A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  I remembered the mayor pushing past me in a hurry as I entered Hoffman’s Row in search of Lincoln, and I realized I’d never asked Lincoln what he wanted. I’d been too consumed with my grievance.

  Martha must have seen a shadow come over my face, because she asked, “Will you tell me what happened between you and Mr. Lincoln?”

  “Nothing happened. I’ve been busy, and so has he.”

  “Well, whenever you have some time to spare from your busy schedule” —she slowly took in the empty store— “I have an idea for you to pursue. Something that might help Archibald.”

  “Don’t be a ninny. What’s your idea?”

  “I was thinking about the victim, Mr. Fisher. Supposed victim, I should say, because his body hasn’t turned up. What if he wasn’t killed? What if he merely decided to leave Springfield on his own? We know he got to town by riding in William’s carriage. If he wanted to depart on his own, he might have made arrangements with—”

  “Frink and Walker,” I exclaimed, and Martha nodded. It was the largest stagecoach company in town. As soon as my store clerk Herndon appeared to take his turn at the store counter, I headed over to the line’s offices, which were adjacent to the Globe Tavern, whose stables it shared. I arrived at the same instant a new coach pulled up.

  The brightly painted stagecoach threw up a slew of mud as it approached, the driver flourishing his long whip from the high box to force his four charges into a gallant dash to the front door. They raced through the gates of the stable yard and came to a masterly stop, the horses panting, the spittle of exertion still dripping from their muzzles. There was a moment of calm. Then the driver blew a single, long note on his horn, and Frink strode forward to greet him.

  The next few minutes were a chaotic but carefully planned dance, as some passengers and their trunks left the coach here at the Globe while others embarked for the onward journey. One mail pouch was thrown down from the stage, and a new one was thrown up in its place. Several youthful ostlers from the Globe supervised the changing of the team, four fresh horses brought forward to carry the coach to its next stop.

  Seven minutes after the coach had arrived, the yard was frenetic as a beehive, passengers and trunks and horses flying in every direction at the same time. But one minute thereafter, as if by some magic, everyone and everything had assumed its place. The ostler responsible for the new team had fully secured it, and he was finishing rubbing oil on the harness and applying grease to the wheels. The ostlers in back gave their straps one final tug to make sure the new luggage was secured in place.

  The driver was back on his high box, finishing a bottle of liquid refreshment he’d procured inside the tavern. He checked with Frink to ensure everyone was aboard, and he gave another blast on his horn. The driver cracked his whip with a flourish, there was a whirring of wheels, and a great hurrah arose from the ostlers as the coach pulled out of the yard. As it disappeared from view, Frink and Saunders of the Globe stood next to each other, watching with expressions of professional satisfaction. Stagecoach competition was intense; only those enterprises that operated with smooth efficiency were likely to remain in business year after year.

  I hailed Frink as he turned back toward his offices.

  “Decided to travel the sensible way the next time you head to Chicago, Speed?” Frink asked, pointing at my bad leg, which I still held stiffly at my side. “I could have told you nothing good could come of a ride alone over the prairie.”

  I shook my head. “I’m looking for information. I wonder if you sold a ticket a few weeks back to a man named Flynn Fisher. A ticket out of town, most likely. Fisher’s an older man, holds his head to the side.”

  I started to demonstrate Fisher’s habitual lean, but Frink waved off the demonstration. “I know who you mean,” he said, “and why you’re asking, but I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you about the man’s disappearance. He never rode one of our stages. I’ve checked the records.”

  I started to turn away, then paused. “Why have you checked the records?”

  “Because you’re not the first person to come around asking about him.”

  My pulse quickened. “Who else did?”

  “The innkeeper, Ransdell. It was a funny conversation. He hadn’t heard about Fisher’s disappearance, even though the whole town’s been up in arms. Didn’t know a thing about it. It seems Fisher was lodging with him at the time. Ransdell thought Fisher had skipped out on his bill. Threatened to sue me for abetting his flight. Ransdell’s convinced the whole murder trial is an excuse to short him.” Frink laughed and walked away, shaking his head.

