The Day Lincoln Lost

by Charles Rosenberg

  “No, we don’t,” Herndon said. “We are, however, joining Mr. Pinkerton here for dinner, and I assume he has made one. I am Mr. Herndon and this is Mr. Hay.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Mr. Pinkerton did let us know you would be joining him. He has reserved a private room. I am Mr. Belmont. Please follow me.”

  As they walked through the restaurant, Herndon realized that the impression he had gained from the plain front door was misplaced. Inside, the eatery was the most splendid he had ever set eyes on. It had high ceilings, from which descended multiple chandeliers, each featuring a half dozen white, gas-fed globes. It had equally high windows, curtained with rich velvet drapes of a deep maroon color. Round tables draped with white tablecloths were set with bone-white china with a red rim, and to the side of each plate, gleaming crystal. Wrought-iron chairs, with matching maroon backs and seat pads surrounded each table.

  Belmont led them to a private room whose entrance was a door next to the huge, carved wooden bar that flanked one side of the room. The room was small, with a single round table in the middle. There were no windows. There were four chairs.

  “Mr. Pinkerton will be joining you very shortly,” Belmont said, and left.

  No sooner had Belmont left than a door in the back wall opened, and Pinkerton came through, preceded by a tall woman in a black dress. Her most arresting feature, though, was a toile hat decorated with three brilliant feathers, one red, one blue and one white.

  “Messrs. Herndon and Hay, may I introduce Mrs. Annabelle Carter. Mrs. Carter, the gentleman on the right is William Herndon, Abraham Lincoln’s law partner. The other gentleman is John Hay, who is working on the campaign.”

  “A pleasure to meet both of you,” she said.

  “And a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carter,” Herndon said.

  “Please call me Annabelle,” she said.

  “Let’s make it first names all around, then,” Herndon said.

  Once they were seated, Pinkerton said, “My apologies for our late arrival. Being a Scot, I like to be on time lest I be mistaken for an Englishman.”

  “I thought the English were always punctual,” Hay said.

  “Only in comparison to the French, Mr. Hay. Only in comparison to the French.”

  A waiter brought the bill of fare and left. Each one consisted of three pages, one for soups, fish, oysters and poultry, one for roasts, steaks, chops, game and boiled meats, and one for puddings, pies and ice cream.

  After paging through it, Herndon said, “No restaurant in Springfield has anything to compare to this.”

  “Welcome to Chicago,” Pinkerton said. “The metropolis of the West.”

  “I’ve seen as good in New York,” Hay said.

  After they’d decided what they wanted, Pinkerton got up and pulled a cord on the wall. The faint tinkling of a bell on the other side could be heard. Almost instantly, the waiter reappeared and took their orders.

  As soon as the waiter departed, Annabelle said, “Allan, you know that I enjoy working for you. But for the most part I have gone after thieves and burglars and a few counterfeiters. What is it you would have me do in this case?”

  “I want you to take at least a week off and return to Logan Hill, the plantation on which you grew up. It is, I believe, not far from Riverview, from which the enslaved girl Lucy comes.”

  “What do you want me to do there?”

  “Find out everything you can about the girl, including why she left when she did.”

  “How will that help?” Hay said. “Lucy is long gone from Riverview.”

  “I believe that in any investigation, it is best to start at the beginning,” Pinkerton said. “The more we know about the beginnings of all of this, the better we will be able to know where to look for her.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” Hay said. “Given how long she’s been gone.”

  “I suspect Allan has further plans for detections I might undertake when I return from Kentucky,” Annabelle said. “Because of my political positions, I can travel in many circles without too much suspicion. I might even be able to find out what happened to the master.”

  “What political positions are those?” Herndon said.

  “I’m a gradual abolitionist. I favor abolition, but not right away and not without compensation to the owners of slaves. Both slaveholders and abolitionists will talk to me without rancor, even though they may not agree with me.”

  Herndon was indignant. “What? Use taxpayer money to pay those who hold human beings in bondage?”

  “It would be far better than the war I fear is coming if Lincoln is elected,” Annabelle said. “And much cheaper compared to what will be spent on both sides for a war.”

  Hay smiled. “Are you aware that Southern newspapers have said that if the Southern states secede, not one thimbleful of Southern blood will be spilled? Because all Yankees are cowards?”

  Annabelle laughed. “My daddy would say that is God’s truth. That the yellow-bellied Yankees will all run for the hills at the first whiff of gunpowder.”

  “That is certainly not true!” Hay said.

  “I think she is trying to get a rise out of you, John,” Pinkerton said.

  “Only a little,” Annabelle said and smiled a very broad smile. “In any case, what do we know about Lucy? Especially, what does she looks like?”

  “I can help with that,” Hay said. “Before we left Springfield, I went to the federal courthouse and looked up the petition filed there by the slave owner.”

  “What did it say?” Annabelle said.

