Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  The Great White Moose (before he was the Great White Moose) had now and then observed young Ojibwa children playing hockey on the frozen lakes near his home. So far as I am aware, however, on no occasion did he see a Native boy or girl hit another child in the face. But then, over the years, many discriminating observers have lamented the apparent inability of First Nations peoples to comprehend and assimilate the more edifying aspects of Canadian culture.

  For himself, the Great White Moose had never had a taste for face-to-face combat, or indeed for combat of any kind. Those times when he encountered other male moose during his wanderings across Northern Ontario, and especially during the rutting season, he would tactfully reverse direction. Perhaps it was no more than an inevitable consequence of the fact that he had been neutered at birth. Certainly we can assume that the preacher in the oversized collar would have professed as much. But I am inclined to think that he was simply a gentle soul by nature, and that had he been born a human, he would have happily endorsed the traditional role Canadians like to imagine for themselves (at least away from hockey rinks) as the consummate peacekeepers of the world.

  And now for the exciting conclusion!

  LVII

  “And now for the exciting conclusion!” The speaker is Yale Templeton. It is September, the beginning of a new term, his introductory lecture in History 393. Ordinarily when meeting a class for the first time, he would distribute the syllabus, outline the course material, discuss required readings and written assignments, then dismiss the students without further comment. This time, however, staggered by the size of his audience, he feels moved to add an “exciting conclusion” to his lecture: He will show the students just how truly rewarding study of the American Civil War can be by offering two or three examples of the many thrilling details about the war that they can expect to learn over the coming weeks.

  In previous years History 393 had been held in one of the smaller lecture halls in the Edifice Building. But the return of Yale Templeton to the classroom, whether because he had won a great victory in the battle for free speech in Canada, as some faculty and students would have it, or because he had been on a secret and apparently very dangerous mission for the university, as the administration now claimed, had seen enrolment in the course skyrocket. And so his lectures had been moved to the Lyceum, the only space on campus large enough to accommodate so many students: the fifteen hundred who had registered for the course, plus the additional five hundred who decided to take in the introductory lecture just to see if the newly designated Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War might shed some light on his recent personal history or say something outrageous.

  Not that all two thousand students still remained in the hall. As animated as he may have attempted to sound, Yale Templeton remained a remarkably monotonous speaker. And so there were a mere twelve hundred left in the Lyceum (and many fewer than that still awake) when he reached his “exciting conclusion”: “You will learn many fascinating facts and statistics in this course. For example, how many of you are aware that pig iron production in the North went up 345 percent over the course of the war?” Not a single hand went up. Not even a hand belonging to the one student in class who might have been expected to know the statistic because he had heard it in the same course the previous spring—indeed, in the very same lecture where Professor Templeton presented his astonishing claim (fantasy, revelation) about the “supposed” assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

  But then Joel did not have much of a memory for facts and statistics. And in any case, he had other things on his mind. Surveying the lecture hall, he saw more than six hundred … no, make that seven hundred, women. Statuesque blondes, petite brunettes, fiery redheads. Women of a diverse array of physical types and ethnic backgrounds, each eminently desirable in her own way. True, many were unlikely to return for the second lecture. And their numbers could be expected to decline precipitously right up to the deadline for dropping courses without financial penalty. But Joel had long ago stopped troubling himself about practical realities where prospects for love were concerned.

  LVIII

  It would overstate the case to suggest that Felicia Butterworth was surprised when she heard about the large enrolment for History 393. “A necessary, if unfortunate, consequence of the steps you had to take to deal with a difficult situation,” as the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia tactfully put it. Nor can it be said she was surprised that student militants and certain radical members of the faculty put their own interpretation on why she had honoured Yale Templeton with a chair. Still, she was simmering. The recent V-B Day (Victory Over Butterworth Day) that activists had organized on Regency Circle had been galling enough. (Although it was a small consolation that Frito-Lay reported unexpectedly high sales at the event. “Even revolutionaries love Doritos!” as the sign on one concession stand read.) But then a naked female student had locked herself in the Bell Mobility Tower. Felicia Butterworth still had “Solidarity Forever” ringing in her ears.

  All the same, her management of the Templeton affair had, in the end, produced the desired outcome. The Vice-President for Manipulating the Media had issued a brief announcement to the press stating that, as a reward for his valuable service to the university, Yale Templeton was to become the first Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War. Those desiring further information were to direct their inquiries to the new Advisor to the President and CEO with Special Responsibility for Matters of Principle. And H. Avery Duck had done his part masterfully. He had provided every journalist who contacted him with a treatise outlining the ethical reasons why, in fact, the administration could not provide further information about the appointment. The preamble alone ran to 123 pages. The full text required three volumes, with two additional volumes for relevant supplementary material, including disquisitions by minor Scandinavian philosophers, haikus by Zen Buddhist masters, and scriptural commentary by Andalusian rabbinical scholars. As the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia had suggested (not that H. Avery Duck needed any encouragement), he had created a new language, based on classical Greek, to convey the full enormity of the principles at stake. As an added touch he had cast his arguments in an obscure epic verse form. The result was exactly as the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia had predicted: Most newspapers chose to bury the story of the Templeton appointment on a back page of the weekly Education Supplement. Television simply ignored it.

