Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  Horseless, Harrison and I trudge through the wilderness from our encampment in the Michigan Territory to Peoria in Illinois—some one hundred and fifty miles. There we purchase a canoe and paddle down the Illinois River to the little town of Havana. After selling the canoe, we hike the final twenty-three miles to New Salem. My arduous journey home dims the images of carnage stamped on my memory and dissipates the fog of war.

  Arriving in New Salem, I’m welcomed as a hero. Having gone to war and returned is enough to inspire some folks, but I remain restless, not having yet satisfied my yearning to become someone special.

  A lump rises in my throat when Annie tells me McNeil confessed in my absence that he settled here under a false identity. He claims to have taken the name McNeil to avoid being dogged by his father’s financial distress. His true name is McNamar. Now having secured his fortune in New Salem, he has gone back east and promised to bring his parents and younger siblings out west to join him. Annie sympathizes with him and is confident his promise to marry her stands, though their wedding must be delayed until his return.

  I wrestle over telling her that I have known of McNamar’s true identity almost since my arrival in New Salem. He put his real name on the deed I witnessed when he purchased John Cameron’s half interest in the Cameron-Rutledge farm located a few miles from the village at Sand Ridge. I keep silent and encourage her to hope for his soon return.

  With only two weeks left before voting, I resume my campaign for election to the state legislature. Among the other candidates is John Stuart. Nearly as tall as me, he’s an articulate lawyer from Springfield with an aristocratic bearing. He’s also an incumbent state legislator and former comrade-in-arms during my enlistment under Captain Early. Stuart wins election while I fall short. My defeat comes in spite of garnering three-quarters of the votes from the men in New Salem. I fare poorly among voters in the outlying regions where my name is not known.

  I journey to Springfield to ask Stuart his opinion on whether I should continue to pursue politics. He encourages me to do so and tells me to prepare by devoting myself to reading the law. He offers to lend me some of his books and points me to a set of volumes titled Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England.

  Even though I master the first forty pages in a single afternoon, I’m full of gloom. The obstacles before me in the study of law are insurmountable. Mr. Blackstone insists a lawyer should be a man of breeding, who subdues the rules of grammar and becomes schooled in the great literary works of the English language.

  On my return to New Salem, my misery is compounded by Annie’s despondency over McNamar’s failure to write to her. She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her face into my breastbone, sobbing. Her weeping pinches my heart.

  As I cradle her head against my chest, the twinge in my heart grows into an aching. I lift my head and stare into the vast blue sky, beckoning memories of my dear Sally. I search for some image to reassure me our embrace is the kind shared by siblings—not lovers.

  Days later, McNamar’s first letter finally arrives from Ohio, confirming not only his safety, but also his enduring love for Annie. He says his previous failure to write was due to a protracted illness from which he is at last recovered. Another letter comes a few weeks later, reporting his arrival in New York City and bringing news of his father’s death.

  Annie’s eyes grow misty as she reads his letter.

  Careful not to tread on her devotion to another, I offer her my kerchief to daub her tears.

  Chapter Twelve

  Annie asks, “Did you know that McNamar sold his interest in the dry goods store to Sam Hill before going East?”

  On this question I can answer honestly. “No.”

  She stares up at me. “Why would he do such a thing if he planned to come back?”

  Sweat collects across my brow. “He and Sam were not getting along. Maybe they decided to part ways.”

  “Certainly, he would have said something to me. He says he plans to make me his wife.”

  I take her hands. “Annie, I’m sure he had good reasons. He’s a man of industry and good business sense. When he gets back, he’ll have great plans for your future together.”

  Tears stream down her cheeks. “How can I be sure? He used a false name. He doesn’t write. He sells his business. What else is there I don’t know?”

  I draw her close and wrap my arms around her. “He’s a good man. He’d have to be a fool not to come back for you, and we know he’s no fool.”

  She shakes her head. “I feel so alone.”

