Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  The navvies, now covered with dirt and grime from head to toe, were sprawled out in the shade of the oak tree.

  “We was about to give up,” said one as we approached. “Give us our pay. And have at him.”

  “You’ll have your money when I have the body,” replied Warren. “That was your agreement with Mr. Douglas.”

  “He’s right there.” The navvy pointed to the mound of dirt, which had grown large in our absence. Warren and I walked over and stared down into the hole. The top of a fine wooden coffin, painted bright red, was indeed visible about three feet beneath ground level. Two handles were affixed to each of the long sides of the box.

  “We’ll need their help to get it out,” I murmured.

  Warren grunted. He approached the men and an argument ensued, with many angry gestures and strong remonstrations on both sides. After a bit, Warren rejoined me.

  “Do you have a golden eagle on you?” he asked. “They say they’ll only take hard currency, no notes, not even bills, and I’m a little short. Those Paddies may not have come off the boat long ago, but they’ve learned quickly the value of specie in the New World.”

  I fished a coin out of my pocket and Warren held it high above his head. The navvies ambled over and one of them grabbed the coin. Each of us knelt and leaned down to grab one of the handles. We pulled. Nothing.

  “We need to be in unison,” the doctor grunted. “One, two…” We all pulled on “three,” and slowly, reluctantly, the earth loosened its grasp on Jacob Early’s lonely bed. As soon as we had the coffin clear of the earth, the laborers set down their end roughly and stalked off, wiping their hands on their filthy blouses and grumbling unintelligibly to each other.

  “Come on, then,” Warren said, suddenly cheerful, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s have at him.” The doctor produced a crowbar and started to pry off the coffin’s lid. After the third nail had been loosed, I was struck full in the face by a noxious scent suggestive of rotting meat, human waste, and decayed leaves. I turned away, bent over at the knees, and gagged. The doctor continued his task, humming a child’s lullaby as he worked.

  “There, that about does it,” he said, as I heard him tossing the crowbar aside. “Come now, Speed, it’s not that bad. Help me remove the cover, won’t you?”

  Hesitantly, I turned and helped Warren lift the cover away from the casing of the coffin. Then I forced myself to look down. Early’s body was dressed in dark, formal clothes, but it was horribly misshapen. The belly swelled unnaturally; the legs pressed against the seams of the trousers. I studied what had been his face. It was grotesque—the eyelids swollen and tightly closed, a distended tongue protruding between pouting lips, the cheeks puffed out. Two lines of a sort of bloody froth ran from the nostrils down the sides of the cheeks, through the thicket of the muttonchop whiskers, and curled around the neck.

  But the worst of it was the insects. Dozens of blue, green, and copper-colored flies, shaped like tiny bottles, crawled in and out of the corpse’s nostrils and rested on its whiskers, rubbing their forelegs together greedily. Hunchbacked black flies infested the forehead and neck area, scuttling back and forth as if engaged in a frantic dance. A thick tangle of maggots surrounded the ears, nose, and tongue, wriggling and writhing like piglets feeding at a trough. What had been the bullet wound in the center of his forehead was now invisible beneath a seething frenzy of tiny scavengers. I turned away and gagged again.

  “Hmm,” the doctor said behind me. “Very interesting. Fascinating! Let’s have a closer look.”

  “Out here in the open?” I asked, nodding around the graveyard. The sun was low now, and tombstones cast long, brooding shadows over Early’s uncovered coffin. “Don’t you think we ought to proceed somewhere more … formal, or private at least?”

  “I hate to have any delay at all,” said the doctor as he fidgeted with his flowing beard. “But I suppose you’re right.” His eyes alit on the chapel to the rear. “No one’ll bother us in there. Here—let’s lift up old Early and lay him on the inside of the coffin cover. Then we can carry him in. I’ll take the legs if you can grab his shoulders.”

  I took a deep breath and positioned myself near the top of the casket. But when the doctor gave the word and I reached in to pull the torso up by its shoulders, I found myself not bearing the corpse’s weight but rather pulling the dead man’s topcoat toward me, almost as if the corpse’s skin was sliding off along with its clothing. I gave a yell and dropped the body back into its box; Warren had apparently experienced a similar sensation when trying to lift the dead man’s legs.

