Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  Mama reaches up and takes my hand. “I’s so sorry, son. He’s a good man.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Then let him show me.”

  She gazes toward our cabin.

  After a long silence we release hands. “Who are the other Hanks bastards?”

  She wipes the rain from her brow and takes a deep breath. “I lernt about yer ma and the Sparrows when yer pa started courtin’ her. Ya see we all lived in Elizabethtown back in those days. Yer pa proposed to me afore he went after yer ma and I worried I broke his heart. So I kep’ askin’ folks how he was farin’.”

  Lightning pierces the night sky again. I let the thunder finish before asking, “What do the Sparrows have to do with anything?”

  “Jest like they did for yer cousin Dennis, yer Aunt Betsey and Uncle Thomas took in your ma when she was a little girl. A lot of folks called her Nancy Sparrow.”

  “What happened to her ma and pa?”

  “Her ma was all alone; father refused to say the baby was his. She couldn’t manage raisin’ a child by herself, so the Sparrows took yer ma in and raised her.”

  I drop my head and begin crying again, my tears mixing with the rain streaming down my face. “Then I’m the son of a bastard. What’s the difference?”

  “Shh …” she whispers. “Nobody knows her pappy’s name. Folks say he’s rich. A planter down Virginia way. Well-bred and intelligent.”

  My throat is raw.

  “Abraham Lincoln, ya come from the finest stock, and cain’t no one take that away from ya.”

  “How can I become someone special when I don’t even know who I am—who I belong to?”

  “Oh Son, don’ say sech things.”

  When I help her to her feet she wraps her arms around my waist.

  I clutch her tight and say, “I promised Mother I’ll become someone special—and I’m going to keep that promise if it kills me … but as soon as I’m a man, I’ll put as much distance as I can between me and Mr. Tom Lincoln.”

  Chapter Six

  Gloom settles over me as the summer of my fifteenth year edges toward autumn. Sally, whom I’ve always turned to for comfort in my melancholy, spends much of her time at the Grigsby’s working as household help. She also has designs on their eldest son Aaron, who’s conceited, six years older than her, and, according to his family, too good for her. My head aches anytime I see them together, which happens whenever I’m visiting Nathaniel, Aaron’s younger brother. Nathaniel inherited what little goodness there is in the Grigsby name.

  In the midst of my anxiety, Father is steeped in debt again, and I’m the solution to his predicament.

  Mama pulls off her apron and throws it on the table. She glares at Father. “You promised he could keep up his schoolin’.”

  Father glares back at her. “The boy’s near sixteen. He’s done learnt more ‘n he needs.”

  “That boy’s gonna be somebody, if we let him.”

  “Time that he stepped up to bein’ a man, putting in a full day doin’ a man’s work, every day of the week—payin’ his own way.”

  She plants her hands on her hips. “Ya mean payin’ off yer debts?”

  His nostrils flare. “Ain’t payin’ fer no more schoolin’. Thomas Carter’s expectin’ him straight away. Needs a boy to cut corn.”

  I start to object, but he raises his fist.

  “Yer pay is ten cents a day. Bring home every penny of it. In the meantime, I’ll be lookin’ for better wages. A boy yer size is worth more than ten cents.”

  He turns and walks to the door. I follow.

  A week later, Father sends me off to work for Old Bluenose Crawford, who pays twenty-five cents a day for clearing land, splitting rails, building fences, and helping around his farm. My chest tightens at the sight of his miserly face. When he shorts my pay, he complains I love money more than working. For several days afterward, images of the Savior driving money-changers from the Temple invade my mind, and each swing of my axe dissolves my anger a bit more than the last.

  In the spring, James Taylor employs me at the rate of twenty cents a day to run a ferry up and down Anderson Creek, more for chores around the farm. On top of that, he feeds me and gives me a bunk. He lives some twenty miles away. After supper each night, I take a candle to the loft and read until midnight. In the morning before everyone else rises, I build a fire for Mrs. Taylor and put on a pot of water.

