The Day Lincoln Lost Page 13

  “Why don’t you open the third door,” Hedpeth said.

  “Why?”

  “Fair is fair.”

  “Alright.” With his heart pounding, Clarence grabbed the handle of the third door and pulled it open. Nothing happened, so he poked his head into the opening.

  “I think we have found what we are looking for,” he said. “Come on in. No need for the gun, I don’t think.”

  What Clarence saw inside was a man lying on a bed, his head propped up on pillows, his body covered with multiple blankets and his face swathed in bandages. In the corner of the room was a small dresser, with a pitcher and washbasin on top. More pillows and blankets were piled in the corner.

  He and Hedpeth moved fully into the room, but the man on the bed did not try to rise up to greet them. Instead he said, in a low and whispery voice, “You men them abolitionists what beat me in Springfield come to finish me off?”

  Hedpeth laughed. “Not at all. I am Major Hedpeth, of the United States Army. This other gentleman is Clarence Artemis. We have come to find you because many people have been concerned to learn your fate, including the president.”

  “Of the United States?”

  “Yes, and he is hardly an abolitionist.”

  “Alright. I’m Ezekiel Goshorn...” His voice trailed off as if he had something to add but couldn’t quite get it out.

  “We know what happened to you,” Hedpeth said. “We can, if you like, take you back to Springfield for medical care.”

  Clarence winced. The trip back to Springfield on the bucking carriage would surely kill this man. But he said nothing because he didn’t know where Hedpeth was going.

  “Or,” Hedpeth was saying, “we could bring a physician here to treat you.”

  “My brother, who is caring for me, already had a physician come.”

  “What did that doctor say?”

  Goshorn took a deep breath, clearly marshaling the energy to speak. Finally, he said, “He said nothing broke. Just beat up real bad. Must lay here and heal.”

  “Is it working?” Clarence said.

  “No. Been a lot of days. Still can’t walk without help. Worse every day. Sometimes I lose my way in my thoughts.”

  Hedpeth put his hand on Goshorn’s forehead. “At least you don’t have a fever. And you know, if you’re injured badly, healing often takes more time than you wish. I know that so very well.”

  “I fear I am not long for this world, Major.”

  Hedpeth leaned down closer to him and pulled his collar away from his throat. “You have marks on your throat, too. Like someone went after you there with something. Do you know how that happened?”

  “I don’t remember. Some part of the attack in the riot probably.”

  “Where is your brother now?” Clarence said.

  “Said he had to go out. Didn’t say where. Said he’d be back soon.”

  Clarence heard a noise out in the barn. Hedpeth clearly heard it, too, because his head snapped around at the sound. “Clarence, go out and see who that is,” Hedpeth said. “Perhaps it’s just his brother returning.”

  Clarence went out the door to check. What he saw, at the end of the barn, was a woman sitting on a horse. She sat tall in the saddle with a pistol holstered at her hip.

  She saw him, drew the pistol and rode closer as he strode toward her until both of them stopped a few feet apart.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “Clarence Artemis. I’m a journalist, come to find Ezekiel Goshorn.” He held out his hand.

  Annabelle ignored his proffered hand and said, “Is he here?”

  “Yes. And there is no need to wave that gun around. I’m here with Major Hedpeth of the United States Army, and we mean no harm to anyone.”

  “I didn’t know journalists rescued people. I thought all your kind did was stir up trouble. So why are you here at all?”

  “We have been talking to Mr. Goshorn and trying to see if we can help him. He is in very poor condition.”

  “That doesn’t answer why the two of you are here.”

  “Major Hedpeth is sent by President Buchanan.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  The truth was that Clarence had no idea if Buchanan had actually sent Hedpeth, but he just answered, “Yes.”

  “And you, Mr. Artemis? Why are you here?”

  “Like I just said. A journalist.”

  “From where?”

  “Springfield.” It did not seem to Clarence the right time to announce the name of his newspaper.

  “Alright,” she said.

