Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  No person will deny that the poorest and most thinly populated countries would be greatly benefitted by the opening of good roads, and in the clearing of navigable streams within their limits.

  “Very direct,” he says. “Direct and to the point.”

  I cock my head. “Then, should I expect you to vote for me?”

  Maltby strokes his chin. “If you make it to the legislature and get a bill passed to improve navigation on the Sangamon, New Salem would make a fine shipping point. It would be perfect for servicing Captain Bogue’s steamboat business. What do you say we rent a log building to run a storage and forwarding enterprise?”

  I immediately agree, and in a matter of days we acquire the necessary accommodations.

  Not many days later, word arrives that the 150-ton, 136-foot long, double-decked Talisman has left Saint Louis and is steaming up the Illinois River. Storekeeper Rowan Herndon, a hardy fellow two years older than me, takes the lead, and a dozen of us follow him to the rendezvous point at the mouth of the Sangamon just north of Beardstown. Once there, we make quick work of breaking up the ice with our axes.

  On the vessel’s arrival, Bogue introduces his pilot, Captain Pollock, decked out in a colorful uniform, and surveys the group of us. Seeing that we’re a fit crew, he hires us to clear the channel for the Talisman through the Sangamon’s gauntlet of twists, turns, and hazards. As the gathering disperses, I approach Bogue about the storage and forwarding venture Maltby and I have organized. He gives me a firm handshake to seal his intent to avail himself of our services.

  The steamer’s progress upstream is slow, as logjams must be cleared and overhanging limbs need to be cut away due to the ship’s height. As we approach the mill dam at New Salem I keep a keen eye on the water line along the banks, worried the massive vessel might get hung up. The river’s level, swollen earlier by the spring runoff, has already dropped several inches in just a few days. When the boat makes it to the dam, my anxiety lingers on account of the rate at which the Sangamon continues to drop. We still have to sail back over the dam on the return trip to Beardstown.

  When we arrive in Springfield about ten miles upstream, a marching band with shining brass instruments and drums, all decked out in vibrant colors, joins a large crowd heralding the Talisman’s maiden journey. But during the evening’s celebration, Bogue becomes incensed with his pilot’s intoxication and scandalous behavior. Pollock’s guests, two bawdily dressed, painted women, are an embarrassment. Bogue sacks the old seadog on the spot, leaving the boat without a seasoned skipper to see her back to Beardstown. Faced with the Sangamon’s rapidly falling water levels, Bogue acts swiftly, employing Rowan Herndon as his new pilot. Rowan, who previously ran a ferry on the Ohio River, takes me on as his assistant.

  As we leave the port at Springfield, the water is already so shallow we have to back the boat downstream to find a spot wide enough to turn around. Once underway, we make only two or three miles per day over the short distance to New Salem. We must disengage the ship’s paddles through the shallower depths, leaving us to drift along at the current’s languid pace. As we float over the shallows, I scurry up and down the deck on whichever side is closest to shore, manning a long pole to push us back if we get close to the bank. At this point, the touted steamboat is no more than a monstrous, unwieldy flatboat.

  On our approach to New Salem, I lean over the forward corner of the deck railing to see if the water is getting murky from silt deposits collecting behind the dam. When the water is too cloudy to see more than a few inches below the surface, I signal to Rowan that we’re almost there. He blows the whistle and engages the boat’s wheel in reverse. Seconds later, the Talisman strikes the mill dam and I’m thrown to the deck. The grinding of the hull against the submerged obstacle makes such a groan that everyone in town rushes to the bluff to gawk at our catastrophe.

  In his agitation, Bogue demands we remove a portion of the dam. Mr. Rutledge, the mill owner, refuses permission. Bogue asserts that the Federal Constitution prohibits the damming or obstruction of any navigable stream. I stand back and listen to each side, hoping to chime in with a voice of reason, but I’m in a bind. Rutledge is my friend and Annie’s father, and Bogue is my employer. Anything I say is likely to backfire. In the end, Bogue prevails, and with the help of several men from town, we remove a section of the dam. Rutledge assures me he doesn’t hold me responsible for any part of the affair. Once we pass through the dam, we continue to Beardstown without further incident.

