Lincoln turned to the apothecary. “Mr. Owens?”
This time the roiling crowd couldn’t keep quiet. Owens’s eyes darted around the room, seemingly catching the gaze of several other men, and a swell of whispers raced about, renewed speculation on the nature of his mysterious syndicate. Owens turned back to the stage.
“Why not make it an even nine hundred, Mr. Lincoln,” called Owens. Douglas threw up his arms, turned on his heels, and walked from the hall. And bedlam reigned.
Twenty minutes later I stood beside Lincoln and watched him count out the coins and scrutinize the notes proffered by Owens. After lengthy, deliberate consideration, Lincoln pronounced himself satisfied, and he handed a bill of sale and promissory note to Owens to read and sign.
As the apothecary reviewed the papers, Lincoln doled out emoluments from the coins that had been handed over: fifty-four dollars to Early, the registrar; ten to the surveyor, Enos; five dollars to the owner of the market house; and so on.
“You should take something yourself, Lincoln,” I said, “for getting such an outstanding price.”
“Evans paid me my standard fee of three dollars for drawing up the will. And he proposed to stand me for an ale at Torrey’s, though I declined the offer. The fee was mine to keep, whether I sold the property or not. The second cousin gets the rest.” Lincoln shrugged and turned back to the apothecary. “How are you coming on the papers, Owens?”
As I waited for my roommate to finish his scrivening, I looked out at the hall, by now nearly empty. My eye was caught by a man leaning against one of the support columns. He had not moved to disperse with the crowd after the auction ended, and he was intently watching the transaction on stage with his arms folded in front of him.
The man was short and trim, and he had the appearance of a dandy. But it was the look in the man’s eye that caught my attention—and held it. There was something ravenous about his expression. It was a look I would not soon forget.
CHAPTER 2
I took out my pocket watch and was aggrieved to learn that only five minutes had passed since the last time I consulted it. I cursed under my breath. Lincoln was late. I knew he was consumed by politicking and electioneering, but I was too tired from a long day behind the store counter to wait for an audience with my own roommate, even if he was a politician in the midst of a hard-fought campaign.
It was several weeks after the tumultuous auction at the market house, and I was in the gentlemen’s smoking room of Colonel Spotswood’s Rural Hotel. Spotswood’s was the most fashionable hotel in town, though it was soon to be overtaken by the grand American House, now rising to a fourth floor—the first building in town to reach such heights—on the southwest corner of the public square.
A dozen other men were scattered about the smoking room with me, and the conversation had been dominated by the ongoing political season. The year was 1838, an election year, and voting would take place soon, on the first Monday in August. The men and women of Springfield could talk of little else.
The race attracting the most attention was the battle for U.S. congressman from Illinois’s Third District, a huge tract of mostly unpopulated land stretching all the way up to the border with the Wisconsin Territory. Lincoln’s law partner, John Todd Stuart, was the candidate of the Whig Party for the seat; his opponent from the Democratic Party was the Eastern newcomer who had come in second at the market house auction: the peculiar, some said remarkable, Stephen Douglas.
The smoking room this evening was filled by the competing arguments of the Whig and Democratic men in attendance about how best to rescue the country from the lingering economic problems caused by the banking Panic of ’37. The various arguments espoused and debated involved such arcane matters as the “sub-Treasury Scheme,” the “Specie Circular,” and the “Loco-foco Rebellion.”
For all of the passionate arguments, however, there was precious little chance any votes would be swayed tonight. Every man present was a dedicated supporter of one party or the other and one candidate or the other. But the essence of politics on the frontier sometimes appeared to be the insistent repetition of one’s viewpoint as both the speaker and his listeners became increasingly intoxicated. It was hard to tell if the ultimate objective was to persuade men to change their views or rather to incapacitate one’s opponents through drink and therefore drive down their numbers on election day.
