“When?”
“Last time I ever saw him. I was near on six years of age at the time, I reckon.”
I started to object, but Archibald continued, the words tumbling out. “I made him a promise and I’ve got to keep it. I know I’m not as respectable as either of my brothers. Don’t have my own home, or a profession people admire. You see, I didn’t have the same chance as a lad to get an education from books like they did. But I make do, find ways to be useful, keep myself fed.”
“You’re to be admired for that.”
Archibald prodded his painter back into action with a gentle slap to the shoulder. “You’ll see for yourself, soon enough. I’m thinking we’re about ten miles from Henry’s homestead. That’s where we’re sleeping tonight.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. “Hold on,” I said. “We’re getting to Springfield tonight. At least I hope we are. You’ll have to see your brother another time.”
“No we ain’t,” Archibald said over his shoulder as he rode on. “That’s why I had us turn east at Holland’s crossroads couple hours back. We’re heading for Henry’s, little ways past Bloomington. We couldn’t reach Springfield tonight from here, even if we wanted to.”
I gaped at Archibald’s back, then stared up at the sky. From the position of the sun, low on the horizon, I saw at once he spoke the truth. The carriage path from Chicago to Springfield was consistently southwest in direction, straight into the winter’s afternoon sun. But the sun stood far off to our right; I realized now that the aspect of sunlight in my eyes had changed sometime earlier. Cursing under my breath, I spurred Hickory forward.
Henry Trailor’s house sat amid a loosely connected series of farms. It consisted of two modest-sized rooms, and the exterior logs retained the green tinge of having been recently cut. But Trailor had not spared in his use of pitch, and the rooms pleasingly held the heat from the large hearth that dominated the living room. Henry’s wife, a tiny, timid girl, served a decent stew, and as I stretched out on a bed of prairie feathers in the corner of the sleeping room, I had nearly forgotten my grievance about Archibald’s detour. I was on the edge of sleep when I heard voices, whispered at first but then rising in anger.
“I thought you were going to talk to William about him,” Henry was saying as my mind snapped back into consciousness. Henry Trailor was a few inches shorter than his brother Archibald, with a potbelly and—I had discovered as we sat across the cramped dinner table from each other—a permanent scowl. He had the scolding voice of a peevish magpie.
“I’ll do it if you insist,” Archibald answered in a soft, steady voice. “Though I don’t think we’re needing to.”
Henry grunted. “You don’t understand, Archie. You never have. He’s all of our concern, as long as he’s in this with us. William was the one who burdened us with him in the first place. He should be the one to get rid of him. But if he won’t, it’s got to be you. Otherwise the riches won’t be ours.”
Archibald glanced in my direction, and I lay still and pretended to sleep. The tallow candles had been touched out, and the only light came from a few dying embers on the hearth.
“I do understand, Henry,” Archibald said, an earnest tone in his low voice. “’Course I do. William told us he had to be part of it. Isn’t that good enough?”
There was a small, dismissive noise, and I realized Henry had spat against his own wall. “Still blindly following William, are you?” he said, his voice rising higher by a couple of notes. “I should have thought you’d outgrow that habit. I did long ago, soon as I could think for myself.”
Archibald muttered something indistinct in response. Suddenly I felt protective of the simple carpenter, although I had no stake in the argument, nor much interest in their affairs. If the Trailor brothers hadn’t had some sort of scheme for quick riches, it would have been more of a surprise, given the tenor of the times, where the dream of great wealth hovered all around the impoverished present, like a low cloud floating just out of reach. But feeling sorry for Archibald, I coughed and turned over. As I had hoped, the reminder they were not alone tempered Henry’s instinct to bully and browbeat, and the brothers soon fell silent.
Archibald and I left at daybreak. As we were mounting our horses, Henry came to the doorway, wearing nothing but his underclothes.
“Remember what you’ve promised to talk to William about,” Henry called. “See if you can manage to get something right for once.” He slammed the door shut before Archibald could respond.
When we were several hundred paces away from Henry’s house, I turned to Archibald and said, “He only treats you like that because he knows you’re the better man.”
