Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  But the crowd’s thrill, I thought as I listened to their chitter-chatter, came primarily from the prospect of a courtroom battle between Douglas and Lincoln. Douglas was the unmistakable rising star of the Democrats in the state; despite his much slower start in public life, Lincoln now seemed a future leader of the Illinois Whigs. Men who knew politics claimed that one day Lincoln and Douglas would meet on the political field in a great debate about the future of the state and—some asserted, however improbably—the nation itself.

  A routine dispute between two patronage rivals had suddenly begotten a courtroom contest between two leading political adversaries. In a remote frontier town where courthouse trials were the only form of theater, amid the frenzied atmosphere of an election season, there could not be a more perfect public entertainment.

  Gradually the crowd’s tumult simmered away and the courtroom discussion in front of Judge Thomas again came to the fore.

  “… need to prepare the case?” the judge was asking.

  “I expect Mr. Douglas will want some time to study his new file,” said Lincoln. From the tight look on his face, I had a pretty good guess Lincoln thought his task of defending Truett had just become more difficult with the appointment of Douglas.

  “We can try it today, if Your Honor pleases,” Douglas replied. Another rush of enthusiasm passed through the crowd. Many Democrats could be heard assuring their Whig neighbors of Douglas’s superiority to Lincoln.

  “I am, of course, familiar with the dispute between the accused and Mr. Early,” continued Douglas, gesturing toward where the defendant sat, “as I expect most men in town are. I don’t think much study is required.”

  “He’s trying to chuff Lincoln,” I said to Martha. “Prevent him from having adequate time to prepare Truett’s defense. I told you he’s the sort of man to be avoided.”

  “I think it’s quite smart Mr. Douglas is so prepared and ready for his assignment,” my sister replied.

  “Remember whose side you’re on,” I shot back. Martha glowered.

  “… more time to investigate,” Lincoln was saying inside the courtroom. “Though not overlong. Why not try the case during the last week of July? I have it on good authority that my brother Douglas has no cases on his docket that week.” I could see his innocent grin as he turned toward Douglas.

  “It is generous of brother Lincoln to offer to occupy my time in that week,” returned Douglas’s booming voice, “coming, as it does, right before the election. I imagine his law partner brother Stuart would concur in the suggestion.” The crowd around us tittered.

  “But while Mr. Lincoln may not be worried about his election, I freely concede I’m concerned about mine. I’ll be busy seeking the vote of each and every man with the franchise in the Third District until the day votes are cast.”

  “You’re saying you care more about your personal political prospects than the course of justice?” said the judge, pulling on his cigar and quite evidently enjoying more and more the drama he had created by his selection of Douglas.

  “I’m saying the two are not in opposition,” replied Douglas smoothly, “and I readily admit to being greatly interested in each. If the Court determines it must try the case during the last week of July, as brother Lincoln suggests, then I’ll respectfully decline the pro tem appointment and the case will have to proceed without me—”

  The collective sigh of disappointment that escaped the crowd at this was unmistakable. Douglas half-turned toward the gallery, and I could see a confident grin on his broad face. The judge furrowed his brows and sucked on his cigar.

  “—but if the Court is set upon the appointment, then, as I said, I would be honored to accept it. And to try the case after the election.”

  “Your Honor—” began Lincoln.

  “The election’s Monday, the sixth of August?” asked the judge, waving Lincoln aside.

  “Correct.”

  “We’ll empanel the jury on August eighth. That’ll give the jury pool twenty-four hours to sober up from election day. You, too, Mr. Douglas. And you as well, Mr. Lincoln, if the poll results drive you to drink.” The crowd chuckled.

  “Can I ask the Court for a few additional days, just in case—” began Douglas.

  “No.” The judge took two long pulls on his cigar. “The defendant is remanded to the jail cell until trial, and I’ll not keep him there without a verdict any longer than necessary. If you feel the schedule will interfere with your political aspirations, Mr. Douglas”—the crowd laughed at the judge’s good-naturedly mocking tone—“I’ve no doubt I can persuade one of your brother counsel to stand for the People. But tell me now. Once I’ve set the circumstances for this man’s reckoning, I’ll not change them.”

