John M. Palmer, too, had returned to his office. But before that, as was his practice while trying a case, he strolled twice around the perimeter of the square, running his hand along the railing that enclosed it, allowing the events of the day to settle in his mind. There were large bare spots in the green, he noticed, casualties of the dry summer. A game of town ball, the popular precursor to baseball, was in progress. He stopped briefly and watched the boys at play; like Lincoln, who actually played it, he thoroughly enjoyed it.
When he reached the office, the other members of his prosecution team, Jim White, John McClernand and Norman Broadwell, were there, coats off. White had brought fresh baked bread and green gooseberry jelly canned by his wife, and Broadwell had brewed a pot of tea, which was served as their evening meal as they sat at the long rough-timber table in Palmer’s law office, reviewing the day and preparing their counter to Lincoln and Logan’s defense.
The day had gone well, they agreed. They had made their case without leaving obvious paths for Lincoln and Logan to follow. They had proven that Harrison had carried a knife and killed an unarmed man while his own life was in no imminent danger, satisfying the legal requirements for both murder and manslaughter. But none of them deluded themselves into believing the case was nearly won. They knew well that this rope, their case, was only as strong as the weakest strand. And both Lincoln and Logan were expert at finding that thin thread. Then pulling it loose.
It was difficult to prepare for one of Lincoln’s dramatic strokes. Once, the men at this table knew, he had been famously engaged in a case against his current co-counsel, Stephen Logan. After Logan had wowed the court with his argument, Lincoln had praised him effusively, but then pointed out that sometimes even the eloquent Judge Logan can be wrong, for “with all his caution and fastidiousness, he hasn’t knowledge enough to put his shirt on right.” Indeed, Steve Logan was wearing his pleated shirt inside out, a meaningless error that had allowed Lincoln to take much of the sting out of his presentation.
Palmer wondered aloud exactly how and where Lincoln and Logan would make their stand the next day. The doctrine of self-defense had been pretty well established in law, he noted, and Harrison’s back had been up against no wall. “I have it here,” White said, reviewing the 1856 revised statutes. “‘The use of a deadly weapon in self-defense is limited only to those events in which the danger is so urgent and pressing that in order to save his own life, or to prevent his receiving great bodily harm, the killing of the other was absolutely necessary.’” He closed the thick book. “They don’t have it.”
Broadwell smiled. “Well, you know Abe,” he said. “He could sell you a mule, convince you it’s a stallion and have you end up thanking him for the bargain!” The men laughed pleasantly—but knowingly, as all of them had experience with Lincoln’s way of weaving words.
Palmer moved around the table refilling their teacups. “He can say whatever he wants,” he offered, then from memory quoted John Adams, “but as Mr. Adams told us, ‘Facts are stubborn things, and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations or the dictums of our passions, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.’ In this matter the facts do not favor Harrison.”
“So where will Lincoln go?” White wondered. “Where’s his opening?”
McClernand joked, “I doubt he’s hiding another almanac up his sleeve.”
“You, Jim,” Palmer asked. “Where would you go?”
Broadwell interrupted. “Here,” he said, tapping the cover of a book on the table in front of him. “Here. It’s in your Adams, John,” he explained, holding up Palmer’s beautifully bound 1853 volume, The Works of John Adams Esq, Second President of the United States, for everyone’s approval. “I think we all agree that self-defense shouldn’t serve but—” he held up a cautionary index finger “—but there is an exception.” He opened the book to a previously marked page. “I think we know the tragic events at King Street in March 1770.”
McClernand was lost. “What the devil does the Boston Massacre have to do with this?”
Broadwell faced him. “It gives him his precedent, John. It’s smaller than the eye of a needle, but he’s fitted into tighter openings. We’ve all seen that.”
American law had its foundation in the Crown’s legal system. There certainly were exceptions, many of them done specifically to prevent the well-known excesses that had led to the bitterness, but even the courts recognized the similarities. Cases tried on the Continent wouldn’t stand here, but there remained some confusion about reference to cases tried on American ground under British law.
“How does it play out?” Palmer asked, his curiosity now fully engaged.
