Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  From the stand, Douglas teases me about only having four questions while he posed seven. He says, “But as soon as he can, he’ll convene his council of Black Republicans, no doubt including Fred Douglass, to come up with more, which I will happily answer.”

  My jaw tightens, and several from the crowd yell, “White, white.”

  The Judge continues, “Douglass is a good man. The last time I came here to make a speech, while I was talking on the stand to you people of Freemont, I saw a carriage, and a magnificent one too, drive up and take a position on the outside of the crowd. A beautiful young lady sat on the front seat next to a man, and Fred Douglass, the Negro, sat on the back seat. Now it appears the owner of the carriage was in front, driving the Negro.”

  Cheers ring out from the crowd and someone shouts, “Right, what have you to say against it?”

  Douglas retorts, “What of it! All I have to say is this, if you Black Republicans—”

  They clamor again, “White, white.”

  “If you think that the Negro ought to be on a social equality with young wives and daughters, and ride in the carriage with the wife while the master of the carriage drives the team, you have a perfect right to do so and you ought to vote for Mr. Lincoln.”

  As Douglas continues to use the phrase “Black Republican” I drum my fingers on the edge of my seat, and the Republicans in the crowd become more agitated and demand, “White Republicans. White Republicans, sir!”

  Douglas’ veins bulge over his collar. “I wish to remind you that there was not a Democrat here vulgar enough to interrupt Mr. Lincoln when he was talking. I am clinching Lincoln, and you are scared to death for the result. I have seen your mobs before, trying to interrupt and prevent a fair hearing. I defy your wrath!”

  When I stand tall for my rejoinder, vociferous cheers greet me. I say, “The first thing I want to say to you is a word regarding Judge Douglas’ declaration about vulgarity and blackguardism expressed by some of you folks in the crowd. He says no such thing was done by any Democrat while I was speaking. Now, I only want to reply that while I was speaking, I used no vulgarity or blackguardism toward any Democrats in the manner Judge Douglas has repeatedly done toward my Republican friends.”

  The Republicans in the audience explode with great laughter and applause.

  After the debate is finished, a young man introduces himself to me as Chester Dewey of the New York Post and offers his congratulations. “Well done, Lincoln. The New York Republicans who were in love with Douglas are rather more inclined to take a different view now. You made it clear the Little Giant continues to stand on the side of slavery’s extension.”

  I give him a hardy handshake. “Thank you. We could use their encouragement.”

  The remaining debates are similar to the Freemont encounter. Douglas strives to convince his audiences that the Republicans and I advocate perfect equality of rights and privileges between the Negro and the white man. The charges are intended to scare conservative Whigs from voting for Republican candidates who might send me to the Senate. I bite my lip and deny his charges, knowing I risk alienating abolitionists in the northern counties.

  Douglas also tries to convince the state’s Whigs he’s closer than I am to Whig doctrine. He claims the principles of Popular Sovereignty are the same as those endorsed by the Whig founder, Henry Clay. Lastly, he accuses me of trying to abolitionize Whigs and moderate Illinois Democrats.

  I stand to my full height and make sweeping gestures as I contend Popular Sovereignty will expose free white Illinoisans to unnatural competition from slavery. I call Douglas’ principle an invention of the devil, a pretense for the benefit of slavery. If successful, his doctrine would lead to an Africanized continent, if not an Africanized hemisphere. In much the same way that slavery pushed poor white Kentucky farmers into an unforgiving wilderness, slave holders will shove the descendents of those pioneers into the western most seas, and some of them into the Antarctic.

  A week after our final debate, I arrive in Carthage where Douglas had been a few days earlier and hear of the Senator’s appalling performance. I’m told that while he was speaking, Douglas demonstrated unmistakable signs of intoxication. He was unsteady on his feet, and his words were pronounced with such difficulty that no one could understand what he was saying. The chairman, after some hurried conference with others on the stand, pulled Douglas’ coat, said something to him which brought the speech to an end. The chairman then explained to the audience that the speaker was suddenly indisposed and would not be able to finish his speech at that time.

