Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  He nods. “Yes.”

  I smile. “Good. Do you have a decent memory?”

  He straightens himself. “More than decent.”

  “I’m sure that must be. So, reckon everything was just the way you have said.”

  “Yes sir, exactly.”

  “You were in the room when my client shot Dr. Early?”

  His eyes widen. “Yes.”

  “Likewise you were present when the accused man, here, first spoke to the doctor and for the duration of their argument?”

  Jimmy shakes his head. “No … not from the beginning.”

  I look to the jurymen. “Oh … but you were there when Dr. Early rose out of his chair and picked it up?”

  “I was there when he picked it up, but not when he rose.”

  My eyes remain locked on the jurymen. “Reckon you saw everything pretty clearly from that point on?”

  “Yes sir.” There’s a hint of doubt in his voice.

  I turn and stare at him. “But not before?”

  His voice cracks. “Not before what?”

  “You didn’t see whether Dr. Early picked up the chair in a menacing way then set it down and picked it up again? Nor did you see Mr. Truett draw his pistol?”

  Jimmy glances at the jurymen, at the judge, then at me. “No, suppose not.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy.”

  On the third day of trial Judge Jesse B. Thomas, Jr.—a round-faced aristocrat with whimsical eyes—announces he’s ready for our summations. Douglas pops to his feet, slicking back his long, wavy mane, and puffing out his chest as if to accentuate his newly tailored black suit and the buttons on his brocaded silk vest. Strutting to a spot in front of the witness chair where his short frame is fully visible to the court, he pauses. His face is stern as he gazes at the jury.

  I glance down at my soiled shirt with frayed cuffs that protrude several inches beyond the sleeves of my faded jeans jacket.

  “Members of the jury,” Douglas says, his voice filling the room, “I’m honored to stand before you today to plead for justice on behalf of an American patriot—Captain Jacob Early, hero of the Black Hawk War.”

  He shakes his head. “Yes. Justice is what we seek here. Captain Jacob Early was gallant in battle. The bravest of the brave. A warrior. Defender of the weak. He answered duty’s call to protect our homes, our wives, and our children from a marauding band of savages. God preserved him on the field of battle.”

  He points to Truett. “However, this man put himself above the law, even above the will of the Almighty, and stole from us a dedicated servant, a physician, a healer. That man did wrong. He was merciless … and why?” He spreads his arms wide like a shepherd gathering his flock. “Over a petty argument. Out of resentment toward the Honorable Jacob Early who, in his best conscience, had discharged his duty as a public servant.”

  I survey the jurymen. Every eye is fixed on Douglas.

  Douglas points once more at my client. “Justice, good men of the jury, requires that this man Truett should be condemned in all righteousness to the same sentence he wrongly laid upon the head of our friend, our neighbor, our servant, Dr. Jacob Early.”

  At Douglas’ conclusion, I rise deliberately, but not so slowly that the jurymen miss seeing his dark mane flow below the plane of my shoulder before he takes his seat. Then I proceed to the short riser where the jury is seated and stop in front of Alex Trent. With one foot up on the edge of the platform, I lean forward, smiling, and gaze over the faces of the jurymen. “How do, folks?”

  Besides Alex Trent, four other jurymen are acquaintances of mine. The four smile back and nod.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. You’re what the old farmer calls the cream of the crop. More than twenty prospects were challenged peremptorily, and three-hundred were dismissed for cause.” I stand up straight and grin at Trent. “We were so short at the end that we had to take old Trent here.”

  Noticing that Trent’s face is a bit flushed I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mean to embarrass you. If I have, I beg your forgiveness.”

  Trent nods.

  Stepping back I say, “Now fellows, as I’ve already said, I knew Dr. Early quite well. Not at a distance like Douglas there. Captain Early and I wandered through the woods together for about a month, hunting for Indians.” I chuckle. “Of course, I think old Captain Early would be amused hearing Douglas make the whole thing sound like a lot of gallantry. See, truth is, we never saw even one Indian the whole time. Closest any of us got to getting wounded was accidentally shooting ourselves cleaning a musket.”

  The jurymen snicker, nodding to one another.

  “Now, I’m sure if the need had arisen, Captain Early would have been the bravest of the bunch, just as Douglas speculates. Kind of the way he speculates about the kind of man my client is.

  “By the way,” I say, turning and eyeing Douglas, “that was a fine speech he gave us, don’t you think? It’s one of the finest speeches I’ve heard him give, and I’ve heard quite a bit from him. He’s a dandy performer in the court room, and I’ve heard him make some impassioned pleas in the state legislature. Earlier this year, I got a healthy dose of his speech making when he was running against my partner John Stuart for the Congressional seat being vacated by Mr. Truett’s father-in-law.”

  I wink at the jurymen. “By the way, my partner won the contest by thirty-six votes out of thirty-six thousand.”

  George Tinsley, a juryman who campaigned for Stuart, grins back at me.

  “Douglas, here, sits around Speed’s General Store with a few of us most evenings trying to help us make sense of politics.” I snicker. “He hopes us knuckleheaded Whigs can be elevated to his higher way of thinking. In fact, there may not be another man in the State of Illinois who’s better at switching one principle for another or rearranging facts to fit his argument.” I shake my head, “I’m still trying to sort out this business of his that the law must bend with the times.”

