FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  The colt whinnied again…even louder now. The fire rolled along the floor.

  Putnam turned to Alfred.

  “Alfred, no doubt you know how to fire a carbine,” he said, ignoring the boy’s request. “Dispatch that horse. Do it quickly!”

  Alfred nodded his head slowly. He grabbed the carbine and raised it to his shoulder, placing the bead on the shadowy target that whinnied in high-pitched terror.

  “Stop! I’m going in!” Will screamed. He dashed to the stable door with Aaron on his heels.

  The stable was belching smoke through the slats by the eaves. Each grabbed a door handle, and both dashed in.

  “Get back, boys! Damn it, get back!” Putnam screamed. “Get out now!”

  The whinny of the horse reached a fearful screech as the floor took fire, advancing now to both ends of the stable. Alfred grasped the barrel of the carbine, placing the butt on his boot. He looked to Putnam and Elmer with anticipation. The flames reflected off their faces. The sweat beaded on their brows as they watched what unfolded before them with horror.

  “Boys! Are you there?” Putnam shouted with a sense of alarmed urgency.

  The whinny of the horse stopped. There was a pause.

  “Boys, answer me!” Putnam shouted again.

  The back roof of the flaming barn collapsed, sending thousands of embers into the night sky. The firefighters dropped buckets and pulled back from the intense heat.

  “Boys, damn it, answer me!” he repeated with concern as he looked at the barn. The flames swirled in a strange way, like a fiery vortex rising into the night sky.

  Suddenly, the door burst open and out they came. Will and Aaron had grasped the reins on each side of the bewildered, kicking colt. The intense heat on their backs, they sprinted to Alfred, Elmer, and Putnam. The colt stomped again and then settled down, bowing his head as if thanking his rescuers.

  The smoke from the barn continued to drift their way. Both boys coughed deeply. Will bent over forward in an attempt to pull air into his lungs. Aaron’s eyes began tearing up as he dropped to his knees to catch his breath again. Elmer quickly grabbed the reins and tied the stout black colt to the branch of a hickory tree near them.

  “You boys are damned fools!” Putnam shouted as he shook his head side to side with a look of complete astonishment. “You disobeyed my direct orders and almost killed yourselves!”

  “I thought I could make it, Mr. Putnam, and I guess I did. Thanks for letting us go in,” replied Will respectfully as he rested his knee to the ground.

  “You sure did make it,” Elmer replied. “Let’s take to the bucketline, boys.”

  Will and Aaron, after coughing again and then catching their breath, walked over to the little colt, whose sweaty black coat now reflected strange, shadowy images of the terrible inferno.

  “Wish I knew this little guy’s name,” Will said as he placed his hand gently on the colt’s dusty mane.

  Aaron looked over and nodded but said nothing.

  “Let’s get to the river and find our buckets,” he said softly.

  In a moment they reached the swarthy, bobbing row of men; picked up their buckets; and stepped back in line. The bucket brigade had grown to over four hundred men. Will and Aaron looked at each other and smiled. They knew they had come of age.

  “Mr. Putnam, the winds are rising, and we are stretched to the end. I fear the entire town will burn.” Elmer had a look of solemnity as he waited for a response.

  “The fire is moving through the business district. If it moves beyond Stephenson and Chicago Streets, every home in this town will go up. The buckets can’t keep up with the winds. The men are getting tired.”

  Alfred looked at Putnam. “Have you thought of powder, Fire Marshall?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I learned at the Point that powder will cordon off the fire if we do it right.”

  “If you are right, we should do it quickly,” Putnam replied with a direct and urgent tone.

  “We can set powder kegs at the corners of Bridge, Chicago, and Stephenson Streets. If we act now, we can blow the perimeter buildings that the fire has not reached. The collapse of the buildings may contain the fire within the borders. It is worth a try.”

  “We will do it, gentlemen. I will go for the kegs.” Putnam dashed off into the dark.