  I ascend the same platform on which Douglas made a fool of himself the prior week. It had been erected in front of two windows of the court house. Over it, a bowery of tree boughs had been constructed in order to shield the speakers from the rays of the sun. The boughs had recently been replaced, since the original ones had withered.

  After speaking a few minutes to a rather dull audience, I step back a little from the front of the platform, squaring my shoulders in an attempt to straighten my slouched posture. As I do, my head bumps the boughs above me. I smile and turn my head to one side; then with a sudden movement, I thrust my head up and through the bowery. The crowd howls with laughter at what must appear to be some queer creature whose head is detached from its body. With everyone now relaxed, I continue my speech.

  A week later, I’m in no mood for levity. My heart contracts over news of Douglas’ last minute endorsement by John J. Crittenden, the silver-haired Whig Senator from Kentucky who is heir to Henry Clay’s political legacy. And a few days later, when the grueling canvass and tedious night of vote counting end, the Senate contest is too close to predict. The margin of victory is in the hands of a small group of newly elected legislators whose loyalties are too tenuous to count on.

  During the ensuing weeks of arm twisting, the chances of sending a Republican to the Senate begin to wane. I seek encouragement in my opponent’s setbacks, recalling that President Buchanan’s retribution against Douglas supporters certainly cost the Senator some votes. Patronage appointees who owe their offices to Douglas were replaced in two waves, one in July and the other in October. Twelve of the twenty-six highest paid postmasters, as well as the U.S. Marshalls and federal attorneys for the Northern and Southern Districts of Illinois, are sacked. Twelve local Treasury Department officials are also fired.

  On a late December day, charcoal skies cover the horizon, bringing with them the scent of winter storms. The weather matches my sullen mood, and I dither at the law office for several hours, unable to apply myself to a single case. When Billy Herndon drops the New York Tribune on my desk, Greeley’s latest admiration of Douglas gets my goat.

  I slam the paper down and say, “I’ll be over at Judge Treat’s office for a game of chess.”

  After Treat and I trade checkmates for a couple hours, little Tad interrupts us. “Mama says you should come to supper.”

  I peer at him over my spectacles. “Tell her, I’ll be right along.”

  He makes a face and runs home.

  A half hour later, Tad is in Treat’s office once more. A new game is in full swing. He stamps his feet and shouts to usurp my attention. “Mama said come right now.”

  Without looking up, I repeat my previous instruction. “Tell her I’ll be right along.”

  Tad kicks the chessboard, scattering the pieces on the floor.

  Judge Treat glares at Tad, then at me.

  I stand, collect my coat, and take Tad by the hand. We sing as we walk home.

  A few weeks later on a gloomy January morning, the legislature convenes to make its Senatorial choice. Braced for disappointment, Mother refuses to attend the session. I enter the hall tight-jawed and downcast. After the votes are tallied and Douglas wins another sterling victory, I return home where Mother pays me no notice. I pour a cup of coffee and retreat to the parlor to sit by the fire in silence, holding a copy of Richard III in my lap, left open to the lines,

  Ba
d is the world, and all will come to naught

  when such ill-dealing must be seen in thought.

  The next day, I’m called to a meeting in the Springfield office of Illinois Secretary of State Ozias Hatch—a tall, bearded bachelor who’s as welcome in my home as family. Also present are: Jackson Grimshaw, who, like Billy Herndon, is impetuous in the face of injustice; Ebenezer Peck, a former Democrat who spent his childhood in Canada; and Norman B. Judd. They are more formal than I expect from my friends.

  Judd gets right to their purpose. “Lincoln, we all would like to see you as the Illinois candidate for the Presidency. Can we use your name in connection with the nomination and election?”

  I swallow hard. “Well boys, I doubt whether I could get the nomination even if I wished it.”

