Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  His tone is less friendly. “That’s not going to buy my finer merchandise.”

  “I’m not particular.”

  He brushes his hand through his hair. “Might be able to find something for two-fifty. A couple of new girls just landed in town a few days ago. Come up from St. Louis.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “I’ll send one up.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once upstairs, I shed my waterlogged coat and yank a woolen blanket off the bed to wrap myself. I sit on the bed, shivering, and wait.

  An hour later, there’s a knock. I get up, gather the blanket up to my chin and open the door a crack. A thin, almost emaciated girl, about my same age, stares up at me. Dark circles ring her eyes. “You’re expecting me?”

  As she wedges past me, I peek down the hall to be sure no one is watching. After shutting the door, I latch it and turn to face her. She holds out her hand and says, “Two-fifty.” Her coat is already off and a dainty cotton shift hangs loosely on her pale shoulders.

  I pull out two one dollar coins from my purse, hand them to her, and continue digging for the fifty cents. She unfastens a single button just above her breasts; her garment reminds me of the tow-boy shirts I wore as a lad. Her flimsy shift floats to the floor, exposing her wispy frame.

  “Don’t have all night,” she scolds. “Not for two-fifty. You’d best get yourself undressed.”

  I unwrap the blanket from around my shoulders and spread it over the bed, then fumble with the buttons on my shirt.

  She shakes her head. “Your first time?”

  My throat tightens. “All my women friends are married or spoken for. This face must scare away the rest.”

  She laughs and points to my crotch. “Pretty faces don’t matter as much as what’s down there.”

  I unbutton my pants, and they drop to my ankles.

  She steps toward me, twisting her long brown hair into a cord, which she drapes over one shoulder so it cascades over her breast. “It’ll do,” she coos.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Look, yer buying my time, not me.”

  I lie on the bed, on top of the blanket, motionless, staring at the ceiling.

  She joins me on the bed. “Well?”

  I swallow hard. “I reckon you’ll have to take the lead.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  On a snow-covered December morning, about two weeks after arriving in Vandalia for the special legislative session, I notice a blemish on my genitals. I shudder. Syphilis? I’ve heard folks talk about it. Rashes. Hideous deformities. Eventually, insanity.

  Back in Little Pigeon Creek where Mother died, a young man named Matthew Gentry lost his mind. One of my playmates said it was the syphilis meting out God’s judgment for his iniquity. Gossip was he maimed himself, fought with his father, even tried to kill his mother. Then one day, he began howling and flailing his arms as he ran through the village—his eyes aflame. All the women and children ran for safety while the men folk, en masse, wrestled him to the ground and bound up his limbs. Once subdued, he sang a mournful dirge all through the night. Poor Matthew, once a bright boy, a favored child, became a haggard madman, locked in a mental night. Was his insanity caused by a moment of devilish passion—a moral lapse such as my own?

  I’m in a sweat even without pacing the room. It’s a good thing John Stuart’s out and not here to see me in such a state. John Stuart, my roommate—that’s it. He would know. He always has an answer when I’m in a tight spot … but I can’t go to him about this. Nor can I let Dr. Allen back in New Salem know about it. What if I die? I’ve achieved no measure of greatness with my life.

  I pick up a book of jokes, hoping it will distract me, and slump down in a wooden chair in the corner. After reading a few entries, I pull down my hat to cover my eyes. Darkness sweeps over me like storm clouds blackening the sky before unleashing their wrath. After a great rushing sound, everything is silent.

  Perhaps hours later, my eyes fly open. I rare back in the chair, swing one foot over onto the opposite knee, and roar with laughter.

  A voice from across the room penetrates my hilarity. “Lincoln!”

  I turn and stare at Stuart, sitting on the bed, watching me. It’s as if he appeared from nowhere. “A great story, huh?”

  “Lincoln,” he says as he gets up and walks over to me, “do you do this often?”

  “What?”

