Abraham Lincoln_ Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith [6]
It gasped for breath, but could draw none, and its eyes wore a kind of fear I had never seen. I stood over the miserable bird for what seemed a twelvemonth, pleading with God to make its wings fall silent. Begging His forgiveness for so injuring a creature that had shown me no malice; presented no threat to my person or prosperity. Finally it was still, and, plucking up my courage, I dragged it through a mile of forest and laid it at my mother’s feet—my head hung low so as to hide my tears.
Abraham Lincoln would never take another life. And yet he would become one of the greatest killers of the nineteenth century.
The grieving boy didn’t sleep a wink that night. “I could think only of the injustice I had done another living thing, and the fear I had seen in its eyes as the promise of life slipped away.” Abe refused to eat any part of his kill, and lived on little more than bread as his mother, father, and older sister picked the carcass clean over the next two weeks. There is no record of their reaction to this hunger strike, but it must have been seen as eccentric. After all, to willingly go without food, as a matter of principle, was a remarkable choice for anyone in those days—particularly a boy who had been born and raised on America’s frontier.
But then, Abe Lincoln had always been different.
America was still in its infancy when the future president was born on February 12th, 1809—a mere thirty-three years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Many of the giants of the American Revolution—Robert Treat Paine, Benjamin Rush, and Samuel Chase—were still alive. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson wouldn’t resume their tumultuous friendship for another three years, and wouldn’t die for another seventeen—incredibly, on the same day. The Fourth of July.
Those first American decades were ones of seemingly limitless growth and opportunity. By the time Abe Lincoln was born, residents of Boston and Philadelphia had seen their cities double in size in less than twenty years. New York’s population had tripled in the same amount of time. The cities were becoming livelier, more prosperous. “For every farmer, there are two haberdashers; for every blacksmith, an opera house,” joked Washington Irving in his New York periodical, Salmagundi.
But as the cities became more crowded, they became more dangerous. Like their counterparts in London, Paris, and Rome, America’s city dwellers had come to expect a certain amount of crime. Theft was by far the most common offense. With no fingerprints on file or cameras to fear, thieves were limited only by their conscience and cunning. Muggings hardly warranted a mention in the local papers, unless the victim was a person of note.
There’s a story of an elderly widow named Agnes Pendel Brown, who lived with her longtime butler (nearly as old as she, and deaf as a stone) in a three-story brick mansion on Amsterdam Avenue. On December 2nd, 1799, Agnes and her butler turned in for the night—he on the first floor, she on the third. When they awoke the next morning, every piece of furniture, every work of art, every gown, serving dish, and candlestick holder (candles included) was gone. The only things the light-footed burglars left were the beds in which Agnes and her butler slept.
There was also the occasional murder. Before the Revolutionary War, homicides had been exceedingly rare in America’s cities (it’s impossible to provide exact numbers, but a review of three Boston newspapers between 1775 and 1780 yields mention of only eleven cases, ten of which were promptly solved). Most of these were so-called honor killings, such as duels or family squabbles. In most cases, no charges were brought. The laws of the early nineteenth century were vague and, with no regular police force to speak of, loosely enforced. It’s worth noting that killing a slave was not considered murder, no matter the circumstances. It was merely “destruction of property.