  “I copied the key parts,” Hay said. He pulled two pieces of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket. “Here, I’ll read it to you. ‘That petitioner, Ezekiel Goshorn, is personally acquainted with Lucy Battelle, aged about twelve years, and knows her well; that she was born on his plantation of Riverview in Kentucky and is enslaved for life. Petitioner is her lawful owner.’”

  “What a chilling way to describe someone,” Herndon said. “Enslaved for life.”

  Hay resumed reading. “‘Petitioner has not recently measured Lucy but believes that she is approximately five feet six inches tall. She is of very light complexion, a mulatto he would say, with gray eyes. She is slender and very handsome for a mulatto. Her head is what is called wooly, but petitioner believes that she has likely shaved her head and now wears some type of wig that has been supplied to her by others.

  “‘Petitioner has not seen the slave naked in recent years but believes that her breasts have not yet come in and her hips have not yet widened, so she might be taken for a boy.

  “‘The slave girl was being taken to St. Louis to be sold to a legitimate slaver there when she absconded from the wagon in which she was being transported.’”

  “What is a legitimate slaver?” Herndon said. “Are there illegitimate slavers?”

  “It means a slaver who is bonded,” Pinkerton said. “Someone who won’t take your slave on consignment, sell her south and not pay you what you are due when the sale goes through.”

  Hay continued. “Here’s the rest of it. ‘Petitioner believes Lucy is now in custody in Springfield, Illinois.’”

  “The file also contains the final court order,” Hay said. “The judge found that the petitioner had proved ownership and ordered everyone, including the United States marshal, to assist him in the slave’s repatriation to Kentucky.”

  “There is one more thing to discuss,” Pinkerton said.

  He was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter and an assistant, their arms stacked high with plates of food.

  “The owner instructed that your order should go ahead of all the others,” the waiter said. “It appears you are important.” He said it in such a flat tone that Herndon couldn’t tell whether he approved or disapproved. Or didn’t care.

  “Please thank the owner on our behalf,”
Pinkerton said.

  After the waiter and his helper had departed, Carter said, “What was the one more thing you wanted to discuss, Allan?”

  “Whether we want to try to find out what has happened to the slave owner, too.”

  “I vote not to bother,” Hay said.

  “I am not so sure,” Herndon said. “Lincoln instructed us to try to find them both. He must have his political reasons.”

  “We have little choice,” Annabelle said. “I grew up with Ezekiel Goshorn’s sons. All five of them. I’m sure that at least one of them has already gone north to look for him.”

  “How well do you know the sons?” Herndon said.

  “We went to the same church, attended the same schoolhouse and then had the same tutor, who taught me, them and my sisters together at one plantation or the other. And we attended the same social events. I even had to dance with them.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory.

  “What are they like?” Pinkerton said.

  “All thugs, wealthy due to the efforts of, really, their grandfather, but none of their own. But that fortune is fading fast because their father is so bad at business.”

  18

  Annabelle was not enthused by her assignment. She had come to like investigating more ordinary crimes, in part because it was apolitical. Lately, all people talked about was the election, which meant that all people talked about was slavery. Yes, they also talked about the deep corruption of the Buchanan administration, but in the end, it was endless talk about slavery.

  She also didn’t like going home. Lately, she had been more dutiful about it because her father was ill. But that didn’t make going back any better.

  She telegraphed her mother that she would be coming and packed for a one-week trip. Before she left for the station, she went to see Pinkerton.

  “Allan, I really don’t fully understand my assignment. Am I simply to find out, if I can, where these people are, or am I to go and locate them?”

  “You are to get as close to them as you can without putting yourself in danger. And you can always ask the local police for assistance. Your Pinkerton badge—if you want to reveal who you work for—should help with that.”

  “Yes, usually the police welcome our assistance,” she said. “Unless, of course, they are themselves the crooks.”

  “There is that, yes. But in case you need it, here’s a letter of introduction from me addressed to ‘Whom It May Concern.’” He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed her an envelope. “This introduces you as a trusted Pinkerton detective and requests their assistance. I am well-enough known that it should work for you almost anywhere and especially with the police.”

  “Thank you, Allan.”

  “I’d take a gun during this investigation if I were you.” He walked over to a cabinet against the wall, opened a drawer, pulled out a small revolver, handed it to her and said, “I know you’re expert with weapons, but have you practiced lately?”

  “Yes. They said I am still a very good shot.” She turned the gun over in her hand. “I suppose it will fit in my handbag.”

  “You should also draw the cash you need from Mr. Striker. Take a lot. You never know when you might need to...”

  She finished his sentence for him. “Grease the wheels of justice.”

  He laughed. “Something like that.”

  “I have a question,” she said. “Why does it make any sense to try to find these people? How will it help Lincoln?”

  “I might agree with you, Annabelle, but Abraham Lincoln has very good political instincts—against great odds he captured the Republican nomination for president from much better-known men. I have to trust his view that finding these people will help.”

  “One more thing. If Lucy’s not dead, isn’t it likely she’s already in Canada?”

  “That is possible.”

  “Since it’s no secret you’re a station on the Railroad, Allan, can’t you just make an inquiry?”

