These Honored Dead

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Anyway—the steamship.” He stood inclined forward in an awkward position, looking like a very tall tree that might topple over at any moment. “Word reached us in New Salem that a splendid, upper cabin steamer by the name of the Talisman had left Cincinnati on the Ohio River and was heading our way. Evidently, the captain of the Talisman had gotten it into his head he was going to demonstrate the navigability of our own little Sangamon River. Some of you who’ve been around for a few years may remember this,” Lincoln added, looking down the row of jurors. Two or three of them nodded in response.

  “So the Talisman headed down the Ohio, and then when it reached the Mississippi at Cairo, Illinois, it turned north, steaming upstream toward St. Louis. And then it went on past St. Louis, got to the mouth of the Illinois, and steamed up the Illinois toward the mouth of the Sangamon, over at Beardstown. And all the while, those of us in New Salem are getting reports on the ship’s progress and we’re getting more and more excited.”

  As Lincoln proceeded with his oration, his shrill, piping voice was becoming harmonious and his form straighter and more dignified. His face was aglow. It was as if he was shedding his natural awkwardness as he warmed to the occasion.

  “Now by the by, we hear the Talisman is but a single day’s steaming from Beardstown, and all of New Salem goes into a frenzy. Here’s the ship that’s going to connect us to the mighty Mississippi and broad Ohio—connect us to the rest of the world—and it’s right on our doorstep.”

  Lincoln spread out his gangly arms in reverie at the wonder of that moment. From where we sat, looking up at him, the span of his arms seemed to reach from one side of the room to the other. On the bench, Judge Thomas sucked madly on his cigar. Prickett leaned back in his chair and stared up at his adversary with impatience. The silent gallery was transfixed—or more likely, I thought as I looked around, perplexed.

  “Now, at this point in my tale,” Lincoln continued, drawing in his arms and giving his head a shake, “I’m afraid I need to confess to a sin I committed. The sin of vanity. I thought, what a great day this will be for New Salem. But I also thought, what a great day this could be for me. What a great day this could be for Abraham Lincoln.

  “So I gathered together a party of fellows and I led them to Beardstown and we spent the whole day along the banks of the Sangamon, cutting back the overhanging brush to make sure the steamer could pass upriver when it got there. And then, when the Talisman finally arrived at the mouth of the Sangamon, glistening with river water and belching smoke, I marched aboard the ship and said to the captain, ‘I know the Sangamon and its bars and eddies better than anyone. Let me pilot your ship upstream.’

  “And the captain, probably because he didn’t know what to make of the overgrown oaf standing before him, hands thrust confidently on my hips”—Lincoln mimed this, and a few men in the audience chuckled—“the captain actually turned over his wheel to me, and so I piloted the ship up the Sangamon. In fact, I was so pleased with myself I took the steamer a lot further up the Sangamon than the captain or anyone else had in mind. Took it as far as Portland Landing.

  “And the day we reached Portland Landing and docked there, we had a big celebration here in Springfield, on the green right outside of this building, in fact. We had fireworks and a band and a busthead cask or two. I know Your Honor was here,” Lincoln said, nodding to the judge, who glowered back, “and Barton . . . and Sharp and”—Lincoln looked down the row of jurors—“Alkire. I reckon each of you was here that day too.

  “Those of you who were here remember well, I’m sure—and I’m confessing to the rest of you—what happened next. How the wages of my vanity were paid. Because no sooner had I knocked out the head of the second cask of beer but a little boy comes running up to me, saying”—Lincoln took on the falsetto voice of a small child—“‘Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Lincoln, you’ve got to come quick.’

  “‘Not now,’ I said to him, ‘because I’m celebrating my great accomplishment.’ Notice I said my great accomplishment, not our great accomplishment. My accomplishment.

  “‘’Taint no ’complishment at all,’ the boy said back to me, ‘’specially not since the river’s dropping so fast that great ol’ steamer is gonna be stuck here ’til the fall rains come.’”