  “It’s the second time I’ve found you like this. All drawn up in your chair, completely still for hours.”

  “I was just sitting here reading.”

  “No, you weren’t. You always read aloud—even when you’re reading the law—and not a sound was coming out of your mouth.”

  “Maybe I read silently when no one’s around.”

  He laughs. “Lincoln, I tried to stir you an hour ago, and you gave no response. I peeked under your hat. Your eyes were open and transfixed, as if gazing on eternity or reflecting some deep agony.”

  I shrug.

  He shakes his head. “In any case, now that you’re back among the living, let’s write out a couple of bills for you to introduce. We’ll start with a resolution to relocate part of the state road between William Crow’s place up in Morgan County and Musick’s Bridge in Sangamon.”

  “Good. Something to keep my mind occupied.” I dig into my saddle bags looking for a pen. “Oh, and can we amend the Act for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors. I’ve been over it, and it brings too much misery to hardworking common folks.”

  He also helps me draft bills for building roads, dividing Schuyler County, and incorporating the Sangamon Fire Insurance Company. Once the bills are in the hopper, I watch Stuart bargain for votes. Some of his deals make my skin crawl. He tells me it’s the only way things get done. I bite my tongue. If I aimed at being no better than my teachers, I’d still be splitting rails on Father’s farm. Stuart’s methods have some merit, though. His bargaining wins me an appointment as chairman of a special committee to look into digging a canal along the Sangamon River valley.

  Stuart’s tactics also help when a boy-faced, twenty-two year old bantam rooster, named Stephen Douglas, swoops into Vandalia with the aim of whipping the Jackson men, who now call themselves Democrats, into a unified voting bloc. He’s not even an elected representative, but they obey him like bondsmen. I tell Stuart, “His plot ought not to be tolerated in a republican government.”

  Other Whigs complain that his methods are a great danger to the liberties of the people.

  Douglas’ success is remarkable, since he’s the least man I have ever met. In some ways, he reminds me of Father—both ask others to do their heavy lifting, and neither expends even a small amount of energy on plumbing the depths of logical thought. They differ in the respect that Father is indolent while Douglas is ambitious, but arrogant.

  A bill to change the method of appointing the State’s Attorneys is Douglas’ pet. He prefers they be selected by the Democrat controlled legislature instead of the long standing procedure of being appointed by the Governor. I’m certain his complaint against our tradition is that the current Governor is a Whig.

  When Democrats introduce a bill to carry out Douglas’ wishes, Stuart rises to protest. He derides them for yielding to the whims of a smooth talking supplicant who is likely too young to vote for any of them. Stuart’s objection falls on deaf ears, and the bill passes with all the Democrats voting for it. Douglas then executes the second part of his scheme. He slithers through the halls angling for an appointment as state’s attorney for the First Judicial Circuit. With little effort he succeeds in supplanting a well qualified incumbent.

  I make a motion to build another bridge on the Sangamon River, but it fails. Another measure of mine passes—a bill to incorporate the Beardstown and Sangamon Canal Company. Douglas refrains from opposing the incorporation bill, and the rest of the Democrats stand down as well. I turn to Stuart who’s seated next to me and whisper, “Why do these Jackso
n men allow a mere boy to lead them around by the nose?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth. Maybe he’s playing for votes in Sangamon County. Who knows what future ambitions he has? Anyway, you’ve just fulfilled a promise you made in your first campaign for the legislature. Be thankful.”

  When the session ends in late January, I return to New Salem to begin surveying a new plat out at Petersburg, not far from Annie’s grave. Each morning I visit her and leave a winter nosegay or bouquet of early spring flowers at her headstone. Some days I kneel on the ground next to her and shed tears, sifting through bittersweet memories. On other days, I report to her on the mundane events of life.

