“Thank you.”
“Has the lead worked out at all?”
“Not yet, Annie.”
She gritted her teeth and baited the hook. “I’m going to tell you a secret, but you have to agree to keep it strictly to yourself.”
“Alright.”
“I’ve applied for a job at Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course!”
“Well, it’s just a job as a clerk, but if I get it I could always ask one of the detectives there to follow up on your lead. They may have contacts you don’t have that could make it go somewhere.”
“I will keep that in mind. And again, thank you.”
“My mother knows how to reach me.”
She had taken a risk, of course, in mentioning Pinkerton. She worked on her salad for a few minutes, waiting to see if Slim would bite.
After a while, Slim looked at her and said, “I’ve been thinking about it. Much as I like you, Annie, I’m unlikely to tell you the lead we’ve got. You seem much too interested. And I know you’re an abolitionist of some sort.”
“That I am.”
After that, she and Slim chatted amiably through dinner without further discussion of the lead. She even agreed to dance with him when the fiddles and the banjo took over from the piano. Mostly, they were playing a Stephen Foster medley, and one of the men was singing. It was hard to dance to, but they did their best.
At some point, people began to sing along. She cringed when they got to “Oh Susanna!” because she was so deeply offended by the lyrics in the second verse. But it gave her an idea.
When the party was nearing its end, she went over to the man who was singing and said, “I have a request.”
“Of course, miss. The party is in your honor, after all.”
She knew that what she was about to request would totally destroy her plan with Slim, but he’d made clear that the plan wouldn’t work anyway, and she couldn’t resist.
“Can y’all play ‘My Old Kentucky Home, Good Night’?”
The man looked at her, clearly startled. “We know your mother, and we don’t reckon she will appreciate that.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because it’s an abolitionist ballad.”
“It is? I never knew.”
“It is.”
“Please play it anyway. As you said, this party is in my honor, and it’s my special request.”
“Alright, miss, but if your mother comes over here, furious, it was your idea.”
“It certainly was.”
As the first fiddle picked up the tune, and one of the men began to sing the lyrics, Annabelle watched heads snap up all over the room. Seconds later, Slim stormed over to her. “Was this song your request?”
“Yes. I love the tune. Is there a problem?”
“It’s an abolitionist ballad. In fact, it’s Fred Douglass’s favorite song.”
“You call that famous man Fred?”
“Frederick is too fancy a name for a former slave.”
“Well, I still like the tune.”
“I suppose all you radical abolitionists do.”
“I’m a gradual abolitionist.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that sooner or later, slavery has to end.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s immoral. And because every civilized nation but this one has already ended it on their territory.”
“So what?”
“So what means—can you imagine, a hundred years from now, when all the world is free of slavery, this will be the only country that still permits it? A country whose founding document talks about all men being created equal?”
“The Declaration doesn’t have the force of law. Only the Constitution does. And it doesn’t talk about any of that stuff. Not one word.”
They stood, facing one another; both had stopped talking.
Finally, Slim broke the silence and said, “Well, to go back to what we were talking about before, why should I give you our lead, even if you’re only a gradual abolitionist? Why would you want to help my father? He is certainly not in favor of any kind of abolition. Nor am I.”
“Because I don’t let my politics get in the way of my friendships,” she said. “And because you’re a lifelong friend and neighbor. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
“Well, do let me know if you change your mind.” She gave him her best smile and a tight hug, of which her mother would certainly have disapproved had she chanced to see it. Women in Kentucky didn’t hug men they weren’t related to. “Take good care, Slim.”
As she was about to leave the party, Annabelle noticed that Suzanna was dancing with Georgie, the youngest of the Goshorn brothers. He was about Suzanna’s age. They were dancing closer than her mother would approve, but her mother had apparently gone back to the main house. Annabelle caught Suzanna’s eye, winked, left and went back to her room.
About an hour later, Suzanna knocked on her door, and she let her in.
“It’s late. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I have something to tell you. I know what the Goshorns’ lead is to where their father might be.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I was sitting right down the table from you, but you were so intent on charming Slim that you didn’t even notice me. Anyway, I overheard you talking about the lead. When I danced with Georgie, I wormed it out of him.”
“Was that hard?”
“He was hard, but it wasn’t hard to find out.” She grinned.
“Suzanna!”
“I’m a modern girl, Annabelle.”
“So it appears. What is the lead?”
“Their father—Ezekiel—has a brother who lives in a tiny town called Berlin, about fifteen miles west of Springfield. They think their father may be hiding there.”
“Why does he have to hide anywhere?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t smart enough to ask that. Darn.”
“Don’t worry. You did great.”
“Thank you. I have a question, though.”
“Alright. What?”
“Why did everyone get so upset when they played ‘My Old Kentucky Home, Good Night’? I remember everyone played it for a little while when I was a kid, and then they just stopped.”
