Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  In response I publish an anonymous letter in The Sangamo Journal under the name of “Rebecca,” lampooning Shields as:

  … a ballroom dandy, floatin’ about on the earth without heft or substance, just like a lot of cat-fur after a cat fight.

  I also poke fun at his vanity, an air which puts off many of the young ladies, and quote him as saying,

  Dear girls, it is distressing, but I cannot marry you all. It is not my fault that I am so handsome and so interesting.

  My letter creates a stir across the county, sending Shields into near apoplexy. It also prompts an unknown contributor to join in on the fun and write Aunt Rebecca’s humble apology for my first letter. In the “apology,” which is published in the next edition of the Journal, Aunt Rebecca offers to let Shields squeeze her hand for satisfaction. She goes on to say,

  If the offense against Mr. Shields cannot be resolved so easily, I expect to take a lickin’.

  Now, I have all along expected to die a widow; but, as Mr. Shields is rather good-looking than otherwise, I must say I don’t care if we compromise the matter by—I can't help blushin’—but I must come out with it—well, if I must, wouldn't he—maybe sorter—let the old grudge drap if I was to consent to be his wife?

  I know he is a fightin’ man and would rather fight than eat; but isn't marryin’ better than fightin’, though the two sometimes run together. And, I don’t think I’d be sich a bad match; I’m not over sixty, and am just four feet three in my bare feet, and not much more around the gerth.

  Maybe I’m countin’ my chickens before they’re hatched, and dreamin’ of matrimonial bliss when the only alternative reserved for me may be to take a lickin’.

  I’m told the way these fire-eaters do it is to give the challenged party the choice of weapons. Well if given that choice, I’ll tell you now, I never fight with anything but broomsticks or hot water, or a shovelful of coals or some such thing.

  I will give him a choice in one thing, though, and that is whether I shall wear breeches or he petticoats, for I presume this challenge is sufficient to place us on an equality.

  Shields brandishes a pistol, threatening the Journal’s bespectacled publisher, Simeon Francis, and demands to know who authored the letters. Francis, who regards me as family, asks Shields for a day to sort out the matter. When Shields agrees, Francis rides out to Alton where I’m on the Circuit to ask what he should do.

  “You know full well that this is none of my doing,” I say.

  He hesitates. “Yes, but here’s the sticky thing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Molly.”

  “Molly? What about Molly?”

  “She’s the one who wrote it.”

  I clutch my forehead. “Molly?”

  “Yes, Molly.”

  “What do you expect me to do? We haven’t spoken for a year.”

  “Just thought you should know … in case….”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Did she send you?”

  “No. Thought you might want to do something, though.”

  I shake my head. “You did the right thing.”

  He wipes his spectacles with a kerchief.

  “Look. Here’s what we should do. Tell Shields it was me, but say nothing to Molly. Do you understand?”

  “I will do that, but Shields is furious.”

  “Well, reckon I owe it to Molly. After all, it was rotten of me to go back on my word. I feel as though I’ve lost the best part of my character. Maybe taking the blame for her will help me gain part of that back.”

  The next day when Shields hears from Francis, he makes tracks to Alton and hands me a written challenge to a duel.

  After reading his complaint, I apologize.

  He wags his finger up in my face and complains of the great personal injury I’ve caused him.

  I say, “What I wrote was purely for political effect and meant nothing personal.”

  “You insulted my character as a man,” he insists.

  “I intended no such thing.” I write out my apology and give him permission to publish it in any manner he chooses.

  He crumples the paper and throws it to the ground then grinds it with the heel of his boot. “I have challenged you to a duel to the death, and I intend to defend my honor as a man.”

  “If you wish, but it is my prerogative to set the conditions for our fight.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “I have no mind to tinker with such customs.”

  “Very well.” “When I have written my terms, they will be delivered by my second.”

  Shields raises his chin. “He can give them to General Whiteside on my behalf.”