  I pull back and look down into her eyes. “Why don’t I take a room at the tavern? That way I’ll be nearby when you get blue, and you can cry on my shoulder as much as you want.”

  She laughs. “Abraham, you’re a gem.”

  I scurry to find any kind of work that’s available to pay for my lodging. When idle, my favorite remedy for my gloom is observing trials in Judge Green’s court. We have no resident lawyers in New Salem, so unless an attorney from Springfield happens to be in town, parties in most lawsuits appear without representation. I’m often asked to assist one side or the other.

  During one session, a visiting lawyer asks me to vouch for the veracity of a witness whom I know to be of questionable reliability. Judge Green’s bench creaks under his weight as he leans forward and nods at me to respond.

  “He’s known as ‘lying Peter Lukins.’”

  The lawyer shakes his head. “How do you come by such knowledge?”

  I point to the judge. “Ask Esquire Green. He’s taken Pete’s testimony under oath many times.”

  Green pipes up, “Never believe anything the man says unless someone else swears to it as well.”

  When Judge Green and I begin laughing, the lawyer knows his case is lost.

  In late autumn, James Herndon sells his share of the store he runs with his brother Rowan to Willie Berry—a shrewd lad, two years my junior. Willie and I served together in the Black Hawk War. His principal fault is that he’s overly fond of whiskey.

  For Rowan the transaction wears like a burr under his saddle. In a short time, his differences with Berry become so severe he offers to sell out his share to me. I have no money, so Rowan adds up his inventory and takes my promissory note in exchange. Among the store’s advantages is its location. During slack times, I can linger in the doorway and watch Annie as she tends the garden outside her father’s tavern.

  Shortly after the New Year, my friend Billy Greene buys Reuben Radford’s grocery. Billy gives Radford his notes for four hundred dollars in payment for the inventory and store building. Billy’s venture is not long lived. He makes the mistake of thinking himself too big a man to have to tread carefully around the Clary’s Grove Boys. When he crosses them, they ransack his store, emptying casks of whiskey, slicing bags of flour, smashing jars, and overturning the counter. I try to console him, but he’s undone. He jumps from his stool and cries out, “I can’t do this. You and Berry can have this place.”

  I palm the back of my neck. “How would we pay you?”

  He grabs a tuft of his hair with each of his trembling hands. “Just take over my notes.”

  “Let me give you something to cover the damages.”

  He laughs. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Look, Berry and I will promise to pay your notes to Radford and give you our own chit for two hundred in addition.”

  Billy’s eyes widen. “That’s more than fair.”

  Once word gets out that Berry and I have consolidated two of the four general stores in New Salem, Mr. Rutledge offers to sell us his on credit. We’re giddy. Almost overnight we hold a near monopoly. We bring all the stock together into a two-story frame building with two rooms and rough-hewn boards for siding.

  Our business requires me to make several purchasing trips to Springfield, which give me opportunities to call on John Stuart. He encourages me to persevere in my law studies, piling books in front of me
to consume. One day on my wanderings through the city I stumble across an auction of a deceased lawyer’s estate. My pulse quickens as I read the title embossed across the tattered leather bindings—Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England.

  I dig in my pockets, scrambling for enough money to bid. Fortunately, I turn out to be the only bidder for the Blackstone volumes and wind up with enough money left over to purchase a tattered copy of Euclid’s Elements, a treatise containing a system of rigorous mathematical proofs, which are universally recognized as the basis for logical thought.

  When winter sets in, a lull in business gives me plenty of time for reading the law and other studies. I also find time to indulge in Burns and Shakespeare with Jack Kelso. Of course, meager sales mean outside work is essential, though it isn’t plentiful. When odd jobs like chopping wood or rescuing livestock from snow drifts come along, I leave the store for Berry to handle alone.