“Five colonists were shot and killed by British soldiers that day,” Broadwell reminded them. “Eight British soldiers were arrested to be tried for their murders. After every other attorney in the city turned them down, it was your sainted John Adams who agreed to defend them, John. No one knows why, he never explained it, really. But he took the job. The governing statutes were still British law, but self-defense was already well-trod ground. At trial Adams claimed that an aroused and armed mob had put the soldiers’ lives at risk. ‘A motley rabble of saucy boys, negroes and mulattoes, Irish teagues and outlandish jacktars,’ is what he called them.”
“Not too inflammatory, was he?” McClernand mused. “Rabble. Jacktars. My goodness.”
Broadwell continued, “Adams convinced the jury that those soldiers had no choice. They had been abused by the locals for months. Snowballs with rocks in them were being thrown. They were being threatened with sticks. ‘How was a soldier to respond,’ Adams thundered. ‘Do you expect he should behave like a stoic philosopher, lost in apathy?’ The law said that it is the king’s duty to protect his subjects, but old King George didn’t happen to be in Boston that day. His great powers didn’t stop the colonists from carrying nailed sticks, so he wasn’t going to be able to do his duty. Adams contended those soldiers had a natural right to protect themselves. The jury agreed with him, letting six of them off.”
Palmer had taken his seat. Broadwell had put on a fine performance, thundering like Adams himself might have done, but this argument seemed to support Harrison. After a moment of confused silence Palmer suggested, “I don’t see how that serves us, Norman. Perhaps I’m a bit dense, but this would seem to benefit our opponent. Isn’t this the argument that Logan and Lincoln want to make?”
“Except,” pointed out Broadwell, “except for Private Matthew Killroy. And right here is our case, John. It was Private Killroy who fired the shot that killed the ropemaker Samuel Gray. No one disputed that. But it was his claim of self-defense that was brought into question. Testimony was given that Killroy and Gray knew each other, and only a few days earlier the two men had engaged in a nasty dispute at Gray’s Ropeworks...”
“Yes,” Jim White said, grasping the concept.
“Hold up, there’s more. Threats were made. A witness testified that Killroy had warned in anger that—” Broadwell paused and cleared his throat, then continued “‘—that he would never miss an opportunity...to fire on the inhabitants.’ Our Private Killroy was convicted of manslaughter. It was his own words that did him in.” Norman Broadwell leaned back in his seat, quite satisfied his point had been made. With the backs of his fingers he nudged the Adams biography toward the middle of the table. “Thank you, Mr. Adams,” he added.
“Harrison’s own words,” Palmer said.
“Manslaughter, at the least would be an appropriate charge,” White agreed.
It was agreed that Palmer should hold this until it might be needed. Perhaps it would find a place in his summation. And if bargaining was to be done, then yes, they also agreed, manslaughter would satisfy. In fact, as Jim White suggested, given the passions in the city, it might be the best answer.
And please pass the jelly.
There were, of course, other matters of strategy to be discussed. There were two traps that had to be avoided.
The experienced Palmer had done an admirable job preventing any testimony showing that Quinn Harrison had firsthand knowledge of Crafton’s threats. He had avoided putting on the stand any witness who might fill that gap. If Lincoln could not prove that Harrison knew personally of the threats, then he must be seen to have acted on the offense, not in his own defense.
The law seemed to leave little space for interpretation; a man had a duty to retreat until his back was against a wall. But the facts, Adams’s stubborn facts, were clear: there was no wall at Harrison’s back, real or imagined. Admittedly the question raised complicated legal issues, among them the value of hearsay. Should rumor have equal weight to a direct conversation? Are the whispered words of a friend sufficient to create a climate of fear? Was the letter of the law in conflict with the spirit of the law? Did the law protect Harrison or render him vulnerable?
