Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Do you want my help?” I asked Lincoln.

  “A second to my second? Or, I suppose, a third?” He laughed. “No, I’ll manage on my own. I’ll track down Prickett soon enough. Stephen arranged it so that we’d have more than twenty-four hours to resolve matters. That’s proof enough he has no interest in going through with the blasted thing.”

  Douglas had exercised his prerogative last night as the challenged party to set the terms of the duel: time, place, and weapons. As Lincoln noted, the comparatively lengthy time period Douglas had specified before the duel was to take place gave the parties plenty of time to reach a compromise.

  But when Lincoln came into the anteroom of my store late that afternoon, his disgruntled expression told me at once that compromise between Truett and Douglas was not proving easy.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  He took off his stovepipe hat, ran a hand through his unruly black hair, and shook his head. “Where to begin? Truett’s being completely unreasonable. No surprise there. He says he’ll accept nothing less than a guarantee of the land office position for life. Doesn’t care for an apology and acknowledgment of his merit or anything else. It’s land office registrar or ‘see you on the field.’”

  “If the land office is Douglas’s to give,” I said.

  “That’s the other problem. As you say, Douglas has the land office job to dispense only if the Democrats hold on to the congressional seat. But reports of more Whig votes for Stuart keep arriving from various northern counties. Every time a new stage pulls up at the Globe, it seems as if Douglas’s lead shrinks a little more. Simeon and Weber are each keeping their own running tally, but Douglas’s lead is all the way down to single digits, if it exists at all anymore.”

  “Good news for Stuart, I suppose.”

  “Great news for Stuart. Under any other circumstance I’d be overjoyed. If we Whigs have actually captured that congressional seat—why, it’ll do big things for us here in the state. And set us up well for ’40, when we’ll need to muster everything we’ve got to try to get rid of van Buren.

  “But now that the trial is over, Douglas is absolutely and completely preoccupied with the election returns. He’s convinced some of the Whigs up north are manufacturing new ballots to add into the counting pile. I can’t say I blame him—he might be right!” Lincoln gave a short laugh. “Anyway, Prickett can’t get him to focus on the duel and how to resolve it, and neither can I.”

  “Sunrise tomorrow should focus him,” I said. “Nothing concentrates the mind like a hanging in the morning, or a duel, in this case.”

  “But it may be too late by then. If the principals arrive at the field, with their weapons … you know as well as I anything can happen at that point.”

  I voiced aloud the thought I’d been turning over in my mind since the previous night. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen for you, Lincoln.”

  Lincoln jumped as if he’d been struck by an electric shock. “What? No, Joshua, you can’t suggest that. It would be a disaster for me, for you, for everyone in Springfield, if Stephen ends up on the dueling field, no matter what happens next.”

  “Why? He’s a blackguard, and your main obstacle in the state. Everyone says so. Even you must know it, even if you’ll never admit it. If he draws and shoots Truett, or gets shot himself—”

  “Stop!” Lincoln held up both hands in front of my face. “I won’t hear another word.”

  Reluctantly, I let go of the idea. Sometimes, I thought, Lincoln was too upright for his own good. “What’s left, then?” I said aloud.

  “Prickett and I agreed to talk again after dinner. He’s going to push Douglas one more time. At the least he should offer that Truett can be in charge of the land office on the condition that Douglas ends up winning the election. There’s nothing but pride keeping Douglas from making that offer. And giving up a bit of pride is a lot better than the alternative. Prickett certainly realizes as much. He just needs to convince Stephen.”

  “Will that be enough for Truett?”

  “It should be. It’s all he can hope for. I’m going back out to see if I can’t talk some sense into him. Wish me luck.”

  I did, and Lincoln departed. Several hours later, just as I was about to lock up for the evening, the door opened again. I looked up, expecting Lincoln, but saw Martha instead.

  “Did they work out a compromise?” she said. “Oh, tell me they did! I can’t bear the thought of Stephen having to fight a duel against that awful man.”