Archibald rode for a minute. Then he looked over at me and said simply, “Thank you, Speed.” I thought there might be tears in his eyes, but he turned away before I could tell for sure.
We rode on in silence. A cold mist started to hang over us, and I longed for the comfort of my own bed.
It was midafternoon when we first heard the sound. We were in the final stretch of prairie that encircled Springfield; our homes were ten miles away, twelve at most, and both of us, and our horses too, were glad to be nearing the end of the long journey. The prairie was vast and barren, an undulating meadow of lifeless brown grass. There was not a tree in sight, nor a dwelling anywhere.
I began to realize there was a low rumble off in the distance. The sound crept slowly into my consciousness, such that I couldn’t have said exactly when I first heard it. All I knew was that it did register, and at that moment I knew it had been there the minute before as well. Whether the minute before that one, I could not say.
It sounded at first like waters flowing together at a distant junction, or thunder just over the horizon. Hickory had noticed it before me, for her ears were alert and twitching, and once or twice she had turned her head to try to look behind us, though I held her reins straight. She was unsettled.
“What’s that noise?” I said aloud. It was the first time either of us had spoken in hours.
Archibald pulled up his horse and cocked his head. “I don’t hear nothin’.”
“I’m certain of it. And look at the horses.” Hickory and Darley were both alert and nervous, prancing about on the muddy path.
Archibald squinted through the cold drizzle, which condensed on the brim of his hat and dripped down to the ground. We felt the wind turn suddenly and blow toward the north, only it seemed like it was being sucked there by some powerful force rather than blowing on its own accord. The horses whimpered.
“Whatever it is,” I said, “I don’t want to wait for it. Let’s make haste.” I slapped Hickory twice on her hind flank, and though the beast was tired from the trip, she willingly began galloping toward Springfield. Archibald and Darley raced in step with us.
There was no mistaking the noise now, and despite our quickened pace there was no mistaking that it was gaining on us. It was an incessant drumbeat, like a herd of a hundred cattle running across the plain after us, now five hundred cattle, now a thousand, a herd so vast the thundering hooves drowned out all other noise. Archibald looked back over his shoulder and I saw him scream, though no sound reached my ears. I turned to see the cause of his horror and nearly fell from my mount.
A wall of liquid ice swept across the plain towards us, like the leading edge of a freezing waterfall, only it was a waterfall so vast that it stretched from one side of the horizon to the other and so tall that its source was the very heavens themselves. Ahead of the ice storm I felt a powerful chill radiating out, a chill that grabbed hold of my soul and sought to snuff out all hope.
In an instant it was upon us. Pellets the size of walnuts rained down. It was as if we were standing directly under the spigot of a vast, infinitely large barrel of ice. As the cold swept over, the muddy ground seemed to harden in a blink, like molten lead poured from a cask.
I kicked Hickory’s ribs and urged her to keep galloping. Perhaps we could outrun it. I sensed Archibald and Darley r
acing just ahead of us, though the raging storm blocked out all other sight and sound.
Hickory galloped as fast as she could, the ice rattling from her reins, but the storm was faster. The ground was rapidly covering with ice, and Hickory started to lose her footing. At this pace, the safety of Springfield was not more than thirty minutes away. If only we could get there.
All at once, I thought of my younger sister Martha, who lived in Springfield near me. It was a Saturday afternoon, so likely she’d be at home, helping her friend Molly Hutchason prepare the evening meal. But what if she was out on one of her walks through the farms that ringed town? What if she was searching the prairie for one last bunch of wildflowers?
I had to get to Springfield ahead of the storm to warn Martha. To save her! I kicked Hickory again and again, urging her to go still faster.
Suddenly I felt Hickory’s shod hooves skidding on the ice. I hung on as she skidded one way, then was thrown up off the saddle as she reversed field and skidded the other. There was a terrible moment when I realized I had lost touch with the animal, that I was floating in the air above her. Then I crashed awkwardly to the ground, landing on my right foot an instant before my face slammed into a rough sheet of ice. As I skidded to a stop, blood poured from my nose, while my ankle seared with pain.