As the men pondered these questions, a young man named Alexander Stevens, who was doing his law training in Palmer’s office, arrived carrying iced steins of lager for the four men. “Direct from the icehouse,” he said, “compliments of Mr. Farewell.” It was a welcome diversion, and Stevens was lauded pleasantly for his initiative, with suggestions that a man who so well understood the needs of his elders was guaranteed to prosper. Palmer watched him moving about the table, so young and confident, so bursting with life, and he, too, was reminded of the tragedy that had them there in the office on a still-warm late September night. And as he sat there watching Stevens, he remembered that his first son, Benjamin Palmer, would have been about the same age as him. Would have been. It had been seven years since the consumption had taken him, but for the pain he still felt it might have been seven weeks. His nine children, who still lived their loud and happy lives, somehow had not been sufficient to fill that space. Ben still showed up in his mind at odd times, a memory that somehow helped him sort out his jumbled feelings. Ben had known both Greek and Quinn; they were part of the older boys who paid him little attention. If Ben had lived...but he hadn’t lived. Like Greek.
So John Palmer knew the Craftons’ anger, their pain. He would give them the best he could, the fair application of the law. It was not his job to decide the right or wrong of it. Rather his task was to be prepared, to make certain the law prevailed at all turns, whatever the outcome. He actually was pleased that Lincoln and Logan were for Harrison. That gave that young man his fair chance. Palmer had seen the outcome when incompetent lawyers had failed to provide their client with an adequate presentation of their case. He’d seen farms lost that should have been saved, and men imprisoned whose guilt remained questionable. He’d seen a man hanged protesting his innocence with his last breath. It wasn’t always a fair system; it certainly wasn’t always a good system. Even in this enlightened time too often the verdict depended on the cleverness of the lawyers to twist the law. And it was well-known that there were many lawyers who were not above doing so to gain their own advantage. But in this case there would be no trickery. In this case the lawyers were seeing to it that the law was done right. Quinn Harrison was getting his fair trial as he was guaranteed. The Crafton family was receiving justice, whether it gave them solace or not.
Palmer placed his emptied glass on the table, dismissing Stevens before he might refill it. There was a final issue to be discussed. It was no secret that the strongest witness for the defense was to be the Reverend Peter Cartwright. His appearance would make the day a difficult one for the prosecution. His testimony had to be blunted without his character or integrity being challenged. “So what’s to be done about Uncle Peter?” he asked.
White responded lightly, “When he asks Judge Rice to join hands with him and pray for his nephew’s deliverance, I say we object vehemently!”
The other lawyers smiled weakly in recognition of the problem. Then McClernand focused on the obvious. “He’s the boy’s grandfather for Go—” he caught himself in time to prevent even the touch of blasphemy, making the necessary correction “—for goodness’ sake. The jurors know the connection...”
“But they also know Peter would never lie,” Palmer said. “Not after swearing an oath. Not even to protect himself from the devil. Whatever he says, they will believe him.” He admitted, “I’ll believe him.”
Broadwell added, “Then we have to prevent him from saying anything of consequence.” He leaned forward over the table. “Let him be old pious Peter, the Lord’s Plowman. Let him pontificate if he so chooses. Let him tell us all of his grandson’s good deeds. The jurors will expect nothing less from him.
“But it isn’t the quantity of his words that can do us damage. It’s obviously the story he told at the hearing, Greek’s dying words of forgiveness.” Here he pitched his voice and did a whiny imitation of Cartwright’s testimony at the inquest, “‘I forgive Peachy and you should, too. It was all my own doing.’ That’s where real damage might be done.”
Jim White made the telling point. “He isn’t at a pulpit, though, is he? He’ll be sitting in the witness chair. He’s in our church, in our pew and the rules are different.” He considered the legal options for a moment, then said flatly, “We can stop him. This is about the law, not the Lord.”
Palmer said it first: “Mortui non morden. Dead men tell no tales.”
Broadwell countered, “Nemo moriturus proesumitur mentiri. A man will not meet his maker with a lie in his mouth.”