  As spring approaches, Berry lays out a scheme he thinks will save us from financial disaster. He proposes we get a license to sell liquor by the dram—without a license we can only sell it by the cask or by the quart. A dram at a time will bring us larger profits. Before I consent to the plan, I talk with Annie. Her father is a firm temperance man, neither imbibing nor selling, although that doesn’t dissuade his Presbyterian minister nephew John Cameron from keeping a barrel of whiskey around the house. Selling by the dram would make us something akin to a saloon, and I want to make sure there will be no hard feelings with the Rutledges if we make that leap.

  Annie’s counsel is to go directly to her father. After a lengthy conversation with him, he assures me he’ll not hold the matter against me; however, he warns he’ll never abide Annie keeping company with any drunkards. I assure him no whiskey will ever touch my lips. In fact, the Clary’s Grove Boys often tease me for not having touched the stuff since coming to live in New Salem—an accusation which is largely true.

  By March, we have our license and business starts to pick up, but not enough to carry us without my continuing to look for extra work—plowing during the planting season, felling trees and splitting rails when new settlers move in, or whatever other odd jobs there are between those. All the time, I hope our prospects will improve when men’s thirsts go into full heat, come summer. With little free time, I pursue my studies by forgoing sleep or while tending store. Sometimes I become so engrossed in reading that patrons express their impatience by taking their business elsewhere. Those are the times I wish Berry were more dependable.

  We hire a clerk who demonstrates we’re better off when Berry is out of the store. My partner’s laziness is eclipsed only by his drunkenness; he not only offends customers, he also squanders our inventory of whiskey. While Mr. Rutledge’s speeches on abstinence have not yet swayed me, Berry’s excesses have driven me to the brink of becoming a full-blown temperance man myself.

  Not only is my patience at its limits, I’m worn to the bone. My friends point to my sallow complexion and sunken, bloodshot eyes. They complain that my countenance gives them cause to worry that I’m at the end of my rope. Nonetheless, my work and studies continue at a feverish pace.

  In May, I receive an appointment as postmaster for New Salem. Every other week a courier delivers mail to the store. When the Sangamon floods and the courier is unable to cross, I go to the Post Office in Athens, ten miles away to collect our delivery. I usually take the mail to people’s homes, though some collect theirs at the store. Folks often ask me to read their letters aloud, a habit which keeps me abreast of events in their lives. I also read newspapers delivered by mail—another benefit of being the town’s postmaster.

  The pay is low, so I continue taking additional work that’s available. Of course, all my wages go to paying our clerk’s wages and keeping the store running. In that way, it’s like working for Father.

  One day during summer while I’m splitting rails in the woods, Pollard Simmons, a local farmer, finds me and tells me that Sangamon County Surveyor John Calhoun wants to appoint me deputy surveyor. It is a good opportunity, paying three dollars per day—more than half the Governor’s salary.

  I shake my head.

  “What’s the matter?” Pollard asks.

  “Why would an avid Jackson man such as Mr. Calhoun want to give a Whig such as myself a prized appointment?”

  “Suppose party loyalty is a big enough matter for an up-and-comer like yourself, but Mr. Calhoun probably thinks it’s a small thing.”

  I bury my axe blade in a log. “Well then, reckon I should go ask him.”

  Pollard snickers.

  The twenty-mile walk to the County Surveyor’s Office in Springfield gives me plenty of time to think. On my arrival, I stand in front of his desk, hat in hand and ask, “Sir, you should know that I’m a staunch Clay man and am unclear about why President Jackson would allow you to give me an appointment.”

  Calhoun leans back in his chair, his pursed lips curl upward, and his angular features soften. “I assure you that your politics won’t matter to President Jackson.”

  “Then why would you want me to have this appointment?”

  “My dear fellow, your part of the county is expanding rapidly, and I’m in desperate need of a deputy surveyor. Folks out there tell me you’re the brightest, most honest and dependable young man to be had. I don’t give a hang about your politics.”

  My fingers trace the rim of my hat. “You won’t press me to change my views or shrink from speaking forthrightly?”