  My pilgrimages continue during March when I lay out the new town of Huron on the left bank of the Sangamon, twelve miles north of New Salem. Speculators from Springfield are keen on the prospects for a settlement there as it sits at the eastern terminus of the proposed Beardstown and Sangamon canal. The rapid growth of Petersburg and Huron comes with a cost, however. Not only is New Salem withering away—many of my friends have started resettling in the new communities to the north—my post office is to be closed, as well. My notice of closure, posted in the Sangamo Journal, lists the names of sixty-four people who must pick up their uncollected mail.

  In payment for my Huron surveying services, I receive title to several lots in the plat. Hoping to make a windfall to pay off debts, I use my $162 stipend from the legislative session to purchase an additional forty-seven acre tract only a mile from the proposed canal. I purchase the lots from the government at the minimum price of $1.25 an acre—$58.75 for the forty-seven acres. I also buy stock in the Beardstown and Sangamon Canal Company.

  On March 19, a day after I post an advertisement in the Sangamo Journal regarding my horse that has been lost or stolen again, a letter announcing my candidacy for a second term in the legislature is published. It’s shorter than my declaration two years ago.

  I go for admitting to the right of suffrage all whites who pay taxes or bear arms (by no means excluding females).

  If elected I shall consider the whole people of Sangamon my constituents, those who oppose as those who support me. Whether elected or not, I go for distributing the proceeds of sales of public lands to the several states to enable our state, in common with the others, to dig canals and construct railroads without borrowing money and paying interest on it.

  Still unable to afford buying a horse, once summer comes I often walk more than five miles between events in blistering heat to canvass for votes. Including the trek to and from, a single campaign event could consume most of a day.

  While giving a speech one muggy July day at a rally in the Springfield courthouse, Mr. George Forquer is seated in the front row. He recently bolted from the Whig Party to take an appointment from President Jackson to run the local Land Register Office. With his appointment comes a three-thousand dollars per year salary and a fine house, complete with a lightning rod—a new fangled accoutrement the likes of which no one in these parts has ever before seen.

  Though Mr. Forquer is not a candidate, he rises at the conclusion of my speech and points at me. “This young man must be taken down, and I’m afraid the task devolves upon me.” Reckon I should be content that he does not consider any of the Democrats’ candidates worthy of standing for themselves.

  His speech is laced with condescension and sarcasm. Heat rises under my collar. At his conclusion, I stand and rebut.

  The gentleman has seen fit to allude to my being a young man; but he forgets that I am older in years than I am in the tricks and trades of politicians. I desire to live long and earn a place of distinction; but I would rather die now than, like the gentleman, live to see the day that I would change my politics for an office worth three thousand dollars a year, and then feel compelled to erect a lightning rod to protect a guilty conscience from an offended God.

  On the eve of the August election, a dense crowd once again jams the oven-hot corridors of Springfield’s courthouse for a final round of speech-making by the candidates. One of our Whigs, Ninian Edwards—a young fellow of my age who walks about the corridors as if he’s royalty—is the son of a former governor. As opposed to myself however, he is handsome, vain, short-fused and hates democracy as much as Satan is said to abhor holy water.

  During his address, Edwards is interrupted several times by the hot-tempered Democrat Dr. Jacob Early, under whom I served in the Black Hawk War. After having his fill of Early’s rudeness, Edwards jumps off the platform and engages the Democrat in a nose-to-nose argument. When they almost come to blows, I force my way between them and demand they address their differences in a civil manner. They glare at each other, neither seeming to want to have the next word. I take up the subject myself and give it a fair treatment.

  The next night after election results are announced, I copy down the tally on a scrap of paper and carry it with me to Annie’s graveside. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a year since her death. When I give her the news of my re-election, her voice echoes in the gentle breeze telling me she’s proud. I promise to protect her from rain and snow. “Don’t neglect your studies,” she whispers.

  A month later, on the day I’m awarded my license to practice law, I return to her graveside and tell her, “Now I can begin repaying my debts.” A crack of thunder fills the blackened skies. I take off my coat and spread it over her grave, then flee to a nearby tree for shelter until the storm passes. If only my grief could be so brief.

