Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “If you’d seen his horror upon discovering her body,” said Hutchason, “you’d know it wasn’t him. Owens says he left his shop at midmorning that day to make a delivery. Perhaps someone slipped in while he was gone and poisoned the drink. Though that doesn’t tell us why she didn’t notice the bitter taste as she was drinking it.”

  Unless she drank the poison intentionally, I thought. Aloud I said, “Have you found anyone who saw anything that morning?”

  Hutchason shook his head.

  On a typical day, I would have had a good view of the front of the apothecary from behind the counter of my store. But it hadn’t been a typical day, and I hadn’t been behind my counter.

  Two men were responsible for my absence: George Weber, for printing Salem’s Ghost’s letter that very morning, and Stephen Douglas, for urging Martha and me to travel to New Salem. I started with Weber.

  “What do you want this time?” the newspaperman barked when I barged through his door.

  “Why did you print that letter on Monday?” I demanded.

  “We’ve been through this. It was placed on my doorstep that morning. My practice, as a newsman, is to deliver the news as quickly as possible. Verily, that is the essence of the vocation.”

  “Did you know Miss Owens was going to be attacked that very day?”

  Weber recoiled. “Miss Owens? Of course not. You can’t seriously believe I had something to do with that.”

  “I’d believe anything about you, Weber. For example, I’d believe you pretended to be Simeon Francis and traveled to New Salem, trying to dig around in Lincoln’s past.”

  The accusation caught Weber short. He swallowed and considered his words before responding. A smile crossed his face. “I’m a newsman. I make no apologies for seeking the news.”

  “By lying about your identity? By publishing unfounded accusations under false names like ‘Salem’s Ghost’?”

  “By whatever means I find expedient. You ask your friend Francis about his methods sometime.”

  My encounter with Douglas was no more satisfactory. I grabbed at his arm as he was leaving a rally of Democrats and demanded he explain why he had directed us to New Salem on the morning of Miss Owens’s death.

  “Why would I possibly want to harm Lincoln’s belle right before the election? I know you think me motivated by self-interest, Speed. How would it be in my interest to provoke popular sympathy for my opponent, this week of all weeks?”

  Typical for Douglas, the argument was coldhearted but persuasive. I did not have a good reply.

  I was still ruminating on this circumstance that afternoon when my store door opened and Sarah Butler walked in. “Good afternoon, Miss Butler,” I said, giving a half-bow.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Speed. We haven’t had the chance to talk since the evening you came to the tent meeting. I hope it didn’t disappoint you.”

  “To the contrary, I found it most enlightening.” In fact, my interest in Miss Butler had dimmed in proportion to the fervor she’d displayed at the wild, ecstatic gathering. “And I’ve been busy. Most recently, in looking after my friend Mr. Lincoln. I’m sure you heard what happened to Miss Owens.”

  Miss Butler’s eyes turned moist. “Such a tragedy. Preacher Crews held a special meeting last night for us to pray for her soul.”

  “That was a nice gesture.”

  “She was a regular at the camp. Very popular. She preached from the platform on several occasions. One time, she and I led the exhortations together.”

  “Do you have any idea how it could have happened?”

  Miss Butler started to speak, then put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. “I can’t…” she began, but did not continue.

  “If you know anything at all, please tell me. I want to get to the bottom of what happened.”

  “I can’t speak ill of the departed,” Miss Butler said slowly. “But the last few times I saw Miss Owens, her manner was … different. She was quieter, more reserved—and quicker to temper, too. Like she’d experienced some private disappointment she didn’t want to share.”

  I was silent in response. For Lincoln’s sake, I found myself not wanting to give any credence to the idea that the lady had been driven to harm herself.

  “I need a sack of flour for my mother,” added Miss Butler, her voice colder now, “and then I’ll be off. I’m afraid I can’t tarry today, Mr. Speed.” We completed the commercial transaction at arm’s length; the special flame, if it had ever burned, had seemingly gone out of our relationship.

