The Lincoln Hunters

by Wilson Tucker

  “You did what?” Whittle echoed.

  “I hit target a day too late,” Steward repeated. He had the attention of everyone except the downcast Bloch. “Bloomington, in Illinois, in the United States of America, is a fair-sized town with real running water—the mayor would fight if you called it a village. The files, Mr. Whittle, are slightly askew.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Abraham Lincoln made his celebrated speech in the third-floor auditorium of Major’s Hall, right on schedule. The day before I arrived.”

  “Mr. Steward, this is incredible.”

  “Mr. Whittle, it’s a veritable stem-winder.”

  “Are you very sure?”

  “I arrived at sunrise on May thirtieth. There wasn’t a Whig to be found.”

  “But are you certain?” the bewildered man asked. He peered suspiciously at the engineers.

  “Certain, Mr. Whittle? Well, now, let me offer you two genuine quotes from authentic eyewitnesses. The first was uttered by the auditorium custodian: ‘There must have been four-five hundred people packed in here. I was sure worried about the old floor.’ And the second quotation is from the admiring lips of Lincoln’s business partner, a chap named Herndon:

  “. . . full of fire and energy and force; it was logic; it was pathos; it was enthusiasm; it was justice, equity, truth and right, the good set ablaze by the divine fires of a soul maddened by the wrong; it was hard, heavy, knotty, gnarled, edged and heated, backed with wrath.’

  “He was talking about the speech, Mr. Whittle. The fiery, knotty, gnarled speech. Oh, yes, I’m certain—I got there too late. Engineers have a predilection for hairy ears.”

  Whittle was lost in the enormity of it. This was an unprecedented error. The cost could be staggering.

  The dazed engineers were a safe distance across the chamber, making a pretense of re-examining their computations. Something had gone wrong, but there was no quick way of discovering the miscalculation.

  And the Finance department, when the news reached them, would be equally hard, heavy, knotty and gnarled, spewing wrath. The error would necessitate an expensive new plotting and possibly a delayed final shoot. The carefully padded profit margins would dwindle alarmingly.

  The Character turned his attention to the girl.

  “Evelyn, will you make a check on a man named Lovejoy, and his brother who died for some unknown reason?”

  “First names?” she responded crisply.

  “Not known. Lovejoy was the speaker who preceded Lincoln. He stirred the multitudes with a dead man and some loud flag-waving. He wasn’t in the briefing. I’m curious.”

  “Very well.”

  “An overshoot!” Whittle continued to moan. “The wrong day. An overshoot. Goodness, gracious!” He turned reproachful eyes on the engineers.

  Steward could not miss the opportunity to contribute to his state of mind.

  “Yessir, I saw the very spot where Mr. Lincoln emoted—about fourteen hours afterward. Mr. Lincoln had stepped out somewhere.”

  “But do you realize what this means to the schedule?”

  “I realize what it will mean to my schedule. I’ll have to high-tail it out of town before sunrise that next day. Time will be running tight.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but——”

  “Mr. Whittle,” Steward interrupted him.

  “—this is most unusual. Dreadful. Eh . . . what?”

  “Mr. Whittle, there’s no need to upset the applecart. Change the plans when you reschedule the shoot. Put us through on the morning of the twenty-ninth—that’s all we need. That town is wide open and hundreds of people are coming and going at all hours of the day and night. They have special trains hauling in people from a distance. The morning of the twenty-ninth will wrap it up.”

  The bewildered executive clutched at the straw.

  “Not the evening before? We had planned that, you know.”

  “Waste of time and money, Mr. Whittle. Shoot for the morning hours of the twenty-ninth. I’ll take the crew into the hall that afternoon. We can wire that speech and be on our way before midnight—long before midnight.”

  “Well . . .” Whittle agreed slowly. (It would save money. The pilot survey was complete and the target adequately mapped. A new schedule would top twelve hours off the operating time; holding the projectile in the field overnight was a costly business.) “Well . . .”

  Steward whirled on the engineers to sew it up.

