment to me; and I see something like it every time I touch the Ohio, or any other slave-border.
It is hardly fair of you to assume that I have no interest in a thing which continually exercises the power of making me miserable. You ought rather to appreciate how much the great body of the Northern people crucify their feelings in order to maintain their loyalty to the Constitution and the Union.
I do oppose the extension of slavery, because my judgment and feelings so prompt me; and I am under no obligation to the contrary.
Your friend always,
A. Lincoln
Speed’s private assurances that he prefers Kansas’ admission as a free state bring me no consolation. I know he would vote for no man who publicly supports stopping the advance of slavery. The slave-breeders and slave-traders are as fully his masters as he is master to his own Negroes. My heart is as wounded now as it was a dozen years ago when he returned to Kentucky.
When the Circuit arrives in Bloomington in late September, I handle the case of a man named Jones who is being sued for damages by Phil Miller. Miller claims that Jones inflicted serious injury on him in a kind of running fight over a ten acre field. On cross examining Mr. Miller, I press him for minute details of the alleged assault and his injuries. On summation, I tell the jury, “I submit to you, that for a fight which spread all over a ten-acre field, this is about the smallest crop of a ten-acre fight you gentlemen ever saw.” Jones is acquitted, but my tolerance for nonsense is reaching its limit.
The following week I leave the Circuit for a case in Cincinnati. A lawyer from Washington City named Peter Watson has hired me to serve as local counsel for a patent suit that was supposed to be tried in Chicago, but got moved on account of the defendant’s illness. The suit against John Manny, our client who is a manufacturer of reapers, is being brought by Cyrus McCormick, whose reputation as an aggressive businessman is well known from one end of the country to the next.
Mr. Manny became the target of McCormick’s wrath after the Manny Reaper bested the McCormick machinery at the Paris Exposition of 1855. In researching the case, I discover that McCormick lost an earlier patent challenge, so our chances of success are good. However, if Mr. Manny loses, he will have to cease production and pay McCormick four-hundred thousand dollars.
On arriving in Cincinnati, I stop in at the hotel where the distinguished cast of lawyers who are defending Manny are lodging. I stride up to Watson in the lobby, and he introduces me to George Harding from Philadelphia, a bookish, wispy-haired fellow, only twenty-eight but already reputed as one of the best patent lawyers in the country. After Harding greets me, Watson gestures to a pudgy, impeccably dressed lawyer named Edwin Stanton of Pittsburg. Stanton glares at me, his full lips puckered as if he’s aiming for a spittoon, and refuses my handshake.
Turning to his partner, Stanton says, “Why did you bring that damned long-armed ape here? He does not know anything and can do no good … If that giraffe appears in the case I will throw up my brief and leave.”
I jerk back and stare at him. After a pause, I calm myself and choose to ignore his insult. I offer him the papers I’ve prepared on the case and insist I’m quite ready to make oral arguments.
Stanton refuses to take the papers.
I look at Harding and offer my papers to him. He takes them and nods.
Without looking at Stanton again, I turn to leave, rage rippling down my spine. When I’m a few steps away, Stanton tells the others in an unrestrained voice, “I can’t imagine how they let that long, lank creature from Illinois enter a courtroom with his dirty linen duster for a coat. Did you see the back of it? It’s splotched with perspiration stains that spread from one armpit to the next. The stain looks like a dirty map of the continent.”
I slow my gait and consider turning back to abuse his ego with ridicule and insults. I decide otherwise and stride away at a quickened pace, imagining someday I’ll show him who’s the better man.
When court convenes, I’m not allowed at the counsel’s table, but I attend sessions anyway, sitting in the back row taking notes. In the end, the judge finds for our client. Later, after my return home, Watson sends me two-thousand dollars in payment for my services on the case. He confesses they did not use my case notes. I return the fee with an explanation that my services did not warrant payment. He sends the money again, expressing his deep regret for the manner in which Stanton treated me. I give one half of it to Billy Herndon, according to our partnership arrangement, and use the remainder to pay off debts.
On the Circuit, still brooding over the Manny affair, I tell Judge Davis, “These eastern lawyers have got as far as Cincinnati now, and they’ll be in Illinois soon. When they come, I will be ready for them.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
In May 1856, Billy Herndon slams The Sangamo Journal down on my desk. “Did you see this?”
I read the headline. President Pierce Gives Recognition to Walker’s Nicaragua Filibuster Regime!
