^^^^m EmmUm 1809 1861 UMm^D w^^mi The Prairie President Living Through the Years With Lincoln By Raymond Warren A new and strikingly original bio- graphical narrative of Abrahann Lin- coln, carrying him through boyhood, his law career and his early political activities up to the time he assumed the Presidency. The story, which ad- heres carefully to the known facts of his life, is presented in the form of closely knit episodes, the unique fea- ture of which is a series of remarkable scenes in dialogue. Raymond Warren has been a Lin- coln student and collector since early youth and is the author of the current highly popular historical radio series based on the life of Lincoln which is being broadcast throughout the country. Much of the dialogue in his present work has been adapted from this series. By adopting, thus, a new method of approach which embodies the fig- ure of Lincoln faithfully and with remarkable creative insight in a re- construction of the speech and man- ners characteristic of his day, the author has achieved a warm, ani- mated portrait which enlivens with- out distorting and brings a little closer to reality the image of the greatest American. Besides being a writer, Mr. Warren has won recognition as one of the small group of artists who have ade- quately reproduced the character of Lincoln pictorially. The twenty drawings with which he has illustrated The Prairie President constitute his latest and most distinguished work. 5 ^W.V'^^x ^^^ LINCOLN ROOM UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY MEMORIAL the Class of 1901 founded by HARLAN HOYT HORNER and HENRIETTA CALHOUN HORNER THE PRAIRIE PRESIDENT Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://archive.org/details/prairiepresidentOOwarr Airalutm Lincoln. ■aA«..jA«~«Ak»«Ai~«A»~«Ari.>«>*M«A«MiA»M«A«.>«Aft»i«Aftx«AA* The PRAIRIE PRESIDENT Living Through the Years with Lincoln 1809—1861 By RAYMOND WARREN With Illustrations by the Author CHICAGO THE REILLY 8C LEE CO. THE PRAIRIE PRESIDENT COPYRIGHT 1930 BY THE REILLY & LEE CO. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, without permission of the pub- lisher, this book or parts thereof in any form. PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. ^0fi ^i ^ 7^ After the "milk-sick" epidemic had apparently run its course and taken its last fatal toll, life in the little settle- ment resumed its regular course. Thomas Lincoln was again free to divide his time between the improvement of his little farm and his two favorite pastimes, hunting and fishing. Since the arrival of Dennis Hanks with his dogs, Abe had begun to take an interest in these sports. One day they decided to "knock-off and go fishin'." The fish were biting and by noon the worms were all gone, though there were enough fish in the basket to account for them. At the suggestion of his uncle Dennis Hanks went in the woods to dig a new supply. After the older boy had disappeared within the dark shadows of the trees Thomas Lincoln sat down beside his son. "Abe," he said, "I brung your cousin Denny out here fishin' t' he'p git his mind off 'n his grief, more'n anything else. Since this terribul milk-sickness tuck away his aunt an' uncle what raised him, th' pore boy is all broke up. Fack is, I reckon I'll take him into th' cabin with us." "Gee, I wish ye would, pap!" Abe exclaimed. "I love Denny jest th' same as if he wuz my brother." "Wal, I reckon I will. Think a lot o' th' boy myself — an' yer ma wants me t' do it." 66 The Prairie President Presently the happy smile left the boy's face. "Pap, every time I think o' th' milk-sick I git skeered," he said, "not fer m'self, but fer mother. Why, if she'd git it — an' die — " the boy hesitated, his voice trembling. "Pap," he continued, "we must take arful good keer o' mother." "That we must, boy, an' we will," agreed his father. "Seems everybody 'round here's dyin' with it, Aunt Betsy an' Uncle Levi — what causes it, pap?" "Nobody seems to know." Thomas Lincoln's tones were as serious as those of his son. "Some thinks th' cows git it from eatin' pizen weeds, an' folks gits it from th' milk. That's why they calls it th' 'milk-sick.' All we knows is, it's most shore death fer them as gits it." "I don't want my mother — " "Sh — shh!" whispered Thomas Lincoln. "Here comes Denny with th' worms." ^ Jj? JjC ^ ^ One afternoon toward the end of September Abe ran up the path leading to the cabin, whistling lustily. It had been a day of triumph and he was eager to share it with his mother. "Here I am, mother," he cried, as he reached the threshold. "School was let out early to-day, 'cause Mr. Crawford's got t' go t' Gintryville this evenin'." "And where is your sister?" asked Nancy Lincoln, as she kissed the boy's forehead. "Oh, she's walkin' home with some gals — they's jest pokin' along," said Abe, with an air of masculine su- periority. "How did you get along in school t'day, Abe, dear?" "Aw, swell. Mr. Crawford says I kin read almost per- fect now." "Oh, I'm so glad! Th' Lord be praised!" The First Sorrow 67 "Jest let me show ye, mother," continued the boy eager- ly, "I want t' read ye one o' them stories out of Aesop's Fables, what Kernel Murray give me at Hardinsburg. Will ye listen, mother?" "Why, I'd love fer y' to read," smiled his mother. "I'm moughty proud o' my boy," she said. "I'll jest lay down here an' listen comfortable." Abe placed one of the stools beside the bed and opened the treasured book at a place he had marked with a ruddy oak leaf. "It's on page eighty-three," he announced, with the solemnity of a preacher giving his sermon text, "an' the name o' th' story is 'Th' Donkey and th' Image.' " Then in a monotonous tone the boy slowly began: "A donkey once carried through the streets of a far eastern city a famous wooden image, to be placed in one of the heathen temples. The crowd, as he passed along, fell upon their knees before the image. The donkey, thinking that they knelt in token of respect for himself, bristled up with pride and gave himself airs, and refused to move another step. His driver, seeing the donkey thus stop, laid his whip lustily about its hindquarters, and cried: '0 you perverse duUhead! It has not come to this, that men pay worship to a stupid donkey.' " Abe paused long enough to see his mother's smile of approval and then read the moral, "They are not wise who take to them- selves the credit due to others." The hearty laughter of the boy, which followed the read- ing of this ancient tale, stopped suddenly. "Why, what's the matter, mother?" he exclaimed. "Air ye sick? Ye ain't sick, air ye?" The woman hesitated, looked at the tense face of her boy and then toward the window above her bed. A great 68 The Prairie President pearl-tinted cloud was floating majestically against the pure blue of the autumn sky. "Yes, dear," she answered softly. "It's come — th' milk-sick. I've knowed it all day, but I been a-dreadin' t' tell ye." His mother's words affected him like a bolt of light- ning. "Oh, mother!" he sobbed, throwing his arms across her languid body and burying his face in her bosom. "Ye won't give up, will ye, mother? / aint goin' i let ye die! I won^t, I tell je/" The boy clenched his teeth and doubled his hard little fists. "An' you've got t' help me." The pleading tone returned. "Won't ye, mother?" "I am ready fer whatever God wills, my boy." "I don't want ye t' say that!" Abe strove vainly to keep back the tears that felt as though they were burning holes through his cheeks. "I want ye t' fight — an never give up! Why, ye can't die, mother — ye jest cant. Pap and Sarah an' me needs ye too bad. Say ye'll try t' git well — please say it fer me — please — jest say it!" he pleaded. "Of course I'll try, Abe." And the woman's smile mer- cifully deceived the little boy. Abe went about his daily tasks with a heavy heart, and as the days passed he became enveloped in a sort of mental haze. Life seemed a horrible unreality. His father had said that they must put their trust in God. Well, he would go to God and beg Him to spare his mother. Every day and night he poured out prayers in the simple words of a child. For four days no change in his mother's condition was apparent. She was very weak, but suffered no pain. Were their prayers heard — and would they be answered? The first symptom of failure in circulation Sarah and Abe The First Sorrow 69 met by placing hot stones at the feet of their mother. They would rub her for hours at a time, until the coldness disappeared. On the afternoon of the sixth day Nancy Lincoln talked to her son for a long time. She talked about strange things; about principalities, and powers; about things present and things to come; and she told Abe that many good things would come to him if he believed in God and served Him, and that the best possible way to serve Him was to serve the people on earth, for they were all His children, whom he loved, every one. Abe talked, too. He said that he believed in God and that God had been awfully good to him by giving him a mother who was so like an angel. He confided his childish ambitions and promised that when he became a man he would "git rich" and build for her "a fine brick house with big white pillars like Colonel Murray's." Finally, when Abe's supply of talk was temporarily ex- hausted, Nancy Lincoln said, "I want ye t' read t' me ag'in. I jest want t' keep on hearin' yer voice." "What shall I read for ye, mother?" he asked eagerly. "Some more o' them fables?" "I want ye t' read th' Bible this time." "What story in th' Bible, mother?" Nancy Lincoln smiled. "No story this time, child. I want ye t' read th' Twenty-third Psalm." "All right, dear mother," said Abe, and reached for the bulky family Bible. Seating himself on the stool, which had now become a permanent fixture by his mother's bed, the boy fumbled through the pages, located the Psalm and commenced bravely, "Th' Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want — " Then the tears came again. "Oh, 70 The Prairie President mother," he sobbed, "I jest can't read them words — now! W-why did He leave this arful milk-sick come t' ye, if He's yer Shepherd? Why — why — why?" "Sh — sh! Because He knows best, Abe. They air not sad words. They air words of hope — an' promise. An' they sound all the sweeter t' my soul, comin' from the lips of my precious boy." Abe drew his sleeve across his face to rid himself of the tears. Then he cleared his throat and continued: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside th' still waters; He restoreth my soul; He lead- eth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through th' valley of th' shadow of — of — " A sob burst from the trembling little body. The book fell to the floor. "Oh, I'm afeerd ye're givin' up," cried the boy. "But ye won't, will ye, mother?" "No, no, child, I won't give up. I'm jest ready fer anything He — " "But I don't want ye t' say that! Ye must fight! Yer mustn't be ready — ye mustn't never think about dyin'! / wont let ye die!*' On the morning of the seventh day Nancy Lincoln was unusually bright. "Why, yer better — ain't ye, mother?" Abe asked anx- iously. "Yes, my boy, I'm much better. I'm goin' t' set up after a while. I'm tired a-layin' down." Nancy turned her wan face toward her husband: "Tom!" "Yes, Nancy-gal?" "Hev' ye got yer accorjun handy? I'd like ye t' play fer me." The First Sorrow 71 "What d'ye want me t' play?" asked Tom, who had already taken up the wheezing instrument. "My favorite hymn. You know the one." Her husband played the old song which Nancy had so often sung in the happier days in Kentucky. Sarah and Abe sat silently at the foot of the bed. The little girl looked toward the floor, but the boy gazed fixedly at his mother. He was the first to discover the smile that had gradually transformed her countenance. "Look, pap — Sarah — she's gettin' better!" he cried. "Mother's gettin' well!" Sarah whispered, "Is she, father?" "Yes, children." It was Nancy who answered the ques- tion. "I'm gittin' better. I'm goin' t' git up in a minute. Take my hand, Abe." "Look, pap!" whispered the boy. "Look how she's smilin' — she's gettin' well!" "Is she, father?" Sarah repeated. Thomas Lincoln slowly lifted his face. "Children," he said, "can't ye understand? Look! Look at her eyes! Can't ye see? Yer mother's lookin' through th' white gates into Heaven!" "Be good to your father, my son," whispered the dying woman, still holding the boy's hand tightly. "Yes, mother," sobbed Abe, "I alius will." *' — and love your sister," she continued. "Be a man among men, Abe." Nancy's thin fingers were now smooth- ing the boy's shock of coarse brown hair. "Be a man among men, for your mother's sake." Her voice was now but a whisper; "Tom — Sarah — " "Nancy! Oh, Nancy! Yer leavin' us — " The dying woman smiled again. "But only for a little 72 The Prairie President while, Tom." Her eyes rested upon her child'-en: "We'll all be together ag'in," she continued softly. "It won't be long — it jest seems that away now. We'll be happy, too, happier than we ever been." Her head slowly dropped back into its place on the pillow, but the smile remained fixed. The realization of perfect peace had come to Nancy Lincoln. It was the fifth of October, 1818. Even the luxury of grief was denied the little family. Inside the cabin Sarah was mending mother's best dress, and down in the woods Thomas Lincoln, carpenter, as- sisted by his son, was hard at work; the buzz of his rip-saw and the blows of Abe's hammer sent echoes through the trees. Suddenly the hammer ceased pounding. It dropped into the grass at the boy's feet. "I kain't drive another nail," he sobbed. "I feel jest like somebody's drivin' 'em through my heart." "Abe, boy, we must," his father answered huskily. "It's a-hurtin' me mighty bad, too. But it's th' last thing we kin ever do t' show our love fer her — t' make it all purty an' smooth outen this fine, dark wood." After saw- ing another plank, the father continued, "Ye wouldn't put her in the cold ground an' throw dirt right ag'in' her, would ye?" "No — no — ye know I wouldn't!" The boy's spirit re- turned. "Yes, I'll keep at it! We must make it beautiful, mustn't we?" He stoically resumed his work. "But that ain't all we kin do. We kin alius love her, jest as if she wuz still with us, an' we kin alius keep our promises to her." Then he broke into sobbing again. "I won't fergit — I won't never fergit my mother." Abraham Lincoln did not forget his mother. Through- out all the long years that were yet to come, in hours of The First Sorrow 73 loneliness and despair, the precious memory of her, vision- like, would inspire him with courage to carry on. In the slender figure of Nancy Hanks Lincoln a new force had appeared in human history. The peasant woman of the old world has ever taught her children content- ment with their lot; and patient millions beyond the seas daily bend their backs to the same burdens their fathers have borne for thousands of years. Free America has given the race a new peasant woman. Born among the lowliest of her kind, she walks earth's way with her feet in the dust and her head among the stars. This one died young, in a crude log cabin beside a deep wood; but not before she had kindled a fire of discontent in the breast of her son — divine discontent that only God could extinguish. CHAPTER VI SECOND MOTHER WINTER came and the grave of Nancy Hanks Lin- coln was covered over with snow, but the little boy continued his regular pilgrimages to that hallowed spot. His mother was there — no, she wasn't — she was in Heaven! Abe's thoughts shifted between the earth and skies. There were times when he could feel that his mother hovered over him, very near. And hadn't she said that they would be together again, in Heaven — that it wouldn't be long, but would just seem so now? And the little boy's tears would fall upon the snow-clad mound that looked as though it were hewn from marble. Spring came, the snow changed into water, and the apparently dead grass took on life, just as Abe's mother had assured him that she would do; and one memorable afternoon the Lincoln family and their neighbors received the same assurance from a more learned authority — Parson Elkins, "and he'd orter know." On his first trip of 1819 over his long circuit, Reverend David Elkins from Kentucky came that way. As he was a man of strong sympathy it was an easy matter to pre- vail upon him to preach a sermon above the grave of Nancy Lincoln. During his long discourse, in which he quoted much Scriptural proof, this devout follower of the first Baptist whose voice cried out in the wilderness gave a graphic picture of that place where "good people like Mis' Lincoln go to," and a vivid description of what happened to those who were bad. 74 Second Mother 75 The year which followed the death of Nancy Lincoln remained in the memory of her son as the most deplor- able period of his life. At this time the condition of the family seems to have been of a squalor but little removed from the barbaric. Neighbors said that the "Lincolns had gone plumb to seed." Imagination must picture the ex- istence of Thomas Lincoln and the vagrant Dennis Hanks living with the girl and boy throughout the year of 1819. Lincoln, when President, described it as "pretty pinching times." On a dark and cold afternoon during the second week of December, 1819, Abe Lincoln sat on the floor of the cabin with his back resting against one side of the fire- place, so that its dancing flames might illuminate the book he was reading attentively. The name of the book was Pilgrim's Progress. In two months the boy would be eleven years old, and all the neighbors agreed that he was "growin' like a weed." "Oh, Abe!" called his sister, who had been peering out of the window into the colorless gloom of the forest. "Whatch' want, Sarah?" "Somebody's a-comin' up th' trail — 'pears t' be comin' here." Abe closed the book and joined his sister at the window. "Yep," he said, "it's ole man Simpson." "Who is he?" asked the girl. "Oh, he's from over nigh Big Pigeon Crick — friend o' pap's." They watched the man dismount and fasten his bony horse to the cabin. "Air ye home in thor?" he called. Sarah threw back the latch and opened the door. The man who entered reminded Abe of a picture he had once 76 The Prairie President seen of Rip Van Winkle on his return from the twenty- year nap. " 'Lo, Abe!" he said. "Whar's yer pa? Ain't he back from Kintuck yet?" "Not yet," answered Abe, "but it's time he wuz. Said he'd be back not later'n Saturday, an' that's t'day. This is Sarah — she's my sister. She does th' housekeepin' an' cooks our meals since — since mother died." "I'm glad t' meet ye, Sarah," said the old man, ex- tending a horny hand to the girl. "My name's Jeb Simp- son, but I reckon ye've her'n of me already," he chuckled. "Thank ye, Mr. Simpson," Sarah replied. "I heerd Abe speak of ye jest now." The visitor sat down and drew out his pipe, lighting it with an ember from the fireplace. "Didn't yer pa let on what he was goin' t' Kintuck fer?" he asked. "No, he didn't," replied Abe. "He jest said on some bizness." "We been wonderin' about it a-plenty," said Sarah, "and we been lonesome without him." "Ye don't say!" The old man chuckled. "Wal, I cal- culate I knows what was on his mind; but s'long as he didn't say nothin' 'tain't my privilege, I reckon. You'll know more when he gits yere." "Been a-huntin', Mr. Simpson?" asked Sarah. "That I hev, gal. Started out early this mawnin'. Didn't have no luck, though, till I tramped over yon, 'mongst them buckeyes nigh th' ravine. Thor I knocked over a big buck an' I was moughty glad I hed m' boss along, bein's I was too fer t' ha' toted th' buck." "Pap alius says you kin ketch game when thor ain't any," said Abe. Second Mother 77 "Wal, that ain't fur from th' truth, at that." Abe's last remark gave the old man just the opportunity he wanted to relate some of his fanciful hunting tales. For the next hour the children were entertained with crude but graphic accounts of buffaloes, bears, and wolves; of deeds of prowess and bravery. Finally, when the old hunter's supply of stories was exhausted he began to yawn. "Reckon I better be hittin' th' trail fer home," he said. "Th' old woman'll be expectin' me, an' I got two hours' o' stiddy ridin' ahead o' me." Abe opened the door to let the visitor out and both children stood in the doorway and watched him mount. "Hit's too bad thet a boss kain't walk as fast as a man kin," Simpson grumbled, as he settled himself in the sad- dle. "It hinders a feller when he's in a hurry." Looking toward the two forlorn little figures in the doorway, he continued, "Good-bye, children. Remember me to yer pa when he gits back. Git-up, Jinny." The old man and his horse jogged down the trail into the mist of twilight. "Mr. Simpson must be arful old — he's so bent," Sarah remarked to her brother as he closed and barred the door to shut out the cold air. "Mebbe," replied Abe, "but pap says he got them stooped shoulders of his'n 'cause he didn't build his cabin high enough, and cudn't stand up in it without buttin' his head ag'in' th' rafters." Sarah laughed. "He's a purty good shot though," the boy continued, "an' he uster fight Injuns — killed heaps of 'em. And he fit at New Orleans — killed heaps o' British thor, so he says." "So he says," echoed Sarah. The children ate their scanty supper. It consisted of 78 The Prairie President corn pone, which their mother had taught Sarah to bake, and a piece of salted pork. "Reckon I'll wash th' dishes," said Sarah. "Will you wipe 'em, Abe?" Abe replied as best he could with his mouth still full of the tough rubbery pork. "Course I will." Soon the girl began to sing at her task: "In Scarlet Town where I was born, There was a fair maid dwelling. Made every youth cry well away; Her name was Barbara Allen." A change had come over the face of Abraham Lincoln, the boy; a sad, haunting expression that his sister had not discerned. "I wish't ye wouldn't sing that, Sarah," he said. "It — it sounds jest like mother did, when she uster sing it." The boy turned his face toward the fire, so that the girl might not see the tears starting down his cheeks. "I — I jest can't stand t' hear it. Reckon I won't never git uster her not bein' here." He seated himself on his stool by the fire and covered his face with his arms. "I'm sorry, Abe," said the girl gently, patting his back. "I won't never sing it no more." Before sunup next morning the lonely Lincoln chil- dren were startled from their slumbers by mysterious sounds outside. Abe hastily pulled on his deerskin breech- es and ran to the window. "It's a four-hoss wagon," he cried, "an' it's stoppin' here." "A four-hoss wagon comin' here?" "Yep. Wonder what it kin mean." In the cold gray dawn a heavily loaded wagon, drawn 4 The apparently dead grass took on life, just as A he' mother had assured him she would do. Second Mother 79 by four sturdy horses was drawing up near the cabin. From various parts of its canvas covering, at each end and under the sides, heads were peeping out. Attached with ropes to the sides of the wagon were boxes, bundles, and numerous miscellaneous household utensils. "Whoa!" called the driver. "Whoa, thor!" Immediately there was an exodus from the wagon. From their sizes, Abe could see that some of the figures were children. Then he recognized the unmistakable form of his father assisting a tall lady to alight. Presently a great yellow streak appeared across the eastern horizon, and then it grew steadily lighter. Yes, it was his father. Abe was positive of that. And the children were two girls and a boy. What could it mean? As Abe opened the door he heard the boy call, "Come on, Betsy! Come on, Tildy! We're thor!" "Hold on, children! — Don't be in sech a hurry!" It was the voice of the woman who had remained standing beside the wagon. "Why, it's Mis' Johnston!" exclaimed Sarah, who had joined her brother on the cabin step. "An' John an' Betsy an' Matilda!" she added. "They're from 'Lizabethtown. I remember 'em all well. An' look, there's pap a-comin' with 'em! What kin it mean? "Dunno," answered Abe. "We better run on out and see." As the two Lincoln children walked timidly toward the ones from the wagon, the tallest girl said excitedly, "It's Sarah an' Abe!" "Yes, that's us," said Abe seriously. "My name's Matilda Johnston," continued the girl. "Your father's gone and married our mother, an' we've 80 The Prairie President all come out here t' Indianny t' live with yuh. An' we've come all the way from E-town in Mr. Grume's four-hoss wagon!" Abe gave a long whistle. