Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  I point to a boat tied up on shore. “Find the owner. See if we can borrow it to hold some of the cargo. I’ll go ashore and ask whether anyone has an auger to lend.”

  I look up at the crowd gathering near the mill on the bluff above and say to Hanks, “Reckon we’re today’s amusement.”

  He shrugs.

  As the gallery of spectators grows, a slender girl, with golden hair framing her comely face, makes her way to the front. An aura about her captivates me from the start. When she looks at me, I glance away.

  Offut takes hold of my arm and guides me over to a small boat that someone has rowed up alongside us. He tells me to go up into the town and ask for a local cooper named Onstot; he’ll be happy to lend us an auger. He says to simply tell him I’ve been dispatched on an errand by Mr. Denton Offut.

  After being rowed to shore, I climb the trail to the bluff-top, recalling how some neighbors would shake their heads when they learned Father had sent me to work on their farms. Mr. Onstot—who resembles the barrels in his shop—dispels my apprehension when he lauds my employer’s head for business.

  Back at the boat I use the auger to bore holes in the forward floorboards. Once the cargo is removed from the stern, the bow tilts down over the dam, and water swamps forward, draining out through the holes. Several townspeople help us coax the boat off the dam and tow it to shore where I plug the drain holes using pitch and wooden pegs, also provided by Onstot.

  Offut boasts of my ingenuity to all of New Salem’s assembled residents. He expresses his delight with our recovery from near disaster by announcing his plans to build a steamboat to run on the Sangamon, declaring I will be its pilot. Everyone cheers, including the golden haired girl in whose direction I continue to steal glances. It would be best if she did not take notice of me, however, given my gawky frame, untamed hair, pantaloons some four inches short of my ankles, and shirttail barely tucked into my waistband.

  I lean over to Offut. “Who is she?”

  As if there is only one girl in the crowd who could evoke such an inquiry, he whispers, “Her name is Ann. Daughter of John Rutledge, one of the town’s founders. He owns the mill here. It’s his dam you freed us from.”

  “Ann is a good name.”.

  “You kind of fancy her?”

  “Naw. I’m sure she’s got a beau. Anyway, she wouldn’t look twice at a homely fellow like me.”

  Not long after leaving New Salem we moor at Blue Banks to load some pigs Offut has bought from a man named Squire Godbey. His swine are the most uncooperative sort. Every time we round them up they turn and run back past us. After several tries, I say to Offut, “Once they tire out we should cover their eyes. Maybe it’ll be easier to herd them aboard.”

  He looks at me with a grin. “You give me an idea. Round them up one by one.” Tapping my shoulder he says, “Lincoln, take their heads. Johnston and Hanks, you two hold their legs while I sew the eyelids shut.”

  My jaw drops as Offut reaches into his bag and pulls out a sewing kit.

  “Go. Do it,” Offut says, waving his hand in the air.

  If Father barked such an order, I’d balk, digging in my heels, but I give Offut the benefit of the doubt and do as he says. Once we have collected the poor creatures, we try our best to still their squirming bodies as “Doctor” Offut performs his crude—if not cruel—surgery. I turn my head and keep my eyes shut. The earsplitting shrieks remind me of the abuse Father’s poor dog, Yellow Joe, suffered during that coon hunt John led.

  After he sews the first pig’s eyes, I carry it, squealing, aboard our boat. I wince and snip the twine then remove it from the critter’s wounds, restoring its sight. When I turn it loose it behaves as if its trauma never happened, though my eyelids remain tortured by the pain it endured. As Offut finishes sewing each pig, I repeat my part of the ritual. On finishing the last one, I take a deep breath.

  The Sangamon River snakes through the wilderness between our launch site and the Illinois River as if it’s aiming for no particular destination, nor constrained by anyone’s timetable. What is thirty miles as the crow flies, winds around to become more than sixty. That doesn’t count the constant maneuvering to avoid sandbars, snags, and submerged logs that hide in the shallow waters.

