Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Again, I proffer I’m the last person in the world from whom you should be taking advice on this topic,” I said, “but don’t you think it right that, at some point, you move on from Miss Rutledge’s memory?”

  Lincoln did not reply. His brow was wrinkled, his jaw clenched, and his large hands curled tightly around the top edge of our blanket. He stared straight up at the ceiling.

  “What made Miss Rutledge so remarkable?” I tried.

  “She was as good a mate for the soul as a man could ever hope to find,” he said quietly. “Sweet-spirited … patient … industrious. Quite intellectual, though not highly educated. Shared my love of the poetry of Burns. Kind to all manner of persons, whether high-born or low. And she was beautiful, too. Blond in complexion with golden hair, cherry-red lips, and bonny blue eyes.”

  “I wish I could have known her.”

  “As do I.” Lincoln’s jaw unclenched and he let out a long breath. “But it was not to be.”

  “Ann sounds like a remarkable young woman, Lincoln, but she’s gone. And there’s nothing you can do about it except move forward. Quite possibly with Miss Owens.”

  Lincoln managed a small smile. “I do take your point,” he said. He yawned and burrowed into the bedclothes.

  “Miss Owens seems like a perfectly pleasant young woman,” I said as I turned over myself. “I approve of her wholeheartedly. And besides, her brother can always remedy your toothaches.”

  Lincoln laughed. I stretched out toward the dressing table and blew out the candle. Darkness descended upon us.

  Sometime later I felt Lincoln shaking me awake. “What is it?” I muttered groggily. I managed to open one eye and saw that it was still pitch-dark outside.

  “I need you to come with me. I’m heading over to the jail cell.”

  This woke me quickly, and I swung my legs out of bed and started searching for where I’d discarded my clothes. “Why are you going there?”

  “Truett sent for me.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. We’ll have to hear it from him ourselves.”

  “Then why do you want me along?” I was fully dressed now, and, buttoning a final button, I followed Lincoln out the door and down the stairs.

  “Because I can’t help thinking it’s a political trick of some sort. It doesn’t make sense. I want you there as a witness.”

  “Didn’t you once say Truett was an old acquaintance of yours?” I asked when we were outside in the deserted, silent town. The dirt and gravel of the streets crunched under our boots. The moon had set long ago and our path was lit by a dome of twinkling stars.

  “We have a history,” said Lincoln, nodding. “Back in New Salem, after I purchased my store from Blankenship, I took Truett on as an assistant shopkeeper. Hired him away from a decent job about a month before my store winked out. I never paid him a cent, couldn’t afford to, and he couldn’t get his old job back when mine disappeared. I felt awful about the whole situation, but there wasn’t much I could do. I still carry a veritable national debt around with me from the failed store.”

  “From the little I’ve seen he’s a very disagreeable fellow.”

  “More gormless than disagreeable. He’s never seen a deficient situation he didn’t find attractive. If it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. And there’s no poor situation he can’t make worse with the way he carries himself. The few times I’ve tried to help him, it hasn’t ended well.” Lincoln shook his head. “Let’s see what he has to say for himself tonight.”

  Springfield’s lone jail cell consisted of a wood-and-metal enclosure in the backyard of Sheriff Hutchason’s house adjacent to the sheriff’s barn. As we let ourselves through the gate, we could see a trim figure pacing back and forth inside the cell.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “It’s I,” said Lincoln in a flat voice.

  Truett had worn to the Edwardses’ party the same dandified costume he’d had on at Spotswood’s the other day, but his appearance was changed in every other respect. His eyes were hooded and his face was smeared with dirt, through which traced the unmistakable lines of tears.

  “And who’s this?” he said, pointing at me.

  Lincoln introduced us. I extended my hand through the iron bars of the cell and Truett shook it hesitantly. Despite the warm summer night, his hands were ice-cold.

  “You sent for me and I came,” said Lincoln. “What do you want?”

