The Day Lincoln Lost Read online

  “Aye, there’s the rub,” Lincoln said. “Some of the Southern hotheads claim they have already paid for it all with their taxes—federal land, federal forts, the guns in federal arsenals, as well as federal ships in port, among other things. They claim that no payment would be due.”

  “Well, if you’re elected, you’ll find a way to deal with it all, I’m sure,” Abby said. “Even though I doubt you will deal fairly with the slaves.” She paused. “Putting all of that aside, I still find it hard to believe that a man of your importance is representing me in this difficulty I find myself in.”

  “If I’m elected I will be important for only a short term of years,” Lincoln said. “If I am not elected I will fade into the kind of obscurity that has befallen almost all of those who ran for president and lost.”

  There was a knock on the door. The clerk opened it and said, “The judge has decided to reconvene a little earlier. If you can be back in the courtroom in five minutes, he says it would be appreciated.”

  “Alright,” Lincoln said, and the clerk left.

  “Well, that doesn’t leave us much time,” Lincoln said.

  “I’m sorry we wasted it talking about secession,” Abby said.

  “I didn’t find it a waste at all, Abby. But I do want to ask you about Mr. Putnam. You nodded your head ‘yes’ in the courtroom when I asked if you knew him and you said he yelled at you.”

  “I recognized him instantly. He is the man who sat in the third row, dead center, and yelled at me throughout my lecture.”

  “What kind of things did he yell?” Herndon said.

  “He was constantly shouting that God had made Negroes slaves and they must stay that way, although he used a different word for Negro.”

  “So he is biased against what you stand for,” Lincoln said.

  “Yes. Can I testify about what he said?”

  “You have perhaps forgotten, Abby, that in Illinois, as in almost all states—and the court here will follow Illinois law in this—defendants in criminal cases cannot testify under oath in their own defense.”

  “I thought you told me the judge will let me make an unsworn statement to the jury, telling them my side of the story.”

  “That’s true,” Lincoln said. “But I’m not sure he will let you attack the credibility of other witnesses as part of that.”

  “We could find someone else who heard him say those things,” Herndon said.

  They all looked at one another and said, almost simultaneously, “Father Hale!”

  * * *

  When the courtroom came to order, with Putnam back on the witness stand, Judge Garrett said, “Mr. Putnam, I remind you you’re still under oath. Mr. Lincoln, you may begin your cross-examination.”

  Lincoln walked up to the witness stand so that he was only a foot or two in front of Putnam. “Mr. Putnam, where were you siting during Mrs. Foster’s lecture?”

  “Right down in front.”

  “Third row?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Right in the middle?”

  Putnam looked surprised that Lincoln had guessed not only the row he had sat in but his position in it. After a pause, he said, “Why, yes. Right in the middle.”

  “And you were there the whole time, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was sitting to your right, Mr. Putnam?”

  “I’m not sure of his name. I’d never met the man before.”

  “An older gentleman?”

  “Why, yes.”

  For Lincoln it had been a shot in the dark. Most people who went to church were older these days, and an antislavery lecture, even by someone as famous as Abby Kelley Foster, was not likely to have attracted the young.

  Lincoln took another shot in the dark. “What about on the other side? Also an older gentleman?”

  “Yes.”

  Lincoln asked no further questions about Putnam’s neighbors in the pews. He hoped he’d made Putnam think he knew exactly who those people were and that they might show up and testify. Perhaps it would keep Putnam at least a little honest.

  “Mr. Putnam, did you say anything during Mrs. Foster’s lecture?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Lincoln looked down at a piece of paper he had been holding in his hand, with copious writing visible on it. Then he said, “Are you sure, Mr. Putnam, that you didn’t say anything?”

  “Well, now that I think of it, I might have muttered something.”

  “What did you mutter?”

  “I don’t really recall.”

  Lincoln looked down at the piece of paper again. He even squinted at it briefly. “Are you sure, sir? You don’t recall a thing you muttered?”

  “Well, I probably muttered something about how the abolitionists weren’t right about everything.”

  “So you’re not an abolitionist?”

  Lizar popped out of his seat. “Objection, not relevant.”

  “Potential bias is always relevant,” Lincoln said.

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  “Let me ask again, sir,” Lincoln said. “Are you an abolitionist?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Far from it, right?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “You believe slavery is God’s plan for people whose skin is darker than ours, don’t you?”

  Lizar started to get up, no doubt to object, but then apparently thought better of it for some reason and sat back down.

  Putnam didn’t answer, so Lincoln repeated the question. “You believe slavery is God’s plan for people whose skin is darker than ours, don’t you?” Lincoln could practically hear Putnam wondering in his head what Lincoln knew and what he didn’t know.

  Finally, Putnam said, “That’s more or less correct. You can read it in the Bible.” He looked over at the jury, obviously trying to see if any of them agreed with him. If Putnam read them the same way Lincoln did, none of them agreed with him.

  “Didn’t you, Mr. Putnam, yell something along those lines—‘God intended Negroes to be slaves’—at Mrs. Foster while she was speaking?”