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "My pap's married your mother?" "So thats it!" Sarah said, eyeing the woman critically. Thomas Lincoln had remained in the background near the wagon with the woman and the driver of the horses. Seeing that the "ice was broke," he called his children, "Sarah — Abe! Come on over here an' meet th' new ma I brung ye!" Abe and his sister bashfully approached the woman. She was quite tall, big-boned, and rather stern looking; but the smile that came over her face when the Lincoln children stood before her did much toward dispelling their doubts. "Ghildren," she said, "I know hit's been a great sur- prise to you — your father ought to have told you before- hand." "How could I?" said Thomas Lincoln, smiling. "How wuz I t' know ye'd hev me?" The driver of the horses joined the group. He was a short, stocky man, with a beard. "Tom," he chuckled, "I've knowed Sally Bush — gal an' woman — fer twenty year; she's wuth two o' ye. Fack is, I'm surprised she did take ye." "Why should ye be. Grume?" laughed the bridegroom. "Didn't my sister take you?" The new Mrs. Lincoln drew her stepson and stepdaugh- ter to her; placing one of her capable arms around each, she said, "Abe — Sarah: I'm your new mother, and I intend to be a real mother to you, in every way, jest as Second Mother 81 if you was my natural-born children. Do you think you can larn t' love me like a real mother — if I'm good to you?" "Yes," said the girl. "I been a-wantin' t' have a mother again, like other girls." Abe's reply was not as spontaneous. "Y-e-s," he said finally, "an' — an' I'll try t' be a good son t' ye." "And I know that you will be," the woman answered with a smile. "Your father has already told me what good children you both are." "S'cuse me. Mis' Johnston — Mis' Linken, I mean," said Grume. "We better be gittin' them goods an' chatties o' your'n unloaded. I've done 'bout everything now I kin fer ye an' Tom, an' I want t' kivver them fifteen mile back t' th' ferry 'fore sundown." "All right, Mr. Grume," replied the woman, as she re- leased the children. "We shorely 'predates what you done, haulin' us all that way." "Don't mention it," replied Grume. "I reckon it'll be th' last neighborly ack I kin do fer you an' Tom." "Gome on, here, Thomas — John," called the new mis- tress of the Lincoln household. "You must help Mr. Grume unload th' wagon. An' I want t' pitch right in an' make this cabin a little more fit for humans t' live in." "Linken, what Sally'll do t' ye an' them younguns '11 be a-plenty," chuckled Grume. "Wisht I cud stay an' see the civilizin' process set in." Thomas Lincoln ignored Grume's raillery. "All right, let's git busy," he said shortly. By this time the sun was peeping through the wintry clouds. The furniture that came from the wagon was a mar- 82 The Prairie President velous sight to Sarah and Abe. They had never seen any- thing like it. "Oh, Abe," cried his sister, "jest look at that table! How purty an' shiny it is!" "Jest wait till you see the rest of th' things," said Matilda Johnston proudly. The men were unloading the Johnston dishes, white ones with blue borders. "Be keerful with them," ad- monished Sally. The next item was a large chest with a fancy carved top and bright, shiny brass knobs. "Hold 'er!" grunted Thomas Lincoln, who was supporting its weight as Grume slid it from the wagon. "Hold 'er." "Oh, what a wonderful furniture piece that is!" ex- claimed Sarah. "It's a chest of drawers," Matilda explained. "Some folks in 'Lizabethtown calls 'em highboys. It cost forty dollars when it was new." "Forty dollars!" said Abe. "Gee! Why, that'd buy a fine farm here in Indianny!" ^ ^ ^ jfe ^ Even the callous Thomas Lincoln had finally been un- able to endure longer the manner of living that had fol- lowed the death of Nancy. He had decided he must get another wife, and get one quick. Without telling his children the nature of his errand, he had journeyed back to Elizabethtown. There the woman he had first courted, Sarah Bush, still resided. She was now a widow, her hus- band, Daniel Johnston, having died four years before, leaving her with three children to provide for. Thomas Lincoln had made quick work of his second courtship. He reminded Mrs. Johnston of their mutual Second Mother 83 bereavement and proposed that they get married "right off." The widow hesitated, saying she owed various bills in Elizabethtown and could not change her status before they were paid. Lincoln, being in funds, offered to pay the debts if they were within his means. Their total was but twelve dollars. He paid it and then they were mar- ried. Grume couldn't remain to see "the civilizin' process set in," but it was up to his expectation in every respect. The new Mrs. Lincoln was blessed with energy and sense; she was a good housekeeper with a passion for cleanliness. The arrival of his stepmother marked the beginning of a new epoch in the life of Abraham Lincoln. ^ sp H* H* ^ There was a loud groan from the man. "We kain't very well do it to-night," he said. "Now as we've got the door hung, an' them winders fixed, me an' Denny figgered we'd knock off fer the evenin' an' go on a little hunt. We ain't been a-huntin' since ye come, Sally." "You will not," the woman replied emphatically. "I'm runnin' things here now, Thomas Lincoln, an' I'm goin' to run 'em right! The condition I found this cabin an' these younguns in was a fright. It shows you can't run things. Here you were, a good carpenter, with a big woods t' supply you with free lumber, an' this cabin ain't even got a floor! But it's goin' to have, an' don't you fergit it. You're not goin' huntin' this night, Thomas Lincoln." "Now, Sally, ain't I done promised ye we'd git busy on th' floor in the mornin'? We kain't do nothin' more this evenin' so we mought jest as well hunt a little." "Yes, there is something ye kin do. You an' Dennis air goin' t' whitewash these walls, this very nightF' 84 The Prairie President "Oh, we kain't do that t'night. Why, the stuff ain't even made up." Thomas Lincoln felt secure now. "Oh, yes it is!" the woman shot back. "I mixed it up m'self, while you and Dennis was rippin' them logs." Thomas Lincoln capitulated. "Wal, all right, Sally. But I'm goin' t' lay down thor an' rest a bit fust. I'm dog tired." He yawned as he threw himself on the bed he had secured with his new wife. "While you're restin' we'll jest have some Bible read- in'," said Sally. "There ain't goin' t' be no heathens in this house. Oh, Abe!" she called. "Fetch th' Bible!" "Ye hain't 'cludin' me in that, air ye, Mis' Linken?" said Dennis Hanks, who had just entered the cabin with an armload of firewood. "I don't keer much fer religion," he added, as he dropped the wood on the hearth. "Dennis Hanks, I said there aint goin' to be no heathens in this house, and that certainly includes you." Mrs. Lincoln eyed Dennis sternly as she continued. "Everybody here's goin' to be a Christian, whether they like it or not." "She means jest what she says, Denny," said Thomas Lincoln, and he shook with laughter. Sally looked at her husband. "I'm goin' t' have plenty of bilin' hot water fer you an' Dennis 'fore ye go t' bed," she said sharply. She seemed to know just how to end her husband's mirth. "An' them youngun's of your'n is goin' t' school, Thomas Lincoln. Times air changin', an' folks in America ain't goin' t' be able t' git along if they ain't eddicated." "Oh, awright, Sally," sighed her husband. "We won't argy over it. They kin go." Abe had found the Bible. "Oh, goody!" he cried. "I been wantin' t' go back t' school more'n anything." Second Mother 85 "I know you do, Abe," the woman replied sympatheti- cally, "and I'll see that you do." "Your're a real mother, all right," declared the boy, "An' I love you." "I'm moughty glad t' hear you say that, Abe," smiled his stepmother. "Now, instead of me readin' them Scrip- tures, supposin' you read 'em." A happy expression came over the boy's face. "Yes, Abe," said his father, who was still stretched out on the bed. "I'd kinda like t' hear ye read 'em m'self." "Go on, Abe! Le's hear ye do it!" Dennis Hanks urged. Sally Lincoln opened the bulky book to a page well thumbed by repeated use, and handed it to the boy. "Here, Abe," she said, "It's from the 'pistles of Saint Paul. It's my favorite passages, an' I hope they'll become your'n. Now start there at that big figger thirteen an' read straight through till you come t' th' big figger fourteen." Abe took the book and seated himself at his accustomed place. "A Wright," he said. "Here I go: 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not char- ity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge: and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothin.' " "Amen!" said Sarah Lincoln. " 'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' " "Amen!" said Sarah Lincoln. "Amen!" said Thomas Lincoln. 86 The Prairie President " 'Charity sufFereth long, and is kind ; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. " 'Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil. " 'Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; " 'Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things. " 'Charity never faileth; but whether there be prophe- cies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. " 'For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. " 'But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. " 'When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child: But when I became a man, I put away childish things. " 'For now I see through a glass darkly; but then, face to face: now I know in part; but then I shall know even as I am known. " 'And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.' " Abe closed the book. "Amen!" said Sally Lincoln. "Amen!" said Thomas Lincoln. "Amen!" said Dennis Hanks. CHAPTER VII "SCHOOL DAYS" IN the pioneer days of Illinois and Indiana, when enough cabins were grouped together to be considered a settlement, a traveling scholar would usually drift in and set about the establishment of a school. These were always subscription schools; tuition was about six shil- lings ($1.50) a quarter, for which the pupils were taught spelling, reading, writing and arithmetic, and sometimes a crude form of etiquette. They were called "blab" or "loud schools," the children studying all their lessons vocally, which was deemed the only proof that they were studing at all. Like the homes, these schools were built of round logs; beaten dirt ordinarily served as a floor and the windows let in a diff'used light through oiled paper. These primi- tive schoolhouses were often built on slopes high enough to allow hogs to wallow under the floor and fill the room with their fleas. The seats were made of split logs, flat side up, supported from the curved underside by pegs driven into the four corners. They had no backs and when first made were uncomfortably full of splinters; but these soon were worn away or absorbed. A school week consisted of six days of nine long hours each. No scholar was permitted to attempt reading or writing until after he had made three tedious journeys through the spelling book and had mastered every "jaw- breaker" in it. Whipping was the one correctional method; mistakes and breaches of discipline were punished by a 87 88 The Prairie President generous application of the pliant hickory to boys and girls alike, whether they were two feet tall or six. When there were enough children in the Pigeon Creek settlement to justify starting a school, Andrew Crawford opened one. Like all the others it was a subscription school, the teacher taking his pay in skins and farm produce. Spelling, reading, writing and ciphering to the single rule of three were taught in the haphazard manner of the time and place. Abraham and Sarah Lincoln had attended this school for a few weeks during the autumn of 1818, but had been withdrawn after the death of their mother. True to his promise, when spring came Thomas Lincoln "started Abe and Sarah into school ag'in." At this time Andrew Crawford's school had reached the peak of the enrollment of its brief existence. On the first afternoon of Abe's and Sarah's second week as scholars, there were fourteen children present, ranging from two tiny twin girls of seven years to a hulking, stupid boy of nineteen. The only pair of shoes in the long-walled room were the coarse cowhide brogans worn by Crawford who had, since becoming established as "the pedagogue of Pigeon Creek," shaved off his whiskers and acquired a snuff colored "swaller-tail" coat. The room was filled with the droning sound of the daily arithmetic exercise, in which all the pupils participated. "Twelve times four air forty-eight!" "Twelve times five air sixty!" "Twelve times six air seventy-two!" "Twelve times seven air eighty-four!" "Twelve times eight air ninety-six!" "Twelve times nine air one hunnerd an' eight!" "School Days" 89 "Twelve times ten air one hunnerd an' twenty!" Following this a sigh of relief came from fourteen throats. "Wal," grunted Crawford, "if you scholars are drilled long enough on them tables I reckon you'll get 'em." Picking up a somewhat tattered book, he continued. "Now fer the' practical problems, which I will give down the line as usual." Turning to Matilda Johnston, who was at the head of the line, he read in a loud, solemn tone: "If Emma has four pieces of ribbon of ten yards each, how many yards has she in all?" "Forty yards," answered the girl. "Correck," grunted the schoolmaster. "How many apples are there in four dozen?" "Forty — er — forty-six!" haltingly replied a freckled- faced boy who stood next to Matilda. "Wrong, as usual!" snapped Crawford. "Go set down! Next!" "Forty-eight!" the boy third in line answered, as the one with the freckles returned to his seat amid the half- suppressed titters of his companions. "Correck! Next! How many pecks air there in 'leven bushel?" "Forty-four," answered Abraham Lincoln. "Correck! Next! At five cents a quart, how much will one gallon of oil cost?" "Two bits, sir!" answered Stark Roach, the overgrown lummox. Crawford groaned feelingly. "Wal, Stark, Fm nigh convinced you're hopeless. 'Pears as you jest can't larn 'rithmetic. Go thor an' set on th' dunce stool," he added severely. 90 The Prairie President Stark walked sadly to the stool and climbed on it. This piece of home-made school equipment evidently had not been designed to accommodate a boy of his size, and it was with some difficulty that he was able to maintain his seat. A ripple of laughter went through the room and one boy was unable to hold back a loud squawk. "That will do!" Crawford roared. "Don't fergit thor's some o' them limber hickorys still over thor in the corner ■ — and th' woods is plump full of 'em." This suggestion restored immediate quiet, and the schoolmaster resumed the lesson. "I will repeat the last problem. At five cents a quart, how much will a gallon of oil cost?" "Twenty cents, sir," replied Sarah Lincoln. "Correck." The schoolmaster paused and blew his nose sonorously, then continued. "How many days are there in six weeks?" "Forty-two," said John Johnston. "Correck." Assuming his most dignified attitude the schoolmaster addressed his pupils. "Seems as 'rithmetic an' ciphern'll always be done better by girls than boys," he said. "And how to 'count for it I don't know — 'specially when th' boys kain't expect t' git satisfactorily through life without it, when often as not th' girls kin. 'Rithmetic Class is dismissed." Crawford pulled out his large silver watch, looked at it. "Th' hands of the clock air beginnin' to p'int toward five, so school will now be dismissed as usual." This was the signal for the pupils to chant: "The Lord keep thee and me, while we are absent, one from the other!" "Ring the bell, Lucius," said Crawford. Lucius rang the bell with enthusiasm, as the children "School Days" 91 grabbed their books and lunch baskets and hurried from the room — also with enthusiasm. The schoolmaster yawned; he, too, felt a joyous sense of relief that the arduous school day was ended. "Mr. Crawford," came a whining voice from behind him, "Kin-kin I come off 'n this here stool now? My setter's feelin' numb an' one o' my laigs is crampin' arful bad!" It was Stark Roach, who had remained forgotten on the dunce stool. The boy's words were amply verified by the distorted, woebegone expression on his face. The schoolmaster eyed the culprit solemnly. "I reckon you kin go," he said, "but b' rights I orter make ye set thor fer another hour." Stark's sorrowful expression vanished immediately as he sprang from his perch. "Thank ye, Mr. Crawford!" he cried as he ran toward the bright out-of-doors, and Andrew Crawford smiled to himself as he heard the ex-dunce shouting to his companions, "Hey, fellers! Wait fer me! I'm comin'!" ^ ^ ^ Hs Hf After one season Crawford became discouraged, closed his school and sought a more remunerative occupation. A year or two after the arrival of his stepmother, the sec- ond school that Lincoln was to attend in Indiana was opened by Azel W. Dorsey. At this school Abe perfected his clear, distinct handwriting, which was so like that of Washington and Jefferson. Here, too, he learned to spell with accuracy. His newly acquired ability to read with ease and fluency, however, was more important to him at this period, for it opened to him a new world — the world of books. Reading became the passion of his youth. It was to remain the passion of the man. 92 The Prairie President The books that Lincoln read and re-read in his boyhood had a marked influence upon his life. First of all was the Bible, the basis of his pure literary style, and the founda- tion of his system of righteousness expressed in law. Pilgrim's Progress, Aesop's Fables, Weems' Life of Wash- ington, Robison Crusoe, Franklin's Autobiography and Grimshaw's History of the United States completed the list. Parson Weems' Life of Washington has little merit as critical biography; but it did good to young Abraham Lin- coln, nevertheless. The boy became the owner of this book through an accident. He borrowed it from Josiah Craw- ford, a neighboring farmer, and after reading it far into the night placed the volume in an unchinked crack be- tween the logs of the cabin. A sudden storm blew rain through the opening and damaged the book. Abe offered to pay for it, and did so by pulling fodder three days for Crawford at the rate of twenty-five cents a day. During this period Lincoln also read another book which had qualities making for general culture above any other work he is known to have read. This book, popularly called "Scott's Lessons," was printed under the formal and formidable title: Lessons in Elocution, or Selections of Pieces in Prose and Verse for the Improvement of Youth in Reading and Speaking, and was written and compiled by William Scott, of Edinburgh. It opens with short essays on public speaking. Scott urged simplicity and intelli- gence of gesture, distinctiveness of enunciation, right placing of emphasis, proper pausing at the end of one sentence before beginning the next, and other advice as to the technique of delivery. This book also contained what the compiler called "Lessons in Reading," which con- "School Days" 93 sisted of brief extracts from the classics, both ancient and modern. Besides these, Lincoln is known to have borrowed and studied The Kentucky Preceptor, a compilation for school reading by an unknown scholar, not unlike Scott's Lessons, It contained short essays on "Credulity," "Haughtiness," "Industry," and "Indulgence;" one on "Liberty" and one on "Slavery" (but with careful avoidance of negro slavery as then found in the United States) ; anecdotes of Indians; Gouverneur Morris' funeral oration "over the corpse" of General Hamilton, and also Eliphalet Knott's eulogy of Hamilton; and Jefferson's inaugural speech of 1801. This volume was padded with scenes lifted from English plays and poems, and gave no credit of authorship save in one instance. According to the widow of the owner of this volume, from it, "Lincoln larned his speeches." While at Dorsey's school Abe began to write poetry. His first effort, the following crude doggerel, is on the fly-leaf of one of his old school-books, which is still in existence: Abraham Lincoln, his hand and pen. He will be good but God knows when. Throughout his school days, and for several years after- ward, he continued to compose quaint bits of verse, which he usually carried to an interested neighbor, William Wood, for comment and criticism. Of the story of Adam and Eve, Abe composed his own poetical version, of which these form the last three stanzas: The woman was not taken From Adam's feet, we see, So he must not abuse her. The meaning seems to be. 94 The Prairie President The woman was not taken From Adam's head, we know, To show she must not rule him — 'Tis evidently so. The woman was not taken From under Adam's arm, So she must be protected From injuries and harm. Indeed, his progress at school may be gauged somewhat by the rising quality of his verse as his studies progressed. For example: Time, what an empty vapor 'tis. And days, how swift they are, Swift as an Indian arrow Fly on like a shooting star. The present moment just, is here Then slides away in haste That we can never say they're ours But only say they're past. In manual labor, Abraham Lincoln was not regarded as industrious. "He was no hand to work like killing snakes," declared a Spencer Creek woman. "He worked for me," said John Romaine, "but he was always readin' and thinkin.' I used to get mad at him for it. I say he was awful lazy. He would laugh and talk, crack jokes and tell stories all the time — didn't love work half as much as his pay." Yes, Abe loved to read more than he loved to plow. He liked to lie down in the shade of a big tree and study, moving with its shadow as the sun shifted. He did his sums on short boards, shingles, and odds and ends of lum- ber reserved for kindling. Often he "ciphered" on the wooden shovel which was one of the fireplace utensils. School, days, for the majority of us, have also been sweetheart days, and young Abraham Lincoln was no exception. "School Days" 95 When the shovel had been covered so many times that erasure wouldn't clean it, he would shave the surface and begin anew with his charcoal upon the fresh wood. People, young and old, not only liked but trusted as well this tall, unusual boy. He never lied nor tried to shirk the blame for a mistake or misdeed. Above the door of the little log schoolhouse a fine pair of antlers were fastened. One evening Lincoln thoughtlessly seized two of the prongs and attempted to swing back and forth from them. His weight was too much and the antlers broke and he fell to the floor with the ends in his hands. The next morning when Andrew Crawford arrived he was very angry and demanded to know who had broken the antlers. Without hesitating, Lincoln confessed. "I did it," he said. "I did not mean to do it, but I hung on it and it broke," adding slyly that he had almost broken something else. "I wouldn't have done it if I'd thought it'd broke." Abraham Lincoln's attendance at school was prompt and his popularity on the playground was as pronounced as his unexcelled record in the classroom. He was the best speller, the best penman, and perhaps the best scholar of his age among the boys of the neighborhood. Although his attainments were meagre, they were substantial; and they exerted a permanent influence on his future. Poor as were his facilities for an education, and scant though the qualifications of his instructors, Abraham Lincoln learned much that was of great value during the days of his school- ing in the woods of Indiana. He early showed evidence of that kindness of heart which distinguished him throughout his life. Cruelty to animals was his particular aversion. As a very little boy, back in Kentucky, he had reproved another lad for plac- 96 The Prairie President ing glowing coals on the backs of turtles. While attending these various backwoods schools, part of his practice toward the attainment of literary skill took the form of compositions written against illtreatment of animals. ilf ^^ !