Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Brothers, sisters,” began Crews, in a thunderous voice, “whether this is your first time in camp or your tenth, I welcome you. Today you join in something larger than yourselves. Today you join the Almighty. I’m here to tell you that your spiritual destiny resides in your own hands, just as your earthly circumstances reside in your hands on every other day of the week. The Lord God is omnipotent and He is merciful. Let Him reign in your hearts, submit to His will, and everlasting salvation shall be yours.”

  Crews continued to illuminate the path to righteousness, his voice rising and falling like a squall, but my attention was diverted by the audience. All around me, people fell to the Word like corn before the wind of an approaching storm. Men slid off their benches and thudded to the earth, lying motionless and apparently breathless on the ground. Women jerked their heads back suddenly, yelping involuntarily, their heads flying back and forth so quickly that their long hair cracked like a carriage whip. Others, with divine glory shining on their faces, sang, shouted, and clapped, hugged and kissed their neighbors, cried for mercy, rejoiced in forgiveness.

  For her part, Miss Butler shouted responsively to the exhortations of the preacher. My sister, sneaking a glance at me periodically, was more restrained, but eventually she linked arms with Miss Butler and joined in her responsive calls. A few seats over on our bench, a young girl was sitting on her father’s shoulders, listening in rapt attention to the sermon and declaring in a small, high-pitched voice how wonderful were the works of God.

  I had never seen a religious observance remotely like this, and I was shocked. My presence at the Methodist church in Louisville had been, frankly, sporadic, and my church attendance since moving to the frontier even less regular. But I strongly associated the practice of religion with a stolid minister leading a proper prayer service in a formal setting. Nothing had prepared me for the wild, ecstatic ritual at the outdoor campground.

  Toward the close of the sermon, the cries of the distressed and the saved rose almost as loud as Crews’s thundering voice. He spread out his arms and pleaded for quiet, that his final words of benediction might be heard by all.

  “You see the great battlefield before us,” the preacher said, gesturing to the many persons who now lay on the ground, felled by ecstasy. “You see the wounded. You feel the wounds inside of yourself. All can be healed. All can be saved.

  “I ask you, brothers and sisters, every one of you, give what you can to help our crusade. If you can give love, then give love. If you can give material aid”—the preacher gestured to several young women, dressed in long priestly robes and holding straw baskets, who had begun to circulate among the crowd—“then by all means give us your money too.

  “Tonight, you must tend to your wounds and the wounds of the ones you love. Tomorrow, we shall share Communion. Tomorrow, you shall be closer to the Lord God.”

  Two women appeared beside Preacher Crews on the raised platform, and he kissed them in turn on the tops of their heads. The women began their own testimonies, exhorting the audience to follow their journeys to salvation. Meanwhile, Crews climbed down from the platform and stood off to the side, alone. He took a long drink from a water jug; his pale forehead glistened with sweat.

  I turned to Miss Butler. Her face was streaked with tears, yet her expression was one of radiant joy. “Wasn’t it wonderful?” she said. “Did you feel the awesome power of the Word?”

  “Perhaps not quite as strongly as you, but it was an enlightening experience.” I gestured at Preacher Crews. “Do you suppose the preacher would speak with me now that he’s finished?”

  Miss Butler nodded enthusiastically. “He’s always eager to minister to the willing. Come, we’ll introduce you.”

  The three of us rose and walked over to Crews. “Sister Butler,” he said, still breathing deeply from his performance. “And Sister Speed, isn’t it? How is the Word within you both?”

  “Stronger than ever,” Miss Butler replied with a beaming expression. “We’ve been studying every day, just as you instructed last weekend.” Gesturing toward me, she added, “This is Mr. Speed, Preacher. It’s his first time at the meeting.”

  Crews gave me a concentrated stare and I felt a chill shoot through me. For an instant I feared he was able to see through any artifice into my real reason for being here this evening, but then I put aside such nonsense. Still, the force of his presence was impossible to ignore.