For myself, I tried to get along with men on both sides of the partisan divide. While I was, like my roommate Lincoln, a committed Whig, I was mindful of my own commercial interests. As I had explained to Lincoln, Democrats purchased as many dry goods and patent medicines from my general store as did Whigs. Especially in these uncertain economic times, I was in no position to refuse the patronage of half of the two thousand residents of our frontier town.
“Care for another, Speed?” came a hearty voice from beside me. Looking up, I saw the broad form of Jacob Early, the land office registrar and another devoted Whig.
“Most obliged,” I replied, handing him my empty ale glass.
My eyes followed Early as he lumbered over to the open cask sitting in the corner of the room. A pipe carved of yellow ivory was clenched between his teeth.
“Waiting for Lincoln to appear?” Early asked as he returned with two slopping glasses and handed one to me.
I nodded. “He told me he’d be here an hour ago.”
Early consulted his own pocket watch and loosed a low growl. “He told me the same. I know he’s focused on Stuart’s race against Douglas, like most of them are”—Early indicated the men spread about the smoking room with a sweep of his burly arm—“but he should pay attention to his own race as well. It’s no good to tend to the fields if your barn falls down behind you.”
In addition to the Stuart–Douglas match, there were a dozen other races on the ballot. The one of most interest involved Lincoln seeking reelection to his seat in the state legislature. Early himself had placed Lincoln’s name into nomination at a meeting of Sangamon County’s Whigs earlier in the year.
“He’ll arrive soon, I should think.”
“I hope so. I’ve brought him intelligence from New Salem on the actions of his adversaries from that part of the county. And I need his counsel on another matter as well.”
Something about the way Early said this final sentence made me turn. “What other matter?” I asked.
Early glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot, then said in a low voice, “Something I’ve discovered looking through the files of my predecessor. An official land office matter. Best kept for Lincoln’s ears at present. You understand.”
Lincoln had ensured Early’s appointment as registrar after the Whig successes in the last election. Not least among the reasons for the avid interest in politics on the frontier was the wealth of plum patronage jobs that went to the winners. And there were few patronage jobs plummier than registrar of one of the federal land offices sprinkled throughout the West.
The speculative buying and selling of real estate sometimes seemed to be the official pastime of the frontier, as the national government worked as fast as it could to sell into private hands the land it had appropriated from the native tribes and men thereafter traded property deeds like playing cards. The registrar stood directly at the intersection of the twin obsessions of real estate speculation and politics. And as Early’s enormous share of the auction proceeds demonstrated—fifty-four dollars was enough to feed a large family for several months—the registrar was practically guaranteed to become a wealthy man.
“Have you heard of this damned fellow Henry Truett?” Early added.
“Who?”
“A right son of a bitch,” he muttered, shaking his head and spitting onto the sawdust-covered floor. “Wants to be appointed to replace me at the land office if the Democrats win in August. It’d be a disaster, and not just for my purse. The man has no idea how to—”
Early interrupted himself, his jaw falling open. He needed to catch his pipe b
efore it fell to his lap, and he swore out loud. At the same moment the entire room fell silent and then erupted into an even louder cacophony. Lincoln and another man had walked into the room at the same time. I hurriedly took leave of Early.
“Here I am,” I said, extending my hand and giving Lincoln’s a firm squeeze.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, gripping my shoulder.
I stepped back and contemplated my roommate. He was now just shy of thirty years of age. Even with the slight stoop in his shoulders, he was the tallest man in town, standing nearly six and a half feet. He wore a black frockcoat, black vest, and black trousers. His dark hair emerged beneath his stovepipe hat and curled down around his ears. He had a high-peaked forehead, wide-set gray eyes, and a prominent jaw. I sometimes thought him the homeliest man in town, but I always found him the most compelling.
“This blasted campaign,” Lincoln continued. “I can’t hardly wait until it’s done and gone. I’ve spent all evening plotting with Stuart. He and Douglas are neck and neck. If we all do our duty, I think we shall succeed in the end. But if we relax an iota, we shall be beaten.”
“And your own campaign?”
