Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;

  While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,

  An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

  On turning the page I look up and see several young men approaching me. Their swaggers suggest they’re an exception to the good-heartedness and hospitality of the general population. In the midst of them is an ox of a man, his dark eyes trained on me and his mouth drawn in a frown.

  As they proceed in my direction, leaving a trail of dust in their wake, a crowd led by Offut gathers behind them. When all arrive at the store they hover like an impending storm. I’m told there’s always trouble when Jack Armstrong and the Clary’s Grove Boys appear.

  I look down at the page of poetry, pretending to be indifferent to their presence.

  One of them shouts at me, his words slurred by too much whiskey. “So yer the one they says can lick the meanest bull in the field?”

  I stand and study the whole lot of them, holding my place in the Burns book with a finger.

  One of the ruffians offers Jack a jug, but he pushes it away.

  “What?” the boy with the jug says. “Got nothing to say fer yerself?”

  Offut jumps in front of me and faces the crowd. “Jack Armstrong, here, has challenged young Lincoln to a fight. Says there’s no one who can beat the toughest of the Clary’s Grove Boys.”

  The crowd begins to buzz. I fix my eyes on the ox.

  Offut announces, “Ten dollars says my friend Lincoln, here, will take down Jack.”

  “Who holds the purse?” someone calls out.

  “That’ll be me,” Offut says, waving his hand.

  Pandemonium breaks out as people place bets. Some wager money, others drinks, and at least one puts up his prize knife. I pull Offut aside. “I don’t fight for sport.”

  “Hold on, son,” he says. “These Clary’s Grove Boys are hell-raisers. They need to be set straight or they’ll just keep terrorizing good people. Don’t think of it as sport. It’s … well, it’s … law and order.”

  I gaze over the crowd. They’ve suddenly become quiet.

  The words form slowly in my mouth. “I accept.”

  They roar their approval.

  As I step down from the doorway, Armstrong strides toward me, and the onlookers draw away to give us space. Standing six-feet-four-inches, I tower over my adversary. He glares up at me, the veins in his thick neck pulsing. His frame is so compact and his mass is so solid that getting a firm hold on him won’t be easy.

  The spectators shout their impatience as we size up one another.

  He digs in his feet, and a grunt rises from his throat. I stand my ground as he charges, absorbing the impact of his lunge with only the slightest movement. Neither does he so much as flinch from the impact. We struggle to gain purchase on one another, all the while twisting and turning to avoid the other’s grip. Armstrong kicks at my ankles in an effort to take my legs out from under me and drop me to the ground.

  To counter, I grab for his waistband and strain to lift him off his feet. We wrestle to get the better of each other until his breathing becomes labored. I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and set my jaw. Recalling Offut’s words, “law and order,” I muster the strength to raise him off the ground. With his legs kicking and arms flailing, I draw in another breath and lift him over my head. Again “law and order” echoes in my head and I throw him into his gang of thugs. They all tumble to the ground in a heap.

  The crowd turns silent as Armstrong’s men exchange bewildered glances.

  Spectators begin chanting, “Abe! Abe!”

  I grin at the sea of admirers, willing to forgive them for using the nickname I hate; however, the Clary’s Grove Boys are determined not to be denied their victory. They pick themselves up off the ground and rush at me all at once, growling like a pack of wolves. I back up against the side of the store and shout, “I’ll take you on—one-by-one.”

  They stop in their tracks and look at each other as if silently plotting their attack.

  I hold the stare of the one closest to me and say, “Let’s keep the fight fair.”

  Still on his knees, Jack Armstrong shouts, “Stop!”

  His boys turn and watch him, waiting for his word.

  Armstrong stands and walks toward me with his hand extended. He says in a loud voice, “Abe Lincoln is the best fellow that’s ever set foot in New Salem. He’s one of us, now.”

  With a handshake we become friends, and I’m welcomed like a kinsman by all the townspeople. One of the first to step up to greet me is a stocky, well-dressed fellow named McNeil. On his arm is the sandy-haired beauty, Miss Ann Rutledge.