  Douglas looked around and took in the gallery crammed into Hoffman’s office and the much larger crowd out on the street beyond. He sneaked a quick sideways glance at Lincoln. Then he turned back to the judge.

  “I’ll be ready for trial on the eighth,” said Douglas. “The defendant had better hope Mr. Lincoln is as well.”

  CHAPTER 11

  As the crowd on the street started filtering away, talking excitedly about the coming entertainment of the murder trial, I felt a hand on my elbow. I turned to see Thomas Lincoln’s shabby, worn coat and hangdog face.

  I introduced the elder Lincoln to Martha.

  “So you’re the lass my Abe’s been keeping company with,” he said, looking her over thoroughly.

  “No, Mr. Lincoln—that’s a Miss Owens,” I said, as Martha blushed a very deep crimson. “Miss Martha Speed is my sister. Well acquainted with Abraham, to be sure. But just my sister.”

  “Hardly ‘just,’” said Martha indignantly, hands on her hips.

  Thomas Lincoln squinted at my sister with confusion and turned back to me. “How’d we think Abe did today? He won, didn’t he?”

  “The thing about these legal cases, Mr. Lincoln, is they tend to be drawn-out affairs,” I said. “One day goes well, the next not so much. You don’t know how it’s gone until the jury has its final say. The interesting thing today is Douglas getting appointed as prosecutor for the case. I’m sure Lincoln wasn’t expecting that.”

  “That midget? I saw him strutting around the grounds last night. He won’t last a minute in the ring with my Abe.”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate him,” I said, checking Martha, who looked as if she wanted to punch the elder Lincoln in the nose. “How did you and John enjoy last night?” I continued. “Did you stay to see the fireworks?”

  “We was there until we wasn’t. Lot of noise and flash for nothing, if you ask me.”

  “Where is—” Martha began, but at that moment I stuck out my arm and said, “Here’s another train coming. We’d better step aside.”

  A huge cloud of dust was advancing steadily upon us, accompanied by the deep rumble of hooves and the occasional crack of a whip. As the cloud neared, it dissolved into its constituent parts. A long queue of oxen, a team of twelve, was harnessed two-by-two and driven by men walking on either side and carrying whips. At the back of the slow-moving beasts was a huge, open box-cart laden with heavy blocks of buff yellow limestone.

  All summer long these ox trains had been rumbling from the quarry near Cotton Hill to the town square, where the stone blocks were being used to construct the foundation of the new capitol building. After many delays, the outline of the building had finally begun to take tangible form on the sunbaked grass field; the foundation had reached shoulder-height in most places just in the past week. The original plan had been to cover the stone foundation with a brick superstructure, but the stone possessed a lovely warm, soft color, especially as it absorbed the setting sun, and popular sentiment in town was rapidly coming to the view that the stone should be left exposed.

  We stood back from the rumbling oxen, hands to our noses and mouths to avoid breathing in the dust, and watched them lurch past. I counted ten rectangular blocks of limestone on the back of the cart.

  As we
waited, I considered whether to raise Truett’s allegations from last night with Thomas Lincoln. I hated to think that my friend might be in jeopardy because of something nefarious his father had done. For his part, Lincoln hadn’t said anything about Truett’s words after we left the jail cell. Instead, we’d walked back to our lodgings in silence, Lincoln’s head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back.

  Eventually the oxen and their load passed our position and enough of the dust drifted back down to the street that we could breathe again.

  “Did you ever have dealings with Mr. Early at the land office?” I asked.

  “Me?” said Thomas Lincoln. He swatted at the air to disperse the final remnants of dust and coughed into his fist several times. “What would I want with the land office? Unless they was giving it away for free, that is.”

