Love is Eternal
Abraham Lincoln and Mary Todd were married on a rainy Friday evening on November 4th, 1842, in the home of Elizabeth Edwards, Mary’s cousin. In all, there were fewer than thirty guests looking on as they exchanged vows.
After the ceremony, Mary and I stole away to the parlor while dinner was served, so that we might spend our first moments as husband and wife in quiet solitude. We shared a tender kiss or two, and looked at each other with a certain perplexity—for it was a strange thing to be married. A strange and wonderful thing.
“My darling Abraham,” said Mary at last. “Do not ever leave me again.”
IV
On May 11th, 1843, Abe wrote to Joshua Speed.
What a wonder these months have been, Speed! What bliss! Mary is as devoted and loving a wife as one could want, and I am pleased, Speed—so very pleased to share the happy news that she is with child! We are both overjoyed, and Mary has already begun the task of preparing our home for the arrival. What a fine mother she will make! Please write me immediately, for I wish to know how your recovery is progressing.
The evening of August 1st, 1843, was an unusually hot one, and the open window did little to relieve the heat in Abe and Mary’s tiny second-floor room at the Globe Tavern. Passersby looked up at that open window with intense curiosity as sounds bled into the night air—first of a woman’s pain, and then of a shrill cry.
A son! Mother and child in the best of health!
Mary has done perfectly. It is not six hours since the child’s birth, and already she holds little Robert in her arms, singing to him sweetly. “Abe,” she said to me as he fed, “look what we have done.” I admit that tears filled my eyes. Oh, if only this moment could stretch on for all eternity.
Robert Todd Lincoln (Mary insisted; Abe held his tongue) was born a scant ten months after his parents’ wedding day.
I find myself staring at him for hours on end. Holding him against my chest and feeling the gentle rhythms of his breath. Running my fingers over the smooth skin of his fat, delightful feet. I admit that I smell his hair when he sleeps. Nibble at his fingers when he holds them near. I am his servant, for I shall do anything to earn his slightest smile.
Abe took to parenthood with a passion. But two decades of burying loved ones had taken their toll. As the months went on and Robert grew, Abe seemed increasingly obsessed with losing his son, whether to sickness or some imagined accident. In his journal entries, he began to do something he hadn’t in years: he began to bargain with God.
My only wish is to see him become a man. To have his own family gathered beside him at my grave. Nothing else. I shall happily trade every ounce of my own happiness for his. My own accomplishments for his. Please, Lord, let no harm come to him. Let no misfortune befall him. If ever you require one to punish, I beg you—let it be me.
In accordance with his hopes of seeing Robert reach adulthood, and in hopes of preserving the happiness he’d found in married life, Abe came to a difficult decision in the autumn of 1843.
My dance with death must end. I cannot risk leaving Mary without a husband, nor Robert without a father. I have this very morning written Henry and told him that he should no longer count on my ax.
After twenty years of battling vampires, the time had come to hang up his long coat for good. And after eight years in the State Legislature, his moment to be recognized had come as well.
In 1846, he was nominated as the Whig candidate for the United States Congress.
EIGHT
“Some Great Calamity”
The true rule, in determining to embrace, or reject any thing, is not whether it have any evil in it; but whether it have more of evil, than of good. There are few things wholly evil, or wholly good.
—Abraham Lincoln, in a speech in the House of Representatives
June 20th, 1848
I
When Abe retired from hunting in late 1843, he left one of Henry’s errands unfinished.
I made innocent mention of this in letters to Armstrong and Speed, and (as had secretly been my hope) both expressed interest in completing it. Because they remained relative strangers to the art of hunting vampires, I thought it best if they worked together.
Joshua Speed and Jack Armstrong met for the first time in St. Louis on April 11th, 1844. If Speed’s letter (to Abe, written three days later) is any indication, it didn’t go well.
