Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  I felt my anger slowly subsiding. I realized, of course, that Lincoln had to defend his client as best he could. Perhaps he was right that he wouldn’t need, in the end, to tell the jury about his fugitive slave notion.

  “We’ve come this far together,” I said. “We’ll stay and help—for now, at least. If you eventually decide you need to make this argument . . . well, we’ll cross that river when we come to it. But I will not apologize for putting my family’s interests first.”

  “I’d expect nothing less of you, Speed,” said Lincoln as I led Martha back to our chairs.

  “Tell us why you think there was a fugitive slave aboard,” said Martha.

  “The very fact of Elijah Lovejoy’s interest, for one thing. He was a newspaperman, but he was an Abolitionist first. It wouldn’t have been like him to spend time looking into a case bearing no connection to his cause. For another, there’s what Speed remembers Jones saying as he was dragged out of the salon. Something about threatening to expose what he knew, right?” Lincoln looked at me and I nodded.

  “Originally I figured he was talking about the monte,” Lincoln continued, “but everyone knew about that. It had just taken place out in the open in front of two dozen people. Besides, the fact that a steamboat gambler took down his shutters with a stratagem in mind—it’s not exactly the illicit stuff of blackmail. But harboring a fugitive slave? I must say I agree with Speed’s reaction on this point. That fact has the potential to impact reputations greatly.”

  “There was a slave in the salon on the night Jones was killed,” I said, thinking back to the scene. “A tall, light-skinned Negro woman. At the time, I thought she was the gambler’s slave, but later he told me she didn’t belong to him.”

  I pictured the woman’s face, and suddenly I realized I had encountered her again. “In fact, we saw her together when we were stuck on the sandbar. She walked past while we were talking. Remember, Martha?”

  “She’s a chambermaid on the ship,” said Martha. “I made her acquaintance during the voyage downriver. Sary’s her name. But she’s a freedwoman—definitely not an escaping slave. She was headed back south with the boat, after all.”

  “And finally there’s the matter of the figure Bingham saw swimming to shore as the boat neared Alton,” said Lincoln. “Remember? Did you find anyone on your journeys who had an explanation for that?”

  I shook my head. We had asked several passengers and crew members about Bingham’s report but had been unable to find anyone who knew anything about it.

  “Perhaps that was the fugitive slave himself, fleeing the ship once it reached northern waters.” Lincoln paused.

  “We need to figure out who was in charge. Who brought the fugitive slave aboard? Who harbored him? That’s the person who had the most to lose if Jones disclosed what he evidently knew. And that’s the person who’ll have the most to lose at trial, if the full truth comes out.”

  “Maybe it was Pemberton,” suggested Martha. “He was aboard the ship, and being an overseer would be a good disguise for an Abolitionist to adopt.”

  “He enjoyed the sting of Telesphore’s whip too much to be pretending,” I said.

  “My guess would be someone else on the ship,” said Lincoln. “Either another passenger, posing as an ordinary traveler, or a member of the crew. Someone who was in the salon to hear Jones’s words and felt threatened by them.”

  “How many people were present, Joshua?” asked Martha.

  “Two dozen or so, I’d guess.”

  “Including Captain Pound?”

  “Yes, but we know he’s no Abolitionist,” I said. “When I talked to him about his financial problems, he was enthusiastic about the slave trade. His only complaint was that he didn’t have more of it aboard the War Eagle.”

  “So who else was there?”

  I ticked them off on my fingers: “Devol, the fool, the barman Gentry, the actress, Pound, Hector, me, about half a dozen passengers . . . Oh, and Bingham too, of course.”

  Martha and I looked over at Lincoln, and he nodded. “I’ve thought of that. And I admit I can’t exclude the possibility that Bingham was the one assisting the fugitive slave. Another factor that makes me hesitant to pursue this theory directly at trial.”

  “Who did you call ‘a fool’?” asked Martha.

