Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  I gazed at Martha with astonishment. “How do you know all that?”

  Martha tossed her head with impatience. “Seriously, Joshua—the things you don’t know could fill volumes.” She paused. “If you don’t know the source, how did you come to have it?”

  “A passing merchant gave it to me,” I said vaguely. I didn’t fully trust that anything I shared with Martha wouldn’t make its way to Douglas. “I’ll take it back, thank you.”

  A few minutes later, the tavernkeeper brought us a groaning board of young pork, good bread, potatoes, preserves, and tea. I dove in and found the food unexpectedly delicious. Martha agreed and said as much to the man, who nodded at the compliment.

  “If we tell you something, Blankenship, can you keep it a secret?”

  He looked me over with interest and then sneaked a quick glance at Martha before responding, “I’m sure I can.”

  I gestured to the stool next to me and the man sat. The hot, still air clung to the ceiling, floor, and everything in between. “The thing is,” I began, “there’s an election going on now, and our brother is running against a fellow named Lincoln—perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  Blankenship’s face showed no reaction. He said, slowly, “I may have.”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Our brother has sent us to find out everything we can about Lincoln. Something we can use against Lincoln in the election. To hurt his chances and help our brother’s, if you follow my meaning. Is there anything you can tell us?”

  Blankenship considered this. After a few moments, he said, “Lincoln owes me money.”

  “He does?” I shouted out with a combination of surprise and excitement, while Martha played her part by opening her eyes wide. “How much?”

  “I don’t make it a habit of revealing my business,” replied Blankenship, “but I don’t mind telling you the debt was near on one thousand dollars at the start.”

  “You don’t say!” This time my surprise was genuine. It was an enormous sum to be owed by one man, a sum I imagined it could take Lincoln a decade or more of law practice to pay off. No wonder he referred to it as his “national debt.”

  “Is Lincoln the one who did that to you?” Blankenship asked, gesturing at my bandaged hand.

  “In a way, I suppose he did.” I stepped on Martha’s foot to stop her from contradicting me.

  “Figures,” said Blankenship. He thought for a bit. “Since Lincoln owes me money, if I help your brother defeat him, don’t that come back and hurt me?”

  “No, it helps you,” said Martha quickly. “Lawyers are better paid than politicians, aren’t they? If Lincoln’s out of office, he’ll have more time for lawyering. More time to earn back the money he owes you.”

  Blankenship nodded slowly, stroking his chin.

  “Is Lincoln paying down his debt to you?” I asked.

  “A bit each month. I tell him surely he can afford more, but he cries poverty and says I’m getting all he can spare. I reckon there was one time, a few months back, when he was late by a day. Does that help you?”

  “It might,” I said without enthusiasm. “Lincoln’s tied up in defending a man named Henry Truett. Some sort of political dispute. I don’t know the details. Are you familiar with Truett?”

  Blankenship nodded. “After I sold him my store, I think Lincoln hired that Truett fellow at one point.”

  “What do you remember about Truett? Did he have any enemies here in New Salem? People who wished him ill?”

  Blankenship thought for a moment but shook his head. “Nothing that’s coming to mind.”

  “What about Lincoln?” asked my sister. “Did he have enemies here?”

  “He was a friendly enough fellow,” replied Blankenship. “At least, he was if he didn’t go into debt to you.”

  “How about the phrase, or the name, ‘Salem’s Ghost’? Does that mean anything to you?”

  I was watching his face closely, but he did not give any special reaction. “‘Salem’s Ghost?’ I don’t think so. The ghosts of New Salem, perhaps? Only spirits will be living here in a few years if things don’t turn around soon.”

  We had finished eating our food. Martha turned to me and said, “I know Mr. Blankenship’s doing his best, but we’re not making much progress. Perhaps we should go try to find someone who knew Ann Rut—”

  Blankenship clapped his hand to his forehead. “The cooper!” he shouted. “Why didn’t I think of him earlier? Follow me.”

