As we left the Ryder building, the ink-stained journalist fell into step with us. The man had, I now realized, stayed behind to hear the argument over Bingham’s fate. As we walked along, his head swiveled back and forth, taking in everyone and everything on the streets. An odd light played in his eyes.
“That’s quite a case,” the man said in a voice laced with the hard, flinty vowels of New England.
“Have you a particular interest in it?” asked Lincoln. “It doesn’t seem your typical concern, Lovejoy.”
“It’s not often we have a murder trial in Alton.”
“Then keep your eyes and ears open for me. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Help you? With all the help you’ve been to me!” The journalist’s cheeks had suddenly gone crimson.
Flashing a pained smile, Lincoln turned to me and said, “I should have introduced the two of you. Joshua Speed, meet Elijah Lovejoy. Lovejoy, this is my friend Speed. Lovejoy’s the publisher of the Alton Observer. And a devoted Abolitionist. As those of us in the legislature know only too well.”
Lincoln was currently serving his second term in the state legislature. Since the legislature paid little and met for only ten weeks every other year, the position left him plenty of time—and cause—to develop his law practice.
“Surely that makes you allies,” I said.
Lovejoy snorted derisively. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? In fact, Lincoln is one of my biggest disappointments. Which doesn’t make me inclined to extend myself for this private matter of yours,” he added, looking pointedly at Lincoln.
Lincoln came to a halt in the middle of the street. The skin covering his prominent jaw was drawn tight. “I did the best I could, under the circumstances.”
“I don’t accept that for a moment,” Lovejoy shot back.
“What’s all this about?” I asked. I had rarely seen Lincoln so off-balance.
“A bill was put before our House, earlier this year, condemning the Abolitionists and affirming that the federal Constitution protects the right to own slaves,” said Lincoln. “A ridiculous bill—no one had asked our opinion, and it had no legal effect. It’s not as if anyone’s proposing to make Illinois a slave state. Anyway, the bill passed overwhelmingly. I was one of only six legislators to vote against slavery. But that wasn’t enough for Lovejoy here.”
“What wasn’t enough for me was that you couldn’t convince more of your number of the evils of slavery,” Lovejoy rejoined. “To say nothing of your statement afterward claiming that the Abolitionists made the evils of slavery worse. An outrageous affront to the cause of freedom.” Lovejoy smacked his hands together and his eyes glowed with passion.
“You know I believe patient, lawful action is the only way to end the institution.”
“‘Patient action!’” cried Lovejoy. “Tell that to our millions of brothers who suffer every day in chains. And you wonder why I have little interest in helping you with your murder case.”
The two men were glaring at each other, hands on their hips.
“Help me or don’t, but don’t question the sincerity of my views,” said Lincoln sharply. “The only way forward is by working within the established legal system.”
“You have no idea,” said Lovejoy at nearly a shout. He collected himself and then continued, with just as much passion but this time in a voice of controlled fury. “A few months ago, I had the privilege to break bread at my home with a man named Henry. A good, honorable man from Louisiana, an industrious man, a loyal friend and son. He’d spent all twenty-one years of his life in bondage on a sugar plantation. His only crime was to have been born with the wrong skin color.”
“An escaping slave?” I said, surprised that Lovejoy would admit so openly to sheltering a fugitive.
Lovejoy nodded defiantly. “He had quite a journey to my doorstep. The first time Henry tried to escape, he stowed away on a steamer leaving Baton Rouge and hid behind four hogsheads of sugar. He was so near to the boat’s engineers that they were in constant sight. He had nothing to eat. On the third night, he crept out to eat scraps off the crew’s table and he was caught. He was sent back to his master. He received thirty lashes from the cat o’ nine tails.”
Lovejoy looked up to see if we intended to challenge his recitation. Neither of us spoke.
“The next spring, Henry tried again. He ended up in the sealed hold of a ship with nothing to drink. He tried drinking the bilge water, but it made him deathly sick. Then he took to wandering around aimlessly in the darkness. He felt a single drop of water fall from the ceiling—from what source he never knew. Frantically, he stopped on the spot, opened his mouth, and waited for the next precious drop. It never came. He was captured by a slave catcher the day before he would have steamed into free waters. This time, he lost track of how many lashes he received before he passed out from the pain.