  “Lincoln,” says Judd, “We all know you well, we believe in you, we love you as a friend, we admire your sterling qualities, and have faith in your fitness for the highest office in the land.”

  I rub my hands along my pants legs and clear my throat. “Reckon if we held the election in this room right now, I might win. In spite of that, I just proved I can’t defeat Douglas here in Illinois. What makes you think a bunch of sophisticated easterners are going to get behind a common prairie lawyer no one’s heard of?”

  Secretary Hatch opens his valise and pulls out a fist full of documents. “They have heard of you. Your debates with Douglas have been published by newspapers all over the country. As for getting beaten by Douglas, did you examine the numbers? Republican candidates for the legislature outpolled Douglas’ men by 190,468 to 166,374 for House seats, and 53,784 to 44,750 for Senate seats.

  “If the districts were apportioned according to population, you would have won forty-one votes in the House and fourteen in the Senate, enough to capture the Senate seat. It was the reapportionment plan of ’54, not Douglas, that beat you.”

  My pulse echoes in my ears. I stifle a grin. “I see you boys are serious about this. Can I think on my answer?”

  They indulge me, and I hurry home with a spring in my step. The icy crust on the ground doesn’t slow me.

  When I give Mother the news, she reaches up and pulls my face close to hers so she can smother me with kisses. After her affections are exhausted, she pulls back and searches my eyes. Hers glisten through a residue of joyful tears.

  It’s a sight I rarely see. I kiss her forehead.

  She draws her lips in a narrow line and says, “There’s much work to do. We must give it every ounce of energy we have.”

  I nod. “It will not be an easy road.”

  She beams as she says, “I knew you would make me Mrs. President some day.”

  My heart skips. I imagine how disappointed she’ll be if we fail, and it’s Douglas who beats us.

  Late the next day, I call on Judd to grant my permission to place my name in the field if the committee thinks it proper.

  Three months later, I meet with members of the Illinois Republican State Central Committee, and we lay out a plan to win the nomination. I am to take steps to squash whatever efforts might be made by the Republican newspapers to coordinate any endorsements of my candidacy. In addition, I will also make as many speeches outside of Illinois as can be arranged with the purpose of advancing public discourse on the great issue of slavery. To avoid the kind of critical attention being applied to other Republican candidates, we agree to not make any further comments during the coming year about our efforts to secure the nomination. We hope these strategies will avoid a premature groundswell of support.

  For the next several months, I bury myself in cases to shore up my personal finances and lessen my anxiety.

  Chapter Thirty

  Herndon and I are hired to defend a man who’s on trial for murder. Our client, Harrison, got into a fight with a fellow named Crafton, drew a knife and stabbed him. Crafton died a few days later. We plead self-defense on Harrison’s behalf.

  Our case rests on the testimony of Rev. Peter Cartwright, the square-jawed, weather-faced Methodist preacher I defeated in the 1846 election for United States House of Representatives. My opinion of him has been that he’s an attention seeking Bible thumper who finds it easier to see the speck in another man’s eye than the log in his own. He measures truth by the ends it achieves.

  During deposition, Rev. Cartwright tells a story which could exonerate Mr. Harrison. The victim, Crafton, supposedly confessed to the preacher that he attacked our client and he alone was responsible for the outcome of the fight.

  As he takes the stand my left heel bounces irrepressibly under the table. There’s no telling what he’ll say in front of the jurymen. At the conclusion of his testimony, I let out a deep sigh. He amends his story as to only one detail. He says that Crafton, on his death bed, forgave Harrison, and the jury acquits Harrison. For months afterward, I contemplate the mystery of forgiveness, a miracle I have always denied.

  Not many nights later while I’m reading the newspaper in the parlor at home, Mother berates me for forgetting to stoke the fire. When I protest she had not brought the matter to my attention previously, she says, “Mr. Lincoln, I have told you now three times to mend the fire, and you have pretended that you did not hear me. I’ll make you hear me this time.” She picks up a stick of firewood, and strikes me on the head, leaving a cut on my nose. I clean off the blood and slink up to bed. Long ago I learned the best remedy for her abuse is distance.

