Robert Roberts Hitt straightened his tools, then reached into his carpetbag to fetch his reading matter, in this case the May edition of Ballou’s Pictorial Drawing-Room Companion. He had learned early in his career that a trial is a series of starts and stops, a precious few dramatic highlights separated by long periods of tedium and waiting. There were often long pauses, for lunch, for conferences, for personal needs, and so he always carried with him a book, magazines or newspapers to fill those spaces. Hitt opened the magazine, which had been published in Boston, and began leafing casually through it. He noted with satisfaction it contained several illustrations by the artist Winslow Homer, whose work he thoroughly admired. As he did, all around him people found ways to fill the time. Several of them had gone outside to relieve themselves or have a smoke or chew, but many more had stayed in place, wary of giving up their seats. The room was filled with the harmony of numerous conversations, one of them rising loudly above the din for a few seconds as a point was made, then fading, replaced immediately by another one from a different part of the courtroom, all of it occasionally punctuated by bursts of laughter.
Hitt looked away from his magazine for a moment, leaned back in his chair and took all of it in with a great sense of appreciation: the sounds, the scene, the feeling of comfort he found in the predictability of an American courtroom. With the nation roiling over the insufferable question, with some people even brazenly discussing its continued existence, he marveled at the very normalcy of it all. As much as anything else, even more so than all the economic progress, this proceeding was the living result of what the founding fathers had fought for, a nation governed by laws.
The right to be tried by a jury of your peers, without the government having a say in the outcome, was one of the fundamental individual rights over which the Revolution had been fought. The first Continental Congress in 1774 warned that colonists were deprived of their basic rights as English citizens, among them “the great and inestimable privilege of being tried by peers of the vicinage, according to the course of that law.” The Declaration of Independence blamed King George III for “depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury.” It had been so important to Jefferson and Adams and all of the other founders that it was guaranteed by the Constitution in several places, and detailed more often than any other right: Article III Section 2 provided the right to a trial by jury to anyone accused in a criminal case; the Fifth Amendment insured that no one might be arrested or tried for a “capital or otherwise infamous crime unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury”; the Sixth Amendment guaranteed that in a criminal trial “the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury”; while the Seventh Amendment defined instances in which litigants in civil cases were entitled to a jury trial.
The rules by which Americans agreed to live together were laid out in that hallowed document. The acceptance of it had been so complete that most people now took those rights for granted. A good trial was considered grand entertainment, a welcome diversion from the chores of the day. While rarely did the outcome have an effect on anyone except the participants, a trial provided a welcome opportunity for spectacle and grist for hours of debate. A trial like this one, in which all of the participants, the victim, the accused, the prosecution and the defense lawyers were all a part of the town stew, allowed for even more personal involvement.
As Hitt glanced once more around the room, still catching bits of conversation, he realized how few of these people were aware of how much and how long it had taken to make these proceedings seem so perfectly normal. The only reason he knew anything about that legacy was that when he had chosen his profession he had dug into the history of the courts system, his vibrant curiosity driving him to learn about its underpinnings. It had been a long and literally torturous journey to get to this day. Before the twelfth century the legal system depended primarily on Church-established ecclesiastical courts, which believed that God protected the innocent and so relied in criminal cases on “ordeal,” a physical test like carrying a red-hot iron a certain distance without blistering, to determine guilt or innocence. Civil cases were resolved through “compurgation,” in which the litigant producing the most witnesses willing to take an oath in support won the case.
It was British King Henry II who established a rudimentary jury system during his struggle for supremacy with the Roman Papacy, allowing common citizens to choose between trial by jury or combat to resolve disputes. Although in criminal cases these royal courts still relied on ordeals. The right to a trial by jury probably became the bedrock of the legal system in May 1215, when landowners, barons as they were known, forced King John at knifepoint to sign the Magna Carta on the meadow at Runnymede. One clause of it read, “(N)o freeman shall be taken or imprisoned or seized or exiled or in any way destroyed...except by the lawful judgment of his peers and by the law of the land,” guaranteeing forever this basic right.
In his research Hitt had found no agreement on when and where the very concept of a trial by a jury of a man’s peers had originated. There was some reference to juries in ancient Athens as early as 400 BCE. These citizens did not apply the law, wrote Aristotle, but rather listened to the facts then reached a decision that met with their “understanding of general justice.” The legendary English jurist Sir William Blackstone himself had written, “(W)e may find traces of juries in the laws of all those nations which adopted the feudal system, as in Germany, France and Italy, who had all of them a tribunal composed of twelve good men and true... Its use in this island...was always so highly esteemed and valued by the people that no conquest, no change of government, could ever abolish it... In Magna Carta it is more than once insisted on as the principle bulwark of our liberties...”
