The Day Lincoln Lost

by Charles Rosenberg

  “It has been an honor,” Lizar said.

  Well, perhaps so, Abby thought, but Washington was a slaveholder who treated humans as property. She considered saying it out loud but for once in her life decided not to spoil the festive occasion with the truth. Also, most of the jurors were crowding around her, waiting to talk, and she spent the next little while thanking them, and then talking with Billy and Annabelle.

  Lincoln invited them all to his office, including Clarence, for a celebration, but Clarence and Annabelle begged off, saying they had something else they had to do first and would come by a little later.

  60

  When Annabelle and Clarence approached the church, there were no lights showing. After waiting awhile and seeing no one, they tried first the front door and then the back door, but both were locked.

  “The back wasn’t locked the last time,” Clarence said.

  “One of the things I’ve learned as a detective is that last time usually doesn’t matter,” Annabelle said. “It’s like saying as you lay dying, ‘Last time I didn’t get shot.’” She grinned at him. “Luckily, Clarence, I think I can pick this lock.”

  “I thought you needed a piece of metal or a pin.”

  “I do, but I think I have some hat pins in my bag.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled them out.

  “Clarence, you keep a lookout while I see if I can still do this.” She leaned over and got to work.

  It had been quite a long time since Annabelle had picked a lock, and Pinkerton had remarked on one occasion that she was not, among his detectives, the most skilled at it.

  As she thought back to that conversation, she felt the tumblers give way. She leaned on the door and it opened.

  “I’m impressed,” Clarence said.

  “It’s not that difficult. If you think it would be useful for a journalist, I’ll teach you.”

  They walked into the church, with Clarence leading the way. Annabelle heard the door swing shut behind her. It was suddenly pitch-black. After a few steps they stopped, letting their eyes try to adapt to the tiny bit of light.

  Annabelle wondered if she should tell Clarence her secret. Well, she needed to, really.

  “Clarence, I know this is very odd for a detective, but I’m afraid of the dark. I need you to take my hand if we’re going to go farther.”

  She heard him chuckle and felt him take her hand in his.

  “That feels rather nice,” she said.

  “It’s for purely professional reasons,” he said. “It wouldn’t be helpful to our mission if you were to scream.”

  “Of course. Although I don’t scream. Ever.”

  The two of them stood there in silence for a moment until, finally, Clarence said, “Annabelle, don’t you have a candle and flint in that bag of yours?”

  “I do, but it would be imprudent to light a candle here. Someone might be able to tell someone is here. And it would leave a smell long after we’re gone.”

  “Alright. I know where the entrance to the bell tower is. I’ll lead us there.”

  They walked very slowly, Clarence leading her by the hand, until they came to the bell tower door. When Clarence tried it, he found it, as he expected, locked. “Do you need to see to pick a lock?” Clarence said.

  “No, it’s done by feel.”

  She unclasped her hand from his and found the lock by feel. She rummaged again in her purse for the pins, inserted them and managed to spring the lock in only a few seconds.

  Clarence tilted his head back and yelled up, “Is there anyone up there?”

  There was no answer. But seconds later there was a rustling noise up above, and they both jumped.

  “Probably a mouse,” Annabelle said. “Now one of us needs to go up the ladder and make sure no one is hiding up there.”

  “Well, just as you’ve admitted you’re afraid of the dark, Annabelle, I’m afraid of heights,” Clarence said.

  “I can’t possibly go up the ladder, Clarence. My dress is much too tight to climb a ladder in, and being on the rungs with you standing down below would be immodest.”

  “Even in the dark?”

  “There is enough light now to see. You go, Clarence.”

  There was a long silence as Clarence contemplated what to do. Finally, he began to climb, although Annabelle could tell from his rapid breathing that he was genuinely afraid.

  She heard him reach the top and climb into the room above. After a while, he shouted down, “There’s no one up here. Nor any sign that anyone has been living here. I’m coming back down. Please hold the ladder firmly.”

  When he got to the bottom, he was breathing heavily.

  “Are you alright?” Annabelle said.

  “Mostly.”

  “Even in this light, I can see you’re shaking,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Annabelle wrapped her arms around him. “I can feel that you are.” She held him tighter, then leaned in and kissed him full on the lips. He kissed her back, and when they finally broke apart, he said, “This was unexpected.”

  “Yes, Hopper, I suppose that it was. But I wouldn’t mind expecting it again the next time we’re together in the dark.”

  “Neither would I, Annie.”

  “Let us return to business,” Annabelle said. “So Lucy’s not up there?”

  “No. Or if she was, she’s gone.”

  “Is there a basement?”

  “Yes, there is,” a voice behind them said.

  They both jumped.

  In the dim light Annabelle could make out that it was Father Hale.

  “Good evening, Father Hale,” she said.

  “I assume you children—and you are both young enough to be my children—were looking for Lucy Battelle,” he said.

  “I don’t suppose you will accept that we were just admiring the bell tower,” Annabelle said.

  “Ha! No, I won’t. But I am impressed that Clarence went up the ladder. He was terrified of it last time he had to climb it.”

