Within a moment, Will approached the friends, excited and gasping for air. He looked at Allie directly in the eyes, bent over with hands on knees, and then looked up and squinted. “I’ve got great news, boys!” he said. He looked over and pointed to Jenny. “Jenny, your father is raising a regiment. We’re going down south to fight the rebs!”
The friends looked at each other, stunned by Will’s announcement.
“There’s a meeting this Sunday, where we all can join,” he said. “I suspect we will all be officers when it’s over. Jenny, your father will be the colonel of a thousand men strong. Men from Jo Daviess, Rockford, Stephenson, and other counties are joining as fast as they can. If we don’t join now, the war will be over!”
“Stop!” Allie cried out. Tears welled in her eyes. “You ain’t gonna fight no rebels. You put on that fancy blue uniform, and it gits you killed, like Elmer!
The friends fell silent. T.J. broke the awkward pause. He raised his rifle above his head. “Well, I’m not gonna miss this war. Elmer would want us to go. And I ’spect we will.”
“Please don’t go! Please don’t go!” Allie begged. Her hands began to shake noticeably.
Will reached down, grabbed them, and pulled her closer to his bosom.
“Allie, it is our duty to go,” he said calmly. “If we don’t fight this war, who else will?”
Allie began to sob. Soon Jenny’s eyes welled up. She placed her face in her hands and cried, too. Aaron put his arms around her as well.
The friends moved slowly into the wigwam. T.J. struck up a fire that cast strange shadows on the wall. Allie looked down at the medicine bag and tomahawk resting on the wall and stared at the fire. As tears slowly streaked down her cheeks, she looked at each of the friends and then stared back at the crackling fire. Looking up at the light in the cave ceiling, she recited an old Irish adage that Gramma Lucy had taught her, “Here’s to good-byes—may they never be spoken. And here’s to friendships—may they never be broken.”
The friends peered into the flames and wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter 27
Captain Cowan Home
Warren, Illinois
Near the Apple River
July, 1862
The dark hickory floor creaked as Harriet Cowan prepared morning bread for the family. Her children in the cabin loft peeked out from beneath their bed covers and then retreated, pulling the covers back over their shaggy heads. The cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster shattered the silence. Morning was here.
“Time for chores, children!”
“No, Ma!” little Georgie replied as he wiggled himself deeper into the mattress. The bed ropes groaned from the movement.
“Georgie, put your boots on. It’s a beautiful day. I need you to get four eggs from the chicken coop.” Harriet reached over and grabbed her husband’s favorite hat, lifting it up to the loft. “Here, Georgie, take your father’s hat with you, and come back quickly. The embers are up in the fireplace.”
George pushed up from the bed. Rolling to his right, he reached down and grabbed the tie strings of his boots. Continuing his roll, he dropped his shins over the sideboard; sat up; and pulled his boots up, lacing them snugly.
“What about the girls, Ma? Why don’t they get up first? Ever since that big ball in Freeport last Christmas, Molly thinks she’s a fairy princess or something!”
“Georgie, just go get the eggs!” Molly said, her voice muffled by her the covers.
Harriet looked at the loft again, placed her hands on her hips and stomped her foot on the floor. “Molly and Phine will be cooking, scrubbing, and cleaning today! Fairy princesses they are not!”
The girls wiggled themselves deeper under the covers. George stomped his boots in a deliberate, step-by-step march out the front door. His exit was followed by a squeak and a thud from the large oak door.
Molly thought back to the Saengerbund Ball at Christmastime in Freeport, where she first met Jenny Putnam and danced all evening with Alfred Smith—the graceful gowns and the continuous waltzes and dancing partners that swirled gently across the ballroom floor. She thought again of Alfred in his West Point uniform with shiny buttons that reflected light from the grand old chandeliers. She remembered how he looked at her with each magic turn, holding the small of her back firmly in his right hand.
Her memory then shifted to her father. The thought of him, and then a sharp twinge of sadness caused her to spring from the covers, sit up, and quickly head down the loft ladder to her mother.