  I realized that Henry Trailor had described the rousting of Fisher from his lodgings on the night of the would-be murder but that we’d never determined where Fisher was staying. Ransdell’s made perfect sense. Wharton Ransdell kept a tavern in the western part of town, to which I rarely ventured, as it was twice as far distant from our lodgings as the Globe, and its fare was, if not even less edible, then certainly not superior to the Globe’s.

  Ransdell was an ill-tempered man, stout, nearly bald, and always ready for a fight. These were qualities that, while seemingly undesirable in an innkeeper, were very much to be treasured in a lawyer’s client. He was a mainstay of Lincoln’s practice. The man was forever getting into legal disputes with his lodgers and his neighbors, and on some days it appeared as if Lincoln had, and needed, no other client. Ransdell v. McGee was followed on the court’s docket by Fleming v. Ransdell, while Ransdell v. Vaughn waited to be heard immediately thereafter.

  I headed directly to Ransdell’s inn and was greeted by his customary sneer. “Thought you were too good for my fare, Speed. Fall on hard times?”

  “I’ve come to ask about a man who stayed with you a few weeks back. Flynn Fisher.”

  Ransdell’s eyes widened. “So you’re the one who helped him disappear! I should have known he’d pick an equally disreputable confederate.”

  “Certainly not. I’m looking for him, along with the rest of the town.”

  “Then look. And bring him back to me when you find him. He owes me two dollars fifty for his five nights. Three twenty-five now, with interest. I will not be trifled with.”

  I suppressed a smile. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but the sheriff thinks Fisher’s been killed. William and Archibald Trailor are in jail awaiting trial for his murder.”

  “Archibald Trailor killed Fisher?” Ransdell said. “That don’t make sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the last time I saw the two of them together, it was Archibald who was trying to help Fisher.”

  I felt a jolt of excitement. “When was this?”

  “The very morning Fisher disappeared on me.”

  “Tell me exactly what you saw.” When Ransdell hesitated, I added, “It might help you recover the money you’re owed.”

  “Fisher was in my front room, taking his breakfast—the wife had fried up some eggs that morning, bit of an extravagance—when the carpenter knocked and asked to have a word with Fisher. I said all right, as long as Archibald paid for his meal. I ain’t sponsoring a sewing circle, you know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So Archibald handed me a half dime and I let him enter. Fisher had some defect. He was always leaning to the side, you see, and Trailor leaned his own head in and they had a good long conversation. I couldn’t hear them too good, but they was talking about some canal somewhere.”

  “What about the canal?”

  Ransdell glowered at me. “I told you I couldn’t hear ’em. Anyways, at the end of a few minutes, Archibald gets up from the table and says something like, ‘You take care of yourself, Flynn. You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll talk to my brother for you.’ And they shook hands and Archibald left.”

  “Do you remember what Fisher was wearing when you last saw him?”

  Ransdell cocked his head to the side. “He was always wearing a militia uniform, except it was a jumble. None of the items matche
d the others. He looked like a jester. All militia issue except one item. On his head he had some kind of fur hat. Definitely not issued by any militia.”

  “What color was the fur hat?”

  “Dirty. And half the fur worn away at that. But it looked like it’d been white originally. Now be on your way. That’s more than enough time spent on idle chatter, and not even with a paying customer.”

  As I turned to go, Ransdell pointed at me with a stubby finger. “And if I discover you helped Fisher dodge his bill, I’ll sic my lawyer on you. He’s a mean son of a gun, as determined and vicious as they come. You better watch your back.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Ransdell’s tale about a friendly conversation between Archibald Trailor and Fisher on the morning of the latter’s disappearance seemed moderately helpful to Archibald’s case. But to prove Archibald’s innocence, we needed something much more definite.