  Truett swallowed and looked up at Lincoln with his head cocked to the side. “For you to represent me in court. If I’m charged with murder—which the sheriff tells me I will be.”

  “Yes, I think you will be,” said Lincoln. “By why not a Democratic lawyer? I’d be happy to suggest the names of a few men who are fully qualified to—”

  “I don’t want anyone else,” said Truett. “I want you.”

  “I think you should know I considered myself close to Early,” said Lincoln. “He was a political ally and a personal friend. I’m not sure I could do justice to the defense of the man accused of killing him.”

  “I know all that. I still want you. I’d like to think, with what we’ve been through together, Lincoln, you’d feel an obligation to help me in this time of peril.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Lincoln. His face was blank and I had a hard time guessing at his thoughts.

  “It was a long time ago,” agreed Truett. “But I remember it like yesterday.”

  “So do I.” Both men looked at each other and then away.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  Lincoln shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I’ll think about it. I need to consider how it will fit with my other obligations. If it will fit.”

  “I haven’t got any time,” said Truett. “The sheriff”—he gestured at the Hutchason house, dark and slumbering, behind us—“says the judge will consider my case at ten in the morning.”

  “I’ll give you my answer before the hearing,” Lincoln replied. “The judge will let you have time to hire a lawyer if you need it. And your trial won’t be for another week or two, at the earliest.”

  Truett’s face had regained its animation, and he started to bounce back and forth on the balls of his feet like a fighting bantam ready to strike. “I want you to know, Lincoln, I’m not going alone. If I’m going down, I’m taking him with me.”

  “Who?”

  There was the faintest hint of alarm in Lincoln’s voice, and Truett noticed it too. He was silent for a few seconds, and then his lips gradually curled into a sneer. “Why—your father, of course.”

  “What’s my father got to do with your case?” asked Lincoln, not bothering to hide his alarm this time.

  “I didn’t kill Early,” said Truett. “Something was going on at the land office. Something crooked, that got Early killed. You know your father, Lincoln, and I know him, too. When have you known Thomas Lincoln to avoid a crooked situation?”

  CHAPTER 9

  Martha and I set off together for court the following morning shortly before ten. But as soon as we turned the corner onto Fifth Street, we could tell from the crowd spilling out in front of Hoffman’s Row that we’d have to stand outside on the street for the hearing.

  The old, decrepit courthouse on the corner of the town square had finally been torn down the previous month, a blessing for all the lawyers in town because it was threatening to collapse on their heads without warning. There was to be a modern courtroom included within the grand new state capitol building. However, construction of the new capitol had been delayed by last year’s economic Panic; stone walls outlining the ground floor of the building had only recently begun to sprout in the middle of the town square.

  It was only after he’d given the order to tear down his old professional home that the judge of the Sangamon County Circuit Court, Jesse B. Thomas Jr., had fully considered the fact that his new home was far from ready. After a frenzy of negotiations, the landlord Hoffman had agreed to host the court in a vacan
t, first-floor office in one of the series of handsome, two-story red brick buildings he had built a block north of the square. By coincidence, the temporary courtroom was located at No. 3, Hoffman’s Row, directly underneath Lincoln’s law offices at No. 4.

  The location was convenient for Lincoln and the other lawyers in town, and the sturdy walls erected by Hoffman were greatly preferable to the crumbling facade of the old courthouse. Yet the court’s new accommodations were far smaller than the prior ones. When, as today, a case of great public interest was being heard, there was not nearly enough space at the back of the courtroom for the spectators who wished to attend. So Martha and I joined the crowd on the dirt street in front of Hoffman’s Row and strained to hear the proceedings through the open windows of No. 3.

  Fortunately, though half a foot shorter than my roommate, I was taller than most men in town, and by peering over and around the top hats of the men in front of us I was able to get a fair view of the proceedings. I related a running narrative to my sister, who stood by my side and stared with frustration at the backs of the frockcoats of the men around us.

