Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “So on the War Eagle, you were responsible for everyone, and you knew of everything. Do I have that right?”

  “You do.”

  The courtroom was as silent as a churchyard at midnight. Even Nanny Mae’s knitting needles had gone quiet.

  “A young planter named John W. Jones died aboard your ship last month.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you familiar with the circumstances of his death?”

  Pound paused. “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  Pound looked out over the audience. Without turning around, I felt confident it was Nanny Mae he was seeking. Then his gaze retracted and he looked inward. He clasped his hands together across his giant belly and closed his eyes. He did not speak.

  “Captain Pound?” prompted Lincoln softly. “How did Jones die?”

  The courtroom leaned forward. Pound did not open his eyes.

  “I killed him.”

  A searing gasp raced through the courtroom. Judge Thomas stared at Pound with a wild expression. At first it appeared Lincoln had not even heard the stunning testimony, because he began to ask a new question. “And . . . excuse me?”

  “I killed him,” repeated Pound, his eyes open now.

  Tessie threw her arms around Bingham and began sobbing violently. The artist looked on the point of tears himself.

  Lincoln turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I ask the Court to dismiss the charges against George Bingham immediately. And I’d suggest to my brother Prickett that the People consider bringing charges of murder against the witness.”

  “Just a minute, just a minute,” said Prickett, struggling to his feet. His face was ashen. “Let me question the witness, Your Honor, before any decisions are made precipitously. We don’t know what we’ve got here.”

  “By all means, Prickett,” Judge Thomas said. “I shall not release the defendant until I’m personally convinced this isn’t some type of ruse.”

  The judge jammed his cigar back into his mouth and pulled on it madly. Bingham looked frantically at Lincoln, but the lawyer simply gestured for him to maintain his composure.

  “You killed Jones?” Prickett asked Pound with disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it the case, sir, that you and I met several times before the trial, and you assured me you had no idea who killed Jones?”

  “I was lying to you,” said Pound, “in order to cover up my crime.”

  “And now you’re telling the truth?”

  “Correct.” Pound’s bearing was steady now. He again bore resemblance to the domineering riverman who had been the unquestioned captain of his domain.

  “What conceivable reason would you have had to kill Jones?”

  “I was stealing money from the owner of the boat. Jones found out and threatened to expose me. So I killed him.”

  I gaped at Pound. All this time, I had been trying to get Pound to admit to the very thing he had just admitted, in open court—and yet, now that he’d said it, I didn’t believe him. Not for a moment.

  “You were stealing and Jones discovered it?” repeated Prickett dumbly.

  “Yes.”

  “How did he discover it?” It was the judge speaking this time, not Prickett.

  “I had the misfortune to encounter him off the river,” said the captain, “out of my element. It’s always a mistake for a boat captain to leave the waters.” He said this last bit under his breath and shook his head with apparently genuine remorse.

  “Be more specific,” commanded the judge.

  “I’ve been at the waters for a long time, and I’ve grown weary. I decided to arrange a retirement.” Pound fiddled with his rings. “By taking an extra share of the till over time, I’d managed to accumulate a bit of a pot for myself. One of my passengers told me a planter down in Mississippi named Jacques Roman was partial to old captains and might be able to set me up. So I went to see him and discussed my plans. To my great detriment, this man Jones was present and overheard our discussion. And then he followed me back onto my boat and tried to extort me.”

  “It’s all a lie!” shouted a voice from the back of the courtroom. Everyone turned to stare as Telesphore Roman rose to his feet. “That man killed Jones. I know it!” He pointed at Bingham.

  “You shall leave the courtroom at once, sir,” thundered Judge Thomas with the full force of his office. “Your only alternative is to spend the coming winter in an open cell in the prison above town.”

  Telesphore wavered, but the expression on the judge’s face left no doubt about his sincerity. Young Roman turned and departed, his head held high. The crowd whispered excitedly in his wake.