The statutes governing the admission of a dying declaration were loose around the edges. While this was not something generally studied during a legal apprenticeship, the question did arise surprisingly often in criminal trials, and everyone at the table was familiar with Blackstone’s position on the matter. Mostly, secondhand testimony, hearsay, is not permitted to be heard in a courtroom. But one significant exception to that rule is the statement of a dying man. The law might be traced back to the twelfth century, where it was first recognized that no man on his deathbed would risk being condemned to the eternal fires of hell for telling a lie with the last breath. Through tradition it had come down through the centuries that dying declarations were only to be admitted in cases of homicide, where the circumstances of the death are the subject of the declaration. Blackstone stated plainly, “The general principle on which evidence of this kind is admitted, is that it is in declarations made in extremity, when the party is at the point of death, and where every hope of this world is gone, when every motive to falsehood is silenced...
“The statement of the deceased must be such as would be admissible if he were alive and could be examined as a witness, consequently a declaration upon matters of opinion, as distinguished from matters of fact, will not be receivable...”
Going further, Blackstone stated, “Dying declarations in favor of the party charged with the death are admissible as evidence, equally as where they operate against him... The question whether a dying declaration is admissible as evidence is exclusively for the consideration of the court.”
It was White who finally said what they all believed to be true: “Well, if it’s up to Judge Rice, this shan’t be a problem for us then, should it.” Judge Rice and Lincoln were well-known to have had their differences. While Judge Rice would give Lincoln the benefits of the law, he also would do him no favors.
“But there is a precedent that they’ll find useful,” Broadwell said. “The massacre again. Among the men shot that day was the Irish immigrant Patrick Carr. On the day before he breathed his last he told his surgeon, Dr. Jeffries, that the soldiers had been provoked by the mob to fire in self-defense and that he bore no malice against the man who killed him. They said the prosecutor, Samuel Quincy, was mad as a March hare that the judge allowed Jeffries to be heard, but could not sway him. Though the two judges reminded the jury in their instructions that the dying man had sworn no oath when he made his statement—” and here Broadwell read from the same paper he had consulted previously “‘—But you will determine whether a man just stepping into eternity is not to be believed, especially in favor of a set of men by whom he had lost his life.’” He laid down the paper.
Palmer said with intended levity, “Of course those judges didn’t know Mr. Abraham Lincoln!” And when the amusement had faded he continued, “I think there’s some good in there for us, too.” Should Judge Rice allow Greek’s dying declaration to be heard as evidence, they would counter with equally strong rebuttal witnesses. Dr. Million, who had cared for Crafton and therefore had spent considerable time at his bedside, would testify that he never heard his patient make anything like those declarations, and the esteemed fifty-six-year-old founder and proprietor of the village of Pleasant Plains, Jacob Epler, who would swear that rather than exonerating Harrison, he had heard Greek angrily vowing revenge until the time of his death.
So their strategy was set; they would continue to contend that Quinn Harrison had no reason to arm himself with a deadly weapon, they would fight tooth and nail to prevent Cartwright from describing Greek Crafton’s dying declaration, but if it was admitted they would counter it with Dr. Million and Jacob Epler. It had been a long but productive day for the four of them, and they were pleased to finally put down their work. They wished each other well and walked into the now balmy night. Palmer was last. He straightened up the table a bit out of habit, unnecessarily as there was a woman for that task, put out the candles and closed the door; then he straightened his shoulders and walked slowly toward his noisy house with that one empty room.
* * *
By this time in the evening, Robert Hitt was finishing a glorious supper. The Globe’s cook had prepared spicy lamb chops, a fitting punctuation to Hitt’s long but satisfying day. He’d left the courtroom intending to soak his throbbing hand then transcribe his notes; it would be a wearisome task but it had to be done. As he paused on the courthouse steps for ten deep cleansing breaths, a trick he’d learned that provided immediate renewal, he had been approached by reporter Solomon Wolfe of the State Democrat. The reporter Wolfe said his readers would be delighted to hear his opinion on the progress of the trial, as well as his reaction to the growing city. Hitt had tried to beg off, pointing out he was simply a quick transcriber, a man whose personal opinion wasn’t worth the newsprint.
Wolfe had disputed that, explaining that R. R. Hitt, the famous law reporter, was known to readers from his work in Chicago trials as well as the Senate debates, and his presence in itself cast added importance on the trial.
