Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  “I once built a good, sturdy flatboat in less than thirty days.”

  When we stop at the hotel door, Stuart turns to me and says, “If they’re trying to convince us to keep the capitol in Vandalia, that building won’t help their cause. Can you believe the legislature didn’t even get a chance to approve the expenditures? That will cost them votes when the relocation bill comes up.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Not sure I like the rule that makes good men like you quit the legislature to seek federal offices. It hurts all the more that you didn’t win the seat in Congress.”

  “Well,” he says, “I’m not abandoning you entirely. I’ll just have to watch things from the gallery. Besides, you’re going to like our new member, Dan Stone. You two have a lot in common.”

  I shake my head. “Won’t be the same, you in the gallery and Douglas on the floor. Last session it was the other way around. Now that he’s an elected legislator, he can keep a tighter rein on his troops.”

  “I’ll keep myself busy enough in the lobby, bargaining.” He winks.

  I follow him into the hotel. “You know how I feel about trading votes for favors.”

  “Relax,” he says. “The internal improvements bill is going to pass with or without us. Our chances for lining up votes to move the capital to Springfield will come in committee where we can bargain over the specific ventures that go into the bill. People all over the state are clamoring for bridges, canals, roads, and especially railroads.”

  “Those projects should stand on their own merit.”

  He nods. “Exactly. We’ll hand out some favors to men who have good projects, but little support. At a minimum we’ll be able to get their help on procedural votes to keep the capital relocation bill moving forward.”

  When we stop to pick up our room keys, I say, “Okay, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, but I won’t betray my conscience.”

  “That’s all I ask. And by the way, Stone will represent Sangamon on the Internal Improvements Committee. We need you to focus on making Springfield our next capital. It needs to be closer to the center of the state, especially now that the population is spreading northward.”

  My desire to see the capital moved to Springfield is partly personal. Stuart has offered me a partnership in his law office there once the legislative session ends. There is little left for me in New Salem. Not only is Annie gone, but her father died of a broken heart months after her death. Most everyone else has moved on to Petersburg or beyond. Even Annie’s mother sold the rest of the Rutledge-Cameron Farm to McNamar and removed to Iowa with her unmarried children.

  On the morning the session is to begin, we’re told the hall is unsafe. Workmen are still slathering the ceiling with plaster, and the stoves for heating are not yet installed. With nothing better to do, I write a letter to Miss Mary that sounds as dry and gloomy as my spirit. She likely won’t be any more sympathetic to my professed shame for sending it than she’ll be with my complaining about the legislature’s idleness. I tell her of my dread over spending ten more weeks here. Any place would be better.

  When the session finally begins, we mire ourselves in trivial matters. In the lobby during a morning recess, I tell Stuart, “I shall never gain any greater distinction than my father did.”

  “Stop moping,” he says. “Have a little patience.”

  Our first completed business is repealing the “little bull” bill, which should never have passed during the last session. I was opposed to its nonsense, and sixty-six members who voted for it lost their seats in last fall’s election. Under the “little bull” bill, owners of bulls over one year old that ran at large out of enclosure were fined—the fines falling mostly on poor farmers. The fine money was paid to owners of the three best bulls, three best cows, and three best heifers in each county—often the wealthy.

  At supper Stuart assigns me to manage the petitions for and against carving Sangamon County in two. When I complain that hardly anyone will notice my efforts on such a small matter, he tells me that’s good news—at least I won’t be squandering any political capital in the process. Then he tells me I’ve been chosen to give a speech on the Democrats’ bill to investigate the State Bank. It’ll be my first big speech in the legislature.

  Stuart says, “Usher Linder is introducing the bill.”

  I swallow hard as he hands me a copy of the bill. “He’s no small game.”

  He nods. “The resolution is ninety-nine written lines. The first thirty-three lines relate to the distribution of the Bank’s stock.”

  I look up from reading the bill. “What business is it of the people’s? If a man thinks he’s entitled to stock which he was denied, let him take the matter to court.”

  Stuart leans forward. “They’re trying to lay a case that the Bank was unconstitutional in its formation.”

  I shake my head. “This investigation will cost some ten-thousand or more dollars.”

  After reading a bit I say, “It seems like these capitalists are always cooperating to fleece the people in one way or another. Here they want taxpayers to pay money for settling a quarrel in which the people have no interest. As folks say, he who dances should always pay the fiddler. If any man thinks his money is such a burden that he chooses to lead off this dance, I am opposed to using public funds to pay the fiddler.”

  Stuart chuckles. “I like that. Use it.” He tells me the bill lays out several insinuations that the Bank’s actions inflict great injury on the people at large.

  I look up. “How is it that the people should be writhing under such oppression, but not one of them has raised a complaint?”

  He nods. “This is exclusively the work of politicians.”

  “Politicians as a lot are one long step removed from being honest men.”

  Stuart glances over his shoulder. “I’m not sure you should insult the other members.”

  I straighten up. “Don’t see how anyone can take it personal without imagining that I’m condemning myself.”