  Later in the evening, I write out the instructions for our duel. We will use cavalry broad swords. A line will be drawn between us, and if either of us should pass a foot over it, he shall forfeit his life. A boundary will also be drawn behind each of us, exactly the length of the broad sword plus three feet, giving me the advantage of my superior reach. Finally, Shields shall choose a time and place which is to be on the Missouri side of the river.

  Even though Shields is given one more chance to accept my apology, he declines. Consequently, on the appointed day we meet on Sunflower Island on the Missouri side of the river.

  As I stand back from the center line, my mouth is parched. The guilt I will bear for taking a man’s life already weighs on me. I pray that Providence chooses to take me instead, even though I have made it impossible for the fates to intervene.

  Looking up toward the heavens, I see above Shields’ head, out of his weapon’s reach, a drooping sycamore limb. I take a practice slice with my blade and lop off the branch. It falls at his feet. Although he doesn’t immediately see that he is doomed by the superior length of my reach, his second, General Whiteside, rushes forward and convinces him to withdraw.

  Days after the aborted duel, Simeon Francis and his wife invite me to supper, a familiar custom so it gives me no cause for suspicion. Their ulterior motive becomes clear, however, when I enter the dining room and Molly looks up at me, smiling—just the way Father used to do when he found a fox in one of his traps.

  After a brief silence I say, “How do, Miss Molly?”

  “Quite well, Mr. Lincoln … and how are you?”

  “Reckon I’m more alive than I might have been.”

  She pats the empty seat beside her. “Please do sit. I’m so glad to have a chance to thank you for rescuing me from that pompous Mr. Shields.”

  I scratch my head. “After my bad manners on our last encounter, it was the least I could do.”

  Her smile dissolves. “Why Mr. Lincoln, you don’t owe me anything.”

  Before she can say more, Simeon breaks in. “We’re pleased to see you two on cordial terms again … and since we were in the middle of this Shields affair, so to speak, we thought, what better place than around our table for Miss Todd to express her gratitude?”

  “Thank you,” I say nodding to our hosts.

  The next two hours we engage in civil, at times pleasant, conversation. Molly’s charm is beguiling, and my only moment of ill ease comes when she reminisces about some of the gay time we enjoyed together.

  After Molly leaves I confide in Simeon that I have lost faith in my ability to keep the resolves I make. The manner in which I ended my engagement with Molly demonstrates I have lost the chief gem of my character. Until I regain it, I cannot trust myself in any matter of much importance.

  He encourages me to meet with her privately in their home where we can work on mending our relationship undisturbed by Molly’s meddlesome sister and brother-in-law. In fact, we meet several times in the weeks that follow, and while alone on a Wednesday evening in early November, we find ourselves entangled in a passionate romp.

  At the conclusion of the affair, she clutches me tight and whispers, “Tomorrow night. Yes, tomorrow night we shall marry.”

  I snap my head around and study her expressio
n. “Shouldn’t we make some kind of arrangements first?”

  She claps her hands; her face is flushed with delight. “Rev. Dresser can do the ceremony at his home. You’ll go to him first thing tomorrow.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “First thing?”

  She bats her eyes. “Before breakfast.”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  My shoulders droop on my way back to the Butlers after saying goodnight to her. If Speed were here, I could complain to him about the soup I’m in; once again, passion has led me to the brink of a dreadful consequence. Of course, his answer would be the same as he has written in his letters for nearly a year now. Molly and I make a perfect couple—I should grab her before the likes of Douglas snatches her away.

  The next morning I rap on the door of Rev. Dresser’s modest home. When he answers I peer into the kitchen and notice his family is still eating breakfast.

  “How can I help you?” he asks.

  I fidget with my hat. “Molly wants to get married.”

  “Excellent,” he says folding his hands as if in prayer. “Where?”

  “It’s to be a quiet affair. Miss Molly would like to do it here … tonight … without any public notice … if it’s not inconvenient.”