I look up from studying the paper. “It says Walker has called an election for July to set himself up as Nicaragua’s president. He plans to reinstate Black slavery there and encourage southern plantation owners to immigrate so they can benefit from his government’s new policies.”
Billy’s face is red. “Next he’ll want his little kingdom to be annexed into the Union as a slave state.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that what Douglas is plotting? Mercenaries like William Walker carving new territories out of Central American na
tions and bringing them into the Union as slave states under Popular Sovereignty? He’ll flood the Senate with pro-slavery men and outnumber us in the House as well.”
Billy throws up his hands. “Why stop at Central America?”
I pound my fist on the desk. “It’s no longer a fight to keep slavery out of Nebraska and Kansas. We must stop it from spreading over the entire hemisphere. As the soils continue to give out along the coastal plains, more eastern plantations will turn to breeding slaves for sale into new territories. After Nicaragua, they’ll set out to conquer Mexico, Panama, Colombia, Argentina, and more. The demand for slaves will never die out.”
At the end of the month, Billy and I go up to Bloomington for the first state convention of the fledgling Republican Party. Many old Whigs, principally abolitionists and anti-Nebraska men, have been lining up with free-soilers and anti-slavery Democrats to form the new party. Those who believe its platform is too radical have remained Whigs or declared themselves as independent. I’ve tried to walk a thin line, but with blood flowing over the slavery question in Kansas and elsewhere, even in Central America, it’s time to act.
The first to address the convention is my friend O.H. Browning, whose speech fails to excite. When he’s finished, the crowd begins calling out, “Lovejoy” and “Lincoln.” My pulse quickens. Lovejoy glances over at me and I nod, deferring to him. Owen Lovejoy, the brother of the martyred abolitionist editor, is a popular politician throughout the state. He stirs the audience with his oratory, bringing them to their feet with applause.
At his conclusion, the delegates chant my name again. I steady my pulse, unfold myself from my chair, and amble up to the platform. I begin my speech standing at the back of the stage with my hands stuffed into my pockets. “I had picked up a speech in Springfield that I had intended to deliver here, but Browning and Lovejoy stole it from me. Now with what they have added, I give the whole thing when I get back to Springfield. Down there, they will think that it is a great speech.”
Laughter erupts from the crowd.
Without consulting prepared notes, I move forward on the stage as I stress the logic of fighting slavery and declare the eternal rightness of our cause. I make a sweeping gesture with my hand to punctuate my insistence that we restore the Missouri Compromise because it embodies the great principles of American republicanism.
Delegates move from their seats, drawing closer to the platform, some standing at the foot of the stage. I urge the new party to bridle their emotions and fight with the ballot box, not with bullets. I demand that we keep slavery out of Kansas because human bondage is a great evil that is tearing our Union apart. Slapping my hand on the podium, I shout, “We will say to Southern disunionists: We won’t go out of the Union, and you Shan’t.”
My words are met with a thunderous ovation and later, Billy, who is often reserved in his assessment of my speeches, gives me unbridled praise. He tells me, “The flame that has been smoldering has finally broke out. You are now baptized, fresh born with the fervor of a new convert. You spoke with the force of a soul maddened by wrong. Now you have found the cross you’ve been seeking—your great purpose.”
In the lobby, I’m congratulated for helping weld the discordant factions into a vigorous party. My face is warm, not from the fire on the hearth or from drink, but from pride. As we walk back to the inn after a night of celebrating, my steps are buoyant.
Weeks later, at the first national convention of the Republican Party, my name is put forward as a candidate for vice president. Though the honor doesn’t fall on me, I join the national canvass, promoting General Fremont’s presidential aspirations. On my return from a spate of out-of-town speeches, Mother is exceptionally cross with me. I also learn she unleashed her belligerence on our neighbor Jacob Taggart in my absence. When he comes to me and demands that I rebuke her, I say, “Friend, can’t you endure this one wrong done to you without much complaint, for old friendship’s sake? Why, I have had to bear it without complaint or murmur for lo these last fifteen years.”
James Buchanan, a Democrat, is inaugurated president on March 4, 1857. His election is made possible by the disintegration of the old Whig Party, leaving only the nascent Republican movement to contest him.
I read Buchanan’s Inaugural Address in The Sangamo Journal and say to Simeon Francis, the editor, “How does he plan to go about putting an end to the agitation over slavery, patching up the country’s divisions, and beginning to heal the nation?”
