Lincoln recalled that the Lovejoy brothers lived in the same house, and we walked there together. The day was dry but cold, with an unsparing wind coming off the water. I held the lapels of my coat together tightly and wished I’d asked Martha to bring winter clothing from Springfield.
As we walked along the grassy shoreline, our attention was diverted by a great bald eagle soaring overhead, riding the wind currents back and forth, searching for a field mouse unlucky enough to go looking for food at that moment. Suddenly the bird went into a steep dive, rushing toward the ground, its claws extended, braking and attacking in the same graceful motion. And it snatched up its quarry, which managed only a tiny squeak before its neck was crushed by the bird. The eagle took to the skies with no cry of victory but rather gliding silently toward its lair, in some crag in the ravine face no doubt, its majestic head held high, the outcome of its hunt never in doubt.
“Did you ever figure out how Captain Pound has been shorting your family?” Lincoln asked.
“I looked at his books and interviewed his crew. Money’s been flowing out of the business pretty much every month. He claimed it was merely commonplace, unavoidable losses, but I think he’s been making payments to someone. Probably to a relative on the side as a way of padding his take.”
“Perhaps Bingham’s trial will give us some answers,” said Lincoln.
I turned to stare at him. “I’d love to find answers anywhere, but I don’t know what Jones’s death has to do with Pound’s supposed lack of capital.”
“I’ve been stuck on a peculiar idea these past few days on the circuit,” said Lincoln. “Let’s see what the younger Lovejoy can add.”
We came upon a handsome two-story frame house on Cherry Street, with a brick chimney protruding from the roof and a fence of white pickets enclosing a modest side yard. We immediately perceived Owen Lovejoy himself walking about in the yard.
I had seen him only three days prior, but I scarcely recognized him. Though still a large, powerfully built man a year or two older than me, he walked about with a profound stoop. His dark face sagged; his brows were furrowed. His curly hair had become threaded with gray overnight. Only his blue eyes retained their former life.
Lincoln moved forward at once and solemnly gave Lovejoy his hand. “I’m Abraham Lincoln, Lovejoy,” he said. “Your brother was a good man. I wanted to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, his voice cracking. Lovejoy’s eyes swept over me and quickly returned to Lincoln. It was evident he didn’t recognize me from our brief encounter on that night of chaos. “My brother spoke often of his association with you.”
“Fondly, I hope.”
“Not usually.” Lincoln gave a quick laugh, and Owen Lovejoy’s face relaxed for a moment into a smile before resuming its hardened posture. “My brother divided humanity into three parts: true Abolitionists, of which there are too few; implacable enemies of freedom, of which there are too many; and well-intentioned men who lack the courage to act in accord with their convictions, into which category he placed you. It will not surprise you to hear it was this last group that infuriated him most.”
Lincoln did not flinch. “I have great sympathy for his goals. I think they are more realistic if pursued by working within the existing system to change it.”
“You’ll pardon me, Mr. Lincoln, if I remark that you sound like the so-called respectable citizens of Alton who wanted Elijah to ‘compromise’ by agreeing to suspend publication of his paper. It seemed to us the debtor might as well refuse to pay his debts and call this a compromise.”
“I can see that, like your brother, you are a true radical,” said Lincoln, with an edge to his voice this time.
“If I wasn’t three days ago, I am now,” said Lovejoy with feeling. He looked close to tears again. “As I swore on his grave”—he gestured toward a freshly dug plot of earth near to the house, lying between two oak trees—“I’ll never forsake the cause that’s been sprinkled with his blood.”
I feared we were getting further and further away from the matter at hand, so I cleared my throat and stepped forward. “We’re hoping to carry on your brother’s work as well, in a fashion,” I said. “Your brother was looking into a matter relating to one of Lincoln’s cases, a murder aboard a steamboat. He’d found something out about the case before his death, and we’re hoping he might have shared what he learned with you.”
Owen Lovejoy’s face twitched. “That’s where I recognize you from,” he exclaimed, walking a tight circle with agitation. “That night, you showed up with a young woman. ‘The Speeds,’ you said you were. I’ve wondered since whether the two of you were meant to be some sort of Trojan horse.” He pointed at Lincoln with a trembling index finger. “So you associate yourself with the mob, Lincoln? My brother was far too charitable in his assessment of you.”
“You misjudge me entirely,” I protested, trying to control my anger, though I could feel my face turning red. “We came seeking information for Lincoln’s case. We had no part of the mob. The mobbers were just as much of a danger to us as they were to you.”
“Not just as much,” Lovejoy said severely. He gave a long glance at his brother’s grave before turning back to me. “And if you were a spectator to arson and murder and took no action to prevent it, then I say you were just as bad as any mobber with a cobble or a flaming torch or a rifle.” He spat angrily toward my feet.
“This is a waste of time,” I said to Lincoln. “Let’s leave Mr. Lovejoy to his grief. We have to go prepare for your trial.”
Lincoln held up his hands. “I assure you, Lovejoy, that we—neither of us—have come here today to cause you any further pain—”
“You flatter yourselves if you think you could inflict any pain on top of what the mob has already,” interjected Lovejoy. “In the last three days, I’ve watched my brother get cut down by assassins, I’ve had to tell my sister-in-law that she’s to give birth to a fatherless child, and I’ve written to my widowed mother to ask what part of God’s plan is served by the murder of her eldest son. The two of you?” Lovejoy tossed his head dismissively.
“Of course that’s so,” said Lincoln, nodding. It was hard not to be moved by Lovejoy’s emotion. “But here’s the thing. I know your brother spoke for the innocent and the powerless. There’s an artist named Bingham confined to the state prison right now who goes on trial for his life tomorrow morning. Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s an innocent man. Your brother was interested in his case, and he uncovered some fact that may be crucial in seeing justice achieved for Bingham. Did he share what he learned with you? If you tell us ‘no,’ we’ll leave you in peace at once.”
“I don’t care two pennies for your innocent man.”
“I know you don’t. I imagine, if I were you today, neither would I. Did your brother tell you what he learned about Bingham’s case?”
“Slavery is a sin, Mr. Lincoln.” Lovejoy folded his arms across his chest and looked away from us. He gazed out at his brother’s fresh grave and the rolling countryside beyond it, and he breathed in a deep breath.
“Your brother was a forceful advocate of that truth, Mr. Lovejoy. I don’t doubt you could prove a worthy successor to him. What of Bingham?”
“Slavery is a sin,” Owen Lovejoy repeated, his gaze still averted and his thoughts far removed. “If we do not rid ourselves of this sin, this nation shall one day soon perish from the earth.”