  Putnam’s lip was twitching. Lincoln could see him considering his choices. Lie and be exposed if someone was going to testify against him. Or tell the truth.

  “I might have said something like that,” Putnam said. And then he tried to rescue himself from the implications of his admitted bias. “But what I said about that jez—that woman—saying ‘Go out and do something about it’ is God’s truth. She said it. She did, as God is my witness.”

  “Well, God is your witness, Mr. Putnam, that’s what your oath to tell the truth is all about.”

  Lincoln knew it was time to let that testimony well enough alone. He had one other area to explore, though. “Sir, did you go to the square after Mrs. Foster finished speaking?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Just didn’t.”

  “Well, if she’d urged people to ‘Go out and do something about it,’ and you thought that meant—” Lincoln looked down at the piece of paper again “—go seize the slave girl from lawful authority, wouldn’t that sound like it would be exciting to go to the square to watch?”

  “I’m not really interested in that kind of thing, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “You prefer to stay home by your fire with a book?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d put it that way, but I do like my own home.”

  “You also said that a lot of people rushed out when Mrs. Foster finished speaking, correct?”

  Putnam looked wary, but finally said, “Yes. That’s my best recollection.”

  “Did you ask any of them where they were going?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “And you didn’t follow them?”

  “No.�
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  “You were just on your way home?”

  “Yes.”

  “When someone said, according to you, ‘Let’s go,’ did you ask that person what he meant?”

  “No.”

  “Because you were just anxious to get home?”

  “I guess you could put it that way.”

  Lincoln looked over at the jury to make sure Humphreys, the first seated juror, was paying attention. He was.

  “Mr. Putnam, I just want to make sure we know who was in that church whom you can identify. You are George, Jr. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So your father is or was George Senior.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he go to the church with you that night?”

  “No, that good man has gone to his reward.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. God rest his soul. Do you have a son, Mr. Putnam?”

  “Yes. One living.”

  “Did he go with you to the church?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Lincoln had the sense that Putnam was a vain man, so he took a stab in the dark and hoped to hit his target. “Is he also named George?”

  Putnam beamed. “Yes, George Three.”

  Lincoln had trouble suppressing his glee. He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement and said, “You don’t pronounce it George the Third?”

  “Objection!” Lizar said. “This is totally irrelevant.”

  “I withdraw the question,” Lincoln said. “George Three or George Third, it obviously makes no difference here.” He glanced up at Humphreys, who wore a distinct scowl on his face. No man whose grandfather had served alongside Washington would be likely to think favorably of a man who’d named his son George III, no matter how he pronounced it.

  Lincoln looked down at his paper. “I have no further questions.”

  “Mr. Lizar, do you have any redirect?” the judge said.

  “I would like to take a moment to look at my notes,” Lizar said.

  “Of course.”

  While Lizar studied his notes, Abby said to Lincoln, “What’s on that magic paper you kept looking at?”

  Lincoln pushed it in front of her, and she smiled. “Why it’s the Lord’s Prayer. You wrote out the whole thing!”

  “I must get help from whence I can. And it fills the page.”

  Lizar rose from his chair. “I have nothing further, Your Honor.”

  “Do you have more witnesses, Mr. Lizar?”

  “Yes, two more, both of whom were in the square when the events occurred.”

  “Mr. Lincoln, how many witnesses are you likely to have?”

  “Don’t think I’ll need a lot, Your Honor.” He glanced at the jury, hoping they’d picked up his intent, which was to suggest that the government’s case was pathetically weak. “Perhaps only two quick ones.”

  “Alright,” the judge said. “We will break for lunch and return here at 1:30. Perhaps we can finish today.”

  50

  Lincoln, Abby and Billy went to lunch at the Chenery House. The sheriff saw the three of them leave the courthouse together but made no objection to his prisoner being out and about.

  After they were seated, Abby said, “It’s wonderful to be out of jail, and truly out, not just walked around the square or moved from jail to courthouse.”

  They had hardly had time to seat themselves when several people came over to their table. They were abolitionists and wanted to thank Abby for her work “on behalf of the slave.” They said nothing at all to Lincoln or Billy.

  After they had left, Lincoln said, “You are famous, Abby.”

  “Not so famous as you, Abraham.”

  Billy rolled his eyes. “The two of you seem to have formed a mutual admiration society. Next thing you know, Abby will announce that she’s going to attend one of your campaign rallies, Lincoln.”

  “He’d have to change his views on abolition,” Abby said. “Profoundly. And, of course, women would need to be permitted to vote.”

  “You know that I think slavery a monstrous injustice,” Lincoln said. “I have said so many times. But...”

  Billy interrupted him. “He wants to get elected, where perhaps he can have an ameliorating effect on the peculiar institution, as our Southern friends call it.”

  “I’m hard-pressed to think of any Southern friends of mine,” Abby said. “Except for perhaps the Grimke sisters. And I loathe the expression ‘the peculiar institution.’ If you were a slave, Billy, you’d find nothing peculiar about it.”