Hitt had refused the bait, citing a nonexistent rule of his profession that steno men must never have opinions on the words they are transcribing, as admitting any bias would throw into doubt the accuracy of their work. As for the city of Springfield, on that subject he was willing to talk. It was a lovely place to be, he said, full of friendly folks who welcomed a stranger, and a place where all the modern conveniences could be found. He certainly hoped to return soon, without the press of his work, so he might enjoy all it offered. With that, he wished Wolfe a good evening and continued on his journey. But as he walked in the dusk (the blind man’s light, as the British referred to it), his cheeks flushed, and he had to admit he had enjoyed even that small bit of attention.
That encounter was still in his mind when he reached the bed and board. Before the bell above the door had ceased its jingling, the stout Mrs. Sarah Beck, the Globe owner who supposedly ran it with her thus-far-never-seen husband, informed him that Mr. Thomas had invited him to join his table this evening. Soaking would wait, he decided. Actually, some additional rest before doing his work would be a good thing for his hand. Hitt refreshed quickly. Several tables had been set up in the rear garden, a place in which Mrs. Beck clearly and for obvious reasons took pride. While some of the annuals had lost their blooms, there remained sufficient color and variety to please the eyes.
The night was unusually light for this hour, and the colors of the sky bathed the entire room in the most unusual night shadows he had ever seen. It was if he were looking at it through a cloud of intensely bright strokes of red and orange, brushed against a powdered-blue background. As he walked into that cloud, he felt the pleasure of anticipation coursing through his body. Several townspeople had come to the Globe for the evening meal, and their lively conversation gave the place a slightly festive air. James Thomas was already seated at his table and stood to greet him. Thomas extended his hand to him, saying, “I’m so pleased you could join me. I suppose it was quite a day.” Indicating the room with a sweep of his hand, he added, “Seems like it’s the only thing anybody wants to talk about.”
As Hitt sat, Mrs. Beck appeared and poured a glass of wine for him from the open bottle on the table. “It was—” he hesitated “—a very interesting day,” he finished.
“Would I be imposing if I asked about it?”
Hitt smiled at that Southern politeness. It was a cliché, of course, but in his encounters he had found it to be true. Southerners did have a different air about them. They were not at all like people he knew in Chicago, who would dive straight in to a subject. But there was a second part to that cliché: don’t mistake that charm for weakness. “No, not at all,” he replied.
Actually, the invitation from James Thomas to join him for dinner was not at all unusual. Most people who traveled alone enjoyed sharing good conversation and a fine meal with people they met on the road. That was why most inns had long communal tables. Hitt began describing the highlights of the day, glad to be free to do so. As long as he voiced no opinions or revealed nothing private Mr. Ledbetter would have no objection. Initially he hesitated to repeat Dr. Million’s graphic description of Crafton’s wounds, it wasn’t proper dinner talk, but as the wine loosened his resolve he provided most of the details. Thomas grimaced when he repeated the doctor’s testimony about pushing Crafton’s intestines back inside his body. When describing Lincoln playing Greek in the recreation of the crime and John Crafton’s admissions and claims, Hitt found himself becoming particularly animated at which point he paused and reverted to the more dispassionate tone he had employed at the outset.
Hitt went on until the Italian cheese was served, and then the conversation drifted. He politely directed several questions to Thomas, learning he worked as an accountant for Wells Fargo, and he was in Illinois to explore the financial consequences of a proposed merger with the Butterfield Overland Company. Thomas did rattle on for several minutes about the exciting prospects of a national mail service and how that might help bind the nation together. Hitt feigned interest, but began paying more attention as Thomas began gradually easing the conversation toward Mr. Lincoln and then, surprisingly, to the great issue of the time.
