Annie asks, “Did you know that McNamar sold his interest in the dry goods store to Sam Hill before going East?”
On this question I can answer honestly. “No.”
She stares up at me. “Why would he do such a thing if he planned to come back?”
Sweat collects across my brow. “He and Sam were not getting along. Maybe they decided to part ways.”
“Certainly, he would have said something to me. He says he plans to make me his wife.”
I take her hands. “Annie, I’m sure he had good reasons. He’s a man of industry and good business sense. When he gets back, he’ll have great plans for your future together.”
Tears stream down her cheeks. “How can I be sure? He used a false name. He doesn’t write. He sells his business. What else is there I don’t know?”
I draw her close and wrap my arms around her. “He’s a good man. He’d have to be a fool not to come back for you, and we know he’s no fool.”
She shakes her head. “I feel so alone.”
I pull back and look down into her eyes. “Why don’t I take a room at the tavern? That way I’ll be nearby when you get blue, and you can cry on my shoulder as much as you want.”
She laughs. “Abraham, you’re a gem.”
I scurry to find any kind of work that’s available to pay for my lodging. When idle, my favorite remedy for my gloom is observing trials in Judge Green’s court. We have no resident lawyers in New Salem, so unless an attorney from Springfield happens to be in town, parties in most lawsuits appear without representation. I’m often asked to assist one side or the other.
During one session, a visiting lawyer asks me to vouch for the veracity of a witness whom I know to be of questionable reliability. Judge Green’s bench creaks under his weight as he leans forward and nods at me to respond.
“He’s known as ‘lying Peter Lukins.’”
The lawyer shakes his head. “How do you come by such knowledge?”
I point to the judge. “Ask Esquire Green. He’s taken Pete’s testimony under oath many times.”
Green pipes up, “Never believe anything the man says unless someone else swears to it as well.”
When Judge Green and I begin laughing, the lawyer knows his case is lost.
In late autumn, James Herndon sells his share of the store he runs with his brother Rowan to Willie Berry—a shrewd lad, two years my junior. Willie and I served together in the Black Hawk War. His principal fault is that he’s overly fond of whiskey.
For Rowan the transaction wears like a burr under his saddle. In a short time, his differences with Berry become so severe he offers to sell out his share to me. I have no money, so Rowan adds up his inventory and takes my promissory note in exchange. Among the store’s advantages is its location. During slack times, I can linger in the doorway and watch Annie as she tends the garden outside her father’s tavern.
Shortly after the New Year, my friend Billy Greene buys Reuben Radford’s grocery. Billy gives Radford his notes for four hundred dollars in payment for the inventory and store building. Billy’s venture is not long lived. He makes the mistake of thinking himself too big a man to have to tread carefully around the Clary’s Grove Boys. When he crosses them, they ransack his store, emptying casks of whiskey, slicing bags of flour, smashing jars, and overturning the counter. I try to console him, but he’s undone. He jumps from his stool and cries out, “I can’t do this. You and Berry can have this place.”
I palm the back of my neck. “How would we pay you?”
He grabs a tuft of his hair with each of his trembling hands. “Just take over my notes.”
“Let me give you something to cover the damages.”
He laughs. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Look, Berry and I will promise to pay your notes to Radford and give you our own chit for two hundred in addition.”
Billy’s eyes widen. “That’s more than fair.”
Once word gets out that Berry and I have consolidated two of the four general stores in New Salem, Mr. Rutledge offers to sell us his on credit. We’re giddy. Almost overnight we hold a near monopoly. We bring all the stock together into a two-story frame building with two rooms and rough-hewn boards for siding.
Our business requires me to make several purchasing trips to Springfield, which give me opportunities to call on John Stuart. He encourages me to persevere in my law studies, piling books in front of me to consume. One day on my wanderings through the city I stumble across an auction of a deceased lawyer’s estate. My pulse quickens as I read the title embossed across the tattered leather bindings—Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England.