  “The morning of the twenty-ninth, gentlemen. That follows the twenty-eighth, but precedes the thirtieth. It’s really simple, now give it the old college try. And if you foul me up once more-just once more-I’ll send an Indian back for your scalps. He will also slit your throats.”

  “Threats are unnecessary, Mr. Steward.”

  “So is a twenty-four-hour overshoot. How are you going to explain that to your union?” Steward turned to the girl and fished the timepiece from his tailored pocket. “This thing didn’t work, Evelyn. Can you get me another?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Steward.” She hastily tucked the watch away before Whittle could start fretting about that. “When will you brief the crew?”

  “Oh, I dunno. When’s the next shoot?”

  “Traffic will have to plot a new curve, of course, and that will require at least five hours.” She glanced at the engineers for confirmation. They silently agreed with the estimate.

  “Another five hours? ’Sdeath—we’ll be up all night. Okay, let’s get on with it. In the lounge. The high and the mighty can send word by pony express.”

  “Very well.”

  Steward motioned his crew to follow him, and quit the engineering chamber. Somebody nudged Bloch, who got to his feet and shambled after them. He seemed reluctant.

  “What’s this about Lovejoy?” Karl Dobbs asked.

  “We’re in trouble, a peck of trouble,” Steward told him softly. He kept his voice down.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not now. Wait until we shake Evelyn.”

  Evelyn left the chamber and hurried after the four men. She wished to make certain that Benjamin Steward thoroughly briefed his crew, and she wanted his impersonal report for the data files.

  They found the lounge empty.

  Disdaining the plush chairs placed there for his comfort, the Character lay down on the floor and stretched luxuriously. That breakfast served by Mr. Lincoln’s primitives was equal to a full day’s rations in Inner Cleveland.

  The crew settled themselves around him.

  Evelyn hesitated in momentary confusion and then sat down carefully, tucking her legs beneath the long skirt. She managed the operation without revealing so much as an inch of ankle. A part of her mind fretted lest Mr. Whittle or some one of the other employees should walk in and find her on the floor; she was thankful that the lounge was seldom used by anyone other than the Characters.

  “Evelyn,” Steward said after a silence, “tell me about this chap Lincoln.”

  “I know very little of him, Benjamin. My information was contained in your brief.”

  “Did he make president? Some of the townspeople figured he would, some day.”

  “You know I must not tell you that, Benjamin.”

  “Sure—against the rules. Did he?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a worried glance at the other Characters. “He was elected for two successive terms.”

  “Bully for him.”

  “You must be careful not to mention that, Benjamin. Nor any of you. It simply would not do!”

  “I’m a Know-nothing,” Steward assured the girl.

  Karl Dobbs broke in worriedly. He had been reading the warning posters hanging on the walls of the lounge.

  “Stew, what about the next morning? The wrong morning? They’ve put you on a dirty spot.”

  “Did you ever know an engineer who was worth the powder to blow him to hell?”

  “Not me. But what about it? They’re playing with your life-you’ve got to watch out for that cancel.”
/>   “No truer words were ever spoke.” Steward stretched again and gave every impression of a man falling asleep. The minutes of silence lengthened.

  “Benjamin.”

  “Impatient maiden,” he retorted lazily, and then chuckled. “Man, what a meal! Wait until the engineers tote up their recall figures and try to account for that much mud.”

  “Mr. Dobbs asked a serious question, Benjamin.”

  “Mr. Dobbs will get a serious answer, Evelyn.” He turned his head to the impatiently waiting Character. “They screwed me up, Karl, so we’ll play it safe and turn things around. You shoot first. Do you mind? The bullet will be bedded down on a creekbank, nesting in the exposed roots of a tree. Take a very careful look around. If you see my duplicate there, ride hell for leather and we’ll string those damned engineers up by their toes. But if the roots are empty and I’m not wandering about on the prairie, everything is copasetic.”