As your letter instructed, we met at the tavern on Market Street yesterday midday. Your description [of Armstrong] was precise, Abe! He is more bull than man! Broader than a barn and stronger than Samson himself! Yet you failed to mention that he is also a cur. As thick-skulled as he is thick. You must forgive my saying so, for I know he is your friend, but never in my thirty years have I encountered a more disagreeable, pugnacious, humorless man! It is obvious why you recruited him (for the same reason one recruits a big, dumb ox to pull a heavy cart). But why you—a man of the finest mind and temperament—would keep his company otherwise I shall never comprehend.
Armstrong never wrote about his impressions of Speed, but it’s likely they were just as unflattering. The wealthy, dashing Kentuckian was spirited and chatty, qualities that Armstrong would have found irksome in the toughest of men. Speed, however, was soft-handed and slight, the very kind of “dandy” that the Clary’s Grove Boys would have stuffed in a barrel and sent down the Sangamon.
Out of nothing more than respect for you, dear friend, we agreed to forgo our grievances and see the errand through.
Their target was a well-known professor named Dr. Joseph Nash McDowell, dean of medicine at Kemper College.
Henry had warned me [about McDowell]. The doctor was an “especially paranoid specimen,” he’d said. Paranoid to the extent that he wore an armor breastplate beneath his clothes at all times, lest some assassin try to stake him through the heart. I related this to Armstrong and Speed, and added my own warning: because McDowell’s “death” would likely cause a stir in St. Louis, they must take care to remain unseen during the errand, and avoid making inquiries as to the doctor’s whereabouts. To do either would be disastrous.
Armstrong and Speed did both.
The reluctant duo stood at the corner of Ninth and Cerre Streets that April afternoon, each in a conspicuous, bulging long coat, asking every man who entered the four-story medical building: “Sir, do you know where we might find Dr. Joseph McDowell?”
At last we were directed to a steep, circular lecture hall. A miniature coliseum of ever-expanding rows and railings, upon which curious gentlemen rested their hands, their faces illuminated by the hissing gaslights of the surgical table below, their eager eyes trained on the wild-haired, pale figure cutting into the flesh of a male corpse. We took our places on the uppermost level and watched Dr. McDowell remove the heart and hold it up for all to see.
“Banish all poetic notions from your minds,” he said. “What I hold here knows nothing of love or courage. It knows only rhythmic contraction.” McDowell squeezed the heart in his hand several times. “A single, beautiful purpose… to keep fresh, rich blood flowing to every corner of the flesh.”
A vampire teaching anatomy to men! Can you imagine it, Abe? (I must say, I rather liked the fellow’s cheek.)
He cut further into the corpse as his demonstration continued, removing and discussing organs until at last the dead man resembled a gutted fish. (Armstrong was rendered weak-kneed for the whole—I, on the other hand, found it all quite fascinating.)
The lecture ended “to the polite tapping of canes against railings,” and McDowell’s students filed out. All but two. After hurriedly gathering his instruments and papers, the doctor “made haste to a small door at the rear of his stage and disappeared.” Armstrong and Speed followed.
FIG. 12.2 - IN AN UNDATED PHOTOGRAPH (CIRCA 1850), A GROUP OF SURGEONS EXAMINE THE HEART AND LUNGS OF AN UNIDENTIFIED MAN. THE FACT THAT HE’S WEARING RESTRAINTS SUGGESTS THAT HE’S STILL CONSCIOUS - AND THE FACT THAT HE’S WEARING DARK GLASSES SUGGESTS THAT HE’S A VAMPIRE.
We wound down a narrow stone stairway in complete darkness, feeling our way along the rough, wet walls until at last our hands met something smooth. I struck a match against my heel, and a black door appeared before us—the words J. N. McDowell, M.D. Private in gold paint. Out came my pistol and Armstrong’s crossbow. Out went the match. My heart presently took to its “single, beautiful” purpose with great enthusiasm—for we knew that a vampire waited on the other side of the dark.
Speed felt his way to the knob and pulled it quietly, quietly open…
Sunlight.
