Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “The Abolitionists inside the warehouse who shot the carpenter Bishop, you mean?” said Daumier. “Yes, I imagine they’ll be charged with murder in due course.”

  “But what about the three men who shot Lovejoy?” persisted Martha. “I’d seen them before. Everyone here had.” She gestured around the public room. “I have no doubt the whole town knows their identities.”

  “I have heard,” said Daumier, cutting himself another piece of pork, “that there are no fewer than seven men walking the streets of Alton this evening who claim credit for being the person who killed the Abolitionist.”

  “Arrest them all!” cried Martha.

  “I think that is most unlikely to happen, Miss Bell,” replied Daumier, chewing calmly. He looked at me with raised eyebrows as if to suggest that whatever the particulars of my relationship with Miss Bell, I would do well to reconsider it.

  “Had you spoken to Lovejoy about Jones’s death?” I asked.

  “What cause would I have had?” the Frenchman responded with surprise. “His exclusive concern was your inland slave trade.” He wrinkled his nose. “In my experience, he had neither time nor patience for more mundane injustices.”

  I was in the hotel lobby early the next morning, waiting for Lincoln. Shortly after the church bells struck ten, the familiar tall figure ducked through the doorway.

  “All ready for Bingham’s trial?” he said as he set down his saddlebags and gave me a friendly swat on the arm. “Judge Thomas has ordered that we start picking a jury at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. I’ve already sent word to Miss Roman that she should travel to Alton at dawn.”

  “After Lovejoy . . . I wasn’t sure it would go forward.”

  “After Lovejoy, it’s all the more important that it go forward. We talked about it last night on the trail—prosecutor Prickett, Judge Thomas, and I. If men of the law do not speak up for the law now, who will? It’s one of the few things we three agree on so clearly. I don’t suppose you were able to talk to Lovejoy before his death.”

  I described the fateful evening. Lincoln listened with great interest, his jaw getting tense with emotion as I described the awful final moments of the murder.

  “On the circuit, I heard it said Lovejoy’s side fired the first shot,” he said when I had finished.

  “I think that’s true, narrowly, but the mobbers were the aggressors. No one would have died that evening were it not for the mob. And I’ll say it before you can—you were right about the rule of the mob. It is intolerable.”

  “Never have I taken less pleasure in being correct, I assure you.” Lincoln was silent for a moment, looking within himself. His gray eyes were intense. “You say Owen Lovejoy was present?”

  “He was not two feet from his brother when the fatal shots were fired.”

  “He was Elijah’s confidant at every turn. I’ll wager, whatever Elijah had learned about Bingham’s case, he told Owen before his death.”

  “Do you actually think he’d talk to us? He must have other things on his mind at present.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go ask him.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Lincoln recalled that the Lovejoy brothers lived in the same house, and we walked there together. The day was dry but cold, with an unsparing wind coming off the water. I held the lapels of my coat together tightly and wished I’d asked Martha to bring winter clothing from Springfield.

  As we walked along the grassy shoreline, our attention was diverted by a great bald eagle soaring overhead, riding the wind currents back and forth, searching for a field mouse unlucky enough to go looking for food at that moment. Suddenly the bird went into a steep dive, rushing toward the ground, its claws extended, braking and attacking in the same graceful motion. And it snatched up its quarry, which managed only a tiny squeak before its neck was crushed by the bird. The eagle took to the skies with no cry of victory but rather gliding silently toward its lair, in some crag in the ravine face no doubt, its majestic head held high, the outcome of its hunt never in doubt.

  “Did you ever figure out how Captain Pound has been shorting your family?” Lincoln asked.

  “I looked at his books and interviewed his crew. Money’s been flowing out of the business pretty much every month. He claimed it was merely commonplace, unavoidable losses, but I think he’s been making payments to someone. Probably to a relative on the side as a way of padding his take.”

  “Perhaps Bingham’s trial will give us some answers,” said Lincoln.

  I turned to stare at him. “I’d love to find answers anywhere, but I don’t know what Jones’s death has to do with Pound’s supposed lack of capital.”