  He turned and tipped his worn cap to Martha. “Till next time, my dear.” As he shuffled off down the street, there was a hitch in his step, as if one leg was slightly shorter than the other.

  “No wonder our Mr. Lincoln is the way he is,” Martha said quietly in the old man’s wake.

  “Meaning?”

  “Just imagine that was your father, carrying himself around in public like that, as you tried to make a name for yourself.” She made a noise of pity, but whether aimed at the father or the son I could not tell.

  As we were getting ready for bed that evening, I asked Lincoln if he wanted any help with his new case.

  “You didn’t read law with Judge Speed during your time back home, did you?” he replied.

  “No, of course not. I merely was thinking about what Truett told us. About your father having something to do with—”

  “Thank you, no. It’s my case, Speed. My cross to bear. Now, good night.” Lincoln blew out the candle and turned over in bed. The topic was officially closed.

  Both the Journal and the Democrat published new editions in the next few days. It was no surprise that Early’s murder was the lead story in each one. It was a surprise, however, that each story focused unrelentingly on Truett’s guilt. Even Simeon Francis’s Journal, usually friendly territory for Lincoln, carried a long report claiming Truett had been overheard at a tavern in New Salem the week before the shooting bragging about how he was going to make Early get down on his knees and beg for his life.

  The morning this edition hit the streets, Lincoln barged into my store, slamming the door in his wake. His jutting jaw was clenched with anger. He took a copy of the Journal from under his arm and threw it onto the counter.

  “We’re getting killed in the sheets!” he exclaimed.

  “I know it,” I said as I looked up from sorting a new shipment of ready-made shoes.

  “The Democrat, I can understand. Everyone knows its publisher, Weber, practically lives in Douglas’s pocket. But now Simeon’s in on the game as well.” Lincoln picked the Journal up from the counter, waved it around wildly, then tossed it onto the floor.

  “Surely it doesn’t matter what the papers say today,” I said. “The trial’s not for another month. And everyone’s going to be focused on the election between now and then.”

  “If they spend that month reading about how Truett had been looking for an opportunity to kill Early, it’ll matter for sure. By the time the jury’s selected, they’ll be predisposed against my defense.”

  “Can’t you keep men with fixed opinions off the jury?”

  “There’ll be no one left, not if these stories keep up.”

  Several hours later, none other than Simeon Francis came through the same doors. “I’ll take a sack of flour for the wife,” he said.

  “Lincoln was in here earlier, complaining about you,” I said as I went to my shelves behind the counter to plump up a sack for him.

  “I’ll bet he was.” Simeon grinned. I knew from long experience that irritating his friends was quite nearly as much fun in Simeon’s calculus as was irritating his enemies. “I told you attempted murder would sell a lot of papers. And a successful attempt is even better … not that I wished for it, of course,” he added as an unconvincing postscript.

  “Make your readers interested in Lincoln’s side of things next time,” I said. “I think you owe him after what you printed this week.”

  “He knows my columns are always open to him. And they’re open to you, too, Speed.” Simeon rubbed his stubbly chin with a freckled hand. “I realize I was hard on Truett this week. But I had to keep pace with the competition.”

  Two days later, the next edition of the Illinois Democrat landed on my doorstep. I took it with me when I went to meet Martha for breakfast at the Globe.

  “Nothing of interest,” I said, discarding the paper onto the table between us when I finished skimming the four pages of small-font type. “Just another regurgitation of Early’s shooting. At least it’s more neutral toward Truett this time. Ah, Saunders, at last!”

  The innkeeper set down between us two steaming mugs of coffee and a single metal plate containing hard-cooked eggs, potatoes, and boiled ham. I dug in greedily.

  “Oh my word,” exclaimed Martha from across the table.

  “What?” I did not look up from my breakfast.

  “You must have missed it. Bottom of the back page. There’s another letter from S.G.”

  I took the paper from her and read:

  July 8, 1838

  Lost Township, Ill.