  On Friday morning, glancing at the glass on my way down to the counter, I decided I needed a trim to look presentable for the following Monday’s election day festivities. So when Herndon arrived for his shift at the counter, I headed toward a two-room shack in the run-down part of town, the formal establishment of a free Negro named William de Fleurville. Or, as he was known to all, Billy the Barber.

  Billy nodded wisely as I knocked on his door. “Thought I’d be seeing you about now, Mr. Speed,” he said in his singsong lilt. “You’ll be next, after I finish this one up. I understand you two folks are the best of friends these days.”

  Billy smiled as he turned back to his barbering chair, and I saw it was occupied by none other than Stephen Douglas.

  “A hog in a silk waistcoat is still a hog,” I murmured as I took a seat along the wall. “Or, in this case, a piglet.”

  His scissors in hand, Billy was hovering around Douglas’s overlarge head, trying to make some sense of his mass of brown curls, and whistling a tune while he worked. Without moving his head, Douglas said, “Speed’s still sore from our encounter last weekend, Billy. I think my teeth shed more blood than your blade ever has.”

  “Someone was telling me about your dispute,” said the barber. “White folks sure do like to see blood spill out on the ground, don’t they?”

  “It does provide a certain thrill,” said Douglas with a grin.

  “Prepared to lose on Monday?” I asked him.

  “It’s not going to turn out your way, Speed. I’ve secured all the votes I need. I’m here because I want to look my best at our victory celebration. What about you, Billy? If you had the vote, who’d you cast for? Myself or Stuart? Democrat or Whig?”

  Billy’s scissors continued to fly around Douglas’s head. “Don’t rightly know,” he said seriously. “Which of you is most interested in the lot of the Negro?”

  Douglas and I exchanged glances. “I’m not sure either one…”

  “That’s the way I figured it,” said Billy. “I’ll stick to barbering.”

  Douglas looked back at me and said, with a smirk spread across his face, “Even men without the franchise care first and foremost about what’s in it for them. I tell you, Speed, it’s all self-interest. The world runs on it, from the highest rank to the lowest. And it’s the key to success at the polls, as you’ll see next week.”

  A few moments later Billy finished with Douglas. As the Little Giant climbed down from the chair, he said, “Win or lose on Monday, Speed, the Truett murder trial begins on Wednesday. Will your man be ready?”

  “I have no reason to doubt it.”

  In reality, I had every reason to doubt it, given what I’d seen of Lincoln’s condition. His deep melancholy was showing no sign of abating. I wondered whether Judge Thomas would agree to delay the trial.

  As if reading my mind, Douglas said, “He’d better be. I was talking to the judge at a Democratic party gathering the other day, and he reminded me of the trial date. He’s determined to resolve the case on time. And I stopped by the jail yesterday afternoon to give Truett an update on some Democratic matters. With the wretched condition he’s in, I’m sure he won’t brook any delay either, even if he has to represent himself in court.”

  “Miserable little man,” I muttered in his wake as I reclined into Billy’s chair.

  Billy’s scissors started to fly around my locks. “When the Almighty gives you such a small bite, like He gave Mr. Douglas,” said Bill
y, “you need a large bark to go with it, or you ain’t going nowhere.”

  “I hesitate to give him credit on any account,” I said, “but even Douglas’s bite can prove lethal, or nearly so.” I held up my bandaged hand.

  Billy smiled. “I reckon he was merely marking his territory.”

  “I wonder how much more he’s capable of, though.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I’ve been thinking about whether Douglas is capable of murder. We’ve had two murders in the past month here in town, both unexplained. Both of the victims were associated with Lincoln, which makes Lincoln’s biggest enemy the likeliest suspect, in my view.”

  Billy did not respond to this, instead working away at my hair and whistling contentedly. But when the barber finished twenty minutes later and accepted a half-dime as payment, he looked me up and down and dispensed a final piece of wisdom.

  “You truly think Mr. Douglas is Mr. Lincoln’s biggest enemy?” asked Billy.

  “I do.”

  “Then you’d better be thinking a whole lot harder.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Election day arrived.