  He agrees. My fate is sealed.

  Moments later on my way to the courthouse, I cross paths with Ninian Edwards. After exchanging pleasantries, I tell him Molly and I will be married in the evening at Reverend Dresser’s home. A piece of me hopes he’ll object.

  “No,” he says.

  I cock my head.

  He pulls back his shoulders. “I am Molly’s guardian, and if she’s going to get married, no matter to whom, it will be done at my house. I shall go talk with Mrs. Edwards right away and make proper arrangements.”

  I force a smile. “Thank you. That’ll make the girl quite happy.”

  Later that morning, Molly comes to my office with the news that the Edwards have agreed to host the wedding in their home, but it must be postponed until the next evening.

  I put down the papers I’ve been studying. “What’s wrong with tonight?”

  “After Lizzie berated me for thrusting the wedding on her without enough notice to make the customary preparations, she snickered and said it was just as well—the Episcopal Sewing Society is meeting for supper in their home tonight. She said it is a convenience that dinner is already made.”

  Molly shakes her head. “I stamped my foot and said the arrangement is too cozy and entirely unsuitable. So the sewing society meeting will go on as planned, and the wedding is postponed until tomorrow night.”

  I glance at my papers. “Whatever you wish.”

  “Did you order the rings?”

  I look up at her. “I intend to do that shortly.”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “It would make me happy if you attended to it now.”

  I lay aside the papers and stand, offering her my arm. “Shall we?”

  At the Chatteron’s jewelry shop we order two gold bands. I ask the jeweler to inscribe hers with A.L. to Mary, Nov 4 1842. Love is Eternal.

  On Friday evening, November 4, 1842, as a few close friends and Molly’s family arrive at the Edwards’ mansion, black clouds send down a torrent of rain. The ensuing thunder rattles the doors and windows, and the storm reaches its crescendo at the precise moment we become husband and wife.

  Our first home is a two room apartment over the Glove Tavern. Soon after we move in, I strut around like a peacock, broadcasting the news that Molly is expecting our first child. It doesn’t take long for my pride to dissipate. Molly, who isn’t easy to live with on a good day, becomes a tyrant. In the midst of one of our rows, she throws hot coffee in my face. Our neighbor Mrs. Early—the wife of Captain Early from the Black Hawk War—helps me clean up before I go to work.

  On August 1, 1843, in this tiny abode—just shy of nine months after our marriage—Molly gives birth to our son. We name him Robert Todd Lincoln after her father. Memories of the lesson I learned on Annie’s death come over me in a wave; I’m possessed by an evil fate. I shall lose those whom I hold dear. First Mother, then sister, and lastly Annie. At least now, Providence has matched me with a woman who is not so easy to love. Though, the thought of losing little Bobby makes me quake.

  Dr. Drake’s recipe for warding off bouts of melancholy is helpful. I keep busy, even when it means burying myself in mundane legal affairs—collecting debts, defending misdemeanors, or litigating slanders. Most evenings after working late, I come home to find Molly sitting by the fire, nursing little Bobby. I kiss her forehead, pat the baby’s head, and sit down at the opposite side of the hearth to read. I glance at them, wanting to take my little boy to rock him, but judgment warns me he’s safer in his mother’s arms.

  In the beginning of September, when court begins on the Eighth Judicial Circuit, I hook up our rickety carriage behind Old Tom and set out for the six week journey, covering more than four-hundred miles and fourteen counties. Not only do the cases keep me busy, but my absence spares me Molly’s tyranny.

  In Urbana I defend members of the Spurgeon family against an assault complaint by the State’s Attorney. The trial jury finds three of them not-guilty and convicts two. I’m successful in pleading for a new trial on behalf of one of the two, but the other guilty verdict is sustained, costing my client $20 in fines. When he complains of the fine, I tell him to be grateful the judge didn’t throw him in jail.

