A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Here’s the letter some of you have been asking about,” Keyes hollered. “The citizens of Springfield are considerably lucky they have a postmaster who keeps such a careful watch on the commonweal.”

  “What’s it say?” yelled a voice from the crowd.

  “I am about to relate its contents,” said Keyes officiously. He made a great show of reviewing the letter, then cleared his throat. “A Mrs. Joseph Jones from LaSalle writes to her correspondent in Springfield about the recent activities of one William Trailor. The suspicious activities of Mr. Trailor, as you’ll hear shortly.”

  I came to a dead stop when I heard Trailor’s name. Having met all three brothers, it seemed clear the older two were in the habit of dumping their problems on Archibald. Wherever Keyes was heading, I feared it meant trouble for the carpenter.

  Keyes paused, nodding his head as various men shouted questions and demanded additional detail. Finally, the postmaster was stirred to continue.

  “Yes, yes, I’m getting to all that. Mrs. Jones writes that William Trailor is well known to the residents of LaSalle as a skinflint. Lately, however, Trailor has been spreading silver and gold coins all over town, spending with the abandon of a drunken Irishman.” The crowd murmured excitedly. It had been growing steadily during Keyes’s performance, and thirty or forty men now milled about on the street in front of the Department.

  After a pause, Keyes continued. “Apparently, William Trailor has been circulating the story that an acquaintance of his, a Mr. Flynn Fisher, recently passed away and left him one thousand dollars in his will. According to the letter, Mr. Fisher was a respected businessman and town elder in LaSalle.” A low gasp went through the crowd, followed by shouts of outrage; the figure was more than most of the men assembled would see in three lifetimes. Many of them were ready to lead William Trailor to the gallows at once, I thought, merely on account of the great sum of money he had accumulated.

  The great sum he had supposedly accumulated, I corrected myself. Given what Archibald had said about Fisher’s financial straits, I was immediately dubious of the story related by the postmaster.

  Keyes shook the letter back and forth in order to regain the crowd’s attention. “Mrs. Joseph Jones reports to her correspondent, a Mrs. Alfred—er, that part’s not important—where was I? Yes, Mrs. Jones reports that the good people of LaSalle are concerned the unfortunate Mr. Fisher was the victim of foul play. And Mrs. Jones relates that when Fisher was last seen alive, he was heading towards Springfield in the company of Mr. Trailor.”

  Giving a satisfied nod, Keyes folded the letter and put it into his pocket.

  “Find the sheriff! Let’s get Hutchason!” yelled out one man.

  “Where’s Big Red?” shouted another. “Isn’t it his job to keep us safe?”

  Where was the mayor? I wondered. Big Red had disappeared during the postmaster’s newsmongering. Looking around, I saw Lincoln’s familiar figure coming down the steps of the capitol building. I caught him on the middle of the town green.

  “What’s the commotion?” Lincoln asked. “Is Keyes airing someone’s dirty linen again?”

  I quickly recounted Keyes’s tale about William Trailor and the apparent death of Flynn Fisher.

  “Ah,” said Lincoln, “that explains Big Red bursting into our meeting and taking Ninian away.”

  “What did the mayor want Edwards for?” I asked. “I ran into him at the Edwards mansion; accompanied him back into town, in fact. He was desperate to secure an audience with Ninian.”

  “You have to remember, Speed, that Big Red’s newly elected, just sworn in last month,” said Lincoln. “Springfield has never had a mayor before. We’ve never seen the need for one, until now, with the town grown so big. Many people still think the position’s a waste of public funds. Big Red has the office, but he doesn’t have the first idea what do to with it. I think he’s hoping Ninian will tell him.”

  Lincoln squinted at me. “What did you say the name was of the fellow who supposedly died?”

  “Flynn Fisher. I actually met him, briefly, in Chicago with Archibald, a few days before the Sudden Change. And William Trailor mentioned at the gala that this same Fisher fellow was in town with them.”

