The Day Lincoln Lost

by Charles Rosenberg

“What about the enslaved girl, sir? Do you have any thoughts about her?” Clarence realized that in posing the question to the man it was a way of asking the same question of himself.

  “I feel great pity for her,” the man said. “As I do for all of those who are enslaved.” With that, he walked away.

  Was pity what Clarence himself felt for the trembling girl? He had not actually seen a captured slave since he had watched the mob try to free Anthony Burns back in Boston. Now he was struggling to reconcile the politics of it, which he’d heard from his parents all of his life, with the reality. That poor girl had been terrified, and he felt for her in a way he would not have predicted. Mixed with the pity was rage. What kind of country was he living in?

  Clarence hurried back to his office, which consisted of a small room above a store and doubled as his living quarters. Its only furniture was a bed, a dresser with a washbasin on top and a small writing desk.

  He sat at the desk, pen in hand, inkwell and paper in front of him, trying to think how to work the man’s biting comment about politicians being cowards into his article. But he made little progress. Then he had an epiphany. The piece should begin with that little girl shivering in fear. That was the heart of the story, and he began to fill the page.

  After not very long, he heard shouts outside. He looked out the window and saw men running, carrying torches. He ran down the steps and into the street. “What’s happening?” he shouted to one of the men.

  “They have brought the carriage around for the girl again!”

  Clarence took the steps back up to his office two at a time, grabbed his notebook, stuffed several pencils into his pocket, then ran back down, almost losing his footing in his haste. He sprinted at full tilt back to the jail.

  When he got there, it was clear the action was already mostly over. In lieu of the dozen or so people who had been there before, there were perhaps fifty or sixty people, but they were all leaving the square, some of them running fast. A highly polished, black, two-wheeled cabriolet was lying on its side, still attached to a single horse. The horse was dragging the carriage along the ground, making a great grinding noise.

  There was blood on the side of the carriage and on the ground next to it, too, along with a man’s leather hat. A small fire was burning inside the courthouse, casting flickering patterns on the windows that faced the street. Clarence could hear the fire bell sounding.

  He looked around for the man he’d been talking to earlier, but he was nowhere to be found, even though the small fire he’d been tending in the pit was still burning. In his place was a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve at the most.

  Clarence walked up to him and introduced himself. The boy did not respond with his own name, just grunted. Clarence plowed ahead. “What just happened here?”

  “They was tryin’ to sneak that slave girl out again. That carriage there came in real sudden—” he pointed to the cabriolet “—and they rushed that girl out of the courthouse, with the master, and put ’em in the carriage.”

  “Didn’t the people who were here try to stop them?”

  “There wasn’t near enough of us. But then at least a hundred people came tearing ’round that corner there—” he pointed just behind the carriage “—and dragged out the girl and the master, too, and took them away somewheres.”

  “Didn’t the marshals do something about it?”

  “They weren’t near enough to take on the mob.”

  “Where did the mob come from?”

  “From Second Pres. They just come from hearing that jezebel Abby Kelley speak.”

  “What did she have to do with it?” Clarence said.

  “One of them guys that come to rescue the slave girl said Abby told them, “Go do somethin’ ’bout that poor slave girl.”

  “Are you sure that’s what he said she said?”

  “Near as I can remember.”

  “Did you see where they took the slave girl and her master?”

  “No. Too many people between me and them,” the boy said.

  “Did you know any of the people?”

  The boy paused. He pursed his lips “No, mister, I didn’t know none of them.”

  “What did the marshal and his deputies do?”

  “Soon as the mob come, they went back in the courthouse. I woulda, too. That mob was right scary.”

  “Can you tell me anything else you think’s important?” Clarence said. It was his cleanup question for interviews.

  “Well,” the boy said. “I got somethin’.” He reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “I drawed what I saw.”

  He showed Clarence a pencil sketch of the square. It was in three parts. The first part showed people boiling around the corner into the square. It was amazingly lifelike. The second part showed the mob rocking the carriage, with the master peering out from the window, a terrified look on his face. The third part showed the carriage on the ground, with a spot next to it of what was, he assumed, supposed to be blood, and next to that a discarded hat.

  “You drew this?” Clarence said.

  “Yes, sir. I want to be an artist. Do you like it?”

  “It’s great. I want to buy it from you. I will give you three dollars for all rights.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I will own the drawing and can publish it anywhere or have other people publish it.”

  “Three dollars. Let me think.”

  “I’ll give you five. No more.”

  “Alright.”

  “Please sign and date it.”

  “Uh, alright.” He took the drawing, pulled a pencil from his pocket, signed it Robbie Culp, and dated it August 24, 1860.

  “There’s one more thing I need from you, Robbie,” Clarence said.

  “What?”

  “A bill of sale.” Clarence tore a piece of paper from his notebook and wrote out a bill of sale, providing that Robbie was selling him all rights.

  Robbie read it, shrugged and signed.

  “I have to go now,” Clarence said. “If I want to reach you again, where do you live?”

