Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  He pats me on the shoulder and whispers, “Just follow my lead. When we take our seats, you’ll be sitting next to my half-sister, Mary.”

  I peek over at Mary. She’s noticeably older than Speed and me. The aunt whispers something to her, and both women glance sideways at me.

  I avoid their stares and scan the table. My stomach tightens at the array of implements lined up on either side of each plate. I whisper to Speed, “Why would a person require all of those to eat a single meal?”

  He shrugs.

  My temples begin to ache.

  During the meal, I mimic Speed’s every movement. I don’t as much as touch a fork or knife without noting which utensil he chooses and the precise manner in which he holds it. When he stops eating a portion, I lay my utensil aside and wait for the next to be served. Even when Mary or Mrs. Speed attempt to engage me in conversation, my eyes don’t wander far from their focus on Speed.

  After supper we take seats in the living room where Mary will entertain us playing the piano. Before Mary starts, Mrs. Speed comes beside me and puts a copy of the Oxford Bible into my hands. She expresses the pain she feels for my “extreme melancholy” and says, “Read it and you shall find all you need to bring happiness into your life. Adopt its precepts and pray for its promises.”

  I thank her and assure her I will do as she says.

  As Mary plays, my headache subsides.

  Speed leans toward me and whispers, “She composed that piece herself.”

  I turn to him and stare wide-eyed.

  He says that for many years his father sponsored a Bohemian composer named Anton Phillip Heinrich. At one point the musician lived at Farmington and worked on a collection of compositions; he made a great impression on Mary.

  I say quietly, “So that’s why she never married?”

  He nods. “She lost faith that anyone could fulfill her.”

  Will Molly lose faith in finding a suitable husband, as well? Have I proven that even a man who cherishes truth cannot be counted on to keep his word?

  When the music is over, Speed and I talk late into the night about his new life and love, and about my disastrous courtship of Molly. His side of our conversation is animated, full of hope. Mine is gloomy, dull. It’s a familiar pattern for us. One of us has always been lifting the other out of the depths of despair.

  At some point I say, “Doesn’t it bother you that this house was built on the backs of slaves who are not permitted to enjoy it? Even the draperies and tapestries—your fine clothes, as well—are stained by the sweat of those less fortunate than you.”

  He looks away. After a long silence he says, “I should be off to bed.”

  The next morning Speed and I go into the hemp fields to view his great economic machine at work. He tells me that at harvest time there are over a dozen plants per square foot, each more than twice a man’s height. He often gets three crops a year, sometimes four. Not much hoeing is needed either, since the plants are packed so tightly together they crowd out any weeds that might want to spring up.

  “So,” I say, pointing to a band of slaves who are singing as they roll up bales of hemp stalks. “Your ‘machinery’ down there doesn't have to work as hard as it might if you were growing cotton or tobacco.”

  He shakes his head. “We treat our slaves better than most. They’re far better off here than they would be if they were trying to make it in a white man’s world.”

  “It’s still like eating bread from the sweat of another man’s brow.”

  He shakes his head. “Friend, I invited you here to lift you out of your misery. Why don’t you forget about everything else and try to have some fun?”

  I shrug. “It’s hard to have fun while you’re watching men in a worse state than yourself.”

  He points to the field below at a chorus of dark-skinned men singing what sounds to be a merry tune. “Do they sound miserable to you?”

  I study the Negroes as they bind up the bales. After a moment I say, “Your brother said I could borrow some law books. Why don’t we go into town?”

  “If that’s what you want to do, certainly.”

  On our walk back to the house he adds, “Anytime you want, you’re welcome to talk to our slaves. Ask them for yourself whether they are happy here.”

  My trips to town to visit James Speed’s library become a regular affair. On one occasion, about two weeks after my arrival at Farmington, I look up Dr. Drake who gives me the interview he offered in his letter. He confirms my suspicion, the “little blue masses” of mercury relieve my “hypos” but they make me irritable. I should be more discreet in taking them.

  “The first step to happiness,” the doctor says “is simply getting out of bed each day, even if it is only out of an instinct to survive or out of a sense of duty. After that, one must keep sight of some great potential that lies in the distance and strive toward it as if little else matters.”

  “So there is hope that one day I shall be happy.”

  “That’s difficult to say. For some people happiness is not possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “Happiness isn’t the only goal of existence. Pain can be a precious gift. It may enable you to see the world as it truly is. If you don’t allow it to oppress you, you can use pain as a stepping stone to a degree of success that few are able to achieve. Even without happiness, you can still find fulfillment.”

  I hang my head. “One of the great frustrations of my life is that I haven’t yet discerned any great purpose to which I’ve been called.”

  “Relax,” he says. “That will come to you when the time is right. Until then, keep busy as much as Providence allows and take every opportunity to prepare for meeting the challenge when it comes.”

  I manage a faint smile. “I’ll do my best.”

  “And one more thing ….”

  I cock my head. “Yes.”

  “On this syphilis matter. If you did contract the disease, it seems that you passed the first phase without any difficulty.”

