The Rail Splitter


 
 THE RAIL SPLITTER
 FIRST EDITION
 Copyright 2023 John Cribb
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
 This is a work of fiction. Though some characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are based on the historical record, and historical works such as speeches, letters, and reports are sometimes quoted, passim, the work as a whole is a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 ISBN: 9781645720645 (Hardcover)
 ISBN: 9781645720652 (ebook)
 For inquiries about volume orders, please contact:
 Republic Book Publishers
 27 West 20th Street
 Suite 1103
 New York NY 10011
 [email protected]
 Published in the United States by Republic Book Publishers
 Distributed by Independent Publishers Group
 www.ipgbook.com
 Cover designed by Laura Klynstra
 Interior designed by Mark Karis
 Young Abe photo by Carroll Foster, Hot Eye Photography
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 To my mother and the memory of my father
 CONTENTS 
 Author’s note
 PART 1: THE WOODS
 Summer 1826 to March 1830
 PART 2: THE PRAIRIE
 March 1830 to Autumn 1835
 PART 3: THE TOWN
 April 1837 to November 1842
 PART 4: THE PATH
 Spring 1846 to December 1859
 Acknowledgments
 AUTHOR’S NOTE 
 It has been said that if you wish to understand the man, you must first know the boy. The Rail Splitter follows Abraham Lincoln from his youth on the frontier to his days as a prairie lawyer and politician, the years that prepared him to be America’s greatest president.
 I wrote this book as historical fiction so we can walk beside Lincoln, through Indiana forests and Illinois cornfields, and come to know his hopes and struggles on his winding path to greatness. Though this is a novel, I’ve tried to give an accurate portrayal of Lincoln in his prewar years. I’ve turned to hundreds of primary and secondary sources, drawing on the words of Lincoln and his contemporaries when possible. For example, when I write that “a cross word or look” had rarely passed between Lincoln and his stepmother, it’s because that’s what she told us in an interview she gave after Lincoln’s death. In many cases, I’ve taken artistic license to provide details of action and dialogue. Because this novel spans more than three decades, I’ve had to condense and simplify some events, occasionally I’ve bent the timeline for minor events, and of course I’ve had to leave much out. The line between history and legend is sometimes thin, and there is, no doubt, some lore mixed into any account of Lincoln. I’ve tried to be faithful to the spirit of his life and times.
 The story of the rawboned youth who makes his way from a log cabin to the White House is, in many ways, the great American story. I hope this book brings Lincoln to life and reminds you that the country he loved is a place of wide-open dreams where extraordinary journeys unfold.
 PART ONE 
 THE WOODS
 Summer 1826 to March 1830
 CHAPTER 1 
 SUMMER 1826
 The book was soaked through.
 He knew before he reached for it, knew what had happened the instant the sound of water dripping somewhere near his pallet bed jerked him from sleep. It had stormed overnight, and the rain had found its way through a chink in the cabin loft.
 Abraham half rose to pull the book from the ledge beside his bed. His fingers met a heavy wet mass lying in a small pool. A groan rose into his throat.
 It ain’t mine to ruin, he thought.
 Darkness filled the loft. The only light in the cabin came from low flames in the fireplace below, but the song of a wren fluting through a window told him the rain was almost done and, somewhere behind the thick Indiana woods, the sun was rising.
 He crawled off his corn husk mattress, crouching low to avoid hitting his head on the rough-hewn rafters, pulled on his buckskin britches, and slipped into his moccasins. Three feet away, his stepbrother, John, grunted and rolled over.
 Abraham picked up the soggy book and dropped his long legs through a hole in the loft floor. He grabbed a peg driven into the wall and scrambled down. His feet landed on the cabin’s plank floor with a soft thud.
 The light from the fireplace touched a few wavering shapes in the room—a four-post feather bed, table, chairs, spinning wheel, corner cabinet, chest of drawers. He stepped to the hearth to open the book. The pages stuck together. He tried to separate two or three, but they began to disintegrate as he peeled them apart. His stomach churned at the thought of losing the precious words.
 The cabin door opened and his stepmother entered, toting a few pieces of wood in a bucket.
 “’Morning, Abe.”
 Abraham gave her a stricken look and held out the volume.
 “I borrowed it from Si Crawford. The rain came in and spoilt it. I’ve put books in that little cubby next to my bed lots of times. Water never got in before.”
 She set down her load and moved to his side.
 “Oh, Abe, that’s a pity.” She lit a small lamp, just a wick placed in a cup of hog grease, and held it up for a closer look. “Let’s set it beside the fire awhile. It’ll dry.”
 “It won’t be the same. The pages will turn all wrinkly and stained.”
 “Si will understand.”
 “Well, I’d be mighty angry if it was my book.” He ran his fingers along the cover’s warped edges. “I have an idea to go over to his place and talk to him about it.”
 She set down the lamp before answering.
 “Why don’t you give that book a day or two to dry? It might