  “They did,” I replied. If Martha knew there was to be a duel, she would insist upon coming to the field herself in the morning. At all odds, I needed to make sure that did not happen.

  “Oh, good!” Martha collapsed against the counter and breathed great sighs of relief. “I’ve been so worried all day. I figured you’d let me know as soon as they agreed on something, but when I hadn’t heard from you, well, I feared the worst.”

  “I was going to come tell you once I closed up the store. Lincoln only stopped by recently with the good news.”

  “What’d they agree upon?” she asked.

  “Um … Lincoln didn’t give me all the details. An acknowledgment by each that the other had proceeded in good faith … that sort of thing, I imagine.”

  I convinced Martha to go home and retire for the evening. Thereafter I waited for Lincoln to return with word of the final negotiations. I paced back and forth in the storeroom until I thought I’d worn a path in the floorboards. The moon rose and set again. It was very late, long past midnight. Finally, I clambered up the back stairs, changed into my nightshirt, and lay down in bed. Waiting. Much later, through the fog of a drowsy sleep, I heard Lincoln returning and then felt him lying down beside me.

  “Speed, are you awake?” he whispered.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “The duel is on.”

  CHAPTER 37

  There were two places in central Illinois where duels, on the rare occasions they proved unavoidable, were fought. The first was Bloody Island, an island in the middle of the Mississippi River between the Illinois and Missouri shorelines. Its very name, of course, bespoke its heritage as the place where disputes between gentlemen were resolved. Offshore and out of sight, participants in duels staged on Bloody Island were reasonably assured of escaping prosecution under the laws of Illinois. Whether they could escape with their lives was another matter altogether—a matter for the Almighty God, who alone rendered judgment as to which of the two men facing each other on the field of honor deserved to walk off intact.

  The second place used for dueling was the one indicated by Douglas on Friday night, a small, unnamed island in the middle of the Sangamon River, not far from the town also bearing the name Sangamon. Since the island was surrounded by Illinois territory on both sides, duelists and their retinue were more at risk of prosecution than those who availed themselves of Bloody Island. The island was, however, much closer to Springfield, about an hour’s ride on horseback rather than the two-day journey Bloody Island required.

  It was to the unnamed island in the middle of the Sangamon River that Lincoln and I rode early on Sunday morning. The sky was still pitch black and neither of us had gotten more than an hour of sleep when we left the stables behind the Globe Tavern. But it was safer to leave town before anyone else woke and thought to ask why we were setting off at this hour.

  “You left your gun behind?” Lincoln asked me as we rode side by side.

  “Reluctantly.” The dueling code required that only the two principals could be armed. There was too much chance for mischief otherwise.

  “Good. Me too. I still hope to make one last attempt at compromise.”

  “What will Truett take now that he hasn’t taken before?”

  “We’ll see. I remain of the belief cooler heads will prevail at the last. We just need something we can convince Truett of. And Douglas too, for that matter.”

  We soon arrived at the riverbank opposite the dueling island.
The landing was deserted, but a few minutes later we heard the sound of approaching hooves and Truett materialized out of the inky predawn. He was wearing a military uniform and a tight expression. He swung down off his horse, walked over silently to us, and shook our hands.

  “I believe it’s still possible to resolve this,” said Lincoln.

  “My fate is in the hands of the Almighty,” said Truett, shaking his head gravely. “And I’m perfectly content to let it rest with Him. I slept the sleep of the innocent last night. Now let’s get over to the island. I want to pace out the terrain and find the most advantageous location before Douglas arrives.”

  Hidden beneath some bushes, we located the old rowboat that was used to access the island, carried it to the riverbank, and stepped in. A faint glow began to nose into the eastern skies. It was about a hundred yards out to the island, and I rowed while Lincoln and Truett looked out, silently. There was no point in further conversation until Douglas and his second, Prickett, arrived on the scene.