  One sweltering summer day Mr. Taylor puts me on the hog slaughtering crew, and I retch at the sight of blood spurting from the slit they make in a poor sow’s throat. My convulsing increases as the ground turns deep purple—the same color that stained the earth where Father murdered my pet pig years ago.

  The others keep working while Mr. Taylor takes me aside. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  Tears trickle down my face. “I can’t bear it.”

  “Can’t bear what? The blood?”

  I shake my head. “The cruelty.”

  “Look at me,” he says.

  My eyes meet his.

  “Get used to it. It’s part of life. I’m payin’ you thirty-one cents a day to work on this crew. Your pa says you need the money.”

  I stare off, not fixing my gaze on anything.

  Mr. Taylor’s shouts, “You don’t want the money?”

  I snap my head around to look at him.

  “Well, do you want to be paid?”

  “It’s not my money to keep. Father takes every cent of it.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s between the two of you. My question is, do you want to keep working for me or not?”

  If I refuse to help slaughter hogs, he’ll sack me on the spot, and if I return home jobless and empty-handed I’ll get lashes from Father’s leather strap. My shoulders droop. “I’ll do it.”

  He hands me a club and points to a pen full of hogs. “Then get to work.”

  I trudge over to the pen and stand outside the fence, staring at the poor animals.

  Mr. Taylor shouts at me. “No dawdling.”

  I climb into the pen and eye a surly old sow.

  He calls over to me again, “And when you’re done, you’ll be hanging ‘em, bleeding ‘em out, scalding ‘em, and pulling out the bristles. Pay attention and learn.”

  That night at supper Mr. Taylor says, “I’ll only use you for slaughtering when there’s no other choice.”

  “What about Father?” I ask.

  “I’ll tell him you’re too good a ferryman to waste on farming.” He winks.

  Several weeks later while I’m docking a small boat I cobbled together for Mr. Taylor, two fancy dressed men rush up. One is short and thick, the other lanky. “Say there, lad,” the stout one hollers. “We require passage out to a steamer. You and your boat for hire?”

  I examine the two trunks they plop in front of me, then survey all fifteen feet of my little boat. “I’m at your service.”

  “Fine,” he says, dabbing his brow with a lace kerchief.

  I whisk up each trunk in turn and stow them before helping the men aboard. After shoving off, my arms yield long, steady strokes as we make good time down Anderson Creek and into the big water of the Ohio.

  “There she is, dead ahead,” the tall man shouts, pointing to the anchored steamboat.

  I gaze over my shoulder, taking a bead on her.

  The current pulls hard on us, drawing my boat downstream. My oars bite hard into the water, as I angle in the direction of the steamer. When we’re finally tied up to the larger vessel and my passengers unload, each of the men tosses a half dollar coin to me. Although the whole dollar goes to Father, my chest swells knowing someday those wages can be mine.

  Not long afterwards, I’m sued by Mr. John D. Hill, a ferryman from the Kentucky side of the Ohio River for operating a ferry without a license. When I stand before Justice of the Peace Samuel Pate in the parlor of his home, my mouth is as dry as the windblown prairie. Perspiration glues my shirt to my back.

 
I tell Judge Pate, “Sir, I’m ignorant of any requirement for a license to ferry passengers from the creek bank out to a steamer anchored in the middle of the river.”

  The sour taste of the word “ignorant” lingers on my tongue.

  Stern faced, Judge Pate stares at me. “Young man,” he says, “you cannot be ignorant of a law that does not exist. The requirement for a license to ferry pertains to transporting passengers from one shore of the river to the other. Since your ferry service terminated in the middle of the river no such license is required.” Rapping his gavel on the desk, he says, “I find in favor of the defendant here, young Mr. Lincoln.”

  I sigh, relieved, but the bitter taste of ignorance continues to haunt me.

  Shortly after my trial, Mr. Turnham, the local constable, hires me as a laborer. In addition to my wages, he lends me his volumes of The Statutes of Indiana, of which I become an ardent student, determined never again to be ignorant in matters of the law.