Gradually, as Hitt savored his beefsteak and fried onions, Thomas began revealing more about himself. He did so slowly and, Hitt realized, with intention. These facts didn’t leak; he wanted him to know them. By the time he was finishing his blackberry pie and coffee, he had put together a fuller picture. James Thomas was a son of Charleston, South Carolina. He had been traveling extensively for Wells Fargo for quite some time, trying to expand that company’s reach by merger with other transporters, and been as far north as Boston. His parents had remained in Charleston, his father being somehow involved with “the land business,” and while he had grown up with servants in the big house, he was perhaps intentionally unclear about whether they were paid help or slaves. Hitt, of course, could not ask. Thomas had an older brother who had graduated from West Point and was presently serving in the west. He told an amusing story about his brother, an officer in the Eighth Infantry, having recently participated in an odd trial to determine if camels were the equal of mules in transporting military equipment through harsh territory. Both men laughed lightly at the concept. Hitt told his own story. He had been born in Urbana, in Champaign County, Ohio, but his family moved to Mt. Morris, in Illinois, when his father, the Reverend Thomas Smith Hitt, was hired to minister a small congregation. Both men were pleased to discover they were about the same age. They talked around the slave issue until it became clear that neither of them held radical views. And then their mutual distress became clear.
They talked quietly as the night got darker, although still retaining an eerie glow, and the garden emptied. Around them serving people were clearing the tables, occasionally clacking plates together. For months now the northern newspapers had been filled with stories about the intractable South, determined to defend slavery even if it meant destroying the nation, so Hitt was pleased to hear firsthand a Southerner’s report. It appeared, according to Thomas, that few of them wanted this fight, but were as perplexed as Northerners about how to stop it. He had seen and heard the zealots, he said, from Boston to Atlanta. Both sides seemed equally convinced of the righteousness of their position.
Then Thomas began wondering aloud about Lincoln. While he was still very much the dark horse for the presidency, he had begun to attract interest in the South. The hard positions of Douglas, Seward and Chase were well established, but less was known about Lincoln beyond the fact that he was described as a man of the people. It was accepted that he favored ending slavery, but clearly he hadn’t settled on a mechanism. In fact, Thomas said, “He sounded like a politician, a thus far lot of distant thunder but no sign of the storm.” Was he a candidate the South could accept if not embrace? What was the extent of his commitment? How far would a “country lawyer” be willing to go to keep the union? If it came to it, would he fight? In so many ways he was an enigma.
“He claims to be against slavery,” James Thomas continued, “yet he defended the legal trappings of that institution. We know where Douglas stands, he certainly tells us often enough. And Seward and Chase too have been outspoken. But your Mr. Lincoln...” He let his voice trail off. “Who is he?”
Hitt shook his head. “He is not my anything,” he protested, strongly defending his professional neutrality. “I write down his words, whether I subscribe to them or not makes no difference.”
“Springfield is Lincoln,” Thomas retorted. “Lincoln is Springfield. He was shaped here. I would never deem to ask if you support him, Mr. Hitt, that is not my business and I beg your pardon if you thought that. But you were there for those debates. You’ve seen him at work in the courtroom. I am curious how you see the man.”
Hitt sipped the last of his coffee. He considered the question, how did he see the man? The only person to whom he had stated his opinion was Thomas Jefferson Brown, his closest friend from his growing up days in Mt. Morris. They had been discussing the debates with Douglas, and Jeff had asked for a description. He wanted to know what it felt like to be there. Against his better judgment, Hitt had revealed his personal feelings. “I am inspired by him,” he admitted.
He then told him a story. The third debate had been held in a town in southern Illinois, called Jonesboro. He traveled there with Lincoln. This was a very strong proslavery region known as “Egypt,” and there were rumors that men were coming there from Kentucky and Missouri intending to stop Lincoln from speaking. When some people advised him not to speak, Hitt remembered Lincoln responding, “If only they will give me a fair chance to say a few words, I will fix them right.”
A stand had been constructed in a grove near the edge of town. Lincoln and Hitt had spent the previous night with several others, sitting in front of the Union House in Jonesboro Square, watching the passage of Donati’s Comet. The following afternoon, Lincoln began by confessing he had been warned that people there might make some trouble. “I don’t understand why they should. I am a plain, common man, like the rest of you... Don’t do any such foolish thing, fellow-citizens. Let us be friends, and treat each other as friends. I am one of the humblest and most peaceful men in the world, would wrong no-man, would interfere with no-man’s rights. And all I ask is, having something to say, you will give me a decent hearing.” And so charmed by his honesty, Hitt explained, they listened with respect. It was an especially significant meeting, Hitt continued. Before then Douglas had accused Lincoln of saying one thing in northern Illinois and something quite different in the southern part of the state. After that day, such claims became much harder to justify.