  “You watched me go up?” Clarence said.

  “Yes, I did. Up and down.”

  “Then you saw...” Clarence felt his face redden, but hoped it couldn’t be seen in the near dark.”

  “Do not be concerned,” Hale said. “I was young once myself.”

  “I’m not concerned at all,” Annabelle said. “I would like to ask, though, do you know where Lucy is, Father Hale?”

  “I will tell you, but, first, you must both swear an oath, in the name of God, that you will not tell anyone else, and also that you, Clarence, will not publish a word of it.”

  They both agreed.

  “She was here for a number of days,” Father Hale said. “Several days ago, a brave conductor from the Underground Railroad came, and they went away together. He pledged that she would reach Canada safely.”

  “Did you arrange it?” Clarence said.

  “I think the best way to put it, Clarence, is that it was arranged.”

  “I had hoped to find her and buy her freedom,” Annabelle said. “Amasa, Ezekiel Goshorn’s son and heir, has been in Springfield looking for her. I met with him and he agreed that if I found her he would let me emancipate her in that way.”

  “Where were you going to get the money?” Clarence said.

  “I had put it aside to try to emancipate Polly, the slave who raised me. Right before I left the plantation, I offered to free her in that way and support her in her freedom. I was in the process of trying to arrange it—my mother had agreed to it—when my sister sent me a telegram with the bad news. Polly died a month ago.”

  “I offered to do the same for Lucy with my own money,” Hale said. “Although it was in truth my wife, Abiah, who first suggested it. Lucy thanked me, but said no. She said it would still make her feel like property that had been bought and sol
d.”

  “She used the term property?” Clarence said.

  “No. She said she it would make her feel like a cooking pot or a pair of boots.”

  “Can I use at least that in my paper?” Clarence said.

  “No.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to lock up my church again,” Hale said. “I suppose I need to get more secure locks, too. And if you will both leave now, I have a party to go to.”

  “I think we are going to the same one,” Annabelle said.

  Hale smiled. “Yes, and after we celebrate Abby’s acquittal, we must all turn our efforts to trying to assure that on November 6, Abraham Lincoln is elected the sixteenth president of these United States.”

  61

  The next day, Lincoln and Herndon were back at their law offices, in their usual places, although Lincoln’s stack of newspapers and magazine was taller than ever, and more of them than usual had already spilled onto the floor.

  “Well, Lincoln, looks like you just might get yourself elected on November 6,” Herndon said. “I’m still trying to cotton what that will be like, having a law partner who’s president of the United States.”

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, Billy.”

  “I can hear them picking at their shells already, Lincoln. And if they do hatch, and you’re president and way off in Washington, I suppose I’m going to have to get myself a new law partner.”

  Lincoln didn’t respond immediately, but, after a while, said, “Billy, if I’m lucky enough—or cursed enough, depending on how you look upon it—to be elected, I hope you will keep this partnership just as it is and leave the Lincoln and Herndon sign hanging on the building just where it is.”

  “I don’t know if I will be able to afford the rent here as well as our other expenses, if I’m the solitary lawyer bringing in cases. I might need a partner.”

  “If you want one you should certainly get one. You could also come to Washington, of course, and I’m sure there’d be a place for you in the administration. Is there something you’d want?”

  “I will think on that and appreciate your confidence in me, but I’m doing pretty well now and have a family to support. I will probably want to stay here.”

  “I understand,” Lincoln said, and went back to reading the New York Herald Tribune, edited by Horace Greeley, who was sometimes his friend and sometimes not.

  Lincoln was in many ways relieved that Herndon was inclined to stay in Springfield. Despite his great energy, Herndon could at times present a political problem because he didn’t know how to contain his views when they needed containing. And yet, except when Lincoln had been in Washington during his one term in Congress, or out on the circuit or, in more recent years, off somewhere giving political speeches, he’d seen Herndon almost every day since 1844, when they’d formed their partnership. He would miss him.

  His musings on that subject and others were interrupted by a perfunctory knock on the door and the arrival of John Hay, who was wearing a bowler, a white shirt, a sporty bow tie and a corduroy jacket. There had been an unusually early-in-the-season dusting of snow that morning and Hay, on coming into the office, shook it off his shoulders and brushed it off his bowler.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Herndon,” he said. “I am just off the train, having started yesterday in Pittsburgh. But I wanted to come here immediately, seeing as the election is so near.”

  “I’ve appreciated the telegrams you’ve sent,” Lincoln said. “But now I am most anxious to hear the detail. Let’s all gather at the table.”

  At the table, Hay began by reading from a small piece of paper. “Mr. Lincoln, I have a report, I don’t think you’ll fall short, nor need to abort...the election.”

  Lincoln and Herndon both looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “Oh,” Hay said, seeing their reactions. “I thought you knew that I studied poetry at Brown and was the class poet.”

  “It sounds more as if you studied doggerel,” Lincoln said.

  “Sorry, I thought it was kind of funny and that the pause before the word election made it work rather well. In any event, I spent two weeks in Pennsylvania and Indiana. Went to a lot of taverns and political meetings, and just talked to everyone I could find.”

