Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  In January I give a speech opposing the war with Mexico, of which my colleagues take little note. When my term ends in March 1849, I have accomplished nothing by which the world should take notice of me. My seat in Congress now belongs to the Democrat who defeated Judge Logan, and I resign myself to the belief that Providence has a different calling for me than politics. John Stuart’s words to me several years ago have a hollow ring, “No defeat is ever as final as it seems.”

  A couple of months after settling into my quieter life back home in Springfield, business takes me to Coles County where I pay a visit to my parents. To protect myself from Father’s tirades on politics and complaints about “wasting time on a career in the law,” I stay overnight with my step-brother John Johnston. John tells me that Father’s health is in steep decline and his eyesight is dwindling. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this lament.

  When I arrive at Father’s farm the next morning, Mama greets me with a lingering embrace. She says her tears spring from a fountain of joy. When we go inside the cramped cabin, Father remains seated at the table. He glances at me, expressionless, and says, “You look like you’re dressed for a funeral. Do I have to die for my only son to pay me a visit?”

  I look over to Mama. “I’ve been away.”

  Father sneers. “That’s right, I heared you went to Congress. No wonder my purse feels so much lighter.”

  I bite my lip. “You’re safe now. I’m done with politics. It’s time for me to stay at home with Molly and the boys. Besides, the law business keeps me plenty busy.”

  He shrugs. “Speaking of that fancy wife of yours and the little ones, did you bring them along this time?”

  “No, they’re home.”

  “Hope you ain’t spoilin’ ’em. Too much book learnin’ and they’ll be good for nothin’.”

  I glance at the doorway. “Mama, why don’t you show me around the farm?”

  Father sneers. “How much farmin’ do you s’pose goes on around here with a withered up old man handlin’ all the chores by hisself?”

  I shake my head.

  Mama ushers me outside to a bench under an old oak tree. We sit, and she takes my hand in hers. “When do I get to meet Molly and those precious little boys?”

  I pat her hand. “The youngest doesn’t travel well. He’s still ailing after the trip back from Washington.”

  “And little Bobby? He must be nearly six by now.”

  I laugh. “Standoffish like his father.”

  She looks away. “After seven years, I still haven’t met Molly or seen my grandbabies.”

  I pat her hand again. “Someday, Mama ….”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Sweat drips from my brow under the harsh July sun. The patch of shade in the front yard under an old oak is mighty inviting. Just one more row of bricks to lay, and I can take a break. Mother insists a retaining wall would dress up the street-side of our home. To make her happy, I’m neglecting clients—most of whom will set about making me miserable when I return to the office. As for myself, a spot of shade and a draw of cool water from the well out back will bring pleasure enough.

  As I bend over to pick up another brick, Molly’s brother Levi rides up and dismounts in front of me, handing me his reins. He’s come all the way from Lexington, unannounced, trouble etched on his face.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  He takes off his hat and fidgets with the brim. “I need to see Molly.”

  I take off my hat and wipe my brow.

  What’s happened?”

  “Our father is dead.”

  I tip back my hat to wipe my brow. “What? How?”

  He looks down. “There’s been an epidemic of cholera.”

  “How are the others?” I search his face for a hopeful sign.

  He sighs. “So far, everyone else is fine.”

  I lay my hand on his shoulder. “You’d best go in and tell Molly. I’ll occupy the boys.”

  As soon as we come through the door Molly smells calamity. I gather up the boys to take them into the bedroom in the back of the house, leaving her alone with Levi. Just when I start to tell the boys about their grandfather’s death, wails erupt from the other room.

  Bobby looks up at me. “Is Mother all right?”

  For a few days, Mother holes up in her bedroom cuddling little Eddy, sobbing off and on. I’ve sent the cook home while I take time off from work to tend to Bobby and fix meals. Mother only picks at her portions. One morning, after nearly a week, I climb down from the sleeping loft to find Mother bustling about the kitchen, barking at the cook, whom I reckon she summoned to make breakfast. I wish Mother a good morning, but she continues her busyness without a word. It’s as though I’m not present. I pack up my files and take Bobby by the hand. He tags along with me to the office. As the weeks pass with Mother keeping her distance from us, Bobby becomes withdrawn, eventually refusing my attentions all together.

  When the chill of autumn invades the Illinois prairie, we learn that her father’s home and all its belongings are to be sold at public auction. There are deficiencies in her father’s will, and Molly will inherit nothing.

  She looks up at me with the fiercest eyes. “I have no intentions of going back there, anyway,” she says.

  In early December, little Eddy is lethargic and wracked by persistent coughing. Mother and I spell each other hovering at his bedside, daubing his forehead with cold, damp cloths, and praying for him. Of course, prayers are useless in changing the course of events, but they bring me comfort.

  At the start of the New Year, his cough produces bloody phlegm. Night sweats and chills soon progress into an unrelenting fever. His appetite evaporates along with the remainder of his strength. On February 1, 1850, just before his fourth birthday, Eddy’s frail lungs draw their last raspy breath. Choking back tears, I pry Mother away from his limp body. As I hold her close, she wails through clenched teeth and pounds my chest with her fists. Death took Molly’s mother at an early age, her father much too soon, and now it takes a child whom she bore. The greatest thing we have in common is the deaths of those we love.