  Douglas leaps to his feet. “Your honor,” he shouts.

  I wave to the judge. “Sorry for wandering off track.”

  Turning again to the jurymen, I continue. “Now, where were we? Oh yes. We were speaking of speculation. Well, what do you speculate was the reason Mr. Truett shot Dr. Early? Did he go to the Spottswood’s Hotel plotting to murder a man with whom he was quarrelling? If so, why would he do such a sinister deed in a public place? Why not lie in wait for him in some dark alley? Or, did his senses flee him in a moment of passion? I think not.”

  I take my time gazing at Truett, hoping the jurymen will consider him at length, as well. “Truett is a Democrat like Dr. Early was, and I might hold that against either of them, but I don’t. I know both well. If anyone was prone to losing his temper or capable of a brash act, it would be Dr. Early. Anyone who knew him would agree. Truett, though, is a principled man.”

  I hook my thumbs under my fraying suspenders. “I submit to you that Henry Truett, a gentle man, was afraid for his life. Dr. Early was much larger and certainly capable of crushing another man’s skull with the chair that he had lifted high in the air in a threatening manner.” I raise my hands over my head as if gripping a chair and bringing it down forcefully in front of me.

  Peering up at the jurymen I say, “Now I ask you to put yourselves in Henry Truett’s shoes. He’d been slighted, and according to good references, the deceased had been the author of his abuse. Dr. Early admitted his offense then demanded to know who had betrayed him. When Mr. Truett refused to name the traitor, the doctor became belligerent, picked up a heavy chair, and wielded it in a manner which instilled in Truett genuine mortal fear.”

  I point to my client. “Henry Truett did what any logical man would do. Fearing for his life, he drew his pistol and fired a single shot to stop—not to kill—his assailant. Unfortunately, Mr. Truett missed his intended target—the victim’s shoulder—and the ball pierced a lung instead.”

  I look into each juryman’s eyes. “If you wer
e in the same circumstance as Mr. Truett, here, what would you have done? Or, if you came upon a loved one under attack, in mortal jeopardy …” I hold out my hand, imitating a pistol “… would you not draw any weapon at your disposal in their defense?”

  After my summation, the twelve men of the jury deliberate for forty minutes before returning a verdict of “Not Guilty.”

  I slough off praise from Truett and Logan for my “brilliant” summation, telling them, “It was merely simple logic given to simple folks who knew the right thing when it was laid before them.”

  Douglas walks up behind me and snarls, “Defending oneself as a justification for murder? Sounds like bending the law to suit your whims, if you ask me.”

  Logan scowls. “No one asked you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  In December 1838, the legislature convenes at Vandalia for the last time before the capital moves to Springfield. I still miss Annie. One person I don’t miss though is Stephen Douglas. He left the legislature a year ago to become Register of the Springfield Land Office, earning a handsome salary while still maintaining his law practice.

  Most evenings after supper, I hang out around Vandalia’s taverns, swapping stories and jokes with anyone who will indulge me. Laughing distracts me from a small voice in my head. Later, when I lie in my too-short bed, unable to sleep, the voice comes at me like a gale, howling “Your foolishness drove her to the fever.” When I hide my head under the pillow it murmurs, “Your love doomed her, just like the others.” Then it scolds, “You’ll never amount to anything special.”

  As much as possible I let busyness numb me so the voice is little more than a rustling in my ears.

  John Calhoun, my former employer when I was a surveyor, puts a resolution before the House which has three parts—the first advises the Federal Congress that slavery should not be abolished in the nation’s capital, the second expresses the sentiment that new slave states ought to be admitted, and the third declares measures that grant equal rights to Negroes “unconstitutional.” I join with the majority in opposing his motion.

  Another resolution advises Congress that the abolition of slavery in Washington City is unwise, unconstitutional, and inexpedient. I vote for the measure, which passes after an amendment to strike the word “unconstitutional” is adopted.

  I also support a bill levying taxes on the property of Illinois citizens. The old law taxes only citizens of other states who own property within our borders. However, when those aliens sell their properties to our own citizens, our revenues decline. We cannot afford to lose those funds. The new law also extends the definition of property to include slaves and servants of color.

  After we vote on the taxation measure, a novice legislator from the southern part of the state sits next to me at supper. He suggests I must chafe over the idea of labeling slaves as property.

  I furrow my brow. “Why would you say such?”

  “Because you’re reputed to be a rabid abolitionist.”

  “Reputed by whom?”

  “Why, nearly everybody in my county.”

  I stand to my full height and stare down at him. “I consider myself a man of moderation, which means abolitionists count me as an enemy. They can’t abide the truth that the Constitution protects the rights of slave owners to own slaves.”

  “So you approve of slavery?”

  “I think not. When I was a boy, my father sent me out to labor in the fields for anyone who’d pay as much as ten-cents a day. Only thing was, Father kept all my wages. It’s unjust for a man to feed from the sweat of another man’s brow … and Negroes are men.”