  The next day, I’m sure the lawyers in court notice my wounded face, although no one asks how I acquired the ugly gash. I nibble on my lunch and once again mull forgiveness.

  On another occasion, Mother is entertaining some aristocratic company from Kentucky and sends Bobby over to my office to have me pick up some breakfast meat. Along the way home with my purchase, I run into the State Auditor Jesse Dubois, who is a good friend and neighbor. He walks home with me and we go into the kitchen through the backdoor. As I’m laying out the meat for the cook to examine, Mother storms up to us and berates me. “What kind of meat is this?” she shrills.

  I glance at Dubois. “It’s what the butcher had.”

  “It won’t do,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “I will not serve to our dignified guests something that I would hardly feed to a dog.”

  “Why Mother, this is a very adequate piece of meat.”

  Her face turns red. “Adequate? Adequate, you say.” She picks up a wooden spoon and begins accosting me about the head. She shouts, “You cannot make yourself president by settling for only adequate.”

  I cover my face with my hands and run out the backdoor. Dubois—a plump fellow who would rather watch horses race than stretch out his own legs—is close on my tail. Once we’re a good distance away from the house, we begin walking, and silence fills the space between us. We don’t speak even at my office while Dubois helps clean the blood from my face. As I’m rinsing out my blood-stained shirt, he breaks the quiet and invites me home for supper.

  “No thank you,” I say. “I’m not hungry, and there’s a mountain of cases here to keep me occupied.”

  He looks, his eyes full of pity. “Why do you let her treat you so miserably?”

  I hang my head. “If you knew how little harm it does me and how much good it does her, you wouldn’t wonder that I am meek.”

  After he leaves, I open Shakespeare’s The Tempest and am transfixed by the words:

  …the rarer action is

  In virtue than in

  vengeance…

  In early September Norman Judd comes to my office with invitations from the Republican committees in Columbus and Cincinnati to speak in their cities. He thinks we should accept, since Douglas has launched a campaign across Ohio to drum up votes for local Democratic candidates.

  I sit back and stare at the ceiling, “A speech in Cincinnati would be a very big thing. It’s the seventh largest city in the country.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Ten newspapers. Count—ten of the
m to publish your speeches. I wouldn’t be surprised if dozens more reprinted it across the northern tier and up and down the eastern coast.”

  I look at him and grin. “Reckon we don’t have a choice, then.”

  “It’ll be like the first days of your campaign in ’58. You’ll roll into town on Douglas’ heels a few days after he’s given a big speech.” Judd hands me a folded copy of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine he’s been holding behind his back. “Douglas wrote a long article in here. Read it for yourself, but it makes him look like a compromise candidate.”

  I flip through the pages of the magazine. “He must think he has the Southern vote locked down—who else would they go for? If he can splinter our infant Republican Party with this kind of moderate rhetoric—turn our free-soilers against the abolitionists, set former Whigs arguing with moderate Democrats who’ve bolted from his ranks, have German immigrants and nativists at each other’s throats—he’d be standing in the wings waiting to pick off our disaffected members.”

  Judd nods. “After claiming Popular Sovereignty is exactly what the Founding Fathers intended, he goes on to accuse you and Senator Seward from New York of insisting that war is inevitable.”

  I lean forward and plant my hands on my desk. “I never said any such thing.”

  Judd glares down at me. “You know full well what he’s referring to.”

  I meet his stare.

  He parrots back lines of my nomination acceptance speech, the veins in his neck bulging. “In my opinion, it will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached, and passed … A house divided against itself cannot stand … I believe this government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free ... the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it ….”

  I roll up the magazine and wag it at him. “By the time I stand before the folks in Ohio, I’ll have answers for every lie he tells in here.”