  The throng of men had drifted away from the post office and were scattered about in small groups on the disheveled capitol grounds. More than a few were drinking from flasks. Chicago was not the only town with a substantial population of rootless men these days; Springfield had more than its share as well. They were vagrants and landless farmers, peddlers and hucksters, wearing fraying clothes and angry expressions. There was not enough work and too much time for idle pursuits, and a mob was quick to form over trivial matters. Big Red’s concern when faced with the postmaster’s gossip was easy to comprehend.

  At that moment, the mayor himself, flanked by Ninian Edwards on one side and Sheriff Humble Hutchason on the other, emerged at the top of the capitol steps. Many of the crowd began calling to get his attention. Big Red raised his hands, pleading for order; I was sure I saw his ears twitching.

  “Gentlemen,” he shouted, “gentlemen, please give me your attention. I have an announcement about the fate of a recent visitor to Springfield, a Mr. Flynn Fisher. Mr. Fisher, as you may have heard, has gone missing. There is reason to fear he has been … murdered.”

  A huge cry went up from the crowd.

  “He was a great man!” exclaimed a fellow near us.

  “What a loss,” murmured another.

  Lincoln and I exchanged glances. As far as we knew, not a single person in Springfield was acquainted with Fisher. A certain delusion was taking hold among the crowd.

  “Sheriff Hutchason informs me,” Big Red continued, nodding at the lawman, who looked on with a disagreeable expression, “that Mr. Fisher was in Springfield with William and Henry Trailor, and that the Trailors lodged at the American House.” At this, groups of men began jabbering at each other. A number were ready to charge at once into the hotel, whose steeply pitched rooftop, punctuated by a neat row of chimneys, loomed just beyond the capitol building. Again, Big Red called for order.

  “It’s no use looking in the American House. Major Iles has confirmed Fisher isn’t there. As your mayor, I’ve ordered an urgent investigation into the fate of Mr. Fisher. My fellow citizens, I need all of you to help with this important mission. We need two search parties. Half of you men, go over there” —he pointed to a newly planted oak tree in the southeast corner of the public square— “and prepare to take orders from the sheriff. The rest of you, wait in place, and I’ll be down to lead you. Let’s see if we can find Fisher, or his body, by nightfall.”

  The crowd buzzed with excitement; Big Red had read correctly their desire for action. Edwards whispered into one of the mayor’s gigantic ears. Then Big Red walked down the steps, seemingly pulling Hutchason along behind him. Lincoln touched my shoulder.

  “Well, Speed, we may rest secure in the knowledge that the mayor has the situation in hand,” he said, giving a mischievous smile. “If Big Red’s raiding parties don’t turn up Fisher, I shouldn’t be surprised if they find the Holy Grail, what with the caliber of men he’s assembled.”

  “It’s all likely to come to nothing. I certainly hope so, for Archibald Trailor’s sake.”

  “What’s Archibald got to do with this?”

  “Nothing, I expect.” I thought back to the conversation I’d overhead between Archibald and Henry Trailor on the evening before the Sudden Change. “Other than he was with his brothers around the time this Fisher character seems to have disappeared. I hope Archibald would’ve had the good sense to steer clear of any of his brothers’ misadventures.”

  “I’m not sure how much good sense Archibald possesses,” Lincoln said, his tone not unkind.

  “That’s exactly my worry.”

  We parted; I headed back to my store, Lincoln to his law offices at Hoffman’s Row. I had taken a few steps away when Lincoln called after me.

  “Speed, you were up a
t the Edwards house earlier?”

  I knew at once I couldn’t deny it. “That’s right.”

  “Whatever were you doing there?”

  “Looking for Ninian, of course.”

  “But you knew he was with me, at the capitol building. We discussed at breakfast this morning that the Whig caucus was meeting.” Lincoln peered at me skeptically.

  I hoped Lincoln’s talent for reading my thoughts would fail him this once. “Indeed,” I said. “I discovered I’d journeyed in vain.”