  “If I might ask, who are you, ma’am?” Clarence said.

  “I’m Annabelle Carter. I’m a neighbor of Mr. Goshorn in Kentucky. His family has sent me to look for him.”

  “I see. Well, you have found him. But he is in no shape to travel, I’m afraid.”

  “Is his brother here?”

  “Out somewhere briefly, supposedly. We have not yet met the man. We are only just arrived, and have been talking to Mr. Goshorn about what has happened to him.”

  “I see. Is his son here?”

  “He has not mentioned his son. Do you know his brother, ma’am?”

  “I met him once. But I don’t really know him.”

  “He will be back, I assume.”

  “I will see Goshorn for myself,” she said, holstering her gun and dismounting. She looked for a place to tie up her horse, found a post and tied the horse’s lead around it.

  “Goshorn is in that small room there,” Clarence said, pointing.

  They crossed the barn and walked into the room together.

  After introductions, Hedpeth said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. If you are looking for Mr. Goshorn, I fear you are too late. He seems to have expired just a moment ago. Not surprising in some ways. Injuries like his take their toll.”

  “Dead? Are you sure?” Annabelle went up to Goshorn and lifted his arm to take a pulse at his wrist. “He indeed has no pulse,” she said.

  “Ma’am, if I may, my military training is to take a pulse at his neck.” Hedpeth stepped forward, put his finger against Goshorn’s neck and said, “No pulse there, either.”

  “Major, if he was alive just a few moments ago, and talking to you, how could he be dead so suddenly?”

  “Ma’am, it is my experience in battle that a man who is badly injured can be talking one moment—even making jokes—and be stone dead the next moment.” They all stepped back and regarded the corpse for several minutes, saying nothing.

  “If he was a friend of yours, my condolences,” Hedpeth said.

  “Mine as well,” Clarence said.

  “Not exactly a friend,” she said. “More like a longtime acquaintance.”

  “We will await his brother’s return,” Hedpeth said. “But for now, let us leave this man in peace.” He walked over and closed Goshorn’s eyelids. Then he took two coins out of his pocket and put them on top. “Keeps them from popping open,” he said.

  “Let us pray,” Hedpeth said. He then recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  When they were done, Annabelle walked back to the corpse and touched his cheek. “Still warm,” she said.

  As Clarence was getting ready to leave the room, he looked carefully around, the better to be able to describe the scene in his newspaper. Readers, he knew from having worked briefly at a paper in Boston, ate up such details. He even leaned over the body to see what coins Hedpeth had used. They were copper-colored Indian Head pennies. It was a new type of coin, issued for the first time the year before. Clarence had read that they were in surplus. The mint had overestimated demand.

  25

  The trip to Berlin had been, from Clarence’s point of view, a spectacular success. Upon his return, he had put out a special edition of The Radical Abolitionist. It contain
ed his first person account of finding Ezekiel Goshorn and the man’s subsequent death. It had sold out in Springfield.

  He had sent the text to his contact at Harper’s Weekly, and a story crediting him and his paper had appeared there not long after. Coveted annual subscriptions to his paper had begun to pour in by both mail and telegram. He had put his paper on the map.

  He knew, though, that the fame would be short-lived unless he could come up with more, and quickly. He sought out Robbie Culp, the boy who had sketched the overturned carriage. He paid him ten dollars, based on Clarence’s recollections, to prepare two drawings. The first showed Clarence and Major Hedpeth standing over Goshorn’s body. The second was a close-up of the dead man’s face, complete with Indian Head pennies. Clarence used the drawings to illustrate a second edition and sent that, too, off to Harper’s.

  Meanwhile, the federal government had given him a gift. It had earlier indicted Abby Kelley Foster for violating the Fugitive Slave Act by supposedly inciting a riot that interfered with a United States marshal returning a slave to her owner. The indictment even managed to mention Goshorn’s death, without exactly accusing Abby of having caused it.