  He leans forward. “My only concern is having accurate, honest surveys made with all dispatch. As long as that’s done, you’re free to engage in whatever political matters you see fit.”

  Satisfied with Calhoun’s sincerity, I thank him and take my leave.

  Shortly after my return home, Annie appears in the doorway of the store, holding a letter to post, her eyes darting between the stack of mail and my face. “Hello, Abraham. Is there anything for me?”

  I sort through the mail, already knowing the answer to her question. As soon as the courier delivered the small batch of letters, I checked, as usual, to see if McNamar had written.

  I shake my head. “Sorry, Annie. There’s nothing here. Maybe next time.”

  She wrings her hands. “Something unthinkable has happened to him.”

  “Don’t worry.” I recall the assurances my sister Sally and I used to whisper to each other in Father’s absence. “He’s fine. Delivery from back east takes time.”

  She sniffles. “You’re such a sweet fellow, Abraham Lincoln.”

  I fumble for my kerchief and give it to her. “It’s just a matter of time before you hear from him.”

  “I hope so,” she says, wiping away tears.

  A lump forms in my throat. “I know so. He loves you greatly.”

  Her lips draw into a tight smile as she turns toward the door.

  I call after her, “They made me Deputy Surveyor for the county.”

  She turns back, her eyes moist. “That’s wonderful. You’ll be working for Mr. Calhoun?”

  “Reckon he doesn’t mind hiring a Clay man.”

  “Will you still take care of the mail?”

  I smile. “Oh yes, I’ll still be Postmaster.”

  “Very well.” She tucks the letter intended for McNamar into her apron pocket. “See you at debate society tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  As Annie leaves, Betsy Abell—a short, stout woman—squeezes through the doorway past her. The toddler on her hip begins to wail. Betsy’s father is a wealthy planter in Green County, Kentucky who gave her the best education his money could buy. He thinks she married beneath her station. This frontier prairie life is the kind of thing he hoped she wouldn’t fall into.

  “Abe, mind looking after little Mary for a bit?” she asks, lifting the baby up to me.

  “Ah … no. Not at all.” I brush the little one’s hair off her face.

  “Suppose I owe you some sewing fo
r all the times you’ve watched my babies.”

  “If money wasn’t so scarce, I’d do it just for the pleasure.”

  “You should get yourself married up so you can have a family of your own. You’d make a fine papa.”

  I cock my head. “I’m doing the world a favor by not procreating another face like this one.”

  She laughs. “Want to come up for supper tonight? You can bring the young one back then.”

  I make a face at little Mary. “Sure.”

  As Betsy starts for the door, I dart from around the counter and follow after her. “Say, do you and the husband have room to take on an occasional boarder? With my appointment as Deputy Surveyor, I’ll start spending a great deal of time up near Petersburg. I’m sure there will be nights I’ll need a place to stay rather than hiking all the way back into town.”

  “You’re welcome anytime, Abe. You know that.”

  “Thank you, I’m most grateful to you and Mr. Abell.”

  After supper that evening with the Abells in Petersburg, I return to our store in the village and stretch out by the stove with Flint’s System of Geometry and Trigonometry with a Treatise on Surveying. My head aches over the mathematics and geometry problems I must master. I close it and pick up Gibson’s Theory and Practice of Surveying. Mr. Calhoun directed me to study these texts to prepare for the examination that’s required before I start work as his deputy. I break a sweat, pacing the tavern floor while tangling my mind in formulas, calculations of angles, and wondering why there are so many names for four-sided shapes. In my confusion, I snap up the books and make tracks for Mentor Graham’s cabin.

  Mr. Graham invites me in, despite the late hour, and offers me a seat by the fire. I’m nearly in tears. He pours me some tea, and I take tentative sips as he assures me the task is not insurmountable.

  “You can certainly learn all that’s required to be a surveyor,” he says, “just as Washington did in his youth.”

  “But Washington enjoyed the encouragement of a gentle, loving father, and I have had no such privilege.”