I looked up in time to see Hickory disappearing into the fog of ice, following Archibald and Darley as they hurtled toward the safety of Springfield. I shouted for help at the top of my lungs, but I could scarcely hear myself, and I knew it was irrational to hold out even the slightest hope that anyone could hear me.
Bracing myself against the ground, I tried to stand. But as soon as I put any weight on my right ankle, I was shot through with pain, and I screamed and collapsed again. I was crippled and alone on the shelterless prairie.
CHAPTER 4
The ice beat down with unrelenting fury. I gathered up a handful and held it to my nose to stem the bleeding.
“Archibald?” I shouted into the remorseless void. “Hickory? Darley?” I paused, took a deep breath, and then yelled at the top of my lungs, “Help me!”
I listened, but there was nothing but the drumming of the ice. And then, far away in the distance, but gradually coming closer, was the sound of … hoofbeats? Could it be Hickory coming back for me?
“Over here!” I screamed. “Over here! Hickory! Come, girl!”
I saw a shadow in the ice ahead of me and screamed Hickory’s name again. A few moments later, the shadow dissolved into an actual horse, but it wasn’t Hickory. Darley! Darley with Archibald Trailor still in the saddle!
“Archibald!” I shouted. “You came back.” I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but they froze before they could escape.
The lanky carpenter swung off his horse and strode over to where I was half-lying on the icy ground. His coat, trousers, and boots were caked white with ice, and his hat was rimmed with icicles. He held Darley’s reins in his hand, but I could barely make out the horse himself beyond, prancing anxiously about.
“I heard you cry out,” Archibald called over the storm, “and then Hickory raced past. I turned back at once, but it took me some time. Couldn’t see ten feet in front of me. I’m glad I found you.”
“Not half as glad as I am,” I replied, grabbing his arm and pulling him next to me so I could speak directly into his ear. Just the touch of another human being gave me a tiny bit of hope.
Trailor pointed at my injured leg, still splayed out on the ice. “Is it broken?”
“I don’t think so. But I can’t put any weight on it.”
Trailor knelt beside me. I threw my arm around his shoulder and he pulled me up. I put my leg down tentatively, started to shift my weight, and then swallowed my scream as my ankle buckled.
All the while, the ice continued to beat down and the wind continued to howl. The ice on the ground was several inches deep already, and it was piling up so quickly I thought I could actually see its level rising.
Trailor shielded his eyes with his hands and looked around. Before the storm had overtaken us, there had been no structure, not even a tree or bush, visible in any direction. His eyes were troubled and I could read his thoughts: there were no good choices.
“You should ride on with Darley,” I said. “Springfield can’t be far. The two of you have a chance to make it together. You can come back for me when it’s over.”
I saw in Archibald’s eyes the recognition that there’d be no one to come back for after this was over. “I’m not leaving you,” he called back, “not after your kindness. Besides, the storm’s too strong to outrun. Maybe it’ll pass soon.” But even as he said the words, I held out no hope they might be true. The storm was, if anything, getting more ferocious by the moment.
“You get up on Darley and I’ll lead you out,” he said.
I started to protest again that he should ride off, but he shook his head. He helped me place my good foot in the stirrup and then carefully helped me swing my other leg over Darley’s back. It dangled beside the horse’s flank; even trying to secure it in the stirrup seemed too painful a prospect.
“Hold tight,” Archibald yelled, and he took Darley’s reins and started trudging in the direction of Springfield.
For a few minutes, we made decent headway. We were going slowly, very slowly, but at least we were inching toward Springfield.
But as the wind whipped in his face and the ice beat down, Archibald increasingly struggled to find purchase on the icy ground. He slipped and slipped again, once nearly falling before pulling himself up by Darley’s reins.
Archibald’s head drooped lower and lower, until his chin had fallen all the way to his chest. His curly hair had frozen stiff. His steps became slower and shorter, slower and shorter still. Eventually they stopped altogether. He was still as a statue, leaning precariously into the wind and ice, and for a moment I feared he had frozen to death on his feet.
