Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “She’ll be leaving by nightfall,” continued Devol. “I need to get settled aboard before she does.” And with that, Devol broke into a full sprint. I grabbed at his arm but caught only air, and when I took a few steps after him, Lincoln called, “You won’t catch him, Speed.”

  I came to a halt. “You’re probably right. I’ll have to question him once I’m aboard. He won’t be able to run away then.”

  I looked around and saw our pursuit of Devol had taken us directly to the entrance of the Franklin House. “Do you have time to take a meal together?” I asked. “I’d like to make sure I have your thoughts before I set off.”

  Lincoln pulled out his pocket watch. “A quick one. We’re supposed to be in the carriage at four to ride for Edwardsville. Especially after what just happened, I don’t want to test his honor by being even a minute late.”

  “And I’ll need to figure out what I’m going to wear on my journey,” I said. “The messenger I sent isn’t due back with my kit until tomorrow.”

  When we entered the hotel lobby, we found Nanny Mae in her accustomed post in the corner, her work in her hands.

  “What’s the weather today?” she asked in a raspy, cheerful voice.

  “Cold but sunny,” I returned. “You should have a look yourself.”

  “I haven’t a need,” the old woman said, working her knitting needles contentedly, “when I have such reliable informants.”

  “Has Joey S. returned? It turns out I need to leave town today.”

  Nanny Mae knit two full lines without answering, pulling at her yarn as if thinking great thoughts. Or perhaps no thoughts at all. Then she looked up. “I haven’t seen the boy. But there’s a young gentlewoman who arrived while you were out, asking for the two of you. You’ll find her in the public room. I told Kemp to make sure she was properly fed.”

  “A young lady?” said Lincoln, his eyebrows raised.

  “Who is it?” I exclaimed, with hope and anger warring inside of me. I had one idea for who could have appeared, fitting that description, but surely it couldn’t be.

  “Go see for yourself,” Nanny Mae murmured from her knitting.

  CHAPTER 11

  We hurried into the public room. Sitting at the near end of the common table, a large plate of breakfast in front of her, was my sister Martha.

  “Hello, Joshua,” she managed through a mouthful of food. “Mr. Lincoln.”

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  Martha took her time finishing chewing. My sister had an oval face with a clear complexion, light brown hair resting on her shoulders, and an innocent smile. She was still wearing her traveling cloak over her muslin dress, and I could see mud splatters on her calfskin boots. A lace bonnet and a pair of lace gloves lay on the table beside her.

  “You wrote that we’re boarding a steamship heading down the Mississippi and needed proper clothes for the journey. Well, I brought our clothes and here I am, ready to go.”

  “No—I said I was heading down the Mississippi and needed proper attire. I merely wanted you to pack for me.”

  “I’m pretty sure you wrote ‘we,’” replied Martha. She carefully cut off another piece from the slab of bacon on her plate. “But then”—she looked over at Lincoln, who was grinning at her—“penmanship never was Joshua’s strongest suit. So perhaps you blotted the word.” She shrugged lightly and lifted the fork to her mouth. “Pardon me for eating,” she added, “but I’m famished from the journey. We hurried to be sure we made it on time.”

  I so adored Martha that I couldn’t summon up any real anger. She was my closest confidante, seventeen years of age and without a fear in the world. Over the summer, she had maneuvered Judge Speed into allowing her to come visit me in Springfield. Once she arrived, she’d become fast friends with Lincoln and many others in the lively frontier town, and she soon declared she was never going back to the narrow confines of her life at Farmington. I should have known she’d use my note as an excuse to see even more of the world.

  “Well, I am very pleased to see you,” I said, “but sorry you’ve made the long journey in vain. Thank you for bringing my traveling kit. I’ll be sure to send you detailed letters with my impressions of the journey down the river.”

  “And I’ll be sure to write long letters to you too,” said Martha with a smile, “though as we’ll be steaming on the same boat, it may be more sensible for us to talk about our impressions in person.” She paused for another bite. “Why are we going down the river? You didn’t say in the note you sent with that dear boy Joey. Does it have something to do with Father’s boat?”