  The indictment was brought in the Southern District of Illinois, and since the United States District Court for that district sat in Springfield, journalists from all over the United States had begun to arrive. And Clarence was the man to see. Embarrassed at his paltry quarters, he had telegraphed his mother and gotten a commitment of funds that enabled him to find and rent a real office, tiny though it was.

  The first visitor to his new office was a man named Harry Jones, who identified himself as a journalist from New York who wrote occasionally, as he put it, for Harper’s Weekly. And what he wanted to know was how to get in to see Abraham Lincoln.

  “I wish you good fortune in getting that interview,” Clarence said. “I have tried many times to get in to see him, but except for one passing encounter, I have failed. He readily sees politicians and office seekers who come to town, but not journalists.”

  “So you can be of no help to me, Mr. Artemis, a fellow journalist?”

  “I would if I could, but I am holding nothing back. I can think of no trick that would help.”

  “Well, I thank you anyway. Here is my calling card.” He handed it to him. “The next time you are in New York, please look me up.”

  “I will most surely do that.”

  As he watched Jones leave, Clarence wondered at the man’s audacity. If he had not himself been able to get in to see Lincoln, why ever would he give away any remaining tricks he might have to Jones? Perhaps that was just the way people from New York were.

  Then he remembered something he had nearly forgotten about, perhaps because it had seemed so absurd. Father Hale had told him, weeks ago now, “Try talking to the baker on Fourth Street.”

  Clarence put on his overcoat and went out into the chill. A cold fall was coming on with a vengeance.

  He arrived at the bakery toward three o’clock, as the proprietor, a man named Hotchkiss, was just closing up. Clarence introduced himself and said, “I am surprised you are closing so early.”

  Hotchkiss looked at him with a kindly expression on his face—one Clarence imagined he might have shone upon an unusually slow four-year-old—and said, “Mr. Artemis, people come to buy their daily bread in the early morning. If they want sweets or pies, they come after lunch. So that I, who arise at 4:00 a.m. to start baking, can go home and enjoy my own dinner.”

  “Yes, of course,” Clarence said. “I am sorry to be so ignorant of these things. In Boston, where I’m from, it seems things are open all the time. Except on Sundays, of course.”

  “Well, be that as it may, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I know who you are, of course. You have of late garnered quite a reputation as a journalist.” Clarence tried to keep the smile off his face. His increasing fame—well, not really fame exactly—but being known around town, pleased him more than he would have imagined, but he didn’t want it to get in the way of his journalism. He fell back on commerce.

  “Why, thank you, sir. Perhaps I can offer you a free subscription to my newspaper.”

  “That would be most welcome. I have been an avid reader of it, but had not thought to subscribe.”

  “I will see to it. But I came to ask you about something Father Hale said to me quite a few weeks ago now.”

  “Ah, yes. A man both kind and wise. What is it that he said?”

  “I told him I wanted to find a way to interview Abraham Lincoln, who since he became the nominee of his party, does not speak to journalists. Father Hale told me to talk to the baker.”

  “I am not the only baker in this city.”

  “True, but you are the only one on Fourth Street, which is the address he gave.”

  The baker looked genuinely puzzled, and Clarence thought for a second that Father Hale had been playing a practical joke on him. Then Hotchkiss lit up and said, “Ah, he is likely referring to the fact that Mr. Lincoln often shopped for his family’s bread here of an early morning.”

  “Lincoln shopped for his family’s bread? In person?” Clarence was truly shocked. Even his mother sent servants out for bread and he didn’t imagine the Lincolns were too poor to afford them.

  “Yes, he did. He would come here with his basket over his shoulder, buy a few loaves, and we would talk of this and that—rarely I might add, of politics.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “He never said, but I suspect it was as much to have an excuse to get out of the house as anything. Mrs. Lincoln...well, I should not speak ill of someone who I hope will soon be living in the White House.”

  “I would never quote you without your permission, Mr. Hotchkiss.”