  “Not a fool, the fool,” I said. “The man who marked the card as part of the monte. Devol’s partner. I don’t know his real name, but the captain said he goes by ‘Willie’ sometimes. I saw him in Alton, at the Tontine, right before Devol was arrested, but never again. He wasn’t aboard the War Eagle when we steamed downriver to Memphis. Maybe he headed north from Alton and took the fleeing slave with him.”

  “Sounds like a promising suspect,” said Lincoln. “A man who makes his living from deception.”

  I nodded and said, “But I still don’t understand why you think this relates to the debt to my father.”

  “If someone aboard was transporting a fugitive slave, they’d have expense: feeding him, buying new clothing, forging freedom papers for use in the North. Maybe even paying off the wharfboat master in Memphis to look the other way when he inspected the cargo. That money had to come from somewhere.” Lincoln shrugged. “The receipts of the War Eagle are the obvious source. All Pound knows is he’s bringing in less money than he expected. Which is causing him to be able to send less money to Judge Speed.”

  “But our payments have been consistently short for months,” I said. I felt my blood rising again. “Are you suggesting this has been happening regularly?”

  “It could be,” said Lincoln. “I’ve heard talk of a loose association of people helping escaping slaves go north, maybe as far as Canada. With how many steamboats ply our rivers these days, they’re a natural part of such an effort.”

  “And you support this effort, if it exists?” I asked Lincoln sharply.

  “I’m opposed to slavery or its extension—you know that.”

  “But what you’re talking about is organized law breaking. An association of people, you said.” Martha put out her hand to try to restrain me, but I kept after Lincoln. “I assume you want to condemn them, just the same as you’ve been condemning the organized law breaking that led to Lovejoy’s death and the death of the Negro boatman—McIntosh—in St. Louis last year.”

  Lincoln looked at me severely. “No life is threatened by their actions,” he said. “That’s a big difference.”

  “I freely grant as much. But property rights are being violated, if what you’re saying is true. Property rights protected by the laws of the several states and guaranteed by the federal Constitution.”

  “I say bad laws should be repealed by lawful processes as soon as possible,” said Lincoln emphatically. “But I do agree that in the meantime, while they continue in effect they should be religiously observed. Otherwise, we are no better than the mob ourselves.”

  Before I could pounce on Lincoln’s concession, I heard a noise at the doorway. I looked up to see the innkeeper Kemp. “What do you want?” I demanded. “What did you hear?”

  Kemp’s face turned even redder than usual. “I didn’t hear nothing,” he said. “I merely looked in to see if the three of you want your midday meal brought around.”

  “That would be very kind, Kemp,” Lincoln replied at the same time I said, “Don’t barge in! It’s confidential business, about Lincoln’s cases, that’s under discussion. Highly confidential.”

  “Keep your wits about you, Speed,” Lincoln hissed. “Besides, I am famished.” He patted his stomach eagerly.

  Kemp muttered apologies and backed out of the room. In the meantime, I thought I had spotted another weakness in Lincoln’s position. As soon as the innkeeper shut the door behind him, I turned back to the lawyer.

  “If Jones was killed as part of an organized, clandestine effort to help slaves escape,” I said, “and you prove as much in open court for everyone to hear about, then you expose the scheme and thereby undermine it—the very scheme you’re in
favor of even if you say you don’t condone it.”

  Lincoln’s eyes were wary. “I have thought of that too,” he said.

  “So how can you—”

  “Enough, Joshua!” shouted Martha. “We don’t have time for any more squabbling between the two of you. Trial starts in twenty hours.

  “Let’s assume it was one of the crew members or passengers present that evening—the fool Willie or someone else—who was secretly shepherding a slave to freedom. Jones found out about it and threatened to expose him, and the man killed him to prevent him from doing so. Mr. Bingham got tangled up in the events by happenstance. But if we tell the jury Jones was killed to cover up a slave escape, it will likely prejudice them even further against Bingham.”

  Martha looked between me and Lincoln to see if we intended to contest her statement of the case. Neither of us spoke. She nodded and said, “Right. So what do we do at trial?”