  “We—I mean, I am steaming on Father’s boat, in point of fact.” I looked over toward a group of men who were talking among themselves at the other end of the common table. In a lower voice, I added, “That’s part of the reason for the journey. I’ve also agreed to help Lincoln with a new client he’s defending, an artist who’s been accused of murder.”

  “We have a new client?” Martha said excitedly. “Sit down and tell me everything.”

  “As always, Miss Speed, your enthusiasm is your most endearing quality,” said Lincoln as he threw himself down on a chair across the table from Martha. He proceeded to relate the washing up of Jones’s body and the interrogation and subsequent arrest of Bingham. In the middle of the narrative, Kemp walked by and I ordered two beef sandwiches, which he returned with just as Lincoln was coming to a close.

  “I wonder what Tessie is like,” Martha said as Lincoln tore into his sandwich. “She must be remarkable to have two such eligible suitors after her.”

  Before Lincoln could respond, the voices of the group of men at the other end of the common table rose in agitation. It was apparent they were arguing among themselves, and snatches of their conversation became audible at our end.

  “We can’t let him stay,” declared one man, dressed like the others in a respectable black frockcoat and tie and a fashionable hat.

  “. . . more time to discuss . . . ,” replied another.

  “. . . nothing more . . . before it’s in place . . .”

  “. . . spread the word . . .”

  “Goddamned slave lover!” thundered the first man, slamming his fist onto the table. There was unanimity on this point, as his fellows nodded their heads vigorously at the epithet.

  Lincoln, Martha, and I were staring baldly at the men by now, and one of them noticed our interest and motioned to his fellows to lower their voices. They continued on with their vigorous discussion, but it was no longer audible to us.

  “I wonder what that was about,” whispered Martha.

  “Alton is a border town in a border state,” I said quietly. “It attracts its fair share of scheming.” I turned to Lincoln and whispered, “Concerning Lovejoy, you suppose?” He nodded.

  “Let’s take our food into the library,” said Lincoln. “I’ve been using it as my temporary office. We can talk in private there.”

  My sister and I followed Lincoln as he ducked through a narrow doorway at the far end of the public room. It was indeed a small library, with perhaps thirty books stacked on a single wooden shelf nailed to the wall and two chairs pressed close together. Strewn around the room were law books and packets of paper and parchment—the familiar detritus of Lincoln’s law practice.

  “I see you’re just as tidy on the circuit as you are at home in Springfield, Mr. Lincoln,” Martha said brightly. He snorted with laughter.

  “You were asking about Tessie,” I said as Lincoln motioned for us to take the chairs. He leaned against the wall and chewed his sandwich with great enthusiasm. “Here—Bingham drew us a portrait.”

  I took it from my pocket and handed it to Martha. She studied the drawing, her brows wrinkled in concentration.

  “She’s very beautiful,” she said. “But I don’t understand. If she had truly promised her heart to Mr. Bingham, this Mr. Jones was no longer a romantic rival.”

  “Perhaps Jones held a grudge from his defeat,” I suggested.
>
  “No, I think Miss Speed is onto something,” said Lincoln between mouthfuls. “We’ll have to admit at the trial they argued that final night—Bingham’s already said as much to Avocat Daumier. But arguing is one thing. Murder is entirely different. If we can prove Bingham had already won the girl’s hand, the supposed motive vanishes.”

  “Where does Tessie live?” asked Martha.

  “On a cotton plantation near Commerce, Mississippi. Just south of the Tennessee border.”

  “Then we shall have to ride the War Eagle to Commerce to find her.” Martha sat back with a self-satisfied smile, as if she had solved the entire case.

  “It’s not that simple,” I said. “For it to be any use for Lincoln, we’ll have to convince her to steam upriver to testify.”

  “Once we make her understand it’s her love whose life is in the balance, she’ll come,” said Martha. “She’ll have no choice.”

  “Do we have time to steam to Commerce and back?” I asked Lincoln.