  Lincoln bent over, hands on his knees, and shouted with laughter. “Wouldn’t you know it?” he said, looking with eyes crinkling with delight at the jury, then out toward the gallery, where many of the spectators were smiling along with him now, “but the little urchin was one hundred percent right. The river level was dropping. And fast.

  “Those of you who were here know what happened next. Everyone at the spree galloped back to the river, back to Portland Landing. I jumped aboard the steamer, and as soon as we got the fire burning again, we cast off and I turned the boat around in the river, scraping the river-bottom with every fathom we moved. And we retreated down the river as fast as we could. But the river was dropping even faster. When we got to New Salem—my New Salem, the village I thought I was going to make famous with my exploits aboard the Talisman—we had to take ten sticks of dynamite and blow up the mill-dam, blow it to the high heavens, just to get enough flow in the river so we could limp back to Beardstown and the deep waters of the Illinois. We did make it back there in the end, but only barely, and I don’t know how much thickness that poor, battered hull had left when we did.”

  Lincoln had been roaming around the well as he told his story, but now he came to a halt a few feet from the jury. Every member was looking up at him in rapt attention. “I was sure I knew what I was doing,” he said, “taking command of the Talisman and steaming it so far upriver. I was sure of myself. And I was wrong.”

  Lincoln gazed up and down the row of jurors to make certain none had missed his meaning. When he had looked into the eyes of each of the twelve gentlemen, he turned on his heel and walked rapidly over to the counsel table where Dr. Patterson sat. Lincoln rested his large hand on Patterson’s shoulder and faced the jury again.

  “Now, I readily concede,” Lincoln continued, “there is evidence against my client. My brother Prickett described some of it to you this morning, and I don’t doubt we’ll hear more this afternoon. Much more, I expect.” I saw Jane Patterson stiffen. “There is evidence against Dr. Patterson, but I am not sure he’s guilty.” Lincoln paused for a moment and added, more quietly, “Are you?”

  “All I desire, as you hear the evidence, is you ask yourself that question. Are you sure—do you know beyond all reasonable doubt—the doctor is guilty of the heinous crimes with which he’s charged? Are you sure? Or are you like my younger self, feeling sure of something, wanting to be sure of something, when in fact it is not the truth?

  “There was a fellow over in England in the last century who knew a thing or two about the law, and he wrote it all down in some big, heavy books judges like Judge Thomas up there like to take a look at, even today, when they’re trying to figure out some complicated legal question. The fellow’s name was William Blackstone, Lord Blackstone, in fact. And one of the most famous things Lord Blackstone said was, it is better ten guilty men escape than one innocent man suffers. Is Dr. Patterson part of the ten, or is he the one, the innocent one who should not be made to suffer?” Lincoln paused to let each juror think about the question. “Are you sure?”

  Lincoln now gestured toward Prickett for the first time since he had begun his statement. “In his remarks,” Lincoln said, “my brother said something about wanting you to focus on substance. ‘Look for the substance, think about the substance.’ That was his gist.

  “I think my brother was suggesting you should set aside your common sense and focus only on the particular, individual pieces of evidence he wants you to look at.” Lincoln gave a kindly smile. “But I don’t know what’s wrong with a little common sense. On the contrary, I suggest common sense is all you’ll need as you listen to the evidence in this case. Common sense, and the question to ask yourself—are you sure?”

  Lincoln tur
ned to Judge Thomas. “That’s what I have to say, Your Honor.”

  Thomas spit vigorously into his spittoon. “I was most certainly correct, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, “that you’d need even more latitude than Prickett.” To the jury, the judge added, “Let’s take our lunchtime recess. Then we’ll come back and hear from actual witnesses rather than windbag lawyers. We’re adjourned.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The green outside the courthouse resembled an enormous market fair when Martha, Jane, and I managed to file out a few minutes later. Saunders, Torrey, and several other innkeepers pulled around carts laden with sandwiches and roast slabs and tankards slopping with beer. Men smoked and argued good-naturedly about the opening statements; women unfurled brightly colored parasols and visited with neighbors; a few children got up a game of tag and ran through the crowd hither and fro, shrieking with laughter.