  When we arrived, I could see two other lawyers on their feet in front of Judge Thomas’s bench, which was located along the back wall of the temporary courtroom, while Lincoln sat on a chair to the side of the room, his legs crossed and his case on his lap. “The judge is hearing some other case,” I related to Martha.

  “Replevin for a cow,” said the fellow next to us, “not that anyone cares who owns Molly the Milk Cow.” Indeed, the crowd around us was speculating enthusiastically about Truett’s fate and the proceedings inside the courtroom were inaudible over the ribald swells of conversation.

  While we waited for the main event, my attention was drawn by two young women who were threading through the crowd and passing out handbills. With a start, I realized one of them was Miss Butler. She recognized me, came over, and handed me one of her bills. It read:

  SINNERS COME

  EVERYBODY COME

  Meetings Every Weekend

  at the

  Big Tent in the Grove

  Preacher Crews teaching—many exhorting—all voices raised in song

  All can be SAVED

  “An evening of fire and brimstone?” I said. “As though men were to be frightened into heaven, rather than reasoned there. I don’t think it’s my kettle.”

  “That’s not at all what camp’s about,” said Miss Butler seriously. “It’s a congregation of singing and joy. You’d like it, particularly, Miss Speed,” she added, handing a bill to my sister. “A good number of your sisters in town have come.”

  To my surprise, Martha studied the handbill with interest. “Will you gather this weekend?” she asked Miss Butler.

  “You’re not seriously thinking—” I began, before being silenced by the looks on the faces of the two young women.

  “Every weekend,” said Miss Butler. “I’d be most pleased to walk out with you. Truly, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed if you try it.”

  We watched as Miss Butler moved away, continuing to pass out her bills to the crowd.

  “I think this preacher fellow is almost certainly a charlatan,” I said to Martha as I crumpled up the bill.

  Before she could respond, a violent “Hush!” raced through the crowd. Lincoln was on his feet in front of Judge Thomas. Prickett, the state’s attorney, was standing next to him. Men rustled around and stood on tiptoe to garner a view. After a few shouts of “Quiet!” and “If you please!” the crowd on the street came to a kind of order and the sound of the proceedings inside finally reached us.

  “… not guilty,” Lincoln was saying.

  “Are you sure that’s your plea?” asked the judge. “A slaying in the heat of a political dispute seems an ‘irresistible passion’ if ever there was one. A case of voluntary manslaughter taken directly from the statute books. If Mr. Truett spares the Court and the People the need for trial, I imagine the prison sentence would be eighteen months at most, perhaps closer to fifteen. Otherwise, the charge is murder and the sentence upon conviction is death.”

  Lincoln bent over and whispered to Truett, who was seated at his side. Truett looked even more frightened than he had last night when the mob on Quality Hill sought to string him up without delay.

  “What’s happening?” asked Martha, tugging on my coat.

  “Lincoln’s seeing if Truett will agree to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter in exchange for a reduced term in prison.”

  “But if he’s truly innocent, he’s got to have Mr. Lincoln fight for his freedom,” protested Martha.

  “If he’s innocent, I’m Molly the Milk Cow’s father,” said the fellow next to us.

  “Moooooo!” bellowed the man on the other side of us.

  Lincoln straightened up. “We maintain our plea of not guilty, Your Honor. Mr. Truett played no role in Early’s death.” Lincoln was interrupted by jeers coming from both inside and outside the courtroom. Undeterred, he continued: “The two men had their share of disagreements; that’s common knowledge. But Mr. Truett had no wish to see Early dead and has no explanation for it.”

  “If I may be heard, Your Honor,” began Prickett. As usual, the prosecutor was resplendent in a high-collared, stiff-necked white shirt beneath his shiny black frockcoat.

  “I’m coming to you next,” said Judge Thomas.

  The judge made a show of pulling an unlit cigar from his pocket, striking a match to light it, and taking a deep pull. “Ah,” he said, blowing out a large cloud of smoke. Judge Jesse B. Thomas Jr. was a hale, hearty man who looked as though he was fond of his dinner. Having taken another long pull from his cigar, he nodded almost imperceptibly toward Prickett.