  The other problem Felicia Butterworth had faced also resolved itself quite nicely, or so it seemed at the time. On her desk one morning she found an envelope containing a letter dated September 29, 1893, from Abraham Lincoln to John Hay. Initially she was confused. Had Yale Templeton not told her that the evidence he had found was contained in legal records? But never mind. The letter looked suitably old, authentic. Accordingly she had the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia contact Vito, and Vito sent his nephews (or as the dean knew them, his godsons) to Toronto to take possession of the document.

  What happened next can be described briefly. When Charles and Hugh, Vito’s nephews, read the letter, they were stunned to discover that those crazy rumours about Lincoln—Lincoln, the most revered of all Americans after Jesus Christ—were apparently true. Here was the proof in Lincoln’s own handwriting that he had faked his assassination so that he could move to Canada and live openly as a transvestite. “Think of the damage if this were to fall into the wrong hands, Uncle Vito,” Hugh said. And so Vito took the only reasonable course. He put the document in the vault in his office for safekeeping. Put it in the vault for safekeeping, intending to offer it for sale on eBay. But then—mercifully, some might say—his short-term memory failed him (as it now so often did), and he forgot about the letter entirely. It remains in the vault to this day, awaiting discovery by some resourceful historian.

  LIX

  The President, of course, knew nothing about the letter. If he had—if he had believed that Vito had come
into possession of the evidence Yale Templeton found—he would not have acted so rashly.

  I am referring here to the decision he made at a meeting of his chief security officers in the private room in Walter Reed hospital where the Director of the CIA was recuperating. Not that the Director of the CIA was able to contribute to the conversation. He lay motionless in his bed, eyes riveted on the ceiling. Occasionally he would emit a deep gurgling sound.

  The Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs arrived late, the afternoon matinee of Peter Pan at the Kennedy Center having run a few minutes over. He apologized to the President for appearing in his Captain Hook costume. “We have another show at seven, and I didn’t think I would have time to change. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes them to do my makeup.” All present sympathized.

  The President began the meeting by recounting the “unfortunate recent experiences” of the Director of the CIA, “as best as we have been able to reconstruct them.” He then revealed what he had learned only hours earlier: that Felicia Butterworth had created an endowed chair for Yale Templeton.

  “But it was only a few months ago that she suspended him,” said the Director of the FBI. “Why honour him? Why now?”

  “Good questions, Raymond. Very good questions. Here’s how I see it. Butterworth built her reputation in the marketing department at Frito-Lay. When she took over as university president and CEO in Toronto, she initiated a very ambitious—and I am told spectacularly successful—fundraising campaign targeting corporate donors. I can only assume she has concluded that there is more money to be made by exploiting Templeton’s notoriety than by keeping him silent. For all I know, next week we’ll see him on television peddling Funyuns Onion-flavoured Rings.”

  “If you’re right, Mr. President, then the Lincoln story is about to hit the front pages all over again,” observed the Director of the FBI.

  “My thinking exactly,” replied the President. “We must act immediately.”

  “But what can we do?” asked the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “Everything we’ve tried has failed. I mean, just look …” And he cast a pitiful glance at the figure lying in the bed.

  The President shrugged. “What happened to the Director of the CIA, I can’t say I’m surprised. Not entirely. The truth is, I put together a contingency plan back at the time of the breakin at the White House.”

  “You mean when you were hanging naked from the chandelier?” said the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation.

  The President glowered at him. “I determined,” he went on, speaking in sharp, measured tones, “that if the Director of the CIA was unable to complete his mission, I would go to Toronto and deal with Templeton myself. Really, I see no other choice.”

  “But Mr. President!” objected the Director of the FBI. “Think of the danger! Think of Bobbi Jo Jackson!”

  “Ah yes, Bobbi Jo Jackson,” sighed the President, who had in fact been thinking of scarcely anyone or anything else since the breakin. “Exactly my point. I am quite satisfied I am the only one who can make her … uh … see reason.”

  “I have to be honest with you, Mr. President,” said the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, “the people of the United States will never stand for it. They will never let you put your life at risk.”

  “The people need never know,” replied the President. “I will go in disguise.” “Go in disguise? Do you mean you’re planning on facing Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson alone?” said the Director of the FBI.

  “No, no,” replied the President. “Of course not. Lowell here will go with me.”

  “What?!” cried the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “What?! Me?! I’ll go with you?! But! … But! …“

  Just then the Director of the CIA sat bolt upright in his bed. He grabbed a Beretta from under his pillow, directed it at the head of the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation, cried “Live Free or Die!” and then pulled the trigger. A little red flag popped out from the barrel of the gun. It had “Bang!” written in blue and white spangled letters on the side.

