A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Certainly not. From the look of your pens, you can’t have fifty head out there.”

  “That’s because we’ve recently sent a large shipment off to Toronto. We’ll be receiving more stock next week. And we can expand to as much head as we need. We’ve got unlimited funds.”

  I laughed harshly. “No one’s got unlimited funds these days.”

  “We do. We’ve got a whole bank’s worth of funds. A whole state’s worth.”

  “What?”

  Underhill leaned forward and took on a confidential tone. “I wouldn’t normally share my particulars, but for Tate Brothers I can make an exception. We’re in business with the cashier of the State Bank. Speculation business. Pork speculation, to be specific. Exactly what you’re after. We look for opportunities that may arise, and he accommodates us the funds to pursue ’em. Funds from the bank, you see.”

  “That’s a lie,” I said.

  “No, it ain’t.” Underhill’s face had turned a splotchy red.

  “It must be a lie. No bank, especially not the State Bank, would operate that way.”

  “I swear it’s the truth. The cashier was here a little while ago. You just missed him. Sharp fellow, name of Brown. I can introduce you if you’d like.” I put up my hand to indicate that wouldn’t be necessary, and Underhill continued, his voice rising higher with excitement. “Why, just in the last year, Brown’s accommodated me to the amount of twenty thousand dollars.” I whistled softly at the figure. “It ain’t returned much, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Especially when Tate Brothers’ business is added in.”

  I shook my head slowly. “If all that’s true, we’d be interested. Very interested.” I paused. “But when I go back to New York City with this story, they’ll never believe me. Especially the older brother, Mr. Benjamin Tate. He doesn’t believe anything he can’t see with his own eyes. ‘Unlimited funds’? Mr. Benjamin Tate won’t believe a kite-flying scheme like that. Not for one single second. Nice talking with you, Underhill.” I turned again to leave.

  “Wait! I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  He hesitated, but only for an instant, his greed getting in the way of whatever common sense he otherwise possessed. “I can give you a copy of the note between myself and Brown, the note spelling out the particulars of our arrangement.”

  “I suppose,” I replied, weighing his words carefully, “if it was an official copy of the official note, and it contained all the particulars … maybe, just maybe, that’d be enough to convince Mr. Benjamin Tate.”

  “Wait here,” Underhill shouted, and he scurried away to a side room. Thirty seconds later he hurried back, clutching a piece of parchment covered with cramped, precise writing.

  “It’s all here,” he said. “All the details, right here.”

  I read it over twice. He was telling the truth. All the details were right there.

  “I think that’ll do the trick,” I said. I rolled up the parchment, slipped it into my pocket, and shook Underhill’s hand vigorously. “Congratulations, sir. You’re in business with Tate Brothers. You’ll be hearing from us in due course.” I nearly sprinted out of the slaughterhouse before Underhill could reconsider. Ten minutes later I was back inside the public room at Beaubien’s, a broad smile on my face.

  “Better day today?” asked Beaubien as he handed me a glass of whiskey.

  “Much better. I’ll be riding off tomorrow. Home to Springfield at last.”

  “You’ve got to tell those godforsaken politicians in that godforsaken town they’ve got to fix this mess we’re in.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Springfield had recently become the state capital and seat of government. The change had not helped the town’s reputation.

  There was a shout of laughter from behind me, and I saw two men sitting with their backs toward me along one of the long tables that lined the room. One of the men was young and thin; the other was older and wider. Their heads were leaned together in close conversation, but there was something familiar about the appearance of the younger figure.

  I refilled my glass and moved to sit down a table away from them. From this closer perch, I was sure the younger fellow was, indeed, the pickpocket from the ferry. I strained to hear their conversation above the general din, but the only words I could decipher were “canal route.”

  Beaubien made my next move for me.

  “You two have been taking up those seats for too long,” the innkeeper said, approaching the men with a temper. “Pay me for what you’ve drunk and push off.”