  The flames rolled upward into the black night. The water from the buckets flashed into a mist that was evaporated by the heat with each ineffective toss. Though it was like sweeping waves back on a beach, the brigade kept its rhythmic motion nonetheless. The men became more silent with each passing moment. It was midnight now.

  “That’s a pretty old carbine you got there, sir!”

  Alfred looked at the stranger who made the remark and then stepped out of the dark. He pulled a shiny new rifle up to his waist, resting the deep-blue barrel on his left forearm as he gripped the case-hardened, colored breech with his right hand.

  “And who are you, young man?” Elmer replied.

  “T.J. Lockwood, sir. I’m from Buda, just down the river.”

  “And what is that you’re holding, T.J.?”

  “It’s my new Sharps target rifle,” T.J. replied proudly. He raised it confidently with one hand. The reflection of the fire cast a rainbow glow on the breech, which sparkled like oil on water on a summer day. “Never saw a little old musket like yours before. My baby can hit a fly on a barn door at two hundred yards. Something sure to reckon with.”

  “That’s dandy, young man. But we got work to do. I’ll watch your Sharps. You grab a bucket and get to the line.”

  “OK, sir. Keep care of my baby.” T.J. handed over his piece and grabbed the bucket rope. With a slight swagger, he smiled and walked to the river.

  Within moments Putnam arrived with a two-horse team, drawing a wagon loaded with kegs of gunpowder. “Alfred, we will place them where you see fit. Get into the wagon.”

  They proceeded down Bridge Street, advancing before the fire could reach them. Alfred directed the powder crew to place a keg at each of the corners at Chicago, Bridge, and Stephenson Streets. The remaining kegs were placed between them. A total of seven kegs formed a U-shaped pattern around the fire. The buildings would go up if they didn’t move quickly.

  “And what now, Alfred?” Putnam asked curiously as he glared at the fire again.

  “We must set off the kegs one by one. We can use a powder trail or rifle, but we must act quickly before the cordon is caught on fire. We must blow the buildings before the fire reaches them.”

  “I will follow your lead. What is best?”

  “We need a rifle in the church belfry. The First Presbyterian has a trapdoor to the tower. Reverend Schofield will open it for us. I will go for him. Now take this Sharps rifle and go to the line. There is a young man named T.J. Send him to the belfry.” At this moment Alfred realized he was taking charge. He looked down at his boots. With an embarrassing glance, he handed the Sharps over to Putnam. “Sorry for giving you commands, Mr. Putnam. I am caught up in the moment.”

  “Your commands are so taken, Alfred. You are saving our city,” Putnam replied, placing his hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “We will get it done together.”

  Both parted in haste.

  A half hour had now passed since the burning of the stable. The fire was peaking in all its fury. The brigade line faltered. Many of the men were exhausted and sat in secure places. Several leaned on trees by the courthouse. Nobody spoke. Most wondered what morning would bring. The town had grown to over two thousand folks over the years. It was a jewel of activity year round. And now it could disappear by daylight.

  Within moments Reverend Schofield opened the trapdoor to the belfry, and Alfred and T.J. appeared in the bell tower. Their dark shadowy silhouettes stretched before the shiny brass bell, which reflected the rising lisps of fire. Everyone looked up at the belfry with great anticipation and concern.

  “Can you see the powder kegs, T.J.?” Alfred pronounced with resolute authority
. He pointed toward the distant powder kegs that formed a U-shaped pattern around the buildings down below. “There are seven kegs around those buildings. Mr. Putnam has cleared the streets. You must start at the top of each side of the U and fire progressively right to left. The seventh, and last, keg to be dispatched is the one closest to us. You must load and fire quickly. Do you understand?” Alfred stared directly as he waited for a response.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  T.J. pulled the linen cartridge with ball from his cartridge box, dropped the breech of the Sharps, drove in the cartridge, and closed the breech by pulling up the lever. He then reached in for the tiny ignition cap that looked like a miniature brass top hat. He placed it on the nipple cone at the breach. This cap would send the flame through the cone, discharging the weapon. He looked with confidence at Alfred and calmly stated, “I will load and fire on command. I can fire seven rounds, sir, in one minute.”