  In Charleston, Coles County, I assist Usher Linder, a former adversary in the state legislature, in defending James Bagley against accusations of slander. Isaac Vanmeter claims that Bagley “swore a damned lie,” but when Vanmeter is unable to prove it, our client wins.

  Before leaving Coles County, I visit Mama and Father who live a short ride outside of Charleston. Mama begs me to bring Molly and Bobby on my next trip. I promise to try, although Molly will never darken the door of Father’s home. Neither do I wish for Bobby to suffer the old man’s temper.

  Later, in Petersburg, my client Eliza Cabot sues Francis Regnier for saying that Elijah Taylor was “after skin and he has got it with Cabot.” A local newspaper compares my summation speech to the great Cicero’s attacks on Mark Anthony. It’s clear of course, that the editor never heard the ancient Roman give a speech.

  I make a couple of brief trips back to Springfield during October for political events, and, in mid-November, I return home and remain until spring. Days before Christmas, we move into a three room cottage on Fourth Street. Molly is delighted. I scrounge up more cases to cover the added rent.

  The following February, I go out on the Spring Circuit, returning home in mid-April. On my return, Mother—it’s now my pet name for her—meets me at the door with pursed lips that aren’t intended for kissing. “If you’re to leave me all alone here for such long spates, I insist on a proper house.”

  I lay down my saddlebags. “Mother, how are we to buy a house? The rent here is all we can afford.”

  “As hard as you work, we can certainly afford it.”

  I drop my coat on a chair.

  She scoops it up and wags her finger at me. “I will not have my son growing to be so ill-mannered. You need to start setting a better example.”

  I take my coat from her and hang in on a wall peg.

  “A proper house has closets. I’m tired of living in this … this coop.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “Reverend Dresser is selling his home.”

  “How will we pay for it? I shall not endure another dollar of debt.”

  “We don’t have to. Father has offered help.”

  “I’m going to bed.”

  She points to the sofa. “I’ll get a blanket.”

  I furrow my brow. “What’s wrong with the bed?”

  “I’m not feeling well. You can sleep here. Besides I’m sure it’s more comfortable than where you sleep out on the Circuit.” As she walks away she adds, “At least you won’t
be sharing it with another snoring lawyer.”

  I shake my head.

  On May 2, we move to our new home, three rooms downstairs and two sleeping lofts above in the half-story. Mr. Todd provided a modest contribution, but I foot most of the fifteen-hundred dollar purchase price myself. That’s just the beginning of the financial burden. Mother immediately begins talking of servants and renovations.

  “I’ll chop my own wood and open my own door.”

  “How will I ever make a gentleman out of you if you resist every means of culture?”

  I examine my hands, front and back. “What shame is there in a man using his own two hands?”

  “Abe ….”

  “Please don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

  “Father, I cannot go about in society as the wife of a leading citizen if I’m to spend my whole day cooking, cleaning, and tending a child. It’s not practical.”

  I take both her hands in mine. “After the national election, I have a mind to strike out on my own in practice. If I take on a junior partner, I should still keep a full half of the fees. Maybe then we can afford to hire a little help.”

  She shakes her head. “I suppose I can tolerate it for another few months, but you must promise ….”

  “You have my word. When we’ve finished campaigning for Mr. Clay, I’ll set our financial house in order, and we can bring on some help.”

  The next morning I leave to make a series of speeches across the state and in Indiana. While visiting my old home in Little Pigeon Creek where my mother and sister are buried, I choke back tears. Though it is an unpoetic place, my visit inspires me to pen some reflections of my boyhood.

  My child-hood home I see again,

  And gladden with the view;

  Still, as mem'ries crowd my brain,

  There's sadness in it too—

  O memory! thou mid-way world

  'Twixt Earth and Paradise;

  Where things decayed, and loved ones lost

  In dreamy shadows rise—

  Freed from all that's gross or vile,