The prairie sun beats on the back of my neck as I lumber through dusty New Salem in late July on my return from New Orleans. At each open doorway I take off my sweat-soiled, broad-brimmed hat and inquire about Mr. Offut. No one has seen him since our flatboat got caught up on the mill dam on our way down to New Orleans. I ask to be pointed in the direction of his store.
They reply, “What store?”
I scratch my head. He should have made better time than me, him traveling all the way from New Orleans to Beardstown by steamboat, and me off-boarding in Memphis, then hiking nearly four hundred miles through wilderness to Father’s new home in Coles County. Not only did my detour cost time, but I gave Father my wages to help alleviate his financial distress. He’d run out of money before making it to Indiana, so he and Mama settled in Coles County where some of her family lives.
Mr. Onstot, the cooper, remembers me and recommends I inquire about lodging at the Rutledge Tavern across the way. A corpulent, pink-skinned customer, who’s inspecting some of Onstot’s new casks, overhears our conversation and introduces himself as Judge Bowling Green, Justice of the Peace. He asks how long I’ll be staying in the village, and I tell him about Offut’s store.
He shakes his head.
Onstot reminds Judge Green of the incident with our flatboat and the mill dam. “This is the young chap who took control of that calamity and got the thing unstuck.”
The judge studies me, sober-eyed. “You don’t say …. Then I suppose you’re quite a bright enough lad. Come on up to my place for supper this evening and we’ll get better acquainted. Unfortunately, we’re stuffed to the rafters with children and don’t have a spare bed. Though if you’d like, we can make a spot for you on the floor by the fireplace, at least for one night.”
I pull back my shoulders and smile. “Sir, I’m grateful for your hospitality. And if it helps, I enjoy playing with children.”
Judge Green turns to the cooper. “A well-spoken young man at that. He might do a fine job of arguing cases in my court someday.”
Later during supper, I say, “The only time I’ve been this close to a Justice of the Peace was when I got sued.”
Mr. Green’s large belly shakes when he laughs. “A lad like you got sued? Over what?”
I tell him about ferrying two passengers to a steamboat out on the Ohio and say, “I never again want to be ignorant of the law, or anything else, for that matter.”
He points to several thick books stacked on the mantle. “My library is yours for the borrowing, anytime you like.” He goes on, telling me he uses the public room at the Rutledge Tavern when he hears cases. His Justice of the Peace duties only require his attention part of the time; otherwise he’s busy tending his farm.
I thank him, and our conversation turns to Offut’s plans for his store. The Judge says others have preceded Offut in setting up businesses in the village. Besides the grist mill, cooper shop, and tavern which provides lodging but doesn’t sell liquor, there’s already a grocery, three general stores, a wool-carding mill, and two doctors’ offices. The town also has a blacksmith, shoemaker, carpenter, hat maker, and tanner. Some twenty families live here, sharing common pastures and kitchen gardens. Among the hodgepodge of wood-framed buildings and log cabins is a log schoolhouse, which is also used on Sundays as a church.
The next day I make the acquaintance of John Cameron, a square-jawed preacher with an aristocratic nose. He’s Mr. Rutledge’s partner in the tavern. While he’s unwilling to give me a room in the establishment without payment, he offers me lodging in his home until my affairs with Offut are settled. In the meantime, I continue to take my meals with Judge Green and his family, giving me the opportunity to learn more about how to pursue studying the law.
I leave Mr. Cameron and stop in at the grocery and dry goods store, reputedly the best stocked mercantile around. A slender young fellow seated on the wood-plank porch in a chair made out of branches, greets me with a hardy “Haloo.”
I lean against a sturdy timber supporting the overhang roof. “How do?”
He stands and offers a handshake. “Sam Hill, one of the proprietors.”
I shake his hand. “I’m Lincoln.”
He looks up at me through his spectacles. “Well Lincoln, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve just landed in town and decided to get acquainted with folks.”
“Well, welcome to New Salem,” he says, smiling. “We’re the biggest merchants around. Carry both groceries and dry goods. Got a root cellar around on the side. The other places only handle your basic supplies and staples. Some sell whiskey, too.” He directs me inside.