  T.J. was sinewy and tall. It gave him the advantage of reaching up over the bulwark of the belfry. The view from the tower was unobstructed. Before him he could see the silhouettes of men in the scattered brigade line. He could even see the river. The fire picked up as the wind whistled through the belfry. It was advancing to the perimeter of the U, and he could clearly see Alfred’s plan.

  “Are you ready, T.J.?” Alfred asked quietly with anticipation.

  “Yes, sir.” T.J. leveled his rifle on the buttress.

  “Fire!”

  The Sharps rifle cracked through the night. Boom! The first keg exploded! Screams from the townsfolk below echoed back as the first building, on the right, collapsed to rubble, the dust rising with the wind.

  “Load and fire!” Alfred commanded again.

  The Sharps boomed…another hit…this time the left keg.

  T.J. responded in rhythm every eight seconds. The carbine’s hammer was pulled back, loaded at the breech, capped, aimed, and fired. The motion was steady with no moments of hesitation. Reflections of the fire could be seen by Alfred in T.J.’s calm and determined eyes as he dispatched the powder kegs one by one.

  Alfred shouted his command again. Each crack of the Sharps rifle was rewarded with another magnificent explosion that rumbled through the crisp night air.

  “Last keg, T.J. Load and fire!”

  The Sharps cracked! The last keg exploded. As the bucket brigade huddled in the distance, dazed at the smoke and dust rising over them from the explosions, Putnam, standing in front of the brigade, pointed up to the belfry. There was a pause.

  In a moment a resounding “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” from the chorus of men rose into the night.

  Standing tall in the belfry so all could see, T.J. looked to Alfred with a hint of pride in his smile.

  “You almost missed one,” Alfred said, grinning as he extended his hand to T.J.

  “I guess you can say I almost missed seven,” T.J. replied, respectfully patting Alfred’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go see our friends,” Alfred replied with a wink and nod as they descended down the belfry stairs.

  The echoes from the cheering townspeople could be heard throughout the business district. Folks from the neighboring towns of Cedarville and Woods Grove, who watched the fire from the other side of the Pecatonica, crossed the river and crowded the town, choking off the streets. The noise of the gathering crowd rose above the last crackling of the fire.

  As the winds died down, there was a rising excitement in the air. Family, friends, neighbors, and strangers gathered one last time to hug each other before going home to their Christmas hearths. They looked to the morning glow in the eastern sky. Many fell to their knees in thanks and prayer. The town could move past this setback. The business district would begin a long process of rebuilding come morning.

  The last embers were smoldering now. The great fire had lost its battle with the citizens of Freeport, and the sparks that lifted slowly into the dawn light landed gently onto the cold waters of the Pecatonica.

  Chapter 3

  Tremont House Hotel

  Southeast Corner of Lake and Dearborn Streets

  Chicago, Illinois

  One Hundred Miles East of Freeport

  December, 1857

  “Mr. Couch, would you play a Foster piece for me?”

  The piano player in the hotel’s parlor had been about to play a tune. Instead, he rose and looked at the nearby open French bay window that separated the lobby from the parlor, where the request had come from. Couch didn’t recognize the voice, and the window’s thin curtain and cigar-smoke haze in the room prevented the piano player from seeing the speaker’s features. But the speaker’s silhouette was distinctive enough. Returning to his stool, Couch poised his fingers above the instument’s keys.

  “Well, hello and welcome, Congressman Washburne. And which song of his meets your fancy?”

  “The piece called ‘Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair,’ which Stephen Foster wrote, oh, maybe three years past. It would be most pleasant if it is agreeable to the rest of your patrons.”

