A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Not a half-bad fellow,” said Francis in his wake, high praise from the blustery newspaperman. “I see Weber’s here. I’m going to see if I can’t go provoke him about his party’s candidate. Can you believe it? The Democrats are actually intending to renominate Van Buren. After the hash he’s made of the country these past three years? ‘Van Ruin’ is more like it.” Francis snorted with laughter and waddled off in the direction of the publisher of the rival newspaper in town.

  I took a step toward where I’d left Lincoln and nearly collided with a young woman in a flowing green gown who was coming in the other direction. “Excuse me,” I said, looking up to meet her eyes, liquid pools of green framed by a fair complexion and perfect auburn curls. My breath caught.

  “It was I who was clumsy,” she said, with the faintest hint of an Irish brogue. She blushed, her color further enhancing a face that was perfection to begin with.

  I bowed before her and began, “I’m Joshua—”

  “There you are, Rose,” said a young man in a smart frockcoat, sweeping in and taking the woman by the arm. “I thought I’d lost you for a moment. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  The two walked away, arm in arm, and I felt a quick pang of the regret you feel when you pass by a stranger in the street whom you might, in another life, have known, the path on the prairie not taken. Then Lincoln’s voice emerged above the din of the crowd and I went to find him.

  Lincoln and Douglas had been joined by Ninian Edwards and a fourth man I did not recognize. The stranger was well dressed and compact, with a beak nose, full whiskers, and a gently receding hairline. Even in a gathering of such august personages, he stood with a bearing that suggested he considered himself superior to every man present. I approached the grouping, but since none moved aside, I stood just outside the ring of conversation.

  “… realization of a long-held dream,” Edwards was saying portentously. “When my father was appointed the first governor of the Territory of Illinois, he vowed that one day there would be a grand state capitol building in the center of Springfield. I can’t help but think of the edifice across the street as a tribute to his legacy.”

  “The entire state owes your family quite a debt, Edwards,” said Lincoln, winking at me.

  “Just don’t try to collect anytime soon, because the entire state is broke,” added Douglas. Lincoln roared with laughter and slapped him on the back, while Edwards looked put out.

  The other gentleman cleared his throat and said, “I believe you suggested, Edwards, that Messrs. Lincoln and Douglas might be interested in my expertise.”

  “Ah, yes.” Turning back to the two politicians, Edwards explained, “I told William here that he should speak with you two gentlemen. He has some views on the canal project, I understand.”

  The stranger launched into a long, detailed recitation. It seemed he sought to convince the legislature to situate the canal in the midst of a particular district as it passed near the settlement of Ottawa. I guessed at once that he hoped to give financial advantage to land he held along the route. Lincoln and Douglas were well used to such special pleading, and they soon lost interest. Each of them scanned the crowd, apparently searching for Miss Todd, although in this contest Lincoln had the definite advantage, being well over a foot taller than his rival. Meanwhile, Edwards finally noticed my presence and grabbed hold of my arm.

  “I should introduce the two of you as well,” Edwards said. “William Trailor, meet Joshua Speed. And vice versa.” Edwards nodded briskly and walked off to greet another guest.

  The man stared at me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. “Which committees do you serve on?” he asked.

  “None,” I said. “I’m not in the legislature at all. I own a general store on the other side of the—” But the man had turned back to Lincoln and Douglas, trying to reclaim their attention.

  “Hold on a moment,” I exclaimed, as Edwards’s introduction finally registered. “William Trailor? Are you the brother of Archibald Trailor?”

  He turned back to face me, annoyance clear in his eyes. “’Course I am,” he sputtered. “I hope he doesn’t owe you money, because I assuredly do not stand behind his debts.”

  “I am indebted to him. Greatly so. During the Sudden Change, he saved my life.”

  William Trailor took a step back and swallowed. “Oh, you’re that Speed, are you? I heard something about that. Nice to meet you, I suppose.”