  I look down into her sky-blue eyes, and she beams up at me, forming her full lips into a bright smile. My composure goes into full retreat, but once McNeil introduces her as his fiancé, my anxiety evaporates, and my shyness dissolves. Having lost Mother and Sally, I fear I’ll jinx anyone whom I love. As for Miss Ann, that burden of worry is now lifted. She belongs to another; she’s safe from my curse.

  At the debate society meeting that evening, I rise to speak and greet the members with a timid smile. They gaze at me with anticipation etched on their faces, no doubt expecting to be entertained with some humorous story. Among them is Miss Ann, sitting a bit forward between two boys on the bench right in front of me.

  Instead of amusing them with wit, I advocate in earnest for internal improvements such as roads, canals, and navigable waterways. Everyone applauds, and Mr. Rutledge commends my argument as pithy and well reasoned. Miss Ann’s eyes gleam as she turns to congratulate me before stepping forward to take her turn.

  From the very first word, her melodic voice captivates me. When she takes her seat at the end of her speech I commend her, even though I can’t recall anything she said. Her beauty distracted me.

  Mr. Rutledge approaches Miss Ann and me after the meeting and suggests that she and I, his two prize students, practice our oratory together. She looks down as she waits for my reply.

  I fidget with my shirt cuff. “With Mr. McNeil’s approval, of course.”

  She twists a lock of her hair in her fingers. “I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s quite secure in his position.”

  Mr. Rutledge grins and adds, “As a man of his accomplishments and charm should be.”

  “Yes,” I say, “a merchant and landowner. Any girl would be lucky to marry such a man.”

  Miss Ann blushes. I relax, assured that our time together won’t be strained by the awkwardness of romance.

  “By the way,” she says. “Friends call me Annie.”

  A few days after the debate society meeting, a prominent doctor employs me to run a flatboat down to the confluence of the Illinois and Sangamon Rivers, carrying him and his family. They are removing to Texas and have contracted with another pilot to take them the remainder of the way from Beardstown. Our trip proceeds without incident, and once I’m paid for my services, I walk thirty miles back to New Salem.

  On my return, Offut is giddy as he greets me. His goods have arrived and he is open for business. Next to him stands a baby-faced, sandy-haired lad named Billy Greene, no relation to Judge Green. Offut has hired him to assist me in the store.

  Offut says, “Billy, here, can sleep in the store. His father has a farm a couple of miles out of town, but the old man’s illiterate and drinks too much. One of you can bunk on the counter, unless you want to share the cot.”

  I throw a bear hug on Offut and pick him up off his feet.

  “Save your strength,” he says. “There’s whiskey barrels that need lifting.”

  As the weeks pass, business at the store is never brisk. I often sit in the doorway reading, only taking my eyes off the page to get a glimpse of Annie Rutledge when she passes by on her way to and from her father’s grist mill. Saturdays are busier than usual. That’s when farmers and their farm hands come to town to do some trading and raise Cain. We close our doors around three o’clock on those da
ys, since by then, everyone’s consumed by a variety of drunken amusements which last until they can’t stand up any longer.

  On weekdays, we lock up at seven o’clock, and Billy and I hike to Judge Green’s home for supper. Mrs. Green is a renowned cook in these parts, so the table is always crowded with visitors. During one meal I’m seated next to the school teacher, Mentor Graham, to whom I say, “I’ve been thinking about studying English grammar.”

  “If you expect to go before the public in any capacity,” Graham says, “it’s the best thing you can do.”

  “Well, if I had a grammar I would commence studying right now.”

  “I don’t have a grammar myself,” he says, “but I know John Vance has one.”

  With that, I excuse myself from the Green’s table and hike several miles to Vance’s farm. Mr. Vance gives me a copy of Samuel Kirkham’s English Grammar in Familiar Lectures. He says it’s the best available anywhere. When I get back to the store, Billy Greene is already asleep on the cot in the backroom. I stoke the fire and stretch out on the floor and begin studying.