I gaze around at the packed shelves and the rows of barrels lining the walls, jammed tight against each other. “With all this stuff, it’s good your place is so big.”
He points to the ceiling. “We live upstairs. Me and my partner, John McNeil.”
“Look forward to meeting him.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be too sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just my opinion. He’s good enough at business, but we haven’t gotten along since he swept the prettiest gal in New Salem off her feet. Thought for sure she’d be mine.”
I shake my head. “Bad luck.”
He frowns. “Usually don’t lose with the ladies.”
I laugh. “Wouldn’t know what that’s like. Not accustomed to winning.”
A few days later, Offut shows up and tells me he’s waiting for delivery of goods for his store and won’t require my services until the inventory is on hand. On the bright side, though, he lets me sleep in the empty store if I wish to do so. He’ll even procure a cot for me.
Offut’s earlier introduction of me to the townspeople—that being on the occasion of our flatboat getting stuck on the mill dam—pales in comparison to his present accolades as he saunters around town making his plans known to everyone. He boasts that I am the strongest and smartest young man ever to cross his path. The latter compliment helps me gain an appointment as the assistant elections clerk.
Election Day arrives in early August, and all the able bodied men from miles around forgo a day’s work to come to the village and cast their ballots. As they mill about, I engage them in conversation, hoping to make new friends. When several are gathered together, I entertain them with stories such as the one about the blue lizard that accosted the old preacher.
Mentor Graham, the town’s spritely school teacher, offers to help with any studies I might care to do. After the teacher, Colonel James Rutledge introduces himself as co-founder of the village, as well as proprietor of the grist mill, the tavern, and one of the general stores. He’s tall, a serious man, gentle in manner, and able to put strangers at ease with his warm gaze. His daughter is the golden-haired beauty who watched us free our flatboat. I gladly accept his invitation to attend meetings of the debating society he presides over, but I become anxious when he tells me his daughter is one of the town’s most skilled debaters. My mind will likely turn to gruel in her presence.
As the day approaches for the debate society meeting, my idleness is joined by melancholy. If I could somehow hasten the arrival of goods for Mr. Offut’s store, or if I could find some other work to occupy my hands, my gloom could be tamed.
One afternoon, while sitting in the doorway of the empty store, I distract myself by reading from a volume of Robert Burns’ poetry. It’s a copy I borrowed from my newly acquired friend, a free-spirit named Jack Kelso.
I've notic'd, on our laird's courtday,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash;
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
On turning the page I look up and see several young men approaching me. Their swaggers suggest they’re an exception to the good-heartedness and hospitality of the general population. In the midst of them is an ox of a man, his dark eyes trained on me and his mouth drawn in a frown.
As they proceed in my direction, leaving a trail of dust in their wake, a crowd led by Offut gathers behind them. When all arrive at the store they hover like an impending storm. I’m told there’s always trouble when Jack Armstrong and the Clary’s Grove Boys appear.
I look down at the page of poetry, pretending to be indifferent to their presence.
One of them shouts at me, his words slurred by too much whiskey. “So yer the one they says can lick the meanest bull in the field?”
I stand and study the whole lot of them, holding my place in the Burns book with a finger.
One of the ruffians offers Jack a jug, but he pushes it away.
“What?” the boy with the jug says. “Got nothing to say fer yerself?”
Offut jumps in front of me and faces the crowd. “Jack Armstrong, here, has challenged young Lincoln to a fight. Says there’s no one who can beat the toughest of the Clary’s Grove Boys.”
The crowd begins to buzz. I fix my eyes on the ox.
Offut announces, “Ten dollars says my friend Lincoln, here, will take down Jack.”
“Who holds the purse?” someone calls out.
“That’ll be me,” Offut says, waving his hand.
Pandemonium breaks out as people place bets. Some wager money, others drinks, and at least one puts up his prize knife. I pull Offut aside. “I don’t fight for sport.”
“Hold on, son,” he says. “These Clary’s Grove Boys are hell-raisers. They need to be set straight or they’ll just keep terrorizing good people. Don’t think of it as sport. It’s … well, it’s … law and order.”
I gaze over the crowd. They’ve suddenly become quiet.
The words form slowly in my mouth. “I accept.”
They roar their approval.