  Unlike most neighboring states, Illinois allotted only a single day for voting. In addition, the paucity of men who could be depended on to display the neutrality and sobriety required for the position of election clerk reduced the number of polling places to no more than a handful in each county. A single location on the Springfield green would be open to register the votes of the free, white, male residents of our town and the surrounding farms. It was guaranteed to be thronged the entire day.

  All of this put great emphasis on party organization, and the Whigs had arranged to muster on Ninian Edwards’s lawn on Quality Hill at seven AM sharp. I gave no thought to the store. No establishment other than the taverns would be open today; no business would be conducted. Every man was consumed with the election and nothing else.

  Every man but one, that is. I woke Lincoln on my way out the door to remind him of the day and ask if he wanted to join me. He blinked once, shook his head, and turned over in bed.

  It was a hot, sweltering morning, and my shirt was clinging to my chest by the time I’d climbed to the top of Quality Hill. Already several dozen Whigs were milling around on the manicured lawns, enjoying the breakfast Mrs. Edwards had laid out and the open busthead cask of whiskey Mr. Edwards had seen fit to provide. Another few men came up every minute. The broad stars and stripes, displayed with pride, fluttered in the breeze from a tall flagpole. Meanwhile, a five-piece brass band played up some lively airs, among them “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” with great spirit.

  When the crowd was fully mustered and well watered, Edwards climbed atop a chair and shouted out final instructions. Then our parade formed up: banner carriers up front; followed by the band; followed by Edwards and Stuart, two of our principal standard-bearers, on horseback; followed by the veterans of the several Indian wars who retained military uniforms into which they could still fit; followed by the Whig regulars. I was in this last group, and I estimated our overall strength at 150 men or more.

  Edwards gave the signal and the two cannons flanking his grand house exploded with concussive booms. The Whig army gave a great cheer and began streaming down the hillside.

  “Hurrah for the Whigs!” we chanted as we marched. “Hurrah for the Whigs! Down with the damned Democrats! Lick them! Kick them! Drive them away! Democrats to hell! Whigs do well! Hurrah for the Whigs! Hurrah for Stuart! Hurrah for Edwards! Hurrah for Lincoln!” And so on, as we hurrahed every Whig on the ballot.

  As we approached the polling place on the town green, a sign of serious trouble with our finely wrought plan emerged.

  “The goddamn Democrats have beaten us to it!” exclaimed the man next to me.

  They had. A motley collection of Democrats had taken up residence at the sole entrance to the sole polling station. The Democratic banner was held high, the Democratic band played loudly, and several hundred Democratic men in matching straw boater hats swarmed tightly around, forming a stout human barrier against any and all Whig voters.

  Undaunted, we continued our march toward the poll. The Democrats brayed and jeered as we approached. “Stick to your positions, boys!” yelled the Democratic organizers. “Don’t give them a foot! Don’t give them an inch! Don’t let the Whigs humbug the people of Springfield. Don’t let a single, damned Whig anywhere near the poll.”

  The Whigs marched straight into the battle, crying loudly. The bands came face to face, trumpet to trumpet, flute to flute, each playing at the top of their instruments to try to drown out the other. Men from the warring camps yelled back and forth. The noise and confusion became intense. Some men imitated the barking of dogs, others the roaring of bulls, all making as much noise as they could. It was a raucous, cacophonous medley.

  Whigs pushed against Democrats, trying to reach the polls; Democrats pushed back, defending their territory. The crowd swayed back and forth in ecstatic waves of emotion. Then, suddenly—I couldn’t see which side was the casus belli—a pitched battle broke out.

  The town green was soon covered by some of the bloodiest fighting I have ever seen. Beneath their coats, men were armed with dirks, Bowie knives, clubs, and all other kinds of tools the occasion might require. I laid hands on several Democrats, then barely dodged another Democrat swinging a handkerchief with a large stone nestled inside. The fighting continued all around me. It was a screaming, shouting, punching, kicking melee. Not a few eyes were blackened and not a few noses bloodied.

