February 2000 | Out in the Mountains |19

BY HEATHER PEAKE

ast February, activist/ writer/

I playwright Larry Kramer spoke

before a Wisconsin audience

about his work-in—progress The

American People, a definitive history of
gays in the United States.

During his presentation came an
electrifying announcement: new evi-
dence pointing to a romance between
Abraham Lincoln and his friend Joshua
Speed, in the form of letters and a diary
allegedly found under the floorboards
of Speed’s former home. While he did-
n’t produce the documents, saying only
that they were in the hands of a private
collector in Iowa, he did read some
excerpts, quoting Speed as writing “he
[Lincoln] often kisses me when I tease
him, often to shut me up,” and “[he]
would grab me up by his long arms and
hug and hug.”

It was, said The Advocate, theV“out-
ing heard ‘round the country.”

In the flurry of media coverage, how-
ever, there was a conspicuous lack of
dissent from mainstream historians.
Perhaps they realized that arguing with
Kramer was like trying to placate a pit
hull with a_ squeaky toy, or that ques-
tioning would inevitably sound homo-

phobic, defensive, or otherwise un-PC.

In any case, few went on the record to
point out the obvious: the history of
Lincolniana is studded with hoaxes, and
Kramer wouldn’t be the first victim of
such a con. Until these documents are

V produced and authenticated, they are

speculative, at best.

Could they be authentic? Sure.
Historians have long privately ques-
tioned the exact nature of the Lincoln-
Speed relationship. In the absence of
any real evidence, biographers have
played it conservatively. After all, the
only hint ofa liaison between the two is
a shared bed and some mutual foot-
dragging on the way to the altar.
Certainly there is no support at the

Honest Abe and his alleged “cabin" boy Joshua Speed

moment to support Kramer’s claim that
“Abraham Lincoln and Joshua Speed
were in love with each other for all their
adult lives...”

What we do know

Lincoln met Speed on April I5,
1837, the day he arrived in Springfield,
Illinois. He walked into A.Y. Elis & Co,
the general store Speed was then man-
aging.

“He came into my store,” Speed later
told biographer William Herndon, “set
his saddle-bags on the counter and
asked me ‘what furniture for a single

debt. I have a very large room, and a
very large double bed in it; which you
are perfectly welcome to share with me
if you choose.’ ‘Where is your room?’
asked he. ‘Upstairs’ said 1, painting to
the stairs from the store to my room.
Without saying a word, he took his sad-
dle-bags on his arm, went up stairs, set
them down on the floor, came down
again, and with alface beaming with
pleasure and smiles, exclaimed ‘Well,
Speed, I’m moved.”’

They shared that room for the next
three years. The store quickly became a
popular gathering spot for Springfield’s

in the April issue of Salon, Larry Kramer is
quoted as saying, ’.’So much of the history that
is shoveled into the world is bullshit we really

have to invent our own.”

He's right: most of the

history shoveled into the world right now is bull-
shit because people invent their own.

bedstead would cost.’ I made some cal-
culations, and found the sum for furni-
ture complete, would amount to seven-
teen dollars in all. Said he: ‘it is proba-
bly cheap enough; but I want to say that
cheap as it is I have not the money to
pay. But if you will credit me until
Christmas, and my experiment here as a
lawyer is a success, I will pay you then.
If I fail in that I will probably never be
able to pay you at all.’ ”

“I looked up at him,” Speed contin-
ued, “and I thought then as I think now,
that I never saw so gloomy, and melan-
choly a face. I said to him: ‘The con-
traction of so small a debt seems to
affect you so deeply, I think I can sug-
gest a play by which you will be able to
attain you end, without incurring any

large population of up-and-coming
young men. Lincoln and Speed also
plunged -into the local party scene, and,
as gossip had it, became embroiled in a
fight for the hand of a local belle named
Matilda Edwards. This was soon over,
as Miss Edwards had no interest in
either man; Lincoln turned his attention
to Mary Todd, to whom he eventually
became engaged.

But Lincoln panicked on the way to
the altar. In January 1841, as the wed-
ding party assembled at her cousin’s
house, he broke the engagement to
Mary, saying he was in love with
Matilda, and fell into a near suicidal
depression.

Speed, who was returning to live in
his native Kentucky, took Lincoln with

him. Some time with the Speeds helped
him regain his equilibrium, but knocked
his friend off balance. Speed was then
courting a local belle, “and strange to
say something of the same feeling
which I regarded as so foolish in
him. . .took possession of me. . .and kept
me very unhappy from the time of my
engagement until I was married.”
Eventually, everything worked out.
Lincoln returned to Springfield and
patched things up with Mary. In 1842,
both men married; by 1844, both were

fathers.

They kept up a regular correspon-
dence until the mid-1850s, when time,
distance, and politics caused their
friendship to cool. Like many
Kentuckians, Speed was pro-Union, but
also pro-slavery, and Lincoln’s increas-
ingly vocal criticism of slavery did not
sit well with him. By the time Lincoln
was elected, Speed could congratulate
him as a “personal friend” but a “politi-
cal enemy.”

The family worked hard to keep
Kentucky in the Union, and Speed’s
older brother James became Attorney
General in 1864. Speed last saw his
sick, exhausted friend on a trip to
Washington just a few weeks before the
assassination. “Speed,” he recalled
Lincoln saying during their last conver-
sation, “die when I may, I want it said of
me by those who know me best to say
that I always plucked a thistle and
planted a flower where I thought a
flower would grow.”

What we don’t know

Attempts to penetrate the sexual
mores of another era usually end up
reflecting our own hang-ups more than
anything else. Today, two men sharing a
single bed would be met with a raised
eyebrow or a knowing wink. We would
likewise look askance at a husband and
wife sleeping in separate rooms.

But in the 19th century, living space
came at a premium, and privacy was
rare. Sleeping two or three to a bed was
the norm. By the same token, Victorian
couples with separate bedrooms wasn’t
a sign of frigidity — it was an indication
of wealth and social status. Space and
privacy translated to class.

So the evidence cuts both ways. Gay
or straight, as a lawyer riding the Eighth
Circuit, Lincoln spent many a night
sharing a lumpy, flea-infested boarding-
house bed with other men. The money
he made on these trips allowed him to
add an entire second floor — complete
with dual bedchambers — to his
Springfield home. Depending on your
agenda, this could mean everything or
nothing. 7 .

This isn’t to say homosexuality did-
n’t exist. To the contrary, it probably
flourished in the mid-19th century, as
increasing urbanization made itieasier
for potential partners to meet.
Sometimes two men living together
meant just that. Lincoln’s predecessor
in the White House, James Buchanan, is
politely described as our only bachelor
president. He shared quarters with fel-
low Senator William King for 15 years,
until King’s death in the 13505.

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