  “That, my dear, is exactly the question,” said Lincoln. He grinned at Martha. “Let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER 29

  At dawn the next day, I left the Franklin House and climbed the path to the foreboding entrance of the Illinois State Prison. By prearrangement, I waited at the imposing front gates for Avocat Daumier. The compact Frenchman glided up a few minutes after I had arrived.

  “Is your side ready for the trial, Monsieur Speed?” he asked when he reached my station. Unlike me, he did not seem winded by the steep ascent.

  “Absolutely,” I said with more conviction than I felt, even after the long evening Lincoln, Martha, and I had spent crafting our strategy. “Is yours?”

  “We have been ready since the moment Monsieur Bingham confessed his desire to kill the unlucky Jones. Monsieur Lincoln’s insistence on time to prepare his defense has given us time to find even more proof of his client’s guilt. We are most grateful for Lincoln’s natural caution.” Daumier smiled infuriatingly.

  The Frenchman banged his fist against the prison gate and a small slot opened. “We are here for Bingham,” he said to an unseen guard. “His fate awaits.”

  Five minutes later, the prison door swung open and Bingham appeared, his hands bound together, being led by the prison guard Runkin. The change in the artist’s appearance was dramatic. A scraggy beard now covered his previously fresh cheeks; his bright eyes were hooded and haunted. He had lost a lot of weight, and his formerly chubby frame was now closer to the point of gauntness. He stared at the ground as he allowed himself to be led along, and he barely acknowledged me when I called out his name.

  Runkin, however, was all too eager to engage. “I was hoping you’d show your face today, Speed,” he called as soon as he emerged from the prison gates. “We didn’t get a chance to talk after the mobbing the other night. I imagine you enjoyed it as much as I did. Hah-hah!”

  “That was murder,” I said with a ferocity that surprised even myself. Daumier looked at me with interest.

  “That was justice,” Runkin replied, squinting at me through the rising sun. “Justice don’t have to take a long time in every case. Not like with this lot.” He gave Bingham a hard shove in the back, and the artist stumbled and nearly fell to the ground before regaining his footing.

  Together, the four of us walked single file down the ravine toward Captain Ryder’s shipping offices, where the trial would take place. “How did you bear your confinement?” I asked Bingham.

  “Fine,” he mumbled, his eyes not leaving the rocky ground in front of us.

  “He enjoyed it a good deal more than he’ll enjoy the hangman’s noose,” called Runkin gleefully.

  “Can the prisoner and I speak in private?” I asked the guard, who still clutched a fistful of Bingham’s jersey in his hand.

  “You ain’t his lawyer, are you? No—you can’t. My instructions are to escort my prisoner directly to the judge. No interruptions.”

  “He’s not going to run off,” I said. “The poor man can hardly walk after all the time in his cell.”

  Runkin started to refuse me again, but Daumier coughed and said, “No harm will come of it, sir. We are only hastening the onset of Monsieur Bingham’s trial and the grasp of the noose.”

  Runkin spat onto the ground. “Hold him tight,” he said, placing my hand where his had been on the back of Bingham’s jersey.

  As Runkin dropped behind us, I leaned forward and whispered in Bingham’s ear. “We’ve been working hard, Lincoln and I, to locate evidence in your favor. We’ve had some success. I think Lincoln will mount a strong defense on your behalf.”

  Bingham nodded, though his eyes still appeared barely alive.

  “We found Tessie and managed to convince her to come testify,” I added. He swung around to face me, animation flooding into his features. “She’ll be waiting with Lincoln at the courtroom.”

  “I don’t want her to see me like this,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarse, and he punctuated his statement with a violent cough. We’d been right, I thought. There was no way he would have survived the winter at the prison.

  “Well, you haven’t a choice. And she’s your best chance at freedom. She and Lincoln, that is.”

  “Thank you, friend, for your efforts,” Bingham said. “Whatever happens at trial, at least Tessie and I will be together one last time.”