  “With my parents, near the corner of Cook Street and Spring.”

  “Alright. Hey, by the way, did you see who lit the fire in the courthouse?”

  “No. But I got other drawings, sir.”

  “Oh, like what?”

  “Well, I made some-a Mr. Lincoln.”

  “Does he know you did them?”

  “I ain’t sure.”

  “We’ll talk about those later, Robbie. But right now I gotta go.” As he left the square, Clarence contemplated the great story he had stumbled upon. And although there was no printing press in Springfield that could put the drawing into his own paper, he suspected magazines in the East like The Atlantic and Harper’s Weekly would pay dearly for it. If he could only get it to them in time. Although he’d heard about experiments in Europe to transmit pictures over the telegraph, none of that had as yet come to the frontier of Illinois, so the drawing would have to go by train to Chicago and then on to New York and Boston. On the way back to his office, Clarence took a short detour so that he could pass by Lincoln’s house, a large, two-story structure at the corner of Eighth and Jackson. If the lights were on, he would be bold, knock on the door and ask Lincoln for a comment on the night’s events. When he arrived, there were no lights on, but he decided to do it anyway. He walked up the steps to the veranda that surrounded the house. There was no guard on the veranda. Nor, so far as he could see, were there any guards anywhere else. Which surprised him. Wouldn’t someone have thought to guard the man?

  The door was high, made of brown oak, with thin glass panels to either side. Where a knocker might have been there was instead only a narrow sign that said “A Lincoln”. He rapped on the door.

  After not too long, he heard a noise inside. A
few seconds later, the door was opened by a small boy. “Hello,” the boy said. “Do you want to talk to my papa or my mama?”

  Clarence prided himself at being able to talk to small children, so he said, “Perhaps I want to talk to you.”

  The boy just stared at him and said, “You must want my papa. I’ll see if he wants to talk to you,” and closed the door.

  The minutes ticked by and Clarence wondered if the boy was ever coming back. As he was about to give up and leave, the door opened again, and the boy said, “Papa will be here soon.” Then he reached up, grabbed Clarence’s cap off his head and scurried away.

  “Come back with that!” Clarence shouted.

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than Abraham Lincoln appeared. He was so tall and his face so craggy that Clarence could not have mistaken him for anyone else. What Clarence had not expected, however, was to meet Lincoln when he was wearing a long, checkered nightshirt and brown leather slippers. Still, Clarence was awestruck.

  Lincoln, however, seemed not to be surprised to find a stranger on his doorstep. “Good evening,” Lincoln said. “I’m sorry about your cap, Mr....”

  “Artemis. Clarence Artemis.”

  “The boy is a bit of a scamp. Perhaps we can retrieve it a little later. But in the meantime, what might I do for you?”

  Clarence explained who he was, where he was from and what he hoped to accomplish with his new paper. “It would be a wonderful thing if my paper’s first edition, which is coming soon, could be graced by an interview with you, and particularly about the events at the courthouse tonight.”

  Then he suddenly remembered that he was bothering the man at his home well after supper and said, “I’m so sorry to bother you in the evening, but...”

  “Please don’t be concerned about that,” Lincoln said. “Unfortunately, I’m not giving any interviews, but following the tradition that, once nominated, candidates for the presidency do not campaign. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

  “I am. I thought perhaps you’d make an exception for a new publication.”

  “I’m afraid not. Now let me see if I can retrieve your hat.” He turned but left the door open. Clarence peered in, hoping to see something he could report, but it was too dark to make out any details.

  Eventually, Lincoln returned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Artemis, but Tad has hidden it somewhere. Perhaps I could lend you my hat in the meantime.” He held up a tall top hat.

  “I’m afraid I’d look ridiculous in that hat,” Clarence said. “I have other caps. I’ll get that one back from you another time. Again, forgive my intrusion.”

  “Good luck with your new paper, Mr. Artemis.”

  “Thank you,” Clarence said, went down the steps and headed home, disappointed at not getting the interview, but exhilarated at having managed to make the acquaintance of the man he hoped would be the next president of the United States.

  12

  The White House

  September 8, 1860

  He had contested for the presidency three times before—1844, 1848 and 1852—and failed. On the fourth try—1856—he had finally captured the Democratic nomination and been elected. The day of his inauguration had been joyous. Now, nearly four years later, the final days of his administration were running through his fingers like grains of sand, and joy was nowhere to be found. If things went as predicted, the nation he loved—and love it he did, despite what the critics said—was about to come apart.

  The cause was that man running for president on the Republican ticket, Abraham Lincoln. And who was he, really? A man with no formal education, a hick from Kentucky now transplanted to Illinois and someone who couldn’t even speak properly. Rumor had it that when he had addressed the august Cooper Union the year before in New York he had begun by saying “Mr. Cheerman.”