  “I’ve been stuck on a peculiar idea these past few days on the circuit,” said Lincoln. “Let’s see what the younger Lovejoy can add.”

  We came upon a handsome two-story frame house on Cherry Street, with a brick chimney protruding from the roof and a fence of white pickets enclosing a modest side yard. We immediately perceived Owen Lovejoy himself walking about in the yard.

  I had seen him only three days prior, but I scarcely recognized him. Though still a large, powerfully built man a year or two older than me, he walked about with a profound stoop. His dark face sagged; his brows were furrowed. His curly hair had become threaded with gray overnight. Only his blue eyes retained their former life.

  Lincoln moved forward at once and solemnly gave Lovejoy his hand. “I’m Abraham Lincoln, Lovejoy,” he said. “Your brother was a good man. I wanted to offer my condolences.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, his voice cracking. Lovejoy’s eyes swept over me and quickly returned to Lincoln. It was evident he didn’t recognize me from our brief encounter on that night of chaos. “My brother spoke often of his association with you.”

  “Fondly, I hope.”

  “Not usually.” Lincoln gave a quick laugh, and Owen Lovejoy’s face relaxed for a moment into a smile before resuming its hardened posture. “My brother divided humanity into three parts: true Abolitionists, of which there are too few; implacable enemies of freedom, of which there are too many; and well-intentioned men who lack the courage to act in accord with their convictions, into which category he placed you. It will not surprise you to hear it was this last group that infuriated him most.”

  Lincoln did not flinch. “I have great sympathy for his goals. I think they are more realistic if pursued by working within the existing system to change it.”

  “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Lincoln, if I remark that you sound like the so-called respectable citizens of Alton who wanted Elijah to ‘compromise’ by agreeing to suspend publication of his paper. It seemed to us the debtor might as well refuse to pay his debts and call this a compromise.”

  “I can see that, like your brother, you are a true radical,” said Lincoln, with an edge to his voice this time.

  “If I wasn’t three days ago, I am now,” said Lovejoy with feeling. He looked close to tears again. “As I swore on his grave”—he gestured toward a freshly dug plot of earth near to the house, lying between two oak trees—“I’ll never forsake the cause that’s been sprinkled with his blood.”

  I feared we were getting further and further away from the matter at hand, so I cleared my throat and stepped forward. “We’re hoping to carry on your brother’s work as well, in a fashion,” I said. “Your brother was looking into a matter relating to one of Lincoln’s cases, a murder aboard a steamboat. He’d found something out about the case before his death, and we’re hoping he might have shared what he learned with you.”

  Owen Lovejoy’s face twitched. “That’s where I recognize you from,” he exclaimed, walking a tight circle with agitation. “That night, you showed up with a young woman. ‘The Speeds,’ you said you were. I’ve wondered since whether the two of you were meant to be some sort of Trojan horse.” He pointed at Lincoln with a trembling index finger. “So you associate yourself with the mob, Lincoln? My brother was far too charitable in his assessment of you.”
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  “You misjudge me entirely,” I protested, trying to control my anger, though I could feel my face turning red. “We came seeking information for Lincoln’s case. We had no part of the mob. The mobbers were just as much of a danger to us as they were to you.”

  “Not just as much,” Lovejoy said severely. He gave a long glance at his brother’s grave before turning back to me. “And if you were a spectator to arson and murder and took no action to prevent it, then I say you were just as bad as any mobber with a cobble or a flaming torch or a rifle.” He spat angrily toward my feet.

  “This is a waste of time,” I said to Lincoln. “Let’s leave Mr. Lovejoy to his grief. We have to go prepare for your trial.”

  Lincoln held up his hands. “I assure you, Lovejoy, that we—neither of us—have come here today to cause you any further pain—”

  “You flatter yourselves if you think you could inflict any pain on top of what the mob has already,” interjected Lovejoy. “In the last three days, I’ve watched my brother get cut down by assassins, I’ve had to tell my sister-in-law that she’s to give birth to a fatherless child, and I’ve written to my widowed mother to ask what part of God’s plan is served by the murder of her eldest son. The two of you?” Lovejoy tossed his head dismissively.