“It’s because it’s an abolitionist ballad.”
“It is?”
“Yes, it’s about a Darkie—a slave—who misses his old Kentucky home far away. And the reason he misses it, and that it’s far away, is because he’s been shipped south to work in the cotton fields. Where he expects to die of backbreaking work.”
“Are you an abolitionist, Annabelle?”
“Yes.” She decided not to add the gradual part. “And you should be, too. Just don’t mention it to Mama. Or Daddy. They won’t cotton to it.”
“Was that a pun?”
“Indeed it was.”
“Annabelle, before you go, I need to ask. Do you have any feelings at all for Slim?”
“No. Should I?”
“He’s a nice man, and if we were to put together their plantation and ours, we might be able to make it. Right now, they’re both going to fail. And, well, if that happens I will have no prospects.”
“He is only the second-oldest brother. He won’t likely inherit.”
“He says Amasa wants to leave and try his luck in Atlanta and will sell him his share on credit. So will the others. They all want out.”
“Suzie, if you love Slim and he loves you, you have my blessing. Although you’re only sixteen, and Mama won’t let you marry ’til you’re at least seventeen.”
“I will be seventeen before you know it! And if you find someone, too, we can have a double wedding!”
&nbs
p; Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Go to bed, Suzie!”
22
The White House
The weather had turned chillier, but the president was again sitting with Jeremiah Black at a small table in the greenhouse. Both were wearing overcoats, buttoned to the neck. They had been talking for over an hour.
“It will soon be too cold to meet here, Jeremiah,” Buchanan said.
Black laughed and rubbed his hands together. “It is already too cold, Mr. President.”
“Yes, but I am savoring the place. Next year someone else will be sitting here.”
“Perhaps Lincoln will prefer the mansion to the garden.”
“You still think it will be Lincoln, Jeremiah?”
“I do.”
“Why? Vice President Breckinridge tells me his surrogates, who are out campaigning, have been drawing large crowds.”
“Mr. President, excuse me, but unless my plan works it’s going to be Lincoln.”
“What about the crowds that Breckinridge tells me about?”
Buchanan had already drained half a bottle of liquor and was slurring his words.
“The crowds have been in the South and in the Border states,” Black said. “In Pennsylvania and Ohio, his surrogates draw more boos than people, if anyone comes at all.”
“What is your source for this?”
“I have dozens of newspapers and magazines brought to me from all over the country every week. They are the pulse of the nation.”
“Speaking of pulse, would you like a refill?”
Black looked at his glass, swirled the little bit that was left in the bottom and said, “The day is almost done. Another won’t hurt, and it is cold in here.”
Buchanan took the bottle and filled Black’s glass near to the brim. Then he did the same with his own.
Glancing at the bottle, Black said, “We’ll soon need another.”
Buchanan held the bottle up to the fading light, examined it carefully and said, “You are right! Yes you are, sir!” He looked over to Washburn, who was standing by the doorway into the greenhouse. “Mr. Washburn, could you please bring us another Old Overholt?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Buchanan took a large sip from his glass and said, “So, Jeremiah, now that we are refortified, with more supply soon on the way, how do you read the pulse of the nation, as you put it?”
“Exactly the way I read it several weeks ago. Lincoln is going to win.”
“And only God knows what he will do.”
“He likely does not know himself, Mr. President.”
“How is the effort with the radical abolitionist coming along?”
“Abby Kelley Foster?”
“Yes, her. You were going to have her indicted and also try to locate both the escaped slave and her owner, dead or alive.”
“You preferred the owner dead, if I recall,” Black said.
“Yes, but only because, to my way of thinking, that will rile up our voters more.”
“Well, the slave owner has not been found, but Mrs. Foster has been indicted, as planned. People are losing interest, though. The newspapers talked of nothing else for a week, but are now largely silent about it.”
Buchman was silent for a while, then blurted out, “If the slave is found dead, it will rile up the abolitionists. But if her master is found dead, it will put people, North and South, in fear for their lives.”
“You said that several weeks ago, Mr. President.”
“I will say it again! Southern women are huddled around their hearths afraid of a slave uprising. A slave owner murdered in Springfield by an abolitionist mob will make them even more afraid. And Northern women will be afraid, too, and will get their husbands to vote for anyone but Lincoln.”
Black paused for a moment. “I am not sure that finding the slave master dead will accomplish that. In any case, the War Department seconded me one of their own to look for both the slave and the master. His name is Major Robert Hedpeth.”
“Did he find them?”
“Not yet, and his report is not encouraging. I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him here so you can hear from him directly. He is in an anteroom.”
Buchanan turned to the usher and said, “Mr. Washburn, please locate Major Hedpeth and bring him in.”
“Here to the greenhouse?”
“Yes.”
While they waited, Black briefed Buchanan on Hedpeth’s background. When Hedpeth came in, resplendent in full dress uniform, with all of his medals showing, he saluted Buchanan, who stood up and returned the salute. “Major, welcome to the White House. Mr. Black tells me you are a hero of the Mexican War. And I see you have the decorations for it.” Buchanan pointed to the gold Palmetto Medal on Hedpeth’s chest, which he knew had been awarded by the South Carolina legislature to its officers who served in the war.
“I would not say a hero, Mr. President, just someone who served his country—and his state—in battle.”
“I say you are a hero to us all,” Buchanan said.
“Why, thank you, sir.”
“Please sit down, Major. We’re drinking Old Overholt. Will you join us?”
“I’d be pleased to, Mr. President.”
Buchanan turned to Washburn and said, “Mr. Washburn, will you bring another glass for the major?”
“I will be right back with it, Mr. President.”
They chatted about nothing in particular until the clean glass arrived. Buchanan poured a full glass for Hedpeth, freshened his own and Black’s, and raised his glass. “To you, Major, for your service to our country.”
They clinked, and the president said, “Major, I understand you went out to Illinois. What did you find?”
“In truth, Mr. President, almost nothing of use. I interviewed many people in Springfield, but could not find a single person who said they were in the square when the riot occurred.”
“What else did you do?”
“I spent several days in small towns around Springfield, trying to find out where either the slave or the slave master might be hiding. Once again, no one had seen them.”
“So you found nothing.”
“Not quite. I am planning to return to Springfield and interview a young newspaper reporter, who is also the proprietor of his own newly minted newspaper. I brought a copy with me.”
Using his left hand, Major Hedpeth reached into an inner pocket of his uniform jacket, extracted a folded-up copy of The Radical Abolitionist and handed it to the president.
Buchanan examined it and said, “This lead article is an account of Abby Kelley’s speech, am I correct?”
“Yes. The reporter was there for part of it, and so the first section of the article is his own recollection. The rest he collected in interviews from those who stayed for the entire thing.”
Buchanan looked over at Black. “Will we be able to use this in court when we try her?”
“Only indirectly, but yes. And in any case we can call the reporter, whose name is Clarence Artemis, to the stand to testify to what she said while he was there.”
Buchanan wrinkled his brow. “Major, but why are you going all the way back to Springfield to interview this Artemis person?”
“Because as I was leaving Springfield, one of my companions on the train, to whom I had disclosed my frustrations at not finding the slave owner—I was not hiding my search—told me this Artemis fellow might know where the slave owner is.”
“So you’re going back to get Artemis to lead you to him?”
“Yes, Mr. President, right away. Whether the slave master is in hiding or holed up somewhere because he is injured, I plan to bring him back to testify to the horror of the mob that swept him up.”
Buchanan was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Perhaps you will find him dead.”
“I shou
ld hope not!”
Buchanan glanced over at Black, then looked back at Hedpeth and said, “Well, either way, it will be useful to find out what has happened to him.”
“Yes, of course.”
Buchanan stood up abruptly, which caused Black and Hedpeth to stand, too. “Major, thank you for coming. And again, thank you for your service to our wonderful country.”
“I hope to serve our country again in the coming war, Mr. President.”
Buchanan was taken aback. “Why do you think there will be a war, Major?”
“Well, sir, if Lincoln is elected—and pardon me for saying that looks likely, even though he will not have my vote—then at least several Southern states are going to secede.”
“At least South Carolina has so threatened,” Buchanan said. “But they might yet be dissuaded if Lincoln—or whoever is elected—offers them a plan that protects both slavery and their honor.”
“Perhaps, Mr. President, but if they do secede, I assume whoever holds this office will use military force to prevent it. Indeed, I believe you yourself have said that there is nothing in the Constitution that permits secession.”
“I did say that, Major, but my attorney general—” he pointed at Black “—has told me that there is also nothing in the Constitution that permits me to use military force to prevent it.”
“May I speak candidly, Mr. President?” Black said.
“Of course, Jeremiah.”
“My position is more subtle, Major. There is nothing in the Constitution that permits the president to send soldiers to make the South Carolina legislature, for example, rescind a declaration of secession should it issue one. It is a quasi-sovereign entity.”
“Exactly,” Buchanan said.
“But,” Black said, “if the South Carolinians were to interfere with federal tax collectors in the ports, or interfere with federal naval activities in the ports and so forth, then yes, a president could use military force to upend that treason.”
Hedpeth looked back and forth between Buchanan and Black, then said, “Either way—soldiers to make the legislature recant or soldiers to ensure that federal law is followed—seem likely to have the same outcome—a war between the states.”
The Day Lincoln Lost Page 11