  After Rowan and I each collect forty dollars for our services, Bogue laments that conditions on the Sangamon are not conducive to steamboat navigation. He no longer plans to continue his venture, which means the storage and forwarding business Maltby and I had high hopes for is dead before it starts.

  As Rowan and I trudge through the woods back to New Salem, I make mental notes of a possible canal route. When I’m certain of a course which could be dug to improve a section of the river’s navigation, I sight in on a landmark. Rowan doesn’t speak to me for the entire thirty miles; he only shakes his head now and then.

  On April 19, only days after our return, word comes that Governor Reynolds is calling up a militia to deal with a band of Redskins crossing the Mississippi into Illinois. We all fear Chief Black Hawk has set out to reclaim land ceded under a previous treaty. Every able-bodied man volunteers for service, though some must stay behind to defend our settlement, which is particularly vulnerable as it lies near the westernmost edge of the frontier. The men drill in formation, some toting brooms in place of muskets, others brandishing hoes or other farming implements. Women huddle together comforting each other, and children cling to their mothers’ frocks.

  I join the volunteers, knowing that means suspending my campaign for the legislature. The $6.66 per month stipend for militia service is a badly needed source of income now that Offut’s store has winked out. We all head to Beardstown where our company joins the brigade led by General Samuel Whiteside, commander of the Illinois militia.

  The General is a seasoned soldier, having fought in Tecumseh’s War, as well as the 1812 war against the British invasion. His recruits, on the other hand, are neither experienced nor disciplined. Many of us don’t even possess our own weapons; we have to requisition thirty muskets from the Federal army to fully arm our company. Once we are mustered in, the rifles are provided to us as well as meager rations, and the task of establishing order begins.

  Each company of the brigade is directed to elect its own captain. William Kirkpatrick, a local sawmill owner, offers to lead the Sangamon County volunteers, and the glint in his eye broadcasts how badly he wants the honor.

  Not long after I arrived in New Salem, Kirkpatrick hired me to move some logs with a cant hook which he was about to purchase for two dollars. I offered to handle them with a simple spike hook if he paid me the two dollars on top of my wages. After I moved the logs he refused to pay.

  I see an opportunity for revenge and huddle with the Clary’s Grove Boys to explain my complaint against Kirkpatrick. They tell me they’re not about to take orders from anyone, but they would relish putting Kirkpatrick in his place. The Boys see to it that three-fourths of the men come over to my side and elect me captain. As they line up behind me, and I read the dejection on Kirkpatrick’s face, I puff out my chest and grin broadly.

  We train for a week before setting out to engage the enemy, and the Clary’s Grove Boys try to set themselves up at the top of our company’s pecking order. They begin with a threat that anyone ruffling their feathers ought to be careful about taking a battle position forward of their muskets—the offending parties might fare better rushing head-long into a volley of enemy fire. At least if they died charging the enemy, their corpses wouldn’t give the appearance of having been shot in the back while deserting the battlefield.

  A couple of days into our training, the gang chooses to put my leadership to the test. We’re under orders from the brigade commander to take a ten mile march out f
rom camp carrying heavy packs, and to return by dusk. The Clary’s Grove Boys begin grousing after only a couple hours. Before noon, they drop their packs and announce that after resting, they’re heading back to Beardstown to find some whores. When I order them to fall into formation and resume the march, they all laugh.

  I remind them they’ll be arrested if they don’t return with their unit, and besides, I say, “You have wives back home who won’t like hearing about you cavorting with prostitutes.”

  Armstrong reminds me they’re his boys, and anyone who gives them up to their wives will regret it.

  I take off my hat and scratch my head. “If you catch the syphilis, no one will need to tell. You’ll go insane and maybe even die. Can’t hide that evidence.”

  “We ain’t had none in weeks,” he says. “And anyway, we’ll be careful. Pay enough for high quality merchandise.”

