A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  I was beginning to despair of finding anything of value when a man to the side of the group called out, “Over here! Drag marks.”

  The mass shifted in his direction, but I managed to get to the front of the pack this time, and I saw he was right. There was an unmistakable path on the ground, roughly the width of a human torso, leading away from the clearing. The trail of bent grasses and scattered twigs led to a nearby thornbush, which was soon surrounded by the crowd.

  “That’s right,” Henry Trailor called out. “That’s just where William dragged him. And later, William came back and—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, another man called out, “Look, another path!” and the entire mob chased after him as he hurried off in the general direction of the pond. “Here it is … and here … and over here,” he shouted, turning this way and that like a bloodhound on the scent. From my position at the back of the pack, I couldn’t tell whether there had been a trail through the brush. Either way, by the time twenty men had followed after one another, there was a pronounced pathway.

  We all chased after the bloodhound fellow through the thicket and emerged on the shore of the pond. The mill house and dam stood opposite. The crowd came to a panting halt, men bent over and breathing deeply from exertion and excitement.

  There was a moment of perfect stillness. The glimmering surface of the water was quiet as the morning dew. A jay called out from across the pond. And then chaos broke loose.

  Three different men, seemingly all at once, had the idea to drain the pond. They shouted and ran toward the dam, and it took only a few moments for the rest of the mob to seize upon their intentions and follow. Soon, all twenty men were crashing through the wood, whooping and hollering like a group of Indians bent on attack. Big Red was caught short, and he gave me a panicked look. Then he hurried after his erstwhile army while I followed close on his footfalls.

  When we reached the dam, its destruction was already underway. The dam had been built of irregular rock and brick, with dried mud serving as mortar. The mass of men now covered the slanting face of the structure, digging away at the mud with sticks and stones and bare hands. The mayor shouted to get their attention, but his words were drowned out by the din of the mob’s industry.

  A few of the men concentrated their efforts on dislodging a large rock near the top of the dam wall that seemed to serve as a keystone for the entire structure. Before long, little rivulets of water started trickling down either side of the rock. The men gave a cheer of excitement and redoubled their efforts.

  Just then, there was a large bang from the front door of the mill house, and the millpond’s owner strode into view on the other side of the dam.

  “What on God’s earth are you doing?” he shouted. “Stop this at once! Stop, or I’ll have you all hung!”

  In their excitement, the men digging away at the dam face were oblivious to the threat. Next to me, Big Red cleared his throat, nervously, and shouted, “Ahoy, Justice Smith. I am trying to prevent—”

  Justice Smith’s eyes alighted upon the mayor and grew wide with anger. “Red?” he shouted. “This is your doing? I’ll run you out of town!”

  Justice Theophilus Smith resembled no one so much as Jehovah. He was big and broad shouldered, with a full mane of white, curly hair and a white beard. He shook his mighty fist, and the only evidence that he did not actually control the heavens was that no lightning crashed down upon the men bent on the destruction of his dam.

  “But I’m trying to stop them, Justice Smith,” Big Red called back in a pleading tone. “I wandered up and happened upon this insensible mob, and I’ve been doing everything in my powers to restrain them.”

  Smith opened his mouth in reply, but his words were lost, because at that moment the men on the dam face succeeded in dislodging the keystone. Water from the pond poured through the opening, and the force of the sudden current ripped away the remainder of the dam. Most of the men who had been working on the dam face managed to jump to safety just in time, but a few were too slow, and they were carried off amid the water and rubble. The entire dam collapsed in a matter of seconds as, with a great roar, water poured out of the pond.

  Justice Smith raged and shouted and shook his fists, but the threats of the modern-day Jehovah proved impotent against the inexorable force of gravity. The surface level of the pond sank quickly, the water streaming out through the large hole in the landscape where the dam had been. In a fury lasting less than a minute, it was all gone.

  Some of the crowd had scattered to avoid the judge’s wrath, and others who had been swept away were just now struggling to their feet, bruised and soaking wet, from down the spillway. The rest of the mob rushed toward the shoreline of the pond. I pushed my way into the front rank and looked out.