  “Is the power of God strong upon you, Brother?” he asked.

  “I hope so, though I come tonight in service of an earthly concern.”

  Preacher Crews took another long swig from his jug. “Earthly concerns are temporary and fleeting,” he said, his searching stare now replaced by a beneficent smile. Up close I realized the preacher was not much more than thirty years of age, notably younger than he had seemed on stage in full cry.

  The gowned women who had been collecting money from the crowd came up to the preacher and, after a whispered consultation, slipped several clinking bags into Crews’s hands. The bags disappeared silently into the folds of his garment. He turned back to us with an undimmed smile, as if the monetary transaction had been merely a figment of our imaginations.

  “For tonight, Brother Speed,” he said, “put aside your earthy concerns and glory in the divine.”

  “I shall try my best,” I said, figuring I should pretend to meet the preacher on his terms. “I did feel my spirit moved by your words.”

  “No living soul could remain unmoved by them,” said Miss Butler.

  “I felt the glories of divine friendship all around,” added Martha, giving Miss Butler’s arm a squeeze. The preacher smiled at the two women.

  I was struck by a sudden inspiration, and so I blurted out a guess. “I believe we’ve encountered each other before, Preacher, at the home of Ninian Edwards on Quality Hill, on the evening of the Independence Day party.”

  Martha shot a glance at me, which I ignored. Crews appeared not to notice. Instead, he shook his head and said, without artifice, “I fear you are mistaken, Brother. I make it my practice to be here at camp every evening, even when no meetings are scheduled. A person in need of God’s mercy may appear at any time.”

  The testimonies of the female exhorters on the platform had finally come to an end, and the crowd—or at least the part of it not still in the grip of a cataleptic fit—began filtering toward the tents in the woods. The father with his little daughter on his shoulders walked past us, nodding at the preacher as he did. The girl had closed her eyes and rested her head on her father’s.

  A woman passing nearby smiled at the father and said, “I think the poor thing needs to be laid down to sleep.”

  At this, the girl suddenly sat straight upright. “Do not call me ‘poor,’” she said, in a determined, small voice just barely audible over the general commotion, “for Christ is my brother, God my father, and I have a kingdom to inherit. I am not poor but rather rich in the blood of the Lamb.”

  “So you are, my child,” said Preacher Crews, reaching out to pat her small head. “So you are.”

  I decided to try another tack. “I was speaking recently with two men who are often in your midst, Preacher. A father and his stepson. Thomas Lincoln and John Johnston.”

  Crews frowned. “Those names aren’t familiar to me, I fear.”

  “Johnston’s about my age, slight, with a wispy blond beard. And his stepfather’s older, solid, with a large nose.”

  “Ah, yes. ‘The watchers.’ That’s what some at the camp call those two. Because they are always watching our revival from afar. They are hesitant to give themselves up to it. They will do so yet, I am certain.”

  The scavengers was more like it, I thought. Aloud I said, “Did you minister to them?”

  “To the son, yes. He has a troubled soul. A destitute soul, even. He was interested in learning the paths to forgiveness.”

  “Why was he troubled?” I asked, feeling my heart starting to beat faster.

  “It is not my pl
ace to examine his heart,” said the preacher. “It is for him alone. People are not born sinners. They choose to sin, and equally they can choose to repent and renounce sin.”

  “Did Johnston repent and renounce sin?”

  “I suggest, Mr. Speed, you examine not the heart of another but rather your own. Repentance, forgiveness, grace, salvation. Each of us is capable of it, if we choose the path of the righteous. It’s all up to you.”

  Preacher Crews’s words stuck with me as Martha and I saddled up our horses and rode off into the dark night.

  CHAPTER 17

  A few days later, Lincoln finally returned from his political stump tour. He materialized one evening in a state of disquiet, for which, it soon appeared, there were multiple causes.