I dig in my pockets, scrambling for enough money to bid. Fortunately, I turn out to be the only bidder for the Blackstone volumes and wind up with enough money left over to purchase a tattered copy of Euclid’s Elements, a treatise containing a system of rigorous mathematical proofs, which are universally recognized as the basis for logical thought.
When winter sets in, a lull in business gives me plenty of time for reading the law and other studies. I also find time to indulge in Burns and Shakespeare with Jack Kelso. Of course, meager sales mean outside work is essential, though it isn’t plentiful. When odd jobs like chopping wood or rescuing livestock from snow drifts come along, I leave the store for Berry to handle alone.
As spring approaches, Berry lays out a scheme he thinks will save us from financial disaster. He proposes we get a license to sell liquor by the dram—without a license we can only sell it by the cask or by the quart. A dram at a time will bring us larger profits. Before I consent to the plan, I talk with Annie. Her father is a firm temperance man, neither imbibing nor selling, although that doesn’t dissuade his Presbyterian minister nephew John Cameron from keeping a barrel of whiskey around the house. Selling by the dram would make us something akin to a saloon, and I want to make sure there will be no hard feelings with the Rutledges if we make that leap.
Annie’s counsel is to go directly to her father. After a lengthy conversation with him, he assures me he’ll not hold the matter against me; however, he warns he’ll never abide Annie keeping company with any drunkards. I assure him no whiskey will ever touch my lips. In fact, the Clary’s Grove Boys often tease me for not having touched the stuff since coming to live in New Salem—an accusation which is largely true.
By March, we have our license and business starts to pick up, but not enough to carry us without my continuing to look for extra work—plowing during the planting season, felling trees and splitting rails when new settlers move in, or whatever other odd jobs there are between those. All the time, I hope our prospects will improve when men’s thirsts go into full heat, come summer. With little free time, I pursue my studies by forgoing sleep or while tending store. Sometimes I become so engrossed in reading that patrons express their impatience by taking their business elsewhere. Those are the times I wish Berry were more dependable.
We hire a clerk who demonstrates we’re better off when Berry is out of the store. My partner’s laziness is eclipsed only by his drunkenness; he not only offends customers, he also squanders our inventory of whiskey. While Mr. Rutledge’s speeches on abstinence have not yet swayed me, Berry’s excesses have driven me to the brink of becoming a full-blown temperance man myself.
Not only is my patience at its limits, I’m worn to the bone. My friends point to my sallow complexion and sunken, bloodshot eyes. They complain that my countenance gives them cause to worry that I’m at the end of my rope. Nonetheless, my work and studies continue at a feverish pace.
In May, I receive an appointment as postmaster for New Salem. Every other week a courier delivers mail to the store. When the Sangamon floods and the courier is unable to cross, I go to the Post Office in Athens, ten miles away to collect our delivery. I usually take the mail to people’s homes, though some collect theirs at the store. Folks often ask me to read their letters aloud, a habit which keeps me abreast of events in their lives. I also read newspapers delivered by mail—another benefit of being the town’s postmaster.
The pay is low, so I continue taking additional work that’s available. Of course, all my wages go to paying our clerk’s wages and keeping the store running. In that way, it’s like working for Father.
One day during summer while I’m splitting rails in the woods, Pollard Simmons, a local farmer, finds me and tells me that Sangamon County Surveyor John Calhoun wants to appoint me deputy surveyor. It is a good opportunity, paying three dollars per day—more than half the Governor’s salary.
I shake my head.
“What’s the matter?” Pollard asks.
“Why would an avid Jackson man such as Mr. Calhoun want to give a Whig such as myself a prized appointment?”
“Suppose party loyalty is a big enough matter for an up-and-comer like yourself, but Mr. Calhoun probably thinks it’s a small thing.”
I bury my axe blade in a log. “Well then, reckon I should go ask him.”
Pollard snickers.
The twenty-mile walk to the County Surveyor’s Office in Springfield gives me plenty of time to think. On my arrival, I stand in front of his desk, hat in hand and ask, “Sir, you should know that I’m a staunch Clay man and am unclear about why President Jackson would allow you to give me an appointment.”