  A shallow, barren depression lay in front of us. Scattered clumps of weeds clung to the muddy earth, and dozens of fish flopped about helplessly. All around, men started cursing with disappointment. Next to me, Big Red’s forlorn ears drooped.

  There was no body.

  CHAPTER 14

  I headed immediately to Lincoln’s law office. Even without Fisher’s dead body, Archibald and William Trailor were going to face murder charges in light of Henry Trailor’s confession. Archibald had saved my life. Now his life hung in the balance, and I needed to do everything within my power to help him. Starting with procuring the services of the best trial lawyer in town.

  This morning, Lincoln had said he might be too busy to take on William Trailor’s case. Now that Archibald was to stand in the dock, however, everything was different. I had to make Lincoln see the importance of defending the simple, illiterate carpenter. But at the back of my mind lurked a concern that Lincoln would try to find an excuse to avoid representing Archibald, perhaps because of festering anger over my refusal to cede Miss Todd’s hand to him.

  I rehearsed the arguments in Archibald’s favor as I reached the handsome row of two-story red brick buildings the landlord Hoffman had built a block north of the square. Among other firms, Hoffman’s Row housed the offices of Stuart and Lincoln, Attorneys and Counsellors at Law.

  I walked up the familiar stairs to the second floor and burst through the door to No. 4 without knocking. Lincoln was standing beside his cluttered worktable, with the banker Belmont at his side. Both men were bent over and examining some of the papers spread out on the table.

  “My friend Archibald Trailor is in grave jeopardy,” I exclaimed before either man could greet me.

  “I know it,” Lincoln said. “Sheriff Hutchason has just been to visit, giving us the latest word.”

  “You must help with his defense.”

  “Yes.”

  “He needs the very best. I demand it.”

  “I’ve already said yes, Joshua,” said Lincoln. “Do you insist upon not taking yes for an answer?”

  “Oh,” I said, and I collapsed into an empty chair. The emotion drained out of me as fast as the millpond had emptied. I felt embarrassed for having harbored any doubts about Lincoln.

  “I have already arranged,” said Lincoln, looking down at me with a bemused expression, “for James Conkling to defend Archibald, and William Trailor, too. I’ll stay involved myself, in the background, in case Conkling needs any advice, though I’m sure he’ll acquit himself perfectly well.”

  It took me a moment to realize what Lincoln had said, and then all of my suspicions came rushing to the fore, as if the millpond draining was running in reverse and at triple-speed.

  “Conkling?” I jumped to my feet. “You cannot be serious. Conkling! He’s a good lad, but I wouldn’t trust Conkling to look after the smallest commercial matter.” Belmont’s aristocratic eyebrows arched with surprise and Lincoln held his hand up, but I plowed forward. “I wouldn’t trust Conkling to recover a penny from my lowest customer.” Lincoln was clutching at his stomach now, almost as if he was laughing, but his posture only fueled my anger. “I wouldn’t trust Conkling to prove in court the fact of his own existence. An
d you suggest I should rely upon him to defend Archibald’s life?” Belmont’s eyes were averted to the floor; Lincoln was convulsed with laughter, pounding on the table and gesturing frantically, and finally I came to a stop.

  “What?” I demanded.

  Suddenly I heard a noise from behind the door I had thrust open moments earlier. “Good day to you, Speed,” said James Conkling, coming forward stiffly.

  I blanched. “Conkling … I didn’t realize …”

  “No,” said Conkling. “I don’t suppose you did.”

  There was a heavy silence, which Lincoln finally broke by saying, “You’ve been unkind, Speed. And you’re wrong. Conkling has become an accomplished advocate.”