  CHAPTER 9

  From my post behind the counter of my store, I had a perfect view of the madness that followed. All afternoon, groups of men raced across the capitol lawn, this way and that, in an excited frenzy. Not a small number of them barged into my store, seeking materials for their quest: shovels, rope, ladders, gloves suitable for digging. I readily purveyed the goods in question, as I had no wish to allow my competitors on the square to secure the business. But I watched the scene with growing unease. From the snatches of conversation I overheard, it seemed there was not a potential hiding place within miles of Springfield that was not being ransacked in search of the missing stranger.

  Late in the afternoon, Sheriff Hutchason himself lumbered through the doorway. He was a massive man, with the long arms and stocky build of a heavyweight grappler. Hutchason was a popular figure who had first gained prominence during the Winnebago Wars of the early 1830s, and he had served as the sheriff of Sangamon County for nearly a decade. An expression of worry clouded his normally placid demeanor.

  “If he’s not careful, the fool’s going to get someone else killed,” Hutchason muttered as he entered the store.

  “You aren‘t talking about our new mayor, are you, Sheriff? Earlier today on the capitol steps, it looked like the two of you were in perfect concert.”

  Hutchason grunted. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t see the humor, Speed. Big Red hasn’t the first idea what he’s unleashed. He says he was afraid of the townspeople turning into a mob. So instead of waiting for the people to come up with the idea, he’s created a mob himself. It would be laughable if it weren’t such a risk to the public.”

  “Any sign of the body?”

  “None. Though, based on what I know of the Trailor brothers, can’t say I’d be surprised if there’s one to be found.”

  I thought about my debt to Archibald Trailor; I literally owed the man my life. “Whatever turns out to have happened to this Fisher fellow, Sheriff,” I said, “I should think Archibald Trailor cannot have had anything to do with it. I daresay he couldn’t organize his thoughts sufficiently to plot a crime in the first place.”

  Hutchason nodded vigorously. “Archibald’s never given me a spot of trouble, for all the years I’ve known him. As for his brothers, we’ll have to see if Big Red’s search parties turn up anything. Which, come to mention, is the reason I’ve stopped in. I was looking for a pair of—”

  At that moment, there was a great crashing at the door. Three or four men, covered from head to toe with grime, burst into the storeroom. “There you are, Sheriff,” shouted one of them. “I thought that was your horse on the hitching post. Come! We’ve found it. The murder weapon!”

  Without another word to me, the sheriff bustled out the door, the men close at his heels.

  Lincoln was attending a debate at the Young Men’s Lyceum on the coming election that evening, so I dined with Martha in the public room of the Globe Tavern.

  The Globe was a noisy, shabby two-story inn around the corner from our lodgings whose best days, to the extent they had ever existed, were long behind it. As a feeding station for hungry village residents or residence for travelers, it was inferior in every respect to the sparkling new American House. Its only advantage at this point was familiarity, like a pair of shoes that slipped on easily despite worn-away soles.

  The Globe’s public room buzzed with only one topic: the disappearance and presumed murder of Flynn Fisher. The innkeeper Saunders circulated up and down the long, heavily scarred common table, asking each diner what he had heard or seen and passing along a constantly updated compilation of gossip. By the time we’d taken our last bites of a surprisingly tolerable roast, a rough consensus had formed around the following version of events:

  The raiding party led by Mayor May had worked its way from the town center, searching every place a body could have lain overlooked for the past week. Barns, cellars, outhouses, and wells had been ransacked. In his zeal, the mayor had even given the order to dig up freshly dug graves. Fisher’s body did not materialize. However, out on the road toward Hickox’s millpond, one of the men in the search party found a broken fencepost, the irregular end of which was discolored. Some reports stated confidently that dried blood was found on the post; others said it could have been old paint. Either way, there was no dispute about the most telling discovery: a strand of hair was found sticking out from the jagged edge of the post. The eager search party immediately took the find as proof that the fencepost had been used to bludgeon Fisher.

  The brush and a small grove of willow trees, just starting to bud, in the immediate vicinity of the fencepost were searched for Fisher’s body, without success. However, the lack of a body seemed a minor detail given the other circumstances. After a quick consultation as the mob surged and shouted all around them, Big Red and Hutchason agreed that William and Henry Trailor should be arrested and questioned for murder.