  His buddies chortle.

  I glance at the rest of the company. Their eyes are fixed on me.

  “Armstrong,” I say. “You and your boys leave me with little choice. Reckon I’ll have to let you go. But first, give your rifles and rations to the rest of the men. They belong to the government.”

  Armstrong grins. “That just makes our load lighter.” The Boys nod their heads.

  “Fine,” I say, and direct the others to collect the Boys’ gear.

  After relieving the Clary’s Grove Boys of their burdens, I order the balance of the company into formation, walk over to the gang, and lower my voice so as not to be overheard. “Boys, you’d best keep a watch out for Indians after we split up. The General worried that some of the men might desert if they knew our true mission, so he ordered all the company captains to keep it secret. You see, scouts have reported Indians out this way, and we’re on this march to sniff them out. Kill any we see if they should engage us.”

  The Boys’ eyes widen as they exchange glances.

  I continue. “Now if you get in a tight spot, you should see to it that one of you escapes to come back to camp. With his help we can chase the savages down and get revenge.”

  I walk away.

  Armstrong calls after me. “Lincoln.”

  I stop, but don’t turn back.

  “Lincoln,” he repeats, “let’s talk this over a bit.”

  I turn and take a couple steps toward the gang.

  Armstrong scratches his head. “Look, we don’t like folks ordering us around.”

  I turn my palms up. “What do you want me to do?”

  “We’ll come along, but we don’t want you to make us look bad.”

  The others nod.

  “Fine,” I say and turn to the company telling them, “The Clary’s Grove Boys talked among themselves and decided the rest of us would need their help if we’re attacked. All of us would probably get scalped if they weren’t along to protect us.”

  Armstrong plants his hands on his hips. “That’s right. We got to thinking how selfish it would be to abandon you out here in the woods with Indians and whatnot running loose.”

  I turn back to the Boys, holding back a smile. “We’re most grateful for your thoughtfulness. Now if you’re sufficiently rested, can we resume?”

  “Reckon,” says Armstrong.

  I turn again to the rest and say, “Good. Out of gratitude for their sacrifice, we ought to carry the Clary’s Grove Boys’ packs and guns for them. Just be ready to hand them back if we get ambushed.”

  We encounter no Indians along our march.

  On the last day of April, our brigade begins marching out of Beardstown. We cross the Illinois River and head toward Rushville, about ten miles north, where we make camp for the night. The following morning, we break camp and continue north, headed for the mouth of the Rock River. We reach the river several days later, having seen no signs of Indians along the way. The rations, including whiskey, that we’d been promised aren’t waiting for us when we arrive. Bored and disillusioned, my men become unruly.

  I can hardly blame them for lacking confidence in me. Some think my bargaining with the Clary’s Grove Boys showed weakness. On top of that I’m totally unfamiliar with military maneuvering, and twice I’ve been disciplined by my superiors for breaking rules. Both times, I discharged my musket in camp, which they claimed was negligence.

  One day we’re marching across an open field toward a fence. We’re in a front, twenty men abreast. I want the company to pass through a gate in the middle of the fence, but I realize I don’t recall the proper order for getting them into single file. In desperation, I call the men to a halt and dismiss them with an order to reassemble on the other side of the fence in two minutes. All but the dullest of the men laugh at me when I call them back into formation.

  In time, General Whiteside orders us on a two-day march northeast to an Indian outpost called Prophet’s Village with instructions to burn it down. It is reputed to be a haven where Black Hawk’s band enjoys protection from a Redskin spiritualist who is aligned with the British. Rumors abound that the British will aid Black Hawk in his assaults against our towns and families. I remember Father’s stories about the Indian raid in which his pa died.

  We find Prophet’s Village abandoned, empty of inhabitants and their belongings. We follow through with our orders and set fire to every structure so the place can no longer serve as a threat. I am relieved we avoid a bloody confrontation, and suspect others feel the same.