  I grabbed Lincoln’s arm. “Lincoln,” I called, talking loudly against the din of the gathering. “Do you know this fellow is Archibald’s brother?”

  “Mm-hmm,” my friend replied, not taking his eyes off the crowd. “Who’s that she’s talking to now?” he added to himself. I decided to leave Lincoln to his quest.

  “Well, I am very pleased to meet you,” I said to Trailor, pumping his hand again and ignoring his disagreeable disposition. While William Trailor did not look like his younger brother, Archibald, there was something very suggestive of Henry Trailor in his forehead and the shape of his eyes. Even Archibald’s physical appearance marked him as different from his brothers, I thought.

  “I wouldn’t be here talking to you were it not for the bravery of your brother,” I continued. “Bravery and faithfulness. He came back to find me, in the middle of the storm, and helped us shelter together.”

  “Is that so?” William Trailor frowned. The notion that Archibald had done something to merit praise seemed difficult for him to accept. “I’m happy for it, I suppose, for your sake. My brother Archibald hasn’t done much of consequence in his life. It was your good fortune he chose this one occasion to act.”

  “It certainly was. He’s a fine fellow, very well respected in Springfield.” This was hyperbole, but under the circumstances I said it without hesitation. “Are you in town to visit him?”

  “More on a matter of business,” William replied. His eyes twitched; he seemed to have resigned himself to conversing with me. “I’m here with Archibald and our other brother, Henry. And our business partner, Flynn Fisher, is in town as well. We’re working to improve some land up north, and we wanted to favor the legislature with the benefit of our expertise.”

  Edwards rejoined us, and William abruptly turned his attention back to him. “Are there other members of the assembly I could speak to, Ninian?” he asked. “I’m not sure Mr. Lincoln or Mr. Douglas fully understood the importance of what I was telling them.”

  “Whatever happened to those two?” Edwards asked, looking past me at the swirling crowd.

  “It is possible they went in search of your sister-in-law,” I said with a smile. “They both seem rather interested in securing her views. On the canal, I’m sure.”

  Edwards grinned. “I doubt very much that’s what they’re after. The full moon tonight may be working its magic. And Mary could make a bishop forget his prayers.

  “No matter. Come with me, Trailor. I’ll introduce you to a few more of my colleagues, make sure you get a thorough hearing. The whole legislature, near enough, is in the room at this very moment.”

  They walked away. I spotted the back of Lincoln’s head, looming high above the crowd, and I hurried off to join the rivals in their pursuit.

  CHAPTER 7

  My general store, A.Y. Ellis & Co., occupied a prime spot near the northwest corner of the capitol square. Some days after the gala, I stood in the doorway and looked out at the capitol building. Although it was now occupied for the first time, construction was not yet complete, and building materials and assorted debris littered the site. As I watched, the Whigs in the legislature assembled for their weekly caucus. Lincoln had left for the meeting a few minutes earlier. As soon as I saw Ninian Edwards walk up the grand marble steps of the building, in close conversation with a few of his colleagues, I left my storefront and made haste to the Edwards house.

  The grand, brightly painted home stood on Quality Hill, a sloping elevation with a commanding view of Springfield, where several of the wealthiest men of tow
n had constructed mansions. It required a strenuous climb to reach. When the Edwardses’ servant boy, Joseph, answered the door, I asked if the master of the house was in.

  Before he could respond, there was a rustling in the hallway and Mary Todd appeared. She was wearing a dress with a vivid yellow-and-navy pattern; the dress fell down to her ankles and its full sleeves covered her wrists. An ivory broach cinched the neck. I told myself to avoid gaping openly at her beauty.

  “Mr. Speed, is that you?” she asked, in a voice that sounded like morning birdsong to my ears. “You must have passed my brother-in-law on the way, as he has just this hour left for town.”

  “That is a great disappointment,” I said, holding my expression fixed. “I was hoping to query him on a matter of business.”

  “Do come in and rest a spell. You must be tired from your walk up the hill.”

