Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  Miss Todd looks up at me and wrinkles her nose. “Why Mr. Lincoln, it seems you have succeeded.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Succeeded?”

  She giggles. “Why, yes. You’ve danced with me in the worst possible way.”

  My shoulders droop. “I’m sorry.”

  She comes close and peers up into my eyes, smiling. “Don’t let it bother you. It didn’t bother me.”

  “Sorry, dances make me nervous.”

  “Mr. Lincoln,” she says. “There are more important things in this world than dancing. I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

  My throat tightens. “Thank you, Miss Todd.”

  “Please, call me Molly. All my friends do.”

  My heart races. “Yes, Molly. May I call on you this Saturday?”

  She curtsies. “Saturday will be fine.”

  I nod. “Best be going, now.”

  She frowns. “Must you?”

  Shadows of past heartaches warn me not to linger. “Yes, I truly must.”

  When Speed returns from the party, he rustles me awake. “Tell me. How did it go with Molly?”

  I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Uh … let me sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  He shakes me harder. “No. You’ll tell me now.”

  I sit up and rake my fingers through my hair.

  Speed plants his hands on his hips. “Well?”

  “She said I danced in the worst possible way.”

  He laughs. “Is that all?”

  “No,” I draw my knees up to my chest. “She said I can call on her this Saturday.”

  “Good job.” He clutches my shoulder. “So we’ll have to get your suit spruced up … and you’ll need to get her some kind of winter nosegay ….”

  I rest my chin on my knees, frowning. “I’m not sure this is all such a good idea.”

  Speed sits on the bed, crossing his legs in front of him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What could she possibly see in me?”

  “True,” he says. “You’re not much to look at. Maybe she’s desperate.”

  “Exactly right.”

  “Is she pregnant?”

  I glare at him. “Another fella’s child could never be ugly enough to fool anyone.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Look. You’re not so ugly as you think—and you have great qualities. You’re funny, clever, and most of all, there’s not a man alive who can match your intelligence.”

  I look down. “You forget one big problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  My eyes mist over. “Supposing she loves me, and I love her. She’ll likely die and break my heart.”

  He rubs my head. “You’ve had some bad knocks, but that doesn’t mean life is always going to bite you.”

  “I want to believe that … but I’m afraid to.”

  Speed gets up and starts changing into his bedclothes. “Let’s get some sleep. Maybe things will look better to you in the morning.”

  The following Saturday I walk over to Ninian Edwards’ two-story brick mansion. A dozen frontier cabins could fit comfortably within its interior. When I first came to live in Springfield, Speed would bring me here for Sunday afternoon soirees. Later, Ninian sought appointment by the State Assembly as Attorney General, and I voted for him. Two years after that he showed up in Vandalia as part of Sangamon County’s delegation; he was a dutiful Whig.

  Reputed for his vanity and hot temper, he’s not well liked. However, his father, a former governor, wielded a great deal of power that he passed on to his son. Most men tolerate Ninian’s arrogance in hopes of tapping into the Edwards’ wealth and influence. The womenfolk swarm over him, attracted by his dashing figure and social position. He’s quick at reminding me he’s my elder by two months.

  Andy, the Edwards’ Negro butler, answers the door and ushers me to the parlor. After a few moments, Ninian’s wife Lizzie, a dainty, well-bred young woman, joins me in the parlor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lincoln, but my husband isn’t home.”

  “That’s quite all right,” I fidget with the brim of my hat. “I told your fellow, Andy, I came … to call on … uh … Miss Todd.”

  She screws up her face. “Molly?”

  “Yes, Miss Molly.”

  She gestures to the black horse-hair sofa. “I’ll be just a minute.”

  I remain standing as she walks off.

  While I’m left waiting, a tickle irritates my throat. It won’t go away. I glance around for something that might help. A small table across the room holds a vase with a nosegay of evergreens. I stare at it for a moment, mulling whether a sip of water might offer some relief. Before I can make up my mind to do so, Miss Todd and her sister Lizzie appear at the doorway. I let out an unrestrained cough. “Excuse me.”

  Lizzie scowls.

  Molly’s lips curl into a coy smile.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Until the legislative session adjourns in late January, Molly and I spend little time together. It’s probably for the better. Melancholy has been my constant companion for weeks, and if she saw that side of me, I’m sure she wouldn’t fancy me as much as I’m told she does.

  The Democrats buried the program of internal improvements—passing a resolution to suspend construction of new bridges, railroads, dams, and canals. Even those projects which have been completed are required to halt operations until more capital is available. Nothing can be done about it until we reconvene, so I’ll try to put the dreary business out of my mind and put on a more cheerful face.

  I walk six long blocks to the Edwards’ mansion, bracing against a bitter wind. The butler answers the door, and Lizzie, standing behind him, rolls her eyes. She calls over her shoulder in an icy tone, “Molly, it’s Mr. Lincoln.”

  “Good day, Lizzie,” I say.

  She says nothing and points to the parlor.

  It takes Molly only a minute to join me on the horse-hair sofa. We both look over at Lizzie standing in the hallway.