  “You’re back early,” I said as he barged through the door of my store just as dusk was beginning to close in. “I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  Lincoln dropped his saddlebags onto the floor with a great sigh and slumped against the wall. His eyes closed, he murmured, “That was exhausting. Only sixteen days left.”

  “Until what?”

  “The election.”

  “Then it’s eighteen until Truett’s trial.”

  He slid down the wall until his backside came to rest on the plank floor, his long legs splayed outward. His boots and trousers were splattered with mud. “I can’t even…” he began, before trailing off. He took off his stovepipe hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and gave a great yawn.

  “How was the journey?” I asked.

  “Saunders loaned me Old Charley for the ride. ‘A dependable fellow,’ he said, ‘a true hero of the Black Hawk War.’” Looking up at me, Lincoln gave a weary smile and added, “In contradistinction to me, you understand. Saunders can’t help but try to be clever. Anyway, Old Charley may have been a true hero of the war, for all I know, but that was a long time ago, especially in equine years. He had one grievous fault. As we were riding along the trail he would go to sleep occasionally, fall on his nose, and pitch me over his head in the process. Other than that, nary a complaint.”

  I laughed. “And your speeches?”

  “If I have to explain my position on state support for the internal improvements scheme one more time, I think I’ll throw myself into the unfinished canal. Hand me a bottle of soda water, will you? I don’t think I can move.”

  I took a sage-green, eight-sided bottle from my shelves, broke the seal, and brought it over to Lincoln. “That’ll be half a cent.”

  “Put it on my account,” he said between gulps. “I’m good for it.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Lincoln grinned. “Did you and Miss Speed make any progress on the Truett case? You were going to look into the land office.”

  “We did,” I said eagerly, but as I started to launch into a detailed discussion of our activities, Lincoln yawned and held up his hand. “Can the two of you come by Hoffman’s Row tomorrow? I’m going upstairs to get a good night’s sleep. I haven’t had one in days. Do me a favor and stick to your side of the bed tonight.”

  When Martha and I showed up at Hoffman’s Row the next afternoon, we found Lincoln greatly agitated.

  “At last,” he said as he heard us push through the door. He was kneeling in front of the decrepit bookcase at the far side of the room, rapidly sifting through the stacks of books and papers balanced on its listing shelves. “Did either of you enter this office in my absence?”

  I looked over at Martha, who shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Someone’s been in here. My files have been disturbed.”

  Doubtfully, we looked around the office. To my eye it appeared the same as it always did, a disorderly mess of papers and parchment and legal books strewn about on every surface.

  “How could you possibly tell—”

  “I know the difference. My notes relating to the Truett case have been moved. They used to be over there”—Lincoln pointed to one area of the cluttered worktable in the center of the room—“but when I returned they were over here.” He pointed to another area, seemingly indistinguishable from the first.

  “Is anything missing?” Martha asked.

  “Not that I’ve found yet. I’m still taking an inventory of my cases.”

  “Could it have been Stuart?” Lincoln’s law partner was rarely to be found in their shared chambers, but he seemed the obvious culprit.

  Lincoln shook his head violently. “He’s been campaigning in the northern part of the state for the past two weeks.”

  “Did the judge have a jury up here?”

  “I asked Matheny straightaway when I realized someone had been in here, and he said no.” Lincoln pushed a few volumes into the bookcase, grunted, and rose to his feet. He moved over to Stuart’s reclining lounge and started furiously sorting through the papers spread across it. “There’s no question in my mind,” he said, more to himself than either of us. “Someone’s been here.”

  A few minutes later Lincoln threw his hands up in frustration and flung himself onto his chair. “Nothing to be done about it now, I suppose. Now, what have the two of you been up to?”

  We told him about the land office visit, the notes Martha had found, the discussion with Truett, and our visit to the Edwards estate. I decided not to mention my encounter at Torrey’s with Thomas Lincoln and John Johnston. I knew Lincoln would demand to know every detail, and I didn’t see the good that would come of relating his father’s storytelling. As for Johnston, I didn’t want to share my suspicions with Lincoln until I had something more concrete.

