Lincoln, Martha, and I were gathered in Lincoln’s temporary office in the small library just off the Franklin House’s public room. Lincoln’s law books were once again spilling out of two tattered saddlebags; both the books and the bags looked very much worse for the wear of the circuit. Martha and I occupied the only chairs while Lincoln paced about, his hands clasped behind his back, rehearsing his arguments for trial.
“It sounds as if Owen Lovejoy knows whatever it is his brother learned,” said Martha, to whom we had related our unsatisfactory encounter with the grieving Abolitionist. “Can’t you make him tell us?”
“I tried my best,” said Lincoln, “as Speed can attest.” I nodded. “So we have to leave it and use everything else we’ve got.”
“Won’t the judge force him to answer if you call him as a witness?” persisted Martha. “Daddy always said the law was entitled to every man’s evidence.”
“You’ve learned your law well at Judge Speed’s knee,” Lincoln said with a smile. “The problem is we don’t know what Lovejoy knows. Suppose Lovejoy discovered something incriminating about Bingham? If I made a big show of forcing him to testify to his knowledge in front of the jury and that knowledge harmed Bingham’s case, it could be devastating for us.”
“You said on the way out to see Lovejoy you’d had a peculiar notion about what might have happened aboard the ship,” I said. “That it might be related to Judge Speed’s difficulties. What’s your notion?”
Lincoln did not answer but instead paced back and forth in the small office, his arms gesticulating to and fro like a speechless marionette. Martha looked at me questioningly, but I merely shrugged. At one point, Lincoln stopped directly in front of us and opened his mouth, but he closed it again and resumed his pacing. Finally, he returned to the spot and spoke.
“I’ll tell you what I think happened, though I’m not sure how we’d prove it tomorrow.”
“Go ahead.”
“I think the War Eagle was transporting a fugitive slave, and Jones found out. And was killed before he could reveal it.”
“What?” I shouted.
“A runaway slave killed Mr. Jones?” asked Martha.
“I didn’t say that,” said Lincoln, “although I suppose it’s possible. I think it’s more likely whoever was harboring the slave was the one who killed Jones, for fear he’d been found out.”
“You think the War Eagle—my family’s ship—was being used to transport a runaway slave?” I asked.
“It seems the most likely explanation for—”
“But it’s impossible,” I said, interrupting Lincoln as the full import of what he was suggesting sunk in. I felt my heart racing. “It can’t be so. You think that only because you choose to see this issue of slavery everywhere you look.” I was on my feet now, hands on my hips, staring at Lincoln defiantly.
“I might respond,” said Lincoln, returning my gaze coolly, “that you have trouble comprehending the possibility only because you choose to willfully blind yourself to the same issue.”
My blood surged, and for an instant I thought I would strike my friend then and there. But I willed myself instead to take a step away from him.
“By transporting an escaping slave to the North, we’d face punishment ourselves, right?” I asked.
“The law imposes a fine of five hundred dollars and six months’ imprisonment for harboring or concealing a fugitive slave. There have been cases where steamboat captains, or their owners, have been found liable.”
“To say nothing of what it would do to Judge Speed’s reputation in Louisville.” I turned toward Martha and added, “He’d be ruined.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she protested. “Plenty of people in Louisville are opposed to slavery. Our cousin Cassius Clay, for example, is a fervent supporter of the Colonization Society. And Daddy himself always says he holds our bondsmen as a trust and does what he can to assure their comfort. If it were true some escaping slave had stowed aboard the War Eagle, I don’t think people would care.”
“You have no idea about our world,” I said. “Those people don’t smoke cigars with Mayor Kaye at the gentleman’s lounge of the Galt House. Or borrow money from John J. Crittenden at the Louisville Bank of Kentucky. Or worship with the Rev. Dr. Humphrey at the Methodist Episcopal Church. Or depend on the labor of sixty bondsmen to plant and harvest their hemp fields. The idea that Judge John Speed was implicated in transporting runaway slaves to the North would ruin him. And so it would Mother and James—and Lucy, Peachy, William, Susan, Phillip, John, and even little Ann—all our siblings. And you and me too. Our whole family would be ruined in Louisville. Fair or not, it’s the reality.”
“I have no interest in setting foot in Louisville ever again,” said Martha, her shining face thrust forward defiantly. “So ruin me there. Fine.”
“And you’re willing to consign Father and Mother and every one of our brothers and sisters to the same fate?” Martha opened her mouth to reply but hesitated. “I didn’t think so.”
I turned back to Lincoln. “I am sorry to say this,” I said. “Truly I am. But if you say at trial tomorrow that there was a fugitive slave being transported by the War Eagle—especially with no hard evidence it was so—that will be the end of our friendship.”
Lincoln stared at me. “You know I have a professional obligation to do what’s best for my client, Speed.” He spread out his arms as if trying to get me to see reason.