Calhoun leans back in his chair, his pursed lips curl upward, and his angular features soften. “I assure you that your politics won’t matter to President Jackson.”
“Then why would you want me to have this appointment?”
“My dear fellow, your part of the county is expanding rapidly, and I’m in desperate need of a deputy surveyor. Folks out there tell me you’re the brightest, most honest and dependable young man to be had. I don’t give a hang about your politics.”
My fingers trace the rim of my hat. “You won’t press me to change my views or shrink from speaking forthrightly?”
He leans forward. “My only concern is having accurate, honest surveys made with all dispatch. As long as that’s done, you’re free to engage in whatever political matters you see fit.”
Satisfied with Calhoun’s sincerity, I thank him and take my leave.
Shortly after my return home, Annie appears in the doorway of the store, holding a letter to post, her eyes darting between the stack of mail and my face. “Hello, Abraham. Is there anything for me?”
I sort through the mail, already knowing the answer to her question. As soon as the courier delivered the small batch of letters, I checked, as usual, to see if McNamar had written.
I shake my head. “Sorry, Annie. There’s nothing here. Maybe next time.”
She wrings her hands. “Something unthinkable has happened to him.”
“Don’t worry.” I recall the assurances my sister Sally and I used to whisper to each other in Father’s absence. “He’s fine. Delivery from back east takes time.”
She sniffles. “You’re such a sweet fellow, Abraham Lincoln.”
I fumble for my kerchief and give it to her. “It’s just a matter of time before you hear from him.”
“I hope so,” she says, wiping away tears.
A lump forms in my throat. “I know so. He loves you greatly.”
Her lips draw into a tight smile as she turns toward the door.
I call after her, “They made me Deputy Surveyor for the county.”
She turns back, her eyes moist. “That’s wonderful. You’ll be working for Mr. Calhoun?”
“Reckon he doesn’t mind hiring a Clay man.”
“Will you still take care of the mail?”
I smile. “Oh yes, I’ll still be Postmaster.”
“Very well.” She tucks the letter intended for McNamar into her apron pocket. “See you at debate society tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
As Annie leaves, Betsy Abell—a short, stout woman—squeezes through the doorway past her. The toddler on her hip begins to wail. Betsy’s father is a wealthy planter in Green County, Kentucky who gave her the best education his money could buy. He thinks she married beneath her station. This frontier prairie life is the kind of thing he hoped she wouldn’t fall into.
“Abe, mind looking after little Mary for a bit?” she asks, lifting the baby up to me.
“Ah … no. Not at all.” I brush the little one’s hair off her face.
“Suppose I owe you some sewing for all the times you’ve watched my babies.”
“If money wasn’t so scarce, I’d do it just for the pleasure.”
“You should get yourself married up so you can have a family of your own. You’d make a fine papa.”
I cock my head. “I’m doing the world a favor by not procreating another face like this one.”
She laughs. “Want to come up for supper tonight? You can bring the young one back then.”
I make a face at little Mary. “Sure.”
As Betsy starts for the door, I dart from around the counter and follow after her. “Say, do you and the husband have room to take on an occasional boarder? With my appointment as Deputy Surveyor, I’ll start spending a great deal of time up near Petersburg. I’m sure there will be nights I’ll need a place to stay rather than hiking all the way back into town.”
“You’re welcome anytime, Abe. You know that.”
“Thank you, I’m most grateful to you and Mr. Abell.”
After supper that evening with the Abells in Petersburg, I return to our store in the village and stretch out by the stove with Flint’s System of Geometry and Trigonometry with a Treatise on Surveying. My head aches over the mathematics and geometry problems I must master. I close it and pick up Gibson’s Theory and Practice of Surveying. Mr. Calhoun directed me to study these texts to prepare for the examination that’s required before I start work as his deputy. I break a sweat, pacing the tavern floor while tangling my mind in formulas, calculations of angles, and wondering why there are so many names for four-sided shapes. In my confusion, I snap up the books and make tracks for Mentor Graham’s cabin.