^f ^Sf ^If School days, for the majority of us, have also been sweetheart days, and young Abraham Lincoln was no exception. Tradition and records have handed down sev- eral stories of his "puppy love" affairs. The earliest of these concerns a little girl whose family passed through Spencer County in a covered wagon. The boy never saw her again, but she was the heroine of his day dreams for many months. We have this early episode in the evolution of Lincoln's relations with women, in his own words, as he told it to T. W. S. Kidd, editor of the Springfield Morning Monitor. "Did you ever write out a story in your mind?" he said. "I did when I was a little codger. One day a wagon with a lady and two girls and a man broke down near us, and while they were fixing up, they cooked in our kitchen. The woman had books and read us stories, and they were the first I had ever heard. I took a great fancy to one of the girls; and when they were gone, I thought about her a great deal, and one day when I was sitting out in the sun by the house, I wrote out a story in my mind. I thought I took my father's horse and followed the wagon, and finally found it, and they were surprised to see me. I talked with the girl and persuaded her to elope with me, and that night I put her on my horse, and we started off across the prairie. After several hours we came to a camp; and when we rode up we found it was the one we had left a few hours before, and we went in. The next night we "School Days" 97 tried again, and the same thing happened. The horse came back to the same place; and then we concluded that we ought not to elope. I stayed until I had persuaded her father to give her to me. I always meant to write that story out and publish it, and I began once; but I concluded it was not much of a story. But I think it was the begin- ning of love with me." And long, long afterward, Mrs. Allen Gentry would recall the days when, as little Miss Anna "Katie" Robey, she and Abe took long strolls together, during which he discoursed on such queer subjects as "astronomy." "One evening," she relates, in referring to one of their walks, "I said to Abe that the sun was going down. He said to me, 'That's not so; it don't really go down, it just seems so. The earth turns from west to east, and the revolution of the earth carries us under, as it were; we do the sinking, as you call it. The sun, as to us, is com- paratively still. The sun's sinking is only in appearance.' "I replied, 'Abe, what a fool you are!' I know now that / was the fool, not Lincoln. And I am now thoroughly sat- isfied that Abe knew the general laws of astronomy and the movements of the heavenly bodies. He was better read than the world knows, or is likely to know exactly. No man could talk to me as he did that night unless he had known something of geography as well as astronomy. He often talked to me of what he had been reading — seemed to read it out of the book as he went along — did so to others. He was the learned boy among us unlearned folks. He took great pains to explain — could do so simply. He was diffident, then, too." Katie Robey liked Abe Lincoln immensely; but she was careful to say that they merely liked each other and 98 The Prairie President were never really in love. It was simply a boy and girl attraction. Nor did this observant girl of the long ago find any physical attraction in her rustic admirer. "His skin was shriveled and yellow," she said. "His shoes, when he had any, were low. He wore buckskin breeches, linsey- woolsey shirt, and a cap made of the skin of a squirrel or coon. His breeches were baggy, and lacked by several inches meeting the tops of his shoes, thereby exposing his shin-bone, sharp, blue and narrow." In one of the spelling contests at Crawford's school, Abraham and Katie Robey stood opposite each other, and the word "defied" came down the double line, zig-zagging from side to side, eliminating one contestant after another. "Abe stood on the opposite side of the room," Katie ex- plained in 1865, "and he was watching me. I began d-e-f — and then stopped, hesitating whether to proceed with an 'i' or a 'y'! Looking up, I beheld Abe, a broad grin covering his face, pointing with his index finger to his eye. I took the hint, spelled the word with an 'i' and went through all right." It was perfectly safe for Lincoln to be magnanimous to any one who was in danger of misspelling a word like "defied," for he was at home with "antiscorbutic" and other "words of five syllables, retaining the accent of their primitives" — of which the first word was "alcoholize" — and with those very difficult words toward the end of the spelling book in which certain letters assume the sounds of other letters. In the meantime, Thomas Lincoln had gradually put most of his little farm under cultivation. Abe at fifteen was big and strong, and his father had use for him. He had also the legal right to "hire him out," which he did "School Days" 99 from time to time. And so ended the education of Abra- ham Lincoln as far as schools were concerned, except for a short, irregular period at another pioneer academy, taught by William Swazey. Including the two schools he attended in Kentucky, Abraham Lincoln's entire schooling totaled less than twelve months. CHAPTER VIII THE YOUNG BOATMAN WHILE he was President Abraham Lincoln often related happenings of his youth, and he took par- ticular delight in telling how he earned his first dol- lar. When he was eighteen, and working as ferryman at the mouth of Anderson's Creek on the Indiana side, where it joins the Ohio River, two men employed him to take them and their trunks out to a steamboat in mid- stream. The service performed, each of his passengers gave Abe a bright half dollar. "I could scarcely credit that I, the poor boy, had earned a dollar. The world seemed fairer and wider before me. I was a more hopeful and confident being from that time." In the latter part of 1826, Thomas Lincoln hired his son to James Taylor of Posey's Landing, who kept a store and operated the ferry across Anderson's Creek. Here Abraham served as both store clerk and ferryman. In what probably was the same craft with which he earned his first dollar, Lincoln continued occasionally to earn other fees in the same manner. It was just such a per- formance as this which later involved him in the toils of the law, and gave him his first intimate view of a court room. It was also the only instance in his life when Lincoln was ever charged with a penal offense. One afternoon, about three o'clock, two passengers, a man and a woman alighted with several pieces of luggage from the stage coach which passed Taylor's store at about that time every day. Abe was languidly leaning on one 100 The Young Boatman 101 of the oars, waiting for a fare to turn up. Here were two of them with possibility of good pay, for both were expen- sively dressed and the lady was beautiful — Abe noticed that right away. It was an elopement between a young Kentucky dandy and another man's wife, but of course the young ferryman knew nothing of that. Out in the Ohio River, a huge steamboat rested lazily in midstream, the only motion visible being the lazily puffed smoke from the two tall smokestacks and the desultory movements of those aboard. "Boy, is that the Belle of the Bends?^^ the man asked excitedly. "Yes, sir," answered Abe, "that's her." "Then we're just in time," exclaimed the lady. "Thank heaven!" "When is she landing?" continued the man. "She ain't landing," replied Abe, as he shifted his posi- tion slightly. *Wof landing^ exclaimed the pair in unison. "Can't, on account of low water," Abe explained. "We must get that boat!" the man insisted. "Oh, this is dreadful," the lady moaned. "We just can't miss it!" "Boy, is this your boat?" the man asked in a command- ing tone. "Yes, sir," Abe replied. "That is, it belongs to the man I'm workin' for — I've got the runnin' of it. It's th' Anderson Crick ferry." "Oh, Wilber," the lady interrupted impatiently, "what shall we do? You stand there wasting time talking!" "Well, Lucy, we can't swim to the steamer," the man replied with a forced laugh. Turning to Abe, he continued. 102 The Prairie President "Can you take us out there? I will make it worth your while." "I reckon I can," said Abe. "And our trunk, too," the lady added. "Yes, our trunk," said the man. "You get us on that vessel with our luggage and I'll pay you well." Suddenly there came the low, musical blast of the steam- boat's whistle. "Oh, I'm so afraid we'll miss it!" groaned the lady. "I can get you out thor all right," Abe declared. "Don't worry. You folks git on and I'll go an' fetch the trunk." While the man was assisting his mistress aboard the humble Anderson Creek ferry, its stalwart young operator jumped ashore and, stooping and placing his back against the heavy trunk with his hands underneath, he rose and walked easily to the boat and dumped it on the deck. The rather dissipated wife-stealer eyed this feat of strength with envy and his fair companion looked on with admiration. "You're pretty strong for your age," said the man. "I reckon," Abe replied modestly. Taking the oars, he announced that they were ready to start. The steamboat whistled again, but the oars of the ferry in the strong hands of Abraham Lincoln brought them alongside the passenger boat before it started to move. "I told you we'd make it," said Abe proudly. "You certainly have done fine," agreed the man, as he handed over a shining half dollar along with several smaller coins. The trunk was grabbed by several dusky roustabouts and hoisted to the deck of the steamboat. The whistle blew again and with a deep chugging sound the boat began to .\ .># In what was probably the same craft ivith which he earned his first dollar, Lincoln continued to earn other fees. The Young Boatman 103 swerve and head toward the Mississippi. Abe, with a hearty "Good-bye, folks! Thankee!" was already pulling the flatboat toward the Indiana shore. As the negro purser of the Belle of the Bends led the couple to their stateroom he said laughingly, "Boss, de cap'n were sho 'fraid youse folks done miss de boat — say he couldn't wait much longer. Den we seed dat long, skinny boy a-rowin' out heah wid you. Dat boy don' need no 'ars. He could jes' use his ahms." Both men laughed. "Well, we almost did miss it," said the Kentucky dandy. "Yes," replied the Magdalen of the vintage of 1826, "and if that young man you're making fun of hadn't helped us, we would have." stf sSf stf ^Is ^3t£ Back at the Anderson Creek landing, Lincoln had noth- ing to do but wait for someone to come along to be "fer- ried," and traffic was very light along the shores of the Ohio River a hundred years ago. This worried Lincoln not at all; it afforded him more time for reading. Reclin- ing with his head on a pile of rope which lay on the deck and his long legs stretched out before him, the young boatman became absorbed in a small dilapidated volume he had taken from his pocket. Soon a broad grin spread over his countenance, broken with an occasional light laugh. The name of the book was Quinns Jests, a collec- tion of the coarse jokes of the English actor for whom the book was named. This pleasant relaxation was of short duration, however, for soon he heard someone calling from the opposite shore of the river. "Hey, Flatboat!" cried the gesticulating fig- ure. "Come over here — got a job fer ye!" 104 The Prairie President Abe sighed, got up, replaced the book and took up the oars. Upon reaching the Kentucky side he found the man impatiently waiting. "Here I am," said Lincoln. "What can I do fer you?" The man looked at the youth and gave a harsh laugh, but there was no other answer. Turning his head toward a thicket several yards back of the water, he called, "Come on out, Lin." A second man appeared instantly. Then, returning his gaze to Abe, the first one said, "What's your name, young feller?" "Abraham Lincoln. But folks jest calls me Abe. What kin I do fer you?" The man laughed again. "First, ye kin listen keerful," he said. "Me an' my brother, Lin, here, is pilots, licensed by th' State o' Kintucky, with th' ex-clusive privilege fer runnin' a ferry acrost th' river at this p'int. Now, by horn- in' in on our business, you ain't only infringin' on our legal rights, you air committin' a jailable o-fence." "I'm sorry," Abe replied solemnly. "I didn't know that. I intended no wrong." "You're goin' t' be a hell of a lot sorrier 'fore we git through with ye," the man continued ominously. "We're goin' to give ye a duckin' in th' river, an' then we're goin' t' take ye fer a little visit b'fore Jedge Pate." Turning to his companion, he said, "Grab 'im Lin! We'll jest souse him in right here." The brother stepped toward Abe. "Yep," he laughed, "me an' John is goin' t' give ye a cold plunge." "Oh, no you won't!" Abe doubled his fists and looked squarely at the brothers. "Grab 'im, Lin!" ordered the older man. Lin attempted to do so. Abe's fist shot out, landing The Young Boatman 105 heavily upon the jaw of his aggressor. Lin fell heavily to the muddy river bank. "You won't give me no duckin'," repeated Abe. "Wal, maybe we better reason this here thing out," said the older man. "We better not have no fight." "Ye better o' said that 'fore he nigh fractured my jaw," grumbled his brother, rising. "I didn't want to fight," said Abe, "but I'm alius able an' willin' to defend myself. Now jest what air you fellers aimin' at?" "Ye have broke th' law, an' as Kintucky citizens we got th' legal right t' arrest ye." Taking careful mental meas- urement of the tall boy, the man named John continued guardedly: "Air ye willin' t' submit peaceable t' arrest? We'll leave Jedge Pate settle th' argyment. He lives right over thor," he added, pointing. "Ye'll fergit about givin' me a duckin'?" asked Abe. "Oh, we forgot about that a'ready," John replied with feigned good-nature. "All right, then I'll go with you." Squire Samuel Pate was a well-to-do young planter, and he took his office of Justice of the Peace seriously — he was honest and he was fair minded. At this time he had just erected a large, comfortable home of hewn logs, with a long, wide veranda. It had one room more spacious than the others, where he could hold court. The Kentucky rivermen, accompanied by their prisoner, found him at home. They explained the affair, and the case of the Com- monwealth of Kentucky vs. Abraham Lincoln was called without delay. The defendant waived service of a warrant and both parties announced themselves ready for trial. 106 The Prairie President The older man testified thus: "My name is John T. Dill. Me an' my brother, Lin, operates th' ferry acrost th' Ohio River betwixt Kintucky an' Indianny, an' we is the only ones that has that privilege at this p'int. We air duly licensed by th' State o' Kintucky t' operate a ferry an' transport passengers from either shore t' t'other." "Yes, yes, I understand all that," said the judge. "State your complaint against this lad you have brought in here." "Wal, Jedge, it's like this. Durin' th' past five or six weeks this here tall boy, Linkhorn, has been operatin' another boat in competition ag'in' us. Before we done anything 'bout it I seen old Law'er Jones, an' he said what this here Linkhorn boy was doin' was plumb ag'in' the law, and that he was subjeck t' arrest an' fine fer it, if we could ketch him at it; an' thet as citizens o' Kintuck we was within our rights t' arrest him ourselves — which we done." "All right, John. Now tell the court just how you effected the arrest," said the squire. "I'm curious." "Wal, we seen him out in his boat and I waved to him, pretendin' I was a passenger, an' he fell smack into th' trap — paddled over here t' th' Kintucky shore, an' me an' Lin nabbed him and brung him here. Our fust idee was t' give him a good duckin' t' boot, but when we seen how big an' long he was we changed our minds." At this point laughter made Squire Pate aware that others were present. A number of neighbors had heard of the trouble at the ferry landing and curiosity had brought them to the court. They were being shown in by one of the Pate slaves. Aside from these, the judge was conscious of another and fairer presence — that of his The Young Boatman 107 niece and ward, Caroline Meeker. She was seventeen, with soft brown eyes and dark curls which fell about her forehead rebelliously. The squire tapped for order. "Anything else to add to your testimony, John?" he asked. "No, that's all, I reckon," replied the eldest Dill. After Linnet Dill took the stand and corroborated the testimony of his brother. Squire Pate opened the large leather bound book which lay on his desk. "I'll look and see just what the statutes have to say on this point before we proceed further. Here it is. 'An Act respecting the Establishment of Ferries.' I will read this act verbatum: 'Any person, whatsoever, he or she so offending, shall forfeit and pay five pounds, current money, for each and every such offense; one moiety to the ferry-keeper nearest the place where such offense shall be committed, the other moiety to the informer; and if the ferry-keeper informs, he shall have the whole penalty to be recovered with costs.' " The judge closed the book. "Ahem! That is heavy punishment," he said, "especially in view of the fact that, under the law, those unable to pay such a fine must serve it out in jail." A buzz of whispers followed this bad news. The judge looked at Abe. "Are there any witnesses for the defense?" he said. "Does the defendant desire to testify?" Abraham Lincoln rose to his full height and faced the court; he was worried, but he was game. The Dills had already assured him that he would be fined heavily. That to him would mean imprisonment, for he had no money. He answered that he had no witnesses, and that the facts were as stated — but he wished to ask a question. 108 The Prairie President Squire Pate did not see what question there could be; the facts were beyond dispute. But he said, "Go ahead, my boy." "The question I wish to ask is — " and Abraham looked squarely at the judge. "Do the rights of Mr. Dill, under his license, forbid any other person to operate a ferry from the Indiana bank to the middle of the river?" There was a slight stir in the court room as the squire replied that the entire width of the river running to low- water mark on the Indiana side belonged to Kentucky; but the defendant still pressed his point. "It is not the right of the State of Kentucky to the whole width of the river that I question, but the extent to which the license of Mr. Dill applies to forbid traffic from the Indiana shore to vessels in mid-stream." The squire began to be interested. And Caroline was interested; she did not like the Dill boys, and their tactics toward the stranger seemed unmanly and cowardly. "I did what these men say I did," Lincoln continued. "A gentleman and his lady came to the river bank to catch a passing boat. It could not land because of low water, but stopped in the middle of the river. John Dill was not in sight, and his boat was on the other side of the river. Somebody had to take these folks from the Indiana shore to the boat. The steamer wouldn't wait. I was there, and the man offered to pay me to take them — and I did. Was it fair to expect me to sit there in my boat and let these folks miss the steamer, just because the Dills were not attending to business? I did not set them across the river, as John Dill claims the exclusive right to do. / set them only half way across. And I'd like to know whether his license says that no one else must The Young Boatman 109 help a stranger get to his boat, when there is no other way." Was the defendant quibbling, or was this a valid legal distinction? Squire Pate looked at his pretty niece; she had no doubt that the defendant had expounded good law. The squire began to think so, too. He again opened his book of statutes and read another portion of the chap- ter on ferries. Then he gave his decision, saying: "I find that John T. Dill has the exclusive right to operate a ferry at this point from the Kentucky shore of the Ohio River and to set passengers across the river in either direction; but I do not find that the defendant, Abraham Lincoln, is forbidden to convey a passenger from the Indiana bank to the deck of a passing steamer. This case is dismissed and the defendant is discharged." At least two persons in the court room heartily approved the verdict. These were Abraham Lincoln, defendant, and Miss Caroline Meeker. The Dill brothers returned to their work, grumbling over their defeat. The few neighbors scattered, but Lincoln lingered, and the squire invited him to sit down on the veranda and "make himself at home." "You were certainly fair to me, sir," Abe declared. Squire Pate laughed. "Well, I try to be fair with everybody." Taking a long cigar from his vest pocket and lighting it, he continued, "That was rather a nice point of law you raised in there." "Was it, your Honor?" "Never mind the 'your Honor'. Just call me Mr. Pate. Yes," he repeated, "that was a nice point of law you raised. Seems to me you have a legal mind. Ever thought of studying law?" 110 The Prairie President The cheeks of the youth became flushed. "I've thought about it somewhat; but I reckon there ain't much hope for a poor boy like me that hasn't had much chance for an education." "Just how much education have you had?" "Of school attendin', not more'n a year, all told; and my father ain't very keen about me gittin' any more. But I've been readin' everything I can, tryin' to educate myself. I've got a few books, and all our neighbors on Pigeon Creek have loaned me their'n." "Well, from this afternoon's performance, I'll wager there were some law books among 'em," the squire chuckled. "There was one," Abe replied. "Old man Turnham, the constable up our way, loaned me The Revised Laws of Indiana, an' I read it from cover t' cover twict. It's a fine book — got th' Declaration of Independence an' th' National Constitution in it, too." "Ever attend court before?" asked the judge. "Yes. Oncet I saw a murder trial at Boonville, Indian- ny — 'bout fifteen miles from where we live. Mr. Bracken- ridge, th' prosecutin' attorney, made th' finest speech I ever heard. I reckon I won't never fergit it." "John Brackenridge is a fine orator," agreed the squire. "I know him very well." "After hearin' him I got a book called Scott's Les- sons, an' I been tryin' t' learn myself public speakin'. But I ain't had much luck at it yet." "Well, keep trying," the squire advised. "It's not easy for some, and those it comes natural by usually just make chin music without ever saying anything sensible — 'spell- binders/ they call 'em." The squire's tone became more The Young Boatman 111 serious as he continued, "But I believe you've got the makin's of a good lawyer, my boy, and it's a paying profession, for so long as the human race continues to exist there'll be plenty of litigation. Man's just naturally a litigous animal." "That's right!" Abe exclaimed. "I never thought of it that way." "A man ought to know law anyhow, even if he ain't a lawyer. He at least ought to know the laws under which he's living, particularly those pertaining to his business or trade." "That's right!" said Abe, who was listening to the squire's every word with rapt attention. "Every man, during his lifetime, has to contend with a certain number of rascals — thieves, swindlers, cheats, skinflints, liars and hypocrites. Legal learning is the best protection against 'em. Yes," continued the squire, "there's many a pitfall for the man that don't know the law." "I kin see that! Why, if my father had a-knowed something about Kintucky land laws he might have saved th' two farms he lost," said Abe. "Gee, I'd like to be a big lawyer, instead of bein' a farm laborer an' flatboat hand all my life." There was a long sigh. "Pap taught me 't do hard work — but he never taught me t' like it." Squire Pate laughed. "Well, young man, supposin' you drop over here on Tuesday mornings, when I'm hold- ing my regular court sessions. You can pick up a lot of legal learning that way." "Thank you, sir," said Abe warmly. "I'll shore come." "And since you have read the Indiana Statutes, it would be a good idea for you to read the Statutes of Kentucky 112 The Prairie President — even better, as Kentucky is a much older state, and the legislators have had heaps more time to invent laws. I can't let the book out, because I need it for trying cases. But you'll be welcome to come over here and read it whenever you desire." "Thank you, sir! I'll be mighty glad t' come, both for hearin' the court and readin' the book. Oh, what beauti- ful music!" From inside the house came the sweet strains of "Kath- leen" from the voice of a young girl, accompanied by the chords of a spinnet. "It's my niece, Caroline Meeker," said the squire. "The daughter of my poor dead sister. Caroline lives here with us. I'm her guardian." "It's the sweetest music I ever heard," said the en- raptured Abe. "Come, let's step into the parlor where we can hear it better," said the squire. When the song was ended the girl looked toward the intruders and smiled. Abe wondered which of them the smile was intended for. "Caroline, I want you to meet my young friend, Mr. Lincoln, from over in Indiana. Mr. Lincoln, this is Miss Meeker." "I am delighted!" Abe took the girl's small white hand in his calloused fist. "I — I shore did enjoy your pretty music. Miss Meeker," he said. "It sounded just like an angel." "Caroline is an angel — sometimes," laughed the squire. "It was so pretty. Won't you sing another song for us, Miss Meeker?" Caroline bestowed upon the young rustic one of her The Young Boatman 113 sweetest smiles. "Maybe. That is, on one condition, Mister Lincoln." "What is it?" Abe asked. "I'll fulfill it if I possibly can." "On condition that you take me down to the landing and show me your boat." "I don't believe that's a very hard condition," said the squire, smiling. "No, indeed," replied Abe. "I'll be mighty happy t' have the honor of showing it to you. Miss Meeker. But I'm afraid you'll be gettin' the worst of th' bargain, fer my boat ain't much to look at, and your singin' was th' best I ever heard." "It's my bargain, and I'll keep it," Caroline insisted. "This time I'm going to sing 'Annie Laurie.' It's one of Uncle Samuel's favorites." This Scottish ballad was comparatively new then; Abe had never heard it, nor had he heard the song of that other heroine, Kathleen. Is there any wonder, under the circumstances, that he was feeling sentimental? "Now come on, Mr. Lincoln! Take me to see your boat!" They walked down the path past the little cemetery and on through the orchard. "I'm just awfully glad you beat them," said the girl. "It was real mean of those Dill brothers to call you across the river in that lying way, just to get you into trouble. And to think, for two of them to jump on you the way they did — the cowards!" "Yes, it was sort of double-teaming on me," said the boy good-naturedly. "But they didn't duck me, and they didn't get me fined." "And I think it was awfully clever the way you showed 114 The Prairie President that setting folks out from the Indiana shore to a steam- boat was not setting them across the river." Abe grinned. "Well, it seemed to save me at any rate." "If Uncle Samuel had fined you I would have been angry, and I would have scolded him!" "I'm mighty glad to hear you say that. Miss Meeker." Abe noticed that the crimson tinge in the girl's face had deepened. "Call me Caroline — not Miss Meeker." "I-I-I thank you — Caroline." Abe stammered. "Look, Abraham! The sun is setting. How marvel- lously beautiful it is, with its red and gold glory re- flecting into the river." "Yes, it is beautiful — sunsets always are," the boy agreed. "But, Caroline, it isn't half so beautiful as you are." Caroline laughed tauntingly. "Uncle Samuel is right," she declared. "You have the makings of a good lawyer. But I — I like to hear you say that, Abraham, and I've got a present here for you. I plucked it for you myself, here in our orchard." The hand that Caroline had been hold- ing behind her came into view, clasping a big, ruddy, juicy-looking apple. "An apple! Thank you, Caroline." Abe suddenly re- membered that he had eaten nothing since breakfast. An apple! That was the way the trouble also began, a long time ago, in the Garden of