I gazed across the table. “It was you, Big Red.”
“What was me?”
“You were the one who told me Fisher’d been murdered. You showed up, at the Edwards home, looking for Ninian, and you told me there’d been a murder.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I did.” To Lincoln, he said, “Don’t know why you’re bothering to dredge up all these trivialities. The gold’s recovered and the Trailors are in the penitentiary. The affair’s over and happily, too.”
As he said this, Big Red did not appear happy.
“First answer me this, Red,” said Lincoln. “Who told you there’d been a murder?”
Lincoln was leaning forward now, and while he remained seated, he had taken on the cadences and demeanor he used in the courtroom while cross-examining a reluctant witness. The exchanges never ended well for the witness.
“I … I don’t recall,” sputtered Big Red.
“You don’t? As the mayor of Springfield, you organized a search party for the body of a man who was said to have been murdered, and you don’t recall how you learned he’d been murdered?”
“I suppose Keyes must have told me. From the letter he intercepted.”
“There was nothing about murder in the letter,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Speed’s right,” said Lincoln. “I had the idea to retrieve the letter from Keyes last week, in the midst of the trial, when I was still working on Archibald’s defense.” He tapped the pocket of his coat. “It says nothing about murder.”
“I was being cautious,” said May. His ears had turned a splotchy reddish-pink. “The letter suggested foul play. I thought we ought to search for Fisher, in case something had happened to him.”
“A lot of solicitude for a stranger you’d never met,” I said.
“Here’s another thing I’ve been wondering about,” said Lincoln. “Who first had the idea to arrest William and Henry Trailor for the supposed crime?”
“Sheriff Hutchason insisted upon it,” said Big Red at once.
I shook my head. “The sheriff was opposed to the search from the beginning. Skeptical that there was anything or anyone to look for. Big Red was the one who gave the order to have the two men arrested.” I turned to the mayor. “Gave the order that resulted in William Trailor being placed in jail in the first place.”
“But since there was no physical evidence that Fisher was murdered, because of course he wasn’t murdered,” continued Lincoln, “the key to the scheme was Henry’s confession. That evidence seemed ironclad, and it gave everyone a basis for believing William and Archibald had committed murder.”
“I was there when Henry confessed!” I exclaimed. A few nearby diners turned to stare, and Lincoln motioned for me to lower my voice. “I was there, in the storeroom of the capitol building, as Big Red interrogated him until he confessed to having seen his brothers murder Fisher. But …” The full realization took a moment to sink in. “But it was a ruse. It was all made up to advance the scheme.”
A failed attempt at a smile remained frozen on Big Red’s face. He raised his whiskey glass and took a large gulp. His hands were trembling.
“And who,” continued Lincoln, his eyes fixed on Big Red, “gave the order for William to be moved to the unfinished jail cell in the basement of the capitol, where he could dig his tunnel to the bank vault without being observed?”
“Tell me this,” I broke in, turning to Lincoln. “Who knew that the actual destination of the gold was the vault at the Springfield bank, opposite the capitol jail, rather than Chicago?”
“Only three people,” said Lincoln. “The plan depended on absolute secrecy. Myself. Belmont. And Big Red.”
“You’re … you’re mistaken,” said the mayor, trying to rally. “Can’t you see? I was always doing my job, defending the public’s safety. Besides, the money’s been recovered. No one is harmed in the end.”
“It was recovered thanks to Speed and Belmont,” said Lincoln. “No thanks to you.”
“But you did recover the money,” the mayor said urgently. “You recovered it, and I helped you do it. You see, I never wanted anything for myself. Never wanted harm to befall anyone.”
“Do you remember him helping us?” Lincoln asked me.
I shook my head. “I remember Big Red showing up, uninvited, when we went to search the bank vault, wanting to learn what we knew and what we would uncover. In fact, he tried to slow us down from our searching. To give the Trailors more time to get away.”
“That’s precisely what happened,” said Lincoln.