Mr. Graham invites me in, despite the late hour, and offers me a seat by the fire. I’m nearly in tears. He pours me some tea, and I take tentative sips as he assures me the task is not insurmountable.
“You can certainly learn all that’s required to be a surveyor,” he says, “just as Washington did in his youth.”
“But Washington enjoyed the encouragement of a gentle, loving father, and I have had no such privilege.”
“Ah, my young friend,” he says, “therein lies your advantage over the great general. You are equal to him in intelligence, but in desire you are clearly his superior. He prevailed because he could not do otherwise, whereas you shall succeed because you must.”
For the next six weeks I devote every evening to studying with the school teacher, sometimes not stopping for sleep. Even while walking about town my nose is buried in either Flint or Gibson. Once, five-year-old Oliver Armstrong enjoys a ride tucked under my arm while I’m studying a book that’s in my other hand. It’s anyone’s guess where or when I scooped up the little fellow.
Only one brief distraction interrupts my focus. Miss Mary Owens, who pays a visit to her sister, Betsy Abell, is the most intelligent and cultured gal I’ve ever met. While Mary’s charm has me wanting more of her attention, her sister’s persistent maneuvering to see a relationship blossom between us annoys me. Even so, after Miss Mary returns home, I tease Betsy. “Your sister should have stayed around and married me.”
With a gleam in her eyes Betsy says, “We’ll see to it that she does so on her next visit.”
I laugh. “Reckon we’ll have to do that. Of course, I’m not sure I’d marry a woman who’s fool enough to have me.”
At the store, our liquor sales are brisk, but our profits haven’t improved markedly, and Berry is unable to keep up even when he’s sober. We hire a second clerk, Isaac Burner’s son Daniel. I reciprocate by giving Isaac a hand at his still house up at the head of a nearby hollow. Ours isn’t the only business suffering. Rumors are that Mr. Rutledge’s tavern is not doing well, and he might have to sell out.
I wish Annie could have more of my attention, but we see each other less and less. My nights are consumed with studying, and she no longer comes by the store. McNamar hasn’t written in some time, and she’s stopped posting letters to him as well.
As winter deepens, neighbors call attention to my weathered skin, turned sallow, and my gray eyes, sunken deeper and lined with red. They beg me to rest; however, I keep pressing myself and pass Mr. Calhoun’s examination when the time comes.
My surveying duties begin in January of 1834, and since most of the work takes me miles out of town, I buy a horse on credit. The Abells’ home, near Petersburg, becomes my home several nights each week, though I keep my bed in town at the Rutledge Tavern in hopes of seeing Annie now and then. Her mood is often blue, and the sight of her in such despondency brings me no end of worry.
The surveying work takes me throughout the county, allowing me to make many new friends beyond the boundaries of New Salem. As my reputation for fairness and honesty spreads, I make another run for the state legislature. The salary for a legislator is $150 for the two month legislative session, and most of all, it may be the best opportunity for doing something noteworthy.
Voting is scheduled for early August, but before the canvass for votes begins, our business winks out. Unable to pay our bills, Berry and I exchange bitter words. We have no choice but to sell our inventory to two brothers, Alexander and William Trent. Since they have no cash, they promise to pay our debts in full as consideration for the purchase. Sam Hill, who owns the grocery and dry goods store, gives me space to receive and hand out the mail. He also hires me to clerk on occasions when he gets busy.
Within a month of selling our inventory to the Trents, they skip town without ever paying a dime to our creditors. Berry and I are left owing more than one thousand dollars on the notes we gave to purchase the Greene and Rutledge stores. We have no means of repaying them. I call our burden “the national debt.” The sum is equal to almost half the Governor’s annual salary—and far more than my earnings from surveying, which so far are a fraction of what I’d hoped they’d be.