Eden. And so we can- not wonder that the youthful Abraham Lincoln became deeply interested in reading out of Squire Pate's big book of statutes and paddled his flatboat over to the Ken- tucky shore many times. ^ ^ 3|5 2|« ^ The Young Boatman 115 In April, 1828, James Gentry, the Pigeon Creek mag- nate, hired the strong, capable and trustworthy son of Thomas Lincoln, the ne'er-do-well of Pigeon Creek, to accompany his son, Allen, on a flatboat loaded with pro- duce to New Orleans. The boat started from Gentry's landing on the Ohio, about three quarters of a mile from Rockport. Lincoln served as a bow hand, working the foremost oar, and his wages were eight dollars per month from the time of starting until his return home. Nothing happened to disturb the placid voyage through the Ohio and down the Mississippi until one night when the "homemade" craft was tied up at the shore of a plan- tation owned by one Madam Duchesne, not far from New Orleans. A company of Negroes, armed with hickory clubs and bent on plunder, boarded the flatboat while the occupants were asleep. Aroused by the noise, Lincoln seized a club and furiously attacked the marauders, knocking several of them into the water. The others fled with Lincoln and Gentry in hot pursuit. Both boys were wounded and bleeding when they returned to the boat, and, fearing that the Negroes would return, they hastily swung into the stream and floated on down the river. At New Orleans, Lincoln found himself in the first large city he had ever seen and he was to have a wider vision and bigger dreams from that time on. After the cargo had been sold, the young voyagers returned to their Indiana homes, making the journey upstream in one of the palatial steamboats. Back on Pigeon Creek Lincoln resumed his regular life of irregular work com- bined with avid reading and incessant talk that ordinarily bubbled with good cheer. CHAPTER IX ILLINOIS IN the spring of 1830 the "milk-sick" came again to Southern Indiana. Thomas Lincoln decided to move away before it attacked any member of his household. This was excellent judgment, for he had lost his first wife and most of his live stock during the previous siege, twelve years before. There were other reasons; Spencer County had not progressed as rapidly as its settlers had expected, and immigration had practically stopped. A new "prom- ised land" had appeared over the western horizon and home seekers were now going to Illinois. It is not to be wondered that Thomas Lincoln, natural pioneer that he was, should have joined a migration passing almost before his door. He sold his land to James Gentry, founder of Gentryville, and his stock and grain to another neighbor, David Turnham. The fourteen years of his residence in Indiana had added very little to the material wealth of this slothful man. Thomas and his wife were granted by the Pigeon Creek Baptist Church a "letter of dismission," certifying that they had faithfully discharged their obligations and were regular members in good standing. Sister Nancy Grigsby then entered a "protest," saying she was "not satisfied with Brother and Sister Lincoln." The trustees of the church took back the letter, investigated the charge, and then returned the letter to Brother and Sister Lincoln; and to demonstrate their confidence further, they appoint- ed Brother Lincoln to serve on a committee to straighten 116 Illinois 117 out a squabble between Sister Grigsby and Sister Betsy Crawford, all of which was written in the church records. Before leaving the old home, Abraham Lincoln lingered in farewell over his mother's grave on the little knoll beside the final resting places of her stout-hearted rela- tives, Thomas and Betsy Sparrow. He recalled that other migration, when he had been a little boy. How vividly real seemed the memory picture of his mother's grief- stricken farewell at baby Thomas' grave on Knob Creek! The boy long before had fenced his mother's grave from encroaching growth and wild animals. To-day this spot is one of Indiana's shrines. There was another grave for him to visit before he left. In the little burying ground of the Pigeon Creek meeting-house lay his sister Sarah, who had married Aaron Grigsby a few years before and died scarcely a year later in child-birth. Life was cruel to women and babies in those days, especially among the isolated settlers. Abraham and his sister had been bound to one another by the special ties that are woven out of joys, sorrows and hardships shared, and from mutual memories that no one else can know. Thus ended the fourteen years Abraham Lincoln spent in southern Indiana. The people of that locality, like the years, had contributed their share in leading him to- ward his future greatness. They had passed on to the boy the books which laid the foundation of his tremen- dous faith in American democracy and its vast possibil- ities; and he no doubt had discussed this faith and its implications with them. It was among these hardy set- tlers, he said in later years, that he got the idea that the men who made the Revolution of 1776 struggled for 118 The Prairie President "something more than common — something that held out a great promise to all the people of the world for all time to come." It was these people who introduced him to the Declaration of Independence — the document which gave him the firm foundation of his political faith. ^P ^jC ^c ^c ^c On the first day of March, 1830, the family of Thomas Lincoln left Indiana and started for Illinois. The com- pany included Thomas and Sarah Bush Lincoln; Abraham Lincoln; John D. Johnston, son of Sarah Lincoln; Dennis Hanks and his wife Sarah, daughter of Mrs. Lincoln; Squire Hall and his wife Matilda, the other daughter of Mrs. Lincoln; and enough small Hanks and Hall chil- dren to make an entire party of thirteen. Of this large wagon-load Thomas Lincoln could write his name, but the only ones who could have written an account of the journey were Abraham Lincoln and Dennis Hanks. The ox-wagon they rode in was built especially for the journey. It was a typical prairie schooner, made en- tirely of wood; pegs, cleats, hickory withes and knots of bark held it together. Only the wheel rims were of iron. Bundles of bedding, skillets, ovens, and a few pieces of furniture, including the forty-dollar bureau and a spin- ning-wheel, were tied securely in the wagon. This heavy load was drawn by four young oxen, each with its head in a massive collar of hard wood. Abraham Lincoln took turns with the three other men at driving the team. Behind the wagon trotted a little pet dog, which in- dulged in frisky detours chasing rabbits. One day, after the wagon had forded a half frozen stream, mournful howls from the opposite bank announced that the dog had not succeeded in getting across. As it couldn't be Illinois 119 coaxed to swim the icy water, it was left behind. The party had not traveled far, however, before Abraham's troubled conscience mastered him and he jumped down and ran back. Pulling off his shoes and rolling up his breeches, he waded across and recovered the dog. Its shrill whines and joyous tail-wagging made the youth feel repaid for the discomfort the rescue had caused him. Northward, over the hills and through the forests of Indiana, the emigrants made their toilsome way to Vin- cennes, then the largest town in the state, where they stopped for a day to view the wonders. Here, gazing through the door of the newspaper office, twenty-one year old Abraham Lincoln saw a printing press for the first time. It was an ancient model, similar to the one operated by Benjamin Franklin a century earlier. And he read one of the papers this marvelous machine produced. Aside from the compact news matter there were a few advertisements illustrated with wood-cuts, including one that offered a house "for cash or pork." At Palestine the monotony of the journey was broken by the novelty of witnessing a performance by a wandering juggler and magician, whose gaudy harlequin costume was, accord- ing to Dennis Hanks, "jest like what the European royalty wears." Crossing the Wabash River above Vincennes, the crowded wagon crept up into Illinois with its prairies still bleak from departing winter. The frozen ground was beginning to yield to the sun, and the wagon wheels sank into thawing earth, causing the oxen to go slower than usual. No smoke from a settler's cabin in the open cheered the sombre landscape; and few if any such hab- itations greeted the travelers, even when they passed groves 120 The Prairie President or clumps of trees. The grass, which in summer grew taller than a man, lay withered on the flat ground. Such was the first view that Abraham Lincoln had of the state of Illinois. "Gee! Haw! G' long, thor!" Thomas Lincoln was driving the oxen, and occasionally adding a sharp sting of the raw-hide whip to his oral commands. "Wal, Tom," said Dennis Hanks, who was walking beside him, "thank th' Lord this movin' trip is nigh over! Hosses'd pull this here wagon heaps faster'n them lazy steers. They're jest pokin' along." "Gee! Haw!" called the older man, before replying. "Yes, it's tuck us two weeks, but the blame ain't all on them steers. This half freezin' ground keeps pullin' at th' wheels. Considerin' everything, Denny, I think we've come through purty good. I calculate we'll git t' Decatur by dark." Thomas Lincoln paused to wield the whip again, and then continued, "We'll camp thor fer th' night an' then set out fer yer Cousin John's t'morrer mornin', early, so as t' git in by dinner time. Gee! Haw! Git up, thor!" "Wal, anyhow, we had purty good luck," mused Den- nis. "An' I was powerful worried when we started out, with all th' Pigeon Crick folks sayin' somethin' arful'd shorely happen, bein's our families t'gether number 'zackly thirteen." "I felt kinder skiddish about it m'self," agreed Thomas Lincoln. "But thor we was, thirteen of us, an' ye couldn't wait fer one of us t' die, or fer more children t' be horned t' you an' Sarah, or t' Squire Hall an' Tildy, could we?" he laughed. "No, jest couldn't be he'ped," said Dennis. "But with Illinois 121 sech a unlucky number, I ain't goin' t' feel easy till we git thor." "G'long, thor!" yelled Thomas Lincoln, cracking his whip. The oxen seemed to have taken advantage of the conversation by slowing their pace. "Tom, I hope we make out better here in Ill-e-nois than we done in Indianny," continued the talkative Dennis. "I got a feelin' we're goin' t' do right well, Denny," replied the ever optimistic pioneer. "But after all's said, life in Indianny was good at times. If th' milk-sick hadn't come back ag'in, I reckon I'd a-stuck it out right thor. But losin' one wife that way was enough fer me." Dennis Hanks sighed. "Poor Nancy!" he said. "I reckon Abe ain't ever got over her dyin'." "No he hain't," said Thomas Lincoln. " 'Fore we left he spent a whole day mopin' over her an' his sister's graves." After walking a few yards in moody silence, he continued, "Denny, with all my respect fer my sec- ond wife, thor's times I find myself wishin' Nancy was still here, an' no man ever had a better daughter'n the one I lost. Git up, thor!" The whip was again in motion. "Sech is life, Tom," sighed the younger man. "We jest got t' make th' best o' sech things. Abe orter be catchin' up with th' wagon b' now. 'Count o' his peddlin' that stuff along the way, he ain't he'ped much with th' propellin' of these steers." When passing Gentryville, Abraham Lincoln had in- vested his hoarded capital, some thirty dollars, in such merchandise as he knew the backwoods settlers' wives would be only too glad to buy. The oxen swung along so slowly that it was easy for him to linger behind and overtake the wagon a mile further along. In this manner 122 The Prairie President Abe managed to do a good peddling business. His wares consisted of buttons, needles, thread, ribbon, and other notions. The most expensive article in his pack was a set of table knives and forks. "Wal, he's done purty good at it," said Thomas Lin- coln, who knew that he would get the lion's share of the proceeds. "He's nigh doubled th' money he put into th' stuff. Ain't much of it left an' he was figgerin' on gettin' rid of it at that house we seen settin' back thor whar them roads j'ined." Slowly, but surely, the travelers were nearing their journey's end. Dennis Hanks took his turn at "propel- lin' " the oxen, and for the next quarter-hour the pioneer outfit moved on in silence, broken only by the commands to the animals and the sound of the wagon wheels and the indistinct hum of feminine and childish voices from within the wagon cover. "Thor comes Abe now!" cried Dennis, pointing with his whip toward the end of the wagon. A moment later Abraham Lincoln, flushed and panting, joined his father and cousin. "How'd ye make out, Abe? Close out yer stock?" asked his father. "No, I didn't sell a thing there," the boy replied, and he burst into a laugh. "Wal, that ain't nothin' t' laugh about t' a feller full of ambition like you claims t' be," said his father se- verely. "If you'd a-been thor jou^d a-laughed," Abe replied, still shaking with mirth. "Reckon I'm lucky I got out of thor with a whole skin." "Let's hear about it, Abe," said Dennis Hanks. Illinois 123 "Wal, when I got up near th' house, I heard a lot of hollerin', but I didn't pay much attention — just went on up an' rapped on the door, an' it swung open. I never saw anything like it! Th' room seemed t' contain as many children as those of the old lady who lived in the shoe. All looked alike, except for an assortment of sizes rangin' from a crawlin' youngun to a tall gal of sixteen or so. All of 'em were cryin' lustily." This time the two older men joined in Abe's laughter. "Yeah, I've seed jest sech cases lots o' times," said Dennis. "All of 'em was cryin' somethin' fearful," Abe con- tinued. "Th' mother, a big, red-headed, red-faced woman, was standin' in the midst of 'em clutchin' a leather strap, while th' sad-lookin' father stood t' one side, meek as a lamb, like he was waitin' fer his turn under th' lash." The three men roared with laughter. "There's heaps o' folks jest like that," chuckled Thomas Lincoln. "Wal, I didn't know what t' do — or say," Abe resumed, "so I jest stood there like a fool. Then the woman turned on me, sayin', 'What'd ye want here, stranger?' an' she pushed her poor man further aside. 'Oh, nothin', madam,' I answered, wilted by her hostile glare, 'I was jest passin' and drapped in t' see how things were goin'.' " Again the lonesome prairie rang with laughter, and several heads peered from under the canvas wagon cover. " 'Wal, ye needn't wait,' she snapped. 'There's trouble here — heaps of it — but I kin handle my own affairs with- out your help. This is a family row. Outsiders ain't al- lowed in it, an' I'm goin' t' larn these brats their places if I have t' lick th' livin' hide off'n every one of 'em.' Lookin' at me fiercely, she went on, 'I'm runnin' things here, an' I don't want nobody sneakin' 'round tryin' t' 124 The Prairie President find out how I do it, neither.' Wal, I took th' hint." "Abe, m' boy," said Thomas Lincoln, "thor's p'ints about married life that books won't larn ye — ain't nothin' like experience fer a teacher," he laughed. "Tom, you're puttin' it too strong," interjected Dennis Hanks. "All families ain't like that, not more'n half of 'em is." "You better not let th' women folks hear ye talkin' that way," admonished Abe. For the next hour the emigrants traveled in compara- tive silence. The sun had set and night was beginning to veil the prairies with its darkness, rendering them more bleak and lonely. "Them folks in th' wagon is mighty quiet," said Dennis Hanks, who had relinquished the ox-whip to Squire Hall. "Maybe we kin git 'em t' give us a song," suggested Thomas Lincoln. "Come on, gals — children!" he called. "Let's go into Decatur singin'. Everybody sing!" Tiny, far-away lights to the north were now visible through the gloom. It was Decatur! No further incen- tive was necessary. The road-weary travelers entered the town singing lustily. It was quite dark by this time and they decided to camp for the night in the courthouse square, Decatur being the seat of Macon County. Next morning, after a hearty breakfast, the emigrants "from Indianny" journeyed a few miles farther, to the home of their relative, who had been residing in Illinois for several years. John Hanks had already located a home site for the Lincolns on the Sangamon River, about ten miles west of Decatur, and he had also cut the logs for their cabin. Thomas and Abraham Lincoln, with the help of the two Illinois 125 Hankses and Squire Hall, soon had the cabin up and ready for occupancy. There the entire clan of thirteen lived for the remainder of the winter. Spring came and Abraham Lincoln helped his father break ten acres of the prairie soil and plant the first corn crop. They cut down more trees, split them into rails and enclosed this patch. Thirty years later these same humble rails became famous. They were not, however, the only rails that Abraham Lincoln split in Macon County. The corn sprouted, grew tall and was harvested. Fall came, with a miasma rising from the prairie, bringing chills, ague and fever for Thomas and Sally Lincoln. To relieve these ailments, they consumed many doses of "Bark's Tonic," a mixture of Peruvian bark and whiskey, purchased from a Decatur apothecary. Then came the historic snowstorm. CHAPTER X "THE WINTER OF THE DEEP SNOW" ON December 25, 1830, which was the Lincolns' first Christmas in Illinois, snow began to fall over the whole state. "What a night!" exclaimed Thomas Lincoln, as he hur- ried into the cabin, followed by a strong blast of snow- laden wind. After he had pulled off his heavy boots and seated himself comfortably by the fire, he said to his wife, "Wal, Sally, ye've been wantin' a white Christmas. We're gettin' it!" "Look out th' winder, Tom. See if ye kin see anything of John or Abe. I'm afeard somethin' has happened to 'em." Thomas Lincoln rose from his comfortable position, yawned, and went to the window. "Kain't see a thing out thor but blowin' snow," he said. "Snow, snow, nothin' but snow. Reckon I better git them spades from under th' cabin, fer we're goin' t' have t' dig out in th' mornin', shore's yer born." "Oh, I'm so afeard somethin's happened to them boys of our'n!" said Sarah anxiously. "Whar'd they go? Was they t'gether?" inquired her husband. "No, they wasn't. If they was it mought be better. John tuck a load o' wood t' town with th' ox team, an' Abe, he saddled ole Bessy an' said he was goin' t' John Hanks' — said John had a Christmas present fer him." "What kind of a present?" 126 "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 127 "It was a book — some sort of a book Abe seen in Decatur an' wanted, an' John buyed it fer him. Volney's Ruins was its name. I reckon it's a history." "Yes, I heerd of it. It's a history book with infidel larnins," Thomas Lincoln grunted disgustedly. "Ain't that boy seen enough ruins without readin' about more?" "He's seen you," the woman answered dryly. Thomas Lincoln laughed. "Now, Sally, is that th' way fer ye t' talk? I ain't a ruin, an' we ain't been in Illinois a year yet. Mebbe I'll git rich here. Didn't our fust prairie crop turn out surprisin'ly good?" "Maybe I did put it too strong, Tom," she yielded, "but I'm so worried about them boys, I'm nigh dis- tracted." "Now, Sally, there ain't a bit o' use worryin'. They'll git in all right. Why," he laughed, "a whole winter's snow couldn't kivver Abe, with his more'n six feet o' length." "But I jest can't help worrying." "Wal, they'll be here. Better put th' coffee pot on, so it'll be hot fer 'em, while I go fetch them spades." "All right, Tom," answered his wife. "You git back in here jest as quick as ye kin." Thomas Lincoln started to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. "Reckon this latch is froze," he grunted. Finally, after much effort, he slid the bar back and the door swung open. A terrific blast of wind smote the room. "Ain't it arful!" cried the man, and he hurried out. While Thomas Lincoln groped under the snowbound cabin for the spades, his wife was kneeling in prayer. "Oh, Heavenly Father," she pleaded, "please pertect them pore boys, wherever they be, an' bring 'em back safe t' th' 128 The Prairie President shelter of their home. They're mighty good boys, Lord, an' we — " The supplicant heard her husband returning. Not wanting him to see her thus, she added a hasty, "Amen!" and quickly resumed her place at the spinning- wheel. The door opened, letting in another fierce blast of the wintry wind and snow. Thomas Lincoln slammed it back. "Wal, I'm moughty glad I got them spades," he said, as he shook the snow from his clothes. "We'll shore need 'em in the mornin'." Thomas Lincoln lit his pipe and sat before the fireplace. For several minutes the only sound in the little cabin was the busy hum of the spinning-wheel and the fierce roar of the wind. Presently the man knocked the ashes from his pipe and went to the frost-covered window. "Sally," he said, "I'm beginnin' t' have misgivin's about them boys m'self. If it keeps a-snowin' at this rate, it'll be waist deep by mornin' an' it's formin' drifts as high as young mountains." There was a loud, sudden pounding at the door, fol- lowed by a muffled, "Open the door quick! It's me — John!" Sarah Lincoln sprang to her feet, "Open th' door!" she cried. After considerable effort Thomas Lincoln succeeded in forcing the door loose from its ice-caked frame. The figure that staggered into the room resembled a snow man rather than a human being. "Oh, John!" exclaimed Sarah Lincoln, throwing her arms about him. "Yer mother's been so fearful fer ye!" "She shore was, John," agreed Thomas Lincoln. "Wal, ye both would of laughed at th' way I did git "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 129 back," answered John Johnston, as he stood before the fire. "Tell us about it," urged his mother. "I was more'n halfway back when th' snow begin fallin' heavy. Wal, them steers plugged along — didn't seem t' mind it. But when we got within 'bout a mile 'n a quarter of home, th' wagon stuck fast an' they couldn't budge it. Th' snow had got blindin' an' I knowed I could never find th' way an' figgered me an' th' steers was a-goin' t' be buried in it right thor!" "What did ye do, John?" asked his mother. "An' what about them pore steers that so faithfully he'ped git us here from Indianny?" "Them steers done more'n that," added the youth. "They saved my life!" "How's that, John?" asked his stepfather. "Wal, I seen there was only one thing t' be done — an' I done it," continued John proudly. "I tuck th' yoke off'n 'em, figgerin' they could make it home by their smell, or instink, or whatever ye call it. So I loosened out th' smaller one first an' he started runnin'. Then, when I got th' second one unhitched, I grabbed his tail, an' away we went! Them steers knowed th' way home all right. I kep' a tight holt on this'n's tail an' he slid me all th' way." Thomas Lincoln laughed long and boisterously at the recital. "I'd like t' have seen that!" he roared. " 'Tain't no time fer laughin', Thomas Lincoln," said his serious-minded wife. "Don't it jest show that th' good Lord works in a mysterious way. His wonders to perform? And ye seem t' fergit Abe ain't showed up yet," she added severely. 