Big Red hung his head.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Red,” continued Lincoln, now nearly in a whisper. “In fact, since Douglas caused you to lose your seat in Congress, we share a very prominent common enemy. That almost makes us friends.” Lincoln smiled; Big Red did not. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his face.
“But, friend or not, justice must be done. Ah, just in time. Good evening, Humble.”
Sheriff Hutchason had materialized beside our table. He put a meaty paw on Big Red’s shoulder.
CHAPTER 39
The wedding took place on the grounds of Ninian and Elizabeth Edwards’s mansion on Quality Hill, on the first Sunday in August. It was, people agreed, generous of the Edwardses to agree to host the affair, given everything that had happened. And yet, they never wavered in their commitment to host the happy celebration.
I was awoken early by the summer light coming through our window, and as I rolled over in bed, I saw that Lincoln was already awake, staring up at the ceiling. It was hard to tell which of us was more anxious.
“Have you decided yet what you’re going to say?” I asked.
He shook his head back and forth on the pillow. “I’m hoping something will occur, when the moment arrives.”
We dressed together, elbowing each other out of the way to take our turn in front of the small looking glass.
“I thought this day would never come,” I said.
“Nor I.”
“But they seem a happy couple, don’t you think?”
“I must say,” replied Lincoln, “I’m skeptical matrimony could make any man happy, but if there’s anyone who can make it work, it’ll be Archibald.”
I was shocked when Archibald Trailor had delivered the news the prior month; I’d never seen it coming. And certainly he hadn’t seen his bride-to-be coming.
“You’re not upset, are you?” Lincoln continued.
“At what?”
“That he’s marrying her. I know you had strong feelings on the subject.”
“Passing feelings, I assure you. No, I’m pleased with how it ended up.”
We walked together along the dusty streets, joining others who were headed up the hill for the affair. By the time we reached the curving drive of the grand house, I was sweating beneath my black frockcoat. I saw tiny droplets of perspiration gathering at the crown of Lincoln’s stovepipe hat.
Edwards had erected a large white tent to shield his guests from the sun. There were several unoccupied seats as we entered, but Lincoln suggested we sit in the back row, so he wouldn’t obscure anyone else’s view. We saved seats between us for the two ladies, once they’d finished their duties as the bride’s attendants.
Eventually the hour of reckoning arrived. Martha and Mary, each dressed in her Sunday finest, stepped out of the Edwardses’ front door and began processing toward the tent. Between them was Martha’s cousin Matilda Edwards, wearing a blue calico dress. Matilda blushed deeply when she saw her groom waiting nervously for her at the front of the aisle.
Their duties completed, Martha and Mary came back to the seats we’d reserved for them. We all exchanged congratulations on the happy day. The couple was, we agreed, well suited. Two persons who enjoyed the simple pleasures in life without thinking too deeply about them. And Miss Edwards, it must be said, appeared to enjoy the whiff of adventure that had followed Archibald after his trial and surprise acquittal.
A
s we settled in to witness the ceremony, Martha and I shared a long embrace. It was, both of us knew, the last grand occasion on which we’d be together for a very long time.
“Good luck,” I whispered.
“You, too.”
Archibald and Matilda were not the only young residents of Springfield bound for new adventures. Six weeks after I’d ridden back with the trunk full of gold, Martha and I had gone for a walk together out of town. The prairie was in full springtime bloom, the lush green grasses forming a beautiful contrast with the bright colors of a thousand flowers. A gentle, warm wind blew. We walked slowly through the fields, arm in arm, and I was happy to be able to enjoy nature’s vibrant tapestry for once without being in a hurry to get from one place to another.
As we turned around to head back into town, Martha let go of my arm and put her hand to her mouth. I saw tears forming in her eyes.
“What?” I asked.
She started to speak, but then shook her head.
“What is it?” I repeated, more urgently this time.
“I don’t know how to tell you this …”
“Just say it. You’re making me worried.”