  Once at the island, I tied up the craft while Lincoln and Truett began to walk about. The outer perimeter of the island was ringed by willow trees, their graceful bows dipping toward the summer waters of the gently flowing river. The middle of the island was a mostly flat hump of land some fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. It was as if nature herself had thought to provide the local citizens with a patch of earth custom-made for the purpose.

  With Lincoln at his side, Truett walked the length of the island, examining every step of ground as he went. He peered down the field from one end, then walked toward the other end and repeated the exercise. It would be his choice of sides and his right to specify the distance apart the two men would march before turning to face each other. Each footfall or tuft of grass could prove decisive. The Lord God might have the final say, but only a fool would not do what he could to increase his odds when he stood before the Almighty.

  There was a call from shore. “Ahoy! Anyone out there? Where’s the boat?”

  “I’ll go,” I said. “You two keep up your pacing.”

  I slipped into the boat and rowed back to shore. Three men waited next to the reeds, watching my approach. Douglas, Prickett, and … who was that third man? He had a long, clean-shaven face, with a narrow nose, arched eyebrows, and a high, pale forehead. I knew I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t for the life of me place him.

  “I figured you’d be here, Speed,” said Douglas as he leapt aboard. “You’ll pass along my regards, and regrets, to your sister, I hope, if it comes to that.”

  “It won’t, Stephen,” interposed Prickett, patting his champion’s arm.

  Prickett must have seen me staring at their companion because he said, “Speed, I believe you know Preacher Crews? Stephen said on Friday night he’d arrange for clergy in case any final blessings must be administered.”

  “Ah, Preacher. I didn’t recognize you at first without your beard.”

  “Shaved it by candlelight this very morning,” Crews replied. “I decided it wasn’t right for the occasion.” Though his face looked very different without the whiskers, his voice was unmistakable, the same thunderous voice I’d heard at the camp meeting, one sounding as if it belonged to the God of the Old Testament.

  The little rowboat bobbed under the weight of the three men as they climbed in beside me. It could barely hold all four of us; any more and it would surely capsize.

  I waited until the rocking stopped and rowed toward the island. The river and surrounding woods were starting to get light now. The sun must be close to breaking the horizon. The testing hour had arrived.

  “Did anyone see you on the way out of town?” Prickett asked me.

  “No. You?”

  “I don’t think so. Hopefully we’ll be able to resolve this quickly and without undue consequences. I wouldn’t like to think what’d happen if Sheriff Hutchason were to blunder by.”

  Each of us was taking a risk by being present this morning, but, I realized, as the chief prosecutor for Sangamon County, Prickett was taking more risk than the rest of us. Preacher Crews stared intently toward the approaching island. He had a look of fierce determination. Perhaps he was recalling his most recent sermon from the platform before the tents.

  When the nose of the boat reached the shore, Prickett jumped off and made it fast. I hurried ahead while Prickett waited for his companions to disembark. I broke through the ring of willows and saw that Lincoln and Truett had taken up residence on the eastern end of the field. Truett had decided to make Douglas squint into the rising sun.

  “They’ve arrived,” I called as I strode over.

  Lincoln looked over my shoulder at the men coming up behind me. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “What’s he doing here?” he asked.

  I followed his gaze. “The third fellow? That’s Preacher Crews—the one from the camp meeting. Douglas said he’d be bringing a clergyman.”

  “That’s no preacher,” said Lincoln quietly, his eyes still wide. “That’s John McNamar. Or John McNeil; take your pick of names.” When I did not immediately respond, he added, “My old rival for Ann Rutledge’s affection. From New Salem.”

  I looked again at the preacher, who was standing near Douglas at the opposite end of the field, and my pulse started to race. Lincoln’s old rival from New Salem. Someone well-versed with disguises and false names. And one familiar with the language of “false prophets” and “judgment day.” It hit me like a thunderbolt: Salem’s Ghost!