  To the Editor of the Democrat:

  The voters must have the sense to elect the Democrats next month. A trail of ruin follows the party of the rail-splitter of great height and low intellect. They claim to serve their fellow man but, in reality, serve only themselves. Early’s fate is a warning to all who would be tricked by their insincere words. Do not follow a False Prophet.

  S.G.

  “‘Early’s fate,’” murmured Martha, reading the letter again over my shoulder. “I wonder if S.G. knows who the real killer is.”

  “Or if he is the real killer.” I pushed away from the table, leaving the plate of half-eaten food behind. “Come—let’s find out the identity of this blackguard.”

  Martha stared at me, uncomprehending. “How do you plan on doing that?”

  “Both of S.G.’s letters were sent to the editor of the Democrat. That’s this fellow George Weber. He should know who’s writing in his pages.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Other than owning the two printing presses in town, George Weber and Simeon Francis were each other’s opposite in nearly every respect. Weber was a serious man with prominent cheekbones, a square jaw, and piercing black eyes. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cut short, his dress always fastidious. He was sober in his habits and opinionated and outspoken in his political views. This last was another point of convergence with Simeon, although the direction of their views was diametrically opposed.

  As one might imagine, the two publishers despised one another. Always alert to the opportunity for such mischief, Fate had landed them next door to each other in matching one-story, wood-frame buildings on the dilapidated north side of the town square, an area known as Chicken Row. The side-by-side buildings were visible through the windows from my usual perch behind the counter of my store, and on many afternoons I could see Francis and Weber standing in front of their respective buildings shouting insults at each other.

  We pushed open Weber’s front door without knocking. The publisher was at his composing table, dressed in a full suit of black silk: coat, vest, and bow tie. He looked up with the conquering expression of a fox who’d been asked to guard the henhouse.

  “Wrong door, Speed,” he said in a drawn-out drawl reflecting his South Carolinian roots. “Francis is the next one.”

  “I’m looking for you. Who’s S.G.?”

  Weber pretended not to understand my question and, when I put it him again, said, “S.D.? Why, that would be Stephen Douglas, don’t you think? The next representative from the Third District.”

  I sensed Martha coloring beside me. “No, G,” I insisted. “S.G. The au
thor of the two letters you’ve printed, the ones insulting Lincoln.”

  Weber’s upper lip curled into an unpleasant smile. “I’m delighted to learn you’re such a dedicated reader of the Democrat that you make it all the way through the bottom of the last page. But I haven’t any idea. The letters arrived at the Post Office Department for me and I set them in type. For today’s edition in particular I was trying to figure out how to fill out those final column inches, so I was glad to receive it.”

  “But you must know who’s writing to you,” broke in Martha, expelling her breath in frustration.

  “And you are?” Weber asked, turning to her with a blank stare that nonetheless managed to convey a certain contempt.

  “My sister Martha Speed,” I said.

  Weber gave the most perfunctory of bows. “In that event, Miss Speed, I can do nothing but repeat what I said to your brother. The letters arrived and I printed them.”

  “And you have no idea who they’re from?”

  “No idea—and no interest.”

  “Do you still have the original letters?” asked Martha. “Or even the envelopes they arrived in?” When I looked at her questioningly, she added, “Because we could examine the handwriting and possibly recognize it.”

  Weber contemplated this, sucking in his cheeks. “There were no envelopes,” he said. “Just a single sheet of foolscap, folded into a packet, with my address written on the outside next to the postmaster’s notation of the postage due.”

  “Will you please let us see the sheets of foolscap, then?”

  “I burned them.”

  I stared at Weber and tried to discern whether he was lying. And why. To protect a political ally, was the obvious answer to the second question. But whom?

  “If you receive another one,” Martha was saying, “will you please save it? We’d like to examine it.”

  “If I think of it, perhaps I shall,” said Weber with a shrug.

  He looked back down at his composing table and began searching for some type. I took Martha’s arm and we departed. She was muttering unladylike sentiments about Weber as we reached the square.