“Why do you need to hide out?” Hay said.
Herndon saw that Hay had sat himself down in the chair Lincoln had just vacated. It was well understood in the office that it was Lincoln’s chair, and by unspoken agreement, no one else ever sat in it. Herndon saw Lincoln flick an eye toward the chair, but he said nothing.
Lincoln turned around, rested his rear end against the windowsill and folded his arms. “Johnny, you’ve not been at this politics thing very long, but, as sure as God made little green apples, the abolitionists are going to demand I promise to pardon Abby Kelley if I’m elected president, and they will be enraged if I don’t so promise.”
“But if you do promise, it will enrage the people who think you are neutral on the slavery question,” Herndon said. “And plan to vote for you on that basis.”
“I’m not neutral,” Lincoln said. “I want slavery to go away, but I have pledged not to disturb it where it already exists. My political problem with this Kelley prosecution arises only if she is convicted. If she is acquitted, the jury will have removed me from the horns of the dilemma.”
“Unless the trial is still pending on Election Day with no verdict,” Herndon said. “In which case it will make the worst of both worlds for you.”
“A true point, Billy. You are in touch with the world of abolitionists, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“The government has prosecuted many people for interfering with the return of fugitive slaves. How have those prosecutions fared?”
“Poorly. Juries have refused to convict them.”
Lincoln lowered his head and stared at the floor for what seemed to Herndon like minutes. Finally, he said, “My instincts tell me that if the enslaved girl is found alive hereabouts or can be proved to be alive and well in Canada, the wind will go out of the sails of this prosecution.”
“Won’t the government want to find her, too?” Hay said.
“Johnny, the government will want to find her, if at all, only dead. Then they can lay her death at Abby Kelley Foster’s feet—no matter what she actually urged anyone to do—and hope for a conviction.”
“Do you fear they will kill her if they find her alive?” Hay said.
“That may depend on whom the government sends to look for her,” Lincoln said. “Or—” he sighed deeply “—whether the owner’s family promises a reward for finding both of them, which will put the entire state to beating the bushes searching for them.”
“We must find them first ourselves,” Herndon said.
“Billy, let’s get in touch with Pinkerton as soon as we can,” Lincoln said.
“You know Allan Pinkerton?” Hay said.
“Yes, Johnny, for lo these many years. His detective agency has long done work for the Illinois Central Railroad. I have represented the Central as a lawyer, so our paths have frequently crossed.”
Herndon was already at the door. “I will telegraph him immediately.”
“Yes, but he cannot come here,” Lincoln said. “Or respond to you by telegram. The fact that we are looking for the girl ourselves cannot be learned by anyone. Instead of sending a telegram, go to Chicago and see him. His headquarters are on Washington Street.”
“And if he sees Pinkerton, then what?” Hay said.
“He will know what to do. But as I think about it, Johnny, why don’t you go, too. Have you ever been to Chicago?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll find it fascinating, I dare say. But now, Johnny, I need a word in private with Mr. Herndon, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, of course,” Hay said.
He promptly left and, unlike the clatter with which he had arrived, closed the door quietly behind him.
“What is it, Lincoln?” Herndon said.
“You know, Billy, that you and I differ on some things.”
“We do.”
“And one of them is abolition. We both detest slavery, but you would have it end immediately, although I’ve never quite understand how you would make that work. I respect your position, though.”
“And I respect your position, Lincoln, although I’ve never understood how you could detest slavery and allow it to continue.”
“Well, be that as it may, here is what I wanted to say outside of Johnny’s presence. Whatever your own inclinations might be in the matter, please do not take any position on my behalf as to what I might or should do if Mrs. Foster is convicted. Say nothing one way or the other. Hint nothing one way or the other.”
“I understand.”
“And please be sure that your young charge, Johnny Hay, also understands.”
15
Herndon, unlike Hay, had been to Chicago several times before, including briefly at the Republican Convention in May that had nominated Lincoln. He was not in any way fond of the place. It was crowded, noisy and, worst of all, smelly, even in its finer parts.
They took the Toledo, Wabash and Great Western to Urbana and changed there to the Illinois Central, which took them on to Chicago. The accommodations on the Wabash had been primitive. On the Central, Herndon managed to wangle their way into a first-class car by mentioning Lincoln and his connection to the railroad’s president, William Osborne.
They each enjoyed a cigar after an opulent dinner served on fine china.
The train from Urbana to Chicago was an express, so it took them only a little over eight hours to cover the entire two hundred miles. They disembarked at Chicago’s Central Depot station, a large wooden building fronted by high masonry arches. As they walked under the arches and emerged onto Water Street, Hay wrinkled his nose. “What is that execrable smell?”
“It’s sewage,” Hay said. “They recently built a sewage collection system, but the discharge, both human and industrial, pours directly into the river. My friends here tell me it has made the smell worse than ever.”
Hay held a handkerchief up to his nose. “How many people live here to deposit so much smelly detritus?”