The concept that a jury vote must be unanimous for a conviction was accepted as early as 1367, but at different times in various places verdicts by majority vote had been permitted. In Springfield, Illinois, though, in 1859, the law was not fickle; a man’s guilt must be proven so completely that a unanimous jury of his fellows had no reasonable doubt of it.
Hitt’s reverie was interrupted by the court crier, Captain Kidd, refilling his water glass. Thomas Winfield Scott Kidd was a burly, balding man with slicked down gray sidewalls, a man who might be described as jolly looking; the hair missing from his pate appeared to have migrated down, flowing around his mouth to form a horseshoe mustache. He was dressed to add a degree of formality to his position: a dark jacket covered a sparkling white shirt topped with a light-colored bow tie. Captain Kidd smiled pleasantly as he poured the water. He recently had been appointed to the job by Judge Treat, after serving for seven years as a deputy under Sheriff J. B. Pirkins. In the tradition of town criers, his responsibility was to make the necessary announcements, including opening the session, calling witnesses and closing the day, all done in a deep baritone. While many court criers favored the traditional opening “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!,” a French term meaning literally “Hear ye,” Captain Kidd shunned it because of its common use in British courts, and instead shouted the English words, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!” three times for good luck, then adding the name of the presiding judge and concluding, “God save the United States and this honorable court.”
“I trust you are enjoying our city,” he said pleasantly to Hitt as they waited for court to resume.
Hitt nodded. “What I’ve seen of it.”
Kidd raised his eyebrows in resignation. “Whatever it is you’ve seen, there isn’t too much more to see. But if you have a minute you might wander over to the stables,” he continued, tilting his head toward the rear of the courthouse. “That’s where the Donner Party left from before...well, before that unpleasantness.” The story of the Donner-Reed Party had shocked the country. After leaving Springfield in the spring of 1846, traveling to California, the infamous party had been trapped by blizzards in the Sierra Nevada and some of them had resorted to cannibalism for their survival. He smiled ruefully. “That’s about it for our visitor attractions.”
Then he stood up straight and indicated the defense table with a wave. Lincoln and Logan were standing against the rail in discussion, while Quinn Harrison sat impassively, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. “That and now Mr. Lincoln. For the last few months there have been people coming here to try him out.” After a pause that Hitt interpreted as admiration for Lincoln, Kidd continued, “I read your words from the debates. All of us did.” He tensed. There had been some complaint that the steno man had prettied up Lincoln’s occasionally bumpy prose while ascribing to Douglas much coarser language. It wasn’t true, of course, but the criticism had been hurtful to his professional pride. He steeled himself for that question, but he needn’t have worried. “That was a Springfield man talking. He did us all proud. Should have gone to the Senate, too. But those Democrats...”
Lincoln was chuckling at something Logan had said to him. Seeing him in this setting, in a courtroom, he seemed quite different than he had on the speaker’s platform. Hitt easily could recall the first time he’d seen him at the debates. There was something about him just standing on the platform in a group as preparations were concluding that had struck him then. Even while standing in the midst of that group, he somehow seemed not a part of it. There was an unusual sense of differentness about him. Nothing Hitt had seen in this courtroom had changed his mind about that. There was something unique about the man. That impression would be confirmed by this discussion with the court crier, Captain Kidd, who had been in the courtroom during the Almanac trial. “You know, he refused to take a fee from the family,” Kidd told him. “I was standing right over there, right by that door—” he pointed with his index finger “—and I heard him tell the mother, ‘Why, Hannah, I sha’not charge you a cent and anything else I can do for you, will do it willingly and without charge.’ Then later, when some rascals tried to swindle her out of a small piece of land, he and Mr. Herndon did exactly what he promised.”
Just then the door to the judge’s chambers opened. A man Hitt did not recognize peeked out, and when he spotted Kidd beckoned him, indicating he should come immediately. Kidd sighed. “You’ll excuse me. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hitt.” With a wave of his now empty water pitcher he was gone.