  “Very interesting!” Warren exclaimed. “How very, very interesting. I’ve always wondered … but of course, yes. In this state of decomposition, buried for several weeks, it does make sense. I think we’d better try something different.”

  “We could leave him lying on the bottom board, as a sort of litter,” I suggested. “If you knock off the sides…”

  Before I could finish my sentence, Warren had retrieved his crowbar and was swinging away enthusiastically at the joints holding the four side panels in position. He quickly succeeded, and soon all that was left of the coffin was its bottom panel, on which Early’s inert remains lay.

  “Right, let’s bring him on in,” the doctor said. Together we lifted the base of the coffin and carried Early into the small chapel, where we balanced the board between the two benches. The flies buzzed around us, angry to have been disturbed. Little slivers of the fading light of the day filtered in through narrow windows.

  Warren went up to the altar and used a flint to light the devotional candles. There were about a dozen in all, and when he was finished the dancing little lights brightened the room in a sufficient manner. Warren nodded in evident satisfaction, pushed up his sleeves, and drew out of the pocket of his pantaloons a long hunting knife.

  “Do you want to do the honors, Speed?” he asked.

  I blanched. “There was a reason I never considered medicine.”

  Warren shrugged. “You’re missing the fun part. Let’s see, where is that ball?”

  I tried to avoid watching too closely as the doctor shooed the flies away and started digging around in the corpse’s forehead with his knife. But it was impossible to avoid hearing the doctor’s search, which filled the small chapel with a sawing sound, steel on bone, intermixed with slurping and squishing.

  “Must have gone in deep,” the doctor murmured to himself. “I’m going in after it.”

  The still air inside the chapel rapidly filled with the stench of the dead man. I was about to leave for some fresh breaths when Warren exclaimed, “Ah! There it is!” And after a final few decisive thrusts of his knife, he stuck three fingers into the corpse.

  “Got it!” he shouted.

  Warren lifted up a small mass from inside the corpse’s head. He took his handkerchief and cleaned something—decaying brain matter, I supposed with a shudder—off the ball. Then he handed it to me.

  I took the projectile reluctantly and held it next to the devotional candles to have a good view. The black sphere of lead was intact, although one side had been flattened, presumably from its impact with Early’s skull. I rotated it around in my fingers. And, right away, I realized the great importance of what Warren had found.

  “Are you taking this to Douglas?” I asked, trying to hide my excitement.

  Doctor Warren remained bent over the corpse. “Not yet,” he said without looking up. “Now that we’ve gone to all this trouble of digging him up—well, we might as well see what else there is to learn.” He was hovering above the corpse’s torso, and he made several sharp incisions with his knife. “Good luck for me when Douglas came calling.”

  “I think perhaps—”

  “This reminds me of the times back when I was at the College of Physicians and Surgeons,” he continued, heedless of my interruption. “We’d head off to the local plot quite a few nights. Have a poke or two around, underground. I daresay we learned more there than in the lecture roo
m. Though the less said about that, the better, I suppose. Anyway, let’s see … Hoy! What now?”

  “How about I take the ball then? I’ll show it to Lincoln—and Douglas too, of course.”

  “What? Oh. That’d be fine,” Warren said distractedly. “Whatever you think best, Speed. What’s this? You don’t say … you don’t say! Fascinating…”

  I left Warren to his corpse. The graveyard was nearly dark now, only the faintest hints of midsummer twilight lingering in the corners of the sky. I paused on the steps of the chapel and breathed deeply of the fresh night air. Then I weaved my way around the dark, still graves toward the exit and the town beyond.

  When I reached the iron fence, I stopped short. The gate was standing wide open. The navvies must have forgotten to shut it in their wake.

  Hopefully, I thought, no restless spirits had followed them out.

  CHAPTER 21

  I found Lincoln at Hoffman’s Row, scratching away on a piece of parchment in the candlelight. Unusually for the late hour, he was still dressed in the suit he’d worn to court earlier in the day.