As I step down from the doorway, Armstrong strides toward me, and the onlookers draw away to give us space. Standing six-feet-four-inches, I tower over my adversary. He glares up at me, the veins in his thick neck pulsing. His frame is so compact and his mass is so solid that getting a firm hold on him won’t be easy.
The spectators shout their impatience as we size up one another.
He digs in his feet, and a grunt rises from his throat. I stand my ground as he charges, absorbing the impact of his lunge with only the slightest movement. Neither does he so much as flinch from the impact. We struggle to gain purchase on one another, all the while twisting and turning to avoid the other’s grip. Armstrong kicks at my ankles in an effort to take my legs out from under me and drop me to the ground.
To counter, I grab for his waistband and strain to lift him off his feet. We wrestle to get the better of each other until his breathing becomes labored. I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and set my jaw. Recalling Offut’s words, “law and order,” I muster the strength to raise him off the ground. With his legs kicking and arms flailing, I draw in another breath and lift him over my head. Again “law and order” echoes in my head and I throw him into his gang of thugs. They all tumble to the ground in a heap.
The crowd turns silent as Armstrong’s men exchange bewildered glances.
Spectators begin chanting, “Abe! Abe!”
I grin at the sea of admirers, willing to forgive them for using the nickname I hate; however, the Clary’s Grove Boys are determined not to be denied their victory. They pick themselves up off the ground and rush at me all at once, growling like a pack of wolves. I back up against the side of the store and shout, “I’ll take you on—one-by-one.”
They stop in their tracks and look at each other as if silently plotting their attack.
I hold the stare of the one closest to me and say, “Let’s keep the fight fair.”
Still on his knees, Jack Armstrong shouts, “Stop!”
His boys turn and watch him, waiting for his word.
Armstrong stands and walks toward me with his hand extended. He says in a loud voice, “Abe Lincoln is the best fellow that’s ever set foot in New Salem. He’s one of us, now.”
With a handshake we become friends, and I’m welcomed like a kinsman by all the townspeople. One of the first to step up to greet me is a stocky, well-dressed fellow named McNeil. On his arm is the sandy-haired beauty, Miss Ann Rutledge.
I look down into her sky-blue eyes, and she beams up at me, forming her full lips into a bright smile. My composure goes into full retreat, but once McNeil introduces her as his fiancé, my anxiety evaporates, and my shyness dissolves. Having lost Mother and Sally, I fear I’ll jinx anyone whom I love. As for Miss Ann, that burden of worry is now lifted. She belongs to another; she’s safe from my curse.
At the debate society meeting that evening, I rise to speak and greet the members with a timid smile. They gaze at me with anticipation etched on their faces, no doubt expecting to be entertained with some humorous story. Among them is Miss Ann, sitting a bit forward between two boys on the bench right in front of me.
Instead of amusing them with wit, I advocate in earnest for internal improvements such as roads, canals, and navigable waterways. Everyone applauds, and Mr. Rutledge commends my argument as pithy and well reasoned. Miss Ann’s eyes gleam as she turns to congratulate me before stepping forward to take her turn.
From the very first word, her melodic voice captivates me. When she takes her seat at the end of her speech I commend her, even though I can’t recall anything she said. Her beauty distracted me.
Mr. Rutledge approaches Miss Ann and me after the meeting and suggests that she and I, his two prize students, practice our oratory together. She looks down as she waits for my reply.
I fidget with my shirt cuff. “With Mr. McNeil’s approval, of course.”
She twists a lock of her hair in her fingers. “I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s quite secure in his position.”
Mr. Rutledge grins and adds, “As a man of his accomplishments and charm should be.”
“Yes,” I say, “a merchant and landowner. Any girl would be lucky to marry such a man.”
Miss Ann blushes. I relax, assured that our time together won’t be strained by the awkwardness of romance.
“By the way,” she says. “Friends call me Annie.”
A few days after the debate society meeting, a prominent doctor employs me to run a flatboat down to the confluence of the Illinois and Sangamon Rivers, carrying him and his family. They are removing to Texas and have contracted with another pilot to take them the remainder of the way from Beardstown. Our trip proceeds without incident, and once I’m paid for my services, I walk thirty miles back to New Salem.