130 The Prairie President "Ain't Abe here?" exclaimed John. " 'Nless he's still at Hankses, he can't never make it now! There ain't one chance in a thousand!" Thomas Lincoln had resumed his smoking. "That boy's alius been foolin' hisself with eddication," he grunted. "I knowed there wouldn't no good come out of it, that it mought even git him into trouble some day; but I didn't expect it t' turn out as bad as this. No," he added medi- tatively, "I never expected th' darn fool t' git hisself froze t' death over a book." "That's enough out o' you, Thomas Lincoln," cried his wife angrily. "Shut up! I'm surprised t' hear ye talk like that, with your own flesh an' blood probably layin' out thor in th' prairies with th' snow buryin' him over, deeper an' deeper." Sally Lincoln's rage increased as she talked. "You oughter be ashamed o' yerself ! Why, there never was a better — " The "lacin' " was brought to a sudden close by loud hammering on the cabin door. "Open the door! It's me, Abe! Leave me in, quick!" called the familiar voice. "Abe! Glory to God!" cried Sarah. "It's Abe! Tom- John! Git that door open! Quick!" Both men hurried to obey the command. The door was again forced and the long form of Abraham Lincoln ap- peared. "Yer ma's been powerful worried about ye, boy," said his father. Sarah Lincoln threw her arms around her stepson's neck. "Bein' worried don't half describe the feelin' I've had," she said. "Oh, Abe, I'm so glad ye've got home!" "Why air ye standin' there so funny, Abe?" asked his stepbrother. "Why don't ye set down?" "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 131 "I-I-I can't!" panted Abe. "My clothes are froze stiff as sheet iron. And don't you see why I'm standin' this way?" he added. "It's th' saddle — it's froze to th' seat of my pants." "Wal, I'll be damned!" said Thomas Lincoln. "When I got here and started to git off my horse I dis- covered it. I had my pick between leavin' my pants out there with the saddle or bringin' the saddle in here with my pants," continued Abe, with a droll grimace, "and considerin' weather conditions, I chose the latter solu- tion to th' problem." This time the woman added her laughter to that of the men. "Got any hot water, mother?" continued Abe, who still stood with his legs spread awkwardly apart with the saddle between them. "Heaps of it," replied his stepmother. "Then I'd like for you to thaw this saddle loose. Be shore it ain't too hot, though." Sarah Lincoln lifted the black iron kettle from its hook in the fireplace and approached her stepson. "Now bend over jest as fur as ye kin, Abe," she commanded. The tall figure assumed the necessary position, his hands rest- ing upon his knees. There was a sizzling sound as the steaming water struck the spot where the saddle and Abe's body were joined. "Ouch!" he grunted, and then the saddle fell to the floor. "Hang it up thor on the peg, John," said Thomas Lin- coln, who had watched the operation with keen interest. "Tell us all about it, Abe," said his stepmother. "How comes ye wasn't able t' make it back from John Hanks' 'fore th' storm got so bad?" 132 The Prairie President "I would have got back all right," he answered. "It hadn't been snowin' long when I started out, but when I got about halfway home, I saw a long, dark object half buried in a snow drift, that looked to me very much like a man." "What was it?" chorused the others. "It was a man!" replied Abe. "Oh!" gasped the woman, and the men laughed. "Yes," continued Abe. "It was a man — at least he once was a man. It was old Mort Dawson, dead drunk and half froze. In another fifteen minutes he would have been completely hid by th' snow." "How orful!" exclaimed Sarah. "Well, to make a long story short, when I saw I couldn't revive him, I picked him up and toted him to my horse, held him on and drove over to his cabin. Reckon his wife's got him thawed out and sobered up by this time. Then I started for home. The snow was blinding but old Bess seemed to know just what direction to go, which was more than I did!" "Abe, I prayed fer you an' John t' git back, an', y' see, my prayer was answered. This is goin' to be a mighty happy Christmas fer me, after all." "You shore deserve it, Sally," said Thomas Lincoln. The boys agreed. "An' I've got a fat turkey roastin' fer ye all, an' two hot apple pies. We're goin' to have a fine supper t' cele- brate this occasion." "Go ahead, Sally. It sounds mighty good t' me," said her husband. "But first I've got somethin' t' say t' you heedless men," said the woman severely. "Go ahead, Sally," said Thomas. "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 133 Sarah Lincoln rose and faced the three men, who had grouped themselves before the fire. "Jest eighteen hun- derd an' thirty year ago t'day, God sent down His be- loved Son t' be horned in a manger in Bethlehem an' t' be named Jesus," she began. "An' durin' all th' long years that has since come and gone. He's been watchin' an' lookin' after His people. He knowed what was goin' on out here on this lonesome Illinois prairie. He was watchin' us!" The woman's voice grew tenser and the words flowed as from one inspired, as indeed she was. "An' t'night, before Abe an' John got back — while you was gone fer the spades, Tom — I got down on my knees and asked Him t' pertect 'em — and He did! He did a lot more'n I asked Him t' do. He seen that pore drunkard layin' out thor on th' prairie, freezin', an' He guided Abe to him. And not only did He pertect John; he also tuck keer o' them pore steers that he'ped haul us from Indianny — them pore steers that ain't got souls like we hev, an' ain't ever knowed anything but work. It was them that He showed th' way through th' storm an' made 'em th' instrument of John's deliverance." "I reckon thor's a lot in what ye say, Sally," said Thomas approvingly. "It shore looks that way!" John exclaimed. "Yes, it does," said Abe quietly. "And so, before we set down t' eat, we're a-goin' t' make this here cabin ring with a song praisin' Him. It's th' only thing we kin do t' show how grateful we air fer what He done fer us, on His birthday. Git yer accordin', Tom." 134 The Prairie President Within forty-eight hours the snow reached an average depth of three feet. Men who were but a few yards from their homes when the storm began were blinded and lost. With this ferocious beginning, the snow fell almost stead- ily throughout the winter. In the woods it lay from two to four feet deep and the prairie drifts mounted as high as sixteen feet. Finally a slight rain fell and a thick crust of ice was formed over all. The cold was intense; it was usually from ten to twenty degrees below zero. For many weeks nobody ven- tured from the cabin refuges except for firewood near at hand. Horses, cattle and hogs died. Deer and wild turkey, which had been plentiful, were practically exterminated; of wild animals, only the light-footed wolves survived. Connections between houses, settlements and grain mills broke down. All winter the settlers, confined in the snow- bound cabins, had nothing to eat but boiled corn and pounded meal. Many died of cold, lacking fuel. Some died of hunger, lacking corn. "The winter of the deep snow" was for more than a generation the dividing point in Illinois history. When old settlers swapped experiences, no one was thought to have anything worth recounting unless he had come to the prairies in time to participate in the experiences of that terrible winter. Those who survived it had well earned the nickname of "Snowbirds" which, in the years after, they jokingly called themselves. 4f H< ^ H< ^ Sarah Lincoln stood over the bed where her husband snored peacefully — and loudly. "Wake up, Thomas!" she cried, as she shook him by the shoulder. "I've got some arful good news fer ye!" "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 135 "What is it, Sally?" yawned Thomas. "What news kin ye have, with us walled in by this here big snow fer more'n two months, cut off from th' world, same as if we was in Greenland?" "That's what the good news is about, father," laughed Abe. "It's meltin'! Must have started durin' th' night. We ain't goin' t' have to be cooped up any longer." "Wal, it's nigh drove me crazy," said Thomas Lincoln, as he pulled on his pants. "Every day's been so te'jus, a-settin' here half froze, an' goin' easy on th' firewood, goin' easy on th' vittals, tryin' t' make 'em hold out. Why, if I'd a-knowed that we'd have nothin' t' eat but b'iled corn an' corn meal fer more'n six weeks stiddy," he grumbled, "I don't think I'd a-wanted t' live." "You better be thankful we had it, Thomas Lincoln," said his wife sharply. "I am," he admitted. "But jest th' same, I'm a-feared my taste fer corn is sp'iled fer keeps." There was a knock at the door. When Mrs. Lincoln opened it, Dennis Hanks walked into the room. Dennis, like Thomas and Abraham Lincoln, showed many signs of the snowbound isolation through which he had passed; he was thin, his matted hair was long, and his inch long beard accented the paleness of his face and gave him the look of a wild man. "Dennis!" exclaimed Abe. "My, but it's good to see you!" He grasped his cousin by the hand. "Tell me about Sarah an' th' children," said Mrs. Lin- coln. "Have they managed to keep well?" "Yep, 'ceptin' fer a few colds we ain't had no trouble. But if we'd a-knowed this arful snowstorm was comin' when we moved to Ill-e-nois we could hev built a Ark, 136 The Prairie President like old Noah done. My cabin's already floatin' and when all this snow gits melted I reckon these here prairies'll be under water. An' look at th' animals we could a-saved. Most o' th' bosses an' cattle an' hogs has died. And wust of all, fer fellers like us, Tom, th' wild game is nigh all killed off. Th' only critters that managed t' come through is them pesky wolves." "That's arful!" sighed Sarah Lincoln. "I knowed ter- rible things must be happenin'." Dennis continued, "We don't know th' half of it yet. I met a feller comin' from Decatur. He said they'd al- ready found several families froze or starved t' death in their cabins. In one of 'em th' wolves had broke in an' nigh eat up th' bodies." "How terrible!" cried Sarah Lincoln. Thomas Lincoln glanced at a pile of books which lay on the shelf above the fireplace. "I reckon th' only one in these parts that got any pleasure out of it was Abe here," he said sarcastically. "It give him a chance t' git his belly full o' readin' fer oncet in his life. With all Macken County goin' t' ruin he set here readin' — part o' th' time readin' a book 'bout th' ruins of ancient Rum and Greece." Everybody smiled, even the subject of this uncompli- mentary comment. It was hard to disturb Abraham Lin- coln's proverbial good nature. As usual, Sarah Lincoln lost no time in defending her tall stepson. "Maybe if you had a-been able t' read some o' them books, Thomas Lincoln, ye wouldn't have whined s' much about th' te'jusness o' bein' cooped up," she said sharply. "Folks," said Abe, "since the thaw has set in, I reckon "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 137 I'll be gittin' over t' Sheriff Warnick's an' start splittin' them rails, like I was supposed to do th' day after Christ- mas. Is my things ready, mother?" "Yes, Abe," she answered. All during the conversa- tion, Sarah Lincoln had been busily gathering together her stepson's meager wardrobe, and without attracting the attention of her husband, she had made a neat bundle which included the precious — and hated — books. "How many rails air ye splittin' fer th' sheriff, Abe?" asked his father. "The agreement calls for three thousand, at fifty cents a hundred. Then I've got another contract to split two thousand for six yards of dyed jeans to get myself a new suit made out of." "How long d' ye calculate ye'll be gone? I'm thinkin' we kin begin spring plantin' before long, bein's as th' snow is meltin'." "I am not coming back, father." Thomas Lincoln did not fail to recognize the air of finality in his son's reply. "Ain't comin' back?" he ex- claimed. "No," said Abe. "When we left Indianny, I had been of age more than a month, but I didn't say nothing then, because I wanted to help you an' mother git settled on' th' new place. So I stayed through summer and fall to help with the crop. But now, bein's I'm past twenty-two, I've got t' git started in life at somethin; an' splittin' rails is as good as anything else, I reckon, for me." "Wal, I don't want t' stand in yer way, Abe," answered his father. Through all the vicissitudes of life, Thomas Lincoln had remained an honest man, and he realized that his son's claim to his own life was a just one. 138 The Prairie President "No, Abe, ye owe it t' yerself t' git out in th' world an' try t' amount t' somethin'," said his stepmother. "Good-bye, mother," said Abraham Lincoln, and he tenderly kissed the woman who had so amply filled that role. "Tell John good-bye for me when he gets back." Turning to his father, and grasping him by the hand, he continued, "Good-bye, father." "Good-bye, son," said Thomas Lincoln, in a manner softer than usual. "May th' good God perteck ye." "I ain't goin' far," said Abe. "I'll be droppin' in to see you all from time to time. Good-bye, Dennis." "Good-bye, Abe," said his cousin. Abe picked up the heavy bundles that contained all his worldly possessions, walked quickly to the door and departed. "That was kinda sudden, wasn't it. Aunt Sally?" asked Dennis Hanks. "No," replied the woman. "I knowed he was figgerin' on goin'." "Now he's gone out into th' world t' keep on foolin' hisself with eddication," grunted Thomas Lincoln. "I tried t' stop him long ago, but I didn't have no luck. He'd be a heap better off if he'd stayed here." "No, he wouldn't, Thomas Lincoln," exclaimed Sarah. "Abe'll make his mark in the world. He's th' best boy I ever seed, or expect t' see. I'm jest his stepmother but I kin say what I reckon scarcely one mother in a thousand kin say. He never gave me a cross word or look, an' never oncet refused t' do anything I asked him." "I hope yer right, Aunt Sally," said Dennis. "Abe's a queer 'un. Don't say much, but still water runs deep. He mought be a big man some day." Dennis looked "The Winter of the Deep Snow" 139 toward the window. Far down the muddy, watery path he could see his tall cousin plodding toward the horizon beyond the little hill. "Y' know," he continued, "I never could figger out whether Abe loves his folks or not. When he's with us, he seems to think a heap of us, but at times I git th' feelin' he ain't sincere about it — but I ain't shore." And like humble Dennis Hanks, numerous eminent students of the life of Abraham Lincoln have pondered over the same question without finding a satisfactory an- swer. CHAPTER XI RAILSPLITTIN' AND FLATBOATIN' WITH the coming of spring in 1831, the whole of Central Illinois was covered with water; rivers and creeks overflowed and for a time boats were the only means of transportation. While Abraham Lincoln was on his way to Sheriff Warnick's farm, which was eight miles west from Decatur, his canoe upset in crossing the Sangamon and he was thrown into the icy water. The accident did not occur in midstream, but near the War- nick shore, where the water was only knee deep to the tall rail-splitter from "Indianny." But his feet were soaked and before he could reach the sheriff's house they were frozen. Frozen feet require heroic treatment, and the big ones of Abraham Lincoln got it. His shoes were removed and his feet thrust into a bucket of snow. Mrs. Warnick took him in charge. She was a good nurse. Four weeks passed before Abe's feet healed sufficiently to enable him to leave the Warnick home; and by that time he was well estab- lished in the good graces of the sheriff's family. But those four weeks were not wasted. Sheriff Warnick owned a copy of the Statutes of Illinois and the invalid read them painstakingly from cover to cover. This was not his first text book on law, for he had al- ready read the Statutes of Kentucky at the home of Squire Pate and those of Indiana from the book loaned to him by David Turnham. With the reading of the Illinois book his legal inclination did, however, receive a new impetus. 140 Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 141 Due to the long snowstorm, and the frozen feet, the sheriff's rails had been delayed for more than three months and would be sorely needed after the spring planting. John Hanks, like Abraham Lincoln, needed money as much as Warnick needed the rails, and so Abe offered to share the contract with his "Cousin John." When the ground was sufficiently dry to permit outdoor work, the two men went to work, industriously splitting the rails, and Abraham procured his first clothing after the attainment of his majority by splitting the additional four hundred rails for each yard of walnut dyed brown jean required for the making of the suit. «i^ «1# ^ ^^ ^E? ^f< j^ *j^ ^f* *j» One day, toward the end of March, the count showed that the arduous contract was nearing fulfillment. "Wal, Abe, I calculate we'll git th' last o' th' sheriff's rails split by sundown," said John Hanks. The two men were sitting on a pile of the newly made yellow rails, their dinner spread out between them. It consisted of a generous slab of salted pork, several pieces of corn bread and a bucket of cold coffee. "I hope so," answered Abe with some difficulty, his mouth being full of food. "It's been a long, te'jus job. I'd like something else for a change." "But what air we going to do next?" asked John Hanks anxiously. "Oh, something'll turn up, I reckon," replied easy-go- ing Abe. During the afternoon, while both men were swinging their heavy mauls against the wedges that were ripping the hickory logs into fence rails, a man rode into the clear- ing on horseback. While he was dismounting and hitching 142 The Prairie President his horse to a near-by tree, both of the rail-splitters ob- served him minutely; he was a short, fat man; but Abe noticed that he was "arful spry" and Hanks' first impres- sion was that he was "a jovial, good-natured sort of a fel- ler." The man's face was ruddy, and reddish brown hair was visible under his broad-brimmed hat. "Which of you men is Mr. John Hanks?" the man in- quired, as he approached the two hard working cousins. "That's my name, stranger," answered Hanks. "What kin I do fer ye?" "Well, sir, I'm hoping that there are a great many things you can do for me," replied the man affably. "Offut is my name — 0-f-f-u-t. You've heard about me, of course?" John Hanks scratched his head. "Kain't say as I have, but that don't mean nothin'. Me an' Cousin Abe, here, has had our noses purty close to th' grindstone this spring an' ain't been able t' git around much." "Mr. Hanks," continued Offut, "within twelve months, I promise you that the whole Mississippi Valley will ring with the name of Denton Offut. By that time I will be the Merchant Prince of the Middle West, possibly of the entire United States. The way that Dutch fur trader Jacob Astor is making his millions in the East is nothing to what I'll do here in these parts when I get started." "I shore wish I could make money like that!" sighed John Hanks. "But it can't be done splittin' rails." "Why, of course it can't, Mr. Hanks!" agreed the volu- ble Offut. "Over in Decatur folks have been telling me that you are an experienced flatboatman; that you have made several river trips to New Orleans. And so I have come as the herald of your golden opportunity!" "Wal, ye air shore welcome, Mr. Offut, fer this here Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 143 rail contract's nigh finished," Hanks replied, "an' I reckon there ain't nothin' I need wuss than a golden opportunity." "My mercantile operations are going to be on a vast scale, wide in scope," continued Offut. "Not only do my plans include the establishment of a system of stores throughout Indiana and Illinois, but I intend also to oper- ate a fleet of boats between Springfield and New Orleans. Yes, in another year huge steamboats will plow up and down the Sangamon! The Offut Line they will be called." "Sure sounds mighty interestin', Mr. Offut," said John Hanks, "but I'm a-feared you'll find the Sangamon a purty tough stream t' navigate — it's so shaller." Offut laughed. "That is a mere detail," he said, "but one I have not overlooked. Success depends largely upon attention to details, Mr. Hanks. My boats will operate on a twelve month schedule. In winter they will be equipped with runners, like sleds, to glide swiftly over the ice; in summer, during low water, they will be equipped with rollers." "Wal, I'll be dammed!" exclaimed John Hanks. "But it is my more immediate plans that bring me out here to see you, Mr. Hanks," continued Offut. "As a forerunner to my steamboat line, I'm figgerin' on buying a flatboat and shipping a load of produce through the San- gamon and down the Mississippi to New Orleans, and I'm looking for some capable hands to man the boat — and I heard about you." "Wal," answered Hanks, "if th' wages is fair, I could go all right. Abe, over thor, is a good boatman, too. Come here, Abe!" During the conversation between Denton Offut and John Hanks, Abraham Lincoln had continued steadily at the 144 The Prairie President work. He threw down his ax and joined the two men. "Abe, this gent's lookin' fer some men t' run a flatboat down t' N'Orleans fer him. Me and you's made t' order fer it, ain't we?" he chuckled. "Oh, yes, we can do that all right," answered the tall rail-splitter, "and I reckon I could get John Johnston — that's my foster brother." "Well, Mr. Hanks," resumed Offut, "you being the older, more experienced hand, I will give you twenty dol- lars a month. Lincoln, you look like a smart fellow, and I suppose your foster brother is all right; I will pay you and him each sixteen dollars a month for the full time of the voyage. And I will pay each of your steamboat pas- sages back as far as St. Louis." John Hanks turned to his cousin, "Sounds fair enough to me," he said. "What about you, Abe?" "Yes, it's fair. I'm willing." "Fine! We'll shake hands on that and call it a bargain!" exclaimed Offut enthusiastically. "Now you men meet me in Springfield, at the Buckhorn Tavern, next Monday morning, and I'll have the boat and everything in readi- ness." "We can do that all right, can't we John?" asked Abe. "Shore we kin," replied his tall cousin. "Well, good-bye, Mr. Hanks — Mr. Lincoln. You both may be sure that your own fortunes will advance concur- rently with my own, as did the fortunes of Napoleon's marshals so advance with his. Au revoir — see you Mon- day!" he called, as he galloped away. John Hanks gave a long whistle. "Wal, Abe," he said, "what d' ye think of th' feller?" "I haven't got a fixed opinion yet," grinned Abraham Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 145 Lincoln, "but this reminds me of a political meetin' I at- tended once in Indianny. One of the aspirants for Con- gress had just finished a long, flowery speech in behalf of his candidacy. There were a couple of darkeys sitting in front of me, and when the meetin' ended, one said to the other: 'Henry, who am dat gemman what made dat fine speech?' 'Why, Ah dunno who dat gemman is,' answered his companion, 'but he suttenly do recommen' hisse'f mos' highly.' " Both men laughed. John Hanks chuckled, "Wal, Mr. Offut sho' do recommend hisself mos' highly." Hanks, Lincoln and Johnston paddled in a canoe down the Sangamon River from Decatur to the place froni which the expedition was to start. Upon their arrival no boat awaited them and when they located their new employer at the Buckhorn Tavern at Springfield four miles off the river, they found he had been on a protracted drunken spree. Springfield at that time was a struggling village of but five hundred and seventy inhabitants, which had not yet conceived the ambition to be the capital of Illinois. But it was a county seat and one of a number of aspiring river towns, a large proportion of which have now disappeared from the map, each one of them having vainly pinned its hope to the navigability of the Sangamon. Off'ut having failed to secure a boat, it was decided to have his crew build one. On United States Government land, some distance above the mouth of Spring Creek, the three cut and hewed timbers and floated them down to Sangamon Town, seven miles northwest of Springfield. Here the men camped in a hastily built shanty and elected Abraham Lincoln as cook. At a near-by mill the timbers 146 The Prairie President were sawed into planks, and at the end of six weeks the boat was ready to be launched. It was eighty feet long and eighteen feet wide. As he was without reading matter at this time, Lincoln joined his companions at cards, the game being "seven- up," which he played exceedingly well. At work or play, Lincoln told stories, discussed politics, perpetrated jokes, quoted poetry and mimicked orators and preachers whom he had heard, all to the astonishment of bystanders and the delight and pride of Hanks and Johnston. Denton Offut was a "git-rich-quick" schemer and pro- moter whose methods would not have been out of date half a century later. He was an excellent press agent and kept the Sangamon Journal well informed as to his projects. Thus, on May 1, when the flatboat was ready to embark on her maiden voyage, the event had been well heralded and a generous share of the citizens of Spring- field were at the river bank. Many of these were the solid citizens who had "swallered" Offut's talk "hook, line an' sinker." Aboard this crude craft were her owner, the cap- tain, first mate and the crew — that is to say, Denton Offut, John Hanks, Abraham Lincoln and John Johnston. "Oh, Mr. Offut," called Abe, who was sitting on top of the shed-like cabin, to his employer on the deck below, "all the folks on shore seem to like the boat." "Abe, my boy," replied Offut, "I'm mighty proud of you and Hanks. "After all," he laughed, "it was good luck that I couldn't get a boat and had to send you fellers up into the woods to chop trees and get 'em sawed up and build the boat yourselves. This is a better boat than any I could have bought in these parts." Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 147 "Well, we did our best to make a good job out of it," said Abe. "You sure did!" agreed his employer. "This boat is a dandy. All the produce fits into it snug and safe." Suddenly from the river bank came the notes, in bu- colic strains, of "Columbia the Gem of the Ocean." "Look, Mr. Offut— Abe— John! It's the Springfield band!" shouted John Hanks. "Why, they're making a regular holiday out of this launching!" exclaimed Offut happily. After the music had run its course there was loud cheering from the shore, and calls of "Offut!" "They want you to say something, Mr. Offut," called Abe. "Better come up here on top of the cabin where they can all see you!" Offut climbed up to the roof of the cabin and stood be- side his tall first mate. Striking a Napoleonic attitude he began amid applause and jeers from the river bank: "Fellow citizens of Springfield, ladies and gentlemen: Mere words cannot express the many conflicting emotions surging within me on this glorious occasion, destined, I hope, to mean much to the future well-being and prosper- ity of us all." Encouraged by the applause which followed, the promoter continued, "Being a doer, rather than a talker, there is not much that I can say at the start of the maiden voyage of what I hope will be the germ plasm of vast maritime and mercantile enterprises, stretching forth along both banks of the Sangamon River to the mighty Father of Waters." This brought considerable cheering. Offut then introduced his crew individually, after which he concluded: "And so, thanking you again for your wonderful co- 148 The Prairie President operation and for the magnificent way in which you have turned out to bid us farewell, I want to assure you in clos- ing, on behalf of myself and my staff, that although float- ing on and on to New Orleans, our hearts will remain here in Springfield with you." The speaker made a flourishing bow and jumped to the deck. On shore the crowd was applauding wildly, and as Abe expressed it confidentially, Offut was "in hog heaven." "I've cut the rope, Mr. Offut!" shouted Hanks. "Is everybody ready?" "Yes, let her go!" answered Offut. Abraham Lincoln took a long pole and pushed the flat- boat free of the muddy river bank and the three man- power vessel got under way and as it floated down the winding Sangamon the voyagers were encouraged by the hearty farewells and the discordant notes of "America" that came from the shore. After plowing through the shallow water of the Sanga- mon for some miles the craft became stranded on a mill- dam at the foot of a high river bluff where stood a group of cabins. The place was called New Salem and one of the belles of the little settlement was among the first to dis- cover the strange boat and its precarious position. Her name was Ann Rutledge. Soon everybody in the hamlet was on the river bank watching the trouble. Part of the cargo was transferred to another boat. Lincoln then bored a hole in the end of the helpless flatboat to let out the water when the lower end was lifted. This inventive feat greatly increased Offut's growing admiration for the young giant's talents. At last the dam was successfully passed, the cargo reloaded and the voyage resumed. Throughout this adventure Abraham Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 149 was conspicuous because of his unusual height. His long, bare legs wading about in the river accentuated his stature. Only one other incident worthy of note occurred on the journey to the Mississippi. Five miles below New Salem lived "Squire" Russel B. Godbey, from whom Offut bought several hogs which were very wild, refusing to be driven aboard the flatboat. One man on the river bank suggested sewing up the eyes of the swine, which he claimed would make them dependent and manageable. The eyelids were stitched and the scheme worked, but Lincoln's inborn love for animals and his abhorrence of cruelty to them made it impossible for him to take any part in this brutality. sis sif iff sic stc The flatboat and her crew floated out into the great Mis- sissippi without mishap. In fact, the hazards were in some respects reduced on the larger stream. The early summer sun poured its heat on the deck and cabin roof, and the long days were much alike. At night the men took turns at the oars and rudder to avoid the delays and nuisances of tying up at night. One morning, when John Hanks "calculated" they were "gittin' nigh St. Louis," the current was flowing just right to carry the craft along without any physical effort on the part of her personnel, who were lying lazily on the decks in the shadow cast by the cabin watching a majestic white steamboat gliding smoothly over the lead-colored water about half a mile ahead. Suddenly it disappeared, leaving only a cloud of smoke to designate the place where it had been. "Wal, a minute ago that air steamer was before us, big as life. Now she's clean behind the bend." remarked John Hanks. 150 The Prairie President "If it wasn't for those bends, I reckon we'd be getting toward St. Louis at a better rate than six miles an hour," said Abraham Lincoln, rousing himself from one of his moody lethargies. "But it's been such a mighty pleasant trip so far, boys, that I haven't begrudged the time much," said the opti- mistic Denton Offut. "Wal, as th' years go on them bends air gettin' less, and every once in a while th' river makes a jump by cuttin' through a narrar neck of land and straightens an' shortens itself," said Hanks. "More'n once I've knowed it t' shorten itself out more'n thirty miles at a single jump." "Is that a fact?" exclaimed Offut. "Yes, the old Mississippi does some very queer things," Lincoln agreed. "Those cut-offs John mentioned have mighty curious results. For instance, they have thrown several thriving river towns back into the country and built sandbars and young forests in front of them." "Is that a fact?" ejaculated Offut. "It shore is, Mr. Offut," continued Abe. "And these cut-offs also have curious political effects at times. For example, a man may be living in the State of Mississippi to-day, a cut-off comes along to-night, and he wakes up to find his land on the other side of the river, within the boundaries of the State of Louisiana, and subject to its laws." "Well, I'll be damned!" Offut exclaimed. "Then if it plays the devil with boundary lines and jurisdiction like that, why, if the same thing should happen here in the up- per river it would transfer a slave from Missouri to Illinois and make a free man out of him!" "That's just what it would do," said Abe. Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 151 "Abe, I guess there isn't anything you and Hanks don't know about the river, between you," chuckled their em- ployer. "Mr. OfFut!" cried Hanks suddenly. "Yes?" "See that keelboat yonder?" "Why, yes," answered Offut, as he looked toward the north, from where a small boat was swiftly coming down stream. "I don't like th' looks of that outfit," explained Hanks. "T calculate they're pirates — at least they're a crew of them river toughs what calls themselves 'half boss an' half alligator.' " The most picturesque and outstanding type among all American pioneers was the Mississippi riverman. He took pride in his physical prowess and his wide vocabulary of profanity. Bragging that he was "half alligator and half horse," and that he was impervious to blows and wounds that would kill normal men, this queer designation eventu- ally became his title. Many volumes could be written about these unique characters, now all gone into ghostland. They were a brutal class, and the early history of the river abounds with legends of their escapades. "Yes," repeated Hanks, "I'm afraid they're half boss an' half alligators." Offut said, "Did you ever hear of 'em before, Abe?" "Yes," answered Abe, solemnly. "And those kind of men are stronger than horses, and tougher, much tougher, than alligators. Oh, they're correctly named all right, and we'd better get set for an attack." "Then I want you to take command, Abe," said Offut, who bore no resemblance to the "Little Corporal" now. 152 The Prairie President "Very well," agreed Lincoln. "I've got my gun. I'll jump up there on top th' cabin. John Hanks, you and Mr. Offut post yourselves at the prow. John Johnston, you guard the rear deck. Now each of you have your pistols cocked and ready for a quick draw — ^but don't do or say anything to provoke trouble, and for heaven's sake don't act scared, whatever you do." In the meantime, the keelboat had made a considerable gain on the boat from Illinois. Its crew were a rough lot: five uncouth, bearded men, who bore all the outward ap- pearances of cut-throats. They were singing boisterously but only discordant tunes could be heard on the flatboat. "Man the oars, boys," called Abe in a low tone. "Now everybody act unconcerned — but don't let 'em come along- side." The keelboat was drawing nearer and nearer. The words of the song became audible: "As I was lumb'ring down de street, Down de street, Down de street, A handsome gal I chanced to meet — Oh, she was fair to view. "Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night, And dance by de light of de moon?" Abe stood on the cabin with his eyes fixed on the keel- boat. By this time the features of the crew of each boat were distinguishable. The song abruptly ended. The men on the flatboat tensely watched those on the keelboat. Railsplittin' and Flatboatin' 153 "Hey, Longshanks!" called a huge, bull-like man, who seemed to be the leader of the ruffians. "How's the weather up there?" "Oh, it ain't as hot as it is down where you fellers be- long," laughed Abe, without giving any evidence of his uneasiness. The men on the other boat roared with laughter. "Don't start any argument, Abe!" whispered Offut. "Whar you landlubbers bound fer?" called the man. "St. Louis," answered Abe. "Wal, go on, ye'll make it thor be mornin' if yer home- made tub holds t'gether that long!" "Oh, I reckon it will," answered Abe, amid jeers and laughter from the keelboat, which had begun to turn away. "Good luck t' ye, Longshanks! So long!" called the rivermen. "Same to you," Abe replied, waving his hat with his long arm. Another queer song began as the singers turned their vessel toward the Missouri shore, each verse fainter than the one before. Abe remained on the cabin roof. Presently a moon-like face appeared above the side edge of the cabin. It was Offut. "Thank God!" he gasped. "Abe, I'm purty sure we just avoided serious trouble. You're a natural born diplomat!" "Yep," agreed John Hanks, "when them fellers seed Abe up thor, standin' like a gineral an' nigh seven feet tall," he laughed, "why, I reckon they jest nacherly got cold feet — figgered that safety was th' best policy." From St. Louis, where Hanks left the party, the Illinois voyagers joined one of the many convoys of about fifteen 154 The Prairie President boats, that being the usual custom as a safety precaution. It took them nearly three weeks to make the voyage down- stream from the Missouri metropolis. All the way they met or were passed by other flatboats, keelboats, arks, sleds and proud white steamboats flying flags. Stepping from their flatboat at New Orleans, it was necessary for Off'ut, Lincoln, and Johnston to walk nearly a mile before touching the soil of the city, so densely were they moored. Flatboats were not considered worth the eff'ort and hazard of attempting an upstream voyage and they usually were sold in New Orleans for what they would bring as second- hand lumber, and such was Offut's intention in regard to his. CHAPTER XII THE SLAVE MARKET WITH the settlement of the Middle West, New Or- leans had become the most important city of the United States as far as the dwellers of the Mississippi Valley were concerned. Down with the current of the great river came the produce of the fertile valley. An end- less stream of gold was pouring into the city and it had become luxurious, aristocratic and gay. Since the Louisi- ana Purchase, many Americans had moved there to com- pete in trade with the French, Spanish and Creoles, and a new "American" city had grown beyond the confines of the old walled town of Nouvelle Orleans. New Orleans boasted of her opera, theaters, gambling and dance halls, race courses, and sports of all kinds. Dark-eyed, languishing women smiled down from orna- mental balconies of wrought iron. There were extravagant balls, duels and cock fights. It is no wonder that the Mid- west pioneers, especially the women, who visited New Orleans considered this gay metropolis a veritable "city of sin." Here Lincoln saw advertisements of traders offering to "pay the highest prices in cash for good and likely Ne- groes" or to "attend to the sale and purchase of Negroes on commission." One firm announced: "We have now on hand, and intend to keep throughout the entire year, a large, well selected stock of Negroes, consisting of field hands, house servants, mechanics, cooks, seamstresses, washers, ironers, etc., which we will sell as low, or lower, 155 156 The Prairie President than any other House here in New Orleans. Our fresh and regular arrivals will keep us supplied with a good and general assortment; our terms are liberal; give us a call." Another trader gave notice: "I will at all times pay the highest cash prices for Negroes of every description, and will also attend to the sale of Negroes on commission, hav- ing a jail and yard fitted up especially for boarding them." One seller offered: "For Sale — several likely girls from ten to eighteen years old, a woman twenty-four, a very valuable woman twenty-five with three very likely chil- dren." Buyers indicated their wants thus: "Wanted — I want to purchase twenty-five likely Negroes, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five years, male and female, for which I will pay the highest prices in cash." jjs ^ jjj ^ j5« After Offut had disposed of his cargo and the flatboat at New Orleans, there was nothing for Lincoln and Johns- ton to do until the departure of the steamer on which their employer had secured them return passage. New Orleans offered more tangible evidences of the curse of slavery than printed notices. The wanderings of the visitors from Illinois eventually brought them before a large warehouse, where they were attracted by an ani- mated crowd surrounding the shipping platform. "Here, mister!" cried a dark-skinned urchin, thrusting a handbill into John Johnston's hand. "Big sale t'day!" "Thank ye, boy," said John, and handing it to his companion he asked, "Now, Abe, what does it say on this here paper? Wish't I knowed how t' read." "Oh, it's just a circular," replied Abe; then his eyes suddenly flashed. "Why, it's advertisin' a slave auction!" "Read it, Abe," urged Johnston. The Slave Market 157 "It says: 'Notice! Special sale of choice Negroes! On behalf of the administrator of the estate of Joseph Del- roche, deceased, I will sell, to the highest bidder, at ten o'clock on May sixteenth, the following house servants and plantation hands of the aforesaid Joseph Delroche, to wit: a carriage driver; two good cooks; a fine seamstress; a butler; a fiddler; a valuable girl, twenty-two; a very valu- able girl, eighteen; ten male field hands; twelve female field hands; and seventeen likely children. Purchasers will do well to inspect this unusually fine assortment be- fore looking elsewhere; Louis de Martinne, Dealer and Auctioneer.' " "Wal, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Johnston. "I've heerd o' Nigger auctions, but I never more'n half believed in 'em. Why, back in Elizabethtown, I kin remember all of th' rich folks havin' slaves — called 'em servants — ^but they seemed better off an' happier'n us pore white folks, an' I never seen any o' them git auctioned off." "Come on, John," said Abe, "let's go over and see how they do it." Filled with curiosity, Lincoln and his foster brother wormed their way through the throng until they found themselves directly in front of the auction block. The crowd before the platform was large. Besides the planters from the surrounding country, who had journeyed to the sale, the wealth and culture of New Orleans were well represented — as were also the riff-raff. Ordinarily a slave sale was an event that attracted only casual interest, usually attended only by prospective purchasers and a few idle bystanders. But to-day a dense mass of humanity swarmed about the platform, for servants like those of the late Delroche could not be purchased every day. 158 The Prairie President Two persons stood on the block; one was the auctioneer, a fierce looking man with a black moustache, wearing a wine colored hammer-tail coat, plaid vest and calf-skin boots, with a white beaver hat on the back of his head; the other was a coal black Negro, twenty or twenty-five, attired in a long green coat with shining brass buttons, cream colored breeches, and polished black boots. The hammer had just descended when Lincoln and Johnston arrived. The auctioneer turned to the clerk, who sat at a table behind the block, and said, "Prepare ze papers for Mon- sieur-er-er — " "Blake is my name, George L. Blake," interposed the purchaser. "A sousand pardons. Monsieur Blake," smiled the Frenchman. "You have secured a mos' excellent coach- man I am positeeve. An' he have cost you so leetle!" he added suavely. "I hope so," answered Blake dryly. "I'll soon find out, at any rate." Turning to the Negro, he said, "Come on, you!" A minute later the pair were lost in the crowd. "Wal, Abe," said John Johnston, "we better be glad they ain't got slavery in Illinois. If they kin buy a kerriage driver fer keeps down here fer two hundred an' fifty dollars, with a monkey suit an' a plug hat throwed in fer good measure, how much chance would a couple o' pore workin' fellers like me an' you have t' earn a shillun?" "We've got a lot more reasons than that for bein' thank- ful Illinois ain't a slave state," answered Abe solemnly. As the next items on the sale list were brought to the front of the platform there was an exclamation of sur- f^nAtrr^er.'-A. " Vs oJ /'-« ' The auctioneer raised his hammer. The game was on. The Slave Market 159 prise, punctuated with laughter. They were girls, both under twenty. But there the similarity ended, for more contrasting creatures could not have been found in all slavedom. One was enormously fat and very black. Her low forehead, flat nose and thick lips, gave her the ap- pearance of being a direct product of the jungle. The other was a beautiful, slender girl with dark, lustrous eyes, straight black hair and a rich olive complexion. She was virtually white, being only one-sixteenth African; yet she was a slave like the other. It was common knowledge that this girl was the daughter of the lamented Delroche. "Gentlemens, attention!" shouted the auctioneer. "Ah, a sousand pardones! I did not see ze ladee! Ladies and gentlemens," he recommenced, "et ees my pleasure to offer t' you, two seesters, ze choicest property of ze late Monsieur Delroche, peace be to his soul! Zey are as fine a qualitie as it have been my privilege to offer ze dis- criminating public from zis platform." "Abe, them two gals don't look like sisters t' me," said Johnston. "Why, one of 'em's as black as th' ace of spades, an' t'other one — " "Oh, they're sisters all right," hiccoughed a man who was standing unsteadily beside them. "Least they got the same ma," he laughed, "an' she's in the same lot t' be sold." "Will they all be sold together?" Abe inquired. " 'Tain't very likely," continued the man. "Th' ole one's 'bout ready fer th' bone yard. Martiny'd be a dam poor auctioneer t' even try it. No, he won't put the ole one up 'till all th' likely ones is bid in." "That yaller one's purty," said Johnston, who hadn't taken his eyes from the girl since she had appeared. 160 The Prairie President "You said it!" grinned the wobbling one. "An' th' biggest dealer here in Orleans is after her." "What do you think will become of the others?" asked Abe. "Oh, most of 'em '11 land up thor on Red River — an' they'd ruther go to Hell. They shore treat 'em rough on them wholesale plantations." The man rocked violently. After steadying himself he continued. "When they's household servants they got it good." "Have they?" asked Abe sourly. "Yeah; but seven years in a cotton swamp," their informant gave a low, deep whistle to add force to his meaning, "seven years it takes, that's all. Why, I've knowed of — " The man's words were lost in the tumult that ensued as the two "wenches" were put on the block, the inspection being ended. "Attention!" cried the auctioneer. "Ze prospective purchasers having all satisfied zemselves zat ze claims I make for zis pair of dusky damozelles are bona-fide, ze bids will now be taken!" The black girl stood stolidly on the block, expression- less ; but the other cringed, her flushed face showing plain- ly the depth of her humiliation. Reared as a house serv- ant in a home of wealth and culture, this girl had acquired education, grace and poise and other accomplishments unusual in one of her station. "Aw, put up th' 'andsome gal alone, Frenchy!" shouted a man in the crowd. "That's what I say!" yelled another. "Let th' black truck boss wait!" "Patsy ees not so much wid ze looks, I admit," argued The Slave Market 161 the auctioneer, "but she ees ze best Negire for ze work zat Monsieur Delroche had." Grabbing the girl's right arm, he continued, "just look at ze strong arm!" "Aw, cut th' speech, Frenchy. Fellers have all come here t' bid on th' other one — th' light panetela!" cried a flashily dressed man who stood near Lincoln and Johnston. There was a roar of laughter from the crowd. "That's right," called another. "Th' dark one kin wait!" "Shore she kin!" "Put up the handsome one fust!" cried various others. The auctioneer was too good a business man to risk offending prospective customers. It was "thumbs down" for the black girl. She was dragged from the block and pushed back among the group of wretches who were hud- dled at the rear of the platform along the warehouse wall waiting their turn under the hammer. "Oh, Massa, ain't we goin' t' be sole' t'gether?" asked the light one, in a trembling voice. "Silence!" snapped the auctioneer, and then, smiling at his audience, he continued, "Now, ladies and gentle- mens, eet ees a pleasure to offer you ze opportunity of heeding for zis fair creature, who has rightly captured your fancee. Have you evair seen anyt'ing like her at a public auction before?" The man jerked the girl's dress from her white shoulders, exhibiting to the crowd her superb neck. "Who ees going to lose a chance like zis?" he cried. "Come, Marie, I had no business to bring you heah," said a tall, elderly man to the dainty belle at his side. "But, father, it's Delroche's Hester," said the girl. "Please, let us stay here. I do so want you to buy her for me! You know you've been promising me a present." 162 The Prairie President "Very well," replied her father. "I'll see what can be done." The auctioneer raised his hammer. The game was on! "What ees ze heed, one sousand dollars?" Pointing his finger at an uncouth looking man near the platform, he called, "Monsieur Green, what you beed to start?" "Three hundred," was the blunt reply. "Come, come," exclaimed the auctioneer. "Such a ree- diculous beed! Eet ees almost an in-sult!" During the laughter that followed, another man shouted, "Three twenty-five!" "Three-hunnerd an' fifty!" hiccoughed the man who had answered Abe's questions. "Four hundred!" "I— I make it four-fifty!" "T'ank you, gentlemens," smiled the auctioneer, whirl- ing his hammer in the air. "Four seventy-five!" "Five hundred!" said the man addressed as "Mon- sieur Green." "Five hundred and twenty-five!" called the indulgent father. "Five-fifty!" cried Green. "Come, Marie," said the girl's father. "I wouldn't pay a cent more than five hundred and fifty for that creature — and that's more than she's wuth." "Yes, I suppose you're right, father," replied the girl, "You can buy me that necklace instead of a maid." The auctioneer was again urging the bidders. "Wal, Abe," drawled Johnston, "this is purty lively proceedin's, I'm thinkin'." "I suppose so." The Slave Market 163 "I bid five hundred and fifty-five fer th' yallar pine!" shouted the dandy. "Six hundred!" grunted Green. "Six hundred an' twenty-five!" "Seven hundred!" from Green. The auctioneer's hammer was now wavering near the board. "T'ank you, Monsieur Green! I'm heed seven hundred!" "Seven-ten!" "Seven hundred and twenty-five's my bid," grinned the flashily dressed man. "Seven-fifty!" said Green. "I'm beed seven hundred and fifty dollars," cried the auctioneer. "Who ees going to lose a chance like zis? Here ees a girl fit to be ze meestress of a king!" A howl of laughter mingled with exclamations of dis- gust followed. But the auctioneer, callous from expe- rience, knew his rights: that under the law, this weeping, cringing creature, was a chattel and nothing more. "Seven-seventy-five!" yelled the man in the flamboyant suit. "I'm through," said Green, the slave dealer. "I reckon that feller wants her a heap wuss than I do." The auctioneer looked over his audience. There were no other bidders. The hammer fell. "Sold!" he cried. "Sold for seven hundred and seventy-five dollars." While the man was assisting the girl from the platform, an aged and bent negress rushed from the group of slaves that were waiting their turn. "Oh, massa," she moaned, "ain't y' gwine t' buy me an' Tillie, too? De auctioneer- gemman tole' me me an' my gals would be kep' t'gether. They ain't nevah been away from their ole mudder!" 