  We’re fortunate to have company for this portion of the journey. Another boat owned by a man named Clark floats alongside us until we get to Beardstown just after we start down the Illinois. We camp together at night on the Sangamon, since it’s too dangerous to navigate after dusk. One evening I remark to Clark’s son Phillip that Beardstown would make a fine place to settle someday. Of course, New Salem might have its advantages, as well.

  Three days into our journey we join the broad, stable current of the Illinois, and eight miles later we float past the young city of Beardstown, named after its founder, Thomas Beard. It’s built right on the water’s edge, a tidy geometrical form, seven even blocks long and three deep. On one end of town, a column of white steam rises out of a sawmill’s chimney. Not far from the mill, a steam powered paddlewheel boat is nestled up on the sandy riverbank.

  I study the town’s layout as it fades into the distance, eyeing the uniformity of its blocks. “Reckon you have to be someone special to have a town named after you. Maybe someday I’ll build a town, just like Mr. Beard or Mr. Rutledge.”

  A hundred-twenty miles south at St. Louis, we dock and part company with Hanks, who books passage on a steamboat for home. The month we spent building this boat consumed most of the time he planned to be away from his farm and family. Continuing on to New Orleans with us would double the length of his absence.

  Downriver, Offut, John, and I make better time than expected. The government has removed most of the logjams and snags that once slow navigation. They’ve also cut away the overhanging tree canopies that blocked late afternoon and early morning sunlight and shortened travel days. We make landings in Memphis, Vicksburg, and Natchez. All three of these bluff cities look down on Under the Hill districts where flatboatmen tie up to trade their wares. Steamboats unload passengers and collect new ones. Vicksburg appears much different from my first voyage when the waterfront was under flood waters.

  After our business at these ports is finished, we float along the Sugar Coast without mooring, not even for the night. I gaze at the miles of sugar plantations as we pass by, my jaw tightening over the injustice they represent. My shoulders knot as we drift past Madame Busham’s Plantation. My brush with death at the hands of runaway slaves on the previous voyage is an event I’d like to forget, but the scar above my eye reminds me whenever the memory starts to fade.

  When we arrive in New Orleans, Denton Offut’s experience and acquaintances are indispensable. We’re sold out in less than a week and he’s so pleased that he hires me on to clerk at the store he plans to open in New Salem. Though I’m eager to head home, passage on a northbound steamboat takes several days to arrange. While the others indulge in the city’s saloons, gambling tables, and sideshows, I find other diversions. I seek out bookstores and become fascinated with a shop that displays surveying equipment, similar to what General Washington used in his youth.

  John pressures me into accompanying him on one of his excursions. We have great fun until we come across a slave auction. My thoughts travel to the pretty quadroon girl who gained her seller seventeen-hundred dollars from the brocade-vested planter. I turn away and call over my shoulder to John, “I’m getting out of here.”

  He hurries after me—his short legs making it hard for him to make up ground. When he catches up, he bobs along next to me, telling in hushed tones of a Creole witch who tortures her slaves, mutilating their bodies, even drinking their blood. My back twitches and my stomach turns. John says he’s picked up stories about the witch from patrons in the city’s saloons. I wonder what’s become of the quadroon girl.

  Welts pinch at my flanks—memories buried beneath my skin—as I tell him about my previous visit here. I repeat my earlier oath, “If I ever
get the chance, I’ll hit this injustice hard.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “Don’t know, but I promised Mother when she was about to die that I would become someone special. Once that path is clear to me, I’ll put everything into stopping men from stealing the wages of another man’s toil.”

  On my way back to the boarding house, I encounter more slave sales. Everywhere, auctioneers prod men, women, and children, goading them to prance around a stage to demonstrate their agility and obedience. Fancily dressed men bid for the right to profit from others’ bondage. For the remainder of my time in New Orleans I linger at our boarding house, telling stories, reading, and recalling Weems’ admonition in his The Life of Washington.