  “It’s not from Truett’s gun,” I shouted as I pushed through the office door and flung myself onto Stuart’s lounge.

  Lincoln looked up, squinting. “What?”

  “The lead ball that felled Early. Doctor Warren dug it out. Here.” I handed it to Lincoln. “But it didn’t come from Truett’s gun.”

  Lincoln held the misshapen ball in front of the flame. “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Truett pulled his pistol at Spotswood’s, remember? It’s a small belt pistol, not more than six inches from butt to muzzle. Takes a .37-caliber ball, I’m certain. That’s the same type Douglas described in court this morning as having been discovered on Quality Hill. I have no doubt the gun they found on the Edwards grounds is Truett’s. But this ball didn’t get fired from that gun.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. This is for a dueling pistol. I don’t sell those, obviously, at my store”—dueling was nominally illegal in Illinois—“but I do carry balls fitting them. For anyone passing through town who might be in need. That’s going to be hard to measure precisely, with its deformation, but I’d wager anything it’s a .42-caliber. I’ve matched plenty of ammunition to gun barrels in my time.”

  Dueling pistols were much larger than belt pistols like Truett’s. A typical one was close to a foot and a half in length, with a ten-inch octagonal barrel, fitted with a single, hair trigger. All designed, of course, to be as accurate as possible at twenty paces.

  “If this wasn’t fired from Truett’s gun,” Lincoln was saying, “I wonder how Truett’s gun came to be in Edwards’s bushes?”

  “We’ll have to ask him. But that’s for another time. Shouldn’t you go show the ball to Douglas right now and tell him to set Truett free?”

  Lincoln held up the ball to the flame again. “I’ll pass the ball along to Douglas first thing tomorrow.” He glanced at his pocket watch, which he had laid on the table next to him. “But I’m going to keep your expert observations about its size to ourselves for now. There’ll be a time to use your detective work—later on.”

  “But Truett’s suffering in jail right now, and this new evidence should be enough to get him out.” I recalled Truett’s desperate state the last time I’d seen him.

  “Knowing Douglas, it won’t be. He’s not going to abandon his prosecution without a fight. And knowing a thing or two about trials, I judge the best time to use the evidence you’ve uncovered is further along in the legal process. That’s when it will have maximum effect.”

  “But—”

  “You’ve got to trust me on this, Speed.”

  “Very well. Have you had a chance to ask your father or stepbrother about the land office records? Did either of them admit to being the false surveyor?”

  “I did, and they didn’t,” said Lincoln, a frown on his face. “Claimed, both of them, to know nothing about it. I’m not sure I believe them—especially John—but there you have it.” He glanced at his watch again. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some work to do before I turn in. I’ll see you back at the room.”

  “You’re still carrying the pistol I gave you?”

  “I am,” said Lincoln, patting his pocket.

  “Good.” I started to rise but then remembered the other unresolved issue from earlier in the day. “Did Douglas show you the note you’d supposedly sent acknowledging the hearing?”

  Lincoln pursed his lips. “It was a pretty poor imitation of my handwriting, but Douglas pretended surprise when I told him it was a fake. Someone was trying to impersonate me.”

  “Or Douglas did it himself. To ensure you missed the court hearing so he could get Early dug up without your interference.” And make you look bad in front of the judge, I added silently to myself.

  “Doubtful. He was going to get the order anyway. I think whoever sent the note asking me to come to the clearing is the culprit.”

  “But why would he care if you missed the court hearing? That person is trying to frighten you, from the looks of it.”

  Lincoln shrugged. “I told Douglas that, in the future, he was to tell me or my office boy in person about any court hearing in Truett’s case.” Lincoln turned his attention back to the parchment in front of him.

  “What are you working on?” I asked. I didn’t think Lincoln had any other active legal cases between now and the election.

  “That’s the other thing Douglas and I discussed.” There was a hint of impatience in his voice now. “We agreed to hold one last debate of the campaign, on this coming Sunday, here in Springfield at the old market house. One last chance for the voters to hear from representatives of the two parties—two men a side. I imagine I’ll be one of those chosen for our party. And Douglas, I expect, for his.”