  Even as he said it, Clarence realized he was gulling the man. There were a hundred ways to avoid quoting someone directly but nevertheless leave it quite clear to the reader exactly who had said what.

  “Well,” Hotchkiss said, “I need more than that from you, sir. I need you to promise to say nothing that could lead anyone back to me.”

  “Alright. I agree.”

  “Fine, then. I assume Mr. Lincoln did the shopping because Mrs. Lincoln is a shrew. People have even seen her shoo him out of the house with a broom. So he no doubt enjoyed the freedom of shopping.”

  “You have used the past tense. Does he no longer shop?”

  “Not usually. After he became the nominee of his party, he was persuaded that it was beneath him. So he hired a young black boy to come in his stead.”

  “He no longer comes himself?”

  “Not quite. Today, the boy had taken ill, and Mr. Lincoln came himself for the first time in many weeks. Perhaps he will come again tomorrow. Or perhaps not.”

  “What time did he come today?”

  “When I opened at 6:00, when the loaves were still hot.”

  “Would I be welcome to come by tomorrow about that time?”

  “Yes, just don’t...”

  “Tell Lincoln you suggested it.”

  “Precisely. They are good customers.”

  “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Hotchkiss, and thank you.” Clarence left quickly, lest Hotchkiss change his mind.

  26

  Clarence arrived at the bakery at 5:30 a.m. There was no point in missing Lincoln should he come early—assuming he came at all.

  Clarence positioned himself about a block away, in the opposite direction from Lincoln’s house. That way, if Lincoln came from home, he would be walking toward Clarence, and Clarence could walk casually toward him. He had dressed nicely, but not too formally, and was carrying his own bread basket.

  Shortly before 6:00, Lincoln appeared down the block, walking—sauntering really—and whistling. He was wearing a top hat and had a cloak pulled around his shoulders against the early morning chill. Clarence waited a few seconds,
then set off himself at a pace he judged would take him abreast of the bakery at about the same time Lincoln arrived there.

  It worked. Lincoln was starting to open the door to the bakery just as Clarence got there. Lincoln at first seemed startled to find someone at the same doorway at the same time, but quickly recovered. He opened the door fully and said, “After you, sir. I see we both come early to this excellent establishment.” As he threw the door wide, the aroma of fresh baked bread poured into the street.

  Hotchkiss was standing behind the counter and, on hearing Lincoln’s praise, beamed. “Mr. Lincoln, good morning, and good morning to you, too, Mr. Artemis.” Then he introduced the two of them, but neglected to mention that Clarence was a journalist. He found no need, of course, to mention who Lincoln was.

  “As I’m sure you well recall, Mr. Artemis, we have met briefly once before,” Lincoln said, smiling. “In fact, I have brought you your cap back, with apologies that it has taken so long.” He reached into his basket and handed the hat to Clarence.

  Clarence was taken aback—Hotchkiss must have told Lincoln that Clarence was likely to be there—but he recovered quickly and said, “It is no problem. Thank you for the cap’s return.” Then he looked at it more carefully. “But I’m almost embarrassed to say that it’s not my hat. So it wouldn’t be right for me to keep it.” He handed it back to Lincoln, who took it and, without a word, put it back in the basket.

  Hotchkiss, clearly uncertain about what had just happened, ignored it and said, “I must now decide which of you to serve first. I suppose I shall choose age before beauty, and serve Mr. Lincoln first.”

  Lincoln laughed and said, “Well, it is a good thing, Mr. Hotchkiss, that I have age on my side because if I had to contend with only beauty to support me, I suspect that I would never receive service anywhere.”

  Clarence looked at Lincoln and realized that the man was right about himself. His face was long, thin and rough, and his skin was, if not quite sallow, at least not in the bloom of health. He realized that Lincoln’s quip called for some clever riposte on his part, but he was once again dumbstruck that he was standing next to the man he expected to be the next president and could find nothing to say—a rarity for him. His mother was fond of remarking that he had not had an unexpressed thought since he first learned to speak.