Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Anything further for the witness, Mr. Lincoln?” prompted the judge. Lincoln was standing in the middle of the room, his right hand supporting his left elbow, staring at the ceiling in frustration.

  Casting one last, suspicious glance at Douglas, Lincoln replied, “Not for this witness, no.”

  After a short recess for the judge to replenish his supply of cigars, Douglas called his next witness. Doctor Weymouth Warren slowly made his way to the witness chair. Lincoln would surely be able to spring his trap regarding the mismatched ball with him, I thought.

  Douglas led Warren through a brisk direct examination. Warren described coming upon Early’s dead body on the Edwards lawn and his determination that Early had expired from a single gunshot. Douglas then asked Warren about his posthumous examination of Early’s remains and his recovery of the ball. Warren described his procedure in the graveyard, though he left out both my presence at the autopsy and whatever other bodily investigations he had undertaken on the corpse after I’d departed the scene.

  Douglas produced the ball, the same misshapen object I’d seen Warren extract from the corpse. From outside on the street arose a great clamoring from spectators eager to see for themselves the agent of death. Several yelled for Douglas to hold it up higher or, better still, to bring it outside where the crowd could have a closer look themselves. Indeed, the clamor got so loud that the judge was forced to announce that the clerk would take possession of the ball after the testimony ended for the day and that persons wishing to examine the evidence could do so that evening at the clerk’s office. This quieted the masses enough for Douglas to proceed with his examination of Warren.

  “This is the ball that caused Early’s death?” asked Douglas, holding the object up in front of the jury, which looked on with great interest.

  “It is. I found it deep inside his brain cage.” An enthusiastic smile creased Warren’s long face. “This surface right there, the one that’s flat, it was caused by the ball crashing into his skull. The explosive collision of ball against bone was so powerful it caused the ball to flatten. And, I can tell you, what it did to the brain was a lot worse.”

  An ecstatic gasp arose from the crowd outside. Through the open windows I heard several men ask their companions where the clerk’s office was, and it sounded as if a few departed for it at once in order to secure a prime spot at the front of the viewing line.

  “And the injury the ball would have caused, upon its entry into Early’s skull?”

  “Catastrophic,” said Warren. “And instantaneously fatal.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.” Douglas left his witness and wandered back to Prickett, where he hopped up into his lap again.

  Truett leaned over to Lincoln and whispered something. Lincoln nodded, but when he rose there was a distinct frown on his face.

  “Doctor Warren,” began my friend, “your testimony is that ball caused Early’s death.”

  “Correct.”

  “But to know what person is responsible for the death, we need to know whose gun fired the ball, would you agree?”

  “Most certainly. The ball didn’t enter Early’s skull on its own whim.” Warren evidently meant this as a joke, and he began to laugh until he saw only serious faces around him and regained his composure.

  “And you, yourself, don’t have any testimony on that point, correct?”

  “I was standing outside earlier, listening to the sheriff’s testimony. It sounds like he found Mr. Truett’s gun in the bushes, so that’s your answer.”

  Lincoln turned back to Douglas. “Do you still have the belt pistol?”

  Douglas pointed to a package beneath his counsel seat. Lincoln bent over, retrieved the gun, and handed it butt first to the witness.

  “Do you recognize this as the gun the People allege was the murder weapon?”

  Doctor Warren rotated the belt pistol in his hands. “Do I recognize this? No. I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “So you’ve seen the ball but not the gun, and the sheriff has seen the gun but not the ball.” Lincoln threw up his arms in frustration. The witness looked back at him with confusion, and Douglas called out from the back of the room, “Your Honor, could my brother Lincoln be directed to ask questions of the witness, if he has any, and not merely to regale us with his observations on life.”

  Judge Thomas nodded while blowing out a large cloud of smoke.

  “Let me ask you this,” said Lincoln, taking an aggressive step forward so he was nearly on top of the seated witness. “Isn’t it the case that this ball couldn’t possibly fit in this gun?”