  Mary led me into the front sitting room and motioned that I should take a seat on a three-person horsehair couch against the wall. She gathered her skirts and sat on the opposite end of the same couch. I was surprised, and attracted, by her boldness.

  “Mr. Edwards was heading to the capitol,” Mary said. “The Whigs are planning their strategy for this year’s presidential contest, I believe. Are you interested in the election, Mr. Speed?”

  “Most certainly. With Lincoln—with a few of my colleagues—we’re publishing a campaign newspaper, The Old Soldier, in support of General Harrison.”

  “I heartily join your cause. President Van Buren has no feel for the real stuff his citizens are made of, certainly not those of us here in the West. The man’s a fop. The general is a log cabin–and–hard cider man. I like that, and I daresay the majority of our fellow citizens will as well.”

  “I’m impressed, Miss Todd. That’s quite a full explication of views on the matter of politics.”

  She frowned. “I don’t know why that should come as a surprise. I’ve been a registered member of the Whig Party since I was nine years old. I assisted my father in his campaign for the Kentucky legislature. And I’ll have you know, when President Jackson visited Lexington prior to the election in 1828, I refused to attend a public demonstration in his honor.”

  I burst out laughing. “Do you think that made a difference to him, the refusal of one little girl to attend his celebration?”

  “Perhaps it did, perhaps it didn’t,” she replied, her tone deadly serious. “How should I know? All I know is that I could not countenance adding myself to his number of supporters.”

  “Your determination is certainly a credit,” I replied with an agreeable nod, and deciding I had better change the topic, I added, “I wonder, how do you find Springfield, now that you’ve lived among us for several months?”

  “I like being free of my father and stepmother. And I like residing with my sister Elizabeth. As for Springfield, I find it tolerable, although there is not always much to do for women of my character. Miss Speed and I have had occasion to discuss the matter.”

  I glanced at Mary’s right hand, lying casually along the top of the couch and stretching out in my direction. It was perfect alabaster; a master sculptor could not have brought into existence a limb more becoming.

  This was by far the longest and most intimate conversation I had ever had with her, and I hoped to feed its flame for as long as possible. “And what was it you enjoyed back home in Kentucky?” I asked.

  “Teaching school, for one. I was at Ward’s in Lexington, working as an apprentice teacher and helping Mrs. Ward with the younger children. I should like very much to teach again, especially younger girls, if a girls’ school ever opens in Springfield.”

  “You yourself had a full course of boarding school education, if I’m not mistaken,” I returned. She nodded. “You and I share the view, then, of the importance of a formal education, for boys and girls alike. It is not one all of our neighbors share. Too many are ‘self-educated,’ to use a term that I think refutes itself, and all too happy to stay that way.”

  “I cannot imagine you are including your friend Mr. Lincoln in your statement,” said she. “Because surely he, though self-educated, would be the first to vote in support of a more developed system of formal education.”

  “I suppose you’re correct.” I had been including Lincoln in my condemnation, of course, and it rankled me that Mary had not only declined to join my attempt to denigrate him but had turned my comment into an opportunity to praise him.

  “What about you?” she continued. “Do you think you’ll follow Mr. Lincoln into the political life?”

  “I cannot imagine so.” I thought I saw her arm pull back ever so slightly. “I’m busy with the affairs of A.Y. Ellis & Co. The merchant’s life suits me.”

  “My brother-in-law combines matters political with matters of business.”

  “He does so with great success,” I said. “But still, I do not think it’s the life for me.”

  “Stephen fancies he’ll be president one day.”

  It took me a moment to realize that she meant Douglas, and my irritation at the little man’s pretensions was surpassed only by my irritation at Miss Todd’s evident familiarity with them. Before I could think of a suitable reply, she continued.

  “And what of your Mr. Lincoln? What do you think the future holds for him?”

  “You’d have to ask him, I suppose.” I sensed I had failed to keep the churlishness out of my voice.