  Next, we head for Dixon’s Ferry, another day’s trek northeastward, following the southern bank of the Rock River. The ferry house is a large log structure on the opposite shore. There we learn that a company under the command of Major Stillman has just left Dixon to engage the Black Hawk band at Old Man’s Creek, a long day’s march north.

  Rather than following Stillman, we’re told to wait at Dixon’s Ferry for the balance of General Whiteside’s brigade to join us. Two days later, as Whiteside’s units arrive, more than two hundred men from Stillman’s company come scurrying back to Dixon’s Ferry with horrific stories of an assault on their encampment.

  Whiteside orders our entire brigade to reinforce Stillman at Old Man’s Creek. When we arrive, the field is littered with fallen militiamen, scalped and mangled. I stand, mouth agape, and gaze at the carnage—flies swarming around a dozen disemboweled, beheaded bodies. My legs quiver. Unsure where to begin, I stoop to pick up a detached head, its cloudy eyes still open and its mouth formed as if in mid-scream. My head wobbles and I sway from side to side. Unable to keep my footing, I fall to my knees and bury my head between my legs.

  Throughout the day, as we go about the task of burying the dead, men stab at the earth with their shovels, as if the ground were their enemy. When they speak to one another, their words cut like sabers, and their tones deepen. Each time I lay one of the brutalized victims into his grave, I grind my teeth and imagine punishing the savage that killed him. In the evening, as we sit around our fires, numb from fatigue and mourning, a patrol of scouts reports that Black Hawk’s band has moved north. Little is said among us except for occasional angry outbursts and open derision against those in command.

  Near dusk on the second day of our encampment, a grey-haired, leathery Indian wanders into camp seeking refuge. He carries a letter vouching for his trustworthiness, written some months ago by President Jackson’s Secretary of War. Several of the fellows grab their muskets and aim at him. I step between the visitor and my men, staring them down. “We’re instructed to give him refuge and safe passage.”

  Someone yells, “We’ve been sent to kill Indians,”

  “Not this one.”

  “You’re a coward, Lincoln,” another calls out.

  “Afraid to kill, are ya?” someone yells.

  I straighten and rise up to my full height. “Anyone who thinks I’m a coward can fight me right here.”

  Some murmur. Others snicker.

  One of them says, “No fight would be fair. You’re bigger than the rest of us.”

  I hold out my
hands. “Then pick any weapon that suits you.”

  They look at each other for a moment and shrug in near unison. One by one they walk away and restack their muskets. I escort the old Indian to General Whiteside’s tent and show his aide the Secretary’s letter.

  Ten days later our company is disbanded, and we are mustered out of service. Most of the boys return home, but I reenlist, needing the money and thinking there’s little danger of seeing any fighting.

  This time I stay a private, and as expected, the next thirty days pass without our unit engaging in combat. After thirty days, we’re discharged from duty.

  On my third enlistment I borrow a horse and join an independent spy company under the command of the boisterous Captain Jacob Early. We’re assigned to scout and spy on the enemy, but have little success.

  One morning up in the Michigan territory, we come on a place called Kellogg Grove where we’re to join a small company of spies camping there. As we come out of the woods, a broad valley opens before us, and the morning light paints the entire scene with a crimson cast. The soldiers’ bodies lie in a row on the ground in front of us, each of them with a round red spot on top of his head about as big as a dollar. A wave of nausea washes over me. One of the dead boys is wearing buckskin breeches like mine. I rein in my horse, wondering if this sight is akin to the one Father witnessed in his boyhood when savage Indian raiders scalped Grandpa Abraham.

  On July 10, my military career comes to an end as Captain Early’s company is disbanded, and we are discharged from service. None of the blood I’ve seen has been mine, except that which flowed from battles with mosquitoes or an occasional self-inflicted wound—a result of shaving or being careless with my knife. Furthermore, my experience has produced neither great honor nor profit. I rise on our last day of service to discover my horse has been stolen. George Harrison, a friend from around New Salem, has suffered the same fate. The value of mine is almost equal to my three months’ stipend. That money goes to the friend who loaned me the horse.