  “It’s good I had them modify that thing after the incident with the Puerto Rican orderly last week,” said the President. The Director of the FBI and the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs nodded in agreement, while the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation crumpled to a heap on the floor.

  LX

  For some years now when mail addressed to “Mrs. Templeton” arrived at the Tudor cottage in Saffron Walden, the occupant of the cottage would puzzle over the name, search her memory to no effect, then, typically, toss the envelope into the dustbin. Tradesmen in the locality had learned to deliver bills in person. They had learned as well that, if they wished to receive payment, it was advisable to drop to one knee, make a respectful bow, and refer to the occupant as “Your Majesty” or “Your Grace.”

  The letter that arrived for “Mrs. Templeton” on this particular day was quite unusual, however. For one thing it was addressed in the following way: “Mrs. Templeton, Mother of the Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War.” For another it had been sent from Canada, that distant northern land where her favourite courtier had gone to educate the natives in the benefits of gentle English governance. The postmark even had an image of that fearful Canadian beast, the moos or moosh. And so, suspecting that the security of the realm was at stake, the occupant of the cottage invoked her royal prerogative and opened the envelope addressed to a person she believed to be one of her subjects.

  The letter inside, written by an overly zealous summer intern in the Office of the Fundraising Campaign at the university, was cryptic. Or rather it seemed cryptic to her. “You have no doubt learned by this time,” it began, “that Yale Templeton has been accorded an unprecedented honour by the president and CEO of this renowned institution.”

  Indeed, she had learned no such thing. The new Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War had declined to send his mother notification of his appointment. He had always resisted letting her know about his professional activities for fear that any reminder of his decision to devote his life’s work to study of the United States would cause her distress. (Not to mention the fact that he still had no clue why Felicia Butterworth had decided to reward him with a prestigious chair.)

  The letter continued: “The courageous actions taken by Professor Templeton in defence of his country speak for themselves. So does his scholarship, which has rightfully earned him a reputation as the ‘foremost living authority on the American Civil War,’ to quote the eminent historian St. Clair Russell Hill.”

  The letter then went on to suggest that, under the circumstances, Mrs. Templeton might think it proper to make a financial contribution to the university. Enclosed with the letter was a card outlining the various ways in which such a contribution could be made: By cheque. By “monthly deductions from your bank account.” Or by VISA, Mastercard, or American Express (with spaces provided where the donor was to enter a “credit card no.” and “date of expiry”).

  The letter and card were completely opaque to her. Even so, she found the language unsettling. And she immediately summoned Richard Hakluyt the younger to see if he could make sense of the documents.

  Which he was unable to do, however, at least for the better part of the hour he spent brooding silently over them in her cottage. He scrutinized the envelope as well, especially the return address. But alas, the terms “Office of the Fundraising Campaign” and “Graves Hall” meant nothing to him. In the end he begged leave to take the documents back to the rectory at Wetheringsett. “Soe that I might have the opportunitie to review them at some length.”

  LXI

  Yale Templeton’s mother was extremely surprised when Richard Hakluyt returned the very next morning. But, as he explained on his arrival, what
he had discovered through a close reading of the letter and card meant that there was no time for delay.

  “As Your Majestie her selfe didst notice, I hazarde, the letter speakes of a ‘civil warre.’ There is but a single possible conclusion. Hostilities have broken out among the Savages in Canada. Peradventure the French are responsible. Or, if the worst of our feares be realized, the Spaniardes and even the Portingales.”

  Yale Templeton’s mother took a deep breath.

  “There is more, Your Majestie. The letter acknowledges ‘the courageous actions’ that the intrepid Y. [or Yale Templeton, as Richard Hakluyt now knew him to be] has taken in defence of the realm …”

  “For which I will reward him most lavishly on his return,” she reminded him.

  “Ah, yes. Well, but …” and here he dropped his eyes, “it is my most painefull dutie to informe thee that I beleve he is nowe a captive, held for ransom.”

  “For ransom!” exclaimed Yale Templeton’s mother.

  “I can conjure no other explanation wherefore the author of the communication hath asked for tribute.”

  Yale Templeton’s mother fell quiet, pondering the news. Richard Hakluyt was quiet as well.

  “At least,” she said after some moments’ reflection, “the request for tribute does allow us one comfort. Presumably our valiant wayfarer remains alive.”

  “But for how long?” Richard Hakluyt replied, revealing more concern than he intended.

  “What are you suggesting?!” she said with alarm.

  “The wordinge of the carde. Your Majestie will notice …” and here he directed her attention to the phrase “date of expiry.” He went on. “Quite clearly, unless the parties holding Y. receve payment, they meane to put him to death. Howbeit only, I shoulde imagine, after first subjecting him to the very cruelest of tortures.”