Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  Additional attempts to amend the bill are made when it comes up again, but those efforts are defeated by comfortable margins. On the final vote, we prevail 46-37. The capital will be relocated, but a joint session with the Senate is needed to determine where.

  When the Senate joins us to select the city for the new capital, Springfield heads the pack on the first ballot with thirty-five votes out of seventy-three needed. Vandalia and Peoria follow with sixteen each, Alton with fifteen, Jacksonville fourteen, and Decatur four. Five towns garner two or three votes each and nine get one. A quarter of Springfield’s votes come from counties that gained railroads in the internal improvements bill.

  On the second ballot, Springfield gains nine more votes, all of the new support coming from members who won railroads. The third ballot adds five more railroad votes to Springfield’s tally, and on the fourth ballot we reach the seventy-three needed to win.

  Ninian Edwards, the aristocratic Springfield legislator, hosts a celebration at Ebenezer Capps’ tavern near the State House. The tab totals $223.50, and the fare includes cigars, smoked and canned oysters, almonds, raisins, and fruit. Eighty-one bottles of champagne are consumed, as well. As a temperance man, I don’t participate in libations. I nibble on popcorn, peaches, apples, and bread. Stuart draws a round of laughter imitating my way of savoring apples. He clasps his forefinger and thumb around the equatorial part, points the stem toward his mouth, and bites.

  Edwards toasts my leadership in the successful endeavor. What began as a dull session gives me hope I may yet do something to leave my mark on the world.

  Despite the celebratory mood my thoughts turn to the resolution passed early in the session condemning abolitionist activities. My stomach knots whenever I consider its assertion that—the right to hold slaves as property is sacred to the slave-holding states. Having been little more than property once myself, the memories of injustice sting my back and pinch my flanks. Slavery sickens me, yet the Federal Constitution protects it, and nothing can be done except let it gradually die out. Even if my effort is little more than a token, I cannot say nothing.

  Before returning home, I seek out the other five House members who opposed the measure and ask them to join in a small protest—a letter dissenting to the resolution’s passage. Only Dan Stone agrees. We assert that “… the institution of slavery is founded on both injustice and bad policy; but the promulgation of radical abolitionist doctrines tends to increase rather than abate its evils ….”

  Our letter is entered into the record on March 5, the closing day of the legislative session—too late for anyone to take retribution against us by rescinding their votes naming Springfield as the new capital.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The heartache that consumed me on my departure for Vandalia last December has succumbed to numbness as I kneel at Annie’s grave in early March. “My dear Annie, John Stuart has offered me a partnership in his law office in Springfield.” Tears trickle down my cheeks. “It’s not that far away.”

  I recall the sweetness of her voice. She’s proud.

  A few weeks later I tie up Bill Butler’s horse to a post outside Springfield’s general store—Butler has loaned me the horse until I get settled. I step onto the wooden porch and stomp my feet to knock the dust off my boots. These streets probably get just as muddy as New Salem’s in winter.

  On entering the store, I’m greeted by a set of cordial blue eyes belonging to the man behind the counter. The young dandy asks, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m likely a hopeless case, but I’d be obliged for any help you can offer.”

  “New in town?”

  “From New Salem … but this is home now.”

  He takes out a quill and paper. “What can I do for you?”

  I set my saddle bags on the counter. “How much would a single bedstead cost?”

  He jots down a list. “You’ll need a bedstead, mattress, linens … that’ll be … seventeen dollars.”

  I scratch my head. “It’s probably cheap enough, but as cheap as it is, I have no money to pay you right now. You see, I came to town on a borrowed horse, and my only possessions are the clothes here in my saddle bags and a few law books.”

  He straightens up.

  My back tightens. “If you’ll credit me until Christmas … and my … my experiment here as a lawyer succeeds … I can pay you then.” I hang my head. “But if I fail in that … I’ll probably never be able to pay you.”

  “Joshua Speed,” he says, extending his hand.

  “Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Yes, I recognized you when you came through the door. Heard you give a speech when you were canvassing for votes.”

  “Was it a good one?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “It seems that taking on a small debt would be a hard pill for you. Here’s a suggestion that won’t cost you anything. There’s a room above with a large double bed. You’re perfectly welcome to share it with me, if you like.”

  I take my saddle bags and go up the narrow stairs where I find the room is exactly as he described. After dropping my things on the floor, I bound down the steps. “Well, Speed, I'm moved in.”

  He gives me a hardy handshake. “Whatever you need, just ask.”

  “There is one thing. I’m looking for a fellow I once met back in New Salem—a Negro man from the Caribbean Islands named Billy Florville. He’s a barber. Said he planned to settle here.”

  “Sure. Everyone knows Billy. You’ll find his shop across the square from where they’re building the new capitol.”

  A few minutes later I walk into Billy’s barbershop. On seeing me, he tosses the razor he’s been using into a bowl and plants his hands on his hips. “Well, if it isn’t the honorable Mr. Lincoln!”

  “Hello, Billy.”

  “Don’t tell me you come all the way from New Salem to get that mat of hair tamed?”