“My friends claim the 1860 census will count more than one hundred thousand Chicagoans, which is threefold what it was just ten years ago.”
“That is big,” Hay said. “But not New York City big.”
“Did you spend a lot of time there?” Herndon said.
“I went to Brown, as you know, so we went over to New York frequently for a little...”
Herndon finished the sentence for him. “Drinking.”
Hay laughed. “There was some of that, yes.”
“Let’s take a hackney cab to Pinkerton,” Herndon said. “Their office is at 80 Washington Street. It’s only a few blocks.”
“Can’t we just walk there? Our carpetbags are quite light.”
Herndon pointed to the dirt roadway in front of them, which was still wet from a recent rain. The running water had raised damp furrows. “We can if you would like to be covered in mud by the time we get there.”
“I take your point,” Hay said, and held up his hand to wave down a cab.
They climbed in and Herndon gave the driver the address. The man snapped a whip at his horses, and they were off.
“Are there always cows being driven through the streets here?” Hay said, as they dodged a bellowing line of the animals.
“Yes. This city has become a major transit point for cattle and pigs being sent to market. It was another good reason not to walk.”
In not very long, they arrived at a nondescript two-story building. The cabdriver came around to open the door for them and said, “You gentlemen are quite fancy-dressed. I apologize there’s a large puddle between the cab and the curb. You might want to hold up your pant legs as you go so as not to soil them.”
They climbed down from the cab and, hiking up their pants as suggested, made it over to the wooden sidewalk with only a bit of mud getting on them.
A very large sign hung from the secon
d story of the building: Pinkerton National Detective Agency, showing an open eye and within it the slogan We Never Sleep.
Unlike most office buildings with which Herndon was familiar, this one had a uniformed guard posted at the front door. He wore a shield-style silver badge that had Pinkerton National Detective Agency embossed on it in gold.
The guard politely inquired as to their business. Herndon explained that they had been sent by Abraham Lincoln to see Mr. Pinkerton on an urgent matter. As proof of their bona fides, Herndon handed the man Lincoln’s calling card, along with his own.
The guard examined them with care and raised his eyebrows as he inspected the one from Lincoln. “Please wait here. I will return shortly,” he said, and disappeared into the building. Herndon heard the distinct snick of the lock being fastened from the other side after the man had shut the door behind him.
After they had cooled their heels on the sidewalk for almost ten minutes, while being stared at by each and every passerby, the guard finally reappeared and said, “Mr. Pinkerton will see you. Please follow me.”
16
The outside of the building had been plain, but the inside was opulent—polished wood everywhere, elegant gas lamps on the walls and spittoons of gleaming brass to the sides. Pinkerton’s office, on the second floor, was reached by a wide stairway of dark wood.
When the guard ushered them into the office, the man they assumed to be Pinkerton was sitting at a large square table that was inlaid with parquet. He rose to greet them and, after introductions all around, shook their hands. He was a short man, going a bit stout at the waist, with dark hair that was receding some and piercing blue eyes.
“I bring you greetings from Mr. Lincoln,” Herndon said.
“I send my greetings back to him,” Pinkerton said. “We have worked together on railroad matters for quite a few years now. In fact, Mr. Lincoln drafted my first contract with the Central. But I assume you are here on campaign matters.”
“Yes,” Herndon said. “I’ve been helping Lincoln manage the huge volume of correspondence he has been receiving, and Mr. Hay has been doing similar work.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Pinkerton said. “How might we here at Pinkerton be of service?”
Herndon gave him a quick summary of the situation and Lincoln’s desire to have the enslaved girl and, if possible the master, found. He noticed that while he was talking, Hay was looking about the office, gazing in particular at various certificates on the walls and guns of various kinds on the shelves.
When Herndon had finished, Pinkerton said, “Do you have a description of either the girl or the man?”
“Not a good one,” Herndon said. “As you know, to retrieve a slave that an owner contends is his, under the Fugitive Slave Act that man needs only to file a sworn affidavit with a slave commissioner, magistrate or federal judge, identify the slave and attest that the slave is his property. There is no need for a trial at which the alleged slave gives evidence, and the slave cannot contest the allegation.”
“And hence no one has seen either of them?”
“Only the slave commissioner and the sheriff of Sangamon County, who held her in his jail,” Herndon said. “Oh, and the United States marshal, too. Thus, what we know, we know only from the sworn affidavit the master filed.”
“What does it say?
“That Lucy Battelle is approximately five feet six inches tall, with curly hair, and very thin.”
“I suppose that makes her taller than average for her age,” Pinkerton said.
“Yes, and the description we have gleaned of the master is not much better. He is said by a newspaper article to be both tall and thick. Several people who were in the mob are quoted as saying that he looked like a human bull.”
Pinkerton rested his chin in his hands and said, “As you no doubt know, I am involved in the Underground Railroad here. That would make it awkward, and perhaps make Lucy more likely to be recaptured, if I were to become personally involved.”