  The doctor took his time examining both objects, one held in each hand. “I think you may be right—”

  “So—”

  “Because the ball has been deformed, as I explained earlier,” the witness continued, ignoring Lincoln’s interruption. “Let’s try for ourselves.” Doctor Warren took the ball and tried to push it down the barrel of the belt pistol, but the flattened side of the ball was much wider than the opening of the barrel. “Yes, you’re right,” the doctor continued, “although that doesn’t tell us whether it would have fit originally, before it was fired.”

  “Exactly!” said Douglas to his companion Prickett, loudly enough that the jury and everyone else in the courtroom could hear.

  Lincoln’s temples had turned red. “The truth, Doctor Warren,” he insisted, “is that ball wouldn’t have fit down the barrel of that gun even if it were in pristine condition, right out of the box. It’s the wrong size ball, isn’t it?”

  Douglas slid off Prickett’s lap and strode forward with smart, aggressive steps. “Objection! Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Lincoln can’t ask this witness that question. The witness has already said he’s never seen the gun before in his life.”

  “Sustained.”

  “But, Your Honor—”

  “The objection is sustained, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “I need to be able to ask the question of some witness, Your Honor.”

  Judge Thomas took two long pulls on his cigar. He let smoke drift out through his lips, which curled into a gleeful smirk. “That, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, as the final remnants of smoke leaked from his mouth, “is your problem.”

  CHAPTER 32

  I had never seen Lincoln so angry. He was pacing up and down the length of his office on the second floor of Hoffman’s Row, grumbling loudly to himself, aiming kicks at the papers and parchment scattered about. For good measure he kicked his chair, which toppled over with a clatter. Martha and I stood to the side, trying to stay out of the way of his fury.

  “Douglas had to have known,” Lincoln said for about the third time.

  Martha and I murmured in agreement.

  “He had to have known about the ball not fitting the pistol. He prevented the cross I was entitled to, on the evidence. He pulled the sting, dammit!”

  Lincoln rounded on me. “You didn’t tell him they were a mismatch, did you?”

  “I wouldn’t have—”

  “No, of course not. So how could he have known?”

  “Don’t you think he could have figured it out on his own?” asked Martha. Her voice was unusually timid, and I swung around to stare at her.

  “Certainly not,” said Lincoln, his rage unabated. He didn’t appear to have noticed Martha’s tone. “Stephen knows a good deal, I’ll admit, but he doesn’t know a thing about guns. I doubt he’s handled one in his life before this case arose.”

  “Martha,” I said, “if there’s something you should tell us…”

  Martha bit her lip; then her face crumpled and she hid it in both hands. She started to sob.

  “You didn’t!” shouted Lincoln. He clapped his hand to his forehead in disbelief.

  “I … I didn’t mean to,” she managed through her sobs. “I thought you’d told him already. I thought you’d tell him and he’d understand there’d been a mistake and he’d let Mr. Truett go free. Truly I did. I’m … I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.” She t
hrew herself down onto Stuart’s lounge, buried her head in her arms, and sobbed. After a moment, I came to sit beside her and put my arm around her trembling shoulders.

  Lincoln took several steadying breaths. He righted his chair, picked up the buffalo cloak he’d sent flying, and sat down at his worktable. He took out a fresh piece of foolscap, dipped his pen, and started making notes.

  For a minute, the room was silent save for Martha’s sobs and Lincoln’s scratching.

  “Couldn’t I testify the ball must have been fired from a different gun?” I said at last. It was a possibility I’d been thinking about since court that afternoon.

  “You didn’t sell the pistol to Truett, did you?” Lincoln asked without looking up.

  “No.”

  “Then the judge wouldn’t allow the testimony. Even if you had, he probably wouldn’t. You can only testify to things you have historical knowledge of, and you don’t have historical knowledge that the gun and the ball don’t match. It’s a limit the law places on any factual witness.”