  “Lincoln—” I began, grabbing at his arm.

  But he was already striding away from me and toward Prickett, who had called out, “Let’s meet in the center of the field and discuss terms, Lincoln.” The two seconds spoke loudly so everyone could hear what was being said.

  “Have you brought the weapons?” asked Lincoln.

  Prickett took out two long dueling pistols. One after the other, he cocked each, pointed it at the sky, and pulled the trigger to prove it was unloaded. As Prickett performed his demonstration, I saw Lincoln’s gaze avert to Preacher Crews for a moment before returning to rest on Prickett.

  “Is there anything more to discuss before we choose pistols and proceed to load?” asked Prickett.

  “I want to ask one final time,” said Lincoln, “whether your man is willing to guarantee that he’ll appoint Truett registrar of the land office on the assumption he ultimately prevails in the election count. I can tell you we’d accept that guarantee, along with mutual apologies for insults unintended, et cetera, as full and complete satisfaction.”

  Prickett called Douglas over, and Lincoln stepped away to let the two men consult. Lincoln looked down at the ground, up at the sky, anywhere but at the preacher. For his part, the preacher stared straight ahead, his hands clutched behind his back.

  Prickett stepped away from Douglas and back toward Lincoln. “We cannot agree,” Prickett said. “For reasons previously conveyed.” He paused. “So I take it we should load.”

  Lincoln held up his hand. “There must be some other way.” He turned to face Douglas directly. “Stephen,” he said in a pleading tone. “Surely there’s something you’re willing to give that lets Truett keep his pride and his good name.”

  Douglas’s eyes darted around the field like a hawk’s. “Perhaps … but it’s little use to try to reason with that blackguard.” He gestured in Truett’s direction, and Truett clenched his fists and took a few steps forward before Lincoln restrained him.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Lincoln, holding back his client with a long, powerful forearm.

  “Oregon,” said Douglas.

  “Oregon?” echoed Lincoln. There was a faint light in his eyes.

  “More specifically,” continued Douglas, “postmaster for all of the Oregon Country.”

  It took a moment for the suggestion to sink in. “Oregon?” said Truett, when it did. “What would I possibly want with Oregon?”

  “It’s a vast tract of land,” said Douglas. “Said to be larger than ten of
the original colonies put together. It’s a fresh start—and a huge position. There’ll be a tremendous number of routes to survey and depots to staff. And a large fur trade on which to assess duty. In sum, there’ll be substantial finances to handle and many jobs to give out. For an enterprising man such as yourself, Truett, I’d think there’s plenty you could do with Oregon.”

  Lincoln had been listening to Douglas with a trace of a smile on his face. “You’re proposing, Douglas,” he said now, “that you agree to support Truett for Oregon if you’re ultimately seated in Congress, and that Stuart agrees to support Truett for the position in the event he’s our next representative?”

  “That’s right,” said Douglas. “Do you think you could convince Stuart of it?”

  “I’m sure I could,” replied Lincoln. A look passed between the two politicians, as if they were sharing a private, unsaid thought.

  “So Mr. Truett would be guaranteed this position, with the opportunities I advert to, whatever the outcome of the election?”

  “Correct.”

  “And we’d both agree to apologize to the other for insults unintended and all the rest. Let bygones be bygones.”

  “Exactly.”

  Douglas nodded and beckoned Prickett over. They whispered back and forth while Lincoln and Truett conferred. My eyes reverted to the preacher at the far end of the field. Why had he come this morning? I wondered. What was his game?

  The two consultations over, Lincoln and Prickett met again in the center of the field and spoke, this time in hushed tones inaudible to the rest of us. I could see them smiling—from relief, I thought—and quickly they shook hands and broke apart.

  “We have mutual satisfaction,” announced Lincoln. Truett and Douglas approached each other, hesitantly at first, but then Douglas stuck out his hand and Truett shook it without reservation.