“When my grandfather died I was his only surviving heir. By misfortune, mine as well as his, he lived just long enough to see the Great Depression wipe out his savings. When I went to collect my inheritance, all I received from the lawyers was a check for one hundred and thirty-seven dollars, three large boxes containing legal documents, and a sealed letter with my name on it. I managed to lose the letter to a campfire a few years ago—one of those occasions when whiskey did not serve me well, I’m afraid. Still, I read it enough times to know it almost verbatim.”
And with that he took another swig from the bottle of whiskey as Yale Templeton waited with interest.
XII
The letter left to Slinger the Trapper by his grandfather:
My dear grandson,
Time and circumstances have wiped out the legacy I had intended for you. While I always believed that you left home when you were much too young, I came to accept your decision and—although I did not admit it to myself at the time—even admired your independence. You are a man, I know, with great courage and pride. You are also a man with the strength of character necessary to carry out the heavy responsibility I am about to place on your shoulders.
I must begin by going back to the years immediately following Confederation, when I first came to the Algoma District. Hardly twenty, but very ambitious, I settled in Thessalon, imagining that the frontier would provide me with a quick road to wealth and prominence. I had prepared for a career in the law but soon came to learn how difficult it is to find clients when you are young and new to a community. I struggled to establish myself for several years until I met a much older man, a recent immigrant from the United States named Lincoln Abrahams. He had been a lawyer himself, in Illinois, but had emigrated to Canada following the Civil War. He had hoped to continue his chosen profession here, but unfamiliar with our legal system, was forced to find other employment: working on a farm, splitting rails for fences, keeping a store. We formed a partnership. I educated him in the peculiar genius of British law; he provided our firm with the face of experience, respect, and trust. I must say that we both proved adept at our tasks. Within a matter of two years we had a large and growing clientele.
Now I must tell you a little about the man who was Lincoln Abrahams. He was well over six feet tall, shambled when he walked, and generally had a soulful look on his thin, heavily creased face. Although he spoke in a high-pitched drawl, he always seemed able to charm judges and juries with simple homilies and instructive tales about life on the frontier. Of course, his name invariably provoked comment, and the truth is that although clean shaven, he did bear a startling resemblance to the former president of the United States. One New Year’s Eve, at a celebration in the town hall, he drank a good deal of whiskey, put on a false beard and stovepipe hat, and delivered the famous Gettysburg Address flawlessly and with such feeling that several American immigrants were moved to tears. Later he retired to his lodging, then returned wearing a violet-coloured taffeta skirt trimmed with lace, with a matching jacket, ruffled at the neckline and sleeves. In his hair he had pink ribbons. He was quite the sight, especially since he had forgotten to remove his beard.
It was just a few days after this event that he informed me he intended to move farther north, to the new town of Chapleau. I was reluctant to leave Thessalon since we had established such an excellent reputation in the community. However, I did not yet feel confident enough in my own abilities to carry on without his sage advice, and so I packed my belongings and went to Chapleau with him.
As it turned out the change of address proved advantageous to both of us. I became involved in local politics, eventually securing election as an alderman. He continued on in practice for a few more years, then gradually reduced his work load in preparation for retirement. He took up the harp, did embroidery and needlepoint, and gave lectures at the library. He also involved himself in the local theatrical society, becoming especially known for his work in female roles, women being in decidedly small numbers in our frontier community.
Then one day, without having previously given me any hint of his intentions, he announced that he would be leaving Chapleau. I expressed doubts about the prudence of his making yet another move at such an advanced age. However, he had one remaining goal in life, he told me, although what that goal was he declined to say. All he would reveal was that he would be heading north again, this time into unsettled territory, and that he would be accompanied by friends who would provide for him. He asked only one thing of me: that I pack up all his old legal briefs and store them in a secure place.
I did not hear from him for some years. Then one spring afternoon a man unknown to me, a Negro, appeared at the door of my office to say that Lincoln Abrahams was dying. “He has expressed a wish to see you one last time,” he told me. I immediately cancelled my appointments and hastily prepared for a journey into the wilderness.
We travelled, the Negro and I, for more than two weeks, first along scarcely trodden paths, then by canoe across silent lakes, and finally, on foot once again, through forests so dense I could scarce imagine how any man could find his way. My companion, however, born a slave near Natchez, Mississippi, seemed to have little difficulty. So it was that at last we arrived at our destination, a clearing with perhaps ten log cabins, all colourfully decorated. “Our city on a hill,” the Negro said, although in fact it lay by a secluded lake at the bottom of a rocky prominence.
I was taken by surprise when I first saw the inhabitants of the settlement. They seemed to represent all the races of humanity, but that was not the most remarkable thing about them. Among the women was one dressed in armour and several wearing trousers; they had hair cut so close to their heads they reminded me of shorn sheep. Meanwhile two of the men were in calico skirts and white blouses, while a third had on a dirndl. Many of the men had long, flowing locks, which they kept in place by bright kerchiefs of the kind Alpine peasant women wear.