  “Is that wise? What do you have to gain, if the Whigs are already ahead, by holding an event so close to the election?”

  “It’s the course we’ve settled upon. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to prepare some remarks for the debate while the subject’s fresh in my mind.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  As I turned to depart, there was a soft knock on Lincoln’s office door. I looked over at him in surprise and he flushed.

  “Come in,” he called, in a voice an octave deeper than his usual register.

  Miss Margaret Owens walked into the office. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn for our nighttime stroll the prior week. As soon as she saw me, her face turned a similar shade to Lincoln’s.

  “Oh—Mr. Speed … I didn’t…” the lady began.

  “Speed was leaving,” said Lincoln.

  “I was leaving,” I affirmed. I bowed hastily to Miss Owens, shot a glance at Lincoln that he did not return, and retreated from the office.

  CHAPTER 22

  The old market house was decorated in patriotic bunting for the occasion of the final debate of the campaign. Red, white, and blue streamers fluttered in the breeze from the second-floor balcony of the building. A squat, newly cut tree stump, emblazoned with red, white, and blue paint, had been set up in the grassy field in front.

  A crowd of close to a thousand persons—roughly half the entire population of Springfield—formed a wide semicircle facing the stump, talking excitedly and jostling for the best view. Lincoln and I stood with a group of Whig men who were sharing a jug of whiskey and preparing to support our champions with much enthusiasm. My sister stood a little ways away in a cluster of women that included Mrs. Edwards, Miss Owens, and Miss Butler.

  Sheriff Hutchason, as close to a nonpartisan figure as could be found in town at election season, flipped a sparkling new gold dollar coin. Douglas, for the Democrats, called “heads” and was rewarded when the crown-wearing profile of Lady Liberty landed face up on the grass. Following standard debate tactics, Douglas deferred to the second position.

  The first two speakers were Ninian Edwards for the Whigs followed by David Prickett for th
e Democrats. Each man did a creditable job, sketching out the benefits of his party’s positions and the terrible faults of their opposition. The crowd, filled with partisans on both sides, cheered and hooted lustily as each verbal punch landed or was missed, a scoring system that depended entirely on the stripes of the person conducting the tally.

  Each of the opening speeches lasted the better part of an hour. When they had finished, a break was taken, and local innkeepers pulled around carts loaded with beer for the men, lemonade for the ladies, and ice creams for the children, who ran around on the field with bipartisan enthusiasm. Our cluster of Whigs all agreed Edwards had acquitted himself well and had been the decisive victor of the opening round.

  Prickett was standing nearby, still sweating from the vigor of his performance. He was dressed with his usual haughty grandeur, with a white ruffled shirt beneath his elegant black frockcoat, though in his oratorical exertions he had come untucked, a fact he had not yet noticed.

  Two small boys, not more than seven or eight years of age, walked past, each holding a hokey-pokey paper wrapper. Between the ice cream remains still on the hokey-pokeys and the streaks smeared across their noses, cheeks, and chins, it was an open question how much of the frozen treat the boys had actually managed to consume.

  “What’d you think of that feller, Bill?” said one of the boys, gesturing to Prickett, who stood not five feet away. The prosecutor lifted his eyebrows with amusement and waited for the answer.

  “I think,” said Bill wisely, “if he knowed his shirttail was sticking out of a hole in his britches, maybe he wouldn’t of been so high-falutin’.”

  Our group of Whig fellows roared with laughter as Prickett, his face suddenly crimson, turned away from the crowd and hurriedly tucked his shirt back inside his trousers.

  On the other side of the crowd I glimpsed John Johnston, loosely attached to a cluster of Democrats who were drinking from an open keg. The apothecary Henry Owens walked past, and Johnston grabbed at his arm and seemed to have a word with him before Owens shook loose and continued on his way. I wondered what Johnston could have wanted with him. In the trees beyond, I could just make out the distinctive beard of Preacher Crews, watching the political proceedings with his arms folded in front of his chest.