  “Now then,” said the judge, turning back to Captain Pound, who had watched Telesphore’s outburst with a look of bemusement, “do you maintain you committed the crime by yourself and without accomplice?”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened. How did you do it?”

  “There’s strength left in these old limbs of mine, Your Honor,” said Pound, flexing his hands. He launched into an extended narration of a confrontation between him and Jones in his office, hitting the young planter over the head with a candlestick when his back was turned, and then wrapping the body and hoisting it overboard. In the quiet, riveted courtroom, I could hear Nanny Mae’s needles resuming their clacking.

  Meanwhile, my head was spinning. Was it possible Pound was telling the truth? That he had been stealing from us, just as I’d suspected, and that Jones had uncovered the proof that had eluded me? It was the simplest explanation. And it avoided this business about a fugitive slave. Maybe I had been right after all to accuse Lincoln of needlessly seeing the issue of slavery lurking around every corner and behind every misdeed. I had been right and Lincoln had been wrong.

  “And you swear before your God that everything you’ve told me is the truth?” asked the judge, once Pound had finished describing his crime—if that’s indeed what it was.

  “I do,” Pound returned seriously.

  “Anything more, Prickett?” The judge looked out at the prosecutor who, a look of defeat on his face, tossed his hands helplessly.

  “I accept the confession,” said the judge. “The defendant is discharged.” The gallery exploded with noise. Tessie threw her arms around Bingham.

  Prickett rose slowly to his feet. “On behalf of the People of the State of Illinois, I hereby charge you, Captain Richard Pound, with murder with malice aforethought.”

  He gave a signal to Daumier, who—with a reluctance so great it was almost painful to observe—walked over to Bingham, untied his hands, and used the same rope to bind Pound.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Bingham,” said the judge with a curt nod.

  Bingham grabbed Lincoln and pumped his hand while Tessie embraced Lincoln and gave him a demonstrative kiss on the cheek, which made Lincoln turn a shade of crimson. Cries of excitement arose from the gallery, which started to rise from their seats, but the judge shouted everyone down, saying, “Court is not adjourned. Stay put!”

  Daumier, for once red-faced and flushed, led Pound out of the courtroom and toward the holding cell that had been set up in the basement of the offices. Meanwhile, Judge Thomas appointed the circuit rider Ninian Edwards as Pound’s attorney, and the judge and the lawyers began discussing when further proceedings on his case would take place. I paid little attention, as my mind was still consumed by Pound’s explanation.

  Whether or not Pound had actually been stealing from my family didn’t matter to Lincoln and Bingham—Pound had confessed to Jones’s murder, and the artist had been set free. But as my initial shock at the testimony began to wear off, I realized it mattered a great deal to me and to my ability to rescue Judge Speed from his financial peril. I had to question Pound one last time and—finally—get the truth.

  As the lawyers and judge droned on, I left my seat and crept toward the stairs leading to the basement. This, I knew from previous visits, was cluttered with the junk of R
yder’s business: old castings, anchors, oars, riggings, and miles of nautical rope. It also proved a handy place to stash defendants when they weren’t needed in the courtroom.

  At the top of the stairs, I abruptly halted. Two voices were talking in urgent whispers. One was Pound. The other was a throaty, feminine one, a voice that carried a soft lilt I associated with New Orleans. I was certain I had never heard this second voice before.

  I rushed down the stairs. In my haste, I did not think to be quiet. All at once, there was a cry of surprise, a stifled moan, the unmistakable sound of lips coming together, and then . . . silence. By the time I emerged into the dim, jumbled basement, all I could see was Pound—bound by thick dock rope to an old, rusty anchor—staring out an open window. Beyond him, the silhouette of the chambermaid Sary, long and proud, moved rapidly toward the landing.

  “What was that about?” I called, even as my brain told me there was only one possible answer.