  Eventually the combatants tired of fighting their neighbors and, one by one, flung themselves down on the ground in exhaustion. The active battle sputtered, flickered, and winked out. Sweat and blood mingled on many faces. A relative quiet prevailed, although the competing bands continued to play on. Each side tended to their wounded. Eventually most men were back up on their feet, staggering around to regain their equilibrium, a number chugging whiskey to aid their recovery. Many men had their coats torn off, and several were minus their hats as well.

  The poll had not yet opened.

  On the sound of the church bells pealing nine, it did. All at once, the two sides formed up again and rushed forward, desperately seeking to claim the battlefield position of prime strategic importance: the single set of steps leading up to the voting platform.

  All votes were recorded viva voce—that is, by voice. Illinois had used the “ballot” system in years past, but it had proven to be too susceptible to fraud and abuse, most notably by party men who adopted the practice of handing out preprinted ballots featuring only their side’s candidates to men unable to read. After some partisan controversy—it was not immediately clear which side had more illiterate voters susceptible to being tricked by sharp ballot tactics—the legislature had repealed the ballot and reverted to viva voce, the system used by most Western states and the one generally considered to be most appropriate for Western elections.

  Jones, the elections clerk, had erected a raised wooden platform in the middle of the town green adjacent to the rising walls of the new capitol building. Voters waited, wrestling for position, at the bottom of the platform until Jones called them up one by one. When a new voter arrived, Jones recorded in turn the voter’s choice of candidates for each of the positions being voted upon. In addition to U.S. representative and state legislature, a slew of other county and city positions were at stake today. It was a slow, tedious process and the line of waiting voters soon stretched across the green and far down the street.

  Poll watchers from each party lingered at the edge of the platform to hear how each man voted. Some voters tried to avoid accountability by whispering their selections to Jones, but the clerk adopted a practice—whether from being hard of hearing or merely pretending to be, it was never clear—of repeating in a loud voice any vote conveyed to him by whisper. By this method, the parties’ poll watchers were able to keep an accurate running tally of where the Springfield vote stood. They could also ensure that men wh
o had accepted favors in exchange for their votes did not cheat them.

  By midmorning, the thermometer surely registered ninety degrees in the shade. Every man who waited to vote took a full sweat for it.

  Stephen Douglas and George Weber periodically materialized to confer in conspiratorial whispers with the Democratic poll watcher. If Douglas felt an ounce less than certain about his election by the people, his proud face gave no hint of it. At one point when Douglas stood at the base of the platform, Sheriff Hutchason arrived with his prisoner. Douglas affected to have his back turned as Truett, his hands bound together by rope, ascended the stage to cast his vote.

  As the voting proceeded, one contingent of Whigs remained near the entrance to the platform, trying to hustle as many of our partisans as possible up the steps. Others manned the nearby Whig barbecue. A bonfire had been built, and a whole ox was roasting on a thick iron spit. Everyone who could certify he’d voted the straight Whig ticket was welcome to as much roast beef as he could eat and as much whiskey and hard cider as he could drink.

  In the event any voters remained undecided, the Whigs had also set up a tall stump not far from the election clerk’s stand. Throughout the day, a rotating cast of Whigs raised our candidates above the most superior class of mankind and sunk the Democratic candidates below the lowest of humankind, to whom the Devil himself would be virtuous, all at a pitch approximating an Indian war cry.

  I myself took a shift on the stump at three o’clock in the afternoon, immediately after I managed to fight my way through the crowd and cast my own vote. When I climbed down from the stump an hour later, I found myself hoarse of voice and drenched through with sweat. My fellow Whigs clustered near the bottom of the stump, offering me much-needed refreshment and congratulating me for having persevered through one of the hottest parts of the day.

  From the top of the stump I saw Preacher Crews arrive, surrounded by a coterie of female exhorters in long gowns. The women waited patiently at the bottom of the stage as he strode up to cast his vote. One of the women with the preacher was Miss Butler, and I kept my eyes trained on her back to see if she would turn around and acknowledge me. But she never did.