As this brief break stretched into several minutes, Hitt finally stood; he began shaking his hands briskly from his wrists to increase the circulation of blood into his fingers, an exercise he had learned while working long hours as the official scribe of the Illinois State Senate. That done, he began moving about the courtroom to stretch his legs. This locomotion was something he used to enjoy, as it gave him an opportunity to feel the sense of the courtroom, but since he had gained his small celebrity for the work in the debates people knew his name and pointed him out, which made him uncomfortable. The trick, he had learned, was to keep moving. If he stopped even briefly, people wanted to discuss those debates or question him. As he moved around this courtroom, he overheard bits and pieces of conversations. Lincoln’s name was bandied about, as was Palmer’s. There were several mentions of Peter Cartwright in anticipation of the Reverend’s appearance. “The confederacy...” was mentioned. In his experience, some courtrooms had felt angry, ready to explode; others had been lighthearted or even blasé; there was no universal feel to this courtroom, at least not that he could discern. If pushed, he would have described it as “intense,” or “solemn.” Even those bursts of laughter he had heard were subdued. There was serious business being done here, and everyone knew it.
He was just thinking with some pleasure that even with feelings at a pitch, there had been no loud arguments, no threats from supporters of one side made to the other. That was known to happen in courtrooms, especially when people had an interest to root for. Fights had been known to break out in the gallery. But that was not the feeling he got; in Judge Rice’s courtroom there seemed to be respect for the process.
But as he passed the group of young men he had seen congratulating Livergood, one of them, a slender man with an unkempt beard, stepped in front of him. In a manner clearly meant to impress his fellows, he said, “Hold up there, writer-man. You going to put down this story the right way?”
Hitt eyed him squarely. “I don’t write stories,” he explained. “I take down the words as they are said.”
The rest of the group had turn to face him. One of them said, “All them sweet words of Logan and Lincoln, you mean.” Around them other conversations had stopped as people turned to watch this encounter.
“And Mr. Palmer, too,” Hitt said. “And Judge Rice and all the witnesses. My job is to record their words.”
“Even when they’re twisting up the truth?”
“It’s not up to me to determine their veracity. I just put their words down.” While Hitt did not feel threatened, it was an uncomfortable encounter.
“Vera city?” the bearded young man repeated, then literally scratched his head. “Is that like New York City?” He looked to his friends, who responded with supportive amusement, then continued, “I never heard of that one. Where’s it at?”
“It’s not a place,” Hitt said. “It’s a word that means the truth.”
Another one of the group, a heavyset man with a pockmarked face, shouldered his way forward. “You really think what they’re saying is the truth?” He shook his head with sadness. “Greek’s dead and Peachy killed him. There wasn’t no call for that. Greek was just setting things right for his family. He only meant to mess Peachy up, that would have been easy for him to do. Greek could handle things. Peachy should’ve fought him fair.”
“No doubt ’bout that,” the bearded man agreed.
The heavyset man sighed. “That’s the truth of it. And there’s nothing Lincoln, Logan, any of them can do here that’s gonna make it right.”
The fourth member of the group, clearly younger than the rest of them, finally spoke up. “Unless Greek has some Jesus in him and gonna rise up. But I never did see no angel in him.”
Everyone laughed at the truth of that, and as they did, Springfield’s sheriff, Joseph Pirkins, a white hat in his hand, his holstered six-shooter bouncing against his hip, pushed himself into the group. Pirkins was a tall man, almost as tall as Lincoln, and sturdy, with an artfully curled mustache adding to his intimidating presence. “You boys being kind to our visitor?” he asked pleasantly, but his purpose was unmistakable.
The attitude went out of the young men like air escaping a rubber balloon. “Yes, sir, Sheriff,” the heavyset man said. “Just letting him know our thoughts about the affray.”
Pirkins smiled and pointed a friendly finger at him. “Now, Charlie, what’d I tell you ’bout thinking. You got to cut that out. I promise you, no good’s gonna come of it.” The other young men turned their attention to Charlie, joining in the teasing. As they did, the sheriff took hold of Robert Hitt’s elbow and escorted him away.
As the steno man started walking with Pirkins the slender man shouted after him, “You make sure you write it up good.”
“They’re not bad sorts,” Pirkins said as they moved away, “but they can be a little boisterous.” He pushed open the small gate separating the spectator gallery from the well and held it for Hitt to pass through. “We’ll sure be pleased when this whole mess is over,” he said, as much to himself as to Hitt. “It’s been hard on all of us. The Craftons and the Harrisons, they helped build this city. Them and Abe.” He followed Hitt through the passage, then let the gate loose. As it seesawed to a close, he took a chaw out of his sack and stuck it in his cheek. “You hear tell of the Long Nine?”
Hitt looked at him quizzically. “The Long Nine?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
In addition to later becoming Lincoln’s brother-in-law, the irascible Ninian W. Edwards was also a member of the Long Nine that managed to convince legislators to make the small town of Springfield the state capital. For many years his home was the social center of the city and it was there one Sunday afternoon that Lincoln met his future wife, Mary Todd.
Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum.