  Lincoln listened to our narrative carefully, nodding occasionally and asking a clarifying question or two. When we had finished, he said, “Did you bring Early’s notes?”

  “Here they are,” said Martha, passing them to him with a satisfied smile. “We think they show—”

  Lincoln held up his hand and she stopped short. He studied the two pages for a long time in silence, looking at each, front and back, and then flipping back and forth between them. Then he laid the pages on the table in front of him, pressed his index fingers together, brought them to his chin, and exhaled.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Now I understand what Truett meant, that night, about taking my father down with him.”

  “You do?” Martha and I had studied the notes in vain for such a meaning.

  “Does it have something to do with the plots you surveyed?” asked Martha.

  Lincoln nodded. “In a way it does. In my time, I was pretty prolific with the compass and chain. Enos and Neale each did a fair number themselves, and you can see them listed in these notes, too, but I did probably as many as anyone in this area. In fact, I’ve heard it said my name became associated with surveys that a buyer or seller could rely upon.”

  I leaned over and looked at Early’s notes. “That’s exactly what the notes reflect.”

  “Except that I stopped surveying around the start of 1836,” continued Lincoln. “That’s when I determined to study Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws seriously, to read law and get admitted to the bar. I no longer had time to tramp around through the brambles. Now look.”

  I studied Early’s notes again, and Martha came up beside me to do the same. I swore under my breath and Lincoln nodded.

  “The ‘Lincoln survey’ numbers don’t tail off. Well, they dip a little at the start of 1836 but then they pick up again, and by 1837 it’s like nothing happened.”

  “Someone is falsifying surveys?” asked Martha. “Why would someone want to buy land that wasn’t surveyed properly?”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said. “But someone might want to sell land that wasn’t properly surveyed. In fact, I imagine they could use that strategy to sell the same plot of land, over and over again, to different buyers. And they could make quite a profit doing so.”

  Lincoln bobbed his head. “Though some buyers might be savvy enough to want to see the surveyor with their own eyes. I suppos
e they could have paraded my father out in front of them.” He considered for a moment. “Or they could have—”

  “Paraded John Johnston and introduced him as your brother, ‘John Lincoln,’” I said. Lincoln nodded.

  “Let me see that list of the principal sellers again,” said Lincoln. He leaned forward to scrutinize Early’s notes. Martha also handed him our list of the persons who’d been present at the Quality Hill party.

  “The one I’m interested in is Henry Owens, the apothecary,” I said, pointing to his name on the list.

  “What about him?” Lincoln asked sharply.

  “We know he was cross with Early, and I saw the two of them having a vigorous discussion earlier that evening. I think he’s as likely a suspect as any of these men.”

  “You didn’t talk to him about this, did you?” asked Lincoln. I shook my head. “Good. Leave him for me. It seems unlikely. And I don’t want Margaret getting upset about it, either.” Lincoln looked at me with intense eyes, seeking understanding, and I nodded.

  He looked back at Early’s list. “There’s another interesting name on here, although he wasn’t at the party.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “John McNamar.” Lincoln pointed to several of Early’s entries. McNamar was associated with a good number of transactions in 1834, and then again from 1836 to the present. “He was Ann Rutledge’s original beau.”

  A distant bell of recognition went off in my head. “Didn’t your stepbrother mention something, that first night they arrived, about Ann having an understanding with someone who’d gone missing, someone with two different names?”

  Lincoln was staring through the window of his office at the sky outside. He nodded. “I’d forgotten I’d ever mentioned it to John. Not sure what would have caused me to do so. But his recollection is correct. McNamar’s father had gone deeply into debt in his native New York, and so as a young man he’d left home, determined to make his own way and earn enough to pay off his family’s debts and restore their standing. To avoid any stigma tracing to his father’s failures, he traveled west as ‘John McNeil’ and settled in New Salem as such. McNeil and Ann met there, before I arrived in town, and they formed an understanding.”