  Father snarls whenever I mention the law within his earshot. Even so, he brings me a paper one day, asking me to read it over before he makes his mark. Our neighbor, Thomas Carter, has drawn up the document to settle a dispute between our families. He is the same neighbor to whom Father hired me out for a paltry ten cents per day. Upon reading the paper, I see it requires Father to convey the deed to our farm to Mr. Carter. When Father hears we’ll be thrown out of our home and off our land if he signs the paper, he rips up the document and tosses Carter out of our house.

  My chest swells as Father boasts to his friends that I saved our family’s farm, and the law brings me an understanding of the world that nothing else provides.

  However, Father’s appreciation for my reading skill is short lived. One evening, when work thins out and wages are sparse, he decries my “excess of eddication” and collects all the books he can lay his hands on. As he snatches up the Weems volume he wags it in my face. “And this,” he says, glaring at me. “Ya cain’t be nuttin’ like General Washington. You was put here to farm like me and my pa before me, and his pa before him. God decided these things ’fore he made the world, and there’s no changin’ his mind. It’s a sin even to think ‘bout doin’ anything else.” Then he takes the whole stack of books and throws them out into a raging storm.

  I clamber outside with Father’s words trailing after me. “Leave those books be!”

  Nearly blind from rain, I mutter to myself, “If only one can be saved, let it be Weems.” Passing up the other books, I scramble until the prized volume is in my hands. My crying turns to laughter, and I tuck it into my pants, shielding it from any more damage.

  Father’s continued shouting becomes a faint din as I pluck up book after book, blinking away the raindrops. Once I’ve recovered the remaining volumes, they’re stashed in the hollow of an old tree. As for Weems’, I shove it up under my shirt and cradle it in my arms on my way into the cabin. I brush past Father and go straight to bed, holding The Life of Washington close to my chest.

  Even if Father doesn’t value my reading, neighbors beg me to read aloud the letters or papers they receive. When they marvel at my skill, I try to maintain a humble countenance, just as Washington would have done. Some folks also dictate correspondence to me, which gives me practice in organizing their thoughts for clarity. In so doing I learn to harness the power of well-chosen words and logically arranged ideas.

  Early one morning while Father is away, I climb atop our old mare and venture to Boonville. It’s the seat of Warwick County where court sessions are held twice each year. According to rumors, a skilled attorney named Brackenridge is arguing a murder case.

  In the early afternoon, Mr. Brackenridge finally rises to his feet and begins addressing the court. Never have I imagined anyone so skilled with words, so possessed of logic or so eloquent in delivery. For more than an hour, every word and gesture of the tall, fancily dressed lawyer holds my rapt attention. My pulse matches the cadence of his rich, baritone voice.

  When the court session ends, I jump to my feet and press forward to shake Mr. Brackenridge’s hand, wanting to congratulate him for his speech.

  He surveys me and sneers. “What is this?” he asks an aide who carries his papers.

  His attendant shrugs.

  Mr. Brackenridge raises his chin and struts off with a crowd following him. I stand alone, considering my gangly, rough appearance. Presumably, men of his station can catch the scent of a bastard or bastard’s son even at a great distance. I hang my head and shuffle out of the courthouse. On my ride home, everything is as colorless as my gray eyes.

  The next morning throughout my daily chores, my shoulders sag, and my gait is lumbering. The younger children are playing, and step-brother John is chopping wood. My step-sister Matilda comes along side me and offers a word of encouragement. My chest tightens as I pick at loose threads on the sleeve of my tow-linen shirt.

  In the afternoon when Sally comes out of the cabin after helping Mama with housework, Aaron Grigsby makes an appearance. I don’t want my sister to become like the other Hanks women, wooed by wealth only to be discarded as trash.

  What value can rich families place on their hired help beyond profiting from their labor? None of the Grigsby women will ever accept Sally as anything more than their seamstress. Much worse they won’t tolerate a bastard’s blood in their family line.

