25th August, 1835
Mr. Henry Sturges
200 Lucas Place, St. Louis
By Express
Dear Henry,
I thank you for your kindness these several years, and beg a parting favor of you. Below is the name of one who deserves it sooner. The only blessing in this life is the end of it.
John MacNamar
New York
—A
For the next two days, Jack Armstrong and the Clary’s Grove Boys kept watch over him in round-the-clock shifts. They stripped him of his pocketknife and carpentry tools; took away his flintlock rifle. They even confiscated his belt for fear that he would hang himself with it. Jack saw to it that Abe’s hidden stash of hunting weapons was moved well beyond his reach.
For all their care, there was one weapon they missed. None of them thought to look beneath my pillow, where I kept a [pistol] hidden. Jack having briefly left my side that second night, I retrieved it and pressed the barrel to the side of my head—resolved to be done with it. I imagined the ball penetrating my skull. I wondered if I would hear the shot, or feel the pain of it tearing through me. I wondered if I would see my brains strike the opposite wall before I died, or if I would see nothing but darkness—a bedside candle blown out. I held it there, but I did not fire….
Live…
I could not….
I could not fail her. I threw the weapon on the floor and wept, damning myself for cowardice. Damning everything. Damning God.
Rather than kill himself that night, Abe did what he always did in times of immense grief or unbridled joy—he put pen to paper.
The Suicide’s Soliloquy *
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through
Though I in hell should rue it!
Sweet steel! Come forth from out your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!
I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart,
My last—my only friend!
Henry Sturges galloped into New Salem the next morning.
He sent the others away at once, claiming to be a “close cousin.” The two of us alone, I imparted the whole of Ann’s murder, making no attempt to hide my grief. Henry took me in his arms as I wept. I remember this distinctly, for I was doubly surprised—both that a vampire could show such warmth, and by the sensation of his cold skin.
“It is the fortunate man who does not lose one so loved in his lifetime,” said Henry, “and we are not fortunate men.”
“You have lost one as beautiful as she? As kind?”
“My dear Abraham… one could fill a cemetery with the women I have wept over.”
“I do not wish to live without her, Henry.”
“I know.”
“She is too beautiful too… too good….”
“I know…”
Abe could not help his tears.
“The more precious His gift,” said Henry, “the more anxious God for its return.”
“I must not be without her….”
Henry sat on the bed beside Abe, holding him in his arms… rocking him like a child… debating with himself.
“There is another way,” he said at last.
Abe sat up straight on the bed; ran a sleeve over his tears.
“The older of us, we… we can wake the deceased, provided the body is whole enough, and less than a few weeks dead.”
It took Abe a moment to comprehend what Henry had said.
“Swear to me you speak the truth….”
“She would live, Abraham… but I warn you—she would be cursed to live forever.”
Here was the answer to my grief! A way to see the smile of my beloved again—to feel her delicate fingers in mine! We would sit in the shade of our favorite tree, reading Shakespeare and Byron for all time, her finger carelessly twirling my hair as I lay in her lap. We would walk the years away on the banks of the Sangamon! The thought of it brought such relief. Such bliss…
But it was fleeting. For when I pictured her pale skin, her black eyes and hollow fangs, I felt nothing of the love we had shared. We would be united, yes—but it would be a cold finger gently twirling my hair. Not in the shade of our favorite tree, but in the darkness of our curtained house. We would walk the years away on the banks of the Sangamon—but it would be only I who grew old.
I was tempted to the point of madness, but I could not. I could not indulge the very darkness that had taken her from me. The very evil that had taken my mother.
Ann Rutledge was laid to rest at the Old Concord Burial Ground on Sunday, August 30th. Abe stood silently as her coffin was lowered into the earth. A coffin he’d insisted on making himself. He’d inscribed a single line on its lid:
In solitude, where we are least alone.
Henry was waiting outside my cabin upon my return from the funeral. It was not yet midday, and he held a parasol over his head to shield his skin, dark glasses over his eyes. He asked me to follow him. Not a word passed between us as we walked a half mile into the woods to a small clearing. There I saw a pale, blond-haired little man tied to a post by his arms and ankles, stripped naked and gagged. Firewood and kindling had been piled at his feet, and a large jug placed on the ground near him.
“Abraham,” said Henry, “allow me to introduce Mr. John MacNamar.”
He writhed at the sight of us—his skin covered in blisters and boils. “He is quite new,” said Henry. “Still sensitive to light.” I felt the pine torch as it was placed in my hand… felt the heat on my face as it was lit. But my eyes never left John MacNamar’s. “I expect he shall be even more sensitive to flame,” said Henry. I could think of nothing to say. I could only look at him as I approached. He shook as I did, trying to free himself. I could not help but pity him. His fear. His helplessness.
This is madness.
Still, I longed to see him burn. I dropped the torch on the woodpile. He struggled against his bonds to no avail. Screamed until his lungs bled with nary a sound. The flames grew waist-high almost at once, forcing me back as his feet and legs began to blacken and burn. So great was the heat that his blond hair blew continually upward, as if he stood in a gale. Henry remained close to the flames—nearer than I was able. With the jug in hand, he repeatedly poured water over MacNamar’s head, chest, and back, keeping him alive as his legs were burned to the bone. Prolonging his agony. I felt tears on my face.
I am dead.
This went on for ten, perhaps fifteen minutes until—at my insistence—he was finally allowed to die. Henry doused the flames and waited for the charred corpse to cool.
Henry placed a gentle hand on Abe’s shoulder. Abe brushed it away.
“Why do you kill your own, Henry? And do me the honor of the truth, for I deserve as much.”
“I have never given you otherwise.”
“Then say it now and be done with it. Why do you kill your own? And why do—”
“Why do I send you in my stead, yes, yes I know. My God, I forget how young you are.”
Henry ran a hand over his face. This was a conversation he had hoped to avoid.
“Why do I kill my own? I have given you my answer: because it is one thing to feed on the blood of the old and the sick and the treacherous, but quite another to take sleeping children from their beds; quite another to march men and women to their deaths in chains, as you have seen with your own eyes.”