  I run my fingers through my tangled hair. “A haircut would be nice, but came mostly to say hello. Just moved to town. Got a room over the general store with a nice fellow named Speed.”

  Billy turns to his customer. “Mr. Lincoln is the best man I’ve ever known. Late one evening back in ’31 I’m approaching the little village of New Salem on foot when I run into this gangly fellow returning from a day of labor in the woods, carrying an axe on his shoulder. This being almost slave territory, I’m skittish at first. Before I know it, though, we fall into easy conversation—him being almost as good a storyteller as me.”

  I laugh. “Since I tell a few of your stories now, that puts us on level ground.”

  The customer laughs.

  “Anyways,” Billy continues, “when he finds out I’m a barber and about out of money, he takes me over to the tavern to cut hair for all the men boarding there. Next morn, with my pockets full of money, I set out for Springfield. Been here ever since.”

  When Billy finishes with his customer, he gives me a haircut and a steaming hot shave for free. “When you get to be a rich lawyer,” he says, “you start paying regular fare.”

  After leaving Billy’s place, I call on my new law partner John Todd Stuart. His office, an upstairs room less than a block from Speed’s store, is furnished with a small bed, a buffalo robe, a chair, a bench, and a shelf for books. When Stuart explains that our cases are mostly related to debts, I tell him, “I know a great deal about the subject.”

  He cocks his head. “If memory serves me, you certainly do. Calamities such as yours are the reason we fight against the Jackson men who want to kill the Bank.”

  “You’re right. The frontier customs must be changed for our state to grow. Both Billie Greene and Radford used the notes Berry and I gave them as currency. Back in New Salem, a good many folks exchanged notes that were made payable to the bearer. That way the notes could pass through several hands the same as money before they landed with someone substantial enough to convert them into bank notes. Since we were a good distance from the State Bank
offices, only the wealthiest men in the county did so.”

  Stuart nods. “That’s exactly how you wound up encumbered to Van Bergen who sued you for your horse and surveying tools. He became the bearer of your notes, and your horse was a suitable substitute for cash.”

  I spend a few weeks poring over cases to learn court procedures and applications of the law—what makes debts collectible or not. One well known law is that promises lightly made can become heavy burdens. I decide to deal with one such promise by writing Mary Owens. My first two attempts are only good for stoking the fire. One is too serious, the other not serious enough, and both are discarded before I’m half done.

  On the third try, I ask Speed to help me. He has a silver tongue when it comes to the ladies and tells me to play on her sympathies.

  I begin,

  Springfield is a rather dull place. I am quite as lonesome here as I ever have been anywhere.

  Speed reminds me that women like to treat their men as if they were children. I add,

  I have not yet been to church. I stay away because I do not know how to behave.

  He says, “That’s good. She’ll feel your very soul is at stake.”

  We laugh.

  I don’t discuss the next part with Speed. If I don’t give her an excuse for backing out, I’ll be honor bound to keep my promise. I must discourage her from coming—such as,

  Nothing would make me unhappier than failing to assure your happiness.

  He demands to see my letter, and I hand it to him.

  I know I would be much happier with you than without you, provided I saw no signs of discontent in you. What you have said to me about our future may have been in jest, or I may have misunderstood it. If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise, I much wish you would think seriously before you decide.

  For my part I have already decided. What I have said I will most positively abide by provided you wish it. My opinion is that you had better not do it. You have not been accustomed to hardship, and it may be more severe than you now imagine.

  He says she’ll be insulted, so I add:

  I know you are capable of thinking correctly on any subject; and if you deliberate maturely upon this, before you decide, then I am willing to abide your decision.

  I close by asking her to write me a good long letter and sign it:

  Yours, &c.

  LINCOLN.

  A few days after I post Mary’s letter, the Bank of Springfield runs out of gold and silver. My Whig friends and I are in a panic. People can no longer exchange their bank notes for coins. This puts the Bank in violation of its charter and means it must close down unless a remedy is found. If that happens, the bank notes folks use for currency will become worthless, and commerce will come to a halt. Internal improvement projects will be abandoned and our State’s growth will be jeopardized. Illinois’ Whigs have fought long against the Democrats whose chief aim has been to dissolve the Bank.

  That evening, Speed invites me to join him after hours at his store to discuss the matter with a handful of young men. When I walk in and see the chief Democrat, Stephen Douglas, sitting in the corner nursing a liberal pour of whiskey I glare at Speed. “How can we have an intelligent exchange with that bantam rooster strutting about, crowing?”

  Speed smirks. “At least he’s outnumbered.”

  His count is accurate. Besides Speed and me there are two other Whigs—a charismatic, London born orator Ned Baker, and Dr. Anson Henry who’s renowned for his ability to make bitter enemies more readily than warm friends. Douglas’ lone Democrat ally is John Calhoun—my old employer who consistently maintains the appearance of a man sucking on sour apples.

  Douglas knocks back a gulp of whiskey and takes the first swipe. “Well, gentlemen,” he says. “Your Bank’s foolishness has sealed its fate. After sixty days its charter will be suspended automatically. It’s as good as dead.”