  “I was recently conversing with Miss Matilda Edwards about you and Lincoln,” Mary continued with a confidential tone. “Matilda asked me which I thought the cleverer. I told her I couldn’t answer. It’s too hard a choice. But she said to her eyes it was you, without question.” Mary leaned toward me, and by instinct I reciprocated; our heads were less than a foot apart. I could smell her freshly washed hair. “She called you ‘dashing,’ Mr. Speed. She really is a very pretty girl.”

  Mary sat back, a small smile on her face. I remained frozen in place. The implication of her words was unmistakable. Before I could respond, there was a noise in the hallway, and Mary’s older sister bustled into the room.

  “Mary, whatever are you—Mr. Speed, is that you? What are you doing here? How long has he been here, Mary?”

  I jumped to my feet, backing away from the couch and straightening my coat, while Mary rose in a composed fashion and said, “Mr. Speed came to call on your husband, Elizabeth. When he found him missing, I insisted he rest a spell before his walk back down to town. He was just saying he would have to leave soon to return to his store.” Mary flashed me a quick, sympathetic smile.

  Her older sister was not mollified. “I’m glad you showed him such courtesy, Mary, but in the future you are to alert me at once when we have visitors. Especially when we have gentleman visitors.”

  “Of course, dear sister, I shall.” Again, Mary smiled at me from behind her sister’s back.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Speed,” said Mrs. Edwards, guiding me firmly toward the entrance hallway.

  “Good day, Mrs. Edwards. It’s nice to see you again, and Miss Todd as well. I always receive such remarkable hospitality at this house. I’m most sorry for the intrusion.”

  My thoughts spun with Mary’s design to send me in Matilda’s direction. Whoever was going to win the contest for Mary’s hand, it seemed it would not be me. My excursion had produced exactly the opposite of its intended effect. Deeply distracted, I reached for the handle to the Edwardses’ front door, only to find it swinging away from me.

  William May, the new mayor of Springfield, stood in the doorway. He was breathing heavily, and beads of sweat encircled his red face. “Is … Edwards … home?” he gasped.

  I was shaken from my ruminations. “Indeed, no. I came to call upon him myself. He’s at the capitol, it appears.”

  “I’ll go … find him … there,” May replied, still gaining his breath. “I need his counsel … on a matter of great … civic … importance.” He took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye.

  “A man’s
been murdered.”

  CHAPTER 8

  May turned and fled down the hill, and after a moment’s pause I raced after him. He was an odd-looking man, nearly fifty years of age, with very long, skinny legs and a comparatively squat torso. In his youth he had had a full shock of fiery red hair, and though the little that remained had turned to gray, he was still universally known by his childhood nickname, “Big Red.” Other than his hair, Big Red’s most remarkable feature was his enormous ears, which splayed out from either side of his head like canvas sails catching a strong wind. Chasing after the man, it appeared as if the breeze captured by his ears was perpetually in danger of lifting him off the ground.

  Halfway down the hill I caught up with him and grabbed his arm. He spun around.

  “I cannot have even a moment’s delay,” he shouted, his eyes blinking and his ears hovering. “I must have Edwards’s advice, at once.”

  “You said someone’s been murdered. Who is it?”

  “I do not know the man.” He continued his headlong dash into town, and I trotted alongside him.

  “Well, where was the body found?” I asked.

  “There is no body.”

  “Then how do you know there’s been a murder?”

  In midstride, Big Red turned and stared at me wide-eyed, waving his arms frantically. “Exactly!” he shouted, and he raced ahead.

  We had entered the town proper by now, and the mayor’s course was taking us in the direction of the capitol building by way of the Post Office Department, which stood on the south side of the capitol square. As the Department came into view, I saw Springfield’s postmaster, James Keyes, standing on an overturned crate in front of his office. Though Keyes handed over the mail in packets that ostensibly remained sealed, he had an uncanny ability to anticipate their contents.

  Keyes was holding a folded piece of paper, and an unruly crowd was quickly gathering around him, jostling for position. I slowed to a walk as I reached the melee. My bad leg ached from chasing after Big Red.