  “Will do. But damn it, Stew——”

  “Evelyn doesn’t approve of swearing. And stop worrying, Karl. Do I look like a man seeking suicide? We’ll hit the field on the morning of the twenty-ninth; we’ll have all day to get acquainted and play the tourist. We’ll get that speech in the evening and haul tail out of there. I don’t intend to stay around until sunrise on the thirtieth to see what kind of a dead man I’ll be. All I ask is that you be the sharp-eyed scout.”

  “Will do.”

  “Climb the bank with the big oak tree on your left hand. There’s a stand of timber nearby—to the southwest. Barking dogs, smoke from a campfire, old home week and a picnic in the woods. I think it’s an Indian camp. Probably a morning ritual. I didn’t go near the timber.”

  “Fixed.” Dobbs nodded his understanding.

  “The town is a mile, maybe a mile and a quarter behind you—northeast. The creek twists and turns but we don’t have to cross it. Not deep—clear water. Open prairie, no fencing, no animals except grazing cattle. Say, Doe, what’s that French line about homesick for dirt?”

  Bonner grinned at him, knowing his mind. “La nostalgie de la boue.”

  “Merci. Tried to remember the line and couldn’t. The prairie is like that: green and wide and rolling. It’s queer, but the primitives don’t see it that way. To them it’s a never-ending desert. The farmers use it for plowing and grazing, but otherwise neglect it. A couple of times a year—in the spring and fall-there’s danger of prairie fires. An old codger told me the last one wiped out a dozen fields before they got it stopped. They haven’t much use for the prairie; some of them hate it and some of them fear it. But me—well.”

  “What was your schedule?” Dobbs asked.

  “Shot full of holes by everything that could possibly happen to it. My watch had stopped running before I landed. I left the bullet and climbed the bank at sunrise. The sun was one quarter above the horizon. It was supposed to be an hour later, plus or minus ten. Well, sir, if a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.”

  “Your field time was four hours and nineteen minutes,” Evelyn volunteered.

  “A half hour of which was spent in skygazing,” Steward added. “Coming and going. Watch out for that sky—it’ll send you.”

  Dobbs said, “Do you want me for the second lead?”

  “Yes. You shoot first going out. If you don’t see me mooning at the sky, send an okay and I’ll be right behind you. In times of peril, you haul tail with the recordings. Bloch in the middle, then Bonner. I’ll bring up the rear.”

  “What about the town?”

  “Pretty well spread out for a prairie town. The last nose-count racked up five thousand people, not counting Indians. There will be an extra one or two thousand in town for the speeches—they’re holding a big convention, and every train and stagecoach brings in more. Tents on every vacant lot, selling food and whiskey. Don’t touch the food—their disease rate is pretty high. We’ll eat at one of the hotels.

  “From the creekbank, steer for the water tower. They call it a standpipe. It’s easy to see; a tall brick structure overshadowing the houses and barns around it. The water-tower street runs right into the heart of town. Opposite the tower—oh, maybe a hundred feet out from it—is a small saloon. On the way into town it’s called The First Chance; coming out, it’s The Last Chance. That will be the rendezvous if we get separated.” He glanced at Bloch and added an afterthought. “Outside the saloon. At the hitching rail.”

  Bloch made no reply.

  Steward continued. “The courthouse square dominates the town, although it isn’t in the geographical center. That’s our second steering point, after the water tower. From the courthouse, we walk one block south and one block east to the intersection of Front and East Streets. Major’s Hall is a three-story building on the southwest corner. The main entrance has a wide flight of stairs running up to the auditorium; there’s another, narrow flight at the back of the building, opening onto an alley. And by the way, stay out of the alleys. There are only four policemen in the town. Crime is rampant.”

  “Murder most foul,” Doc Bonner commented.

  Steward eyed him. “First or Second Shakespeare?”

  Bonner was injured. “There is but one true Shakespeare. The second is an impostor.”

  “Amen!” Bobby Bloch said hollowly.

  Steward turned in surprise. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “In sleep I am a king, but waking no such matter.”

  “I don’t know,” Steward said ruminatively. “Maybe we’d better revise the roster. Two actors in the same crew spells trouble.”