“Finally, this spring, Henry tried yet again. He managed to get a false set of papers, only they described a man who was nine years older and three inches shorter than he, so Henry was in constant fear someone would examine the papers closely and find him out. When he tried to board a steamer in Memphis, the clerk refused to accept them. But a free Negro he’d met the previous night at a boardinghouse in the Pinch district vouched for him, and the clerk took his word. Henry made it to Alton, and I spent an evening with him, sharing a meal at my table and learning his story. Then he moved along farther north.”
Lovejoy seemed on the point of tears as he finished his story. He took a deep breath and added, as a coda, “Now tell me, Lincoln, what your system ever did for Henry, or the millions like him.”
“I’m glad to hear things turned out well for Henry,” said Lincoln quietly.
The journalist waved Lincoln’s words aside. He looked at his watch. “I’ve tarried too long,” he said. “I need to meet up with my brother Owen. The citizens of Alton, in their great wisdom, have announced they’ll be convening a gathering to consider whether my paper and I should be expelled from the city limits. Owen’s agreed to help me write out my plea for toleration.”
“Expelled!” I exclaimed. “What have you done to them?”
“Spoken the truth,” Lovejoy replied defiantly. “The men of Alton don’t want to read what I must write.”
When he did not elaborate, Lincoln said, “Lovejoy moved to Illinois last year after wearing out his welcome across the river in St. Louis. But he’s proved even less popular in Alton. I know your printing presses have been destroyed here—is it on two separate occasions?”
“Three times. Dumped into the river by a mob, each of them. But I shall not be intimidated.” He glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot, then added in a low, confident voice, “The fourth is arriving from Cincinnati soon enough.”
“Is your brother a publisher as well?” I asked.
“A student of theology,” Lovejoy replied, “as I was, before I realized my sacred obligation to spread the word of the evils of human bondage. My father the Congregational minister would have despaired if one of his sons hadn’t followed his calling.”
Turning to Lincoln, he added, “Who knows? Perhaps I will stumble upon something of interest about your case. If I do, perhaps I’ll send word. Now, good day.” He strode off, constantly skimming the streets as he went.
Lincoln smiled ruefully after him. “If such are my friends—” he said with a laugh before shaking his head. “He’s a determined man. Hardheaded to a fault, as you can see. But if he ever did fall upon something useful to Bingham’s cause, it could prove valuable.”
Lincoln and I parted, and I spent the next twenty-four hours seeing what I could do to solve my father’s financial crisis. I talked to a few riverboat captains whom I encountered near the levee to see if I could locate a replacement for Pound. But they were either engaged or retired for the season, and no one wanted to agree on a price for next spring without knowing what the financial Panic would become.
I had the idea that perhaps I could sell the War Eagle and use the proceeds to pay off my father’s debts. But when I walked into the only bank in town to inquire whether they knew of any potential buyers, the banker merely shook his head and advised me to try again the following spring. I knew it would be pointless to tell him I feared my father didn’t have that long.
In my spare moments, I tried to see if I could advance Bingham’s case. There were several other men staying at the Franklin House who had been aboard the War Eagle, and I questioned each one in turn. But none of them had spoken to Jones or Bingham after the fateful monte, and none admitted to having any idea of how Jones had met his demise. It seemed I needed to await the return of the ship to question the captain and his crew.
The following evening, I decided to take up a search for the mysterious hook-nosed man. Armed with Bingham’s drawing, I went from tavern to tavern along the levee, looking for someone who might recognize him.
I started at the far end of the levee and worked my way back toward the Franklin House. Despite the sharpness of Bingham’s likeness, I was unable to find any barkeep or patron who would admit to having seen the man. Eventually I reached the Tontine, the same shabby grog shop where we’d found Bingham on the night of his arrest. The barkeep and several patrons near the front of the room professed ignorance, and I was heading out the door when I noticed a man in a battered straw hat and shabby clothes who had been slouched against the wall, watching me.
I took a few steps toward him, and with a jolt I recognized him as the fool who had helped perpetuate the monte on John W. Jones.
“It’s Willie, isn’t it?” I said as I nodded a greeting.
“Dunno,” he replied with a shrug.
“Did you hear Jones turned up dead the day after you and Devol took him?”
“Dunno.” His face did not betray any emotion.