“Mother, I fear for Father,” she said.
Phine, hearing Molly’s remark, bounced up from the bed and looked down from the loft rail. She said nothing.
The door creaked open, and George sauntered in with the eggs in a hat. He looked concerned.
“What’s wrong, Georgie?” Harriet beckoned as she approached him.
George handed the hat filled with fresh eggs over to his mother, looking down at his feet as he completed the motion.
“The postmaster is coming down the lane,” he replied softly.
“So what!” Phine replied in giddy tone.
George looked up at Phine and then at Molly and his mother. “Last time I heard of the postmaster coming out all the way to someone’s house was when Lieutenant Sheetz was killed.”
“Oh my God!” screamed Molly as she raced to the door and pulled it open. In a flash Phine climbed from the loft, and they all moved out the door, standing in a huddle on the doorstep. Molly and Phine sniffled and hugged their mother. George separated himself from the three and headed up the lane.
About fifty yards down the lane, the postmaster extended his right hand to shake hands with George, pulling a letter from a leather delivery pouch. His voice was strong, and his pronouncement carried itself to within earshot of the front stoop.
“Hello, George!” he announced. “I have a letter for Molly here. It is from her father! But I bet it’s for all of you!”
“Gracious God!” Harriet sighed as she looked at her smiling and relieved daughters. “Thank you, sir,” she called out respectfully to the postmaster. “Georgie, bring that to us now!”
George shook hands with the postmaster again, turned toward the house, and kicked up dust as he ran back to the house with the letter. Arriving at the door stoop, he bolted by the girls and headed to the kitchen table.
“I’ll open this!” he exclaimed with glee.
“No, Georgie, it’s addressed to me!” Molly replied.
“Give the letter to Molly,” added Harriet. “It’s addressed to her. Phine got the last one. The next one will be addressed to you.”
“All right,” replied George, grinning as he extended his hand with the precious letter. “Oh, here you go ’cause I can’t read like you anyway. But someday I will. You wait and see!”
Harriet, Phine, and George circled around Molly as she pulled a chair to the table. The embers in the fireplace began to lose their luster, but breakfast could wait. Molly reached over for a table knife that was neatly wrapped with a fork and spoon in a linen napkin. She pulled the fold of the napkin causing the utensils to clang on the surface of the table. Gently holding the envelope with her left hand, she slipped the blade of the knife through the crease at one end and carefully cut it open, exposing the edge of the letter. After pulling the letter out, she unfolded it so all could see.
“Wow, this is a long letter!” she announced with a smile. “Should I read the whole thing now, or should we wait?”
“Come on!” Phine and George replied in unison.
Molly glanced at her mother, smiled, and then proudly read her father’s letter
Jackson, Tenn. June 21, 1862
My Dear Molly,
Your letter of the 13th I received today; I am much pleased with it too—I just read it to Capt. Healy, one of my best friends, he says it is a very nice letter. I am glad to learn that you are all so well and enjoying yourselves…I am glad you are getting along in your studies, also…You must not be discourage
d at the size and number of books you will have to master…for you are yet young and when you grow old you will look back upon the time spent in study as being the most happy of your life.
…friend Null today says there is great preparation being made for the 4th of July Celebration. I am glad that the patriotic people of Warren are mindful of their ancient Patriotic practice and do not let it die out…
Wish you could see our army on parade, it is magnificent. I do not wonder that Xerxes cried when he looked upon this great army with which he invaded Greece. The display of a great army is so great, so magnificent that it is almost sufficient to overwhelm ones soul to look and reflect upon it. I believe it is the general opinion that the profession of a soldier hardens the heart and dulls the sympathies. No opinion can be further from the correct one. I have seen more real kindness shown among the officers and soldiers since I have been in the army than I ever saw in all my life before. I would not wish for you to see a battle fought by two armies but wish you could see the armies just as they look when they go to battle, nothing could be more magnificent. There you could see what it is to be a man. You could see in the countenances of the officers on whom rest the responsibilities of the plans of the battle, all the anxiety and care that it is possible to conceive of. While they sit as firm as iron on their impatient horses watching every movement of the enemy, they encourage and advise the subordinate officers on whom lies the more inordinate responsibility of executing the orders. There you could see the anxious looks of the soldiers as they stand firmly in their places, glancing their eyes along their own lines now to the right, now to the left, and then again to their officers, all the while grasping their guns firmly and wishing for the beginning of the contest—anxious to show to their comrades and to the world their manhood.