  Douglas gloats while Baker counters. “You and your traitor friend, General Jackson, will boast with your dying breaths that you killed the Bank—him, the United States Bank, you, the State Bank. But just like he’s killing the country with his half-witted crusade, you’ll have killed the State of Illinois.”

  Calhoun, a calculating man, leans forward on his stool. “If the country dies, it will be because we didn’t end this paper money scheme long ago.”

  I unfold myself from my seat and loop my thumbs under my hand-knit suspenders. Douglas tries to mock me, but his body is so compact it hinges into only two pieces, while mine is said to fold in at least half-a-dozen places.

  I shake my head and rebut him as he sits back down. “Until little more than a month ago, tariffs and monies from land sales were flowing into the federal treasury like a springtime flood. Along with those revenues silver was coming into the country from Mexico and China in copious amounts. But suddenly cotton prices plummeted, and the flow of metals dried up.”

  Douglas leans back, holding his hands up as if surrendering. “So what happened?”

  I continue. “All was well until Jackson vetoed the National Bank’s charter and demanded people pay for land purchases in gold and silver. There was no money to fuel commerce. Now granted, he tried to fix the problem by taking the national bank’s capital and spreading it across the frontier—”

  Douglas bounds to his feet. “Where it did more good than it would have on Wall Street.”

  Baker leans forward, teetering on the edge of his seat. “How much of the gold and silver made it into the State Bank in Springfield?”

  Douglas laughs. “Jackson did right not sending it here. The Bank’s charter is unconstitutional.”

  Baker’s face reddens. “Jackson men favor state banks everywhere else in the country. Why is it that you Democrats here in Illinois want to kill our bank? The only reason is that its board is made up of Whigs.”

  Douglas laughs, “But, now that’s all moot, isn’t it? Without sufficient gold and silver in its vaults to redeem its notes, the bank’s charter is doomed.”

  Dr. Henry draws his deep-set eyes into narrow slits. “As is our state and its internal improvements.”

  “Jackson was a fool,” I say. “Britain’s bankers saw what was happening, so they raised their interest rates on loans to our eastern banks. Our banks in turn raised their rates, and merchants slowed their borrowing. Commerce came to a near halt.”

  Douglas jumps to his feet. “Thank you, Lincoln. You have made an argument in favor of the slave system. Now perhaps you will stop opposing it.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  He puffs out his chest. “Yes, cotton prices dropped because money became too expensive to borrow. Can you imagine how much worse things would be if planters had to pay wages for labor on top of everything else?”

  I glare at him. “That’s a different matter entirely. In the early days of the world, the Almighty said to the first of our race, In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread. But to eat bread from the sweat of another man’s brow is a sin. It can never be justified—at any cost.”

  Calhoun finally joins the fray. “Argue over your slavery differences some other time. The pertinent question is—what do you propose to do about this damned banking mess?”

  Douglas adds, “I hope you aren’t going to say President Van Buren should rescue the bankers who caused the problem by their imprudent and inflationary speculations.”

  Our debate rages into the night with no resolution, as if any should be expected. In arguing with Douglas, logic is as useless as casting pearls before swine.

  With the State Bank in jeopardy of losing its charter, the Bank commissioners ask the governor to convene a special session of the legislature. He responds by calling us into session on July 10. We’re to convene in Vandalia since the new capitol in Springfield is still being constructed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Vandalia, in spite of being in its final days as our state capital, displays confidence in every fashion when the coachman�
��s horn signals our arrival for the special legislative session in July 1837. The Cumberland Road is nearing completion, and surveying has begun on a new railroad line heading south to Jacksonville. Merchants are standing pat, giving no sign of quitting their posts, while builders work to complete the soon to be abandoned State House. Construction was in progress in March when the previous session ended.

  I turn to Ned Baker who’s replaced Dan Stone on the Sangamon County delegation. “This place reminds me of a condemned prisoner expecting the hangman’s noose will be cut from his throat at the last moment.”

  He shakes his head. “If you knew you were going to die at this time tomorrow, what would you do?”

  I stroke my chin. “Nothing different.”

  We overhear chatter in the hotel lobby that a handful of legislators, spurred by biting editorials in Vandalia’s newspapers, intend to repeal the relocation of our capital to Springfield. They are led on the floor by the aging former governor and United States Senator, William Ewing. Even though Douglas resigned from the legislature to take a plum job as Register of the Federal Land Office, he’s on hand to help marshal the Democrats in support of the repeal if the battle gets close.

  While Sangamon County’s delegation is slightly reconfigured, we have the same focus as always; save the Bank and cede no ground on relocation. If a skirmish arises on the relocation issue, we hope it comes early and we’re able to keep enough powder in reserve to fight a vigorous battle over the Bank. If the capital question comes up at the end of the session, however, we run the risk of having expended all of our goodwill while saving the Bank.

  We’re relieved, therefore, when Ewing’s bill comes up early: An Act to Repeal Certain Laws Relative to the Permanent Location of the Seat of Government of the State of Illinois. Then amendments are added to render the bill toothless, and we’re delighted. The bill’s passage has no effect, and we are fully armed for the Bank fight.