Two days later, Francis bursts into my office with a dispatch. The Federal Supreme Court, led by Chief Justice Taney, has rendered a decision in the Dred Scott matter, saying Negroes do not, and cannot, have rights as citizens of the several states. They do not distinguish between free and slaves. Furthermore, Taney says neither Congress, nor any territorial legislature, may deprive its citizens of the right to hold slaves.
Francis shakes his head. “Buchanan says this is the final answer to the slavery question. But in truth, he’s been handed a powder keg.”
I press my palm to my forehead. “This so-called Dred Scott Decision will inflame even the most passive abolitionists. Their anger will sweep across the Northern region like a dry prairie wind fanning a wild fire.”
In the fall, with the U.S. Senate contest still a year away, I succumb to personal and business pressures and return to the Circuit. In Danville one day during an afternoon court recess, Hill Lamon and a visiting lawyer remove their coats and agree to a wrestling match in the town square. After a time of pulling, grappling, and tearing up sod, Hill downs his opponent. Once he takes the top position, he strains to pin the visitor’s shoulders to the ground, and the seam of his trousers gives way. At that very moment, Judge Davis calls us to the next case.
Given no time to change his pants, Hill dons his long-tailed coat and returns to the courtroom. All is well until Hill stoops over to recover a document he has dropped on the floor. His secret now being out, another attorney comes to his aid with a hastily prepared document soliciting funds to purchase a new pair of trousers.
Several other attorneys offer various exorbitant sums for Hill’s relief before the document is laid before me. I wipe my spectacles and peruse its language in detail, as if studying an opposing attorney’s brief. After I digest the matter with all due care, I scribble on it, “I can contribute nothing to the end in view.” Laughter ripples through the courtroom as my reply is passed among the other lawyers.
One evening near the conclusion of our session in Danville, Judge Davis convenes what he calls an “Orgmathorial Court” to deal with my supposed breach of the Circuit code. The offense is charging too little in fees. Earlier in the day, Hill and I are representing a man named Scott, the guardian of a girl who suffers from persistent seizures. We win his case in twenty minutes, and he is so cheerful he pays up immediately. I watch as Hill accepts our fee, and my jaw nearly comes unhinged.
I ask, “How much did you charge that man?”
“Two-hundred and fifty,” he says.
“Hill, that’s all wrong. The service was not worth that sum. Give him back at least half of it.”
“The fee was fixed in advance, and the man is happy.”
“That may be so, but I am not satisfied. This is positively wrong. Go, call him back and return half the money at least, or I will not receive one cent of it for my share.”
Hill follows my instructions, but our conversation doesn’t escape Judge Davis’ ears.
The Judge’s voice booms from the bench. “Lincoln, I have been watching you and Lamon. You are impoverishing this Bar by your picayune charges of fees, and the lawyers have reason to complain of you. You are almost as poor as Lazarus, and if you don't make people pay you more for your services you will die as poor as Job's turkey!”
I glare at him. “That money comes out of the pocket of a poor, demented girl, and I would rather starve than swindle her in this manner.”
When the Orgmathorial Court convenes, I am found guilty an
d fined for my offense against the pockets of my brethren of the Bar. Unshaken, I tell everyone, “Never during its life, or after its dissolution, shall my firm deserve the reputation enjoyed by those shining lights of the profession, ‘Catch ’em and Cheat ’em.’”
On October 10, 1857, I’m at the Woodford County Courthouse in Metamora defending an elderly woman named Melissa Goings, who’s charged with murdering her abusive husband. She has been free on bail since April; even several of her dead husband’s relatives contributed to the one-thousand dollar bond. The whole town believes she killed the old man in self defense. Her principal antagonist is Judge James Harriott.
When the trial commences, Harriott revokes her bond, making it clear he wants to get to the hanging straight away.
“Your Honor,” I say, rising from my seat at a table provided for the parties at trial. “May I prevail on the court for a short recess to allow me to get acquainted with my client and the particulars of her case?”
“Granted,” he says, glaring down from the bench.
I look over my shoulder as we leave the upstairs courtroom and notice the sheriff is lingering behind the bar rather than following us. Since Mrs. Goings is technically in the sheriff’s custody, I consider we are liberated by his negligence. On reaching the front lobby I direct her out the door toward the large public square. We converse for a brief time, after which I return upstairs to the courtroom.
When Judge Harriott gavels the court back into session, Prosecutor Hugh Fullerton jumps to his feet. “Your Honor,” he says pointing to the counsel’s table where I’m seated with my co-counsel. “Where’s the defendant?”
I rise and stare at the judge.