  I decided to pursue Martha’s idea that Fisher had departed Springfield on his own accord. Armed with the description from Ransdell of the clothing Fisher had been wearing on his final morning, I spent the next day visiting the three other stagecoach operations in town, along with the four stables where one could rent a horse. But none of those establishments had sold a ticket, or rented a ride, to a man matching Fisher’s appearance. He could have walked out of town, I supposed, but the journey back to his home would have taken a week or more on foot, and Fisher hardly seemed vigorous enough to contemplate, let alone complete, such an arduous journey. The only alternative seemed to be that Fisher had never left town, and that left Archibald in jail and facing the very real prospect of the gallows.

  I reached this sobering conclusion as I walked along the derelict northern edge of the town square, heading back to my store after visiting the final stables in the greater Springfield area. The north side of the square was known as Chicken Row, and its only two notable residents were the town’s rival newspapers, Simeon Francis’s Sangamo Journal and George Weber’s Illinois Democrat, placed by Fate in side-by-side dingy, one-story buildings.

  On many afternoons the two antagonists, political as well as business enemies, could be seen standing in front of their respective buildings and hurling insults at each other.

  This afternoon only Simeon was in evidence. The rotund publisher was lounging in the doorway of his shop, shading his eyes against the sudden appearance of the sun. As I approached, he called out, “What say you, Speed?” Simeon had been particularly careless with the straight razor the last time he’d used it, and an irregular patch of whiskers sprouted on his left cheek, just above his fleshy jaw.

  “I’ve been spending some time investigating Archibald Trailor’s case. I wonder if you know how Lincoln plans to defend the man?”

  Simeon stared at me with surprise. “Surely Lincoln has told you his thoughts himself. On matters of Lincoln’s intent, I’ve always considered you my first and best source.”

  I felt myself turning red. “We’ve spoken, to be sure. But I was thinking perhaps he’d said more to you. When he’s been by to work on The Old Soldier campaign newspaper, or …” As I thought about Simeon’s words, I trailed off. It sometimes escaped me just how closely my own personage in Springfield was tied to Lincoln. The realization made me feel proud, and a little sad.

  “I only know he’s worried about the trial,” said the newspaperman, still peering at me with interest. “Lincoln’s never had to watch a client swing from the gallows, you know, but he’s concerned poor Archibald might be the first—”

  He was interrupted by shouts coming from behind him. I saw a large group of men milling about inside the front room of the newspaper office.

  “I just received my weekly delivery of the out-of-town papers from the Post Office Department,” Simeon explained, beckoning me to follow him inside. “They’ve got a few of the fellows—more than just the fellows—up in arms.”

  As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of the office, I saw that quite a few of the Whig regulars were present. Ninian Edwards was there, and Conkling too, as well as Hurst and Thornton and Browning and a good number of others. Surveying the room, I was relieved to see that Lincoln was not in attendance.

  Broadsheets from all around the nation had been flung open and strewn about. The men were pacing the cramped room, reading from long, agate-type columns and excitedly shouting the news back and forth.

  “The Vermont Phoenix has a detailed account of the defalcations,” exclaimed Hurst. “Van Buren’s people in New York appointed these Tammany Hall men, Samuel Swartwout and that scoundrel Price, to hold the office of collector of the New York port. Van Buren let them borrow two million on public bonds, when he knew they had no intention of paying it back. Sure enough, having spent the money, the Tammany men retire from office and default on the bonds. Then Van Buren hides the defalcations for long enough for Swartwout to slip off to England with his million and a quarter of the People’s money.”

  “This corrupt dynasty, Jackson and his disciple van Buren, they’ve plundered the nation with their spoils principle,” Conkling cried earnestly. “Is there any doubt that Van Buren will order Tammany to have the Customs House bullies surround the polls this November? They’ll only let reliable voters pass through their barricades.”

  “It’s an outrage,” offered Browning. “How can General Harrison hope to carry New York with the forces set against him?”