164 The Prairie President "Naw, I can't use you," said her daughter's new master. "Only lively hands I'm lookin' for." "I'm afeerd it ain't no use, mammy-love," sobbed the girl. "Now don't you cry, I'll be all right." The old woman clutched at the gaudily dressed man's sleeve. "Please, Massa Jones," she wailed. "Oh, please, suh, buy me, too. Dis ole woman's got heaps mo' work in her yit. An' I won' cost much. Fze a bargin', I iz!" "Come, gal!" commanded Jones. "Cut out this stallin'! Pull that old crone away, Frenchy!" The auctioneer and his assistant grabbed the poor creature and forced her back into the gloomy group from which she had emerged. Abraham Lincoln's face was flushed, and there was moisture in his flashing eyes. "Come on, John, let's get away from here," he said. "It's arful sad, ain't it, Abe?" replied his companion. "Yes," answered Lincoln, "slavery is a curse to Amer- ica, and / tell you, John Johnston, if I can ever hit that thing, I'll hit it — and by God, I'll hit it hard," CHAPTER XIII THE EMBRYONIC POLITICIAN OF NEW SALEM After Denton Offut disposed of his cargo and the jlV. flatboat at a good profit the party came up the Mis- sissippi on a steamboat. Lincoln had so favorably im- pressed the promoter that Offut asked him to remain in his employ as clerk in a store he was planning to open in one of the "likely Sangamon River towns." Lincoln agreed, and the place decided upon was New Salem. When the packet reached St. Louis, Offut remained there to buy merchandise and John Johnston stayed to seek work. Lin- coln walked to Edwardsville, and from there went to visit his father, who had moved to a larger farm located for him by John Hanks in Coles County. Near the end of July 1831, after saying good-bye to his father and stepmother, whom he was not to see again for many years, Abraham Lincoln strode across the Illi- nois prairies toward his destiny. He was twenty-two years of age, free to do as he pleased and to go wherever he chose — and he was on his way to New Salem. Twenty miles above Springfield the little Sangamon River, winding its devious way from the southeast, bends abruptly in its course and striking a high bluff extends north and south for a distance of half a mile with a ridge on the west bank, extending from the center, taking the rough form of the letter "T". This ridge, extending in- land, widens and merges into a level prairie. Upon this prairie James Rutledge and his nephew, the Reverend John M. Cameron, settled in the autumn of 1828, and 165 166 The Prairie President during October of the following year they employed a surveyor to lay out for them the town of New Salem, pro- viding for a "Public Square" and a "Main Street." Rutledge and Cameron were millwrights. The former was a native of South Carolina, and the latter had been born in Georgia. As soon as they had erected houses for their families, the men commenced building a milldam. Small pens were built of logs and sunk in the river, then filled to the top with rock, and this is said to have required more than a thousand wagon loads. The pillars for the mill, made in the same manner, extended above the sur- face, and on these pillars there was first built, of logs, a grist mill, fully enclosed and set well out in the river. Adjacent to it, on the shore side, was erected a sawmill with a roof, but without side walls. Leading from the shore to the sawmill was a trestle, the top of which was formed by the flat centers of split logs. Both mills were operated by water power. After the mills were completed, venders of various kinds of merchandise became interested in the new "town" as a "likely place for a center of trade," and stores and houses began to dot the patch of prairie that had been christened "New Salem." A post office was established on Christmas day, 1829, and Samuel Hill was made post- master. The seven years that Lincoln was to live at New Salem have fittingly been called "his freshman term in the University of Life." Those years opened new cul- tural fields for his receptive mind. Few of the western settlements at that time held a community whose people were so varied and strongly marked in their personalities as those of New Salem and its environs. When Lincoln arrived at New Salem, at the time of its m- '5r^iAi»na.^, '■'it-i^i^fO Ojjui's store at Neiv Salem. The Embryonic Folitician of New Salem 167 greatest prosperity, there were about twenty-five buildings. Aside from the two mills, it boasted a hotel and several boarding houses. It had a tannery, and manufactured shoes, hats, furniture, barrels and kegs; and it spun wool into yarn and carded it. There were four stores and a grog shop, and the sporting element had a race track and a cockpit. Offut was detained in St. Louis and the goods had not reached New Salem, but this did not worry Lin- coln; he was always equal to any emergency that called for leisure. He settled down with his reading and his evenings were spent in getting acquainted with the village and its people. At about this time the summer election occurred. As there were then no laws requiring a fixed period of resi- dence before voting, Lincoln was eligible to vote, and he did. This was the first vote he ever cast. The election was held in the house of a man known as John McNeil, on August 1, 1831. Here Lincoln met Mentor Graham, the schoolmaster, who, acting as clerk, asked him if he could write. Lincoln replied, "I can make a few rabbit tracks." Whereupon the new voter was immediately pressed into service as assistant clerk of the election. When Offut arrived with the merchandise he was as full of enthusiasm as ever. He took out a license to sell goods in New Salem and purchased a "business lot" for ten dollars. This done, Offut and Lincoln busied them- selves erecting a small log building which the promoter claimed would be "the forerunner of vast commercial enterprises." The two men stacked shelves and corners of the new store with salt, sugar, coffee, tea, molasses, whiskey, butter and eggs, tobacco, hardware, stoneware, dishes, calico, hats and bonnets, gloves, socks and shoes. 168 The Prairie President Bill Green, the son of a near-by farmer, was employed as assistant clerk, but his main duty was to keep Lincoln in- formed as to which of the customers were good pay. Finally came the opening day for the new store. It was well stocked and the merchandise and groceries were neatly displayed. Abraham Lincoln stood behind the counter ready to serve the first customer. Offut went to herald the event among the townspeople, drinking all the while; and his verbal advertising increased in volume of sound and in extravagance as he wended his way from place to place. The promoter's enthusiasm over his new clerk also ran high. "Abe Lincoln knows more than any man in the United States," he boasted, "and he can out- run, out-fight, and out-wrestle and throw any man in San- gamon County." Toward noon the first customers appeared; a tall, thin, weather-beaten man with long hair and a heavy, black mustache, accompanied by a more genteel looking man who was smooth-shaven. "What can I do for you, gents?" said Lincoln, imitat- ing the air he had seen store clerks in St. Louis and New Orleans display. "Oh, we just dropped in t' look around. Tanner's my name — Bill Tanner. I'm a boss an' cattle dealer. Reckon y' already know this feller," he added, indicating his com- panion. "Yes, I've met Mr. Graham," replied the clerk, "and I'm right glad t' know you, Mr. Tanner. Lincoln's my name — Abraham Lincoln." "Got any good ce-gars, Lincoln?" asked Mentor Graham, glancing around approvingly at the neat shelves. Lincoln took a box from one of the shelves and opened The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 169 it. "Yes," he said. "I reckon they're good — don't smoke myself. Two for five cents." The schoolmaster drew two of the long cigars from the box. "Here, Bill, take one of these ce-gars." "Thank ye. Mentor." Another customer entered, a middle-aged Negro. "Is you JVIassa 0-foot?" he grinned. "No, Mr. Offut ain't here right now," replied Lin- coln, "but I'm his clerk. Anything I can do for you?" "I'ze lookin' fo' a banjo." "Well, I reckon you've come to the right place. We've got two of 'em in stock." The banjos were brought out and displayed. "This one is three dollars; this one, five." "Now I want t' ax you sumpin'. Kin I play it befo' I buys?" "Sure you can." The Negro eyed the two musical instruments admir- ingly. "Reckon I'll try de t'ree dollah one fust." Seating himself on a keg he began to pick the strings and croon: "Dem skeeters, dey callin' me cousin, Dem knats, dey calls me frien', Dem stingin' flies a-buzzin', Dis yere nigger gwine-a go in." "That was fine!" exclaimed Mentor Graham. After carefully counting three silver dollars twice, the Negro laid them on the counter. "Dat banjo are perfeck. Heah's yo' money." "Thank you," said Lincoln. "You are the first colored man I've seen since I came here. Do you live in New Salem?" "I hopes I brings you good luck if I is," chuckled the Negro. "I libs 'bout ten mile sout' — twixt yere an' Spring- 170 The Prairie President fiel'. I'ze workin' fo' Mistah Joe Parsons. 'Regionally Fze from Kentucky — runned away from thor. Bein' a free nigger in Illinois suit me much bettah. But when I skipped I didn' hab no chance t' bring mah ole woman an' mah banjo wid me — an' I sholey do miss dat banjo." "Come back again," Lincoln called to the Negro as he departed. "Yassah, yassah! Jes' as soon as I git mo' money sabed up." "Lincoln," said Mentor Graham, "I want you to tell Bill, here, that lizard story you told over at the tavern the night you blew in here." "You mean the one about th' lizard that attended Sun- day meetin'?" "That's it!" The schoolmaster laughed. Lincoln came from behind the counter, sprawled on one of the benches and began the story. "Once, when I was attendin' Sunday meetin', back on Pigeon Crick, deep in the tall timbers of Indianny, the preacher was standing solemn and dignified at the pulpit. I can see him now, wearing old-fashioned, baggy pantaloons, fastened with one button in place of galusses; his shirt was fas- tened at the collar with one button also. In tones that seemed to shake the building, he thundered out his text: 'I am the Christ, whom I shall represent to-day!' " "I'll bet I heerd that same sermon oncet," laughed the horse dealer. Lincoln continued, "Well, about that time a little green lizard ran up one leg of the pantaloons. The preacher, trying hard to preserve his dignity and seem undisturbed, continued with his sermon, slapping his legs. "After a while the lizard came so high that the poor The Embryonic. Politician of New Salem 171 man was desperate and, without stopping his discourse, he unbuttoned the single button that held up the pan- taloons and they slid down — and with a kick from the tormented preacher, off they came! By this time the sociable lizard had shifted his route and was circling around under his shirt at the back. The parson, whose misery was nigh complete by now, yelled out his text again: 'I am the Christ, whom I shall represent to-day!' And with these words he loosened the one collar button and with a sweeping movement, off came the shirt!" Mentor Graham and Bill Tanner shouted with laughter. "I'd say he rep'sented old Adam a heap better," said the latter. "All the folks in the congregation sat amazed and stupified. Everything was dead still for a moment. You could have heard a pin drop. Then a dignified old lady slowly rose up, pointed her finger sternly toward the pul- pit and called out shrilly, 'I jest want to say, that if you represent Jesus Christ, then I'm done with the Bible!' " At this climax Mentor Graham was bent with laughter and Bill Tanner roared lustily. "Quiet, boys," whispered Lincoln, as he took his place behind the counter. "Here comes another customer." This time it was a settler's wife who wore a wide sun- bonnet, woven of straw. "Young man," she said, "how much air ye chargin' folks fer taller candles?" "One cent each, twelve for ten cents." "Umph! Sounds all right — cheaper'n Hill charges. But like as not they hain't as big." "Indeed they are." "Leave me see one." Lincoln rolled several candles out on the counter. 172 The Prairie President "I reckon they'll do," said the woman. "Give me a dozen." One customer brought another and within a few days the queer-looking, genial clerk of Offut had made many sales and friends. The store had become an established institution and had acquired several steady loafers. On the first Saturday afternoon the proprietor en- tered the door, his liquor-scented breath preceding him. "Business has been purty good, Mr. Offut," said Lincoln. "Just come from John Clary's tavern," Offut hic- coughed. "Been tellin' 'em you can out-wrestle an' throw down any man 'thin fifty miles of New Salem. Hie!" "Wal, Offut, I reckon you're right at that," said one of the hangers-on. "Course I'm right," thundered the promoter. "But, hie, d'ye think I could make th' old fool believe it? Not on your life!" "Well, it don't make much difference one way or the other," Lincoln said indifferently. "Oh, yes it does, Abe, m' boy!" Offut insisted. "You bein' th' strongest fellow in these parts is powerful good advertisin' for th' store — hie." "That's right!" shouted the two loafers. "Old Clary kept arguing that one of his gang — Clary's Grove Boys, they call 'em — hie — could beat you in a 'rastling match. Says this brute of his can break every bone in your body." Lincoln laughed. "Well, I wouldn't like that," he said. "What's the fellow's name?" "Armstrong." The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 173 "Jack Armstrong!" exclaimed one of the loafers. "Why, he's th' toughest fighter among them Clary's Grove roughnecks!" "Yep, an' he's strong as a bull," agreed the other. "Well, he didn't shake my conf'dence in Abe," belched Offut. "I — hie — just laid old Clary a bet of ten dollars that Abe can throw his fellow. This store needs some- thing spectacular to help it get known." The promoter pounded the counter to add force to his theory. "Clary's gone t' find his champion. They ought t' be here any minute." Lincoln was not only greatly disgusted, but much chagrined. "But, Mr. Offut," he argued, "I don't care for such contests. I have no desire to become the town bully. I'd rather lead a quiet life and put my strength to something more useful than wrestling." "Ain't protectin' the tenner I wagered doing something useful?" "That's right!" shouted the loafers. Then one of them continued, "Linken, thor ain't but one thing t' do now, an' that's tackle him. I've knowed fer several days that them Clary's Grove lads is layin' fer ye, it's somethin' ye kain't side-step if ye expect t' stay here." John Clary duly arrived with his champion. Jack Arm- strong, a stocky man of about twenty-five, whose physique justified the loafer's description. Since the wager had al- ready been made, Lincoln agreed to go through with the contest and do the best he could, at the same time pledg- ing Offut not again to put him in such a position. The match was set for the following Saturday afternoon, to give the contestants sufficient time to prepare, and to allow Offut time to spread his verbal announcements. 174 The Prairie PresidExNt On the day set a great crowd congregated on the green near the store. Betting was furious and fast, running from cash to jack-knives and drinks. "Here we are, Offut!" cried John Clary. "I've got my champeen. Whar's yourn?" "That's him!" replied the promoter. He pointed to Lincoln, whose face wore a woebegone expression. Clary laughed boisterously. "What!" he cried. "That skeleton? Look at my man, 'Strongarm Jack Armstrong,' the child of calamity, the man with the petrified heart an' biler-iron bowels. He scratches his head with lightnin' an' purrs hisself t' sleep with thunder." The crowd howled with delight, and one of the men shouted: "You'll shore be lookin' fer a new clerk when Jack gits through with him, Offut!" But the backer of Abraham Lincoln, wrestler, was not to be worsted in banter. Pushing his clerk forward, Offut said, "Clary, this is Abe Lincoln, the original iron-jawed, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Indiana. Cast your eyes upon him, you an' Armstrong, he buries his own dead in the prairies!" Both men stripped for action amid the yells of their partisans, and the bout began, "catch as catch can." Lin- coln took the defensive, holding Armstrong away from him. His opponent resorted to every fair trick he knew, trying to get close enough to use his famous hip lock or "grape-vine trip," but in vain. Thus it continued for several minutes. The Clary's Grove champion was fast wearing himself out and losing his temper. Finally, in a fit of anger, he forgot the ethics of the game and re- sorted to an unfair tactic. Throwing his weight forward and his heel down on the instep of Lincoln's foot, Arm- The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 175 strong expected to break his opponent's hold and get close enough to throw him before the spectators could know what had happened. Luck was with Lincoln, however, and Armstrong's heel struck only a glancing blow which, though very painful, failed to cause the temporary pa- ralysis that usually results. "Now wrench the ox to pieces!" shouted Offut, who had witnessed the foul. Angered, Lincoln closed in. Before Armstrong had time to recover from the forward thrust, Lincoln heaved his great shoulders and flung his adversary over his head. Armstrong fell heavily on the ground. "That's th' stuff, Abe!" yelled Offut. "I knew you could get him!" "Now what do you think of your child of calamity, Mr. Clary!" laughed Bill Green. Some of Armstrong's friends, who had not seen what he had done, suspected foul play on the part of Lincoln. Throwing off their coats, they rushed forward to avenge their idol. "Git up. Jack," one man cried. "We'll tear th' scarecrow to pieces!" But instead, Armstrong scrambled to his feet and de- clared that it was he who had fouled Lincoln, and had himself been fairly thrown. Turning to his opponent, he extended his hand, saying: "Let's shake, Abe Lincoln! You're the best man in this settlement." "Why, I'll be mighty glad to shake hands with you, Armstrong," Lincoln replied. "Hey, Clary!" called Offut. "Bring me my ten!" In the spring of 1832 Lincoln increased his popularity still further by successfully piloting the steamboat Tails- 176 The Prairie President man up the Sangamon from Beardstown to Springfield. Captain Vincent Bogue of Springfield procured the steam- er in Cincinnati, and her ascent of the Mississippi and Illinois rivers was hailed with delight. The prosperity of all of the towns along the Sangamon was believed to depend upon the navigability of the little river. A delegation of citizens from each of the Sangamon towns assembled at Beardstown to meet the vessel. Some of these men carried axes to cut away the protruding branches of trees along the river bank. Lincoln accom- panied the New Salem group, and having a reputation as a navigator, he and Rowan Herndon were employed as pilots. Arriving at New Salem, the Talisman was unable to get over the dam without the removal of part of it. A heated dispute arose between the owners of the dam and the crew of the boat, and the words "dam" and "damn" were mingled with profusion, the crew claiming that a navigable stream was unlawfully obstructed, while the millers maintained that they had received permission from the Legislature to build their dam. The dispute was settled, however, and a section of the dam was removed. At the rate of five miles a day the vessel plowed through the narrow stream with Lincoln at the wheel in the pilot- house. When the steamboat anchored at Springfield, or at the point where the Sangamon most nearly approaches that town, gay celebrations were held and an elaborate ball was given in honor of the Talisman s captain and crew. Naturally the river towns experienced a boom. Al- though the attempt to prove the Sangamon navigable suc- ceeded theoretically, it failed practically. The waterway The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 177 boosters shouted themselves hoarse declaring that hence- forth theirs could no longer be considered inland towns. Captain Bogue cordially accepted all the honors thrust upon him, for he well knew that they were the last that would ever accrue from that source. He remained in Springfield while the feasting lasted and then prudently sailed his boat downstream. That was the beginning of Sangamon River navigation. The Talisman never came back. Several months later she was destroyed by fire at the St. Louis docks and her cap- tain disappeared. Lincoln earned forty dollars and some additional renown as his share in this apparently success- ful undertaking. He walked back from Beardstown to New Salem richer and happier than he had ever been before. Four years later another steamboat, the Utility, came up the river, but the water was so low that it did not suc- ceed in passing New Salem. Unable to turn back, the vessel was tied up below the dam and was later sold to Colonel John Taylor and taken to Petersburg. Out of its timbers the Colonel built a frame house and used the glass for windows — the first glass windows in the village. And of the engine he made the first steam mill in the county. And that was the end of Sangamon River navi- gation. ^% ^C 3|C ^C ^C The store opened at sunup, but as very few customers appeared before the middle of the morning, this merely afforded Abraham Lincoln more daylight time for his reading. On a certain memorable morning in May, when the clock hands would have indicated seven o'clock, had the Offut store boasted a clock, the first man to enter 178 The Prairie President was Mentor Graham. "Morning, Abe," he said. Lincoln closed his book. "Good morning. Professor Graham." "How many times have I told you not to call me 'pro- fessor'. A man don't have to be a professor to teach school in these parts." Lincoln sighed. "I'm a living testament to the truth of those words," he said. "Why, I'm finding it a deal harder to unlearn some of the absurdities they drilled into me than I've had in mastering the rules of English from that grammar book you were kind enough to lend me. If I ever do become educated, most of the credit will be due to you." "Oh, forget it," said the schoolmaster. "You have more than repaid me for any little help I've given you." "How have I repaid you?" "Why, in funny stories. Being able to spread laughter the way you can is a rare gift — rare indeed! But where's Offut?" "Lord only knows! Mentor, between you and me, I'm right uneasy, the way things are going. He's drinking harder lately, and he hasn't been meeting his obligations." Mentor Graham shook his head sadly. "Folks here have always said that Offut talks too much and that he's got too many irons in the fire," he said. "I'm afraid, eventually, his schemes'll become top-heavy and fall over and crush him." "That's it exactly," said Lincoln. "I'm afraid I'll be back splitting rails before long, if things don't pick up." "But your disappointment surely isn't half what Offut's is," said Graham jokingly. "His head was in the clouds. Thought he was already the John Jacob Astor of the west. The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 179 Remember when he refused a hundred dollars for that lot he bought from Bowling Green for ten?" "He couldn't get five dollars for it now," said Lincoln ruefully. "Of course he couldn't! Oh, here's a customer." "Why, hello. Uncle Ned!" exclaimed Lincoln. "What brings you to New Salem this morning?" "Business, Mistah Lincoln, heaps o' business," the darky explained. "Some as consuns you, suh; some as consuns Massa Pahsons; some as consuns me an' the' ole woman." "What old woman?" asked Lincoln. "Mah wife. She done skip away from Kentuck, too. Says she couldn't git along wifout her ole man." The Negro chuckled proudly. "Well, well, you are fortunate. Uncle Ned," declared Mentor Graham, "being reunited with your wife, and everything." "Yassah, I reckon I iz, but if she hed a-come jes' one week latah, it would hab turned out orful bad — fo' me." "How's that?" asked Lincoln. Uncle Ned assumed his most dignified, confidential tone. "It's like dis," he said. "Y' see, I neber expected t' see mah ole woman no mo' an' me an' one ob dese yere northe'n yaller gals was all set t' git married — was gwine t' hab de ceremony prefo'med dat bery week." The darky laughed, somewhat sadly. "If dat ole woman would a-walked in on me arter dat ceremony, why, pore ole Ned wouldn't be playin' his banjo no mo'. No, he'd be playin' one ob dese yere hawps up in Hebben." "Yes, no doubt you would," said Graham. "That sure was a narrow escape." 