Now to think that these men feel savage or barbarious at such a time is another error that people are apt to get into, for at this very time, when a man feels that he would almost be glad to die in battle and would not feel danger, this is the very time that he feels the most generous and kindly impulses of which his nature is capable. I have seen many an eye full of tears and the heart too full to allow a word to be uttered, when the sense of danger did no more enter the mind than if there was no such thing in existence.
People are apt to think too that because soldiers fare roughly that they don’t care for the sick and the suffering. It is not because we do not feel for our sick, that we do not make more fuss over a dying soldier. We are willing to help one another when we can, but when an order comes we must go and leave them in comfortable circumstances or not. I have seen hundreds of men tire out and lie down when we have been on marches, some faint and cannot walk, they must be left behind. We don’t leave or pass such men with light hearts, but our business and duty requires that we should, compels us to leave them and we do it and feel at the same time infinitely more tenderly about it than many who make a great fuss about barbarism of the army.
I could write about hundreds of incidents of this and like incidents which would bring tears to the eyes of any man who had a heart in him. Many a time may be seen men turning and going away and saying nothing, but the hanging head, the constrained and harried step, and a great many other signs show plainly enough the commotions of their heart.
Write to me soon…
In all kindness,
Your Father, L. H. Cowan 9
Molly read the last paragraph slowly as if it would keep the words of her father from ending. When she finished, she did not look up. Folding the letter gently at the seams, she tucked it back in the envelope where it had been secured on its long road north. Placing it on the table, she turned and walked toward the door. Phine and George followed in silence. The door squeaked open, and the familiar thud echoed across the room again as the three stepped outside.
Harriet turned to the table, picked up the envelope, and held it to her lips and kissed it gently. A tear slipped down her cheek and spotted the ink, but it did not run. She then placed the letter on the mantel above the fireplace where the other letter was kept when it arrived after the battle of Shiloh.
Looking back to the table, she reached over to her husband’s hat, which held the eggs George had collected. She reached into the crown and deftly grabbed three of the four with her right hand. Grabbing the heavy lead pan with her left, she stooped down to the fireplace.
The embers had died out.
Chapter 28
Freeport
August, 1862
The silhouettes of three riders could be seen in the distance as they moved slowly, almost deliberately, down Chicago Street. The two on the right were dressed in dark-blue coats. They rode light-colored horses. The rider on the left was short on the saddle and wore a white waistcoat. His big black mount towered above the other two horses.
As they got closer to the town center, their images got larger and more defined. Within moments they crossed Washington, Jackson, and Spring Streets, following the sound of the town band, which alternated a continuous play of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and “Rally ’Round the Flag.”
A large crowd had gathered again on the green near the Brewster House, where the Lincoln-Douglas debates had occurred during the same sweltering month four years earlier. Like before, Allie was up in the boughs of the large oak at the edge of the shady grove that offered the best shade and a good view of the activity around her. She swung her small feet to the commanding beat of the music.
“Jenny, come on up here now! I can see the riders a comin’! You best git up here before the boys take your spot!”
Jenny looked up at Allie and replied, “Allie, if I tear this petticoat, my mother would not speak to me again. Besides, my father says ladies don’t climb trees.”
“Well, you can tell your father the fire marshal or any of them fancy boys that this lady does!” she shouted back with a smirk and a smile. She continued to peer through the branches at the approaching riders.