  Pound did not turn around. In a muted tone, he replied, “I’ve said all I’m going to say.” And though I peppered him with questions for the next ten minutes about the boat’s finances, my father, Jones, and even Sary, he did not once remove his gaze from the path Sary had taken nor utter another syllable.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, a civic procession left Ryder’s shipping offices and headed toward the state prison. At the head of the procession was Hector, the giant Spaniard, loyally leading his captain until the last. After him came Pound, round and dignified, his captain’s buttons shining in the weak November sun. I had to admit, Bingham’s artistic flights of fancy notwithstanding, they looked like nothing so much as the badges of a proud river captain. The prison guard Runkin and several other armed men clustered near Pound, although no one seemed very concerned about a mob forming up to attack Pound while Hector remained close at hand.

  Following along next were four or five gentlemen of the jury, who seemed to consider themselves deputized to be the court’s representatives in the parade. Thereafter came several dozen members of the courtroom gallery, who were unwilling to see the affair end. Martha and I walked along with this last group. Assorted townspeople came out of their houses or places of business as we passed to see what the commotion was about; not a few joined the parade.

  The procession went down the hillside to the river bank, along the shoreline path, past the brilliant Piasa Bird on the cliffs—as always a warning of the unknown predator—and then cut its way sharply up the side of the ravine toward the looming whitewashed walls of the prison.

  Martha and I reached the plateau in front of the prison gates just as the warden was coming out to receive his new prisoner. Pound turned and embraced Hector. Tears streamed down the face of the giant Spaniard. Then Pound submitted to his guards and, without a backward glance, allowed himself to be led through the prison gates. Just before he disappeared from view, I noticed that the golden rings from the fingers of his right hand had vanished.

  CHAPTER 40

  At midnight, Lincoln and I could be found in the darkest, grimiest corner of the dark, grimy Tontine, hard along the Alton levee. We had been celebrating our unlikely victory for many hours, and we intended to continue celebrating it for hours to come. We were beautifully, spectacularly intoxicated.

  Actually—let me strike that final remark, as the lawyers are wont to say. Lincoln always made it a point of perverse pride that he never once touched a drop of the devil’s drink. It is possible that as his room-mate, indeed bed-mate, and most intimate friend, I am in possession of knowledge on the subject not otherwise known to the public. But the human condition is such that so-called knowledge is commonplace, fleeting, and often unreliable, while true friendship is rare and, once cemented, must be guarded with the utmost zealousness. Certainly it should not be discarded for the sake of ephemeral matters.

  So let me instead introduce the scene by speaking thus: it was midnight in the darkest, grimiest corner of the Tontine; I was spectacularly drunk; Lincoln was at my side; and he had been, at all times during the long evening and night, a loyal friend and suitably boisterous companion.

  Earlier we had been joined by the various other players in the courtroom drama. Tessie Roman and George Bingham had been there at the start, toasting Lincoln’s success in the courtroom and their newly secured freedom. They had already planned their inaugural trip together as a married couple—along the inland waters, of course.

  “But how will you pay for your living?” asked Martha, who was with us as well.

  Tessie smiled. She reached into her purse, drew out a velvet pouch, and opened its drawstring. Her mother’s enormous diamond—the one from the portrait hanging above the back stairs of Roman Hall—glittered inside.

  Martha shrieked. “When you went to retrieve something just as we were fleeing your home that night,” she said, “I thought you were getting the drawings he made of you wearing only the diamond.”

  “My mother’s welcome to sell those if she wants,” said Tessie. “One day they’ll be worth more than this stone. But in the meantime, I thought it might come in handy.”

  “Besides, there’s plenty more drawings where those came from,” added Bingham, patting his case of charcoals and paintbrushes.

  Then the lovers went off to create art and a life together. Martha watched them leave through eyes wet with tears.

  Lincoln’s fellow circuit riders had stopped by the Tontine to drink their share. Judge Thomas allowed over several draughts that Pound’s confession and Bingham’s acquittal was among the unlikeliest outcomes he’d ever presided over. Logan and Edwards had toasted Lincoln’s success as the most memorable of a memorable circuit ride, and Logan, as the dean of the circuit, had officially enshrined for all time Lincoln’s “second rule of the circuit”: if you discover the dead body, you get first crack at the accused. There was a vigorous debate among the circuit riders as to what should constitute the third rule of the circuit, but the debate had petered off into drunken ramblings before a consensus could be reached. Even Prickett had showed up briefly and gallantly raised a glass to Lincoln’s success.