  Lizzie scowls back at us, her hands on her hips. I turn to Molly with a quizzical look. Lizzie tosses her head back and walks away.

  I say to Molly. “What’s your sister in a huff about?”

  “My high-and-mighty brother-in-law lectured me after you came calling. He doesn’t want me to give my attentions to the likes of a fellow so ‘rough cut.’” She looks down. “He’d rather see me keeping company with the ‘Little Giant’ Douglas.”

  “I see.”

  “You know, he’s quite incensed about not being re-nominated by the Whigs for a seat in the legislature. He’s talking about joining the Democrats.”

  I look out the window beyond the snow covered lawn. A bank of storm clouds is gathering on the horizon. “It seems he’s intent now on carrying a grudge against all of us Whigs.”

  She takes my hand. “Maybe we should tread lightly. We can exchange letters, and when you have time to call on me, we can meet somewhere private.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry I’ve been scarce lately. The session got brutal toward the end.”

  “I understand.”

  “You know, I’m going to be away an awful lot. There’s the Circuit coming up, the law office where I’m canoeing up river without a paddle thanks to your cousin Stuart’s re-election campaign, and the national campaign coming up in the fall.”

  She gazes out the window. “You’re worth waiting for.”

  I shake my head. “Why is that?”

  She beams. “Why, haven’t I told you? You’re going to make me Mrs. President some day.”

  I laugh. “You have quite an imagination.”

  In early April, Speed and I are preparing to turn in for the night when we hear a loud, persistent knocking on the store’s front door. We pull on our trousers and scramble downstairs.

  On opening the front door, we find Speed’s older brother James, his face drawn, eyes sagging and bloodshot. He’s travelled all the way
from Louisville.

  Speed grabs his brother’s arm. His voice is pitched as he says, “What is it?”

  I can’t imagine the news is anything good.

  James clutches Speed’s shoulder. “It’s Father.”

  Speed’s eyes widen. “What of Father?”

  “He’s dead,” James whispers.

  Speed shrinks back. “Dead? How?”

  James shakes his head. “Fever.”

  Speed throws his arms around James and buries his face in his brother’s chest. Both men sob.

  After their sobbing subsides, I guide James inside and find both of them chairs to sit in. Then I stand away from them to give them space to grieve.

  After James explains the sudden illness that took their father, he helps his brother pack to leave for the family’s Farmington estate near Louisville. Speed wants to start out right away.

  As they climb in James’ buggy I ask Speed, “How long will you be gone?”

  He glances at his brother.

  James looks at me. “That’s hard to say. We’ll be talking about that along the way.”

  During Speed’s absence, my mood is dark, and memories of winter chills riddle my bones, despite the warming weather. I bury myself in work.

  Weeks later, when Speed returns, his normally bright eyes are dull, and his face is drawn. His countenance is not solely from mourning.

  My chest tightens. “It’s good to have you back.”

  He stares blankly into the horizon. “They want me to move back. To take over the plantation.”

  “What about James? He’s the elder.”

  “His law practice is too lucrative to abandon. They say it’s time for my frontier adventure to come to an end. My place is Farmington.”

  My heart races. “You don’t want to go, do you? You’d be a slave master.”

  “Not sure it’s about what I want. I’m about duty.”

  “There has to be another way. You don’t have any duty to become a slave master.”

  “It’s my father’s legacy.”

  Welts rise on my back where Father used to whip me. I mutter under my breath, “Damn our fathers. Why are we bound to their legacies?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing worth repeating,”

  We stand in silence for a moment, then I ask, “How long before you leave?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What’ll you do with the store?”

  “Sell it, I guess.”

  I gaze at him. He shakes his head. “I’m not even sure I’m going back.”

  “Do you have to decide right away?”

  He furrows his brow. “Don’t know. Need to go upstairs—I’m tired.”

  I don’t wait long for Speed to make up his mind about leaving before I seek out new lodging. William Butler, an old friend from New Salem who loaned me his horse when I removed to Springfield, is now Clerk of the Sangamon County Court. Speed and I have taken meals with him and his family most evenings since they moved here, and now he offers to rent me a large room in his spacious home.

  When I tell Speed of my plans to move in with the Butlers, he insists on joining me. My room will be bigger than the loft we’ve been sharing. On top of that, he’ll be able to tout our old living quarters as extra storage space. I agree, though a twinge in my chest complains that I’ll be abetting his plans to return to Farmington.

  On a sweltering July evening the Courthouse in Springfield is packed with folks who’ve come to hear candidates make pitches for votes. Judge Jesse B. Thomas, Jr., who presided over the Truett murder trial, is one of the Democrats running for the legislature.

  In an eloquent fashion fitting his refined manners, Thomas accuses members of the Sangamon delegation of chicanery and swapping votes for favors. When he finishes, I take the podium and exaggerate his voice and gestures, caricaturing his walk as I pace the stage.

  I point to Thomas. “He says Sangamon County men are devious, underhanded.”

  Whigs in the audience snicker.

