The Day Lincoln Lost

by Charles Rosenberg

  “Nothing. I said I didn’t know anything at all about her or the Railroad.”

  Annabelle laughed. “But in fact you do?”

  “Not in any detail. Here is what I can tell you. So far as I know, the girl is not in Springfield. Whoever took her away from the riot—if anyone did—would not have found it prudent to leave her in this city. There are always too many slave catchers here about.”

  “Why so many here?”

  He shrugged. “Very human reasons. Even slave catchers need a place to eat and a bed to sleep in at night. Springfield has comfortable hotels and boardinghouses and many restaurants. Most other towns hereabouts don’t.”

  “A sort of depot for slave catchers?”

  “Yes. Those scum, with their whips and nets and hounds, go out during the day, or even sometimes at night, searching for their prey. Then they return each night to their comforts here in Springfield.”

  “If Lucy is not here, then where might she be?” Annabelle said.

  “Rumor among Stationmasters I have spoken with is that if she is anywhere around here, she is stranded at the station in Pleasanton because it’s too dangerous at the moment to move her onward.”

  “Where is Pleasanton?”

  “Not too many miles northwest of here.”

  “Will the Stationmaster there talk to me if I give him the letter?”

  “Most likely, although everyone makes his own decision ’bout that kind of thing.”

  “Will you tell me his name?”

  “No. Just go to the house at Number 3 Crooked Lane, tell whoever answers the door that I sent you and give them your letter.”

  “I will go there in the morning.”

  “Beware the roads. They are terrible.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Would you like a pie? I have several left, all apple.”

  “Well...”

  “I insist, and in any case you ought not to be seen leaving here without something in hand. Else why did you come in?”

  As he was handing her the pie, Annabelle said, “By the way, just as I came in a man was leaving. Do you know him?”

  “No. He claimed to be a lawyer in town for an important trial. Said he worked for the United States government.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “Yes. G.W. Lizar.”

  * * *

  “Well, good night, Mr. Hotchkiss,” she said.

  “Good night, madame. Don’t forget your pie.”

  She left carrying a fresh apple pie, wondering what she was going to do with it. Then she had an idea.

  When she got back to the hotel, she sought out the chef and asked him if he could put it aside for her in the kitchen.

  “Yes, of course,” he said.

  “Good,” Annabelle said, and handed it to him. “Do you think it will still be fresh tomorrow evening?”

  “Who baked it?”

  “Hotchkiss, baked fresh today.”

  “His pies and cakes tend not to go stale as quickly as those made by others, so your pie should still be quite tasty tomorrow evening.” He held it up to his nose and inhaled. “Apple.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will have to find a place for it away from prying eyes. People hereabouts love their apple pie.”

  “Oh no,” Annabelle said. “Please feel free to give away or sell most of it to your other guests. Just save two large pieces for me. I will be back tomorrow night to make use of them.”

  36

  Hotchkiss had not exaggerated when he told Annabelle that the road to Pleasanton was terrible. It was worse. It had rained overnight, and the track—for it was really more track than road—was not only deeply rutted, but in places covered with mud from one side to the other. She made very slow progress.

  Despite having started out immediately after a very early breakfast, she didn’t reach Pleasanton until early afternoon.

  Pleasanton belied its name. There were only ten houses, strung out along both sides of a single street that was only slightly less muddy than the road she had come in on. Since there was only one street, she assumed it was Crooked Lane, even though there was no sign. The houses themselves ranged in appearance from dilapidated to falling down. Number 3, which had once been painted red but was now faded to a sort of dull reddish-brown, was in the best state of repair.

  She stopped in front of the house, climbed down from the carriage, tied the horse to a hitching post and began to walk toward the house. Looking down, she realized that her boots were caked with mud from the times she’d had to disembark to lead the horse through difficult patches, and that it had also gotten on the bottom of her skirt. She spotted a boot brush nailed beside the bottom of the steps that led up to the house, and used it to scrape at least some of the mud off.

  The front door had a large metal knocker, and the door was opened only seconds after she knocked. A large man stood there, wearing a white cotton shirt buttoned to the neck and high-waisted trousers held up by leather suspenders.

  “Yes?” he said. “Who are you?”

  She thought of using her assumed name, but instead said, “I’m Annabelle Carter. Allan Pinkerton sent me.” She pulled the folded letter from her dress and handed it to him.

  He took it without comment and read it. He handed it back to her and said, “I can believe that Allan Pinkerton wrote this, but that doesn’t tell me that you are anyone I really want to talk to. Your accent alone tells me that.” He started to shut the door.

  Annabelle put her hand out to stop the door from closing, assuming that he wouldn’t shut it on her hand. “I can understand that,” she said. “Abolitionists, though, say you should not judge a man or woman by the color of their skin. If you are truly an abolitionist, and I am told you are, then I hope you won’t judge me by the color of my speech.”

  He just stared at her for a while, and she could feel her heart beating as she waited for him to respond. Finally, he said, “A point well made. Do come in. Please take off your muddy boots first and put them over there.” He pointed to a row of boots to the left of the door.