  I hop onto a nearby stump and yell for everyone to gather around. It’s a good time to start practicing to become as fine a speaker as Mr. Brackenridge.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, cruelty to animals is wrong, and there can be no right in it. An ant’s life is as precious to it as ours is to us.” My step-brother John meets my stare. “Those who toss and smash terrapins against trees,” I peek at Aaron Grigsby out of the corner of my eye, “or who terrorize cats and maim dogs, should refrain or be held accountable.” Some of the younger ones’ faces hint their hearts may be aligning with mine, but Sally blushes as she steals glances at Grigsby.

  Heat rises from under my collar as I step off the stump and saunter up to Sally before she nuzzles up to Aaron. “Sister, let’s talk a minute.”

  “What about?” she asks, peeking past me at Grigsby.

  I nudge her. “It’s something private.”

  Aaron taps my shoulder, and I turn my head, scowling.

  Sally pouts and looks again at her beau. “Sorry, Aaron. We’ll just be a minute. I promise.”

  I guide her away so we can’t be heard. “Is it true you plan to marry him?”

  Sally looks down, fidgeting. “He hasn’t asked Father … yet.”

  “I’ve warned you before, these Grigsbys are bad news. They use people and throw them away when they’re done.”

  “You seem to get along with his brother Natty.”

  “That’s different. Natty wouldn’t hurt a fly, but this one—he’s even meaner than his old man.”

  Sally shakes her head. “You’re just jealous.”

  “That’s not true. You mean the whole world to me, and I don’t want to see you hurt. To the Grigsbys you’re just hired help, and don’t think he’s going to treat you any different once he’s bedded you.”

  “Abraham Lincoln, you’re the one who’s evil.”

  “I’m sorry, Sally.” I grab her hand.

  She yanks away.

  “Look, you deserve to be treated like a queen, not a chamber maid. Over at the Grigsbys one day, I overheard his aunts talking about the two of you. One of them said, ‘Can you imagine the scandal, a Grigsby marrying the hired help? Shameful.’ That’s exactly what the old biddy said.”

  Sally glares at me.

  “I don’t want you to turn out like Mother. Remember how Father wore her down to the nubbins?”

  Sally rushes past me to Aaron. I watch over my shoulder as she wraps her arms around his waist. A lump rises in my throat.

  Not many months later, Sally and Aaron Grigsby are married. At the wedding, the Grigsby family is cool toward her at best, and
we Lincolns are relegated to the rear benches to witness our finest led to slaughter.

  In spite of my dislike for Sally’s new husband, I seize the chance when she invites me to board with them in their new cabin. Aaron has no choice but to treat her with respect when I’m around. The other benefit of boarding with them is I’m out from under Father’s roof, though I still turn over my earnings to him at the end of each week.

  Chapter Seven

  In the spring of my eighteenth year, my step-brother John Johnston presses me to join him in going down to work on the Louisville-Portland Canal. A two-mile long channel is being dug so large boats can bypass the falls on the Ohio River. It’s one of President Adams’ internal improvement projects which Father rails against, but he doesn’t mind me bringing home a good wage to pay off some of his debts. He says under the law I have no choice but to work wherever he sends me.

  Not long after we settle into the laborers’ colony, I say to John, “By the time we get back home, Sally will be skin and bones with her pregnant belly drawn so taut it could split with a feather’s touch.”

  John shakes his head. “You sound like an old gossip. Girls are meant for marrying and bearing children. Your broad-beamed Sally can handle her duty just fine. She’s stout and hard-working like a wife ought to be. When my sister gets hitched to your cousin Dennis you won’t find me sniveling about it. It can’t happen soon enough.”

  Months later when early winter storms impede our work, John and I pack up and go home—him to Father’s cabin filled to the gills with Mama’s brood, me back to Sally and Aaron’s place. To my distress, Sally is pregnant and haggard. I threaten to thrash Grigsby over her mistreatment, but she insists I calm down. She says, “He’ll be on his best behavior with you around.”

  A few nights later, I come in from splitting wood at Father’s and find Sally and Grigsby arguing. I lay into him with a verbal lashing, but she comes to his defense. She insists she’ll be all right and begs me to do nothing more to rile her husband. She’s too weak to bear the weight of any more discord. Nonetheless, I continue to give him a piece of my mind, and he kicks me out of their home.