  … every youth can become a Washington … in piety and patriotism … in industry and honor …

  Even sequestered, there’s no escaping the city’s darkness. At the hotel, while I’m seated in the parlor reading from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, another boarder bursts into the lobby with gruesome news. A teenaged slave was just hanged for murdering his master, and another boy—the poor slave’s friend—died of convulsions, mourning at the foot of the gallows. My body tightens, and my stomach wrenches into knots.

  I bolt from the chair and run to my room. As the door shuts behind me, my back twitches again, recalling the sting of Father’s strap. I press my back against the door, hoping to stop his assault, and out of nowhere I’m overwhelmed by a dark shroud. When my senses return I’m crumbled on the floor, my skin itching as if laced with scars, having no memory of the past hour.

  For the rest of my time in New Orleans, I venture out only to attend an exposition of a revolutionary locomotive steam carriage. According to the newspaper, the demonstration dispels all doubts that such a conveyance can be propelled by steam. Its promoters say their steam locomotive is designed along the lines of one in England which recently dragged a string of loaded carriages over a distance of twenty-five miles in only two hours. Compelled to examine this new wonder, I walk briskly toward the wharf, keeping my eyes fixed ahead, looking neither left nor right, lest I again become a witness to human cruelty.

  Chapter Ten

  The prairie sun beats on the back of my neck as I lumber through dusty New Salem in late July on my return from New Orleans. At each open doorway I take off my sweat-soiled, broad-brimmed hat and inquire about Mr. Offut. No one has seen him since our flatboat got caught up on the mill dam on our way down to New Orleans. I ask to be pointed in the direction of his store.

  They reply, “What store?”

  I scratch my head. He should have made better time than me, him traveling all the way from New Orleans to Beardstown by steamboat, and me off-boarding in Memphis, then hiking nearly four hundred miles through wilderness to Father’s new home in Coles County. Not only did my detour cost time, but I gave Father my wages to help alleviate his financial distress. He’d run out of money before making it to Indiana, so he and Mama settled in Coles County where some of her family lives.

  Mr. Onstot, the cooper, remembers me and recommends I inquire about lodging at the Rutledge Tavern across the way. A corpulent, pink-skinned customer, who’s inspecting some of Onstot’s new casks, overhears our conversation and introduces himself as Judge Bowling Green, Justice of the Peace. He asks how long I’ll be staying in the village, and I tell him about Offut’s store.

  He shakes his head.

  Onstot reminds Judge Green of the incident with our flatboat and the mill dam. “This is the young chap who took control of that calamity and got the thing unstuck.”

  The judge studies me, sober-eyed. “You don’t say …. Then I suppose you’re quite a bright enough lad. Come on up to my place for supper this evening and we’ll get better acquainted. Unfortunately, we’re stuffed to the rafters with children and don’t have a spare bed. Though if you’d like, we can make a spot for you on the floor by the fireplace, at least for one night.”

  I pull back my shoulders and smile. “Sir, I’m grateful for your hospitality. And if it helps, I enjoy playing with children.”

  Judge Green turns to the cooper. “A well-spoken young man at that. He might do a fine job of arguing cases in my court someday.”

  Later during supper, I say, “The only time I’ve been this close to a Justice of the Peace was when I got sued.”

  Mr. Green’s large belly shakes when he laughs. “A lad like you got sued? Over what?”

  I tell him about ferrying two passengers to a steamboat out on the Ohio and say, “I never again want to be ignorant of the law, or anything else, for that matter.”

  He points to several thick books stacked on the mantle. “My library is yours for the borrowing, anytime you like.” He goes on, telling me he uses the public room at the Rutledge Tavern when he hears cases. His Justice of the Peace duties only require his attention part of the time; otherwise he’s busy tending his farm.

  I thank him, and our conversation turns to Offut’s plans for his store. The Judge says others have preceded Offut in setting up businesses in the village. Besides the grist mill, cooper shop, and tavern which provides lodging but doesn’t sell liquor, there’s already a grocery, three general stores, a wool-carding mill, and two doctors’ offices. The town also has a blacksmith, shoemaker, carpenter, hat maker, and tanner. Some twenty families live here, sharing common pastures and kitchen gardens. Among the hodgepodge of wood-framed buildings and log cabins is a log schoolhouse, which is also used on Sundays as a church.