  Buchanan had been drinking all day, although in moderation, as he always did. Or so he liked to tell himself. He picked up the bottle and peered at it. He had begun in early morning, as usual, but the bottle was not even half-empty. And, of course, he could hold his liquor. He poured himself another. He suddenly noticed an usher hovering in the doorway, and it reminded him that he was about to have company. “Mr. Washburn, we are expecting Jeremiah Black, the attorney general. When he arrives, please show him to the cabinet room.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Buchanan peered out the window at the Washington darkness and thought, not for the first time, that he wished he had married. Then he would have had a wife, and perhaps even children, to talk to about his plight. After the death of his fiancée, so many years ago, he had had other opportunities to wed, but had not taken any of them up. Now, as the newspapers were so fond of pointing out, he was the first and only bachelor president of the United States.

  He could, of course, talk with his wonderful thirty-year-old niece, Harriet Lane, who had so ably served as the White House hostess since he had taken office. Despite the growing political crisis, she had turned the White House into a place of style and gaiety. Her parties were the talk of the town and a much sought-after ticket. Her beauty was topped by a good political head, which he prided himself on having created and nurtured by admitting her into his political and social circles starting when she was only fifteen years old.

  But Harriet was away for a few days, and in any case, she had begun to diverge from his views on the abolition issue. While she did not favor immediate abolition as some did, she thought it should become compulsory, to take place on a definite schedule. Indeed, he suspected she was going to return to their home in Pennsylvania on Election Day and vote for Lincoln, even though she had said she would not.

  He did, of course, have his cabinet members to consult with. They were all good friends, or had become so, and almost all had stuck with him since the beginning. He would lean on their advice and counsel. Perhaps there was some pathway he had not yet discovered to keep the country from unraveling. If it did unravel, he had no doubt it would be blamed on him.

  “Mr. President,” the usher said, interrupting his reverie.

  “Yes, Mr. Washburn?”

  “The attorney general is in the cabinet room, as you requested. Will you want any refreshments during your meeting?”

  Buchanan held up the bottle. “Just two clean glasses, please. There’s no need to announce me. Please just put the bottle and the glasses on the table. That will be announcement enough.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The president unlimbered himself from his chair and walked to the cabinet room, where he found his attorney general waiting.

  “Good evening, Mr. President.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Attorney General. Thank you for accepting my invitation to come by this evening. Would you perchance like some refreshment?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve only recently dined. I see, however, that you are working your way through a bottle of my favorite libation, and I would gladly share in that if you’re offering.”

  “Oh, indeed I am. I’m drinking Old Overholt, to which I’m partial because of its Pennsylvania origins. But if you like we could switch to Madeira. I have a nice supply of the best.”

  “No, rye will do just fine.”

  Buchanan poured each of them a tumblerful, and said, “Jeremiah, have you seen the greenhouse that Ms. Lane has built?”

  “No, I have heard tell of it, of course. But I’ve always understood it was reserved for the family.”

  Buchanan laughed. “You have been with me since the beginning of this burden that the presidency has become. Which counts you as family. It will be a pleasant evening to sit awhile in the greenhouse. The heat of summer is gone, but the damp of winter is not yet upon us. Follow me.”

  They walked together to the western wall of the main White House building and came to a low doorway that led into a glassed-in tunnel. They were both tall men, and had to duck to avoid hitting
their heads. After perhaps twenty feet they emerged into a large greenhouse with walls made of square glass panels that reached up to high, slanted ceilings, also paneled in glass. Small trees in pots, exuberantly flowering plants and wide ferns planted in baskets were everywhere.

  “It is quite beautiful,” Black said. “I would never have expected such a thing.”

  “Yes, Harriet has done a marvelous job of creating a space that is away from it all. Let us sit.” Buchanan pointed to a small wrought-iron table with two matching chairs.

  “To get right to the point, Jeremiah, we are not far from the election,” Buchanan said. “Of the four candidates, who do you think is most likely to win? I have my own opinion, but would like to hear yours.”

  “Lincoln, with a mere plurality of the popular vote but a majority of the electoral college.”

  “That is what I feared you’d say. Sadly, it is my opinion, too.”

  They sat for a while, swishing the liquor around in their glasses, but saying nothing. Finally, Black broke the silence. “Some of the flowers and plants in here look quite exotic.”

  “Yes, Harriet has tried to collect all she can, and has had the State Department let visiting foreign delegations know that they should bring plants as gifts.”

  “And do they do so?”

  “Yes. Let me show you something recently arrived.” Buchanan arose and walked down one of the long aisles to its midway point. Black followed.

  The president pointed at a small tree. “That is a gift from the Japanese delegation that was here last May to ratify the Treaty of Amity and Commerce between our two countries.”

  “It looks like an orange tree,” Black said. “But the oranges are tiny.”

  “That is indeed what they are. Harriet has tried one and reports it quite bitter. Would you care to taste one, Jeremiah?” He reached forward as if to pick one.

  “Oh no, that is quite alright! Perhaps another time.”

  Buchanan went ahead, picked one and tucked it into a pocket of his jacket.

  As they headed back to their chairs, Buchanan said, “To return to our conversation of earlier, tell me more of your thinking on the election, and let’s see if it’s the same as mine.”