That was it, then. We had suddenly reached the limits of our agreement not to contest with each other the subject of slavery. I took a step toward the door. “Come along, Martha. We shall leave Mr. Lincoln to his professional obligations.”
My sister looked frantically back and forth between me and Lincoln and then started to follow me. But Lincoln blocked our exit.
“Wait,” he said. “You misunderstand me. I said this was my theory of what actually happened. I admitted I didn’t have the proof of it—not yet at least. And I didn’t say this was my argument tomorrow. Indeed, after what happened here to Elijah Lovejoy, the last thing I want to do is suggest to the jury that Bingham was on the side of a fugitive slave. Unless the jury’s made up of twelve Owen Lovejoys. But I think we have a pretty good sense of the proportion of pro- and antislavery men from Alton who will form the jury.”
We did not sit down, but neither did we take any further steps toward the door.
“Even if you have one Abolitionist on your jury who was attracted to the argument,” said Martha, “he’d be enough to prevent a conviction. A guilty verdict would have to be unanimous, wouldn’t it?”
Lincoln gaped at her and laughed out loud. “Are you sure you don’t want to read for the bar, my dear? I declare most sincerely you have one of the finest legal minds I’ve ever encountered.” Martha blushed deeply.
“But the problem with what you’re suggesting,” Lincoln continued, “is it assumes your one Abolitionist holds out against the other eleven. And the townspeople of Alton have just provided a very clear example of what happens to a lone Abolitionist who defies popular opinion.” He shook his head. “It’s a chance I can’t take.” To me he added, “And that is the true danger of the mob. The power of fear.”
“So you’re saying you plan to lie to the jury?” I said.
“Of course not. I shall be honest at all events. Every argument I make will be consistent with the facts as I know them. But not every fact I know, or think I know, will be part of my argument. In law it is good policy never to plead what you do not need, lest you obligate yourself to prove what you cannot.”
I felt my anger slowly subsiding. I realized, of course, that Lincoln had to defend his client as best he could. Perhaps he was right that he wouldn’t need, in the end, to tell the jury about his fugitive slave notion.
“We’ve come this far together,” I said. “We’ll stay and help—for now, at least. If you eventually decide you need to make this argument . . . well, we’ll cross that river when we come to it. But I will not apologize for putting my family’s interests first.”
“I’d expect nothing less of you, Speed,” said Lincoln as I led Martha back to our chairs.
“Tell us why you think there was a fugitive slave aboard,” said Martha.
“The very fact of Elijah Lovejoy’s interest, for one thing. He was a newspaperman, but he was an Abolitionist first. It wouldn’t have been like him to spend time looking into a case bearing no connection to his cause. For another, there’s what Speed remembers Jones saying as he was dragged out of the salon. Something about threatening to expose what he knew, right?” Lincoln looked at me and I nodded.
“Originally I figured he was talking about the monte,” Lincoln continued, “but everyone knew about that. It had just taken place out in the open in front of two dozen people. Besides, the fact that a steamboat gambler took down his shutters with a stratagem in mind—it’s not exactly the illicit stuff of blackmail. But harboring a fugitive slave? I must say I agree with Speed’s reaction on this point. That fact has the potential to impact reputations greatly.”
“There was a slave in the salon on the night Jones was killed,” I said, thinking back to the scene. “A tall, light-skinned Negro woman. At the time, I thought she was the gambler’s slave, but later he told me she didn’t belong to him.”
I pictured the woman’s face, and suddenly I realized I had encountered her again. “In fact, we saw her together when we were stuck on the sandbar. She walked past while we were talking. Remember, Martha?”
“She’s a chambermaid on the ship,” said Martha. “I made her acquaintance during the voyage downriver. Sary’s her name. But she’s a freedwoman—definitely not an escaping slave. She was headed back south with the boat, after all.”
“And finally there’s the matter of the figure Bingham saw swimming to shore as the boat neared Alton,” said Lincoln. “Remember? Did you find anyone on your journeys who had an explanation for that?”
I shook my head. We had asked several passengers and crew members about Bingham’s report but had been unable to find anyone who knew anything about it.
“Perhaps that was the fugitive slave himself, fleeing the ship once it reached northern waters.” Lincoln paused.
“We need to figure out who was in charge. Who brought the fugitive slave aboard? Who harbored him? That’s the person who had the most to lose if Jones disclosed what he evidently knew. And that’s the person who’ll have the most to lose at trial, if the full truth comes out.”
“Maybe it was Pemberton,” suggested Martha. “He was aboard the ship, and being an overseer would be a good disguise for an Abolitionist to adopt.”
“He enjoyed the sting of Telesphore’s whip too much to be pretending,” I said.
“My guess would be someone else on the ship,” said Lincoln. “Either another passenger, posing as an ordinary traveler, or a member of the crew. Someone who was in the salon to hear Jones’s words and felt threatened by them.”
“How many people were present, Joshua?” asked Martha.