  “Of course that’s so,” said Lincoln, nodding. It was hard not to be moved by Lovejoy’s emotion. “But here’s the thing. I know your brother spoke for the innocent and the powerless. There’s an artist named Bingham confined to the state prison right now who goes on trial for his life tomorrow morning. Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s an innocent man. Your brother was interested in his case, and he uncovered some fact that may be crucial in seeing justice achieved for Bingham. Did he share what he learned with you? If you tell us ‘no,’ we’ll leave you in peace at once.”

  “I don’t care two pennies for your innocent man.”

  “I know you don’t. I imagine, if I were you today, neither would I. Did your brother tell you what he learned about Bingham’s case?”

  “Slavery is a sin, Mr. Lincoln.” Lovejoy folded his arms across his chest and looked away from us. He gazed out at his brother’s fresh grave and the rolling countryside beyond it, and he breathed in a deep breath.

  “Your brother was a forceful advocate of that truth, Mr. Lovejoy. I don’t doubt you could prove a worthy successor to him. What of Bingham?”

  “Slavery is a sin,” Owen Lovejoy repeated, his gaze still averted and his thoughts far removed. “If we do not rid ourselves of this sin, this nation shall one day soon perish from the earth.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Lincoln, Martha, and I were gathered in Lincoln’s temporary office in the small library just off the Franklin House’s public room. Lincoln’s law books were once again spilling out of two tattered saddlebags; both the books and the bags looked very much worse for the wear of the circuit. Martha and I occupied the only chairs while Lincoln paced about, his hands clasped behind his back, rehearsing his arguments for trial.

  “It sounds as if Owen Lovejoy knows whatever it is his brother learned,” said Martha, to whom we had related our unsatisfactory encounter with the grieving Abolitionist. “Can’t you make him tell us?”

  “I tried my best,” said Lincoln, “as Speed can attest.” I nodded. “So we have to leave it and use everything else we’ve got.”

  “Won’t the judge force him to answer if you call him as a witness?” persisted Martha. “Daddy always said the law was entitled to every man’s evidence.”

  “You’ve learned your law well at Judge Speed’s knee,” Lincoln said with a smile. “The problem is we don’t know what Lovejoy knows. Suppose Lovejoy discovered something incriminating about Bingham? If I made a big show of forcing him to testify to his knowledge in front of the jury and that knowledge harmed Bingham’s case, it could be devastating for us.”

  “You said on the way out to see Lovejoy you’d had a peculiar notion about what might have happened aboard the ship,” I said. “That it might be related to Judge Speed’s difficulties. What’s your notion?”

  Lincoln did not answer but instead paced back and forth in the small office, his arms gesticulating to and fro like a speechless marionette. Martha looked at me questioningly, but I merely shrugged. At one point, Lincoln stopped directly in front of us and opened his mouth, but he closed it again and resumed his pacing. Finally, he returned to the spot and spoke.

  “I’ll tell you what I think happened, though I’m not sure how we’d prove it tomorrow.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think the War Eagle was transporting a fugitive slave, and Jones found out. And was killed before he could reveal it.”

  “What?” I shouted.

  “A runaway slave killed Mr. Jones?” asked Martha.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Lincoln, “although I suppose it’s possible. I think it’s more likely whoever was harboring the slave was the one who killed Jones, for fear he’d been found out.”

  “You think the War Eagle—my family’s ship—was being used to transport a runaway slave?” I asked.

  “It seems the most likely explanation for—”

  “But it’s impossible,” I said, interrupting Lincoln as the full import of what he was suggesting sunk in. I felt my heart racing. “It can’t be so. You think that only because you choose to see this issue of slavery everywhere you look.” I was on my feet now, hands on my hips, staring at Lincoln defiantly.

  “I might respond,” said Lincoln, returning my gaze coolly, “that you have trouble comprehending the possibility only because you choose to willfully blind yourself to the same issue.”

  My blood surged, and for an instant I thought I would strike my friend then and there. But I willed myself instead to take a step away from him.