“Goes back more ’n twenty years now. Abe was in the state assembly. There was nine of them from Sangamon County, besides him one of them being Archie Herndon, Billy’s dad, and it was the darndest thing. Every single one of them was tall as me. All nine of ’em.”
“The Long Nine,” Hitt said.
“Right. The Long Nine, that was them. Abe Lincoln may not have been the tallest among them, but he was the one they all looked up to. And when the legislature was fixing to move the state capital, it was these fellas who spoke up for Springfield and made it happen. Turned this whole city around. Made it an important place.
“So around here people mostly like Lincoln, but a lot of them aren’t too happy to see him in the middle of this one. There’s gonna be some bad feelings, guaranteed, no matter how this turns out.”
Lincoln offering a toast to six of his fellow Long Nine members on their success, as guests (reflected in the mirror) look on. State representative Ninian Edwards is sitting on the left while state senator Archer Herndon, the father of Lincoln’s future partner and biographer William Herndon, is on the right.
the late Lloyd Ostendorf artwork is from the Lincoln Collection of the late Phil Wagner, Springfield, IL. Image Courtesy of www.abelincoln.com: Abraham Lincoln Collectibles Drawings by Famous Artist
Suddenly the booming voice of Captain Kidd called the room to order. Sheriff Pirkins flashed a last smile. “You need anything, you let me know.”
Hitt thanked him and returned to his seat. The courtroom was settling down. Lincoln and Logan were now engaged in conversation with Palmer and Broadwell. Clearly there was no animosity between these temporary adversaries. As Lincoln took his seat, he laid a comforting hand on Peachy Harrison’s shoulder, then gently patted him twice, a gesture of reassurance.
John Crafton, Greek’s brother and a participant in the fight, was scheduled to be the prosecution’s next witness. Mr. Palmer would have to handle John Crafton with considerable caution. Crafton was more than an eyewitness, he had been an active participant in the fight. His brother had been killed. He, himself, had been cut badly and for a time feared for his own life. He had bled. A clever prosecutor could make jurors feel his pain. But while Crafton’s testimony was essential to the prosecution’s case, it carried with it danger for both sides. He brought substantial risk, both to himself and the case against Harrison, to the witness stand. His testimony was going to be quite dramatic, no question about that, and there was a fair chance he would draw sympathy from the jurors for his brother. Mr. Palmer likely would lead him to describe his brother lying on the floor, his life flowing out of him.
Crafton was going to testify to the facts as he witnessed them, as the brawl took place. It would not be favorable to Harrison. But Craftom had to be very careful not to overplay his hand. He had to tell the truth as it was, without any embroidery or exaggeration, which meant also telling those parts that did not cast a positive light on his own actions that day. Lincoln and Logan would put strong meaning to those parts. In previous trials Hitt had transcribed, he had seen clever lawyers tie up witnesses in the claims of their own testimony, digging out the contradictions and soft truths, then using a man’s own words to destroy his credibility. He’d seen decent people brought to tears in confusion, rendering their testimony worthless and laying an ax to their own case.
Mr. Palmer was going to have to find a way for Crafton to testify about what he had seen, and how he had suffered his own wounds, without making it obvious to the court that he and his brother were the aggressors, and that he had been slashed attempting to grab hold of Harrison, wrapping his arms around him, trying to restrain him while his brother apparently beat him. Walking that tightrope would require the skills of a funambulist like Jean-François Gravelet, who only two months earlier had thrilled America and Europe by crossing the thousand-foot-long Niagara Falls on a three-inch-thick rope.
And Palmer would have to do so without leaving loose ends for Lincoln and Logan to pluck. There was going to be some damage done to his case, he knew that, but it could not be helped. Rarely is a case without contradiction. But John Crafton would look directly at the jury and tell them that neither he nor Greek had brought a weapon; that Peachy was never in mortal danger; and that, rather than defending himself, Harrison was the villain. He had brought the weapon. He had killed Greek without sufficient cause.
Lincoln and Logan would have set very different goals for this witness. It had never ceased to amaze Hitt how two lawyers could make the same story told by the same witness come out so differently. The defense would use John Crafton to draw another picture entirely. They would use his testimony to lay the groundwork for the defense case: Quinn had been warned that Greek was out for revenge, that he had threatened to stomp his face, and so he carried a weapon to defend himself from the larger man. He had been attacked by the Crafton brothers; the well-meaning Ben Short was trying to pull him away. In those few seconds, fearing for his life, he pulled the knife with the white handle and struck blindly.
Judge Rice pounded his gavel three times, bringing the courtroom to order. Hitt dipped his pen as Captain Kidd called John Crafton to take the witness stand.