  He rushed out the door and down the street as we trailed in his wake. At the far end of the little village was a shed with a wisp of smoke rising up from its peaked roof. We followed the tavernkeeper inside and saw the telltale signs of a cooperage: wooden staves of various lengths stacked against the wall, the floor covered with sawdust, and a glowing hearth in the center of the room for bending iron bands into hoops. A cooper wearing a leather vest full of tools was sitting next to the fire. I saw at once his left ankle had been put out, as it bent unnaturally and his left foot dangled uselessly to the side.

  “John!” shouted Blankenship. “These two were asking about Ann and Abe Lincoln. This is her brother,” he added, turning to us.

  “Are you friends or enemies of Lincoln?” John Rutledge asked.

  “Enemies,” I said emphatically.

  Rutledge took a flat strip of iron and thrust it into the fire. After a bit it began to glow, a cool orange at first, but then a progressively hotter and angrier red. He looked up.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “Abe Lincoln killed my sister.”

  “What?” Martha exclaimed, as I said, “I’d heard she died of brain fever.”

  “It was the brain fever that brought her to death’s doorstep,” said John Rutledge. “But it was Lincoln that handed her to the Reaper. And soon afterwards he handed my dear old pa to the Reaper, too.”

  Blankenship must have seen our confused expressions because he said, “Slow down, John. You’re going too fast for them.”

  The cooper plucked the iron strip from the fire with a pair of tongs and examined it. He placed it on an anvil and, taking a hammer from a loop on his vest, gave it a few exploratory whacks. Then he thrust it back into the flames. I guessed he was close to thirty years, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped brown hair and large ears. But for his disjointed ankle he seemed a vigorous man.

  “We Rutledges was in New Salem long before Lincoln ever floated by,” he said, poking the embers to raise the flame higher. “There was nine of us—I’m the oldest boy—and my ma and pa. My pa’s the one who laid out the town, back in ’29. First time I recall Lincoln was when he and I were mustered up at Beardstown, awaiting our orders to march against Black Hawk and his Injun warriors.”

  “You and he fought in the Black Hawk War together?” asked Martha.

  “Yes, ma’am. Lincoln was my captain, matter of fact. Not that it proved much of a war, mind you. Black Hawk and them ran away faster than we could run after ’em. Anyway, at Beardstown, we was wrestling, to pass the hours waiting for the call, and I remember there was a time when Lo Thompson and Lincoln faced off, because they was the two biggest, strongest men in the company. Lincoln wasn’t looking and Lo grabbed him by the foreleg and yanked and he took Lincoln down. Hard.” Rutledge gave a shout of laughter and stirred the fire again. “That’s the only time I ever seen Lincoln brought to the ground in a wrestle.”

  “He was a scientific wrestler,” said Blankenship from behind us. “He throwed every man I ever saw him wrestle. Even Jack Armstrong. Nobody but Lincoln could throw Jack Armstrong.”

  “Your sister Ann and Lincoln eventually came to an understanding?” I said, hoping to keep Rutledge focused.

  “That ain’t what happened.” Rutledge shook his head vigorously. “My sister Ann … there’s never been a gentler or more amiable maiden created by the Almighty. I miss her every day.” He paused, and for a moment I thought he might be on the verge of tears, but then he collected
himself.

  “Ann made the acquaintance of a man called John McNeil. He was a proper fellow, a businessman, from somewheres back East. A friendship grew between them, which ripened apace, and soon they was engaged to marry. McNeil had to make one trip home and then he was going to make Ann his wife.”

  “I heard McNeil was a confidence man, a swindler,” I said.

  “No, sir,” said Rutledge. “His conduct with my sister was strictly high-toned, moral, and honest.”

  “But wasn’t his real name John McNamar?”

  Rutledge took his iron out of the fire and tested it again. This time he found it sufficiently pliable, and we watched as he pounded it into a hoop, expertly manipulating the iron around the anvil with his tongs in one hand while he wielded the hammer with his other. When he was finished he had a perfect circular hoop, which he tested and then tossed onto a pile of similar hoops at the side of the shed.