On my return, Offut is giddy as he greets me. His goods have arrived and he is open for business. Next to him stands a baby-faced, sandy-haired lad named Billy Greene, no relation to Judge Green. Offut has hired him to assist me in the store.
Offut says, “Billy, here, can sleep in the store. His father has a farm a couple of miles out of town, but the old man’s illiterate and drinks too much. One of you can bunk on the counter, unless you want to share the cot.”
I throw a bear hug on Offut and pick him up off his feet.
“Save your strength,” he says. “There’s whiskey barrels that need lifting.”
As the weeks pass, business at the store is never brisk. I often sit in the doorway reading, only taking my eyes off the page to get a glimpse of Annie Rutledge when she passes by on her way to and from her father’s grist mill. Saturdays are busier than usual. That’s when farmers and their farm hands come to town to do some trading and raise Cain. We close our doors around three o’clock on those days, since by then, everyone’s consumed by a variety of drunken amusements which last until they can’t stand up any longer.
On weekdays, we lock up at seven o’clock, and Billy and I hike to Judge Green’s home for supper. Mrs. Green is a renowned cook in these parts, so the table is always crowded with visitors. During one meal I’m seated next to the school teacher, Mentor Graham, to whom I say, “I’ve been thinking about studying English grammar.”
“If you expect to go before the public in any capacity,” Graham says, “it’s the best thing you can do.”
“Well, if I had a grammar I would commence studying right now.”
“I don’t have a grammar myself,” he says, “but I know John Vance has one.”
With that, I excuse myself from the Green’s table and hike several miles to Vance’s farm. Mr. Vance gives me a copy of Samuel Kirkham’s English Grammar in Familiar Lectures. He says it’s the best available anywhere. When I get back to the store, Billy Greene is already asleep on the cot in the backroom. I stoke the fire and stretch out on the floor and begin studying.
It’s a real puzzler. Four, five, and six headed rules, about as complicated to me as the Longer Catechism and the Thirty-nine Articles are to young ministers. It consumes me day and night—while clerking, or when I lie under a tree on the hillside overlooking our village. Evenings, I study stretched out by the stove at the store.
One Saturday, while tending store, I’ve no time to study, and after work, I find the athletic games too tempting to pass up. My long legs give me an advantage in jumping contests, and my arms, like a pair of low-hanging pendulums, serve me in weight throwing. Out of respect for me, the Clary’s Grove Boys pass on wrestling matches, giving me easy victories over all comers.
I’m more than happy to stay out of the cock-fighting as a fair trade for their courtesy, but owing to my reputation for fairness, Jack Armstrong insists I referee when his gang’s birds are in play. In honor of our mutual friendship, I agree. After hunting game for survival when Father was ill, and having passed through a hot summer day of slaughtering hogs while under his bondage, I suffer less pain than I once did when animals are abused. Still, a twinge of it still inflicts me.
Tonight’s contest is between roosters owned by Tom Watkins and Babb McNabb. Poised inside a ring formed by spectators, I steel myself against the protests of my conscience while the boys agitate their birds into a frenzy. When McNabb’s bird surprises everyone by shrinking from the fight, my chest swells and I cannot contain my smile.
McNabb, red with embarrassment, jumps into the ring, retrieves his entry and throws the bird back over his shoulder onto a woodpile. On landing, the rooster puffs out its chest and begins to crow. McNabb throws up his hands and hollers, “Yes, you little cuss, you’re great on dress parade, but you ain’t worth a damn in a fight.”
For all the activity Saturdays bring to town, sales at the store are barely adequate to pay salaries to Billy and me, let alone pay the mortgage on the store. Anxious over his financial situation, Offut expands his enterprise by renting the grist and saw mills from Mr. Rutledge, adding additional responsibilities for Billy and me to share. Even though the added chores interrupt my reading, work at the mills keeps me busy—wrestling logs onto the saw carriage, trimming boards, and grinding kernels of grain into flour.
I’m especially delighted when Annie stops by and asks me to accompany her to the grist mill to grind up corn for her father’s tavern. Our friendship blossoms and I become her confidant in matters she’s too nervous to share with McNeil. In return, she tries to pair me with some of the single girls in town. I admire her persistence in such a hopeless endeavor.