“I’m leaving Springfield.”
“I don’t understand.” All I could think in the moment was that Martha had agreed to marry a vagabond of some sort. Perhaps a traveling peddler selling patent remedies.
“Mary and I have been talking, for months now, and she encouraged me to do it.” Martha looked me full in the face. The tears were gone; her fresh face shone with grit and determination, and I realized anew how much I treasured her. “It was her idea as much as mine. Oh, Joshua! I know how you admire Miss Todd. Please give me your full support. For her sake, if not for mine alone.”
“Full support for what? What are you planning to do?”
“Go to school!”
“What?” I was sure I hadn’t heard her properly.
“Go to school! To the Jacksonville Female Academy.”
“But you’re already good with the needle,” I protested. “And I’m sure your quality at the hearth, with the saucepan, will improve over time, when you’ve had enough practice.”
Martha flushed. “Neither cooking nor sewing is in the curriculum, I’ll have you know. I’ll be studying”—she took a deep breath—“reading, spelling, defining, writing, mental and written arithmetic, ancient and modern geography, history, natural philosophy, chemistry—”
“There aren’t enough hours in the day,” I protested.
“I’m not finished. Constitution of the United States and of Illinois, botany, astronomy, physiology, geometry, intellectual and moral philosophy, and algebra. Oh, and natural philosophy and evidences of Christianity. All the courses of instruction are listed in the catalog Mary got for me. I’ve been reading through it every night, before I say my prayers, to make sure I’m ready. I think I am.”
What could I do but give her my support and blessing? And so I did.
After the wedding ceremony ended, there was much dancing on the lawn to the tunes played by a rump orchestra, several regular players on strings, supplemented by a changing cast of amateurs. Lincoln took his turn on the fiddle, playing up a lively tune while prancing about unevenly on his gangly legs, as the newlywed couple and the great throng of their guests twirled and laughed with delight. Even Stephen Douglas was coaxed out to take a turn on the floor, though he soon retreated to the side of Edwards’s yard to intrigue with his fellow Democrats, no doubt planning their strategy for the fast-approaching presidential election.
The occasion was notable, too, for who was not present on Quality Hill. Both of the bridegroom’s brothers were absent. William and Henry Trailor, along with Big Red May, had been convicted of their many crimes. All three men would long remain in the state prison at Alton. Archibald had not attended any of his brothers’ legal proceedings, and he’d told me he had no wish to see them ever again.
I caught sight of an aristocratic profile and went up to greet its possessor.
“Belmont! I was afraid you wouldn’t make it back in time.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” the banker returned. “I feel as if I’m almost a full-blown member of the community.”
“For your services, we should make it official,” I said.
The story of our successful rescue of the bank’s gold had become well known in Springfield. Or, at least, a version of the story had become well known. In the public version, Belmont had fought off two banditti and rescued the bulk of the money. The banditti had not been captured, and Belmont admitted that in the confusion of the rescue operation he hadn’t gotten a good look at either one. Nonetheless, for his services, Belmont was hailed as a hero.
Lincoln and Belmont were the only people in Springfield who knew the full story of the gold’s recapture. One evening not long after my return with the treasure chest, I told them about how I had convinced Rose to let Lincoln have the gold to carry out his rescue plan for the state. Rose had taken enough coins to procure food in the meantime for the children dangerously near starvation. We’d shared a long embrace, one punctuated by kisses and tears on both sides. And promised each other we’d be together again, sometime.
The legislature had never replaced the crooked cashier at the State Bank in Chicago, the man whose failed attempts at pork speculation had begun the entire misadventure. Several weeks before Archibald’s wedding, Lincoln told me the legislature had resolved to create a new position, that of president of the entire State Bank, to head off a repeat of the financial disaster that had befallen the state. The job would be based in the growing commercial center of Chicago.