  Rejoining Daumier and Runkin, we walked down one ravine and then up the side of another to Ryder’s building. A long, unruly line of men stretched around the corner and down toward the shore. The circuit clerk plainly hadn’t had difficulty recruiting potential jurors. This did not bode well for Bingham. I suspected a hungering for additional blood lingered in the cold Alton air.

  In the distance, I could see the distinctive outline of the War Eagle tied up at the dock. Her stacks were quiet. Captain Pound had made good on his promise to return, and evidently he planned to remain in town for the duration of trial. Another unfortunate tiding for Bingham.

  The shipping offices were even more chaotic than usual. The chalkboard in the anteroom was now filled not with the positions of Ryder’s fleet but rather the names of men who’d been called for possible service as jurors. The first group of candidates milled about in the front room, noting their attendance with the clerk and trading speculation about the nature of the trial for which they’d been summoned.

  All discussion came to a halt as we pushed through their midst. Bingham’s bound hands marked him as the accused, and in his wake, a new conversation arose: eager speculation about the identity of the unknown defendant.

  The back room of Ryder’s offices was, if possible, even more crowded. Judge Thomas stood at the far end between the two large windows looking out on the river, his first cigar of the day clenched in his fist and already burned down to a stub. Lincoln and Prickett were pressed together in side-by-side chairs directly in front of the judge, their notes and books balanced on their laps, as there was no such luxury as counsel tables to be had on the circuit. Meanwhile, twelve empty chairs were crammed into the corner to the judge’s left, awaiting the jury, though it seemed impossible that twelve grown men could possibly fit in the space reserved for them.

  Several dozen spectators stood or sat two to a chair in the rest of this back room, pressed so close together as to leave no doubt which man had mucked out his pig sty, or eaten onions for breakfast, before coming to court. Nanny Mae was spread out on a chair in the back corner, working her knitting needles and seemingly paying no attention to the tumult around her. Along the opposite wall sat virtually the entire crew of the War Eagle, including Pound, Hector, and Gentry. They fidgeted awkwardly, looking very much out of place even a mere quarter mile distant from the waters on which they lived their lives.

  Neither Devol nor the fool was present. I looked around and saw that my sister Martha was absent as well. Good, I thought. Hopefully that portion of our plan would bear fruit.

  Our arrival in the courtroom caused a stir, and the judge and the lawyers paused their proceedings while we stepped over, around, and through the crowd to
reach the places saved for us at the front. Squeezing us into the room required every man already present to move one way or another, like some giant interlocking puzzle unwinding and then rearranging itself into a slightly different configuration.

  Tessie Roman was sitting next to Lincoln. When she first spied Bingham, she drew in her breath sharply at his altered appearance. But by the time we’d made it over to her, she had regained her equilibrium, and she took his bound hands in hers and held them tight and gave him a smile of pure adoration. Bingham beamed.

  Once we had settled and everyone else in the courtroom area had managed to return to their positions, Judge Thomas nodded to Lincoln.

  “As I was saying, Your Honor,” said he, “I should be able to question the venire about their views regarding the events of the other night. It impacts their fitness to serve as jurors in the present case.”

  “Are you telling us, Mr. Lincoln,” said the prosecutor Prickett, “that the murder of Jones bears connection to the fate of the Abolitionist?”

  “No, but—”

  “Or that Mr. Bingham’s defense to the charge of murder has something to do with Abolitionism?”

  “Of course not.” Lincoln glanced over at me, and I understood his unsaid thought at once. Whether or not he had any inkling that a fugitive slave might have been aboard the War Eagle, Prickett was eager to tie Bingham to Lovejoy if Lincoln provided even the slightest opening. Prickett’s calculation regarding the likely views of the Alton jury was the same as ours.

  “Then Your Honor,” said Prickett, “such questioning would do nothing but squander our precious time. Mr. Lincoln’s just admitted the one has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Surely it’s so, Lincoln,” said Judge Thomas, pulling on his cigar with vigor.

  “I don’t agree,” said Lincoln. “We need men who’ll apply the law as you instruct them, Your Honor. Not men disposed to take the law into their own hands.”