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January 5, 1841
Springfield, Illinois


"To my great friend, Abraham Lincoln, I leave my general store...." Wrinkled paper that smells of coffee and law books.

"The US Army deeply regrets to inform you that...." The message- stale, dry, clear-cut, unlike the real message at all.

"You will never run for office in this state again. Not as a Whig, at least." The pinch-nosed clerk, spite and hate in his voice, stale ideas and submission.

"That'll be ten in Illinois scrip." Greed, really, and indifference as he hands the pistol forward.

Abraham Lincoln wondered if the gun would blow his brains out of his skull cleanly. He wondered what portrait would be left behind. He bets it will be etched in blood.

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Themes in American Literature
Excerpted with permission
Halveston Publishing, Ontario
c. 1964

Suicide's Soliloquy
Abraham Lincoln

To ease me of this power to think,
That through my bosom raves,
I’ll headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow in its waves.
Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.

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March 14, 1841
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Frederick Augustus [1] looked around the dockyards of Philadelphia in amazement. The stink of fish and sweat and stale salt don't deter him. He is honored, honored, to be serving for the United States..... and doing so voluntarily.

He had expected to be a porter, some dock-man like other Negroes. But he was young, and white bodies had gotten more rare in the dockyards and so.... there he was, cook to a US privateer, chosen for his good voice and respectful manner.

They'll even let him have a gun, they say. "If'n you make sure you aim it at the right white man", the captain from Delaware says.

And Frederick Augustus thought there was no greater honor than to serve the United States same as a white man would. As many white men did.

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North Star editorial c. 1844
Excerpted with permission
The Augustus Estate, London

Right is of no Sex — Truth is of no Color — God is the Father of us all, and we are all brethren

They talk of PEACE, across the Atlantic. PEACE, when dealing with a Negro. But WAR, WAR when it comes to dealing with the White Man. This paper will talk of nothing but WAR until our Negro brothers are brought a true PEACE.

If you, Britons, citizens of the greatest Empire ever seen, wish to take up this cause and hold the cross to your breast, you must take the sword to your American brethren. That MONSTER of a Republic must be beheaded, like the dragons in legend of old.

It will not be simple. It will not be quick. There is toil and tire and sweat and blood and tears on this quest..... but at the end, the Holy Grail of JUSTICE and FREEDOM.

I will not be silent until the torch of freedom burns out the darkness of slavery from all the world. Not until Britannia takes up that torch in her fair hand, takes it up against Charleston and Cape Town and anywhere else the cries of slavery are heard.

THEY WILL BE HEARD!

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January 23, 1843
Riviere-du-loup, Quebec
US Army Headquarters

Ulysses Hiram Grant had an itch [2], right between his shoulderblades where his dress didn't cover. It was a scandalous dress.

How horrible it was, for this to be his first duty in the Army of the St. Lawrence. As if a play wasn't bad enough, Lietenant Grant, the young boy, the young failure, fresh from West Point [3], was to play a female part in The Moor of Venice.

The war was winding down at least. Ol' Fuss and Feathers had taken Quebec before retiring back to Riviere- the general had taken a liking to the village, where a fort bearing his name was in construction.

Still, if Grant had been General..... he would still be out there slugging. The Brits were enclosed in Montreal. Even with winter, Canadian winter, in its throes, something could be done to hurt the enemy. But, then, Grant had failed tactics and arithmetic and oh.... much more, so his opinion didn't matter. He would likely never be a General. And who really cares about useless what-ifs?

Grant missed his cue, and some adjutant pushed him on the stage. His ears were ringing. He drunkenly grumbled out his lines. The Congressional Officer gave a waspish laugh, and Grant stumbled back offstage.

He hated that little man.... Phillip Barton Keye or somesuch. The Congressional Officer had been with General Scott longer than Grant had.... and had done nothing of note beyond parties and clebrations and Canadian women and lots of apple whiskey.... in short, had done none of the drudgery of Army life.


[1] Frederick Douglas's birth name
[2] He gets the name he tried to register to West Point with. Butterflies.
[3] West Point, during the Canadian War, graduates its seniors mid-year. Thus the class of 1841 was out in December of 1840 and so on till 1843, Grant's year.
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