“Well, he did. I’m looking into who might have killed him. I wonder whether you’ve ever seen this rogue, either aboard the War Eagle or otherwise.”
I showed him Bingham’s drawing, and to my great surprise, his face lit up with recognition. “I’ve seen him, all right,” he said. “Saw him here on the levee, the morning we docked in Alton. Can’t miss that nose of his. Most unfortunate.”
“You did? What was he doing?”
“It’s a funny thing,” Willie said. “He got off the War Eagle, kit bag in hand, and started talking to the ticket sellers walking up and down the wharf. He must have been looking for a southbound steamer, because after talking to one seller, he went aboard a ship and not ten minutes later, it cast off and headed downriver.”
“What would cause a man to disembark a northbound ship and immediately board a southbound one?” I asked.
Willie shrugged.
“Do you know who he was? His name, or even his occupation?”
Another shrug.
“How’d you happen to notice him?” I asked with growing frustration.
“I see things—and people—for a living,” Willie said without affect. “I’m practiced at it.”
This was, I thought, the one thing he had said in whose truth I had complete confidence. I was about to say so when I heard a familiar voice—commanding, cool, and clear like snowmelt—cut through the smoke and gloom of the Tontine. Following the voice back to a small, square table in the ill-lit rear corner of the shop, I came upon two men playing poker.
“Devol!” I shouted.
The bushy-mustached gambler nodded without removing his eyes from the table. His opponent, who sat with his back toward me, was bareheaded and partially undressed, with the red straps of his suspenders resting taut against his white shirt. The largest Jürgensen watch I’d ever seen was fastened to his right wrist. From the casual, confident way he was holding his cards, I guessed at once that he, too, made his living at the tables.
“I’m glad I found you, Devol,” I said. “I’ve been hoping to ask you about what happened to Jones on the War Eagle after he tried to shoot you.”
“Some sucker tried to shoot you?” the other gambler asked with a laugh. “You must have gotten greedy.”
“It was a big score,” said Devol. “For a big score, I’m prepared to face an unloaded gun.”
“For a big score, I’d face a loaded gun.”
Devol smiled and said, “You’re a braver man than me.”
He put down a full house, sevens over fours, and took the pot. The other gambler gathered up the cards and shuffled. The two gamblers had continued to play their hands throughout the conversation, their eyes never once leaving the cards.
“Devol, can we talk about Jones?” I tried again.
“Most certainly,” he said, “once I’ve given satisfaction to my old friend High Miller here. High owns the Alton tables, so when he brought out his deck and invited me to play, it seemed ungentlemanly to refuse.”
“I’m not sure I own Alton,” replied Miller, “but there aren’t too many folks around who can beat me on a regular basis. And I don’t think I’m braver than you, Devol,” he continued. “Just more trusting in God.”
“I believed in God until I was aboard the Princess when she blew up,” said Devol as he took the pot with three threes. “We’d just left Baton Rouge, bound for New Orleans, with fourteen preachers aboard heading to a revival. I’d opened up the roulette wheel in the barbershop, and I was doing land-office business. There’s about thirty persons in there with me, throwing down their money and watching the wheel spin.”
Miller took a hand with two queens and dealt again.
“All of a sudden, there’s this terrific explosion. Bam! Then comes the hissing sound of escaping steam mingled with the screams and groans of the dying. The boat’s been blown to bits. It’s a total wreck. Most of the passengers are lost. All the preachers—drowned in the river.” He paused for effect. “The only part of the ship that remained was the barbershop. Not a single one of the gamblers was so much as scratched.”
“I must be a true believer,” Miller said with a smile. He put down a straight and claimed the coins in the center of the table. “Because, to me, your story proves there is a God.”
A shout of laughter arose from the crowd. By now, a dozen persons had joined me to watch the two gamblers battle. I saw the fool standing casually in the back row. From the snatches of conversation I overheard, it was clear that seeing the local champion being given a good game was a novelty of sorts to the patrons of the Tontine.
Most of the crowd had gathered next to me behind Miller. Though he was holding his cards low and close to the table so we couldn’t see them, he said, “Can all of you move off to the side? This may be my town, but I wouldn’t put it past Devol to have a confederate hidden among you who’s signaling him.”