  The two women and I stood together, an island of quiet amid the general gaiety. I saw Lincoln loping down the courthouse steps and I shouted out for him to join us.

  When he approached, I stuck out my hand to shake his. “Well done,” I said. “It was a little grim after Prickett spoke, but I think you turned the jury around, or at the least made them think carefully.”

  “It remains an uphill fight,” he returned, “but I think it was a tolerable start.”

  “Did you have to admit there was evidence against Father?” Jane asked nervously. “It was unsettling to hear you say.”

  Lincoln gave her a severe look. “It doesn’t do us any good to ignore reality, Miss Patterson,” he said. “There is evidence against him. Plenty of it. That’s why my argument was focused on certainty and reasonable doubt.”

  “Don’t we have other arguments?” she persisted.

  “In my judgment, they’re not as strong,” he replied. “If I have five arguments, but one is my best, it doesn’t do any good to start with the other four. The jury will see right through them, and by the time I get to the one with merit, they’ll be so against me for taking up their time with the first four, they won’t give it a fair hearing.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Lincoln knows best how to argue the case,” Martha said, putting her hand on Jane’s arm.

  Saunders pushed his cart by at that moment and Lincoln flipped him a dime and grabbed a meat pie. “I’ve got to go back inside and prepare for this afternoon’s witnesses,” he said as he gulped down a large bite. “Make sure the women get some refreshment, Speed.”

  As I watched him wade back toward the courthouse I spotted other familiar faces. Simeon Francis weaved through the crowd, notebook and pencil in hand, stopping every person or two to pose an inquiry. Major Richmond stood by himself to the side of the courthouse steps, a sandwich in one hand and a tankard in the other. His lips moved rapidly; he seemed to be engaged in a vigorous internal debate. Richmond’s plumed hat was looking particularly forlorn in the bright sunshine.

  A few paces away from Richmond slouched a circle of idle, vagabond-looking men, who were drinking heavily and leering at any woman unwise enough to get within spitting distance. One of the men, with a straw hat perched atop his head at a disreputable angle, turned and gave me a jagged, discolored grin. It took me a moment to recognize him as Hathaway, the poorhouse master. I wondered what he was doing here. Probably looking for incorrigible debtors whose labor he could procure for his fields now that the harvest was near.

  There was a shout behind us. Herr Gustorf tottered our direction on his cast. He was managing to clutch a beer tankard in each hand, with a walking stick jammed under each arm.

  “You’re looking better,” I said. The stitched-up scar on his forehead from the carriage accident had nearly closed.

  “I’m feeling much better,” he replied, taking a gulp from each of his cups. “Especially after yesterday’s excursion.” He raised one of his sticks and poked me in the ribs.

  “What did happen yesterday, Joshua?” Martha asked. “You were gone all day, without explanation.” Jane leaned in to hear my answer as well.

  “Gustorf and I found evidence supporting an alibi for the doctor,” I said. “Evidence of where the doctor was, most probably, on the night of Lilly’s murder.”

  “That’s exciting, isn’t it, Jane?” my sister said. “How’d you manage?”

  Herr Gustorf, a gleam in his eye, opened his mouth to respond, but before he could I interjected, “It’s Gustorf’s secret. But he’s promised to reveal it in his book, if he ever gets around to writing one.” Gustorf snorted with laughter, beer very nearly coming out of his nose.

  Jane looked at the Prussian with disgust. “Take a turn with me, won’t you, Martha,” she said. She took my sister’s arm and, without a backward glance, set off on a circuit of the bustling square.

  “This whole process is such a spectacle to my eyes,” said the Prussian, as we surveyed the scene. “Back home, this sort of trial would be conducted by the magistrates in secret. The first anyone would know about it would be when the chief magistrate leads the condemned man in chains into the main square and announces he’s been sentenced to death. Then there’s a large public procession, headed by the guild leaders, to a spot outside the town walls, and we all watch the poor fellow get his head chopped off.” Solemnly, Gustorf raised one of his glasses to the condemned man and drank its remaining contents at a gulp.