  He pulled out his small court calendar and studied it. “You’ll have to hurry,” he said. “The travel time on the river alone is going to be twelve, thirteen days at least. Five down and eight back, I should think. The special term starts in just under three weeks. That doesn’t give you much time with Tessie, to say nothing of finding other useful witnesses.”

  “I expect the rest of the useful witnesses will be on the boat steaming downriver with me,” I said. “And the potential other suspects as well. Captain Pound, Hector, the barkeep maybe—and of course your recent client, Devol. If we’re drawing up a list of dishonest men, surely he’s at the very top. Especially if Bingham is right that there was some sort of secret gambling ring aboard.”

  “Don’t forget about the ruffian whom Bingham saw lurking in the corridor outside Jones’s room,” said Lincoln.

  “Him too,” I said. I showed Bingham’s sketch of the hook-nosed man to Martha, who studied it carefully. As she did, I told them what the fool had said about spotting the man boarding a southbound steamer. Lincoln’s eyes widened with interest.

  “Running from the scene of his crime,” Martha suggested excitedly.

  “It could be,” said Lincoln, nodding. “He was following one of them, maybe both of them, and I can’t believe it was a coincidence he turned ’round to head back south at the precise moment Jones was murdered and Bingham ended up in jail for the crime.”

  “If I’m heading all the way down to Commerce,” I said, “didn’t you say you once lodged with someone in that area? A Colonel So-and-So? Perhaps he can be of use.”

  “It’s Colonel Ferguson, William T. Ferguson,” said Lincoln. “He owns a plantation on the western shore of the river between Memphis and Commerce. It was in the Arkansas Territory when I was there. Now the state of Arkansas. I imagine he recalls our time together fondly. I spent two weeks chopping cordwood for the man.”

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Martha.

  Lincoln stretched his legs and gave a lopsided smile. “Because he was willing to pay me for it.” When Martha looked confused, he added, “I’d superintended a flatboat all the way down to New Orleans, and I was returning home to New Salem, Illinois, on the deck of a steamboat. One night an obliging fellow deck passenger ransacked my bag and stole all my money. I lost every penny I’d earned from selling our load of corn and bacon in New Orleans.”

  Martha put her hand over her mouth in horror. Lincoln nodded seriously.

  “So the next day, our steamer puts in at Wappanocca, right across the river from Memphis, to wood. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know a soul for five hundred miles in any direction, and I haven’t a coin to my name. I’ve no way to pay for the rest of my passage. So I start walking through the countryside, and soon enough I run into a man who turns out to be Colonel Ferguson. I ask if he’s got any employment, and he takes a look at me and says, ‘I reckon those forearms of yours can split some cord,’ and I say ‘I reckon they can.’”

  Lincoln laughed. “I ended up living in his barn for two weeks and eating at his table. Chopped enough cordwood to last him through the winter. And he gave me enough money for my passage back to New Salem. If you find Colonel Ferguson, Speed, you tell him Abe Lincoln sends his regards and asks how things are going with the Triple Link Fraternity.”

  “The ‘Triple Link Fraternity’?”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” said Lincoln, his finger across his lips and his eyes twinkling.

  “So it’s settled,” I said. “I’ll interrogate the captain and crew of the War Eagle on the way downriver. I’ll locate Tessie, track down this hook-nosed man, see what your Colonel Ferguson can add. The real murderer is out there somewhere, and I’ll find him.” I smacked my fist into my opposite palm.

  “What makes you think any of those people will up and confess to you, Joshua?” asked Martha. “You’re not half as charming as you imagine.” She smiled over at Lincoln.

  “He’s not much, I freely admit,” said Lincoln, grinning back. “But old Speed is about all I’ve got.”

  “You’ve got me too,” Martha said earnestly. I started to object, but she put up her hand and said, “I’ve just had the most excellent idea. I’ll steam on the War Eagle in a counterfeit guise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were aboard earlier, Joshua—the captain and crew already know who you are.” I nodded. “But no one knows me. I might be able to learn things you can’t. They might not even realize what they’re saying to a harmless young woman of society like me.”

  “I have to admit, it’s a good idea,” said Lincoln. Martha beamed.

