A Thrilling Rescue
“Yip-ee!” yowled Pete Perkins, as he burst unceremoniously into the
tent occupied by Bill Brown and the Gordon twins, in the camp at
Dixon’s Ferry. “Watch out! I’m the bloodiest son of a wildcat alive!”
“Howdy, Pete,” smiled big Bill. “Ain’t seen you fer days. What’s doin’?”
“Drill, drill, drill,” complained the grizzled fellow, “nothin’ but
drill. In the last week I vum I’ve marched nigh ez fur ez from Rock
River ter the Pacific Ocean.”
“Well, set down an’ rest yer feet, you ol’ hoptoad. They prob’ly need
it.”
“Is all that drill doing you any good?” grinned Tom Gordon. “Or are you
just raising a crop of corns and bunions?”
“Say! I’m a tellin’ ye that our Sangamon County volunteers is gittin’
ter be the fanciest bunch o’ sojurs in this hull kemp. Ther ain’t a
braver passel o’ volunteers--”
“Please, Pete, please,” begged Ben. “Easy on the bragging. Remember, I
was at Stillman’s Run.”
Pete Perkin’s face turned a brick-red. He began to bristle. His
enormous chest seemed to grow larger, and his buckskin jacket strained
at the seams.
“Now, younker,” he protested, “our Sangamon County boys ain’t cut from
the same cloth ez them white-livered skunks that run away. They wuz a
disgrace ter the great state of Illinois.”
“Oh, your company looks like a bunch of fighters, sure enough,” praised
the boy, afraid that he had hurt Pete’s feelings. “I saw you drilling
this morning.”
“Same here,” put in Tom, “and who in thunder is that human string-bean
you have for a captain? Gawkiest appearing chap I ever saw.”
“Name’s Abe Lincoln,” Perkins replied. “An’ he may be long an’ lean an’
gawky; but don’t let that fool yuh. Weighs over a hundred an’ eighty
pound, an’ is hard ez nails. He’s the champeen wrestler o’ southern
Illinois. Even throwed Jack Armstrong o’ Clary’s Grove.”
“By George, I’ve heard o’ Abe Lincoln,” stated Bill Brown. “Folks
’round the country say he’s strong as an ox.”
“Works in Offut’s grocery store,” continued Pete, “down in New Salem,
best durned leetle town in Sangamon County. Abe’s quittin’ the store
right soon, though. Aims ter run fer the state legislaitcher.”
“Well,” went on Tom, “I hope he turns out to be a better law-maker than
he is drillmaster. What he doesn’t know about military tactics would
fill a very large book.”
“Don’t worry ’bout Abe,” advised Perkins. “He’s got the stuff. The
Salem boys ’lected him Cap’n; an’ take it from ol’ Pete, them home boys
knows a real man when they sees one. Ther was tew candidates, Jack
Kirkpatrick, the sawmill owner, an’ lean, lanky, homely Abe. When it
come time ter take the vote, har’s how we done it. Jack an’ Abe stood
facin’ the comp’ny; an’ each sojur walked out an’ stood behint the man
he wanted fer Cap’n. Why shucks, Abe’s line wuz twice ez long ez Jack
Kirkpatrick’s.”
“Hm!” observed Tom, “he must be quite a fellow, at that.”
“As the sayin’ goes,” put in Bill, “you never can tell from the looks
of a toad how far he kin jump.”
“Abe had a thunderin’ hard time ter begin with,” chuckled Pete
reminiscently. “The fust time he give an order ez Cap’n, a feller
answered, “Go hop in the river!””
“Must be some hard eggs in your outfit,” interposed Ben. “It takes
backbone to handle men like that.”
“Wall, some o’ the boys wuz a mite obstrep’rous. But Abe didn’t let ’em
skeer him. He stuck tew it; although, ez yer say, he didn’t know no
more ’bout drillin’ than a monkey duz ’bout playin’ the fiddle. One day
he wuz drillin’ tew platoons an’ we come ter a narrer gate. Abe wuz in
a pickle. He didn’t know the order that would get ’em inter a column,
tew by tew, fer passin’ through the gate. So what did he do--this’ll
make yuh split--but give a command, ‘Comp’ny fall out fer tew minnits;
then fall in ag’in tother side o’ gate!’”
