FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story
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Friends of the Wigwam
A Civil War Story
JOHN WILLIAM HUELSKAMP
Original Edits by
C. H. Lundy, M.Ed.
Harvard University
Barrington Group Publications
* Chicago, IL *
Copyright © 2016 John William Huelskamp
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 9780692348826
ISBN-10: 0692348824
LCCN: 2014921976
Barrington Group Publications, Chicago, IL
Praise for Friends of the Wigwam
“Friends of the Wigwam is a fascinating and thoroughly engrossing historical novel. Author John William Huelskamp has combined extraordinary research and vivid narrative to create a compelling story. For people looking for a successor to Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Killer Angels, they’ll find it in Friends of the Wigwam.”
Dwight Jon Zimmerman
New York Times best-selling coauthor of Lincoln’s Last Days
“Using previously unpublished letters and diaries, the author re-creates the feel, the sense, and the sound of the 1860s. History repeats itself in the pages of Friends of the Wigwam in the best possible way.”
Robert I. Girardi
Civil War author and historian
“It took a stranger passing through town to pull together one of the most important historical dramas of the Civil War. Huelskamp’s research and story has set the record straight for future generations.”
Harriet Gustason
Freeport Journal-Standard
Acknowledgments
Friends of the Wigwam is the culmination of over thirty years of research and writing. I am indebted to the many people who offered encouragement and advice along the way, including the many professionals and archivists from Northern Illinois museums and historical societies who shared primary source documents and also their love of Civil War history.
Special thanks to Kirby Smith of Barrington, Illinois, who provided me with the core letters and war documents from his ancestor General John E. Smith that are “centerpieces” to this work, and to the late Professor John Y. Simon, noted Ulysses S. Grant editor and scholar, who suggested that I focus my research for the story to include other important Civil War-period personages who lived in the “Union political power corridor” extending from Galena to Chicago.
Similarly, I am deeply indebted to author Peter Cozzens of Alexandria, Virginia, for his encouragement and editorship of my first publication in Civil War Regiments: A Journal of the American Civil War, which provided a firm foundation for the larger story found in Friends of the Wigwam. Also, my thanks to author Wiley Sword, who many years ago encouraged me to research and document Western Civil War engagements during a very enlightening visit to his home.
The idea of writing a creative historical novel on Northern Illinois history was first suggested by Civil War author Rob Girardi of Chicago and artist Keith Rocco now of Edinburg, Virginia. Both of these individuals have had a very positive impact in bringing Illinois history to the forefront of America. I will always be grateful for their early suggestions and encouragement along the way.
Special thanks to WGN News anchor and historian Larry Potash of Lake Forest, Illinois, for his passion, insight, and creativity in bringing the national spotlight to three important characters in my work. His scholarly minidocumentaries of Colonel Putnam, Jennie Hodgers, and Elmer Ellsworth have created national interest in Illinois Civil War history, and for this the people of Illinois will always be grateful. I am also indebted to Dwight Jon Zimmerman, New York Times best-selling author of many military and historical works, for his recommendation to include runaway slaves and the Illinois underground railroad in the manuscript.
On a personal note, I would like to thank my wonderful wife, Pat, for always keeping my dreams alive and for the countless hours she has spent reading and enhancing multiple drafts of Friends of the Wigwam. A fatherly thanks also to Christy, Tim, and Jeff for their encouragement and suggestions that also contributed to the form and content of the work. For their love, kindness, and understanding during my many years researching, reflecting, and writing, I will always be grateful.
To my parents, siblings, and extended family, I thank all of you for listening with great interest to my storytelling, which began at a very young age, and for your positive encouragement during those memorable times together. You have truly influenced my life’s journey as a writer…and the core development of the story contained within these pages.