“So you cannot help us?” Herndon said.
“No, no. I just cannot do it personally. But I think there is someone here who can help. I have recently taken to hiring female detectives, and they are at times as good, or better, than men.”
“A woman?” Herndon said.
“Yes, a woman, Mr. Herndon. Her name is Annabelle Carter. She has proven herself one of my best. Better yet, she is born and bred in Kentucky. So she is able to pretend to be a Southern sympathizer.”
Hay suddenly returned to the conversation. “Is she in fact a Southern sympathizer?” he said.
“No, not at all, Mr. Hay. She is an abolitionist, but one who thinks—as many do—that abolition must be gradual or it will lead to chaos. She would begin with the Border states. But she is able to hide her true feelings in order to be of better service to our cause. And—” he paused “—she is quite good with a gun.”
There was a silence in the room as they all considered that. Finally, Herndon said, “She sounds good. Let us go forward with her.”
“Alright, consider it done,” Pinkerton said. “I will arrange for you to meet with her tonight for supper.”
“There is one more thing,” Herndon said. “Lincoln has authorized me to spend a certain sum on this project, so we should turn to that.”
“There will be no need, sir. Anything the Pinkerton Detective Agency can do to assure the election of Mr. Lincoln to the presidency will be on the house. I will consider it a sacred honor for Pinkerton to participate.”
“Thank you so very much,” Herndon said.
“Mr. Herndon,” Pinkerton said, “before we part, I noticed that Mr. Hay has been eyeing the guns on the shelves. Mr. Hay, would you like to look them over? You might have need of one in this adventure.”
“I would,” Hay said, jumping up and heading over to the shelf that seemed most burdened-down with weaponry.
While Hay went over the guns, Pinkerton got up and began to pace about the room.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this,” he said. “Because the information was given to me in confidence. And maintaining confidences is one of the things that makes Pinkerton quite different from our competitors.”
“What is it?” Herndon said.
“Yesterday, a Major Robert Hedpeth came to see me.”
“From our own army?”
“Yes. The army of the United States of America. He wanted to retain us to find the very slave you have come to see me about, as well as her master. But I declined.”
“Why?”
“I had the sense that he wanted to find the slave so he could return her to bondage. As an abolitionist, I will take no part in that. I sent him away.”
“Did he say who sent him?” Herndon said. “Officers in the army don’t assign such missions to themselves.”
“He didn’t say.”
Hay, who was still examining the guns, said, “I think I know who he is.”
“Who?” Herndon and Pinkerton said it almost as one.
“My college roommate at Brown had the same last name. His father was an officer in the army, a major. I never met him, but I’m pretty sure his first name was Robert.”
“Do you know anything else about him?” Herndon said.
“Only that, according to his son, he was assigned to the Military District of Washington, and that his unit was sometimes sent to protect the White House.”
“Why would the White House need protecting?” Herndon said.
“Throughout the more than seventy years this republic has been in existence, there have been various threats against presidents,” Pinkerton said. “President Jackson was shot at. And it has been the military’s job to step up when those kind of threats arise.”
“That means that, one way or another, the president sent him,” Hay said. “Sent, not to protect the president against a ph
ysical threat, but against a political one.”
There was silence in the room as they all considered what Hay had just said.
Herndon broke the silence. “We will simply have to keep a lookout for the major.”
Pinkerton laughed. “That won’t be hard. He’s very short, walks with a limp and has a right arm that is more or less useless to him.”
Hay had come back to the table, toting a pistol. “Why is he still on active duty if he has all these physical problems?” he said.
“I asked him that,” Pinkerton said. “He replied that he did not want to retire and was being kept on active duty as a reward for his heroism at the Battle of Guadeloupe in the Mexican War.”
Pinkerton changed the subject. “Where are you gentlemen staying?”
“At the Tremont,” Herndon said.
Pinkerton smiled. “Ah, yes, a very Republican hotel.”
“We wouldn’t stay anywhere else,” Herndon said.
“Of course. In any case, there is a very fine restaurant only a few blocks from there, The Versailles, and I believe I can arrange a private room in which we can meet confidentially. I will see you there at 8:00 p.m. if that is convenient. I will bring Mrs. Carter with me.”
17
They checked into the Tremont, then took a horse cab to The Versailles and arrived promptly at 8:00. On emerging from the cab, Herndon took one look at the restaurant’s entrance and found himself disappointed. He had expected something grand, and instead beheld only a small wooden door, without even a doorkeeper. A small sign on the door said “Knock. Loudly!”
He did so, and the door was opened almost immediately by a middle-aged man who sported a graying goatee and a high collar.
The man looked them over, glanced at Hay’s boots, which, despite Hay’s best efforts, still had a bit of dried mud clinging to them from the morning, and wrinkled his nose ever so slightly. “Welcome, gentlemen. Do you by chance have a reservation?”
The Day Lincoln Lost Page 8