“I hear yer company has a pig fer a mascot, Pete,” announced Bill
Brown, with a wide grin. “I’ve heard tell o’ most every kind of a
mascot, but that takes the prize.”
“Well, siree,” said Perkins, sharing in the general laughter, “a young
white sow j’ined our outfit ’bout the time we crossed the Sangamon
County line; an’ she’s bin with us ever since. An’ say, she’s jest
the smartest critter in the hull pig tribe. Marched with us, swum the
cricks, waded the swamps, an’ foraged fer food. An’ what do yer reckon
we do, ter keep her from bein’ stole?”
“Couldn’t guess,” said Ben.
“Why, the cook--this’ll give yuh cramps--greased the leetle animule.
She slips loose from anybody what tries ter hold her. We’re savin’ her,
ourselves, fer a nice, juicy roast-pig feed, when ol’ Black Hawk fin’ly
gits it in the neck.”
It was only the next afternoon, following Pete Perkin’s visit, that
Tom and Ben Gordon had a chance to observe big Abe Lincoln in action.
It came about this way. The boys were fishing for suckers at the river
bank, when Jim Martin hurried up, his face tense and pale from anxiety.
“Come quick!” he called. “They mean to hang Bright Star!”
“No?” exclaimed Ben, as if not crediting his ears.
“Who does?” cried Tom wrathfully, as the two flung aside their poles
and raced toward the camp.
“A bunch of volunteers! They’re half-drunk an’ howlin’ for Injun blood!”
The anguished boys sped across the prairie at their utmost speed,
heading for a clump of trees near the burned buildings, where they
could see that a small knot of men had collected. As they got nearer,
they could make out that the young Pottawattomee was standing beneath
the spreading limb of a big elm, his hands tied securely behind his
back and a noose about his neck. One of the dozen yelping whites, who
ringed him around, was trying to throw the other end of the rope over
the limb above.
“Git that rope up thar, yuh clumsy pie-face!” roared a pot-bellied,
black-bearded volunteer. “I’m cur’ous tuh find out how fur this
redskin’s neck’ll stretch.”
“Yah,” mumbled another thickly, “let’s git the red imp dancin’ on air.”
The three racing lads, panting heavily from their hard run, had now
reached the ring of men. Pushing their way through the crowd, they
quickly reached the foot of the tree. The white ruffian with the rope
had by now succeeded in casting it over the big limb. With a sharp cry
of anger Tom Gordon reached out, grabbed the line, and with a sudden
jerk pulled it down again. He had scarcely done so, however, when a
thickset fellow directly to his rear punched him hard in the back of
the head, sending him half-senseless to the ground. Other strong hands
clutched Ben and Jim Martin, holding them so fiercely that the two lads
could barely move, strong and active as both of them were.
“Git that rope up thar ag’in!” bellowed the man with the pot-belly, his
tone full of menace. “I’ll kick the brains outen the next feller that
sticks his nose in!”
Before the man with the rope had a chance to move, a tall, gangling
form shot through the crowd, and Captain Abe Lincoln jumped to the
side of the young Bright Star, who all the while had stood rigid and
expressionless, with the inborn stoicism of his race.
“Men,” said Lincoln, his face hard as flint, “you can’t do this! It’s
nothing but murder!”
“Now, Abe,” cried the ruffian with the fat paunch, “don’t go buttin’ in
har! I swore I’d kick the brains outen the next feller who stuck his
nose in.”
“You won’t kick my brains out, Jeb Whipple!” replied Captain Abe, not
batting an eyelash.
Whipple cast a calculating eye up and down Abe’s sinewy frame, and
decided to promptly forget his threat.
“Now look har, Abe,” he whined, “we’re out on a Injun war-hunt, an’ we
wants to kill Injuns.”
“Kill all the Sacs you want, Whipple. I’m with you there. But you won’t
harm a hair of this young brave.”
At these resolute words of Lincoln, there came an angry muttering from
several in the crowd. The sound of threats was heard.
“If any man wants to dispute with me,” grated Abe, “let him stand
forth.”