  “McNeil and McNamar were one and the same, but there was no deception. My sister knew the truth all along. And while Mr. McNeil was visiting his kinfolk out East, she was preparing for the rest of their lives. She was a smart one, was Ann. She even had plans to enter the Female Academy, in Jacksonville, and get a proper education.

  “But Lincoln came along and took advantage of McNeil’s absence. He paid attention to Ann, courted her, even though she was engaged to another. She remained firm. She was passing through another fire. I told him myself she was already spoken for, but he wouldn’t listen. He persisted. And persisted. He had just about overcome her womanly defenses when the illness stole upon her.”

  It was a very different version of these events than the one Lincoln had told me. Looking at John Rutledge’s earnest expression, I had no reason to doubt him, though I equally had no reason to doubt Lincoln’s narrative. One thing was beyond dispute: both men, in their own way, had loved Ann Rutledge dearly.

  “And then she died,” said Martha softly, “which I’m sure was a great tragedy for your family and all who loved her.”

  Rutledge looked up at Martha and nodded.

  “But why do you blame Mr. Lincoln for that terrible misfortune?” she went on.

  “Cuz he’s the one who caused it,” the cooper insisted. “After Ann had laid on her sickbed for a week, my pa sent for a doctor, and he came and sat with Ann for a spell and he told us she’d get better but that she had to lie still, not move, and not talk to anyone. We spread the word all over town she needed absolute quiet. I told Lincoln myself. But Lincoln, he didn’t listen to me or no one else. He pretended to be a common folk, but deep down he thought he always knew best. He stole into Ann’s sickroom one evening and he held her hand and he talked to her. He did exactly what the doctor said not to do. Three days later she was taken from us.”

  John Rutledge appeared on the brink of tears again. “And losing Ann killed my pa, too. He couldn’t bear to be without her, especially not after the doctor told us she’d survive. His heart was done and broke. We buried Ann in August, and we buried my pa not three months later.”

  A single tear escaped Martha’s eyes and rolled down her cheek.

  “Come,” said Rutledge. He struggled to his feet and grabbed at a crutch leaning against the wall. “I’ll take you to her grave, if you’d like. She’s buried on Concord Ridge. Ain’t too far away.”

  “I don’t think we have time—” I began, but my sister interrupted me, saying, “Of course we’d like to see it. That would be very kind of you.” She shot me a glare full of daggers and I put up my hands in defeat. It was useless to argue.

  Blankenship said he needed to get back to his tavern, so Martha and I followed Rutledge as he hobbled out of his shed and down the road away from the cluster of cabins that made up the village. His progress was slow, as his ruined limb could not bear any weight.

  “Did you ever meet Lincoln’s stepbrother?” I asked him as we walked. “Came to visit him here once or twice, I think. Fellow named John Johnston?”

  “Johnnie and I had some good times together,” Rutledge said as his face brightened. “He wasn’t anything like his stepbrother. I remember one time, before my accident”—he gestured vaguely toward his ankle—“he and I went turkey hunting together. I tell you, that fellow’s a good shot with his hunting rifle. Don’t think he missed a bird all day, and we bagged a goodly number. Other times we just lazed on the porch. Sittin’ and sippin’ and spittin’.”

  “How about McNeil—or McNamar—whatever he’s called? What happened to him?”

  “He got back to town just a couple of weeks after Ann passed. He was all broke up about it. His true love, gone forever. He lingered about for a few months, but then he up and disappeared one day. I don’t think he could bear to be here no more, not without Ann by his side.”

  Rutledge continued limping along, but he was silent, as if trying to puzzle something out. “It’s a funny thing,” he said at last, “you two showing up and asking these questions about Lincoln and such. Not a month ago there was another fellow who did just the same.”

  “What other fellow?” I asked, trying to conceal my interest.

  “Never met him before, but he told me his name three times. Said he wanted to make sure I remembered it. The fellow’s name was … Simeon Francis.”