  “Your Honor, the People seek an immediate trial on the charge of murder—”

  “You purport to stand for the People, Mr. Prickett?”

  “Of course, Your Honor. It is my statutory duty as state’s attorney—”

  “And what of your familial duty?” The men around us on the street murmured with interest.

  “Because he was Early’s brother-in-law,” I explained to Martha, who had given me a questioning look. “Recently married to his sister.”

  “I assure the Court,” Prickett was saying, “that my familial connection to the victim, indirect though it is, shall play no role in my zealous prosecution of—”

  “‘Indirect?’” repeated the judge, his eyebrows raised. The crowd chuckled. Prickett turned around and looked out at the overflowing gallery.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Indirect. Meaning by the contract of marriage. Not blood. And a recent contract at that. As I was saying, my indirect relationship with the victim shall not affect my actions here, just as any other personal feelings I may have about the defendant or any witness shall play no role. That’s my sworn obligation to the People of the State of Illinois.”

  The judge took several pulls on his cigar and asked, “And what does the new Mrs. Prickett think?”

  “My wife’s views, whatever they are, are immaterial to my obligations to the People.”

  “Do you care to comment, Mr. Lincoln?” the judge asked.

  Lincoln took a few moments to gather his thoughts. I knew he considered Prickett a formidable adversary, so the prospect of having him removed from the case would hold some appeal.

  “I have no doubt of Mr. Prickett’s good faith,” said Lincoln at last. “If he says the situation won’t affect him, I believe we should take him at his word.”

  “No, no, no!” shouted the judge, cutting through the excited whispering of the crowd. “I know you don’t genuinely believe that, Lincoln. You’re playing the odds, and that makes my decision clear. You are excused, Mr. Prickett. It’s no reflection on you. A state’s attorney can’t choose the victims of crimes committed on his watch, and a man certainly can’t choose his brother-in-law. But I can’t let you prosecute this case.”

  Prickett began to argue, but Judge Thomas waved him off. “Anyway, you’re not nearly as irreplacea
ble as you think. I’m going to appoint another lawyer to act as prosecutor pro tempore and present the People’s case against the defendant Truett.”

  The judge scanned the front row of the audience, where other members of the Springfield bar awaited their turn to argue their own cases. The judge looked down the row and his face lit up in a broad grin.

  “You there!” he fairly shouted, gesturing with his smoldering cigar.

  “Who is it?” asked my sister. Several men around me voiced the same question.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see who he’s talking to.” Then I saw the back of a massive head of curly hair rise slightly above the seated crowd. “Oh! Hah! No wonder I couldn’t see him.” I turned to my sister. “It’s Douglas.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “I would be pleased to accept the appointment, Your Honor,” came Stephen Douglas’s distinctive baritone voice.

  There was a pause as this new development was collectively digested, and then a whoosh of excitement streaked through the crowd. Men began talking in a frenzy, and the proceedings inside Hoffman’s Row were rendered inaudible once again.

  Stephen Douglas’s stature was the only thing small about the man. His biography was well known to the excited throng on Fifth Street; the man himself had made sure of that. Douglas had been born in Vermont and, after his father died, apprenticed to a local cabinetmaker. But his ambitions, and skills, soon outgrew this humble lot, and so he migrated to the West. Eventually he alighted in central Illinois, where, despite having but a few years of formal schooling himself, he opened a school and passed himself off as an itinerant teacher.

  At the same time, Douglas read law, and by the age of twenty-one he was not only a member of the bar but had been elected the state’s attorney for Morgan County, Sangamon’s neighboring county. Shortly thereafter he’d won election to the state legislature. Along the way he’d acquired the nickname “the Little Giant,” an appellation that even his most ardent enemies conceded fit the man. And now, as the Democratic candidate for the U.S. Congress at the age of twenty-five, Douglas was giving the much more experienced Stuart the run of his life.