  Martha had been slowly regaining her composure. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Can you ever forgive me?” she asked Lincoln.

  His features softened, but only a little. “I’m sure I will. Someday. For right now, it would be best if you left us alone.”

  Martha started to protest, but I touched her arm and she thought better of it. “I’ll escort you home,” I said, “and be right back.” Lincoln did not look up from his table as we departed.

  Outside on the darkening streets, Martha clutched my arm. We walked in silence for several blocks. “I never would have said anything to Stephen if I’d thought it’d hurt our case,” she said.

  “Lincoln knows that. And so do I.”

  “Not that it matters now, I know.”

  “No.”

  We walked the rest of the way to the Hutchason house without talking, and Martha took her leave and let herself inside. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her so subdued. I was about to head back to Hoffman’s Row when I heard two voices coming from Hutchason’s backyard. I walked to the edge of the picket fence and listened.

  “… appoint me to the land office when this is over,” said the first voice, which I immediately recognized as Truett’s.

  “You know I can’t do that,” replied a second voice.

  “No one deserves the position more.”

  There was a harsh bark of laughter. “I wouldn’t be sure.”

  “Why not? No one worked harder to get our party leaders elected. Including you.”

  “Plenty of people worked harder, Truett. And longer. Don’t forget—you spent the last month of the campaign locked up here.” With the suddenness of a thunderbolt, I realized the second voice belonged to Stephen Douglas. Ducking down, I crept as close as I could to the jail cell without risking being seen.

  “But back when I was charged, you agreed—”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “We had a two-way agreement,” insisted Truett. “You told me to be patient and to hire Lincoln to fight the charges. You even suggested how to make sure he’d say yes. In exchange, you promised that after the election you’d make the trial go my way and give me a suitable job. Meaning the land office.”

  My blood had gone cold. Douglas had told Truett to hire Lincoln? And Douglas had told Truett to suggest that Thomas Lincoln might have played a role in the events leading to Early’s death? Perhaps Lincoln’s political opponent was even more devious than I had thought possible.

  “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood.” Douglas’s tone was flat and unemotional.

  “Misunderstood what?”

  “I said I’d help you if I could. As it turns out, I can’t.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “You’re not thinking, Truett. We talked before the judge appointed me prosecutor. Since then I’ve been duty-bound to try to convict you of the crime for which you’ve been charged. And I still am. I don’t know how you could have thought otherwise.”

  “But … but you never should have taken the assignment, in that case.”

  “That was never an option. Not for me.”

  “You can’t … but…” Truett was lost for words. Though I couldn’t see him, I could easily imagine the fury on his features. “I’ll tell the whole world you promised to take care of me and now you’re welching!”

  Douglas snorted. “No one will believe you. The word of a criminal—a convicted murderer, within a day or two—against the word of a United States congressman? Hah! Besides, as I’ve told you, there was no agreement.”

  “Even if people don’t believe me, it will tarnish you. It will end your career in politics.”

  “I find that most unlikely. Good night, Truett.” I heard the sound of footsteps approaching and dove out of the way seconds before Douglas came striding through the gate. Lying in the grass, I watched as the Little Giant marched away down the street, his chest thrust out and his head held as high as his stature permitted. If he felt the slightest bit of remorse, his carriage gave no sign of it.

  When I returned to Hoffman’s Row, I found Lincoln reclining in his chair, reading. I watched him silently, and after a moment he put down the volume. It was the book of Burns poetry.

  “I miss her,” he said quietly.

  “I know you do.”

  “First Ann and now Margaret…”

  “I know. I feel awful for you, Lincoln.”

  At length, he shook his head to rouse himself and reached out for the legal papers on the table in front of him. “I have more work to do tonight,” he said, as if to dismiss me.

  “First, let me tell you what I just overheard.”

  Lincoln listened attentively while I related the conversation between Douglas and Truett, but when I finished he turned back to his table and continued to write out his lines of argument.