  “Just as the general will win the rest of the country,” said Edwards. “By exposing the truth about Van Buren. Look here, the Madisonian catalogs the People’s money that the present administration has wasted decorating the President’s House in Washington. One thousand one hundred sixty-five dollars for a dwarf wall between the executive buildings and the President’s House. Ten thousand for furniture—Turkey carpets, giant candelabras and mirrors, Oriental indulgences. How much public treasure our grand Locofoco president has squandered!”

  “Listen to this,” cried Thornton. “The Daily Chicago American has a report about threats to the gold shipment scheduled to replenish the State Bank in that city.” Several men present, members of the legislature who had been grappling with that very issue, swung around with interest. “Apparently it’s scheduled for sometime this week, or perhaps next. It says here there’s an organized gang of thieves looking to make raises from stagecoaches in the northern reaches of our state. The ‘banditti of the prairies,’ it calls them. The article says these banditti are armed with pistols and dirks and bowie knives and that they’re on a close lookout for the gold.”

  Hurst dismissed the story with a swipe of his large hand. “ ‘Banditti of the prairies’? A campfire legend. Here’s the story we should take seriously, from the New York Sun. ‘Mr. St. John, of Peale’s Museum, while visiting King Leopold in Belgium, has engaged the services of a modern Goliath. He stands between eight and a half and nine feet in height, well proportioned … enormous strength … can rise from the floor with three men of ordinary size hanging on to each arm.’ Let’s see: ‘This monster will arrive on the next steam packet crossing the Atlantic and will make his American debut at the Bowery Theatre, where preparations for his reception are already in progress.’”

  “What are we waiting for?” called Thornton. “We should all set off for New York at once.” Loud guffaws bounced around the room.

  “This is no time for humor,” shouted a new, high-pitched voice. “We must ensure the People know that Van Buren’s own men are deserting him!” It was a woman who had spoken. I swung around and gaped. Mary. The banter ceased abruptly, and the men parted as the diminutive Miss Todd stepped forward into the center of the crowded room. She wore a full-length dress, light blue decorated with white lace, and held a notorious Democratic rag in her hands.

  “Now, dear sister, I think you may rely upon us to perform that task,” Ninian Edwards said, taking Mary’s arm as if he meant to escort her out of the building. “The People shall know where their future lies.”

  But Mary refused to budge. “I know you
’ve stated that intention, dear Ninian, but you’ll pardon me if I worry whether the task will be accomplished in a satisfactory manner, if left in its current hands.”

  A low murmur passed through the room. While Ninian Edwards was a popular subject of derision at gatherings from which he was absent, few of the men present would dare to challenge the famous scion so boldly to his face.

  Mary’s eyes alighted on me. “Surely you agree with me, Mr. Speed. Do you not think the Sangamon Whigs should be doing more to promote General Harrison’s cause?”

  I felt the gaze of every man present turn to me. “In fairness, Miss Todd, we are doing a good bit. Each edition of our campaign newspaper builds up the general and explains why Van Buren must go. In the last issue, I wrote about the new campaign tune General Harrison is using. The chorus goes, ‘For Tippecanoe / and Tyler too.’ Pretty clever. We’re publishing two times every month until election day.”

  “Only two? Why not four times a month?”

  Several of the men guffawed.

  “I’m not sure there’s that much popular interest in every last particular of the candidates’ positions. Besides, all of us have regular jobs to attend as well.”

  “But none so important!” cried Mary, to more astonished laughter.

  Ninian Edwards took his sister-in-law by the arm again, more firmly this time. “You’ve said your piece, dear sister. Now, I insist you return home. My wife will be wanting help with the children at this hour, I should think, and surely there is sewing to be done. These men came here to get the news and share their views with each other. They have enough of a woman’s hectoring at their own hearths.” Mary’s face turned crimson as Edwards steered her out the door. He returned, alone, to laughter and no little applause.