  He hooks his suspenders with his thumbs. “Our forefathers owned slaves. Are you saying Washington and Jefferson, as well as others, were unjust men?”

  I scratch my head. “You ask a knotty question. Reckon it’s one I shall have to work on unraveling.” It’s a question that’s perplexed me for a long time.

  At the conclusion of the session in early May, I’m handed a letter from a constituent protesting my vote supporting the property tax measure. Before boarding the coach for Springfield I write a quick reply.

  The passage of a Revenue law at this session is right within itself. It does not increase the tax on the “many poor” but upon the “wealthy few” by taxing only land that is worth $50 or $100 per acre. This valuable land belongs, not to the poor, but to the wealthy citizen.

  If the wealthy should, regardless of the justness of the law, complain, it should be remembered that they are not sufficiently numerous to carry the election.

  My hasty departure from Vandalia is on account of four cases that demand my presence at the Sangamon County Circuit Court in Springfield in the morning.

  In late September I ride my horse “Old Tom” out onto the newly formed Eighth Judicial Circuit. Along the trail, I plod through lonely prairies and woods with little to occupy my mind except lamenting over Annie’s death. I often take off my hat and pull out a copy of Shakespeare’s Richard III that I always carry with me. The opening soliloquy always captures my attention.

  But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

  Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

  I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty

  To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

  I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

  Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

  Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time

  Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

  And that so lamely and unfashionable

  That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

  Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

  Have no delight to pass away the time,

  Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

  And descant on mine own deformity:

  And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

  To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

  I am determined to prove a villain

  And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

  I take leave from the Circuit in early November to tend the office in Springfield while Stuart is away for the Congressional session in Washington City. I make an entry in our ledger book, Beginning of Lincoln’s Administration. A month later I’m admitted to practice before the United States Circuit Court. All the extra work keeps my mind off matters that would otherwise oppress me.

  One night during the first week of December, our regular gathering around the stove at Speed’s store turns ugly. Billy Herndon breaches the political boundary once more. He accuses Democrats and the Governor of trying to kill both the State Bank and the Internal Improvements Program. Gossip coming out of the recently adjourned Democrat’s state-wide convention and the governor’s call for a special session are the bases for his charges.

  When Ned Baker takes Billy’s side, Stephen Douglas, still sour over his loss to Stuart, challenges the lot of us to three days of public debates. Of course, he doesn’t take us on single-handed. He’s reinforced by the best of the Democratic Party’s orators.

  I make the opening speech, and my friend John Calhoun is chosen by the Democrats to rebut me on the following Saturday. I’m at the podium again the day after Christmas to offer the Whig summation. When I attack the astounding expenses amassed under the alleged fiscal conservatism of General Jackson’s and Mr. Van Buren’s administrations, Douglas and his friends squirm in their seats. A chorus of boos erupts when I point out that during the last ten years the federal government has spent more money than it did the first twenty-seven.

  I also take aim at the Democrats’ proposed Sub-Treasury system under which the government’s hard currency and notes would be kept in the Treasury Building in Washington City, though some would be doled out to sub-treasurers at branch offices located in various cities around the country.

  Douglas and his men begin murmuring when I complain the system will reduce the quantity of money in general circ
ulation, greatly increasing the troubles faced by merchants and the poor. “Giving money over to the Sub-Treasurer would be like asking Judas to carry the purse for the Savior and his disciples. If we know anything about human nature, we must consider that self interest will often prevail over duty, and that the Sub-Treasurer might well prefer opulent knavery in a foreign land to honest poverty at home.”

  I hope a stylish young lady who’s seated in the second row of the auditorium is as impressed as the gleam in her eye suggests. Her apparent interest in politics is somewhat out of the ordinary, since women don’t have the privilege of voting. Afterward when I inquire of Speed whether he knows the girl, he tells me her name is Mary Todd, called Molly by her family. She has recently left her father’s home in Lexington to live with her sister Lizzie Edwards, wife of the aristocratic Whig Ninian Edwards. She is also a cousin to my law partner John Todd Stuart.

  A few evenings later, Speed insists I go along with him to a Christmas dance. He says all the eligible girls will be attending. I argue that no self-respecting girl would have a second glance at me, and if she did I would be inclined to question her judgment. He presses me nonetheless, and I eventually agree, but with trepidation.

  Near the end of the dance, Speed drags me to a circle of girls to introduce me to Miss Todd. As we navigate the waltzing couples, he warns me that behind her vivacious, society girl charm lurks a temperamental streak. My mouth is dry as I rehearse in my head what I should say to her.

  By the time Speed whispers in her ear and they glance in my direction, perspiration dampens my collar as well as the rest of my shirt. Her blue-gray eyes and short stature remind me of my sister Sally, though her frame is slightly plump, rather than muscular.

  She smiles … then greets me in French.

  I stutter, “Miss Todd, I want … to dance … with you in the worst way.”

  When she consents, delight and fright collide within me, and as the dance ensues, my delight gives way to embarrassment, and my fright stumbles into horror. I teeter with each step, and my foot lands on hers so often my face grows hot. By the end of our waltz, my shirt sticks to my skin. My only salvation is that it’s covered by my black suit coat.