  “We was just leaving,” the younger man said as he struggled to his feet. His voice was a little high-pitched. “I’ll pay for the both of us.” He reached into the pocket of his shapeless coat and pulled out my leather pouch.

  I raced over and spun the man around by his shoulders. A smile burst onto his face. “Mr. Speed,” he exclaimed. “What good fortune to see you.”

  “So you admit knowing me?” I asked, taken aback by his reaction.

  “’Course I do.” He grabbed my hand with both of his and began pumping it. “Trailor. Archibald Trailor. The carpenter. I’ve been working on that bookshelf for your friend Mr. Lincoln, for his law offices.”

  I remembered him now: a nice enough fellow, if a bit slow, to whom I’d sold boards and nails on occasion. Lincoln had told me he was a brilliant carpenter—“good with his hands,” Lincoln said. But I was in no mood to appreciate the unintended humor in the statement.

  “What are you doing with my purse?” I demanded. “I placed an advertisement seeking its return.” I showed him a copy of the American I’d kept in my pocket.

  Trailor stared at the newspaper briefly, his eyes unfocused, and turned back to me. In a flash, I realized he couldn’t read the words on the page.

  “I must of missed the notice,” he said, “which is why I’m pleased we found each other in the flesh. I uncovered the thing lying in the mud on Kinzie, north of the river. Cleaned it off, had a peek inside, saw your name. So I’ve been keeping an eye out for you, as I figured you must be about. ’Course I knew I could deliver it to you back in Springfield, if it came to that.” He gave a slight bow and placed the purse in my hand.

  My heart racing, I undid the drawstring. The locket was there, nestled at the bottom of the pouch. I open it and gazed at Ann’s face, and a feeling of peace flooded through my body. Then I recalled the circumstances by which I’d lost the purse and locket in the first place, and I snapped the thing shut and turned back to Trailor.

  “Found it in the mud? Nonsense! You lifted it from me. When we encountered each other on the river ferry, a few days back.”

  “I ought to be offended you’d suggest such a thing,” said Trailor mildly. “And we didn’t see each other on any ferry, neither. With all respect’s due, sir.” He gave me a guileless smile and touched his worn cap.

  Beaubien coughed. “Are you paying for their drinks, Speed? Somebody’s got to.”

  Trailor looked at me expectantly. “Would you mind? As a reward for my finding your purse and restoring it to you. ’Course, before you count out your coins, I should say I’ve helped myself already to a mite of a reward. Seemed fair. If I hadn’t found it, you’d have a total loss.” He gave a modest shrug.

  “How much did you spend?” I demanded, dumping the remaining coins onto the table and sorting through them.

  “Dunno.” Trailor nodded at his companion. “Fisher here and I didn’t spend a single penny more than our circumstances required, I assure you.”

  I studied Fisher for the first time. He was old enough to be Trailor’s father, though the two men bore no physical resemblance. Fisher appeared to be fifty years of age, with a paunchy midsection and a fleshy face. He had the dark-red hair and red-tinged cheeks of an Irishman. What I had originally taken to be the lean of his head as he spoke in confidence to Trailor appeared to be a permanent defect, as even now he stood with his head cocked over his right shoulder. He was wearing a faded jacket decorated with the ins
ignia of a band of military irregulars and sturdy army-issue boots. On his little finger I noticed the dull shine of a silver ring, on which were inscribed several initials.

  “Who’s to give me a half dime for their drinks?” Beaubien demanded again.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said, handing a coin over. Looking at Trailor through narrowed eyes, I added, “I think you’ve been rewarded more than sufficiently by now.”

  “I thank you kindly, Mr. Speed. We’re square. When are you heading back to Springfield?”

  “Tomorrow morning, break of dawn.” The answer was out of my mouth before I realized I should have hedged.

  “Why, that’s quite a coincidence,” returned Trailor, breaking into a smile that displayed two rows of crooked teeth. “I myself have precisely the same intention. Perhaps we should ride together.”