  “By transporting an escaping slave to the North, we’d face punishment ourselves, right?” I asked.

  “The law imposes a fine of five hundred dollars and six months’ imprisonment for harboring or concealing a fugitive slave. There have been cases where steamboat captains, or their owners, have been found liable.”

  “To say nothing of what it would do to Judge Speed’s reputation in Louisville.” I turned toward Martha and added, “He’d be ruined.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” she protested. “Plenty of people in Louisville are opposed to slavery. Our cousin Cassius Clay, for example, is a fervent supporter of the Colonization Society. And Daddy himself always says he holds our bondsmen as a trust and does what he can to assure their comfort. If it were true some escaping slave had stowed aboard the War Eagle, I don’t think people would care.”

  “You have no idea about our world,” I said. “Those people don’t smoke cigars with Mayor Kaye at the gentleman’s lounge of the Galt House. Or borrow money from John J. Crittenden at the Louisville Bank of Kentucky. Or worship with the Rev. Dr. Humphrey at the Methodist Episcopal Church. Or depend on the labor of sixty bondsmen to plant and harvest their hemp fields. The idea that Judge John Speed was implicated in transporting runaway slaves to the North would ruin him. And so it would Mother and James—and Lucy, Peachy, William, Susan, Phillip, John, and even little Ann—all our siblings. And you and me too. Our whole family would be ruined in Louisville. Fair or not, it’s the reality.”

  “I have no interest in setting foot in Louisville ever again,” said Martha, her shining face thrust forward defiantly. “So ruin me there. Fine.”

  “And you’re willing to consign Father and Mother and every one of our brothers and sisters to the same fate?” Martha opened her mouth to reply but hesitated. “I didn’t think so.”

  I turned back to Lincoln. “I am sorry to say this,” I said. “Truly I am. But if you say at trial tomorrow that there was a fugitive slave being transported by the War Eagle—especially with no hard evidence it was so—that will be the end of our friendship.”

  Lincoln stared at me. “You know I have a professional obligation to do what’s best for my client, Speed.” He spread o
ut his arms as if trying to get me to see reason.

  That was it, then. We had suddenly reached the limits of our agreement not to contest with each other the subject of slavery. I took a step toward the door. “Come along, Martha. We shall leave Mr. Lincoln to his professional obligations.”

  My sister looked frantically back and forth between me and Lincoln and then started to follow me. But Lincoln blocked our exit.

  “Wait,” he said. “You misunderstand me. I said this was my theory of what actually happened. I admitted I didn’t have the proof of it—not yet at least. And I didn’t say this was my argument tomorrow. Indeed, after what happened here to Elijah Lovejoy, the last thing I want to do is suggest to the jury that Bingham was on the side of a fugitive slave. Unless the jury’s made up of twelve Owen Lovejoys. But I think we have a pretty good sense of the proportion of pro- and antislavery men from Alton who will form the jury.”

  We did not sit down, but neither did we take any further steps toward the door.

  “Even if you have one Abolitionist on your jury who was attracted to the argument,” said Martha, “he’d be enough to prevent a conviction. A guilty verdict would have to be unanimous, wouldn’t it?”

  Lincoln gaped at her and laughed out loud. “Are you sure you don’t want to read for the bar, my dear? I declare most sincerely you have one of the finest legal minds I’ve ever encountered.” Martha blushed deeply.

  “But the problem with what you’re suggesting,” Lincoln continued, “is it assumes your one Abolitionist holds out against the other eleven. And the townspeople of Alton have just provided a very clear example of what happens to a lone Abolitionist who defies popular opinion.” He shook his head. “It’s a chance I can’t take.” To me he added, “And that is the true danger of the mob. The power of fear.”

  “So you’re saying you plan to lie to the jury?” I said.

  “Of course not. I shall be honest at all events. Every argument I make will be consistent with the facts as I know them. But not every fact I know, or think I know, will be part of my argument. In law it is good policy never to plead what you do not need, lest you obligate yourself to prove what you cannot.”