  I stared at Conkling. He had arrived in Springfield two years earlier, fresh out of the famous Princeton University in New Jersey, and had promptly joined the bar and hung out his own shingle. Even now, with a slight build, sandy brown hair parted down the middle, and wire eyeglasses, he looked more like a schoolboy than a trial lawyer. There was no doubting Conkling’s pure intelligence, but all too often he seemed to have his head in the clouds rather than his feet on the muddy, murky earth where Archibald Trailor’s fate would be decided.

  “I am truly sorry for the outburst, James,” I began, before turning back to Lincoln, “but I do not apologize for my insistence. If you’ve talked to Hutchason, you know Big Red is determined to see Archibald and William hang. And he’s got a willing accomplice in Henry Trailor. Archibald’s going to need a tough, experienced lawyer.”

  I shifted my gaze to Conkling. “Have you ever handled a murder case?”

  “Not since I’ve been admitted to the bar. But at Princeton I read Cicero’s Murder Trials in the original Latin. Spent all year on a translation. And I’ve watched Lincoln—”

  I held up my hand. “I’m sure you’d try your hardest. I don’t intend to demean you, Conkling, but I owe Archibald my life. And he’s in no position to protect himself. Certainly not against his domineering brothers, to say nothing of the combined forces of the mayor, the sheriff, and the prosecutor. He needs the very best. And yet apparently Lincoln values his other work more highly than he values our friendship.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see both Belmont and Conkling shifting uncomfortably.

  “I assure you that’s not the case, Speed,” said Lincoln, his arms spread earnestly. “Has the dead man’s body surfaced yet?”

  I put aside my indignation long enough to relate the tale of the millpond and Justice Smith’s destroyed dam. When I finished, Lincoln was shaking his head. “That is unfortunate for Archibald,” he said.

  “Why? I would have thought a conviction would be harder to secure in the absence of the corpse.”

  Lincoln waved his hand. “That part, to be sure, may be favorable for Archibald. But the fate of Justice Smith’s millpond assuredly is not. The old judge holds a grudge for longer than most.”

  “But that shouldn’t affect Archibald,” piped up Conkling. “He’s not the one who tore down the dam. Besides, it’s Judge Treat who’ll be the trial judge for the murder trial. One of his first, I believe, after being appointed to the bench by Governor Carlin. Justice Smith is on the Supreme Court. He would hear an appeal, but only as one of seven justices on the appeals court. He’s hardly in a position to harm Archibald or his case.”

  “I don’t think that’s the way Smith is going to see things, James,” said Lincoln. “In his mind, Archibald and William Trailor will have been the cause of the destruction of his dam, just as sure as if they had torn it down with their own hands. Nor do I think Judge Treat will be unmindful of Justice Smith’s grievance.”

  Lincoln gave me a look that said I know you’re right about Conkling, but when he continued speaking, it was not to reverse his position.

  “Let’s see how Conkling does at the preliminary hearing tomorrow. The judge will be considering bail for William and Archibald at the morning call, and we’ve already told Hutchason that Conkling will stand for both of them. If things truly appear dire for your Archibald after the bail hearing, Speed, we can revisit my role.”

  I left Hoffman’s Row in a foul mood, and before I reached my store, I convinced myself that Lincoln was acting out of spite because of our competition over Miss Todd. For the first time in the three years of our friendship, I found myself ruing the day Fate had brought Abraham Lincoln into my world.

  CHAPTER 15

  The old, dilapidated courthouse on the public square had been demolished to make room for the state capitol, and a new, modern courtroom was due to be constructed inside the capitol building. Like several aspects of the sprawling, much-delayed project, however, the new courtroom had not yet been completed. As a result, the Sangamon County Circuit Court had been forced into temporary quarters. As it happened, the space available was at No. 3 Hoffman’s Row, the first floor of the very building that housed Lincoln’s law offices at No. 4.

  While this arrangement was convenient for Lincoln, who merely had to walk down a single flight of stairs to attend court, it was notably inconvenient for the judge and other lawyers in town. The floor plan that provided a modest office for Lincoln and his law partner Stuart proved an almost unbearably cramped setting in which to conduct the legal business of the county.