  When her grief is spent, at least for the moment, I lay her on the sofa and climb up to the loft to give Bobby our sorrowful news. I find him there, staring at the ceiling, his eyes blank and misty.

  “Your brother ….”

  He turns and looks at me. “I know. He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He says nothing more and begins weeping.

  I want to reach out and draw him near, but a small voice inside me warns, What you hold close will be ripped away.

  I save my own tears for when I’m alone.

  During the weeks that follow, Molly writes a verse that we publish in The Sangamo Journal.

  Those midnight stars are sadly dimmed,

  That late so brilliantly shone,

  And the crimson tinge from cheek and lip,

  With the heart's warm life has flown—

  The angel of Death was hovering nigh,

  And the lovely boy was called to die.

  The silken waves of his glossy hair

  Lie still over his marble brow,

  And the pallid lip and pearly cheek

  The presence of Death avow.

  Pure little bud in kindness given,

  In mercy taken to bloom in heaven.

  Happier far is the angel child

  With the harp and the crown of gold,

  Who warbles now at the Savior’s feet

  The glories to us untold.

  Eddie, meet blossom of heavenly love,

  Dwells in the spirit-world above.

  Angel Boy - fare thee well, farewell

  Sweet Eddie, We bid thee adieu!

  Affection's wail cannot reach thee now

  Deep though it be, and true.

  Bright is the home to him now given

  For ‘of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’

&nbs
p; In late March, shortly before I take to the Circuit again, Mother begs me for another child. I search her face for some hint it’s just a whim. She nuzzles up to me, her sparkling eyes luring me closer. Her touch radiates warmth through my body. Before I grasp hold of my senses, she leads me to her bedroom, relieves me of my clothing, and we share a night of bliss so rare in our marriage. The next morning, out of duty or in search of escape, I saddle my new horse, Old Buck, and ride off to meet up with Judge David Davis and the other lawyers on the circuit.

  Davis took over for Sam Treat as Circuit Judge while I was serving in Congress. At three-hundred pounds, he’s too large to ride on horseback over the four-hundred mile circuit, so he drives a two-horse buggy which often gets stuck when the roads turn muddy. Swollen streams can also present problems. To help him across fast flowing currents, I dismount Old Tom, tuck my papers under my hat, and, disposing of my pants, I wade into the water to scout for the shallowest crossing. I’m the logical man for the task, since my legs are so long.

  When we arrive in each town for the two or three day court sessions, accommodations are made for us in local taverns. Two or three lawyers share a bed, but Judge Davis gets his own. No one wants to risk getting crushed during the night. In the mornings we find a pitcher of cold water and a towel to share.

  As someone once described our fare, “… the food is greasy, the floor is greasy, the table cloth likewise, and the waitress greasier than all the rest together.” Some of the fellows complain, but I find the Circuit a welcome refuge from home. I suppose it’s my fondness for these good frontier people that draws Judge Davis’ rebuke. “You should go home to your family on weekends as the rest of us do.”

  His words pinch at my throat. “Yes, reckon you’re right. Mother tells me if I stayed home as I ought to, she’d love me more.”

  “Well, there you are,” he says.

  I cock my head. “If she loved me more, I might stay home. Besides, I need the extra fees from working weekends to keep her in the finery she demands.”

  Judge Davis looks at me as if he’s interrogating a witness. “Are you sure?”

  “When I’m home she complains if I open the front door instead of having a servant do it. If I do something she thinks is uncouth, like eating butter, she throws coffee at me or chases me out of the house with a broomstick or pelts me with potatoes. Once she came at me with a long kitchen knife.”

  “Maybe it’s her way of saying she misses you.”

  “Maybe so, but in the last seven weeks since we’ve been out on the Circuit, she hasn’t written once.”

  He scowls. “If not for her, then go home and be with your boy.”

  When the Circuit ends in June, Mother is pregnant, and Bobby accompanies me to the office most days so she can rest. He often whines that he misses “Mama.” On those occasions, I put down my work and join him on the floor to play. It doesn’t take me long to understand that my attention is a poor substitute for Mother’s. After taking him home for supper, I go back to the office alone and work late into the night to keep up on cases.

  When September arrives, the Circuit’s gaiety is a welcome refuge once again, and my story telling has won Judge Davis’ favor. His appetite for merriment is as large as his frame, and he often calls on me to deliver a joke at the snap of his fingers. He even invites me to share his room, usually the largest in the tavern. I insist on my own bed.

  Most of the cases we try deal with mundane issues of frontier life—figuring out who owns a litter of pigs, or who’s to blame for an epidemic of foot rot that wipes out a flock of sheep. Each case presents the inevitable question of sorting out truthful testimony from false swearing. When I catch my client or his witness in a lie, I call the court’s attention to the perjury, even if no one else knows of the offense.