  It’s a real puzzler. Four, five, and six headed rules, about as complicated to me as the Longer Catechism and the Thirty-nine Articles are to young ministers. It consumes me day and night—while clerking, or when I lie under a tree on the hillside overlooking our village. Evenings, I study stretched out by the stove at the store.

  One Saturday, while tending store, I’ve no time to study, and after work, I find the athletic games too tempting to pass up. My long legs give me an advantage in jumping contests, and my arms, like a pair of low-hanging pendulums, serve me in weight throwing. Out of respect for me, the Clary’s Grove Boys pass on wrestling matches, giving me easy victories over all comers.

  I’m more than happy to stay out of the cock-fighting as a fair trade for their courtesy, but owing to my reputation for fairness, Jack Armstrong insists I referee when his gang’s birds are in play. In honor of our mutual friendship, I agree. After hunting game for survival when Father was ill, and having passed through a hot summer day of slaughtering hogs while under his bondage, I suffer less pain than I once did when animals are abused. Still, a twinge of it still inflicts me.

  Tonight’s contest is between roosters owned by Tom Watkins and Babb McNabb. Poised inside a ring formed by spectators, I steel myself against the protests of my conscience while the boys agitate their birds into a frenzy. When McNabb’s bird surprises everyone by shrinking from the fight, my chest swells and I cannot contain my smile.

  McNabb, red with embarrassment, jumps into the ring, retrieves his entry and throws the bird back over his shoulder onto a woodpile. On landing, the rooster puffs out its chest and begins to crow. McNabb throws up his hands and hollers, “Yes, you little cuss, you’re great on dress parade, but you ain’t worth a damn in a fight.”

  For all the activity Saturdays bring to town, sales at the store are barely adequate to pay salaries to Billy and me, let alone pay the mortgage on the store. Anxious over his financial situation, Offut expands his enterprise by renting the grist and saw mills from Mr. Rutledge, adding additional responsibilities for Billy and me to share. Even though the added chores interrupt my reading, work at the mills keeps me busy—wrestling logs onto the saw carriage, trimming boards, and grinding kernels of grain into flour.

  I’m especially delighted when Annie stops by and asks me to accompany her to the grist mill to grind up corn for her father’s tavern. Our friendship blossoms and I become her confidant in matters she’s too nervous to share with McNeil. In return, she tries to pair me with some of the single girls in town. I admire her persistence in such a hopeless endeavor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Offut’s expanded business endeavors keep me busier than ever, but I still find idle time to jaw with the likes of Jack Kelso. In addition to our mutual liking for poetry, we share a dislike for menial labor, though he is able to survive without having to work for wages. When business is slack, Jack and I talk about fishing, read Burns, and plumb the depths of Shakespeare’s verse. The Bard’s plays intrigue me and inspire me to commit long passages of Hamlet to memory.

  As January of the new year draws to a close, our monotony is broken by news that Captain Vincent Bogue of Springfield has plans to run a steamboat called Talisman up the Sangamon, turning Springfield into a port city. His letter of January 26 as published in The Sangamo Journal, claims,

  I intend to ascend the Sangamon River immediately on the breaking up of the ice. I should be met at the mouth of the river by ten or twelve men, equipped with long-handled axes and under the direction of some experienced axeman. I shall deliver freight from St. Louis to the new port at Springfield for thirty-seven and a half cents per hundred pounds.

  I’m not alone in following reports of Captain Bogue’s progress. The whole town is abuzz, and there is much talk about New Salem becoming a boom-town on account of his venture. Some folks insist a canal is needed to bypass much of the Sangamon’s snake-like course coming out of Beardstown. Others fear the cost of such a project would be exorbitant and urge dredging the bottom and clearing away overhanging trees and logjams. My experience, having taken three flatboats down the river, fuels my passion for making the Sangamon’s waters safer and faster for transporting goods.