  I swallow. “I figured so much, but—”

  “You said the incident was a few years ago?”

  “Yes, about five.” I try to read his face.

  “You’ve had no other symptoms?”

  “Welts … a rash …”

  “Where?”

  I rub the backs of my hands and arms. “Here … and sometimes all over my back and down my legs.”

  He shrugs. “If it had been on your palms, you’d have reason to be concerned. What you had was likely an irritation of the skin from nerves, or from some external source.”

  When I leave, my step is more buoyant, as if a yoke has been lifted from my shoulders.

  That evening at supper another burden is lightened. For the first time, I use the silverware in the correct order, and don’t tip my soup bowl to scoop out the last drop of broth. My mood is so gay that while playing a game of hide-and-seek with Mary, I shut her in a closet to keep her from assaulting me. She scoffs at my complaint that she’s acting like a child rather than a woman of breeding.

  When at last I release her from “jail,” we laugh together, me harder than I have in a long time.

  A few days afterward, Speed takes me along with him to Lexington to meet Miss Fanny Henning, the sweet, raven-haired beauty he hopes to marry—even more beautiful than Mattie Edwards. Fanny is an orphan living with her uncle, John Williamson, an ardent Whig. Speed, now a Democrat, tries to tread lightly so as not to offend the old man, but the uncle nonetheless insists on talking politics. Their conversations become so lengthy that Speed never has enough private time with Fanny to propose marriage.

  During our visit, I wink at Speed and begin to engage Fanny’s uncle in political banter, pretending to be a Democrat. Our argument becomes so heated that the old man doesn’t notice Speed and Fanny slip away to be alone. An hour or so later when they return, the happy couple announces they are now engaged.

  I cannot say
that the remainder of my days at Farmington are filled with fun and hilarity. In the final week of my holiday, after spending the morning with James in his office discussing slavery issues, I see a local dentist to have a tooth extracted. The operation is a failure; the tooth’s nuisance is transformed into a debilitating pain. I can neither talk nor eat. Fortunately, Speed’s mother rescues me from my misery by serving me dishes of peaches and cream.

  After nearly four weeks at Farmington, Joshua and I leave together; he accompanies me as far as St. Louis. At about noon we board the steamboat Lebanon in the locks of the canal that I helped build over a decade ago. Aboard ship, a gentleman who has purchased twelve Negroes in different parts of Kentucky is transporting them to a farm in the South. They are chained together six and six.

  A small iron clevis is around the left wrist of each slave, and this is fastened to the main chain by a shorter one at a convenient distance from the others. The Negroes are strung together precisely like so many fish upon a trot-line. In this condition they are being separated forever from the scenes of their childhood, their friends, their fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters. Many are being torn from their wives and children, going into perpetual slavery in a region where it’s said the lash of the master is more ruthless and unrelenting than any other place.

  Yet amid all these distressing circumstances, they are the most cheerful and happy creatures on board. One, who was sold as punishment for having an over-fondness for his own wife, plays the fiddle almost continually while the others dance, sing, crack jokes, and play various games of cards. This they do all along as we steam southward. How true it is that “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” that He renders the worst of human conditions tolerable while He permits the best conditions to be nothing better than bearable.

  Two months later my step-brother John chastises me by letter for failing to aid Father, who’s experiencing financial distress. Presumably, he addresses only the immediate case. Otherwise, he proves the point I often make when such requests are made, that Father’s suffering is a permanent condition arising out of the old man’s indolence. Of course, John always meets my objection by telling me, in all honesty, he is pleading on Mama’s behalf. He insists that I should be eager to help, considering all she has done for me.

  I argue with myself that my debts are too large to allow me to be of any help. Besides, I have already given him twenty-one years of indenture, which should have been enough. Nonetheless, I saddle up Old Tom and ride off to Coles County for—as everyone will say—a long overdue trip. I resolve along the way not to spend a single night under Father’s roof.

  Before going inside to greet Father, Mama and I visit in the yard, catching up on news and reminding her of how deeply I love her. She tells me that Father’s health and strength are failing and that I should “treat him gently.” My memory wanders back to the iron hand with which he beat me and took my wages during my boyhood.

  When Mama and I step inside, Father’s advanced years are evident in his slouched posture and drawn face, but he’s far from death’s door. He greets me with his usual scowl. “Was beginnin’ to think I’d never see you again.”

  I clench my teeth, refusing to argue with him.

  He stays seated at the table. “Hope yer not plannin’ on givin’ me one of your speeches.”

  I furrow my brow. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Why’s ya come?” He shifts in his seat.

  “John said you have a proposition.”

  He looks away. “You could say that.”

  I cock my head. “Well?”

  “Git right to the point, huh?”

  “Don’t see any reason not to.”

  He looks up at me. “Don’t want no charity.”

  I look away. “None offered.”

  “Want ya to buy the farm.”

  I laugh. “What do you expect me to do with it?”

  “Nothin’. Just buy it. It’s yours for two hundred.”