  The next day I make the acquaintance of John Cameron, a square-jawed preacher with an aristocratic nose. He’s Mr. Rutledge’s partner in the tavern. While he’s unwilling to give me a room in the establishment without payment, he offers me lodging in his home until my affairs with Offut are settled. In the meantime, I continue to take my meals with Judge Green and his family, giving me the opportunity to learn more about how to pursue studying the law.

  I leave Mr. Cameron and stop in at the grocery and dry goods store, reputedly the best stocked mercantile around. A slender young fellow seated on the wood-plank porch in a chair made out of branches, greets me with a hardy “Haloo.”

  I lean against a sturdy timber supporting the overhang roof. “How do?”

  He stands and offers a handshake. “Sam Hill, one of the proprietors.”

  I shake his hand. “I’m Lincoln.”

  He looks up at me through his spectacles. “Well Lincoln, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve just landed in town and decided to get acquainted with folks.”

  “Well, welcome to New Salem,” he says, smiling. “We’re the biggest merchants around. Carry both groceries and dry goods. Got a root cellar around on the side. The other places only handle your basic supplies and staples. Some sell whiskey, too.” He directs me inside.

  I gaze around at the packed shelves and the rows of barrels lining the walls, jammed tight against each other. “With all this stuff, it’s good your place is so big.”

  He points to the ceiling. “We live upstairs. Me and my partner, John McNeil.”

  “Look forward to meeting him.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be too sure.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just my opinion. He’s good enough at business, but we haven’t gotten along since he swept the prettiest gal in New Salem off her feet. Thought for sure she’d be mine.”

  I shake my head. “Bad luck.”

  He frowns. “Usually don’t lose with the ladies.”

  I laugh. “Wouldn’t know what that’s like. Not accustomed to winning.”

  A few days later, Offut shows up and tells me he’s waiting for delivery of goods for his store and won’t require my services until the inventory is on hand. On the bright side, though, he lets me sleep in the empty store if I wish to do so. He’ll even procure a cot for me.

  Offut’s earlier introduction of me to the townspeople—that being on the occasion of our flatboat getting stuck on th
e mill dam—pales in comparison to his present accolades as he saunters around town making his plans known to everyone. He boasts that I am the strongest and smartest young man ever to cross his path. The latter compliment helps me gain an appointment as the assistant elections clerk.

  Election Day arrives in early August, and all the able bodied men from miles around forgo a day’s work to come to the village and cast their ballots. As they mill about, I engage them in conversation, hoping to make new friends. When several are gathered together, I entertain them with stories such as the one about the blue lizard that accosted the old preacher.

  Mentor Graham, the town’s spritely school teacher, offers to help with any studies I might care to do. After the teacher, Colonel James Rutledge introduces himself as co-founder of the village, as well as proprietor of the grist mill, the tavern, and one of the general stores. He’s tall, a serious man, gentle in manner, and able to put strangers at ease with his warm gaze. His daughter is the golden-haired beauty who watched us free our flatboat. I gladly accept his invitation to attend meetings of the debating society he presides over, but I become anxious when he tells me his daughter is one of the town’s most skilled debaters. My mind will likely turn to gruel in her presence.

  As the day approaches for the debate society meeting, my idleness is joined by melancholy. If I could somehow hasten the arrival of goods for Mr. Offut’s store, or if I could find some other work to occupy my hands, my gloom could be tamed.

  One afternoon, while sitting in the doorway of the empty store, I distract myself by reading from a volume of Robert Burns’ poetry. It’s a copy I borrowed from my newly acquired friend, a free-spirit named Jack Kelso.

  I've notic'd, on our laird's courtday,

  An' mony a time my heart's been wae,

  Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,

  How they maun thole a factor's snash;

  He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear