Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “You both owe the other,” said Lincoln. “And if you want to keep selling your goods to the Democrats in town as well as the Whigs, as you always say, I venture you want Douglas spreading the word to his allies that he harbors no hard feelings against you.” I hadn’t considered this; it was a good point.

  “Ask him about S.G.,” continued Lincoln. “To be clear, I don’t for a moment think it’s him. If I truly thought him capable of murder, I wouldn’t be suggesting you meet with him. But it’s indisputable that his ally Weber is the one who’s been printing the letters, and it stands to reason Douglas gains from attacks on me.”

  “I’m going with you, Joshua,” said Martha.

  I began to raise myself up again to argue, but she urged me down. “Don’t bother to speak. It’s settled. Besides, if it’s just the two of you, someone’s thumb might get bitten clear off.”

  So it was that Martha and I set off to find Douglas the next morning after we’d finished breakfast at the Globe. Our fellow diners at the common table that morning were eager to hear my account of the confrontation with Douglas, even though each of them had been there to witness it in person, but under Martha’s stern gaze I contented myself with telling them it had been a regrettable moment of emotion and one that wouldn’t be repeated.

  “Doesn’t it make you feel better to be benevolent about it?” said Martha as we walked along the streets.

  “No—much worse.”

  Douglas was an enthusiastic Freemason and could often be found in the Masonic Hall, which was located in the upper part of a two-story wooden building on the south side of Jefferson. The lodge consisted of a single long room running the length of the building; several images of the Masons’ square and compass, in varying sizes and configurations, decorated the walls. Douglas was alone in the hall when we arrived, working away at a desk positioned in front of one of the few windows cut into the sloping eaves. A folded copy of the Illinois Democrat lay at his side.

  Douglas smiled as soon as he saw Martha, and he was in the middle of rising to greet her when he saw me walk in behind. His expression turned sour and he gazed back down at his papers and continued to scratch away. I waited for him to speak first, while Martha looked back and forth between us with growing frustration.

  Presently he asked, in a brusque manner, “How’s your thumb, then?”

  “Fine. Takes more than the nibble of a mouse to do me serious harm.” Martha began to remonstrate against me, but she stopped when she saw a smile forming on Douglas’s lips. “How’s your—well, pride?” I added.

  “Never better. Takes more than the opprobrium of a second-rate shopkeeper to make me question my stature.”

  “Honestly, is that the best either of you can do?” exclaimed Martha. When she saw the expressions on each of our faces, she sighed. “I suppose it is.”

  “I assume, Speed, that if you came intent on trying to do me harm this morning, you wouldn’t have brought along Miss Speed, whom I find as delightful as I find you tiresome. It’s quite amazing you’re blood relations.”

  “I came to ask about those anonymous letters about Lincoln that have appeared in the Democrat,” I said. “The ones signed ‘S.G.’ I’m making it my mission to figure out who the author is.”

  Douglas’s eyes flickered. “What about them?”

  “You and S.G. have the same goals—to undermine Lincoln’s credibility and with it his political aspirations. It seems to me there are two and only two possibilities. The first is you know full well who S.G. is. And the second—”

  “Is that I am him.” Douglas looked up at us, perfectly composed.

  “No, you’re not,” said Martha indignantly, her hands on her hips.

  I ignored her and took in the remorseless gaze of Douglas’s steely blue eyes. “You admit it?” I said.

  “I admit nothing.”

  “Do you deny you’re S.G.?”

  “I deny everything.” When my skeptical glare did not abate, he added, “I have no need for fictitious signatures. I’m perfectly capable of attacking Lincoln under my own name. I’d think, after yesterday, you would know that better than anyone.”

  “Of course it’s so,” said Martha. “I told you, Joshua, the notion that Stephen—Mr. Douglas—was involved with the letters is absurd.”

  Douglas smirked.

  I clenched my good fist and shook it near his face. “Stay away from my sister,” I said, “or there will be another murder trial on the docket.”

  “Miss Speed,” Douglas said without removing his eyes from me, “have I at all times conducted myself in your presence with the decorum and bearing of a gentleman?”

  “You have,” she said with an enthusiasm that made my teeth clench.

  He nodded. “You have my word, Speed, that I shall continue to do so. You’re entitled to that word—and nothing more.”

  “Come along, Martha,” I said, taking my sister’s arm with a firm grip. “Let’s see if we can’t make productive use of the rest of the day.” We had taken several steps toward the door when I had one final thought. “By the way,” I said, turning to face Douglas again, “do you have any idea what the initials ‘S.G.’ stand for?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I thought I hadn’t heard him clearly. “You—what?”

  “I believe they stand for ‘Salem’s Ghost.’”

  “There’s a Salem in the Bible, isn’t there?” said Martha. “It’s another term for Jerusalem. So, ‘Jerusalem’s Ghost’…”

  “I don’t think that’s what’s intended here,” said Douglas, “but that’s very good, Miss Speed. Your classical education does you credit.” Martha smiled brightly at him.

  The man was impossible. “It seems like quite a stretch, Douglas,” I said. “The ‘S’ could be practically anything. Why do you think ‘Salem’?”

  Douglas smiled an infernal smile. He picked up the copy of today’s Democrat, which had been lying beside him this whole time. “Because,” he said, “the man himself has told us so.”

  I rushed over and snatched the sheet from his hands. With Martha reading over my shoulder, I located the new letter on the last page:

  July 29, 1838

  Lost Township, Ill.

  To the Editor of the Democrat:

  Today’s stump debate destroyed any hollow pretense which the man of great height and low intellect carries himself with. Now the whole world knows what I know. He is a Fraud, a Fake, a Fiction. Not even the exertions of his trained monkey can save him. Judgment Day is almost here.

  Salem’s Ghost

  “‘Trained monkey?’” I murmured as I read the letter for a second time. Turning to Douglas, I added, angrily, “And you still maintain you have nothing to do with the letters?”

  “Surely you must have some idea who’s writing them, Mr. Douglas,” said Martha with great earnestness. Her cheeks were even rosier than usual and her eyes brimmed with barely restrained tears. “I’m worried for the safety of our friend Mr. Lincoln, and I know under your bluster you must be as well.”

  Douglas softened, and he reached out a hand and placed it on Martha’s arm. “I assure you there’s no need for worry, Miss Speed. When he says ‘Judgment Day,’ he only means the election next week—nothing more serious than that. We politicians tend to puff up the importance of our trade this near to voting.”

  “Do you have any idea who he could be?”

  “Truly I don’t. Beyond the fact it’s clear he’s a Democratic politician of some stripe. I’d tell you if I knew his name. At the least, I’d tell him to level his charges out in the open. But your Mr. Lincoln needn’t worry about anything greater than his chances at the polls. About those, I hope, he and his fellow Whigs have a great deal to worry.”

  Martha looked mollified, though I wondered whether the flame in her cheeks was brighter because of the touch of Douglas’s hand, which had lingered longer than necessary. Staring at the man, I felt certain he couldn’t be trusted.

  “Let’s go,” I said, taking Martha�
��s arm again and steering her toward the door. “We’ve gotten everything we can out of him.”

  “But what do we do now?” she asked.

  Douglas made a noise and we turned back to him. “Really,” he said, “I should be the last person in the world volunteering to help you on this fool’s errand, but it is obvious, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Go to New Salem. Your answer must be there.”

  CHAPTER 24

  New Salem was located on a bluff overlooking the swirling waters of the Sangamon River, some twenty miles downstream from Springfield. Lincoln had told me he’d first visited the town as a young man of twenty-two years when a flatboat he piloted down the river toward New Orleans got stuck in a snag at the town’s milldam. He later made the town his first permanent home after leaving his father’s house, hoping like many others he could rise along with the town’s fortunes.

  But the alchemy of the frontier was an inscrutable magic. For every new town, like Springfield, whose combination of location, natural resources, and business interests produced rapid growth, there was another that failed to ignite. When Lincoln arrived in New Salem, it had been a vibrant, growing outpost, with several hundred persons calling it home at its peak. Today it was barely half that size, and I had heard that the only persons who remained were those too poor or infirm to move on to more promising pastures.

  Martha and I made one stop in Springfield before heading to New Salem. Weber had promised Martha he would save S.G.’s next letter.

  Weber looked up at us expectantly as we barged into the Democrat’s offices on Chicken Row. “I’m surprised it took you this long,” he drawled. “But then, Speed, I wasn’t sure you’d show your face in town today, not after the way you embarrassed yourself yesterday.” He looked down at my bandaged hand, and without thinking I tucked it behind my back.

  “You know what we’ve come for,” said Martha. “May we see the new letter, if you please?” She held out her hand.

  Weber reached underneath his composing table. But when he withdrew his hand, it was empty. He rolled his shoulders and straightened his immaculate black frockcoat. The publisher seemed consumed by an internal debate about how unhelpful propriety allowed him to be. After a long pause, he reached down again and this time came up with a folded sheet of foolscap, which he reluctantly handed to Martha.

  “Weber—The Democrat” was printed on the outside fold in childlike block letters.

  “How was it delivered?” I demanded as I looked over the letter from Salem’s Ghost that had appeared in the sheet this morning. “And when?” I could see immediately that the letter had been written by the same hand that had produced the threatening “I know” note tacked on the tree for Lincoln to find.

  “It was on my doorstep, pinned under a stone, when I arrived early this morning to set the final type for today’s edition.”

  “Who do you think wrote it?” asked Martha. “And what do you think this means—‘Salem’s Ghost’?”

  “No thanks for saving the letter for you? No gratitude? Miss Speed, I don’t care what Douglas says, I declare you are nearly as tiresome as your brother. Which is a status to which no one should aspire.” Weber’s sharp black eyes glinted. “Figure it out yourselves.”

  “What an awful man!” exclaimed Martha, for about the fourth time, an hour later. We were riding side by side through parched summer grasslands, following the course of the Sangamon toward New Salem. The fierce sun was high overhead. I held Hickory’s reins in my left hand, my right held stiffly by my side.

  “I’m surprised he showed us the letter at all.”

  “He must have figured there was no value for us in seeing the original. But he’s wrong. Based on the handwriting, we now have confirmation S.G. is the same person who’s been harassing Lincoln.”

  “Hopefully we’ll learn more in New Salem,” I said. “Lincoln didn’t want to go back to his past, but—much as I hate to credit him with any good idea—I think Douglas is right that we must.”

  It was for this reason that we’d decided not to tell Lincoln about our trip before setting off. We were afraid he’d try to talk us out of the expedition. But the connection of Salem’s Ghost to New Salem appeared inescapable.

  We made good time on horseback, and we soon arrived in the environs of New Salem. In truth, all the little village had were environs. There was a mill on the banks of the river, the very same one, I supposed, that had snagged Lincoln’s flatboat all those years ago. The waterwheel turned lazily in the low summer current, but the mill building itself had begun to fall apart and several boards were missing. Near the mill, about a dozen other structures clung to two dusty roads. They were more like cow paths than proper roads a buggy could travel, one beside the river and another perpendicular to it and ending at the mill.

  There was not a single tree in sight. In fact, it had been several miles since we’d seen anything taller or more substantial than prairie grass. Presumably, the residents of the struggling village had cut down everything within easy walking distance for use as firewood.

  There was a building directly at the crossroads, a squat one-story log cabin giving the appearance of a general store. It had a porch out front, with two wooden chairs occupied by large bundles wrapped in checkered cloth. As we rode up I realized the bundles were actually men, both over sixty years if they were a day, sitting so motionless they barely appeared alive. Each of them had a weather-beaten face and wispy, graying hair.

  “Afternoon,” I called, tipping my straw hat.

  One of the men shifted slightly in his chair.

  “I’m looking for a man named Lincoln,” I said. “Ever heard of him?”

  “You’ve come to the wrong place,” said one of the men. “Used to live here, long time ago, but he left.”

  “And’s been too prideful to return,” said the other.

  “Where does he live now?” I asked, curious to see whether word of Lincoln’s prominence in Springfield had traveled back to his old home. But apparently it hadn’t, as the two men looked at one another and then back to me. One of them shrugged.

  “What about a Henry Truett?” I tried.

  “Used to live here, too,” said one of the men.

  “Worked for Lincoln,” said his companion.

  “Till he didn’t have a store no more,” said the first.

  “Would you know where we could find Truett now?” I asked. Again, I was met only by blank stares.

  I tried to think of the other persons from New Salem whom Lincoln had mentioned. The two men rocked back and forth in their chairs and watched me, but seemingly without any real interest.

  “What about John McNamar, or John McNeil?” I tried, thinking of Ann Rutledge’s other suitor.

  “Gone, too,” replied one of the men on the porch. His companion nodded.

  Who else? Lincoln had once mentioned the name of the man he’d bought his store from, the one where he’d briefly employed Truett. Blanket or … “Blankenship,” I said aloud, pleasantly surprised the name had come to my tongue.

  “Eli Blankenship?” said one of the men.

  “I assume so. Is he still around?”

  The two men slowly exchanged glances. One of them said, “Sure is.”

  “Owns a tavern in these parts,” said the other.

  “Whereabouts, if you please?”

  “Down the road a ways.” The man pointed to a structure two doors down. “Over yonder.”

  I tipped my hat again and indicated to Martha that we should dismount and lead our horses to the building in question.

  “It’s no wonder Mr. Lincoln left here for Springfield,” Martha whispered to me as we walked along, holding the horses’ reins. “It’s hard to imagine a more deadening place.”

  Blankenship’s tavern was the only framed structure in the village, with a stone chimney protruding from the rear. There were no hitching posts in sight, so we tied the horses up to one of the vertical struts of the porch.

  Inside, I ga
zed around with interest. It was a combined general store, tavern, and inn, with goods for sale as well as signs indicating the cost of board and overnight stays. We were greeted, from behind the counter, by a portly man of about forty years, with a blunt nose and narrow eyes beneath bushy brows. He wore a faded apron atop a dusty jeans suit. The man looked my sister up and down before saying to me, in a nasal voice, “Yes?”

  “Eli Blankenship?” I said.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name’s Prickett.” I felt my sister swing around to stare at me, but I squeezed her hand and kept my gaze focused on the tavernkeeper. “And this is my sister. We’re in need of a meal, and we were told Blankenship cooked the best one in New Salem. Now if you’ll direct us to him, we’ll be off.”

  “You’ve found him,” said Blankenship in a somewhat friendlier manner. “You and the lass can have a seat.” He indicated a table made of a slab of timber, roughly hewn, surrounded by half a dozen three-legged stools. “I’ll get to cooking you up that meal.”

  “I’ve an idea for getting the information we want out of him,” I whispered to my sister when we were seated across from each other. “Follow my lead when he comes back.”

  “Why are we ‘Prickett’?” asked Martha.

  “He was the first Democrat who came to mind. You’ll see.”

  Blankenship had disappeared into his kitchen, and we could hear the sounds of pots and pans being banged about. I pulled the kidskin glove I’d found in the woods out of my pocket and laid it on the table in front of my sister. “What do you think?”

  Martha scrutinized the glove. She tugged at the lace ribbon gently and studied the ink drawing on the backside. Then she slipped off her own glove and pulled the found glove onto her hand. It fit snugly.

  “It’s stunning,” she said. “Are you thinking of carrying it in your inventory? I’d buy several pairs, and I’m sure my girlfriends would, too.”

  “I don’t know the source. I was hoping you could help me. French manufacture, I’m guessing.”

  Martha studied the glove again and shook her head. “Definitely Spanish. If you look at the costume of the woman in the courting pair, it’s obvious her dress is meant to suggest a famous one Maria Christina wore on the day of her wedding to King Ferdinand in 1829. A French glove manufacturer would never honor the Spanish Queen Consort, but a Spanish one certainly would.”