CONTENTS
Introduction
Chapter 1: Pecatonica River
Chapter 2: Tutty Baker Tavern
Chapter 3: Tremont House Hotel
Chapter 4: John E. Smith Home
Chapter 5: Grant & Perkins Store
Chapter 6: Lincoln-Douglas Debate
Chapter 7: Pecatonica River
Chapter 8: Tremont House Hotel
Chapter 9: Tremont House Hotel
Chapter 10: Light Guard Hall
Chapter 11: Pecatonica River
Chapter 12: Republican National Convention
Chapter 13: Wigwam
Chapter 14: John E. Smith Home
Chapter 15: Wigwam
Chapter 16: White House Balcony
Chapter 17: Camp Lincoln
Chapter 18: Alexandria, Virginia
Chapter 19: Wigwam
Chapter 20: Galena
Chapter 21: Pecatonica River
Chapter 22: Freeport
Chapter 23: Shiloh
Chapter 24: Camp Near Shiloh
Chapter 25: Washburne Home
Chapter 26: Wigwam
Chapter 27: Captain Cowan Home
Chapter 28: Freeport
Chapter 29: Freeport
Chapter 30: Camp of the Forty-Fifth Illinois
Chapter 31: Camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois
Chapter 32: Wigwam
Chapter 33: Recruiting Station
Chapter 34: General John E.Smith Headquarters
Chapter 35: Captain Cowan Home
Chapter 36: Steamer Jesse K. Bell
Chapter 37: Admiral Porter’s
Chapter 38: Union Steam Ram Lafayette
Chapter 39: Ninety-Third Illinois Volunteers
Chapter 40: General John E. Smith Headquarters
Chapter 41: Champion Hill
Chapter 42: Champion House
Chapter 43: Vicksburg
Chapter 44: Stockade Redan
Chapter 45: Mt. Ararat
Chapter 46: Grant’s Headquarters
Chapter 47: The Charge
Chapter 48: Shirley House
Chapter 49: General John E.Smith’s Headquarters
Chapter 50: Vicksburg Courthouse
Chapter 51: Wigwam
Chapter 52: Camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois
Chapter 53: Camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois
Chapter 54: Missionary Ridge
Chapter 55: Vicksburg
Chapter 56: Camp of the Twenty-Ninth Regiment Infantry
Chapter 57: Wigwam
Afterword: Characters by Order of Appearance
Notes: Original Letters &Primary Source Documents
Introduction
Friends of the Wigwam is a historical novel about key soldiers and citizens who lived during the dramatic years of the American Civil War. Only true-to-life characters have been selected for this novel. Some of these characters will be very familiar to you; others not so. To be sure, though, all are important to the story. They are “actors” who between the years 1857 and 1865 collectively staged a very tragic time in our nation’s history. All lived
within one hundred miles of my home in Northern Illinois.
The landscape of the events and battles, I trust, will come alive for you as the characters evolve through the storytelling. I have selected actual firsthand documents and correspondences in the story to give you a closer “feel” for the times. Many of these primary source documents are published here for the first time. These entries are italicized, numbered, and noted at the end of the manuscript. It is my hope that these literary treasures will continue to be chronicled by Civil War scholars and enthusiasts for present and future generations.
As most historians agree, an accurate chronology of real events best serves the historical timeline. To this end you will find chapter headers true to the date and place that the historical event occurred and, where noted, the actual time of day.
To conclude, even though the people and events are factual and real, the dialogue between the characters, as in all historical novels, comes from my pen, and, therefore, the interpretation of each character in Friends of the Wigwam is my own.
John William Huelskamp
Deer Park, Illinois
May 17, 2015
“In our youths our hearts were touched with fire.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.
Chapter 1
Pecatonica River
Freeport
Northwest Illinois
Summer, 1857
Will and Aaron were the best of friends. They were by most impressions in town…true brothers. Will, older by three years, had the knack and the spunk to take Aaron under his wing at an early age and often protected him in playground fights, usually taking a black eye or a bruise for him. Aaron looked up to the sixteen-year-old as his leader and friend.
Freeport that year was considerably more hot and humid than previous summers. As expected, the townsfolk, young and old, always found time to head to the river. The Pecatonica, named years ago by the local Winnebago Indians, meandered at a slow pace. It looked like more of a flatboat waterway than a vacation spot. And though the air was thick this summer, the breeze that topped the waterway caused it to ripple and brought the desired respite.
Aaron stood close to the water. The afternoon sun caused him to squint as he peered across the Pecatonica. He cupped his hands around his mouth, took in a deep breath, and shouted, “Hey, Will!” Startled, a brown-bellied gray squirrel on a branch above leaped to a higher branch, dangled for a quick moment with his front claws embedded deeply in thick bark, and then righted himself and scrambled out of sight.
Aaron looked for movement across the water. A large twig floated slowly by, but there was no other movement. Again he cupped his hands and increased his pitch. “Hey, Will! Where are you?” Aaron dropped his hands to his sides and peered left to right, but there was only quiet. He then proceeded upriver where he had seen Will last. Squeezing between an old hickory tree and the shoreline, he gripped the bark with both hands so he wouldn’t slip into the water. He moved slowly, very slowly, as he peered back over his shoulder.
A shout shattered the calm: “Hey!…Gotcha, Aaron!”
Unlike the startled squirrel, Aaron lost his grip and, with his arms extended like a cross, smacked backward into the water. After quickly rolling to his side in the now-murky current, he righted himself and then squatted with the Pecatonica at his waist. Glaring up at Will, who looked down at him from a stout log high on the riverbank, Aaron slowly rose. Standing knee deep, he placed his hands defiantly on his hips.
Will gripped his chest and gasped for air with arms crossed over his torso. He could not speak. He was laughing too hard.
“Why do you always sneak up on me like some old Potawatomi Injun?”
Will howled and continued to gasp for air. He stood up and then settled down again on the fallen tree stump, forearms resting on his knees.
Aaron looked up, shook his head in disgust, and then forced out a smile. He slogged his way closer to the shore, brown clouds of stirred-up mud swirling around his legs.
Will grinned, reached down to the ground, and plucked a thick piece of river grass out of the damp soil. He stripped it and placed the stem in the tiny space between his two front teeth. Dropping his hands, the stem remained with the grass blade dangling in midair. “Did you think a granddaddy copperhead jumped me and dropped me for dead?” he asked with a curious smile.