  “Did you avoid women?” Herndon said. “As we suggested?”

  Hay turned red in the face. “Mostly.”

  Herndon laughed, “Well, where were you mostly other than with the ladies?”

  “A lot of small towns, but some big cities as well, including Pittsburgh, Scranton and Philadelphia.”

  “What was the talk?” Lincoln said.

  “Mostly, people have picked up on what the editors in Republican newspapers have been promoting—if a lawyer is asked to represent someone who’s been falsely accused, the lawyer has a duty to take the case.”

  “So the abolitionists have forgiven me for refusing to promise I’d pardon Abby if I’m elected?” Lincoln said.

  “Yes, but mostly because you mooted the question by getting her acquitted. And as for the Republicans who aren’t abolitionists, those people don’t care at all about Mrs. Foster. They’re Republicans because they hate Democrats and Southerners.”

  “What about Democrats?” Lincoln said.

  Hay rummaged awkwardly in an inside pocket of his jacket, finally found what he was looking for, flattened a piece of paper out on the table and consulted it.

  “Some Democrats still are inclined to vote for you because you’re not Buchanan, with all the corruption that has come with him. Others wouldn’t vote for you even if you could walk on water.”

  “Can I see your notes?” Hendon said.

  “Of course.” Hay handed the sheets of paper over to Herndon.

  As Herndon was looking them over, Lincoln said, “What groups did you talk to in terms of the kinds of work they do?”

  “Farmers, small artisans like cobblers, blacksmiths and tanners, and grocers, bakers and people like that. In big cities I also talked to a few bankers, landlords and one man who owns a countinghouse.”

  Herndon gave the notes back to Hay. “You didn’t write down the last names of the people you talked with. So I can’t tell if any were immigrants.”

  “Oh, I talked to lots of those, including both Protestants and Catholic German immigrants.”

  “What about Quakers in Phil-del, Johnny?” Lincoln said. “They are usually strong abolitionists.”

  “Most were not that anxious to talk to me.”

  “About me?”

  “Correct.”

  Lincoln got up, went over and looked over Hay’s shoulder at the notes, which Hay had placed back on the table. Lincoln laughed. “Was it a Quaker who said, ‘He does not have God in him’?”

  “Yes. He said if you did, you would have immediately agreed to pardon Mrs. Foster if she were convicted.”

  Lincoln got up and began to pace the room, hands behind his back. Finally, he said, “None of that is good news, Johnny. Quakers make up a very large part of the population in Eastern Pennsylvania. We could be in trouble in that state.”

  “How much trouble?” Hay said.

  “Pennsylvania, which has 27 electoral votes. That’s 18 percent of the 152 I need to be elected.”

  There was again a brief silence in the room.

  “What about Quakers in Indiana?” Herndon said. “That’s also a center of Quaker life.”

  “I didn’t find many Quakers in Indiana to talk with,” Hay said. “But Quakers don’t frequent taverns a lot.”

  “Don’t worry, Johnny. You’ve done well,” Lincoln said. “Now that we know the problem we can try to fix it.” He grinned. “We won’t do to you what the Greeks did to their own messengers who returned with bad tidings.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “What this means to m
e is that in the time we have left before November 6, my supporters in Pennsylvania need to get busy talking more to the Quaker community there. Very busy.”

  As Hay was about to leave, Lincoln said, “By the way, Johnny, if you go and get yourself a silk top hat, like mine, you can store your important papers in the inside hatband. Then you wouldn’t have to struggle to find things in your pockets.”

  “I’d look ridiculous in a hat like that. I’m too short for it. I look better in a bowler.”

  “You should try it,” Lincoln said.

  “Alright. Perhaps I will.”

  62

  Election Day

  November 6, 1860

  Between John Hay’s return and Election Day, hundreds of telegrams had gone out, sent by both members of the Republican National Committee and Lincoln himself. They had been dispatched to local Republican officeholders, supporters and speakers in small towns and big cities alike, urging them to try to create more enthusiasm for Lincoln among certain groups in certain states. The telegrams warned that two states in particular—Indiana and Pennsylvania—had once seemed safe but were now at risk.

  On November 6, Lincoln had not wanted to cause a commotion when he voted. He waited until a time when he was told that there were not too many people at the polls, and only then went to vote. The word soon spread, though, that he was voting, and he was soon joined by dozens of his friends and neighbors, clapping, whistling and shouting encouragement. At least for that one day, he was the local hero even, he suspected, among those who didn’t intend to vote for him.

  Lincoln did cast votes for local and state offices, but carefully avoided voting for the electors for president. Whether he refrained because he thought it untoward to vote for himself or because he thought it bad luck, he didn’t say.

  After voting, Lincoln returned home. As evening fell, he sighed and said, “I might as well go and see what the American people have in store for me.” He gathered up Herndon, Hay and several others and walked over to the governor’s office in the statehouse, where the acting governor, the mayor of Springfield and other notables were awaiting early returns.