  “The end’s not so different here,” I said. “We’ll all watch Dr. Patterson swing from the gallows within the fortnight if Lincoln can’t manage to get him acquitted.”

  I turned to look for Martha and nearly collided with Sheriff Hutchason, who was lumbering away from the courthouse with great haste. “What’s the matter, Humble?” I asked him, when I saw lines of worry etched on his face.

  “Molly’s just sent word her time’s drawing near.”

  “Isn’t my bondswoman Phillis at her side?”

  “She is,” Hutchason replied. “And she’s been a great comfort, to both Molly and me, I must say.”

  “Then let them be. You’ll only get in the way of the women as they do nature’s bidding.”

  At that moment, Matheny hurried up. “There you are, Sheriff,” he said, panting, his cravat askew. “The judge is looking for you. Says he has a question about Dr. Patterson’s safety he needs you to address before we commence this afternoon.”

  “Very well,” Hutchason said with a sigh. “I’m sure you’re right, Speed. Don’t want to unbalance Molly’s good humors at a delicate moment like this. Lead the way, Matheny. Let’s see what his honor wants this time.”

  CHAPTER 32

  As we sat on the crowded front bench in the courtroom waiting for Matheny to call the afternoon session to order, I whispered to Martha the news that her friend would soon begin her labor of birth.

  “Did the sheriff just realize that?” Martha replied with bemusement. “It’s been apparent to the rest of us for the past week. I hope he’s more observant on duty than he is around his own home.”

  As it happened, Hutchason was also Prickett’s first witness. The thick-chested lawman strode to a witness seat wedged in between Judge Thomas’s bench and the row of jurors. The chair seemed to vanish beneath his broad frame as he settled onto it. After Matheny administered the oath, Prickett began.

  “You are the sheriff of Sangamon County?”

  “I am,” boomed Hutchason.

  “And you viewed the bodies of all three victims in their places of final repose?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw.”

  Hutchason cleared his throat and turned to the jury.

  “Sirs, I’ve held my office for a decade,” he began in a somber tone. “I’ve seen things no one should have to see—mutilation, scalding, eyeballs that have been gouged out, a man gored all the way through by the horn of an ox. I’ve even seen the inhumane savagery of the Red Man. But never have I seen such depravity as was inflicted on these three virtuous persons by this villain.”

  An ecstatic gasp arose from
the teeming gallery. If a few weak-minded women, or men, had decamped after the graphic proceedings of the morning, their places had been filled five-fold by newcomers who had heard about those same graphic proceedings during the lunchtime recess. Not only was every seat in the gallery taken, but the ring of spectators standing against the walls was now three or four persons deep. The row of standees pressed against the wall even extended behind the gentlemen of the jury in the well of the courtroom, such that the jurors had been obligated to move their chairs forward a few feet to avoid being stepped or spat upon by the crowd.

  The sheriff proceeded to describe the three murder scenes in blunt, exacting detail. Lilly Walker had been slain by a knife wound to the base of her throat, a cut that, the sheriff reported, looking over at Patterson for emphasis, had been made with the precision of a skilled hand. Jesse Walker had been killed by a single swift blow to the head. Rebecca Harriman had been strangled by someone with hands large enough to surround her delicate neck and wring the life out of it. Each of them, the sheriff testified, would have experienced great anguish in their final moments on Earth.

  The audience shouted with outrage. A renewed cry of “String him up!” echoed through the courtroom. I felt sick to my stomach. My sister Martha rested her hand on my shoulder. In front of us, Dr. Patterson was erect and motionless, facing the witness. If you did this, I thought, boring a hole in his back with my eyes, if you truly did this, then Prickett’s right; facing the executioner only once isn’t punishment enough.

  Under Prickett’s questioning, the sheriff proceeded to relate that none of the victims showed any signs of having battled back against their assassin.

  “No signs of struggle,” repeated Prickett. “How can that be? Surely these three noble personages would have fought valiantly for their lives.”