“No,” Aaron replied. “Shucks, you know there ain’t no copperheads around these parts. No poison snakes around here at all! And what took you so damn long to get here from the stable? I left Tutty’s Tavern downriver about two hours ago. I could’ve made another two cents today if I knew you were gonna be late!”
“Oh, hush down there. You don’t make a cent an hour! Ol’ Tutty won’t pay a barboy more than five cents a day! So cut your whining. You just lost a penny with me being late, I reckon. And here…” Will reached into his pocket and pulled out an Indian-head penny. He held it up to the sun, which was at its peak now. The copper twinkled. He smiled and then looked at his wet friend. “Here ya go…Sorry.”
A cardinal chirped, and they both looked up to the treetops. It darted through the branches out of sight.
“That’s all right, Will. You can keep it,” Aaron replied softly. “Friends are supposed to wait for each other. Don’t matter how short or how long.”
Will smiled and nodded. The grass stem was all chewed. He spit it out and reached for another.
“But what took you so long at the stable?”
Will looked across the Pecatonica as if gazing at a mountain range. He was silent for a moment and then shook his head. “Damndest thing happened today,” he said almost in a monotone voice.
“What, Will?…What is it?”
Will sat down tucking his legs up until his knees touched his chin. The river grass he was chewing dangled at an angle. He pulled it out and tossed it in the Pecatonica. It swirled and then floated away.
“I was in the stable as usual, pullin’ the feed for a few mares when I heard a whinny from a small colt. I looked up, and there in front of the double door stood a Negro man with shoulders as big as a blacksmith’s. I was in the shadows looking out, and I couldn’t see clearly at first, but, sure enough, it was a Negro man starin’ at me silently. He had straight black hair and a long moustache that went down to his jaw.”
“Well, what did he want?” Aaron replied curiously.
“The damndest thing, Aaron—the damndest thing!”
“What? What of it?”
“Next to him stood this little black colt only about six hands high. The man was very strong and was holding him tight so he wouldn’t jump away and hurt himself. The little colt would dance and whinny, and the man would, in one quick motion, pull him in. It was the strangest sight!”
“What then?” Aaron exclaimed.
“The man was short on words. He didn’t say much more but that he needed a home for the little colt for a while. He asked me how much it was to quarter it at the stable. I told him five cents a day. He then handed me a ten-dollar gold piece, handed me the reins, and left. Before I could say anything, he was gone!”
“Well, jumpin’ jiminy, where is this little colt? Let’s go see it! Bet it’s a beauty!” Aaron looked north to the town.
“Hold on. He’s resting now! Best not stir him up. Besides, we can’t leave now. We gotta get those cane-pole lines in the river if we expect to catch some big cats for dinner.” Will looked around him for the fishing poles. “Where are they at?”
Aaron hesitated and then stood up and pointed with his arm as straight as an arrow. “Over there behind that ol’ stump by the ripplin’ water! See those water bugs?”
“Can’t see ’em,” Will replied as he got closer to the stump. “Come on. Where did you put the poles?”
“On the other side. Are you blind?”
“Where?”
“Just look over the stump!”
Will toed his boot tips on the base of the stump facing the river. He then placed his left hand on the center of the stump,
squatted, and then reached down to feel for the poles. He looked back to Aaron. “Jeez, Aaron, where in heaven’s half acre are they?” He reached further and looked down again.
Aaron made his move. He quickly darted in and then pushed Will head over heels into the Pecatonica. After a deep thump, large ripples rolled. Frogs on the other side of the riverbank jumped for safety. Will emerged a moment later like a wet dog.
“You son of a…” Will screamed. He jumped up, slipped, and fell down again.
Aaron screamed like a howling coyote. He couldn’t breathe; he was laughing so hard. He then headed downriver for what he thought would be the race of his life.
Will climbed out. He looked down at his soaked leather boots scuffed by mud and rock. Peering downriver, he pushed off, digging his heels into the shore mud.
But Aaron had the jump on Will. Though just thirteen, he had more speed and quickness than any older challengers in Freeport. Knowing this, he quickly increased his stride, bounding over logs and rocks and brushing past small bushes along the way with Will, fast in his own right, hot on his heels. Aaron knew he could widen the distance and continued his stronger pace until Will was left far behind.
There was always a quiet along the Pecatonica. Even at a full run, Aaron could feel it. The breeze cooled his sweaty brow with gentle bursts. The sun pierced occasionally through the deep shade of swirling cottonwood trees that rose over him. The riverbank was cool, and his motion mixed with nature’s wonder had a calming, even mesmerizing, effect on him as he continued downstream. His pace was even and steady now, and he floated into a dreamlike state.
Proceeding a little farther, he suddenly stopped in his tracks like a startled deer, digging his heels in the shore mud in one quick motion.
He did not move. His heart pounded in his head. He could not believe what he saw ahead of him. It was like a mirage, so he remained in place, quiet and steady in his tracks.
Will soon crashed into the silence, still caught up in the chase, water dripping down his face from the fall.
“What’s wrong, Aaron? You tired already? What did you think—you could outrun me?”