  I pull out a chair and sit. “On one condition.”

  He looks down at the table and mutters, “I’m no child. Don’t need to be told how to run my life.”

  “The condition is that you and Mama will have the privilege of staying here as long as one of you is alive. We’ll put it in writing so there’s no chance anyone can kick you off if something happens to me.”

  He looks at Mama. “Fine.”

  “Fine, then.” I reach into my satchel for my writing implements. “I’ll draw up the document. We can sign it now, and I’ll send the money as soon as I get back to Springfield.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Speed marries Fanny on February 15, 1842, the same day Judge Bowling Green dies. Several days later, I step forward at the Judge’s Masonic burial to say the eulogy. Among those gathered are many friends he won with his jolly hospitality and good natured ways. My lips quiver, and tears roll down my cheeks. Others in attendance join in a sorrowful chorus as I stand silent, quaking. I loved him like a father.

  At the end of the singing, all is quiet. The only words I manage are, “I’m unmanned.” Still sobbing, I lumber away from the gravesite and make my way to Mrs. Green’s carriage.

  Memories of Judge Green’s funeral hang over me during the ensuing days as I prepare a speech for the Washington Society of Springfield. They’ll be gathering on the one-hundred and tenth anniversary of General Washington’s birth to celebrate recent progress in the Temperance movement. The opening portion of my speech is inspired by memories of the kind and unassuming persuasion by which Judge Green drew in and guided the most down-trodden and desperate men—especially young men like myself.

  Ned Baker, the London-trained orator, insists on hearing me read my speech the morning before the meeting. He leans back in his chair.

  My speech begins,

  In the recent past, the warfare against Intemperance has been erroneous. Its champions have been Preachers, Lawyers, and hired agents who suffer from a want of approachability.

  “Wait,” he says. “You’ll lose them at the very start. You can’t tell them they’ve done it all wrong. They’re celebrating achievements.”

  I shake my head. “These Washington Society men are different. Many are reformed drunkards, folks who acknowledge the old ways did not work. They embrace the same principles that Judge Green practiced.”

  Baker leans forward in his chair. “Surely, there’ll be some preachers, lawyers, and agents in the audience wanting to have their feathers stroked.”

  “Drunkards and dram-sellers don’t listen to the old champions. They know preachers advocate temperance because they’re fanatics, wanting a union of the Church and State. Lawyers argue for it out of pride and vanity, caring only to hear their own voices. Hired agents are concerned about their own salaries. But when a victim of intemperance appears before his neighbors, “clothed and in his right mind,” with tears of joy in his eyes, telling of the miseries once endured, his language is simple and logical. Few can resist him.”

  I start to pace. “Though I rarely tasted whiskey at all in my youth, I saw how Judge Green dealt with dram-sellers and drinkers. He knew they would shrink away from thundering accusations that they were the authors of all the vice and misery and crime in the land. Judge Green never shunned them.”

  Baker nods. “You have a point, but you’ll be giving this speech in a church. Not everyone is going to like it.”

  I stop pacing. “It is a reversal of human nature to do other than meet denunciation with denunciation. A drop of honey catches more flies than a gallon of gall. So it is with men. If you would win a man to your cause, first convince him you are his sincere friend.”

  He smirks. “You should take to your own counsel.”

  I wave off his criticism. “There’s a difference. The preacher, lawyer, and hired agent are free men who go about as they please without anyone’s help, while the drinker and the dram-seller are in self-imposed bondage. If we assume to dictate to the
ir judgment, or command their actions, or mark them as ones to be shunned and despised, they will retreat deeper within their inner prisons, closing all the avenues to their heads and hearts. Though your cause be the naked truth itself, even if it were as the heaviest lance—harder and sharper than steel can be made—and you throw it with more than Herculean force and precision, you shall no more be able to pierce them than to penetrate the hard shell of a tortoise with a rye straw.”

  Baker shakes his head. “I still think you’re going about this the wrong way.”

  Nonetheless, I deliver my address that evening pretty much as I have written it. I conclude by saying,

  In the temperance revolution, we shall find a stronger bondage broken, a viler slavery manumitted, a greater tyrant deposed than we did in that glorious Revolution of ‘76. And, what a noble ally Temperance can be to the cause of political freedom. With such an aid, freedom’s march cannot fail to go on and on until every son of earth shall enjoy perfect liberty. When the victory shall be complete—when there shall be neither a slave nor a drunkard on the earth—how proud will be that Land which may claim to be the birth-place and the cradle of both those revolutions.

  As I’m walking home after the meeting, an old preacher accosts me over my speech. “It is a shame,” he scolds, “that you should be allowed to abuse us so in the House of the Lord.”

  Despite the parson’s disapproval, I pull back my shoulders and lengthen my stride. Judge Green would have been proud of my speech.

  About late August, James Shields—a scrappy little Irishman noted for his arrogance and self-importance, who once was my peer in the legislature, and who is now Illinois’ State Auditor—institutes measures that prohibit the State from accepting its own paper money for the payment of taxes and other debts.