  Martha and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. In our discussions of what had appeared in the papers, Simeon hadn’t said a word. What business could the Whig publisher have seeking out such an avowed enemy of Lincoln’s in the midst of the election season? We’d been suspicious all this time about his rival publisher, Weber. But was it possible that Simeon had been the one tormenting Lincoln? That he was S.G.? Even the initials matched almost perfectly.

  I dropped back to where Martha was walking and voiced my suspicions to her under my breath. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “Simeon a turncoat?”

  “I agree, but what other reason could he have for coming to talk to Rutledge?”

  “I don’t … wait a minute!”

  Martha took a few quick steps and caught up with Rutledge. “The burying ground is just up there, over that ridge,” he said, indicating in front of us.

  “Very well. This man who came to visit you, Simeon Francis. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He must of been standing in my cooperage, right where you were, for an hour or more.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Don’t know. Average build. Smartly dressed, clean-shaven, black eyes.”

  “Was his shirt covered with printer ink stains?” Martha asked.

  “Was he shaped a bit like an egg, round in the middle, with a weak chin and an irregular growth of whiskers?” I added.

  Rutledge came to a halt and looked back and forth between us in confusion. “I just told you,” he said. “Average build and clean-shaven. Definitely a printer, though, because of his hands. His shirt was laundered clean, but his hands were dotted with ink. In my line you always notice a man’s hands.”

  “I imagine you do,” said Martha. Her eyes were sparkling. She pulled me back as Rutledge continued to lead the way toward the cemetery.

  “It was George Weber,” Martha hissed into my ear.

  “What?”

  “Weber coming to New Salem to ask about Lincoln’s past. And giving his name as ‘Simeon Francis’—and repeating it three times to make sure Mr. Rutledge here remembered.”

  I laughed out loud. Plainly we hadn’t been the first people from Springfield with the idea of coming to New Salem to poke around under the name of our opponents.

  A few minutes later Rutledge reached the top of the ridge and stopped. We gazed down on a windswept hillside, the long grasses swaying in the breeze. The vibrant prairie, full of muted greens, yellows, and browns, spread out in the distance. About two dozen wooden markers of various sizes stuck up irregularly from the grass immediately in front of us.

  Rutledge crutched down the hill a ways and came to a stop in front of a large rectangular slab of wood. It was carved:

>   James Rutledge

  1771–1835

  Stuck into the ground next to this marker was a simple wooden cross, about eighteen inches high. It had originally been painted white, but the paint was chipped and peeling.

  “Couldn’t nobody afford a proper headboard for Ann,” said John Rutledge quietly, his head bowed. “But I know she’s there. And the Good Lord does, too.”

  “What a beautiful resting place,” murmured Martha. Rutledge nodded.

  A few minutes later I cleared my throat.

  “I’m afraid we should be going,” Martha said. “Thank you for sharing Ann’s story, Mr. Rutledge. We had a sister pass recently, as well.” She fingered the black mourning band on her arm. “Her name was Ann, too, by chance. We know how painful it is.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Rutledge. He looked down to the ground. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but the pain … it don’t ever go away.”

  As we cantered back toward Springfield, Martha and I talked over what it all meant—Ann Rutledge’s tragic death, John Rutledge’s grudge, Lincoln’s debt, Weber’s prying, and everything else we’d learned. There seemed to be plenty of aspects of his former life in New Salem that could be haunting Lincoln. But, the signature notwithstanding, a ghost wasn’t writing those letters threatening Lincoln. And a ghost hadn’t shot Early on Quality Hill, or menaced us on our walk, or written the taunting note. A man was responsible, and somehow we were closer to figuring out who.

  The daylight started to fade. As we neared Springfield, we saw a speck on the road ahead. The speck was advancing on us, and as we rode forward it waved its arms helter-skelter.

  “Isn’t that Hay?” asked Martha, when the speck had gotten to within a hundred yards and slowly resolved into Lincoln’s bedraggled office boy.