  On one such occasion, I rise and inform the jury, “Gentlemen, I depended on this witness to clear my client. He has lied. I ask that no attention be paid to his testimony. Let his words be stricken out. If my case fails, so be it. I do not wish to win in this way.”

  That’s not to say I’m opposed to exciting the jurymen’s emotions to steer them away from cold facts. During a luncheon recess, I overhear the opposing lawyer tell his client, “Our case is gone; when Lincoln quit he was crying, the jurymen were crying, the judge was crying, and I was a little damp about the lashes myself. We might as well give the case up.”

  Not all sympathies are won so easily. On returning home from the Circuit in December, I open a letter from my step-brother John Johnston who implores me to visit Father. The old man’s days appear to be numbered. I steel myself and write back.

  Say to him that if we could meet now, it is doubtful that it would be more pleasant than painful. But if it is his lot to go now, he will soon have a joyous meeting with many loved ones gone before; and the rest of us, through the help of God, hope ere-long to join them.

  A few days later, Mother gives birth to little William Wallace Lincoln, named after her brother-in-law, who is also our family doctor. We call the boy Willy. At the very first sight of him—those little gray eyes, a curly tuft of black hair, and his wrinkly skin—a magical bond forms between us, the kind that fathers and sons are meant to share. Beginning that day, whenever I’m away, there’s a constant tugging, drawing me home.

  Nearly a month afterward, Johnston writes again, this time telling me Father is dead. He asks that I pay for a headstone and give a eulogy at the funeral. I crumple up the letter and toss it into the stove, making no excuse for denying his pleas or staying away. My eyes are as dry as a summer wind.

  More than a year later, word comes that Senator Henry Clay has died. The invitation to deliver his eulogy at a memorial service, to be held in Springfield, reminds me of the passion that coursed through my veins when he made his bid for the presidency. Other memories gnaw at me, as well—the letdown of his speech in Lexington and gripping his cold, limp hand at Ashland. Clay is the man after whom I have modeled my politics, and who showed me the emptiness of fame.

  Standing before the assembly in Springfield I choke back tears.

  Whatever he did, he did for the whole country. He believed with all his heart that the world's best hope depended on the continued Union of these States. He was ever jealous of and watchful for whatever might have the slightest tendency to separate us.

  He loved his country because it is a free country. He burned with a zeal for its advancement, prosperity and glory, because he saw in our success the advancement, prosperity and glory of human liberty, human right and human nature. He desired the prosperity of his countrymen chiefly to show to the world that freemen could be prosperous.

  As I step down from the rostrum, sadness consumes me, not only for his passing, but for my failure to have made something equally grand of my life.

  While riding the fall circuit of the same year, I meet attorney Ward Hill Lamon. We are equal in height, but his girth out measures mine by a large degree. Hill is a genial type, much like Judge Davis, but unlike Davis, he’s a hearty drinker and a minstrel of sorts. After the supper hour, Hill always comes to the room Davis and I share, leading a contingent of friends and carrying a pitcher or two of good liquor.

  When Hill and the other imbibers are fully mellow, the judge calls out, “Now, Hill, let’s have some music.”

  Hill cheerfully responds with a plaintive ballad like The Blue-tailed Flay or Cousin Sally Downward.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  When our fourth boy is born on April 4, 1853, Mother insists we name him Thomas after my late father. On seeing him, though, I decide to call him Tad; his large head and wriggly little body remind me of a tadpole. I wonder if he’ll be the hardest of our boys to tame. Of course, we don’t make much of a fuss over their behavior, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

  Mother takes a couple weeks to regain her strength, while I do the best job of housekeeping I can. Mostly, I wrestle with little Willy and Bobby on the parlor floor. When Mother’s on her
feet again, and her cantankerousness becomes intolerable, I head out to join the other lawyers on the Circuit.

  On August 24, Sheriff Robert Latham of Logan County appears in my office, joined by business associates Gillett and Hichox.

  “What’s up?” I say, standing to greet them.

  Latham pushes a handful of his brown, wavy hair back behind his ear. “We’ve come to ask your permission for something.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Reckon it’s better to ask for permission than to come hat in hand begging forgiveness. What’s on your mind?”

  He looks up at me. “It’s about that patch of land along the railroad extension near Postville.”

  “You mean the new town site your voters approved for the new county seat?”

  Hichox nods. “Yes, we’re mighty appreciative for the nice bill you wrote to get the legislature’s approval so we could put the question to a vote.”

  I scratch my head. “You boys having any problems with those land sale contracts?”

  Latham shakes his head. “No. That’s not it at all. We came to ask your permission to name the new town after you. We want to call it Lincoln.”

  I laugh. “You have a good sense of humor.”

  “We’re serious,” Latham says, his eyes trained on me.

  “Well, you'd better not do that. I never knew anything named Lincoln that amounted to much.”

  Latham smiles. “You’re not just our lawyer, you’re the best lawyer ever to set foot in Logan County. On top of that, folks think of you as their friend. You pushed the legislature to create our new county and you handle all its litigation. There’s no one more fitting for the honor than you.”

  I hang my head. “If you can’t be persuaded otherwise, reckon I’ll have to grant my permission.”