“I’ll be fine, as long as I don’t attract any controversy before election day,” he said with a laugh. “That’s why I’m spending most of my time trying to help Stuart take down Douglas.”
“Get out!” This shout came from the other side of the room. Early was standing behind an upholstered armchair and gesturing angrily at the person who had accompanied Lincoln into the room. I looked at him now and, with a start, realized he was the very same man I had seen at the market house, watching the final transaction with hungering eyes.
“Who’s that?” I asked Lincoln.
“Fellow named Henry Truett. An old acquaintance of mine, in point of fact. From back before I moved to Springfield.”
“Early was just telling me about his rivalry with Truett. I’ve never seen Early so agitated.”
Lincoln sighed. “It’s not only the voters I need to worry about at this season. It’s the office-holders and office-seekers as well. I’ve already given Early my assurance that his job is secure if we Whigs prevail.”
I looked at Truett again. He was a compact figure, dandified almost to the point of parody. He wore a red velvet coat, cinched tight over a ruffled white shirt, and checkerboard trousers. The fine gold chain of a watch dangled from his pocket. His cravat, tied smartly around his neck, was a silky lime green, and his black top hat was tall and shiny. He wouldn’t have been out of place in the retinue of King Louis Philippe on a drive around the Tuileries. Looking at the expression of hatred spread across Early’s face, I thought it could be no coincidence Truett had appeared here in such extravagant fashion.
“What business have you?” growled Early.
“Does a man need business to enter a public room in this town?” returned Truett. “I think not.”
“You should leave at once, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I wonder,” said Truett, “if you saw the pamphlet circulated at the Democratic Convention in Peoria last month. The one accusing me of being unfit to run the land office.”
“Of course I saw it.” Early’s strong jaw was set and his eyes glinted. “Everyone at the convention did.”
Truett nodded. A hint of a red flush began to creep into his temples. “I was told you were the author. Do you deny it?”
“Who told you that?”
“A friend. I’m not at liberty to reveal his name.”
“Then I’m not at liberty to answer your question.” Early clenched the wings of the armchair.
“You’re a damned scoundrel is what you are,” said Truett. “A damned scoundrel and a damned rascal.”
A murmur went up from the other men present, all of whom were watching the argument in rapt attention. A few more verbal rounds like this and one of the rivals was likely to challenge the other to a duel. The antipathy between them was even greater than I had imagined.
Early hoisted the armchair high off the ground. The chair brushed against the candelabra hanging in the center of the room, and for a moment I feared the chair might be set ablaze by one of the swaying candles. Early shook the chair back and forth in front of Truett. In his hulking arms, it was easy to imagine the object as a deadly projectile.
Shouts of concern arose from all corners of the room. “Stand down, Early,” commanded Lincoln. “We must concentrate our fight on the campaign. After we’ve prevailed at the polls, there’ll be plenty of time for figuring out the spoils. And plenty of spoils to go around.”
“I’ll stand down once he leaves,” said Early, shaking his chair in Truett’s direction.
“I refuse,” said Truett. “I was libeled and I deserve to know by whom. Just admit you wrote the pamphlet, Early. All I want is the satisfaction of hearing you confess what you’ve done.”
“It’s not libel if it’s the truth,” said Early.
“Then we’ll do it your way,” said Truett. He reached underneath the flared folds of his frockcoat and drew out a compact belt pistol, about six inches long, with a walnut stock and polished silver barrel.
All hell broke loose.
The man standing closest to Truett leapt at him and knocked the pistol out of his hand. The two men fell to the floor. At the same moment, Early hurled the chair at Truett, but it missed its target and crashed down onto the floorboards, breaking apart into several large pieces. Swearing, Early dove at Truett on the floor. Men rushed toward them from all directions. Cries flew and punches landed. It was impossible to tell the peacemakers from the troublemakers. Lincoln charged into the melee and began pulling men from the seething, squirming pile.