Berry, who’s also lodging at the Rutledge Tavern, is nearly incoherent from constant drinking. One day after coming in from the field, I barge in on him and say, “Get a hold of yourself. You need to clean up and get some work so you can help pay our debts.”
He stumbles around, mumbling nonsense and rummaging through his belongings as if searching for something he’s lost.
I throw up my hands. “What are you looking for?”
“None of your business,” he slurs.
I grab him by the collar. “What are you going to do to help out?”
He turns and glares at me. “I’ll ask my father for some money.”
“He says you have to get sober before he gives you another dime.”
His nostrils flare. “He helps everyone else.”
“He’s a preacher. A temperance man … and you’re … you’re a drunk.”
His knees wobble. He leans against the wall, nodding, as if he’ll fall asleep standing up.
I shake my head and leave.
When I ask Judge Green for advice on our situation, he clears his throat, sending ripples through all three layers of his chin. Peering over his spectacles he says, “Let this be a lesson. The frontier is full of men who have more ambition than sense … or honor.”
“Reckon I should have learned that from my father’s debacles.”
“Well, let’s hope this setback doesn’t sting too badly. Maybe the men who hold your notes will be patient.”
“What do you suggest?”
“For now, tighten your belt and do what you can to make them happy.”
In this calamity there’s both good and bad. The good is that there’s no longer a reason to labor over the choice between apprenticing some trade such as blacksmithing or studying the law. I must do the latter to earn enough money to repay my obligations. The bad is that lodging at the Rutledge Tavern when I’m in town is no longer affordable.
Jack and Hannah Armstrong give me lodging and board at their place when I’m not out surveying. “Aunt” Hannah—as I call her even though she’s my age—is kind enough to mend my clothes while I study the law and rock little Duff, their newest offspring.
Jack treats me more rudely. He says he can’t understand why I prefer the attention of married women over that of the young, single gals. He teases, “Suppose, that way you’re saved the embarrassment of being thrown over in favor of one of the more handsome young bucks.”
I tell him my romantic interests are none of his business.
He chortles. “You must satisfy your carnal needs by cavorting with the married or nearly married ones. Hell, for all I know you could be little Duff’s pappy.”
His broad-beamed, illiterate wife isn’t at all attractive to me. But to preserve our friendship, I say, “Ain’t a woman alive who’d want to bear a child after my likeness. As a matter of fact, I was once accosted by a man waving his pistol in my face. He said he promised to shoot anyone who was uglier than he. I said to the fellow, ‘Then hurry up and shoot me. If I’m uglier than you, I don’t want to live another second.’” Of course, the story isn’t true, but I never let Jack know.
Nothing—even work—interferes with my reading. I always have a book in hand, usually one I’ve borrowed from John Stuart over in Springfield. One time, I’m picking up some extra wages cutting wood for Squire Godbey—the fellow who sold the pigs whose eyes Offut sewed shut. Godbey finds me perched atop a pile of logs and asks what I’m doing. I glance up from my book, scratch my head, and say, “It appears I’m reading.” He shrugs and says, “Well, you are certainly the oddest fellow I’ve ever had for a farmhand.”
During late spring and summer, the candidates for the legislature begin riding up and down the county canvassing for votes. We make speeches wherever folks gather—in a grove of shade trees, at a market or fair, at a schoolhouse, in a church or in a home, whether modest or lavish.
Sometimes I try to stand out by showing my physical strength by lifting a barrel of whiskey over my head or by burying an axe in a log deeper than anyone has ever done. When we stop at the edge of a harvest field to solicit support from laboring farmers, I grab a scythe from one of them and cut a swath so wide and long that their mouths are agape.
Folks think of me as a Whig candidate in what is mostly a handshaking campaign. Although measures aren’t as important as how well a man is liked, my positions are popular. I favor construction of a canal between Beardstown and New Salem and dividing Sangamon County into two. The later measure would bring self-governance to fledgling towns like New Salem. My support for universal suffrage, by no means excluding women, is largely ignored.