  He shakes his head. “Suppose you’re right.”

  “It says here the Bank’s commissioners are guilty of corruption.”

  Stuart glances at the page and shakes his head. “That’s their justification for setting up a committee of legislators to investigate the bank. Of course, Linder will be chairing the committee.”

  I grin. “I’ve some choice words for them on that.”

  Stuart nods. “That’s why we want you to give the speech. You’re quite good at making your opponent’s argument sound ridiculous.”

  When the day comes for my speech I begin by showing deference to the bill’s author.

  It is not without considerable apprehension that I venture to cross tracks with the gentleman from Coles County, Mr. Linder.

  I do not believe I could muster sufficient courage to come in contact with the gentleman, were it not for the fact that some days ago he graciously condescended to assure us he would never be found wasting ammunition on small game.

  Linder forces a smile.

  On the same fortunate occasion, he also gave us to understand that he is decidedly the superior of our friend from Randolph, Mr. James Shields. Feeling as I do that I am nothing more than the peer of our friend from Randolph, I shall regard the gentleman from Coles as decidedly my superior also.

  Consequently, in the course of what I have to say, whenever I allude to the gentleman, I shall endeavor to adopt the kind of court language which I understand to be due to decided superiority.

  Seated in front of me near a spittoon, Linder leans back in his seat, his mouth drawn tight, arms folded across his chest. In the gallery, Stuart is grinning.

  In one faculty there is no dispute of the gentleman's superiority; that is, his ability to entangle a subject so that neither he, nor any other man, can find head or tail to it.

  Cheers and laughter erupt from the anti-Jackson men. Linder leans forward, scowling.

  Here he has introduced a resolution
, containing ninety-nine printed lines, yet more than half of his opening speech addressed the constitutionality of the Bank, about which there is not one word in his resolution.

  Although I am satisfied that small game could find ample fodder for debate within the resolution itself, since the gentleman has travelled outside of it, I feel that I may, with all due humility, venture to follow him.

  Linder turns to his left and whispers to Douglas.

  In such respect, I simply point out that our Supreme Court has decided in favor of the constitutionality of the Bank, and this is a sufficient answer to his argument.

  The anti-Jackson men applaud.

  Linder slams his hand on his desk and verbally accosts Douglas. Then he turns and jaws at one of the lesser Democrats.

  Now addressing the resolution, there are several insinuations which are too silly to require notice, except that they conclude by saying, “to the great injury of the people.”

  The truth is no such oppression exists. If it did, our table would groan with memorials and petitions. The people know their rights; and they are never slow to assert and maintain them, when they are invaded.

  While the anti-Jackson men hoot their approval, the Democrats murmur among themselves. I look at Stuart. He clasps his hands together then shows his approval, pointing his thumb straight up in the air. When I turn to face Linder he’s shaking his fist at me.

  I continue my speech.

  It appears that a principal object of the proposed committee is to ferret out a mass of corruption supposed to have been committed by the commissioners. I believe it is universally acknowledged that men will act correctly, unless they have a motive to do otherwise. If this be true, we can only suppose that the commissioners acted corruptly if we also suppose they were bribed. Now, I would ask if the Bank will find it more difficult to bribe a committee of seven politicians than it might have encountered if it had bribed the twenty-four commissioners.

  Linder jumps to his feet and shouts, “Point of Order.” The Speaker denies his plea. Linder shakes his head and says, “Let him go on then. He’ll wind up breaking his own neck.” I stifle a grin.

  Thank you, Mr. Chairman. That’s another gracious condescension by ‘decided superiority.’ I acknowledge it with gratitude. I was not saying that the gentleman from Coles could not be bribed, nor, on the other hand, will I say he could. In that particular, I leave him where I found him.

  The Bank’s commissioners are twenty-four of the most respectable men in the State. Probably no twenty-four men could be selected in whom the people would more readily place their confidence. So, there is less probability that those men have been bribed and corrupted, than might be the case for any seven men headed by ‘decided superiority’ himself.

  The anti-Jackson men shout in unison, “Hear! Hear!” My chest swells.

  In point of fact, the common people of our State have benefited greatly by the Bank, and they would be devastated financially by its demise. Any unwarranted blemish on the Bank’s good name would by large measure diminish the value of its notes held by our farmers, shopkeepers and common people.

  I have said that cases might occur, when an examination of the Bank might be proper; but I am opposed to encouraging that lawless and mobocratic spirit which is already abroad in the land, and is spreading with rapid and fearful impetuosity to the ultimate overthrow of every institution, or even moral principle, in which persons and property have hitherto found security.

  As I take my seat, the anti-Jackson men are cheering, and Douglas shaking his head. I have offended his pet notions that institutions and moral principles are flexible, that out of necessity they must bend to the whims of progress.

  Once I’m seated, Linder moves for a vote on the measure. It passes 55-21. Nonetheless, the Whigs congratulate me and say they anticipate more of my speech making. I sit taller and soak in their accolades.