180 The Prairie President The Negro became serious. "Mistah Lincoln," he said, "in mah 'thusiasm, Fze mos' fo'gittin' what brung me heah. Massa Pahsons saw yo' boss at de Buckhorn Tabern in Springfiel' las' night. Said Massa 0-foot 'peared t' hab mo' licquor dan was good fo' him, an' he gib Massa Pahsons dis lettah — axed him t' git it t' you fo' him, it bein' mos' 'po'tent." "Thank you, Uncle Ned." The Negro bade them good-bye and departed. Lincoln tore open the envelope. As he looked at the enclosure his expression changed. "What is it Abe, bad news?" asked Graham. "Yes, bad news, bad luck. Here, Mentor, read it." The schoolmaster took the letter: "Dear Abe:'' it began. ''Just a few lines to let you know that unhappy financial complications force me to abandon New Salem and Illinois, and for the time being to keep my destination a secret, I am ruined. It is a long, sad story. You know all about it, anyhow. If my plans had succeeded I would have been rich, honored, respected. They failed and of course I shall be considered a cheat — or worse. In bidding you good-bye I want to thank you for your splendid, loyal service, and I assure you that my greatest regret is in being unable to reward you ac- cordingly. Your sincere and unhappy friend, Denton Offut, P, S, After you have sold enough to pay yourself off, if there is anything left in the store, divide it among my creditors, God knows they are plentiful," "Poor Offut!" sighed Lincoln. "He must be desper- ate." The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 181 "Better be thinking about yourself, Abe," his friend advised. "Fellows like Offut never starve." "This is pretty discouraging," said Lincoln. "All my folks have always been as poor as Job's turkey, and as far back as I can remember I've wanted to make some- thing out of myself. Now the props are knocked clean out from under me. But I won't give up.'' "Of course you won't, Abe!" said his friend consol- ingly. "Why, you're already a different fellow from what you were last spring, when you drifted in here. You're better educated, you talk better, you're better dressed, and you look better. Offut's troubles ain't going to dam- age you with the folks in New Salem. Every one of 'em loves you, and your high principles have earned for you a splendid nickname — 'Honest Abe.' " ^ jjs ih ^ sk Out of work and out of money, with but poor pros- pects of finding new employment, Lincoln felt more lonely than ever, and more depressed. Like many another aspir- ing young man of that time, he had a secret ambition to get into the General Assembly. And through one of the strange tricks of fate such as have occurred ever since the world began, his bad luck precipitated Abraham Lin- coln into the political arena and on toward his goal much earlier than he expected. His candidacy was nothing more than what we call, "looking for a job." Dressed in a mixed jeans coat, with "claw-hammer" tails — so short that he couldn't sit on them — and tight- fitting tow-linen trousers thrust into "pot-metal" boots, and wearing a twenty-cent straw hat, Abraham Lincoln went about soliciting votes. His very first political address has been recorded in these words: 182 The Prairie President "Fellow citizens, I presume you all know who I am. I am humble Abraham Lincoln. I have been solicited by many friends to become a candidate for the Legislature. My politics are short and sweet, like the old woman's dance. I am in favor of a national bank. I am in favor of the internal improvement system and a high protective tariff. These are my sentiments and political principles. If elected I shall be thankful; if not it will be the same." New Salem, like all Illinois, was seething with politics. Although men were called Republicans or Democrats, political parties, as we know them, did not then exist. Political alignments were rather by groups attached to leaders. There were Jackson men and Clay men, as well as followers of other conspicuous political leaders. For- mal nominations of candidates were unknown and those who wished to run for office merely announced their can- didacies with statements of the policies they advocated or supported. State and local campaigns were largely per- sonal matters and consisted mainly in calling on voters, with occasional informal speech-making. As voting was likewise influenced almost exclusively by personal motives, success at the polls depended largely upon the number of individual friendships the office seeker had made. Nevertheless, attachments to great national figures such as Jackson or Clay were considered advantageous. Illinois was at that time overwhelmingly and aggres- sively for Jackson. In Sangamon County the President was particularly strong. His warfare on the Bank of the United States had enlisted most of the poor and middle class people under his banner. Bold indeed was the office seeker in Illinois who did not declare allegiance to Andrew Jackson! But Abraham Lincoln was one of these. The Embryonic Politician of New Salem 183 Lincoln was a Clay man, and he said so; his first vote for President was cast for his hero, Henry Clay. He was too smart and too good-natured, however, to be offensive or even aggressive in regard to his partiality for the Ken- tucky statesman. He merely told his friends of his views in a kindly, half humorous fashion. Such were political conditions when, on March 9, 1832, Abraham Lincoln, 23 years of age, with a residence of but seven months in New Salem, issued his audacious "address to the people of Sangamon county," formally announcing his candidacy for the Legislature and asking them to support him. CHAPTER XIV THE BLACK HAWK WAR THROUGHOUT the early spring of 1832, Abraham Lincoln was busy passing around his candidate ad- dress in the form of a handbill and making crude, long- winded speeches in his campaign for election to the Gen- eral Assembly. On the first Saturday night in June at New Salem he was in the midst of what he hoped would be the crowning speech of his brief political career. Perched on a large packing box in the middle of the single thoroughfare of the village the twenty-three year old politician was giving his views straight from the shoulder. The meeting was largely attended by Sanga- mon County citizens, and by Sangamon Valley mosqui- toes. But so interesting were the words of the speaker that the citizens were quite unaware of the presence of the mosquitoes. After an interruption of loud applause, which his re- marks upon the subject of river improvements had called forth, Lincoln continued: "And I will strive to bring about a condition at Vandalia, through which edu- cation — and by its means, morality, sobriety, enterprise, industry and prosperity — shall become much more gen- eral than at present, and I shall be grateful to have it within my power to help in that noble cause for the benefit of the people of the Sangamon County!" Again loud and long applause came from the gathering. "Whether elected or not, I stand whole-heartedly for 184 The Black Hawk War 185 distributing the proceeds of the sale of public lands to the several states — to enable Illinois, in common with the others, to improve waterways, dig canals, and build rail- roads without borrowing money and paying heavy inter- est on it!" Suddenly an unknown horseman galloped up to the edge of the assemblage. Lincoln stopped speaking, and like the others stared curiously. "Wonder what's up!" said Bowling Green. "Dunno," answered Jimmy Painter. "But from the looks o' that boss he's been doin' some purty fast trav- ellin'!" "P-pr-oc-lamation from th' Governor!" panted the rider. "It is war, folks — Injun war!" A mournful wail followed this announcement. "Injun war!" sobbed a woman. "Black Hawk is on the warpath!" explained the mes- senger. "He's crossed the Mississippi — invading Illinois up in Fox River district — killing settlers — burning their homes." "Oh, this is horrible!" said Ann Rutledge to her es- cort, John McNeil. Abraham Lincoln was still on the box. "Calm down, friends," he shouted, clapping his hands to command at- tention: "Maybe it ain't as bad as we think." Turning to the horseman he said, "Come up on this box, stranger. I reckon your message is a heap more important than mine." The man climbed up beside Abe. "Thanks," he said. "Attention now, folks!" he shouted. "The Indians are a long ways from Sangamon County." Drawing from his inside pocket a sweat-soaked piece of paper, he contin- 186 The Prairie President ued. "I will now read the Governor's Proclamation." "The treacherous Indian Chief, Black Hawk, inflamed with hatred of the American people, and aided and abet- ted by British subjects living in Canada, has in violation of solemn treaties, recrossed the Mississippi River and is, at this minute, attempting to occupy those in the Fox River Valley which formerly were hunting grounds of the Sac and Fox tribes, and purchased from them by the United States Government in 1804. The number of warriors under Black Hawk's command cannot as yet be estimated, nor can the number of casualties and depredations be ascertained. There is, however, sufficient information in the Governor's office to justify a call for volunteers to protect our homes from Indian invasion. Therefore, I, John Reynolds, by virtue of the rights vested in me as Governor of the State of Illinois, do declare this state under martial law and call upon all able-bodied men now of militia service age to voluntarily enlist for a period of three months, and to drive the savage invader from our sacred soil. Signed, John Reynolds, Governor of Illinois. Vandalia, April 7, 1832." "Hurrah fer Governor Reynolds!" yelled the crowd. "We'll drive them damned varments out!" The messenger clapped his hands. "That's the spirit, men!" he shouted. "I'm authorized to take your enlist- ments now. Who will be the first?" A mighty chorus of "I's" followed. "Better form a line and pass up in order," suggested Lincoln, who left the box and mingled with the men on the ground. The recruiting started. "Name?" asked the Governor's messenger. "Thomas Dodge." The Black Hawk War 187 "Next — what's your name?" "Jack Armstrong." "Don't push, boys. Who's next? Your name?" "Abraham Lincoln!" "Sign here, Mr. Lincoln. Next — " "William Green, sir. Can I be put in the same regi ment with Abe Lincoln? He's the best friend I've got.' "Sure! You men will all be kept together." The mes senger looked down the long line of anxious, willing men His mission to New Salem had been a decided success "Next!" he called. The old chieftain for whom history has named this struggle, and his young men, had returned to their an- cestral lands in the Fox River district which by an un- fair treaty the government had acquired in 1804 and which, after a stern show of military force and a largess of corn, Black Hawk had agreed not to occupy again. Although a large number of regular army soldiers had been sent to the scene of the trouble, reinforcements were thought necessary. That was why Governor Reynolds had called for volunteers from the militia of Northwestern Illinois. So great was the fear of the Indians that nearly all the men of fighting age responded. In the language of the place and time, as expressed by a comrade, in writing of Lincoln, "Abe volunteered to Serve his Country with the Ballance of the Patriotick Boys to Defend the frontier sett(l)ers from the Savages timihack and skelping Knife." On the way to the ren- dezvous at Beardstown, the New Salem recruits halted at Richland. "Wal, boys, I reckon we better elect a commandin' 188 The Prairie President ossifer, 'fore we go any further," said Jack Armstrong. "In that case, I calculate I'm the logical man to com- mand this company," said William Kirkpatrick. He was a sawmill owner and a man of substance, and considered the honor his due. "Wal, I ain't so sure about that," replied Armstrong. "We're goin' t' hold a regular 'lection, and it ain't goin' to be no one man affair." "That's right!" "Sure it ain't!" yelled the recruits. "And I'm nominatin' Abe Lincoln!" continued Arm- strong. "That's pretty fine of you, Jack," said Lincoln, who was standing near him. "But I can't be captain. I don't know a darn thing about army tactics." "Aw, that's nothin'," his friend argued. "Nuther does Kirkpatrick, nor any o' the rest o' this mob. Buck up, Abe! Why, thor's enough fellers from Clary's Grove t' elect ye!" "Boy's," called Onstott, "we got two can-de-dates fer cap'n now. Bill Kirkpatrick and Abe Lincoln. Any more want to try fer it?" After several whispered consultations it was found that none of the others cared to compete. "Jack," whispered Lincoln, "I sure would like to beat out Kirkpatrick. He cheated me out of two dollars when he settled up for that work I did at the sawmill." Ill feeling had existed between the two men for several months. Lincoln had done an odd job or two at Kirk- patrick's mill. Upon hiring Lincoln, Kirkpatrick had promised to buy him a canthook for the moving of some heavy logs; but upon discovering that Lincoln's strength and skill enabled him to do the work with a common The Black Hawk War 189 hand-spike, he had agreed, at Lincoln's suggestion, to pay him instead the two dollars that the hook would cost. But Kirkpatrick hadn't kept his promise and his petty fraud rankled in Lincoln's memory. The election was of pioneer simplicity. The candidates stood apart on the open green, after which the voters ranged themselves alongside the leader they preferred. Three out of every four went to Lincoln! "Gee, Abe," cried Bill Green joyfully, "you've got nigh a hundred men with you ag'in' that old skinflint's twenty. Man, you've beat him four to one!" Within a few minutes the minority, which stood with the mill owner, stepped over to the winning side, leaving Kirkpatrick entirely deserted. "Three cheers for our captain, Abe Lincoln!" yelled the contingent, and the cheers were given with a will. The new captain laughed happily and then made an impromptu speech, thanking his men. Even after he had become President, Lincoln said that no other success had given him such satisfaction. How creditably the young officer conducted himself may be determined after a consideration of his com- mand. It was a motley company. Each man was equipped after his own style, and intent upon maintaining his in- dividuality both in behavior and appearance. Having joined his neighbors on equal terms for an expedition against the Indians, he became restive under discipline whenever it did not bear directly on the business at hand. The contingent from New Salem savored strongly of Clary's Grove, and Jack Armstrong was a sergeant in the company. Untrained, disorderly to the point of mutiny, 190 The Prairie President they early won the distinction of being "a bad lot." William Cullen Bryant, then editor of The New York Evening Post, was making a tour of Illinois at that time. He later described these men: "They were a hard looking set of men, unkempt and unshaved, wearing shirts of dark calico, and sometimes calico capotes;" he adds that "some of the settlers complained that they (the troopers) made war on the pigs and chickens." The poet met Captain Lincoln; "a raw youth, in whose quaint and pleasant talk I was greatly interested." The task of compelling obedience from such men, dif- ficult under the best of conditions, must have taxed to the utmost the faculties of a captain equally deficient in military training. Years later, when Lincoln was in Con- gress, he amused his colleagues with droll accounts of his Black Hawk War experiences. One of these stories dealt with his first attempt to drill his awkward squad. They were marching across a field, twenty abreast, when it be- came necessary to pass through a narrow gateway. "I could not, for the life of me," said Lincoln, "re- member the proper word of command for getting my company endwise so that it could pass through the gate. So, as we came near it I shouted: 'This company is dis- missed for two minutes, when it will fall in again on the other side of the gate!' " But it was not always so easy for Lincoln to gloss over his military shortcomings. He failed, in at least one in- stance, to understand that he who commands must first learn to obey. Shortly after his company joined the main army he was in disgrace for disobeying a general order. The decree, issued while the horses were making a pre- carious crossing over the Henderson River, forbade the Lincoln as a Captain in the Blackhawk War. the statue by Leonard CriineUe, unveiled at Illinois, September 24, 1^30. From Dixon, The Black Hawk War 191 discharge of firearms within fifty paces of the camp limits. Deliberately ignoring this order, Captain Lin- coln discharged his pistol within a few feet of the camp. He was promptly deprived of his sword and placed under arrest for the day. The very next week Lincoln was again subjected to punishment, but this time for the misdeeds of his men. They had, by this time, been inducted into the United States service, but the military prestige of the nation meant no more to these unruly spirits than did that of Illinois. When the army was about to march in search of the Indians, Captain Lincoln directed the orderly ser- geant to parade his company. They failed to respond to the officer's calls, and the sounds that issued from be- neath their blankets were distressing indeed to their un- happy captain. These valiant Sangamon warriors had, during the night, made a sortie upon another enemy more powerful than the red men and this enemy had laid them low. They were dead — drunk! For his lax supervision, Lincoln was again placed under arrest and sentenced to carry a wooden sword for two days. Nevertheless, the pride of Lincoln's troopers in their captain went far toward reconciling them to authority. He was the only officer they ever did learn to obey. His control was, however, later put to another severe test. After the disgraceful rout known as "Stillman's Defeat,'' Governor Reynolds, at the head of his army, started in hot pursuit of the Indians. As they fled, the savages left ghastly traces of their presence; here and there were sacked homes and murdered settlers. Their superior knowledge of woodcraft served Black Hawk's men well and they avoided capture. 192 The Prairie President During one of the fruitless marches of Lincoln's men a weary and hungry old Indian staggered into camp. He loudly proclaimed himself a friend of the whites and substantiated his claim by showing a safe-conduct pass, signed by General Cass, and crediting him with good and faithful service for the government. Ignoring this cre- dential, some of the men, inflamed with hatred for all "redskins," rushed upon the refugee, determined to kill him. Lincoln sprang in front of their intended victim and pushed aside their leveled muskets. "What's this all about?" he demanded. "We've got one of old Black Hawk's spies!" answered one of the men. "No! No! Me good Indian — no spy. White war chief say so!" "Good Indian, hell!" laughed another trooper. "Only dead Indians are good!" "Don't let th' snake parley. Run him through!" yelled another. The savage looked pleadingly at Lincoln and thrust out a paper. "Please! See 'em talking paper!" Lincoln took the paper and read it carefully. "Why, this is a safe-conduct pass! It says this man has done valuable work for our government." "And you believe that?" laughed one of the men cynically. "It's a forgery!" shouted another. "Come on, boys, let's get it over with!" There was a concerted rush for the Indian, who slunk behind Lincoln. It seemed as if the captain shared equally the danger of the crouching savage. But Lincoln stood perfectly still. The Black Hawk War 193 "Nobody can stop us!" said one of the men boldly. "I can stop you, and / will" thundered Lincoln. "Fall back, men! Fall back! Let this Indian alone! He hasn't done anything to you; his credentials are all right. They are in General Cass's handwriting." "Come on, Cap'n. We want that Injun and we aim to have him!" said the leading spirit of the ruffians. "We catched him and he's our'n," argued another. "You bet we'll have him," boasted a tall corporal. "We ain't afraid, Lincoln, even if you are a coward." "If any man thinks I'm a coward, let him test it," was the calm reply. "You are bigger than any one of us," was the weak rejoinder. "That you can guard against. Choose your weapons! I'll fight you all, one after the other, just as fast as you come! But you won't touch this old Indian! When a man comes to me for help he's goin' to get it, no matter how many bullies I have to lick!" To this the mutineers made no reply. They had never before seen their captain so aroused. One by one they drew away, leaving the old Indian in peace. How im- minent had been his danger may be inferred from the fact that, at about the same time, another of his race, aged and blind, who attempted to throw himself upon the mercy of another military outfit, was murdered on the spot. Tactfully taking the middle ground between the com- mander and the comrade, Lincoln did not allow his men to forget that he was their superior, though he en- tered keenly into all their pastimes. When fatigue or hunger discouraged the men — their marches were long and the commissary often missing — he would gather them 194 The Prairie President at night around the camp fire and turn their fault-finding into laughter with his jests and stories. ***** When the five weeks' period of their enlistment ex- pired, the volunteers demanded their discharge and Lin- coln was mustered out with his company. As the new levies had not arrived at the seat of war, Governor Rey- nolds appealed to the patriotism of the disbanded troops to reenlist as a regiment of volunteers to protect the frontier during the interim. Among those who enlisted was the tall ex-captain from the Sangamon. He served then, and through a still later enlistment, as a private in an Independent Spy Company. Of Lincoln's conduct in the difficult and presumably dangerous duties that were assigned to him no record has been preserved, save in the few random recollections of his comrades. One of these recalled that whenever scouts were sent out to examine a covert in which an ambush might be concealed, Lincoln was usually the first man selected. Many of those who rode forward with him are said to have habitually found excuses for dis- mounting to adjust their girths or saddles before march- ing into the danger zone. "But Lincoln's saddle," accord- ing to one companion, "was always in perfect order." On July 16, 1832 Lincoln was finally mustered out at Black River, Wisconsin. This was not his own wish; but as the war was practically over, and provisions scarce, it was considered advisable that his company be disbanded. Thus terminated Abraham Lincoln's soldier- ing. It covered a period of less than three months, during which he saw no actual fighting and none of the enemy save those who were made prisoners. The Black Hawk War 195 On the preceding night Lincoln's horse had been stolen and he was obliged to walk as far as Peoria. There he and Major John Stuart, of Springfield, who was also returning from the war, bought a canoe and paddled down the Illinois River to Havana where they sold the canoe and walked across the prairies to New Salem. Five days after Lincoln had started for home General Henry's slender forces, by a disobedience of orders as wise as it was audacious, marched on a fresh trail. On the bluff of the Wisconsin River they found the camp of Black Hawk and attacked it, inflicting on the Indians a signal defeat. But fortune favored the old chief once more, for while he and a handful of his braves were engaging and draw- ing away the force under General Adkinson, General Henry struck the main trail and brought about the battle of Bad Axe, which was in reality the easy slaughter of weary and discouraged savages. Although he managed to escape the fate of his fol- lowers, Black Hawk was captured a few days later, through the treachery of one of his allies. On the night of August 16 he was led into the Headquarters of Gen- eral Winfield Scott, a prisoner. CHAPTER XV STOREKEEPER AND SURVEYOR Abraham Lincoln's association with the dis- JL\, credited and departed Denton OfFut did not react against him after the collapse of the promoter's enterprises. That Lincoln retained his popularity is significant. It is the best of evidence that the early stories of his sterling qualities are true. New Salem and its Clary's Grove sub- urb had effective methods for getting rid of undesirable citizens. But the people continued to believe in Lincoln, and on his return from the Indian war he found himself more popular than ever. With his soldier's pay in his pocket, Lincoln vigorously resumed his campaign for the Legislature, and the dryness of his embryonic political speeches was somewhat re- lieved by the injection of droll accounts of his military experiences. He talked after auction sales, camp meet- ings, picnics or any public gathering where the attend- ance would justify the effort. On these occasions, he usually was flanked by several Clary's Grove friends, who were only too ready to back up the argument of their candidate with physical force. And for Lincoln to step off the stump, or soap box, and personally punish a heckler was a common occurrence during his first political campaign. Early one morning a few days before the election a little group of Lincoln's followers gathered in the now deserted Offut store to discuss ways and means of elect- ing their candidate. 196 Storekeeper and Surveyor 197 "This old store looks pretty lonesome since Offut skipped," said Mentor Graham. "The creditors sure cleaned the place out!" "Yep," laughed Tanner, the horse dealer, "I reckon they'd even tuck th' floor if it hadn't been nailed down." "But it ain't without its element o' luck fer Abry, at that," cackled Uncle Jimmy Painter, an old pioneer from Tennessee. "This here empty buildin' comes in right handy t' use fer campaign headquarters. Whar's Abry, anyway?" "He was here," replied Bill Tanner, "but he went over t' Jack Kelso's. Jack promised t' borry Abe his book of Shakespeare's writin's." "With Reverend Cartwright hankerin' for the Legis- lature, too," said Mentor Graham, "Lincoln's prospects don't look so bright as they did." "No, they don't," Tanner declared, "an' old Cart- wright is usin' unfair tactics ag'in' th' boy — mixin' re- ligion with politics." "Yes, it's too bad," said Graham. "As long as there ain't much in the way of differences on the issues, I reckon that was th' only way Cartwright figgered he could attack Lincoln." Uncle Jimmy Painter jumped from the bare counter where he had been sitting and exclaimed, "Abry Linken's jest as good a Christian as ole Cartwright, even if he ain't a preacher." "Then what's the argyment?" asked the horse dealer. "Ain't they both Protestants?" "Yep," said Uncle Jimmy, "they is. Th' argyment, briefly, is this: Abry says. There ain't no hell!' Parson CartwTight says, T/i' hell there aintF " 198 The Prairie President The three men laughed long and loud. Then the school- master said gravely, "In acting that way, the parson is proving himself either ignorant of the Constitution of the United States, or he is knowingly betraying it! Our Con- stitution stands forever for the separation of Church and State — of religion from politics!" "If Abe's boss sense won't let him believe in ever- lastin' punishment, what has that got t' do with makin' th' Sangamon fit fer navygatin'?" Tanner argued. That night the little patch of pasture designated "Public Square" was crowded; New Salem was repre- sented by almost the entire population, men, women, chil- dren and dogs, and there were many visitors from sur- rounding communities. At the sawmill a committee headed by Jimmy Painter had borrowed some thick planks and these rested on two high wooden "horses." Upon this "grandstand" Abraham Lincoln was to make his final bid for the votes of his friends and neighbors. Among the interested spectators was Ann Rutledge, escorted as usual by John McNeil, the wealthiest man in the village. "Oh, I do wish the speaking would start. They're so slow," said said, "and Abe isn't here yet." "Why are you so interested in this, Ann?" the man asked. "Women don't usually bother their heads with politics. Is it that rail-splitter you're interested in?" The rose-tinted cheeks of the girl became tinged with a deeper shade. "Why, I naturally am interested in ev- erything that goes on in New Salem," she replied. "Wouldn't it be better for one of our men to go to Van- dalia, than one from somewhere else, like Brother Cart- wright?" "In this case I'm not so sure," McNeil replied. "Abra-