  When Betsy Abell returns from a trip to Kentucky, accompanied by her sister, Mary Owens, Betsy beams. “Here she is. I’ve done my part, now you must do yours.”

  I stand, my jaw unhinged. What happened to the comely girl with dark hair and large blue eyes who visited her three years ago? The woman before me now is corpulent with lines creasing her face.

  “Well, Abe,” Betsy says.

  I remove my hat and say, “How do, Miss Owens?”

  She returns my greeting.

  I continue to stare.

  Betsy takes me by the arm, “You’ll excuse us for a moment, dear Sister, won’t you?”

  Mary nods, and Betsy ushers me out of earshot.

  In hushed tones she says, “Abe Lincoln, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Sorry, Betsy.”

  “Well, three years ago when she went back home, I told you I’d bring her back some day if you would marry her.”

  “I … but ….”

  She peers up at me. “You agreed didn’t you?”

  My pulse quickens. “Yes, but I never expected ….”

  “You are a man of honor?”

  “Yes, by all means … a man of honor.”

  Beads of sweat line my lips.

  “She is quite in earnest about this, you know.”

  I glance at Mary. “Yes, reckon so … coming all this way.”

  “Fine,” Betsy says. “Let’s begin this thing.”

  She tells me she’s planned an outing for Mary and me to get better acquainted. We are to join friends for horseback riding in the country.

  The next afternoon on our excursion, we come to a creek with a rather difficult crossing. The others in our party go first, each fellow taking care to assure his partner gets over safely. I, on the other hand, guide my horse straight into the water and never look back at Mary, who’s following.

  Once we are on the opposite bank, she rides up beside me and says, “I suppose you didn’t care in the least whether I fell off and broke my neck.”

  I laugh. “Figured you were plenty smart enough to get over on your own.”

  She rides ahead to join the others. Though she engages the others in gay conversation, she doesn’t speak to me for the remainder of the ride.

  Over the next several days, I visit Annie’s grave and commiserate with her over the pickle I’m in. As one would expect, she keeps silent on the matter.

  Mired in guilt over my behavior, I call on Miss Mary again
. When she refuses to receive me, I ride into town and wander the streets with my shoulders slumped and head hanging. Nancy Green, Judge Green’s spritely aged mother, stops me as I’m leaving Sam Hill’s store and says, “You seem a little blue.”

  “Reckon I am a bit ashamed of myself.”

  She throws back her head. “It wouldn’t have to do with Betsy’s sister, Miss Owens by any chance?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “It’s just that I’ve been hearing gossip.”

  “Such as ….”

  “Such as, Miss Mary’s miffed because you’ve been paying more attention to Annie—who’s been in the grave for more than a year—than you’ve shown her. I’d say that’s a pretty poor attempt at courtship.”

  I scratch my head. “I’ve been a bit of a heel.”

  “Seems so.”

  “What should I do?”

  She shakes her head. “Well, if you’re ever going to snag a wife, you’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”

  I want a wife, but Mary Owens is not the gal. Nonetheless, a promise is a promise.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In December 1836, John Stuart and I step out of the coach in Vandalia and gaze at the new capitol building caged in scaffolding. John says to me, “They’re going through a lot of trouble to erect something that’ll be abandoned in a couple of years.”

  As we walk toward the hotel, I point to the laborers hurrying to finish construction before the legislature convenes. “They best keep that scaffolding up in case the place collapses.”

  He laughs. “What do you mean? The last one stood for a good twelve years.”

  I snicker. “Every year it sagged a little more. By the time we left here last summer, the west wall was sunken four inches, and the north wall bulged out almost a foot.”

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, and the floor in the Senate chamber was nine inches down at the center. Imagine how rickety this new one must be. They’ve slapped it together in less than three months.”