The Negro led me to one of the cabins. Here I found Lincoln Abrahams sitting in a rocking chair, a shawl covering his lap. He was dressed in a simple woman’s frock and wore a blue bonnet embroidered with butterflies. “I did the stitching myself,” he later told me with some pride.
The cabin was suffocating from books. They squeezed into shelves, weighted down the desk, and spilled across the floor. I recognized some of the titles: Works and Days by Hesiod, Plato’s Republic, More’s Utopia, the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare. However, there were also many volumes by authors unfamiliar to me: Euhemerus, Anton Francesco Doni, Tommaso Campanella, Theodor Hertzka, Henri de Saint-Simon. To my shock I saw a considerable quantity of seditious literature, including Proudhon’s Qu’est-ce que la proprieté? and the Manifesto of the Communist Party. On the lampstand next to the bed sat a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Scattered among the books were pages and pages of notes, most written in my former partner’s distinctive hand.
“It’s good to see you, Seth,” he said in a voice that was so weak and quavering it near moved me to tears. I placed a hand on top of his and he smiled warmly. “Had it not been for you,” he continued, “I might have spent the end of my days as a rail splitter in Thessalon.”
“It’s good to see you too, Lincoln,” I said with great feeling, struggling to conceal my distress at finding him so frail.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Well, I suppose that should be where we begin. You see, my name is not really Lincoln Abrahams. It is Abraham Lincoln.”
“Like the former president of the United States?” I said, startled. The Negro laughed.
“Please forgive Clement,” he said. “But you see, I am the former president of the United States.”
I was relieved to see that he had retained his sense of humour. “But …” and here I put on the appearance of someone searching his memory, “I seem to recall that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated at the end of the Civil War.”
“We staged that.”
“And John Wilkes Booth?” I asked, carrying out what I took
to be my part in the charade.
“An old friend from my amateur theatrical days. He acted the aggrieved rebel very well, don’t you think? That leap on the stage. Such agility! And the cry: ‘Sic semper tyrannis!’ What a wonderful touch. It was improvised, you know. But then, Johnny always had a flair for the dramatic. Not that he was much good at comedy. Be thankful you missed him as Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
I peered into his eyes. In the old days it was easy to tell when he was pulling my leg, he could scarcely contain himself. Now, to all appearances, he was in earnest.
“But what about Mary Surratt, Powell, the others?” I said. “They all were hanged.“
“Well, yes, we made it look as if they were hanged. William Herndon handled the arrangements. He was still loyal to me back then, Herndon. We paid them all well for their services and provided them with new identities. Mary and John Surratt actually moved to Thessalon just about the time I did. You remember James and Margaret Stuart, the mother and son who ran that inn down by the docks?”
“Yes.”
“That was the Surratts.”
“No!”
“It was, indeed. Unfortunately, John foolishly revealed his true identity on a trip abroad. He was captured and returned to the United States. It cost a lot of money, but in the end we were able to secure a deadlocked jury at his trial.”
“But this is all beyond belief!” I exclaimed.
“Ah, yes, so it must seem. But as the poet once wrote, ‘Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.’”
We both fell silent.
“But,” I said finally, “why not just wait until your term was over? And why come to Canada?”
“Spoken like a lawyer,” he replied. “Once Lee surrendered, I felt I had fulfilled all my obligations to the land of my birth. Canada offered the promise of anonymity. In any case I could not bear the thought of living one minute longer in a country where there was so little respect for the rights of minorities.”
“Ah, yes, the Negroes,” I said.
“Well,” he replied, and gave a sad smile to Clement. “I’m afraid my concerns were of a more selfish nature in 1865.”
I gave him a blank look.
“You see I had come to the recognition that I was a woman born in a man’s body.”
“No!” I cried.
“You’re shocked. But history provides many examples of individuals who have experienced life as I do. Hippocrates tells us of Scythian men who, and I quote, ‘show feminine inclinations and behave as women.’ From Philo, the Jewish philosopher of ancient Alexandria, we learn of males who, and I quote again, ‘are not ashamed even to employ every device to change artificially their nature.’ And it has been well documented by historians that Henri III of France appeared at court wearing a long pearl necklace and low-cut dress.”
His words were halting, and his voice had started to trail off. Clement brought him a cup of water. He took a sip, paused to catch his breath, then continued.
“You yourself, I’m sure, have heard the story of the Chevalier d’Eon. And early explorers in North America found many Indian men who dressed and behaved as women. Nor, presumably, need I mention the countless stories in fact and fiction of women who acted out male roles. I imagine you have already caught sight of our own Jeanne d’Arc.”
“But you were married!”
He shrugged. “It was a marriage of convenience. Or inconvenience, as it turned out. It was during my marriage that I discovered the truth about myself.”
“And Mary Todd?”
“Ah, yes. Mary. A ferret born in a woman’s body. I discovered that during my marriage, too.” Clement muffled a laugh.
“I’m sorry. That was exceedingly unkind. I seriously doubt the result would have been any different if I had married Ann Rutledge. Let’s just say I came to Canada to find peace.”