  I spit out seemingly odious words as if they have a bitter taste. “They compromise. Vote for railroads and canals that are certain to bring greater prosperity to our state. What do they receive in exchange?” I wag my finger in the air. “Votes—votes to make Sangamon County the center of banking and power.” I turn my thumbs down.

  Others join the Whigs, roaring their approval.

  Pointing to Thomas again, I mimic his voice, chanting, “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

  Many in the crowd look at Thomas and echo, “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

  I say, “Thomas, here, has been soft on the scoundrels. Surely he should have turned them over to the sheriff as thieves. After all, they must have robbed the other politicians of their votes. How else would our legislators have voted for the Internal Improvements bill? Surely, no honest politician would have supported better transportation systems, more efficient commerce, and prosperity for the average man.”

  With a host of folks laughing, heckling him, and calling him names, Thomas bolts from the arena. Someone calls out from the back of the hall, “Lincoln’s made the old fellow cry.” Hearing that, I chase down Thomas to make my apologies. Of late, my head is ruled by gloom, jealousy, and resentment. It is I who should be ashamed. I shall never again go to such an extreme in attacking an opponent.

  The next day, after winning re-election, melancholy continues to taunt me. It would overwhelm me except for nine cases pending before the Illinois Supreme Court that require my attention. The national election three months hence also occupies me.

  I’d rather the Whigs had nominated Henry Clay, the Senator from Kentucky for president. He’s my ideal candidate. Every Whig heart should burn with the same zeal that he has for our country’s prosperity and glory. We are proof to the world that free men can prosper.

  Mr. Clay’s predominant sentiment, from first to last, is a deep devotion for the cause of human liberty, a strong sympathy with the oppressed everywhere, and an ardent wish for their elevation. He believes the elevation of the oppressed must be gradual. Otherwise freedom, if not all of civilization, would be crushed by the force of such drastic change. I concur.

  Instead of Clay, we nominate William Henry Harrison to block Democrat Martin Van Buren from winning a second term as president. I crisscross the state making speeches on Harrison’s behalf. In my speeches, I try to turn Illinois voters against Van Buren by criticizing his advocacy of reckless polices being debated in his home state of New York. He supports laws allowing free Negroes to vote and slaves to testify against white men in court.

  Upstate abolitionists accuse me of being pro-slavery. I reply, “I am by nature opposed to slavery, but I agree with Senator Clay. Equality of the races is too abrupt of a change.”

  The down-state slavery sympathizers complain I’m a friend of abolition. I try to reassure them that the slave system is safe, though wrong. “It is protected by the Constitution which makes the Negro lesser than the White in terms of franchise.”

  Neither side is appeased, nor do my efforts have much effect on the outcome. The Democrat Van Buren wins our state’s Electors, but Harrison becomes the first Whig to be elected president.

  In late November, when I return from campaigning for the national ticket and traveling the judicial Circuit, I call on Molly. Her face is aglow when she comes into the Edwards’ parlor to greet me. Lizzie hovers out in the hallway, pursing her lips and glaring at the bouquet of flowers in my hand. She’s shadowed by a willowy, blue-eyed girl, whose golden hair reminds me of Annie. Her features, though, are more like those of a goddess than a frontier girl.

  “Mr. Lincoln,” Molly says. “I’m so delighted you’ve come. Won’t you have a seat?” She leads me to the sofa.

  “Oh … yes, thank you.” I take my seat and glance at the girl. Her beauty captivates me.

  Molly puts one hand to her mouth. “My goodness, pardon my rudeness.” She motions for the girl to join us
in the parlor. “Mr. Lincoln,” Molly says, “this is my cousin, Matilda. Her father is Cyrus Edwards. I’m sure you know him; he’s a Senator from Alton, and young Mattie has come along with him for the legislative session.”

  I stand and nod. “Miss Edwards, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Mattie curtsies and smiles. “Call me Mattie. Everyone else does.”

  I look down at the flowers in my hand. “Oh, Molly.” My face warm with embarrassment. “These are for you.”

  She touches my hand as she takes the bouquet. “Why, thank you. You shouldn’t have.”

  Molly smiles at Lizzie. “Thank you for showing Mr. Lincoln in. I’m sure he has many things to tell me about his exploits on the campaign trail and the Circuit.”

  My eyes are drawn again to Miss Mattie, her supple figure swaying as she follows Lizzie into the hallway.

  Molly sits next to me, folding her hands in her lap. “I enjoyed every one of your letters while you were away.”

  I look down and pinch the creases in my trousers. “I enjoyed yours as well.”

  “Did you mean what you said about making future plans?”

  “Oh …” I glance toward the hallway, then look back at Molly. “Yes. It seems to me the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing?” she says, pursing her lips.

  “Yes, the right thing because of our feelings.”

  “Precisely what feelings are you referring to?”

  I press my palms onto my legs. “Why … uh … feelings of love, I reckon.”

  She raises her voice. “You reckon?”

  “I reckon for sure.”

  “Then you mean you love me?”

  “Yes, I love you.”

  A smile unfolds across her face. “And I love you, Mr. Lincoln.”

  I slide off the sofa and kneel in front of her. “Molly, will you marry a poor, homely fellow such as me?”