At first the debates had been more about Illinois’s incumbent senator, Stephen Douglas, who was already a national figure of considerable importance. But as they proceeded, Lincoln, aided in part by Hitt’s accurate transcription of his words that had been published and discussed throughout the north, had gained in recognition and stature until the men stood on the stage as equals. It was Lincoln himself who had requested the assistance of Hitt. The men had met in a Chicago courtroom as Lincoln defended a railroad from land claims he considered unjust. Hitt had stood out as a man in a profession that seemed to favor women. The curious Lincoln had asked him for an explanation of his work, and after a brief demonstration of how words were turned into symbols that would later enable those spoken words to be committed to paper, he had made a point of acknowledging Hitt each time their work brought them together. When the debates were scheduled, Lincoln had invited him to work with him.
It provided Hitt with a vantage point to history. He always had a reserved seat as Lincoln seemed to grow taller and bolder with each debate. He had come to appreciate the measured words of both men, both of whom were keenly aware of the impact they might have on the coming clash of regions. The debates centered more on the extension of slavery into new states and territories rather than its complete abolition. Hitt didn’t feel either man had won, in a traditional sense, he’d told Brown. Each man had faithfully represented a position on the matter, but there seemed to be so many positions that there was no absolute right or wrong. Both Lincoln and Douglas had gained the support of those people who already agreed with their positions. At the end of the seven debates the situation was no closer to a resolution and, if anything, positions were hardening.
He centered his empty cup in the saucer. “Abe Lincoln is a complex man,” he finally said. “The lawyers talk about his respect for the law and his strong sense of justice. They enjoy teasing him about it. Do you know he turns away clients if he doesn’t believe in their case?”
“No, I did not. As I’ve said, there is too little known about him in the South. We know he’s against slavery, what we don’t know are his intentions.”
That was the significant question. The South was openly discussing secession from the union. The word war was being tossed around as if it had no cost. “No one can answer that save Mr. Lincoln, and he is not about to do so,” Hitt responded. “But there’s no jelly in him, I can tell you that.” During the debates, he had heard many stories about Abraham Lincoln. Among them was the fact that he preferred to walk away from a scrap, but when pushed hard enough he would make a stand. And when he did, he won. He always won. He told James Thomas several stories he had heard about Lincoln dispatching bullies. Although in appearance he was thin rather than muscular, the tales of his strength bordered on legendary. He knocked down three bullies in a fair fight. He carried six hundred pounds of logs. By himself he pulled a carriage out of the muck. “He did what was necessary, was the way it was told to me. And once started, he finished. I believed that was a fair description of him.” Hitt quickly realized that he had offered far more overt support for Lincoln than he had intended to do.
“Now let me ask you, Mr. Thomas, is it this trial that has brought you to Springfield? Did you come to see Lincoln?”
“No, sir,” he said, still pleasantly. “Not at all. I am here on Wells Fargo business. It is truly a fortuitous coincidence. Like so many of my brethren, I am simply curious about the depth of his belief, which like most politicians he has done an admirable job disguising. This election is going to affect all of us in ways we cannot yet determine. As I’m sure you know, a trial is a great show, but if he were to become a serious candidate, we would be more interested in seeing what he’s like backstage.”
Hitt found it necessary to correct him. “I believe you are doing him a disservice,” he said. “As he once pointed out, if there was another man under his skin would he choose to wear that face?” They laughed at that. “No, say what you will about him, perhaps there are lawyers who have no problem bending their integrity or belief when necessary, but his actions during a trial are an accurate reflection of his character.”
Thomas then offered his own reading of Hitt’s remarks. “So then it makes no difference if his side should win or lose?”
Hitt seemed surprised at that, so surprised he responded with an unusually bold statement. “Oh of course it does,” he said. “Winners win.”