  “Would that I might, but one of the guiding principles is for each person on the Railroad to know as little as possible. Hence, I have helped deliver travelers to a station near a steamer that will take them across Lake Michigan, but I don’t know where that steamer goes. And I don’t know a single soul in Canada who is involved. So I have no one to ask.”

  “Alright, then. I will go forth and try my best.”

  “Good luck, Annie!”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He smiled. “Good luck, Annabelle.”

  * * *

  Her trip to Logan Hill, by train, ferry and, finally, by coach, took three days. She had telegraphed her mother that she was coming, so when the coach clattered noisily up the long gravel driveway, her mother and two of her sisters who still lived at home had lined up on the veranda to greet her. The mansion’s six stately white pillars rose up alongside them. The pillars were peeling and looked to Annabelle as if they needed a fresh coat of paint. She also noticed that the servants who worked in the house—she tried to avoid calling them slaves—were missing. Her thoughts on all of that were quickly swallowed up by the hugs and kisses of her family.

  She didn’t initially see her father and thought for a second that the news was going to be very bad, but then she spied him sitting in shadow on a straight-backed wooden chair, somewhat back from the doorway into the house. He was staring straight ahead with no expression on his face.

  She glanced over at him, and then at her mother with a questioning look. “Is Daddy...?”

  “No, dear. He still has his mind. He’s just within himself a lot these days.” Her mother looked over at her father and said, “You’re still with us, aren’t you, Jed?”

  Her father grunted, in what Annabelle took to be a yes. She walked over and gave him a hug and a kiss on the top of his nearly bald head, which caused him to grunt again. “I love you, Daddy,” she said. He didn’t respond.

  After her mother got her settled in her old room—it didn’t look much different than it had when she’d left, eight years before—she said, “What’s really wrong with Daddy?”

  “No one knows, dear. He’s been like this for months, and the doctors have no idea what it is. He doesn’t say much, but every once in a while he gets going, and it’s usually an incoherent babble about politics, and slavery, and that damned Abraham Lincoln and so on. Then, on rare occasion, he’s totally lucid. But not today, obviously.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help, Mama?”

  “I don’t think so. But just you being here is a big lift for me. In fact, I want to have a party in your honor. I’ve already invited the neighbors, and the children your own age who are still at home. Perhaps now that you have no husband, you’ll even find an eligible young man among them.”

  Annabelle ignored her mother’s comment and said, “I hope you haven’t invited the Goshorn boys. You know how much I dislike them.” In saying it, she felt a bit guilty because that is exactly whom she wanted her mother to invite.

  “Of course, I’ve invited them, Annie. They are friends of many years.”

  “I’ve asked you a thousand times, Mama, not to call me Annie.”

  “That’s your name! Annabelle was just something we put down on the baptismal record because it was the name your father’s grandmother went by.”

  “Alright, the Goshorn boys are coming, then. So be it. All of them?”

  “Just four. The oldest one, Amasa, has gone north to look for his father, who’s missing. Let us go downstairs and have some cake and coffee, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  19

  Her mother’s tale of what had happened to Ezekiel Goshorn, while elaborate in the telling, added little to what Annabelle already knew. She ended by saying that the eldest son, Amasa, had left several days ago to find his father. But when Amasa departed, he had admitted to his mother, Mrs. Goshorn, that he had no idea where to s
tart looking.

  Annabelle listened quietly, clucked occasionally as if in sympathy and, when her mother had finally finished, said, “Well, I hope Amasa finds him alive and in good health.”

  “May that wish sound in God’s ear, Annie.”

  Annabelle stifled her complaint about her name. It was hopeless. “Yes, Mama, let us hope God will hear all of our prayers.”

  Throughout, they had been nibbling on small cakes and sipping coffee. Annabelle noticed that some of the plates and cups were chipped, which surprised her. Normally, if even a few plates became chipped, her mother banished them out to the slave quarters, and a whole new set was promptly ordered.

  “Mama, does anyone know what happened to the slave who escaped?”

  “Lucy?”

  “Whatever her name is.”

  “It’s Lucy. Maybelline Goshorn told me that girl’d been nothing but trouble. She was insolent and couldn’t be made to work even in the main house, where the work’s a lot easier. Mr. Goshorn finally decided to sell her south, although Maybelline didn’t think they’d get much for her if they were honest about the merchandise.”

  “Was she on her way to be sold when she escaped?”

  Her mother gave her an appraising look. “I would hardly know. Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s a rumor in Chicago, where people seem very interested in the whole affair. In the office I work in, the girls like to gossip about that kind of thing.”

  “You know I don’t like you working as a clerk.”

  “I like my job. And working in an accounting firm is very safe.”

  “Perhaps so. But to be blunt about it, you’re already twenty-six, which means before you know it you’ll be thirty and no one will want you. No one. You need to get married.”

  “Thirty is still four years away, Mama. And I’ve already been married, remember?”

  “How could I forget? That man was a worthless son of a bitch.”

  “Mama! Such language.”

  “Anyway, you need to come on back here to live and get married again to the right kind of man.”