  The courtroom was already overflowing when I arrived the next morning. The judge’s bench, little more than an elevated writing desk with a high-backed chair for the judge to perch upon, was jammed against the far wall. With some small space for counsel and the jury to cram into, there remained room only for two tight rows of spectator benches, while another group of spectators could stand in a kind of semicircle pressed up against the walls. Not least of the problems posed by the overall arrangement was that no one could sneeze or burp or clear his throat without every man present being informed of the details.

  When, as this morning, the case being heard excited the town’s interest, the public benches were full shortly after dawn, with an excess crowd milling around on the street outside. Judge Treat sought to accommodate the public by throwing open the windows so latecomers could at least hear—and if they were tall, see—the proceedings. But this plan had the unfortunate side effect of welcoming the elements into the courtroom. It was raining lightly this morning, the raindrops running down the brick walls of the building and dripping into the courtroom, where they formed small pools at the base of each window.

  Sheriff Hutchason stood in the doorway, blocking it with his massive frame, but when I approached, he nodded and let me squeeze past. I flattened myself into an empty space against the rear wall of the courtroom, doing my best to ignore both the dripping rainwater and the angry grunts of men who were barred by Hutchason from entering.

  Lincoln was already on his feet when I arrived, arguing another case to the judge. Though we had both spent the prior night in our chambers, I had managed to avoid speaking to him since I’d left his office. William and Archibald Trailor were also present, their hands bound together and to each other. William was defiant, his eyes darting around the courtroom restlessly, but Archibald’s face was placid. He didn’t realize the magnitude of what was happening, I thought.

  “… Mr. John Harris had possession of the horse in question, Your Honor,” Lincoln was saying, “until his brother Mr. James Harris came along and asserted that the beast had been given to him under their father’s will. That’s when Mr. Robert Harris—”

  “Wait a minute, Lincoln,” Judge Treat called out in his shrill, nasal voice, setting down his pipe. “I understood there were two brothers Harris in this case. You mean to tell me there’re three?”

  “Four, actually,” Lincoln replied, shuffling through a few pieces of paper in his hand. “I am just coming to the role played by Mr. Christopher Harris in regard to the disputed horse.”

  Judge Samuel Hubbel Treat picked up his pipe and sucked on the stem. He had been appointed the previous year to replace the long-serving Judge Jesse B. Thomas Jr., and in his short time on the b
ench Judge Treat had quickly become accustomed to the high privileges of the position. He was not quite thirty years of age, with wispy light-brown hair and a nasty expression perpetually pasted to his lips. Of late he had been suffering from a particularly unfortunate attack of acne rosacea, and his nose, forehead, and cheeks were dotted with red, pustular lesions.

  Treat blew out a large plume of smoke. “We don’t have time for all of them this morning. I’ll bind you and the four brothers Harris over to the April trial term. If you can’t resolve the case before then, we’ll hold a quick trial to sort it all out.”

  Treat looked over at his clerk, my friend James Matheny. “Call the next matter,” he commanded.

  “The People against Trailor and Trailor,” shouted Matheny. “Hearing on the defendants’ application for bail.”

  “Ah, yes,” Treat said, gazing out at the crowd, both inside and outside the courtroom, which quieted down at the name of the case. “Today’s principal attraction, I believe. Who’s standing for the defendants?”

  “I am, Your Honor,” Conkling called out. The young lawyer had been sitting off to the side, but now he pushed past Lincoln to the small well reserved for counsel. Lincoln, in turn, sat in the chair Conkling had just vacated. I saw Lincoln open his case and start to thumb through a series of folded packets of pleadings, each tied with a red ribbon.

  “You’re prosecuting this one yourself, General Lamborn?” Treat continued.

  “That’s right, Your Honor.” Josiah Lamborn, the newly elected attorney general of Illinois, rose and stood beside Conkling. He was thick chested and broad shouldered, and next to him Conkling appeared even slighter than usual. Lamborn was also, if you will forgive the redundancy of this description, a Democrat and a drunkard.