“Two dozen or so, I’d guess.”
“Including Captain Pound?”
“Yes, but we know he’s no Abolitionist,” I said. “When I talked to him about his financial problems, he was enthusiastic about the slave trade. His only complaint was that he didn’t have more of it aboard the War Eagle.”
“So who else was there?”
I ticked them off on my fingers: “Devol, the fool, the barman Gentry, the actress, Pound, Hector, me, about half a dozen passengers . . . Oh, and Bingham too, of course.”
Martha and I looked over at Lincoln, and he nodded. “I’ve thought of that. And I admit I can’t exclude the possibility that Bingham was the one assisting the fugitive slave. Another factor that makes me hesitant to pursue this theory directly at trial.”
“Who did you call ‘a fool’?” asked Martha.
“Not a fool, the fool,” I said. “The man who marked the card as part of the monte. Devol’s partner. I don’t know his real name, but the captain said he goes by ‘Willie’ sometimes. I saw him in Alton, at the Tontine, right before Devol was arrested, but never again. He wasn’t aboard the War Eagle when we steamed downriver to Memphis. Maybe he headed north from Alton and took the fleeing slave with him.”
“Sounds like a promising suspect,” said Lincoln. “A man who makes his living from deception.”
I nodded and said, “But I still don’t understand why you think this relates to the debt to my father.”
“If someone aboard was transporting a fugitive slave, they’d have expense: feeding him, buying new clothing, forging freedom papers for use in the North. Maybe even paying off the wharfboat master in Memphis to look the other way when he inspected the cargo. That money had to come from somewhere.” Lincoln shrugged. “The receipts of the War Eagle are the obvious source. All Pound knows is he’s bringing in less money than he expected. Which is causing him to be able to send less money to Judge Speed.”
“But our payments have been consistently short for months,” I said. I felt my blood rising again. “Are you suggesting this has been happening regularly?”
“It could be,” said Lincoln. “I’ve heard talk of a loose association of people helping escaping slaves go north, maybe as far as Canada. With how many steamboats ply our rivers these days, they’re a natural part of such an effort.”
“And you support this effort, if it exists?” I asked Lincoln sharply.
“I’m opposed to slavery or its extension—you know that.”
“But what you’re talking about is organized law breaking. An association of people, you said.” Martha put out her hand to try to restrain me, but I kept after Lincoln. “I assume you want to condemn them, just the same as you’ve been condemning the organized law breaking that led to Lovejoy’s death and the death of the Negro boatman—McIntosh—in St. Louis last year.”
Lincoln looked at me severely. “No life is threatened by their actions,” he said. “That’s a big difference.”
“I freely grant as much. But property rights are being violated, if what you’re saying is true. Property rights protected by the laws of the several states and guaranteed by the federal Constitution.”
“I say bad laws should be repealed by lawful processes as soon as possible,” said Lincoln emphatically. “But I do agree that in the meantime, while they continue in effect they should be religiously observed. Otherwise, we are no better than the mob ourselves.”
Before I could pounce on Lincoln’s concession, I heard a noise at the doorway. I looked up to see the innkeeper Kemp. “What do you want?” I demanded. “What did you hear?”
Kemp’s face turned even redder than usual. “I didn’t hear nothing,” he said. “I merely looked in to see if the three of you want your midday meal brought around.”
“That would be very kind, Kemp,” Lincoln replied at the same time I said, “Don’t barge in! It’s confidential business, about Lincoln’s cases, that’s under discussion. Highly confidential.”
“Keep your wits about you, Speed,” Lincoln hissed. “Besides, I am famished.” He patted his stomach eagerly.
Kemp muttered apologies and backed out of the room. In the meantime, I thought I had spotted another weakness in Lincoln’s position. As soon as the innkeeper shut the door behind him, I turned back to the lawyer.
“If Jones was killed as part of an organized, clandestine effort to help slaves escape,” I said, “and you prove as much in open court for everyone to hear about, then you expose the scheme and thereby undermine it—the very scheme you’re in favor of even if you say you don’t condone it.”
Lincoln’s eyes were wary. “I have thought of that too,” he said.
“So how can you—”
“Enough, Joshua!” shouted Martha. “We don’t have time for any more squabbling between the two of you. Trial starts in twenty hours.
“Let’s assume it was one of the crew members or passengers present that evening—the fool Willie or someone else—who was secretly shepherding a slave to freedom. Jones found out about it and threatened to expose him, and the man killed him to prevent him from doing so. Mr. Bingham got tangled up in the events by happenstance. But if we tell the jury Jones was killed to cover up a slave escape, it will likely prejudice them even further against Bingham.”
Martha looked between me and Lincoln to see if we intended to contest her statement of the case. Neither of us spoke. She nodded and said, “Right. So what do we do at trial?”
“That, my dear, is exactly the question,” said Lincoln. He grinned at Martha. “Let’s get to work.”