“Aw, that ain’t fair, Abe,” protested Whipple. “Yer taller an’ stronger
then we uns.”
“There’s a remedy for that,” was the sharp reply. “You may choose your
weapons.”
There was some further argument; but it soon became apparent that
the staunch words of the border captain were beginning to have their
effect. The flaring tempers of the crowd were gradually cooling. Only
Whipple and three or four other hot-heads remained savage and sullen,
though not daring to accept Abe’s bold challenge.
Tom Gordon had by now dragged himself to his feet, still dizzy from the
force of the foul blow he had been given.
“I say, Captain Lincoln,” he spoke up, “the Pottawattomee has a
military pass. He’s an army scout.”
“What’s that, lad?” cried Abe. “Jimmy, I never thought of that. Of
course, he would have.”
And when the pass was produced, duly signed by Major Whistler,
commander at Fort Dearborn, the crest-fallen Jeb Whipple and his
hard-bitten cronies lost little time in taking their leave; while big
Abe Lincoln and the three boys quickly escorted the lucky Bright Star
to the safety of the troopers’ tents.
By this time it was near sundown; so the horses were put out to grass.
Then the troopers and scouts ate bread and fried salt pork and drank
strong tea. A short hour after dark, they were ready for sleep. The
evening was warm and humid, and many of the soldiers, deserting the
stuffy tents, spread their blankets on the open prairie, where the
grass was soft and thick.
Silence had barely descended on the slumbering encampment, when two
army couriers, racing their ponies up the trail from the east, sped
into view. They failed to heed the summons of the frightened sentinel,
who had Indians very much on his mind. In his alarm, his musket fell
from his nerveless grasp and discharged, cracking out on the quiet
night air like a peal of thunder.
Suddenly the whole camp was in a bedlam. There was a scattering of
gun-fire. Drums and fifes sounded; hoots and yells came from all sides.
The picketed horses reared and struggled. Many broke away in terror,
dashing helter-skelter through the tents, snorting and cavorting,
stepping on the soldiers stretched out for the night’s rest. Company
commanders ran wildly about, trying to form battle lines. Volunteers
sprang dazedly to their feet, clutching their guns in drowsy terror.
But nothing happened. The cause of the sudden alarm was soon found out.
And the grumbling militia again settled down to sleep.
The two army couriers had come from Fort Dearborn, with dispatches for
General Whiteside. The news they brought was not favorable.
General Winfield Scott, “Old Fuss and Feathers,” had set out from
Fortress Monroe, in far-away Virginia, with nine companies of regulars
and picked up a number of newly commissioned officers of the cadet
class of 1832 at West Point. By way of the Hudson River and the Erie
Canal, the detachment had then advanced to Buffalo on Lake Erie. Here
the general leased four steamboats, among the first of that type of
boat to appear on the Great Lakes. These new-fangled ships were the
Sheldon Thompson, the Henry Clay, the William Penn and the Superior.
Scott put troops on the Thompson and the Clay, and supplies on the
others, and put out up the lakes. Unluckily, cholera, a dread disease
common at that early day, broke out on Scott’s ship, the Henry Clay.
Making the port of Detroit, the General transferred his staff to
the Sheldon Thompson and sent the West Pointers back home. A lot of
desperately sick men had to be landed, while others, fearful of the
deadly cholera, took the opportunity to desert into the neighboring
forests. Two officers and fifty-three privates had already died of the
malady. Scott messaged that he was forced to delay at Detroit until the
cholera subsided, and he could secure replacements from the east.
To balance the loss of Scott’s troops, the Secretary of War at
Washington ordered Colonel Zachery Taylor, later a Mexican War hero and
President of the United States, to proceed north from St. Louis with a
small force of regulars. These were to be supplemented by a fresh levy
of Illinois volunteers, which Governor Reynolds was hastily assembling.
Two weeks later, when both the regulars under Taylor and the raw
volunteers had arrived, there was a total force of four thousand men at
the ferry. General Henry Atkinson, U. S. Regulars, was now sent to take
command of this formidable array, his rank as a regular army general
giving him precedence over the redoubtable Sam Whiteside, who was only
a Brigadier-General of volunteers.