“Sounds sensible enough,” I said, distracted by the task of sorting through a crate of ladies’ unmentionables that had just arrived at my store.
“I’ve been authorized to offer the position to you.”
“What?”
Lincoln grinned at me. “The fellows in the legislature were mighty impressed by your calm dealings during the recent troubles. And of course by your reputation for probity in how you run your store. And I thought the location of the job in Chicago might be of particular interest.”
I hadn’t said yes yet, but I certainly hadn’t said no. Indeed, I’d begun discussions with a few of the neighboring storekeepers on the square to find a buyer for my general store.
The wedding celebration carried on all day. Eventually it came time for Lincoln to make his remarks toasting the happy couple. Lincoln cleared his throat and, raising a glass, spoke eloquently about Archibald’s lasting place in the hearts of the men and women of Springfield. “Hear! Hear!” called the crowd in return. Lincoln also praised the beauty of the bride with an enthusiasm that made her blush.
As Lincoln spoke, with the crowd gathered around him in a wide semicircle, I saw Archibald staring off into the distance. He had been the life of the party for most of the day, singing and drinking and dancing lustily with his new bride. But now, as I caught sight of him, there was an expression of faraway sadness on his face. I felt certain his emotion came from the knowledge he’d been betrayed by his two older brothers. Having depended all my life on the guidance of my older brother, James, I could scarcely imagine how Archibald felt.
At length the sun began to set. Below us at the foot of Quality Hill, in the town proper, tiny pinpricks of light began to wink on: hearths aglow, awaiting preparation of the evening meal; candles lit, ready for work to continue or leisure to commence.
I stood together with Lincoln, Mary, and Martha, gazing out at the beautiful vista. We all had our arms wrapped around each other. It had been a joyous day, a celebration of new beginnings and quickly approaching endings, and none of us wanted it to be over.
Belmont approached.
“I’m off for New York City in the morning,” he said. “I’ve received word I’m to set up a banking operation for the family there. Wish me luck. I’ll need it.”
“I’m certain you’ll be most successful,” said Lincoln, “and that luck won’t pl
ay any part.”
“I hope so. I wanted to convey my sincere thanks for everything each of you has done while I’ve been in Springfield.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, half drunk. “One of the things I’ve done is accused you of banditry.”
“Well, everything but that,” said Belmont. We all laughed. Lincoln and I shook his hand heartily, and Mary and Martha curtsied and accepted his gallant kisses.
Belmont took a few steps away before he turned back. “Say, Lincoln—” he began.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come with me? To the East? New York City, or perhaps Washington. I know this country could use a determined voice like yours on a bigger stage. On the biggest stage there is.”
One of Lincoln’s arms was thrown around Mary’s waist; the other hand rested on my shoulder. When Belmont made his proposal, Mary grabbed at Lincoln’s arm, but whether to push him forward or hold him back, I could not tell. I thought I saw a look of temptation edge onto Lincoln’s face. But before I could be certain, it had vanished.
Lincoln gazed out at Springfield and the vast prairie beyond. The setting sun lit up his blunt features as if he were a statue made of weathered copper.
“Someday,” said Lincoln. “But there’s more work to be done here. And more adventures to be had.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
A House Divided is a work of imaginative fiction, but it is directly based on the actual life and times of Abraham Lincoln and Joshua Speed. Lincoln and Speed shared a room—and a bed—above Speed’s general store in Springfield, Illinois, from April 1837 until early 1841, and Lincoln’s contemporaries recognized Speed as his “most intimate” friend. In later years, Speed would serve as a bank president in his native Louisville.
The Trailor brothers’ murder case is one of the great unsolved mysteries of Lincoln’s actual law practice. (The brothers’ name is also spelled “Trayler” or “Trailer” in various contemporaneous records, but I have adopted the spelling used by Lincoln himself.) Notably, one of the central primary source documents about the case is a long letter Lincoln wrote to Speed, as in real life Speed was absent from Springfield when the remarkable events took place.
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