Here was a long, tall room with smooth walls. High above our heads, a row of small windows let in the soft light of late day, and framed the feet of passersby. To our right, a long table of caged rats, glass vessels, and silver instruments. Ahead, what appeared to be a body on a stone slab, covered by a white sheet. And to our left, Abe… to our left… na**d corpses ran the length of the room, each on a narrow shelf, stacked one atop the other to a height of seven or eight feet.
We were in a morgue.
I’d expected to find the doctor waiting for us. To be attacked at once. But there was no trace of him. Armstrong and I moved slowly toward the slab, our weapons at the ready. Only now did I see the dark glass tubes running over our heads, running from the bodies on our left to the vessels on our right. Only now did I see the blood running into those vessels, kept warm by a row of tiny gas flames beneath.
Only now did I see the chests of these “corpses” moving with each shallow breath.
And here the whole horror of it struck me, Abe. For now I realized that these were all living men. Packed onto shelves as books in a library. Each given barely enough room for his chest to rise. Each kept fed through holes in their stomachs… drained. Too weak to move, too nourished to die. Each imprisoned by the creature whose whistling we suddenly heard from an adjoining room. Whistling… washing his hands in a water basin. Preparing, no doubt, to butcher the poor soul whose chest still rose and fell beneath that white sheet.
And at once our plan became clear.
McDowell returned wearing an apron and carrying his surgical instruments on a tray. He set these down, whistling all the while, and peeled back the white sheet.
This isn’t the man I remember.
Armstrong sat bolt upright and fired his crossbow into the bastard’s heart—his heart, Abe! I needn’t tell you that the arrow merely bounced off with a clang, for the big, dumb ox had forgotten about the breastplate!
It was a costly mistake, Abe, for McDowell now revealed his true self and struck with his claws. Jack heard something clang against the stone floor. He looked down at where his crossbow had been a moment before. Neither it nor his right hand remained. His face went pale at the sight of blood running from his wrist—and his severed hand upon the floor.
Jack’s cries were loud enough to wake some of the barely living on the opposite shelves.
I had no choice but to remove from hiding and fire my pistol at the vampire’s head. But my shaking hands could not be trusted. The bullet sailed past him and into his precious glass vessels! Imagine the noise, Abe! Imagine the volume of blood that ran onto the stone floor! One might have drowned! Such was the delicacy of his creation that all of the overhead tubes now shattered in unison, the effect being a shower of blood from above.
“No!” screamed McDowell. “You’ve ruined it!”
I do not remember being struck. I only know that I was thrown into the shelves of bodies with enough force to break the bones of my right leg. The pain was more severe than any I had ever known—more severe even than the thrashing I’d received at Farmington. The whole of my body felt suddenly cold. I remember McDowell (a pair of him, actually, for I had been rendered rather senseless by the blow) coming toward me as I lay helpless, the entire floor covered by an inch or more of blood. I remember the strange, amusing thought that a mortuary was as good a place to die as any… the warmth pouring down on all of us… the taste of it. And I remember McDowell suddenly grabbing at his face.
The tip of an arrow had broken through the flesh beneath his right eye! The rest protruded from the back of his skull. Behind him, the big, dumb ox held a shaking crossbow in his remaining hand.
With an unnatural volume of blood rushing down his face (adding to the already grizzly scene), the paranoid McDowell panicked and fled. *
God be praised, we were but steps from the finest hospital in St. Louis. Armstrong and I helped each other up the stairs (I struggling along on my good leg, and carrying his severed hand in one of mine), both of us soaked from head to toe in the blood of two dozen men.
The surgeons were able to save Jack’s life. His hand is gone forever, Abe. He was quite close to death. Closer than he will likely admit. It was his strength that saw him through. His strength, and the prayers you doubtless said for our safety. I shall stay on long enough to see him well (though he refuses to speak to me). I am just now told that my leg shall heal, and that I shall walk with only the slightest limp, if any. Grieve not for your dear Speed, friend—for he counts himself the most fortunate fool alive.