A familiar voice intruded. ”Allie, well, by jiminy, how’d you git up there?”
Allie almost slipped from the tree. The distraction caught her by surprise, and she chimed back in her usual fashion, “Like I always do, Trick. I climbed it. Somethin’ you just can’t seem to do. Not here, not there, not even on the Injun oak tree by our wigwam!”
“Well, you best slide over ’cause the boys with their chicken feet will be here soon! I will best wait for them so they can hike me up to that little branch over there!”
“There ain’t no little branch that could hold you, Trick!” Allie responded. She paused again. Her countenance lost its glow, and she turned solemn. “Is Will comin’ up from the river, too?”
“You can bet on it, Allie. He will be one of the first to join Fire Marshal Putnam’s regiment!” Trick replied as he pulled off his wide-brimmed hat and grabbed his belt. He pulled the loop up and over his wide belly with one hand and rubbed his sweaty brow on his sleeve. Allie remained silent as the strains of “Yankee Doodle” carried across the grove.
The riders were on the green now and turned in a deliberate motion to the oak tree.
“The riders are a comin’ this way. And look at them dandy mounts! Why, I never seen such a thing!” he said excitedly. Then, pointing at the large black horse, he said, “That big one is the biggest I ever seen!”
It was Black Hawk he pointed to. Ben Smith, the short rider in the white waistcoat was sixteen years old now and still small for his age. He pulled on his reins when he reached the shade of the oak tree, sitting in his saddle as straight as a cavalry officer.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen,” announced the officer on a white horse as he and his companion pulled up beside Ben. “My name is Colonel John E. Smith. I am from Galena. This is my son, Ben.”
On the nearby speaker’s platform, the band paused in its playing. An anticipatory hush came over the crowd.
“I would also like to introduce you to Captain Ely Parker, who is on my staff. He is an engineer from New York State. Some of you ma
y know him from his building projects in Galena.”
Captain Parker nodded gracefully to those around him. His dark skin had gotten even darker from exposure since that hot August five years ago when he brought Black Hawk to Galena. The many months of outdoor work on the Fever and Mississippi Rivers had caused deep lines to form on his Indian countenance. He still sported his long moustache and chin whiskers.
“Has anyone seen Fire Marshal Putnam today?” Colonel Smith asked.
“Well, this is his daughter!” said Trick enthusiastically.
“Well, young lady,” Smith replied with a smile,” you must be very proud of your father for raising a new regiment.”
“She don’t know what these boys are gittin into!” came a bold reply from the boughs. The crowd looked up at Allie and then back at the general. A few ladies gasped and put their hands to their mouths.
“Well, hello, young lady. What is your name?” replied Colonel Smith with a glint in his eye.
“My name is Allie. I’m from the Rock River.”
“Well, I haven’t had the pleasure to meet many young ladies who look down on me from treetops, but, nonetheless, it is certainly a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” replied Smith gallantly. “And if I may ask, what do you know of the war we are having with the rebels?”
Allie crossed her legs and placed her hand on the trunk as she replied directly, “Well, Colonel, with all a respectin’ due, my best friend, who wore one of those fancy uniforms with them shiny new buttons, stood right where you are now. He was with Alfred Smith who saved the town from a burnin’ down ’bout five years ago. But I suppose that Smith ain’t no relation to you!”
Allie waited for a response from the handsome colonel, erect in his saddle. With none forthcoming, she continued. “Well, they left after the Lincoln debate, and I never seen either of them again. I don’t know where Alfred is now, but I suppose he is down south somewhere. Elmer Ellsworth became a fancy colonel back east. He got kilt by a rebel, and Mr. Lincoln cried, they say, when he heard the news. See, he was like a big brother to the Lincoln boys. He was a big brother to me, too, especially when we walked the Rock River huntin’ muskrats and frogs. I wish he never put that fancy uniform on. I can still see Elmer and Alfred standin’ right there.” She then pointed to a shady spot on the ground at the feet of the riders.
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 18