One matter of great concern to many residents is personal. Isaac Snodgrass, whose name fits his stern face and sour disposition, leads a campaign to defeat me, alleging I’m a religious skeptic.
On hearing Snodgrass’ charges, Annie asks me if I’m Christian. I’d like to pacify her parents, whose views on temperance have persuaded me to shun alcohol, but I can’t deceive a friend. I tell her, “Much of what’s in Scripture is not reasonable. I don’t deny the Almighty, but merely wonder how much of what is said about Him is true.”
Her eyes narrow, causing my heart to skip. “Abraham Lincoln, sometimes you’re too honest for your own good. Try not to be so direct when expressing your views on the matter, especially if you’re out canvassing for votes. And for Heaven sakes! Don’t mention the writings of men such as Paine or Volney or Voltaire. They scare most common folks.”
My chest tightens. “Do you think less of me for my views?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Of course not. Candor is a great thing between friends. I respect you for it.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “It would be dishonest of me to hide the truth if someone asks.”
“Do you discuss all your feelings when you canvass?”
“No.”
“Do your feelings on religion make any difference on matters like internal improvements and breaking away to form our own county?”
“No.”
She looks away. “Then say nothing more about religion.”
“Snodgrass and his crowd will make a devil out of me if my views are not made clear.”
She snickers. “He’ll make a devil of you, nonetheless. You won’t have to worry, though. Mentor Graham will take him to task on that—even if the straight-laced schoolmaster has to exaggerate your awe for the Almighty.”
“It wouldn’t do for him to lie for me.”
She laughs. “He wouldn’t be lying. He’d just be embellishing—like he always does when his passions overtake his reason. Anyway, people will listen to him before they pay any mind to what that old persimmon Snodgrass has to say. They love you.”
I take her hand. “McNamar is a lucky man. I can only hope to be so fortunate someday.”
There’s a gleam in her eye. “To the contrary, Mr. Lincoln. It is the gal who will be privileged to have you.”
My pulse races.
Of more than a dozen candidates on the ballot, the top four of us will go to the legislature. The Jackson men think they can win three, but not all four places, and they don’t want the fourth seat to go to my friend John Stuart, an incumbent. They approach me with a strategy that will allow them to concentrate their energies on beating Stuart. They propose withdrawing two of their candidates and throwing their support behind me.
Unwilling to betray a friend, I go to Stuart and lay out their offer. He is strong in his conviction that he will win a spot in spite of their maneuvering, so he tells me to accept their proposal. He says, “That way we’ll have two anti-Jackson men from Sangamon.”
I follow his advice and place second. Stuart places fourth, and the Jackson men win only two seats.
After wrapping up the campaign, I call on Annie. Her mood is gloomier than ever, presumably on account of her father’s business failures and the family’s removal to Sand Ridge near Petersburg, several miles out of town.
We sit under a large live oak. “Annie, it burdens me to see you so.”
She begins to cry.
I pat her hand. “Your father has weathered setbacks like this before.”
She turns away and folds her arms across her chest. Shaking her head, she murmurs a few unintelligible words then draws a deep breath. In a measured tone she says, “McNamar has abandoned me.”
I lay my hand on her shoulder. “That’s nonsense. No sane man would turn away a girl as lovely as you.”
“He’s been away for nearly three years, and he hasn’t written me in months.” She lets out a hollow laugh as she wipes her tears. “All the women folk are right. I should have seen it. He’s a fraud. He so much as told me so before he left, and I wouldn’t hear of it. I’m such a fool.”
She trembles as she continues sobbing.
I put my arm around her and whisper, “Shh, all will be well. Your man will come back to you soon.”
“No,” she says. “I’m done with him.”
After a time, her crying ceases, her body is limp from exhaustion, and she looks at me. I help her up and take her hand in mine as we walk to her house. At her doorstep, we say good-bye, and I promise to return every day until the legislative session starts in Vandalia. I almost never break that pledge, and she forgives me when I do.