  Stuart insists I attend meetings of the Internal Improvements Committee as an observer. The dog fight over who gets to spend ten million dollars in their counties puts a sour taste in my mouth. The project I find the most distasteful is the central railroad line. Galena is the only town on the whole route which is more than a mere name, and it sits on a navigable branch of the Mississippi. I ask Stone why anyone would favor such a waste of public money. He says we must support the line to earn favors from legislators in those counties. Their votes will come in handy when we try to move the state capital to Springfield.

  When the Senate bill for relocating the capital finally comes before the House, the Sangamon members look to me for leadership. If we succeed at putting the new capitol in Springfield, we will be welcomed home as heroes. Otherwise we won’t likely be returned here by the voters.

  Alton, Vandalia, and Jacksonville are Springfield’s chief competitors, while another sixteen communities find their way into the debate. Most of the sixteen are entered into the record to appease local constituents.

  The Senate bill only provides for relocating the capital; the location will be chosen in a joint session of the House and Senate. John Dement of Vandalia, the mousey former State Treasurer who went behind our backs to fund construction of this hastily cobbled structure, tries to prevent a reading of the Senate bill. He makes a motion to lay it on the table until December, 1839—nearly three years from now. His maneuver would kill the bill. It’s defeated by a slim margin of 42-38. We have our work cut out for us.

  Three days later during intense debate, various amendments are offered, slowing our progress. One amendment is introduced by Benjamin Enloe of Johnson. We share similar physical attributes; he is tall and angular with dark hair, dull skin, and deep set grey eyes; however, he’s better attired. Since the first time I saw him, I’ve wanted to ask whether he is one of the Kentucky Enlows whose blood is rumored to course through my veins.

  By the end of the afternoon, members are gazing outside through windows crosshatched by blowing snow. Some scurry out of the chamber, hoping to avoid being trapped by the storm, but most stay put. Enloe offers a new motion to lay the bill on the table until July 4—four months after this session will be adjourning—effectively killing the measure. His motion prevails by 39-38. Almost at once, the hall empties. Only the seven of us from Sangamon County remain.

  I gather my six colleagues and propose a plan. Despite the blizzard, we agree to fan out across Vandalia to pressure those who support relocation to brave the bitter weather for a vote the next morning. We also set up two teams to call on several members whose friendship failed us on the motion to table the bill—one team will call on Thomas Atwater of Putnam and Thomas Hunt of Edwards, the other is assigned to Edward Smith of Wabash and Francis Voris of Peoria. These men will be confronted over their lack of gratitude for our support for running the railroad through their districts.

  I set out on my own to visit another defector, Benjamin Enloe. When he answers the door my throat is tight. Part of me wants to seize the chance and ask him if he’s one of the Kentucky Enlows, but I bite my tongue.

  After we’re seated across from each other at his small dining table I say, “Enloe, the longest railroad in the state will run along the western boundary of your county. You wouldn’t have won that plum without support from the Sangamon delegation.”

  He strokes his chin. “You folks opposed me for Warden of the State Penitentiary. Douglas got me the votes.”

  “Did Douglas lobby you to table the Senate bill?”

  “We Democrats like to take care of our own.”

  I knead my forehead, wanting to appeal to the rightness of my cause, or even a family bond we might share. Instead, I say, “The Senate hasn’t voted your railroad yet. You may have forgotten that we Whigs have control over there, and the Sangamon members could call in some favors to direct the route elsewhere.”

  He slams his fist on the table. “Our railroad is a good thing for the whole state.”

  I rise to my full height and look down at him. “Relocating the capital t
o Springfield is good for everyone as well. Yet you and Douglas are trying to stop it.”

  He jumps to his feet. “I never said I’d vote against it when the time comes.”

  “Very well, then.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s time. Since you voted to put the bill on the table, you’re allowed to move to take it off. We need your help.”

  He glances at my hand, still on his shoulder. “Douglas won’t like it.”

  “You should worry more about the folks at home and what they’ll say when there’s no money for the railroad they think they ought to have.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Lincoln.”

  “I’m not bargaining. Only pointing out what some men might do if they take offense over you doing Douglas’ bidding. It’s not something I would have them do, nor is it something they can be stopped from doing.”

  “So, you’re saying I have little choice.”

  “You certainly have a choice … but your choice may have consequences.”

  He grimaces. “I’ll be on the floor in the morning to make your motion.”

  We shake hands, and I leave. As I plow my way back to my room through drifting snow, I try to imagine what relationship I might have to Benjamin Enloe.

  The following morning the Senate bill is taken off the table by a vote of 42-40.

  Stephen Douglas demands a roll call. He doesn’t oppose relocating from Vandalia, but his pride is wounded by the defection of a handful of Democrats and the success of a small band of Whigs. The vote holds as the roll is called, and the bill moves forward.

  That victory is met with another motion to table the bill. I hold my breath as the roll is called once more, and we win by a margin of nine. Momentum has turned in our favor. Nonetheless, when the amending game begins anew, I begin to fear our margin might collapse. I leap to my feet and move to table the bill until Monday, giving us time to shore up our support.