I maneuvered Darley until I was beside Archibald, and I was relieved to see he was still breathing. His eyes were half closed, his eyelashes white and frozen, and little rivers of ice streamed down his face. Tears or the ice pellets from the heavens. Or a combination of both.
“Archibald?” I called.
His eyelids fluttered slightly.
“Listen, Archibald, let’s try to make a shelter. Do you think you can get Darley to lie still on the ground?”
Trailor gave a faint, icy nod.
There was a swale on the trail ahead of us, with a small rise just beyond. I thought there might be a tiny piece of shelter if we positioned the horse’s body into the storm and lay down behind it. I pointed to the ground I had in mind, and slowly Archibald managed to trudge over to it, leading Darley.
I slid off Darley, landing carefully on my good foot. Standing on one leg, I handed the reins to Archibald, and he whispered into Darley’s ear, scratched his throat, and got him to lay on his side against the rise, such that the wind was hitting his back. With Archibald’s help I hobbled over, and together we pressed against the horse’s barrel.
“We should use our coats as blankets,” suggested Archibald.
So we took off our overcoats and placed them over our heads. We huddled next to each other and against the prone horse and tried to stay as warm as possible as the ice thundered all around. For a moment, the dark produced by our coats provided a tiny bit of peace. Darley was breathing regularly, his chest rising and falling, and I could sense warmth somewhere deep inside his body.
Under our collapsed tent of coats, Archibald’s face was three inches from mine. We took turns breathing in and out slowly, trying to conserve energy.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said.
“Me neither,” replied Archibald. “Back in ’30, I remember we had a deep snow. My brothers told me the roads were blocked for weeks. But never ice like this. And never this quick. We can’t be the only ones caught out, with how sudden it came on.”
I hoped desperately that Martha would be near shelter w
hen the storm reached her. And Lincoln, too. He might have been anywhere, around town or out in the surrounding farmlands, with the legislature in session.
The sliver of calm and hope provided by our makeshift shelter soon vanished. In its place returned the reality that we were two men, lying against a horse out in the open prairie in the middle of a fierce winter storm, with nothing but coats thrown over our heads to protect us from the falling ice and nothing but traveling clothes to keep us warm. It would not do, not for long.
And the storm refused to relent. The wind was blowing the ice pellets around, and the horse’s flank provided little protection. My head felt like it was going to be crushed by the fury of the ice. I was cold beyond the deepest, saddest cold I had ever known. I could no longer feel my toes. And a little while later I could no longer feel anything below my waist.
I lay still, trying without success to move my legs. The storm continued unabated. Time passed; in our makeshift, dark shelter I had no ability to judge how much. Ten minutes? An hour? All I knew is that my soul was withdrawing to a warmer and safer place.
Time continued to pass, and I began to feel I was drifting, drifting on a cloud, drifting … away.
I thought about my family whom I would never see again: my sister Martha, the strong, independent young woman who’d been the light of my years in Springfield; my ailing father, the great Judge John Speed, whose lofty expectations I had never had the chance to fulfill; my older brother James, my mentor and confidant, who would never again look at me with his mixture of disappointment and eternal hope. I thought, too, of my mother and my other siblings, and I thought about what a piteous way this was to die and how I hoped they would be spared the details of my final moments. The noise coming from outside our makeshift shelter had receded, and I wondered if I was being drawn down the tunnel of death.
And I thought of Lincoln. Of Lincoln holding forth by the great fireplace at the back of my store and surrounded by our circle of fellows, telling some ridiculous tall tale with a knowing wink of his gray eyes and a boisterous laugh waiting just offstage to make its entrance. Of Lincoln pushing back his chair and finding the courage to stand alone in the well of the courtroom to fight for the lives of his clients. Of Lincoln lying beside me in the bed we shared, night after night, with Hurst and Herndon snoring rhythmically in the other bed, telling one last story as we slipped off to sleep.
A House Divided Page 3