  Telesphore Roman had stopped in with Avocat Daumier as the former waited for the departure of a southbound steamer. Telesphore was unrepentant about his role in the affair and unreconstructed in his view that Tessie had brought disgrace upon her family. For his part, Daumier complained bitterly that his term as a mere levee copper had been extended. After Telesphore left, Daumier had one drink and promptly fell asleep, curled up on the dirt floor of the tavern like a hairless newborn lamb. We did him the favor of ensuring that subsequent well-wishers did not step on him.

  Just about the only person who did not appear at the grog shop was Nanny Mae. She had been back in her usual position in the lobby of the Franklin House when we had departed for the Tontine many hours earlier. She did not look up from her knitting as we walked past.

  As we savored our victory, Lincoln, Martha, and I puzzled out the remaining mysteries of the case. Sary had likely used the fruits of her labor to purchase her own freedom in New Orleans. At some point, she and Captain Pound had encountered one another, as persons of different pasts often do in that strange and exotic port city.

  Thereafter, Sary had steamed aboard Pound’s ships posing as an ordinary servant girl. Pound’s method of gathering his crew from among the discarded, whether or not employed as an act of Christian charity, had the effect of ensuring that no other crew members would object to their arrangement.

  On the fateful voyage, the War Eagle had indeed harbored a fugitive slave, perhaps some relative of Sary’s, escaping from Roman Hall and hiding from the pursuing Pemberton. On board the ship, Jones had somehow stumbled onto this fact—maybe he’d got a glimpse of a face he recognized from his stay on the Roman plantation. After he’d lost at the monte, Jones had tried to use his knowledge to force Pound to give his money back. It was the second time that evening he’d misplayed his hand.

  Meanwhile, behind Nanny Mae’s facade as a placid
knitter and town gossip was a much more active role facilitating the flight of escaping slaves. From her spot in the Franklin House, she could keep a close watch on all of the comings and goings along the river. She left her chair to travel south with Martha and me only because she sensed—correctly, as it turned out, although even we did not realize it at the time—that our investigations posed a risk to her scheme. There were casualties to be suffered in her war, but she wasn’t going to be one of them. And above all, she did not intend to lose the war.

  “I wonder if she actually does have a daughter near Commerce,” said Martha.

  “Either way,” I replied, “I’m confident she hasn’t stayed away because of the Abolitionist views of a Quaker son-in-law, like she claimed.” It seemed clear that Martha hadn’t been the only one traveling aboard the War Eagle in disguise.

  We debated for the longest time the meaning of the “Inspector” entries in Pound’s books of account. It seemed Lincoln had been right that the entries cloaked expenses Pound incurred in facilitating the flight of the runaway slaves. But why had he labeled them “Inspector”?

  After we’d gone around on the question several times, Martha snapped her fingers. “Tell me again,” she said, “how Pound defined the term ‘Inspector of the Port’ when you confronted him about it.”

  “An old riverboat captain’s term, he claimed, for losses that were unexplainable and unavoidable.”

  Martha broke into a smile. “That’s it. It was his own private joke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The expenses for transporting Sary’s relatives to freedom, bribing officials and the like. Pound incurred them because of something that was, to him, unexplainable and yet unavoidable.”

  I looked at Martha, still not comprehending.

  “Love,” she said.

  I took in my breath sharply. The explanation was contrary to everything I had ever known. And yet, as it sank in, I realized it was inescapable.

  * * *

  But as the evening wore on and the empty glasses on our table multiplied in number, my mood grew blacker. Lincoln had won his battle, and I was glad for him. But my battle to save my father and our family home wasn’t over. And it was far from won.