  “I’m not too sure of that.” The less time spent with Trailor, I thought, the fuller my wallet would remain upon my return to Springfield. “I’ve been looking forward to the solitude of the open prairie.”

  Trailor shrugged. “It’s a long journey, especially with winter on her way. And it’s said armed thieves roam the prairie these days. But if you’d rather make the ride alone, I shan’t disturb you. I’ll see you around Springfield, I expect. Let’s be off, Fisher. Our run here’s over.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I was out on the riverbank with Hickory an hour before dawn the next morning, the note documenting the banker’s illicit pork speculation tucked securely into one of my saddlebags. I wanted to leave well before the time I’d told Trailor. Besides, I hoped to make the entire return journey to Springfield in just two days, a feat that would require early departures and late arrivals at every aspect. Especially with the stop I had to make first.

  I let my animal graze on a few blades of grass poking their way through the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. It was a cold morning, the temperature right around the freezing point, and the horse’s breath streamed through her nostrils like the smoke from a great train engine.

  Just as I pulled on Hickory’s reins to set her into motion, we heard the clip-clop of a horse approaching through the darkness. Archibald Trailor materialized astride a good-sized painted horse.

  “Morning, Trailor,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Good morning to you,” he returned cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to encounter you, not this early. I guess it’s written that we’re to ride together after all.”

  Archibald leapt down out of his saddle. “Darley here was displeased with the chill this morning, so I gave him an extra portion. Need to keep the transport happy, don’t you know, Mr. Speed?”

  “Listen, Trailor, you might as well drop the ‘Mister,’ if we’re to journey together. I’m Speed to my friends. Mr. Speed is my father, at least when he’s not ‘Judge Speed’ on the bench. Anyway, Hickory and I were just about to leave.”

  The horses did their best to ignore each other. Archibald walked over to Hickory and let her sniff his hand. When she appeared satisfied, he reached up and gently ran his hand over her mane. “She’s a beautiful animal,” he said. “How long have you had her?”

  I could control my impatience no longer. “Let’s be on our way. We’ll have plenty of time for talk during the ride. Follow me. We’ll stop once before we head out to the prairie.”

  Archibald gave me a look but did not voice his question aloud, and he mounted his painter. I led the way as we rode toward Canalport. The eastern skies were only now starting to brighten, but Hickory was a clever girl, and when I told her we were retracing our steps from several days earlier, she seemed to understand. Sure enough, just as the sun’s rays began to flicker off the tallest treetops, we came to the group of Canal Board lean-tos.

  “This’ll just take a minute,” I said to Archibald as I slid off Hickory’s back. I walked up to the shanty into which the Irish mother had disappeared and knocked loudly. I could hear movement inside, but no one came to the door.

  “Open up,” I called. There were sounds of more scurrying around inside, but no one responded. A candle flickered on in a neighboring shanty.

  “I say, open up!” Louder this time, and I pounded on the door. There was the sound of muffled discussion, unintelligible, and a voice called out, “Go away! We haven’t got it.”

  “Haven’t got what?”

  “Whatever debt you’re collecting. Go away!”

  “I’m not collecting. I have something for you. Open up!”

  This time the door opened slowly, and a tall, haggard Irishman, his hair disheveled from sleep, stood in the doorway. I saw the mother I’d spoken to the other day hovering behind him, but when her eyes fell upon me, they widened in surprise and she shook her head violently.

  “Who’re you, calling at the Lord’s hour?” demanded the man through a thick Irish brogue. “What d’you want?”

  I reached into my purse and drew out two shiny gold coins, quarter eagles worth two and a half dollars each. “I don’t want anything, other than to give these to you.”

  The man stared at the coins suspiciously. “What’re they for?” He swung around and demanded of his wife, “Is this your doing? What’ve you done?”