“And did you?”
“As it happens, I found a great deal more. Do you recall the public lectures I used to give at the Chapleau library?”
I said I did.
“Well, do you remember one entitled ‘The Slavery That Was and the Slavery That Is?’”
I shook my head.
“I spoke about the failure of the Civil War to bring true liberty to Americans. Yes, emancipation had ended slavery in the South, I said. But oppression continued, though in other forms. Men and women who wished to embrace a manner of living different from their neighbours were denied the opportunity to do so, condemned to live their lives wearing masks of conformity.”
He gave Clement a wry smile: “I even quoted myself. I said,” and here he cleared his throat and made a vain attempt to recapture his old speaking voice, “‘Remember the words of the late President Abraham Lincoln: Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves.’” Clement applauded.
“I then told a parable about a peasant girl who dreamed of—”
“occupying the throne,” I interrupted. “Now I remember. When the reigning king died, the council of electors proposed a series of tests to determine who had the heart and wisdom to succeed him. With the help of a sympathetic uncle, the girl disguised herself in men’s clothing and entered the competition. The tests were extremely demanding and she faced many worthy adversaries. However, in the end, the council ranked her above all others and awarded her the crown. Almost immediately, jealous warlords rose up in rebellion. By skilful deployment of troops and judicious management of her generals, she was able to put down the uprising. However, during the victory celebration, when she chose to reveal her true identity, an assassin took her life.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly,” he said, smiling.
“But I assumed you were just speaking in favour of rights for women.”
“So did most people. Not Clement, though. He came to me some time later to say he understood my suffering, that he himself had also struggled to find his true identity, and he hoped that I would agree to join a study group that he and some others were forming. I was delighted to accept his offer.
“Over the next few years we met regularly, at first just to share our feelings and experiences, but later to discuss the origins of intolerance and debate how to build a society that would promote and protect the rich diversity of human self-expression. We read many works to help us in our search for understanding: works of history, philosophy, and political economy mainly, although occasionally fiction. As you can see,” and he made a feeble sweeping gesture toward the books, “little of what we read was written by Americans. With the help of Clement and the others, I came to see that the insatiable lust for private possessions in the United States was, and remains, anathema to the cause of human freedom. It ensures that many people will have to devote their lives simply to securing a marginal material existence. However, more than that, it destroys the most fundamental of all human rights: the right of each individual to imagine himself, or to imagine herself, in whatever form he or she finds personally satisfying.”
On giving voice to these sentiments he seemed to collapse within himself, his arms dropping beside the chair and his eyes rolling back into his head, which now lolled to one side. I leaned down toward him with alarm, but Clement touched my shoulder and said gently, “No, his time has not yet come. He just needs rest.” So we lifted him from his chair and placed him on the bed. Clement removed his bonnet and made sure that his frock was neatly arranged. “He’s a little vain about his appearance,” he whispered to me as we were leaving. “But we can forgive him that. He has learned, and taught us, so much.”
I stayed at the settlement for five days. Most of my time was spent simply observing the inhabitants. Every morning two or three would go off to hunt or fish, with the rest working in small gardens scattered among the cabins. It appeared that private property did not exist. Individuals shared tools, even clothes. Labour was not apportioned on the basis of sex, and I was unable to identify anyone who served as leader. Not everyone arose at the same hour or went to work for the same length of time, but
so far as I could tell, no one raised a voice in protest. “Each makes the contribution he or she feels is required,” Clement told me. Food was distributed communally, although not necessarily equally. However, again, there were no complaints. “We trust that each person will take only what she or he truly needs,” was a statement I heard on several occasions.
When not at work individuals could be found engaged in any number of activities: reading and writing, drawing, carving, playing instruments, singing and dancing. Often in the evening small groups would form to talk about subjects as diverse as the medicinal properties of native plants and the nature of human obligation. I was told that some number among them formed a company of actors and performed Shakespeare from time to time, although there were no rehearsals or plays while I was there.
Strangely, or so I thought at the time, there was no Bible among the many books in the settlement. Nor did I witness any form of Christian worship. Judging from remarks I overheard, the inhabitants subscribed to no recognizable faith and regarded traditional religious rituals as meaningless, if not perverse. All the same, it seemed to me that there was a great sense of human worth about the place, an impression that was reinforced every time I was able to speak with my old friend and former partner.
Each of our meetings was briefer than the one before as a consequence of his rapidly deteriorating condition. Even so, he shared many interesting observations with me. I discovered, for example, that he had little regard for most of the men who had followed him in office. His immediate successor, Andrew Johnson, he described as “a village idiot who squandered the moral capital of emancipation.” Ulysses Grant was “a better historian than president and, frankly, a third-rate historian.” Curiously, in view of his contempt for what he referred to as “the predatory rapaciousness” of American trust companies, he professed to hold the recently elected president, William McKinley, in high regard. “He has the capacity to grow in both compassion and understanding,” he assured me.
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