  Silence, without alarm, was the only rejoinder. Benjamin Steward rolled his head to examine Bloch. The man was folded nearly double in his misery.

  “What’s the matter, Bobby?”

  “Nothing, sire.”

  “You’re not going if you’ve got a bellyache.”

  Hollow, hungry eyes lifted from the floor to fasten on his. There was a suspicious trace of tears.

  “I know a powerful and undying thirst,” the actor announced.

  “Absolutely not! If you come in with liquor on your breath, you don’t shoot. I mean that. It will keep until we get back. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, wicked master.” And the head dropped.

  Bonner spoke up. “Shakespearean actors—bah!”

  From the depths, Bloch retorted with a false humility. “Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; bid him set on his powers betimes before, and I will follow.”

  “And we will follow,” Bonner corrected.

  “It shall be done, my lord, my fellow tragedian.”

  Doc Bonner opened his mouth for a tart reply, but Dobbs stopped him short with a meaningful thump on the arm.

  “Knock it off,” he ordered sharply.

  The company stared at him with surprise. Dobbs put his finger to his lips in signal and then motioned toward the door.

  After a moment, Steward said, “Evelyn, will you check up on the Lovejoy brothers?”

  “Certainly, Benjamin.” She rose to her feet and left.

  Steward stretched again, rolled over and stood up. “What say we go out and look at the stars? Or contemplate our navels? Not you, Bloch. Sit tight. I want to find you right here, sober, at shooting time.”

  Bloch made no answer.

  Dobbs and Bonner followed Steward from the lounge.

  In the seclusion of the corridor, Dobbs stopped them and turned on Steward. “All right, mister, unload yourself. What’s with this Lovejoy? What’s the trouble?”

  Steward told them. He described his two meetings with the colorful figure, repeated the conversations that had passed between them, and ended with the wry observation that Lovejoy had practically ordered him out of town.

  Dobbs mulled it over. “No hint of what went wrong?”

  “None-unless you can find one in his statements.”

  “That isn’t good.”

  “What is, about this shoot?” he
demanded. “Now, what’s with Bloch? What were you trying to tell us in there?”

  “The labor squads seized his brother this morning,” Dobbs answered quietly.

  “Oh, hell!” Steward was thunderstruck.

  Bonner was disgusted with himself. “My big mouth!”

  “What happened?”

  “The usual thing,” Dobbs said. “They were both raised in the theater, and on the bottle. The brother has been going downhill for some time, I understand. Drinking heavily and forfeiting one job after another. He lost his last one only a few weeks ago and the theater people turned him down with finality. Tore up his card. Bobby tried to get him in here, and some of us put in a qualified recommendation—against our better judgment-but his references were against him, and we were ignored. The squads grabbed the poor fellow this morning.”

  “What kind of a man was he?”

  “He would not make a Character, despite his profession. Frail, in poor health and something of a weakling. Intelligent enough to know what was ahead of him, but not enough to ward it off.”

  “Maybe if we went down there——”

  “We did,” Dobbs interrupted. “Bobby and I went down early this afternoon. Argued with one bureaucrat after another. Zero. It’s been tried before, Stew.” Dobbs stared at his open hands, seeing a bureaucratic neck between them. “I got in touch with a man I know there. We were too late. The brother was already processed and gone; apparently they’ve shipped him to some road-building project in Central America. It’s a dreadful way for a man to end his life.”

  Steward silently agreed to that. The government labor squads supplied the most efficient answer to the unemployment problem. There were no unemployables burdening the national economy. A man or woman without a job—and without the prospects of obtaining one—was promptly conscripted into government service. The period of liberty was brief because employers were required to notify the government each two weeks, when they filed the income tax returns for every employee. For the females, conscription meant one thing or another, some pleasant and some otherwise. For the males, it meant the remainder of a lifetime at forced manual labor, doing those things the government wanted done at the least possible expense.

  It wasn’t called slavery because the New Constitution prohibited slavery, and because each man was paid a daily pittance to keep to the technical letter of the law. The conscripted man served the rest of his life. There were no paroles or pardons, no visitors, no mail.