  “It’s nothing to do with her,” I said. “I’ve come on behalf of the Canal Board. They asked me to give them to you. Now take them, or I’ll give them to your neighbor. It’s of no concern to me. Or maybe I’ll keep them myself. I was doing a courtesy for the Board, but if you don’t want—”

  “I want ’em all right. It’s less than half I’m owed. But it’s something.” The man reached out cautiously, as if still expecting some kind of trick. But when I handed over the coins, his whole body shook, and his wife seemed on the brink of tears.

  I left them embracing each other and returned to where Hickory and Archibald were waiting.

  “I didn’t know you worked for the Canal Board,” Archibald said as we rode off.

  I smiled. “I don’t. I didn’t want them to know it was charity.”

  Archibald thought about this and nodded, and we rode together in silence. Before long we were out into the great prairie. The winter prairie was shades of browns and grays in the slowly rising sun, flecked here and there by the white of snow. The incessant winds had thoroughly rearranged the snow, such that the higher elevations were bare of it while the furrows and swales were piled high. The carriage trail was clear and dry as it rose to meet the hills, icy or slushy in the lower-lying areas. Both horses cantered along with grace, seemingly unmoved by the conditions.

  “What brought you to Chicago?” asked Archibald when we stopped to make a noontime meal of hardtack while the horses rested and drank from slushy water.

  “I was taking a look into the State Bank. It’s been leaking hard currency ever since the Panic set in. No one’s getting paid for the canal work they did, and men in Springfield are worried the situation is dire. You?”

  “Other side of the same coin. Fisher’s pretty desperate himself, with the canal stopped. He holds a contract for a bypass along the route that’s hung up. I told him I’d see if I could help him gather information on when work on the canal might resume. Not that we found out much of use. No one seems to know anything.”

  “Times are tough all over,” I said sympathetically.

  “Fisher’s not quite as bad off as those people you helped back at Canalport, but he ain’t far off.”

  “He could sell his ring, if it came to that.” I thought back to the jewelry I’d seen on Fisher’s finger. Even in these depressed times, I knew it would bring a good price.

  “He couldn’t,” said Archibald, shaking his head solemnly.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a mourning ring, to remember his wife and first child. Only child. They died together, at birth. He never takes it off.”

  We made good time that first day, laying down close to seventy miles before stopping for the night at Perry’s tavern at the Pontiac crossroads, where Archibald and I huddled together to
keep warm on a bed of damp straw that stank of gin. Archibald managed to be in the privy at the very moment Perry came to collect his rent, and I shook my head at Archibald’s cadging skills and handed over coins for the both of us.

  We were back on the trail hours before the sun rose the next morning, and I grew increasingly hopeful we would make it back to Springfield that evening. We took turns riding the point and spoke little, the horses’ steady beats and the gusting winds the only sounds to spoil the stillness of the vast land.

  Archibald had been leading for several hours, the faint midwinter sun starting to cast lengthening shadows alongside the horses, when he looked over his shoulder.

  “How many siblings do you have, Speed?”

  “Nine who are living. How about you?”

  “Just my two brothers.” Archibald’s eyes were suddenly cloudy, and he paused before continuing. “But sometimes I can’t figure why the Almighty thought two was the best number for me.”

  I spurred Hickory forward until we were even with Archibald. “How do you mean?”

  “It’s my lot in life to care for them, whether they want it or not.”

  “Care for them? How much younger are they?”

  Archibald shook his head. “Older, not younger. William, he’s twenty years my senior. Owns a concern that was digging part of the canal until the work stopped. And Henry’s a few years below William. Henry’s a builder. Done some work in Springfield. Then our momma had a whole run of babies who didn’t live, not long, anyway, and then she had me and she didn’t survive my birth.” He blinked. “I didn’t know her for more than but a day or two.”

  “I’m sorry. But meaning no disrespect, Archibald, it sounds as if each of your brothers is in a position to fend for himself. I don’t understand why you need to care for them.” If anything, I thought, the reverse was true.

  Archibald had pulled up his horse, and the animals were still, the vast prairie stretching to the horizon in every direction.

  “My papa made me promise I would,” he said.