  We tried to ascertain Archibald Trailor’s fate. But neither the innkeeper nor the men dining alongside us had heard anything about him, and after a few inquiries I let the matter rest. The town’s natural inclination was that Archibald could not have been involved in the affair. Nothing good could come from disturbing that view.

  Martha and I were talking over the new developments as I walked her home after dinner. Since she had moved to Springfield, she had lodged in the house of Sheriff Hutchason, as the sheriff’s wife, Molly, was an old schoolmate of Martha’s from Louisville. It was a chilly evening, the partial moon obscured by gusty clouds, and Martha was shivering under her thin dress. I took off my coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Are you certain Archibald couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder, if there was a murder?” my sister asked.

  “Positive. The poor fellow doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

  “But I thought you told me he lifted your purse on the ferry in Chicago.”

  “He saw an opportunity and he took it. No one was harmed, especially not when he restored the purse to me several days later. With my portrait of Ann still inside.”

  “But with several coins missing!” protested my sister. “I think you’re being unwise about him.”

  “Well, I’m certain of this. However bad Archibald might be, his brothers are worse by a factor of ten. I’ve seen enough of them, and of how they treat Archibald, to know it. My fear is they’re going to blame Archibald for something they did.”

  “He’s got to stick up for himself,” said Martha. “He shouldn’t let his family push him around. I know I wouldn’t.”

  As I returned to my store, ready to head up the back stairs and retire for the evening, I saw a lanky figure lurking in the doorway. At first I was afraid it was a blackguard bent on robbery, but as I neared, the troubled eyes and crooked teeth of Archibald Trailor emerged from behind a black cloak.

  “Trailor, what are you doing here?” I exclaimed.

  “Waiting for you, Mr. Speed.” There was a tremble in his voice. “Can I come inside?”

  As I unlocked the door and ushered Archibald in, I was struck by what an odd relationship we had. I had barely known the man prior to the harrowing experience of the Sudden Change, and I hadn’t spoken to him more than half a dozen times, and then only in passing, since we’d returned home to Springfield. We’d never met up for that draught we’d discussed. Yet the desperate hours of terror we’d shared sheltering next to his prone horse in the midst of the violent storm had given us an indelible connection many
lifelong friends lacked.

  He leaned against the counter in the storeroom and gazed at me with a pained expression. “The sheriff’s gone for my brothers. He says both of them, Henry and William, are gonna be arrested. He thinks they might have killed Flynn.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “I love my brothers. They’re the only family I have.”

  “I know they are.” Having seen how they treated him, I thought neither merited this declaration of loyalty. At the same time, I knew as well as anyone the strength of the bond that family blood commanded.

  “What’ll happen to them?”

  “They’ll be taken to jail and questioned, I suppose, and brought in front of Judge Treat. After that, it all depends on what actually happened. Do you know what happened to this Fisher character, Archibald?”

  He looked up with a frightened face and shook his head.

  I spoke as gently as I could. “Does that mean you don’t know, or that something bad did happen to him?”

  “I … I can’t talk about it. William made us promise we wouldn’t say nothing, and we all agreed. I can’t do nothing to hurt them.”

  My heart sank. This was hardly the declaration of innocence I’d been hoping for. But there was no use in making the poor man even more anxious.

  “Quite right of you, Trailor,” I said. “It sounds like you should keep it all to yourself for the time being. I know you don’t want to see anything bad happen to your brothers, but at least it’s them the sheriff’s after, not you.”

  He shook his head again. “The sheriff’s gone for Henry and William, but the men that was doing the searching today, I’m afraid they’re gonna come to my door next.”

  “Where do you live?” I realized I had no idea where Archibald made his residence in town.

  “At the old boarding house over on Adams. Me and a few of the ostlers from the Globe stables share a room there. The sheriff came by a little while back to tell me he was going to arrest William and Henry. He was civil to me, which he always is. Very civil, the sheriff. He said people might be saying things about me over the next days but I should best ignore them.”