  “Can’t you use it against Douglas?” I said. “Surely he’s committed some type of misconduct. The judge would never stand for it.”

  “It sounds like he gave a general offer of assistance to a political ally,” said Lincoln, “before he was appointed pro tem. Since he’s been appointed, he’s certainly been trying his hardest to send Truett to the gallows. I have no ability to contest that.”

  “But what about this business that it was he who convinced Truett to hire you?” This part, in particular, rankled me. “Isn’t that … improper, somehow?”

  “I consider it a compliment, coming from Stephen.”

  I was at a loss for words. Lincoln was missing the larger point. Douglas had been conniving against him from the start, planning to use this case to undermine Lincoln, in both the legal and the political arena. But perhaps because of his grief, Lincoln couldn’t see it, and I was failing to make him understand.

  “What’s your strategy for getting Truett acquitted, then?” I asked.

  Lincoln put down his pen. “Douglas’s case is far from open-and-shut. My examination of the sheriff established all the other people who were present on Quality Hill, persons with an equivalent opportunity to fire the shot. And I’m planning to call Ninian Edwards in my case to expound on the point. For all that I wish your sister hadn’t undermined my argument about the ball and the belt pistol, I think Douglas’ll have a hard time establishing Truett’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “And you think the jury’s following all that?”

  “Ah—now you’ve put your finger on it. That’s the Wellington problem.”

  “What’s the Wellington problem?”

  “After the Battle of Waterloo,” said Lincoln, his face relaxing into a warm smile for the first time in ages, “the British press asked the Duke of Wellington what had been the toughest part of the fight against Napoleon. And he said, trying to work out what was happening on the other side of the hill.

  “Jury trials are a bit like artillery battles. You can unleash a vast expenditure of shot and shell, but how much of the ordnance actually reaches its target? In my case, the jury?”

/>   I shrugged.

  Lincoln nodded and said, “There’s no way to know until they come back with the verdict.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The next morning began with some unexpected news. Encouraging news, for a change. As I came down the stairs to my storeroom, I saw the distinctive figure of Simeon Francis peering through the windows from the street outside. I threw open the door and he charged in.

  “It’s not over!” he shouted before I could greet him.

  “Of course not. The trial’s continuing today, and Lincoln said maybe into tomorrow as well, depending on how long the evidence takes.”

  “Not the trial—the election. Or the counting of votes, at least. Stuart might have beat Douglas after all.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “But you yourself reported that Douglas won. By more than a thousand votes, as I recall.”

  Simeon shook his head vigorously, and his whole body quivered with enthusiasm. “I was wrong. I just finished interrogating two fellows who arrived on the southbound stage this morning. One coming from Chicago, the other from Peoria. But they both had the same story—that more votes for Stuart have been discovered in their towns. Not enough to bridge the entire gap, not by themselves, but enough to narrow it greatly. I reckon the margin isn’t more than a hundred in Douglas’s favor at this point. And if only we can find a few more missing votes out there in the district somewhere … well, it may be Congressman Stuart after all.”

  “How can more votes be discovered four days after the election?” I said. “Won’t the Democrats put up a stink?”

  “Oh, they’ll raise the biggest stink known to mankind,” said Francis. He rubbed his ruddy, freckled hands together in glee at the prospect. “Just let them. They can have their stink, as long as we get the seat in Congress. Is Lincoln still in your bedroom?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve got to go tell him.” And Francis charged up the flight, the stairs groaning in protest under his girth.

  Over at the courtroom an hour later, it was clear Douglas had received a similar report from the overnight stage. When I arrived, he and Prickett were whispering back and forth vigorously with some fellow Democrats. Judge Thomas looked over their way when he entered the room, though a minimal sense of judicial decorum prevented him from joining their intrigue. Nonetheless, Thomas did not call the court to order until Douglas and his fellows finished their hasty conference and two of the fellows dashed out. No doubt they were on a mission to prevent the discovery of additional Whig votes or, failing that, to gin up some new Democratic ones.