  By February, a gloom settles over me. My friends’ wives claim it’s due to my increased idleness. Offut’s store is floundering, there’s little call for lumber to be cut, and the grist mill warehouses an over-supply of meal and flour. Our wages have been suspended on account of Offut’s foolish speculation in corn and cottonseed he imported from Tennessee.

  One morning near month’s end one of Offut’s creditors confronts me on my arrival at the store. “Is Offut around?” he asks.

  “Reckon he’s at his cabin.”

  The man scowls. “I’ve been there. He’s not. Neighbors haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

  I run my fingers through my hair. “He didn’t stop in last night to check the receipts, so the last time I saw him was the night before.”

  His eyes narrow. “Did he say where he was going?”

  I shake my head. “Didn’t say he was going anywhere.”

  He hands me some papers.

  “What’s this?”

  “A judgment,” he says. “It lets me take anything I need to satisfy the debt.”

  “Afraid you’ll have to wait for Mr. Offut.”

  The man hangs around for several days. Offut doesn’t show. I stay away from the store out of shame over my employer’s abrupt departure.

  Lying in bed one night, I recall once overcharging a customer. After locking up the store, I walked three miles to return the six-and-a-half cents she was owed. She told me to keep it as a reward for my honesty. I refused. All the way back I held my chin high, delighting in the reputation I’d earned for Mr. Offut’s enterprise. Now I weigh the damage he leaves in the wake of his cowardly escape.

  My spirits are buoyed by Bowling Green, James Rutledge, and schoolmaster Graham who all laud my efforts at self-improvement. They praise the efficient manner in which I managed Offut’s enterprises and are quick to absolve me of any blame for his business failures.

  Judge Green keeps me busy serving as a juror and drawing up deeds or other papers for townspeople who need the aid of a lawyer. I refuse compensation, allowing that I’m not licensed to practice law, but I’m encouraged by their appreciation. Still, their gratitude does nothing to lift me out of my poverty.

  One afternoon while I’m studying some law books at the Judge’s home, he sits with me and insists on discussing what he calls a matter of great import. He takes the book from my hands and snaps it shut.

  “Lincoln,” he says. “I’ve been talking with some stalwarts around town, particularly Rutledge, Mentor Graham, and Dr. Allen. We are all of one mind.”

  I look down at the floor. “Yes, Sir.”

  “The business we all would like to see you pursue….” He clears his
throat. “We think you would make an excellent candidate for the state legislature.”

  I look up at him and swallow hard. “I don’t understand. There have to be many ….”

  “There are always others, but the point is, you’re every bit as good, if not better.”

  My face grows warm. “I’m honored.”

  He stands. “Then it’s settled?”

  I cock my head. “Can I think about it?”

  “Don’t take too long,” he says. “The Sangamo Journal will be publishing the candidates’ platforms in next week’s edition. If you want to finish among the top four names on Election Day in August, you best have something ready for them to print.”

  Mother’s words, “become someone special,” echo in my mind as I contemplate Judge Green’s proposition. After a couple sleepless nights, I conclude that serving in the legislature can be the way to leave the world a little better for having lived in it.

  On March 9, I announce to the people of Sangamon County my intentions to be a candidate for the state legislature. My platform appears in the Sangamo Journal alongside those of a dozen other candidates.

  The next day, I’m picking up some wages by filling in as clerk at Sam Hill’s dry goods store when Charles Maltby, who used to help out at Offut’s store, stops by. He urges me to make up a speech.

  “What shall I say?”

  “Why not say what you put in the newspaper about your plans?”

  “No. That’s too long.”

  Maltby pats me on the shoulder. “Then use only the first part.”

  I scratch my head and pick up a copy of the paper. After pondering it for a spell, I take up the quill and ink I always carry with me to write letters and legal papers for neighbors. I cross out the lines that don’t seem to make good speech material.

  “How’s this?”

  He reads it aloud.

  Fellow Citizens, in accordance with an established custom and the principles of true republicanism, it becomes my duty to make known to you my sentiments with regard to local affairs.