  Once bootless and inside, she followed him into the parlor, which, to her surprise, was furnished only with wooden benches, wooden chairs, and a wooden table. He must have sensed her surprise because he said, without being prompted, “Easier to keep clean in this godforsaken mud hole. Please sit down.”

  She chose a wooden chair and sat, while he placed himself on the wooden bench opposite. “Now, who are you looking for?” he said.

  “Before I say that, sir, may I at least ask your name?”

  “I’m Jared Hostetler. Who did you say you were again?”

  “Annabelle Carter.”

  “Ah, yes, a very Southern name. What can I do for you, Mrs. Carter? Oh, but first, I have forgotten my prairie hospitality. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “I would very much like some coffee.”

  “Martha!” he yelled. “We have company.”

  A few moments later, a petite woman wearing a light blue polka-dot dress with tiny white spots appeared and was introduced.

  “Mrs. Carter here is an abolitionist sent by Allan Pinkerton. She is in need of coffee.”

  Mrs. Hostetler smiled, and it seemed to Annabelle—although perhaps she just imagined it—that Mrs. Hostetler was used to being ordered around by her husband, but that it was done with affection.

  “I’ll fetch it. I already have a pot on the fire,” she said. “Mrs. Carter, would you like something hot to eat as well?”

  Annabelle had brought some cured meat and bread in her bag but something hot sounded wonderful. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  After Mrs. Hostetler had left the room, Mr. Hostetler said, “What can we do for you, Mrs. Carter?”

  “I am looking for Lucy Battelle. I hear she may be a passenger on the Rai
lroad hereabouts.”

  He laughed out loud. “It is highly unfortunate that someone years ago—I wish I knew who—decided to give our enterprise the name of Underground Railroad and attach to it all these train terms, like passenger, and station and line and Stationmaster and so forth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it gives people the idea that there is a great deal more organization and precision—and safety—about the whole thing than there is.”

  “So there is no Stationmaster in Pleasanton, as I was told?”

  He shrugged. “There is someone here who often takes care of enslaved people who have escaped and are passing through. He doesn’t call himself a Stationmaster, and even if I were to tell you his name, he would not talk to you. Ever. Well, perhaps when the war that is coming is over.”

  “You think there will be a war?”

  At that moment, Mrs. Hostetler came back into the room carrying a cup of coffee in a white mug and a crockery plate piled high with what looked like creamed corn and a chicken leg. She set it down on the table next to Annabelle, and said, “Eat it up, dear,” and then sat herself down in one of the other chairs. “Mr. Hostetler does indeed think there’s a war a-coming,” she continued. “He might be right.” She smiled over at him. “He’s been right once or twice before. But I think something different is going to happen.”

  “What’s that?” Annabelle said.

  “Right now a lot of enslaved people are escaping from the Border states—Missouri and Kentucky and Tennessee and even some from Virginia. Pretty soon, people in those states are gonna tire of their so-called property runnin’ away. And they’ll have no choice but to make slavery illegal.”

  Annabelle had been chowing down on the corn and chicken and had to chew a moment before she could say, “And then what?”

  “Then what, is the same thing’ll happen with the Deep South,” Mrs. Hostetler said. “Slaves will find it easier to escape into the newly free Border states, and the whole thing’ll collapse!”

  “I think this is fantastical thinking,” Mr. Hostetler said. “Only a war will set the evil sinners to our south on the road to redemption. If they can ever even be redeemed.”

  “Of course they can be redeemed,” Mrs. Hostetler said.

  “Perhaps they will die in the war and only their children and grandchildren will be redeemed,” he said.

  “You will have to excuse Mr. Hostetler,” Mrs. Hostetler said. “He feels about this this quite strongly.”

  “The chicken and corn are very good,” Annabelle said, for although she found the conversation of great interest, she needed to bring it back to Lucy.

  “I do feel strongly about it,” Mr. Hostetler said.

  “May I ask again about Lucy?” Annabelle said.

  “I can tell you that she is not to be found in this town,” Mr. Hostetler said. “I am not the Stationmaster, but I would know if she is or was here. So the answer is no, she has not been here and is not here.”

  “She disappeared from the scene of the riot, not far from here, weeks ago now,” Annabelle said. “She has not been seen or heard from since. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “Before I answer that, who, exactly, wants to know? Is it really Allan Pinkerton?”

  “Yes. I work for him as one of his detectives,” Annabelle said. She reached into her purse and handed him one of her visiting cards.

  “Pinkerton hires women detectives?”

  “Yes, he does. There are several of us.”

  It seemed to her that Mr. Hostetler actually snorted, but perhaps he was just clearing his throat.

  After an uneasy silence, Mrs. Hostetler looked over at her husband and said, “You see, my dear, women really can do things outside the sphere of the home.”

  When Mr. Hostetler didn’t respond to his wife, Annabelle said, “May I ask again, where might Lucy be?”

  Mrs. Hostetler sighed deeply and Annabelle had the excited feeling she was finally about to learn where Lucy was.

  37

  But that was not to be.

  All Mr. Hostetler said was, “She is either in Canada or dead. Most likely dead. Or perhaps one of the slave catchers stumbled upon her and took her directly back south. Since there was already a court order to return her, whoever found her may have felt no obligation to go back into court.”

  “Are you planning to go back to Springfield today?” Mrs. Hostetler said.

  “I had thought to,” Annabelle said.

  Mrs. Hostetler looked over at her husband. “It is getting late,” she said. “If she goes back, given the roads, she may not make it before dark.”

  “I agree. It would be bad for you to be on the road after dark,” Mr. Hostetler said. “We can certainly put you up for the night.”

  Annabelle thought about it for a second. They were right. “That would be most kind of you,” she said. “But I hate to be a burden on you.”

  “It’s no burden!” both Hostetlers said, almost as one.

  After that, the tension went out of the room.

  Mr. Hostetler gave her a tour of their two barns (which required that she put her muddy boots back on), and Mrs. Hostetler showed her around the house, including the bedrooms on the second floor and, finally, the basement, where the Hostetlers were storing cheese and drying apples over the winter. Annabelle had the sense that they were showing her everything so that she could see for herself that Lucy wasn’t being hidden anywhere on the property. Of course, they could always have moved her from basement to barn while Annabelle was looking around upstairs and so forth.

  Dinner had been pleasant, and Annabelle had been fascinated by the political talk. Mr. Hostetler was a member of the Liberty Party, an avowedly abolitionist party that had, unfortunately in the opinion of both Hostetlers, not fielded a candidate for president this time around. Or at least not in Illinois. They hated Vice President Breckinridge because he had owned slaves. They hated Douglas for introducing the Congressional act that permitted people in the territories to vote on whether to permit slavery, and they hated Bell because he was campaigning on the idea that slavery wasn’t an issue worth talking about anymore. As for Lincoln, Mr. Hostetler had thought about voting for him, but he was waiting to see if he would do the “moral thing.”

  “What is that?” Annabelle said.

  Mrs. Hostetler answered for him. “Why, announce he’ll pardon Abby Kelley if she’s convicted and he’s elected. It’s the only moral thing to do if he truly cares about the fate of the poor slave.”

  The conversation then drifted into farm prices as well as tariffs on imports, which the Hostetlers favored. The higher the better.

  Not long after dark, they snuffed out the candles, except for the single one that each carried as they went up the steps on the way to bed. Mrs. Hostetler apologized that they had not yet added gas lamps to the house.

  After she tucked herself into the feather bed in her room, Annabelle thought about the fact that she was going to fall asleep in a house with two people she hardly knew sleeping nearby—people who might have reason not to have her find Lucy. For all their bonhomie, they had not been helpful about that.

  She considered moving the small dresser that stood against the wall so that it would block the door. Then again, if they wanted to kill her, a dresser blocking the door was not going to stop them. She also thought about loading her gun and putting it under her pillow. But that would mean charging it with powder and putting a ball in the barrel. Which would risk blowing her head off during the night. She also thought about charging and loading it and leaving it on a nearby table. But that wasn’t likely to help, either. That was her final thought as she fell asleep.

  * * *

  She awoke in the morning to bright sunlight filling the room and instantly felt foolish that she had fallen asleep fearing for her life.

  No sooner was she awake than Mr
s. Hostetler knocked on her door and brought in a rough bar of soap, a towel and a pitcher of warm water so that she could, as Mrs. Hostetler put it, “freshen up.” She did so, and then went down to breakfast, regretting that she had brought no change of clothes. But then she hadn’t expected to stay anywhere overnight.

  For breakfast Mrs. Hostetler put in front of her a robust plate of three fried eggs, a large piece of ham and a big hunk of freshly baked bread, with butter and apple jam to the side. She found it all scrumptious and, trying not to talk with her mouth full (she could still hear her mother in her ear, warning her against that), said, when she’d finished chewing, “Did you make the bread yourself, Mrs. Hostetler? It’s quite delicious.”

  The woman looked at her like she was a bit daft. “Of course. The nearest bakery is in Springfield. So even if we were to buy it there and bring it back here, it would be stale. Did your mother not make bread at home?”

  Annabelle felt embarrassed at the answer but gave it anyway. “No, the bread was made by...our—” she had trouble uttering the word “—slaves.”

  “There is no reason to be embarrassed about that, Annabelle. You didn’t choose to have enslaved people attend you. Your parents did, and many sins may be laid by God at our feet, but the sins of our parents are not among them.”

  “I hope that is true,” Annabelle said.

  “I am curious how you came to be an opponent of slavery, you having grown up with it.”

  “It was not an epiphany, but gradual. When I first went to Chicago and went to work for Allan Pinkerton, I had no strong views about it. But he does, and he expresses them. At his urging, I went to several abolition lectures and began to read abolitionist newspapers.”

  “Like William Lloyd Garrison’s The Liberator?”

  “Yes, although I find that one too shrill for my taste,” Annabelle said.

  “Have you read the new one published by the young man from Springfield, the one who came out to see us to ask us about Lucy? He left a copy.”