I was about to join him when my eye was caught by a sudden movement from the side of the smoking room. Two new men, one older and one younger, were walking through the door. They hesitated, sizing up the situation, and then the older man made a direct line for Lincoln. From the twisted look of malevolence on his face and his tensed fists, his ill intentions were clear.
The older man reached Lincoln just before I did, seized Lincoln’s arm, and spun him around. Lincoln’s face contorted with surprise. I grabbed Lincoln’s assailant from behind by both arms and tried to pull him away, but the old man was barrel-chested and surprisingly strong. Inches from him, I could smell the telltale odor of a man well acquainted with the whiskey bottle.
“Step away,” I shouted, “or I’ll—”
“Wait, Speed!” cried Lincoln, his voice cracking.
I froze. Lincoln and the older man gazed at each other in silence as the melee continued behind us. Something passed between them. Lincoln’s face twitched. After a moment, the old man relaxed his grip on my friend and spoke in a hoarse voice.
“They said we’d find you here. It’s good to see you again, my son.”
CHAPTER 3
An hour later I sat in a chair by the fireplace in the back room of the Globe Tavern and contemplated Thomas Lincoln, the father Lincoln had almost never mentioned during the fifteen months we’d shared living quarters.
He was a thick, stocky man of sixty years. He had a full shock of white hair above a proud face, with prominent cheekbones, a very large nose, and a high forehead. The more I stared at father and son, the more I thought the forehead was the principal feature of resemblance. But lower down on the face the similarities ended. Where Lincoln’s mouth was always active, always ready for a broad smile, his father’s was limp and tired. He had a weak chin and sagging skin around his neck.
Thomas Lincoln wore an old frockcoat, nearly threadbare and badly faded from exposure to the sun. As I’d noticed in our initial encounter, the coat carried the whiff of whiskey. The white of his shirt underneath was uneven, as if a vigorous application of the washing board had not been completely successful at removing the many stains of the wearer’s life. His pants carried a similar fade, as did his coat, and his boots were caked with mud. Encountering him alone on the street, I would have guessed
him an itinerant peddler of books or perhaps of quack remedies.
Now he slouched on a chair and stared at his son through rheumy eyes. The son ignored the gaze, staring instead at the blackened bricks of the quiet fireplace. And there was a fourth man present, too—the younger man who had entered Spotswood’s at Thomas Lincoln’s side. While no one had bothered to introduce us and the man himself had not once deigned to look either me or Lincoln squarely in the eye, I gathered from the conversation that his name was John Johnston and that he was Thomas Lincoln’s stepson. In our time together, Lincoln had never once mentioned having a stepbrother.
After we’d ensured that order was restored at Spotswood’s without permanent bodily injury being sustained by anyone—although I feared we hadn’t seen the last of the feud between Early and Truett—we’d gone out on the dark streets. Thomas Lincoln and John Johnston had pronounced themselves hungry after a long day’s journey, so Lincoln had led us to the Globe. The innkeeper, Saunders, now came in with two bowls of stew for the travelers. Both men grasped the bowls and started drinking eagerly. Casting surreptitious glances at the newcomers and then at Lincoln, whose face was taut, Saunders withdrew.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t write to advise me of your intention to visit,” said Lincoln to his father.
“Don’t think we had the intention,” said Thomas Lincoln, looking up from his bowl. “Until we arrived, that is. Do you always know what you intend to do the next week, or the next day, for that matter?”
“Yes,” said Lincoln, stiffly.
“Well, we ain’t,” said John Johnston. He loosed an enthusiastic belch and grinned with pride.
“Not every time, we don’t,” said Thomas Lincoln. “But I wouldn’t think that too important. Intention or not, we’re here. So how we doing, Abe?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“It seems to be so,” said his father, nodding rapidly. “It seems to be so. When we arrived here in town and asked that fella”—he gestured to where Saunders had been standing a minute earlier—“where we could find tall Abe Lincoln, we expected him to say, ‘Who? Abe who?’ Didn’t we, Johnnie?”
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