The group of us watching shuffled several paces to the side, where we could not possibly see either man’s hand. Miller took two deals in a row. By my rough count, backed up by the sizes of the piles of coins in front of each man, he’d somewhat gotten the better of Devol so far this evening.
“I’m shocked you’d even suggest such a thing,” said Devol in an obviously joshing tone.
“You’d be shocked if I didn’t,” returned Miller.
“I once played a Jew who laid his pocket watch on the table and used the shiny inside cover as a looking glass to try to spy my hand,” said Devol as he won a small pot with a full house, jacks over sevens.
“I once played a man whose partner was hidden behind a curtain at my back,” said Miller as he won the next hand with two pairs. “The partner held a string running all the way under the carpet and wrapped around my opponent’s thumb. The partner tugged the string whenever he was supposed to bet.”
Devol nodded in appreciation. He shuffled and dealt. “I played a good scienced man in Natchez whose partner was sitting right next to me,” he said. “I spent the whole night staring at him, but I couldn’t figure out how he was doing the signaling. Finally I focused on the toothpick he’d been chewing, and I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. Pick in the right corner of his mouth meant bid. Pick in the left corner meant fold.”
Devol put down three jacks with a flourish and was halfway through collecting the coins in the center of the table when his opponent put down three queens. He glared as Miller reached over and dragged the coins into his pile, which was now twice the size of Devol’s.
I realized I should have asked Willie about Bingham’s suggestion that there was some kind of secret gambling operation aboard the War Eagle. I turned and craned my neck—but the fool was nowhere to be seen.
The two gamblers continued to battle as more and more patrons joined the crowd. There were several dozen men gathered around me now, cheering lustily every time the hometown favorite, Miller, won a hand and booing the throws that went Devol’s way. As if spurred on by the hostile crowd, Devol won a string of hands, and his stack of coins edged past Miller’s in size.
Miller took the cards, shuffled, and dealt. All at once, we could tell this hand was different. Both gamblers scrutinized their cards, and the other man’s face, with extreme care. Devol pushed a sizeable stack into the center of the table, and Miller raised him. Then another raise and another. The crowd shouted with excitement. Soon both men had pushed all their coins to the center. Devol glanced at his hand one more time and carefully unwound his gold pocket watch and tossed it onto the table.
The crowd was hushed, waiting for Miller’s move. There was a moment of crystalline silence. Then Miller began to unstrap his Jürgensen watch, and a giant roar of approval went up from the crowd.
“Call,” said Miller.
“Dealer first,” said Devol.
“Four queens,” said Miller, displaying the lovely ladies and starting to sweep the glittering heap in the center of the table toward him. The crowd screamed with excitement.
Devol sighed and laid his hand on the table, face up. The two of clubs—and all four kings.
Miller stared in disbelief. The crowd went silent, then began shouting tumultuously. Devol took out his purse and began filling it with his winnings.
“Wait—show me your hands!” shouted Miller.
Devol put his hands out, palms up, and rotated them. Nothing.
“Your sleeves!” screamed Miller. “Your pockets! You’ve got extra cards hiding somewhere. You must!”
Devol rolled up his sleeves, shook out his jacket, and turned out his pockets. No hidden cards tumbled out. “Count the deck if you want,” he said.
Devol was standing now, preparing to make his exit, and while he gathered the remaining coins into his purse, Miller stacked the deck and counted the cards out as many in the crowd counted along with him. There were fifty-four, all right: the fifty-two suited cards and two “jokers,” all accounted for. None missing, none extra. Devol stepped away from the table.
“You’ve got to keep playing,” Miller cried.
“Perhaps next time I’m in town,” said Devol. “I need my sleep. I’m back on the waters tomorrow.” He turned to me and added, “I haven’t forgotten you, Speed. I can’t tarry now, but let’s meet tomorrow morning for breakfast.”
“I insist you stay,” shouted Miller.
“Sorry, friend. Maybe next time.”
As Devol started to push through the mass of onlookers toward the exit, a commotion arose from the direction of the door. “Make way, make way,” came an unmistakable French-accented voice. The patrons parted and Devol and Avocat Daumier stood face-to-face, ringed by the roiling crowd.
“George Devol,” announced the levee copper, brandishing an official-looking document, “I have a warrant for your arrest.”