  Washburne glanced at the hotel patrons in the dimly lit parlor. Oil lamps flickered. He then stepped into the parlor and settled into an overstuffed wing chair that faced the open bay window. After setting his cigar on a side-table ashtray, he raised to his lips the brandy snifter he was holding and inhaled the liquor’s heady fumes. Lowering the snifter, his eyes roamed across the parlor, dimly lit by fickering oil lamps. He noticed a young, married couple holding hands in the distant and darkest corner of the parlor. Near them sat an old man with a gray beard that matched his wrinkled suit. He sat upright on the edge of a red leather chair, propping his walking stick in front of him. He nodded, smiled, and raised the cane to note approval. The couple, too absorbed in themselves, did not hear Washburne’s request, so the player smiled at the congressman and began the slow, sad melody.

  Washburne looked out the bay window. He noticed large snowflakes floating outside. The melody continued to play sweetly through the parlor, occasionally punctuated by the pronounced clop of carriage horses’ hooves that struck the frozen cobblestones on Lake Street. He noticed coachmen with tall black top hats bundled in greatcoats dusted with snow. Winter had arrived early again this year. The congressman expected his good friend to arrive at any moment but wondered if he would be delayed.

  It had been quite some time since Washburne had been back to his hometown of Galena. His time in Washington was especially lonely this go-around. The congressional sessions took longer because of the increasing rancorous North-South sectional disputes. He missed his wife and children dearly. He took a sip of brandy and picked up his cigar, barely keeping back the tears as the song played its haunting melody. Time seemed to stand still as he stared through the window.

  “Well, Congressman, are you counting snowflakes tonight!” announced a man behind him in a raised tenor voice with the hint of a country twang.

  Washburne felt the smack of a thick, flat palm across his back, causing his cigar to hit the carpet. The brandy swirled, lipped over a bit, and then settled back to the bottom of his snifter. Washburne bent over quickly, picked up the cigar, and then turned to see who was the cause of this loud intrusion.

  “My God, Lincoln, where did you come from?”

  “I got a room upstairs, Congressman. Thought you would, too, but when I saw you, I couldn’t resist sneaking up on you like an old Potawatomi Indian. You know, Wash, you’ve got to watch your back all the time.” Lincoln grinned and extended his hand. “Wash, you’re about the best friend anyone could have. Sorry to startle you like that.”

  Washburne looked up at Lincoln. “You know, there is nothing to apologize for. You can knock me over any day.” He smiled again, lifted his brandy, and said, “We have a lot to talk about. I will check into the hotel tonight and leave for Freeport and Galena tomorrow.”

  Washburne looked for the piano player. He was nowhere to be seen. The couple had gone, too.

  The old man balanced himself forward on his cane and stood up slowly. H
e walked over to Washburne and Lincoln, tipped his hat, and extended his shaky hand. “Just wanted to let you know I am not a Democrat. Thought you’d like to know there is at least one Republican here in Chicago!”

  Lincoln stood up and grinned. “Do you think I could beat Senator Douglas? The papers here call him the ‘little giant.’”

  “If your speech is as big as you, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you!”

  “Thank you, sir. Let me open the front door for the Chicago gentleman who will cast my first vote.” Lincoln proceeded to the door and grabbed the knob.

  The old man nodded again and stepped into the cold. He wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck and placed his cane tip on the wet boardwalk. “I’m surprised there are any damn Democrats up here at all. It’s so damn cold!”

  Lincoln turned to the lobby to meet with his young colleague. Washburne had known Lincoln during his congressional years. Both being from Illinois brought them together on many important issues. Illinois folk were often called “Suckers” to the surprise of most. Some say those who migrated to Illinois territory in the early years were suckers because they thought the lands would be open lands, clear for farming. Yet when they got here, they noticed the woods were so thick a squirrel could cross treetop to treetop over the entire state without ever touching the ground. Nonetheless, both Washburne and Lincoln knew the Suckers well and would serve them in any circumstance.

  “Shall we have dinner, Congressman?” Lincoln asked as he patted his friend cordially on the back.

  Washburne rose, and and they proceeded to the dining area where they were escorted to a table. As they sat down and placed napkins on their laps, the host turned the screw on the table’s oil lamp to increase the illumination.

  “So, Wash, what brings you here?”

  “I have an idea for you that could help you beat Senator Douglas.”

  “And what might that be?”