  “Perhaps we should order,” Lincoln said, and picked up a menu.

  A few seconds later a waiter came over and said, “There is a woman at the table toward the back—” he pointed “—who wishes to join you, but wanted first to make sure it is alright with you, Mr. Lincoln.”

  Lincoln followed the waiter’s pointing finger and saw that the woman in question was Annabelle Carter. “Yes, please ask her to join us,” Lincoln said.

  Not long after, Annabelle walked over and said, “My apologies for interrupting your lunch, Mr. Lincoln, but I have some information for you, and you have seemed quite tied up with the trial of—” she glanced at Abby “—Mrs. Foster. I thought this might be my only chance today to see you.”

  “Won’t you join us?” Lincoln said.

  “I think it would be best if I don’t.” She looked at Billy and Abby. “I don’t mean to seem impolite.”

  “At least let me introduce you,” Lincoln said. “You know Billy already, and this is Abby Kelley Foster. Abby, this is Annabelle Carter, from Chicago.”

  Abby and Annabelle exchanged the usual greetings, and Annabelle said, “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Foster. I have for so long admired your work on behalf of the slave.”

  “Why, thank you,” Abby said. “But please call me Abby.”

  “I will, and I’d be honored to be called Annabelle.”

  Lincoln had a hard time suppressing a grin. “Abby and Billy, if you’ll excuse us, Annabelle and I need to meet for a moment. Billy, if the waiter reappears—” He ran his finger down a page of the menu. “Ah, here it is. I see they have corned beef and cabbage on offer today. That would be perfect.”

  “Let’s go outside the hotel for a moment,” Annabelle said.

  Lincoln followed her out to the street, where Clarence was waiting.

  “Hello, Mr. Artemis,” Lincoln said. “I’m still not granting interviews, you know.”

  “We’re not here for that,” Annabelle said. “We came to tell you that we think Lucy is here in Springfield, although we’re not sure exactly where.”

  “If you do learn exactly where, I’d prefer you not tell me,” Lincoln said. “I don’t want to have to worry about what my legal obligations might be. Or perhaps more important, my moral obligations.”

  Annabelle looked around, as if to be sure no one could overhear them, and said, “We have now come face-to-face with the problem. We each have different reasons for wanting to find her.”

  “Which are?” Lincoln said.

  She pointed her finger at him. “You want to find her for legal reasons. Because, in ways I don’t understand, you think finding her will cause people to lose interest in Mrs. Foster’s trial and help get the jury to acquit her.”

  Lincoln looked at Clarence. “If I am to speak candidly, you must promise not to report even a word of what we say here today.”

  Clarence paused for a long time, but finally said, “Alright, I will not report any of what is said here, or that we ever even met.”

  “But you are still gripping a pencil in your hand,” Annabelle said. “As if you are going to write all of this down as soon as you can. Please give it me.”

  Clarence handed her the pencil, and she dropped it into her bag.

  Lincoln grinned. “I will have to recall that as
a way to deal with journalists.”

  “Now you must answer the question Annabelle asked,” Clarence said.

  “Very well,” Lincoln said. “It is not just for Abby’s sake that I want Lucy found. It is for my own sake, too. I am persuaded that, in the mysterious ways of politics, finding her will cool the abolitionists’ demand that, if Abby is convicted, I pardon her should I have the honor of being elected.”

  Clarence turned to Annabelle. “And why are you looking for Lucy? Besides looking for her on behalf of Pinkerton, who is looking on behalf of Mr. Lincoln?”

  Lincoln gave Annabelle a sharp look.

  “I already told him, Mr. Lincoln, that you are Pinkerton’s client,” she said. “Clarence has promised to keep the secret, and I trust him.”

  “We are beginning to draw a crowd,” Lincoln said, glancing toward the five or six people who had gathered across the street and were staring at them. “These are the wages of running for office. I think we need to finish up here quickly before the number grows even larger.”

  “Where else can we meet?” Annabelle said.

  “Let us meet after court today in my office,” Lincoln said. “We can discuss this further then.”

  Lincoln returned to the hotel and lunch, where his corned beef and cabbage were waiting. The conversation turned to the topic of how the trial was going. They all agreed that it was going exceedingly well. Even Herndon, normally a pessimist, said, “Unless their next witness is a great deal more credible than the first two, we are going to win this with no problem. We might not even need to put on any witnesses.”

  51

  Court resumed promptly at 1:30, as scheduled.

  When everyone was seated, Judge Garrett looked down and said, “Mr. Lizar, please call your next witness.”

  “The United States calls Herbert Winkler.”

  A man who looked to be in his forties, with a large shock of hair, still mostly black with only a few flecks of gray, rose from his seat in the audience and walked to the witness chair. Where most of the other people in the courtroom were informally dressed—some men in sack coats looked as if they’d come directly from farm chores—the new witness was decked out in an expensive silk suit, a vest with gold buttons and a high-collared white shirt.