  “It’s out of the question,” I said. “Look, I know Lincoln appreciates your enthusiasm, Martha. And I freely admit you have good insights—truly I do. But a Mississippi riverboat is no place for a young woman traveling alone. It’s dangerous under any circumstance. Lincoln just got through telling us about a time when he was robbed aboard a steamer.”

  “I was young and foolish,” said Lincoln. “Miss Speed is no fool.”

  “Thank you,” said Martha with feeling. “And I won’t travel alone.”

  “But who—”

  “The old woman out there,” said Martha, nodding toward the hotel lobby. “Nanny Mae. She and I visited when I first arrived, and we got along famously.”

  “I don’t think she’s moved from her chair in years,” I said. “And her whole stock-in-trade is knowing everything there is to know about Alton. I can’t imagine her agreeing to leave.”

  “At least let me try. She was telling me how long it had been since she’d seen her daughter. She lives somewhere along the river.”

  Lincoln pulled out his pocket watch and gave a yelp. “I didn’t realize how long we’d been talking. If I miss the carriage, Judge Thomas will default me on all my Edwardsville cases.”

  Hurriedly, Lincoln scooped up the strewn papers and books and shoved them into two satchels. He took both of Martha’s hands. “Miss Speed, as always, it is a unique pleasure to encounter you.” He half bowed, and Martha blushed with pride.

  “Speed, best of luck to you,” he added as he and I clasped arms. “I know you’ll do your best. I’m counting on it. And Bingham is as well. I’ll see you back here in less than three weeks. I’ll see you both, if I had to wager.” He smiled at Martha and was gone.

  “I have to pack myself,” I said. “I’d say you have about thirty minutes to convince Nanny Mae of the impossible. If you can’t, then I insist you return to Springfield by stagecoach in the morning.”

  “There’s no need for contingencies,” Martha said. “You’ll see.”

  Together we walked back through the public room and into the lobby.

  “So—brother and sister are reunited,” Nanny Mae said cheerfully when we’d reached her sitting place.

  “I take it the two of you have already met,” I said.

  “Not only are we acquainted,” said Nanny Mae, “but Miss Speed has told me all about the current conditions on the Springfie
ld road. Most useful.” She finished a row and counted out the stitches with her gnarled forefinger, her lips moving along silently. “I should imagine, Mr. Speed, you are mighty proud to have such an independent and resourceful younger sister.”

  “Joshua’s proud and horrified in equal measure,” said Martha brightly. Nanny Mae smiled and pulled at her yarn.

  “I must part with you for now, dear sister,” I said, giving her an embrace.

  “See you on board,” she whispered into my ear.

  I left the two women and went upstairs to gather my belongings. When I walked out of the hotel an hour later, on my way to the War Eagle, the lobby was empty.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning, I was awoken in my cabin on the War Eagle by the busy hum of population. I looked out my small window at the grand city of St. Louis. It was the largest city in the West, the hub of North-western steamboating, and a whirling, ceaseless hive of industry and commerce.

  Even though the town clock had just struck seven, the wharves and streets were alive with people. The riverfront was lined with warehouses and stores, many built of fine, dressed white limestone. Two tall church steeples rose from the city beyond. Horses trotted along the levee with milk carts, the tinkling of bells attached to their necks marking their passage. An itinerant vendor of street goods had already decorated his stall and was open for business. The whole place bustled with frontier enthusiasm.

  A procession of stevedores was being disgorged from the hull of the War Eagle and down its narrow, treacherous gangway, carrying travel trunks and carpetbags, sacks of corn and salt, barrels of whiskey and molasses. The goods were piled into haphazard stacks on the sloping levee or loaded onto a line of waiting drays superintended by transfer agents, who were easily recognizable by the straw hats with brightly colored bands each agent wore, a different shade of sash for each different forwarding firm.

  As soon as the outbound flow of cargo came to a halt, an inbound one began. St. Louis was also the headquarters of the North-western fur trade, and many of the goods being brought on board were fruits of that trade, no doubt bound for the fashionable salons of New Orleans and, farther along the great river of commerce, those in London and Paris.