on when quiet had once more been restored; "and can there exist any bond
of sympathy between Miss Holmes and this young lad? No. How many
wretched men and women does the world hold to-day, made so by
disregarding truths of this nature! How many are there broken and lost
who might have led useful lives but for lack of a sympathetic heart in
which to confide when young! A child bereft, as in this case, is like a
man cast naked upon an island. The world it knew is gone, and with it
the love that nourished its life. It cannot, if it would, easily take
up with new conditions. Yet upon its being able to do so finally depends
its acceptability and usefulness to society when grown to manhood.
Viewing the problem thus, can we conceive of any duty devolving upon
those who execute our laws more delicate, more tender of application,
than the disposition of children subject to their control, a disposition
so fraught with good or bad to those whom it affects? The bodies and
souls of those needlessly wrecked in youth because of lack of conscience
or care in this respect cry out against the neglect of their just
needs." Here Mr. Lincoln's voice quavered and died away, as if some
black, unwholesome recollection of his own youth had suddenly obtruded
itself across his mind. "To leave this feature of the case, however,"
he went on, slowly and in alow voice, "of which I have, perhaps, said
too much, what are the rights of the parties? For the law is made to
protect every one, and cannot be subverted now, more than at another
time, that good may possibly follow. In this case it is clearly
perverted, for there is no just warrant for holding the lad. Of this
there can be no doubt, though circumstances for the moment may excuse
it. The summons of the proper court has not been issued, and only a
court of competent jurisdiction can act in its place. I need not point
out, your honor, that acting alone you possess no authority, though
conjointly with another justice you might. Putting aside this feature
of the case, is there, I ask, any call for intervention? I feel assured
there is not. The happiness and well-being of the child may safely be
intrusted to Mr. Throckmorton, and sincerely believing this, and
pledging you my faith that it is so as man to man, I ask that your honor
annul the order of detention and let the lad go free"; and so
concluding, Mr. Lincoln bowed to the magistrate and stepped back.
"May I ask your honor," he resumed after a moment, "that you will act in
the matter with such promptness as you can, as we very much desire to go
on by the boat now about to leave?"
Moth, however, had no intention of submitting the case without further
hearing, and pushing forward, exclaimed:
"I protest, your honor, that this--" However, he got no further, his
protest falling on deaf ears. For the justice had heard enough, and
holding up his hand to command silence, said:
"I have to thank you, gentlemen, most heartily; and while listening to
your statements have endeavored to weigh what you have said fairly. My
conclusion is, that I have no right to act in the matter, and that being
so, the case is dismissed."
At this termination a great silence fell on the assemblage, followed by
a shout of approval from every one present; but Mr. Lincoln, not waiting
to hear more, grasped my hand, and turning, walked rapidly from the
room.
Gaining the boat, I looked back to see Moth, who had followed, regarding
me with such savage determination that I shuddered at the sight, feeling
that in him I had and should ever have a bitter and unforgiving enemy.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*THE SINGLETONS*
At the time of which I speak steam was only just coming into use on the
Mississippi, and men went far out of their way to see the great boats
that plied back and forth, and seeing them, stood spellbound, as did I.
Nor have change and lengthening years served in any way to dull the
recollection of that far-off day. Every detail comes back to me now;
the clanging bell, the hoarse whistle sounding croupily across the
water, the great boat coming buoyantly on, its busy decks, the
passengers standing by, the gurgling water, the swash of the wheels, the
rhythmic music of the exhaust, the black smoke trailing on behind, and,
most striking of all--so simple are the impressions of youth--the
letters painted in vivid plainness on the surface of the rounded
wheelhouse. Naught is wanting to complete the picture, and if by chance
some sound like the deep bell or croaking whistle strikes on my
listening ear, it awakens afresh the scenes of that far-off time as if
they were but yesterday. Not, however, as then, to thrill with ecstasy,
but rather with pleasurable melancholy, like an echo from the past, so
sad it is.
While the boat was making its way to the channel of the river, our
little party ascended the stairs which led to the saloon above.
Reaching the quarter-deck, what was our surprise to find Blott facing
us, and unconcernedly, as if knowing us but casually, if at all. At
sight of him, Uncle Job stopped abruptly, and after regarding him a
moment, angrily inquired:
"What are you doing here, constable?"
"I'm holdin' down this mattin', an' as you've got feet, s'pose you come
an' help me," Blott answered, moving about uneasily on the piece of
carpet whereon he stood.
"You are following this lad," Uncle Job answered, paying no attention to
what he said.
"Now, don't lose yourself, old man; I'm no trailer. Moth done you dirt,
mebbe, but I never did nothin' to you, have I?" he asked, facing us and
striving to appear calm.
"Perhaps not, but you are here to spy on us now."
"Not on your life; an' let me advise you, my friend," he answered,
opening and shutting his hands nervously, "not to use that word too much
in this country, or it'll git you into trouble. I'm no spy, least of
all for Pickle."
"Then what are you doing on this boat?" Uncle Job inquired, by no means
convinced of the other's good intention.
"Mebbe I'm toorin', but I ain't," he answered, more quietly. "I'm doin'
the disappearin' act, though, an' to-morrow they'll be draggin' the
river, I 'spect, thinkin' I'm drowned."
"Where are you going?"
"That's nothin' to you, but I don't mind tellin' now we're off. I'm
goin' to Rock River, where I fit Black Hawk, to lie on its shady banks
an' listen to the birds an' ripplin' waters. It's too noisy an' excitin'
here, an' people stare, for I've bin seein' things that ain't real, they
say--though you seed them cats yourself, didn't you?" he went on,
excitedly, peering into Uncle Job's face. "They was as plain as day to
me."
"Is that all you have seen?" Uncle Job answered, evasively.
"No; monkeys an' snakes, an' wassops as big as eagles. Things like that,
out of the way, sorty, but all real, though it seems queer."
"Well, you know what causes it," Uncle Job answered.
"You bet; it comes from usin' toothache drops an ole woman give me,
filled with opium or pisen of some sort."
"Toothache drops! Bosh! It comes from drinking whisky."
"Well, there's no use disputin' 'bout it; but if it's whisky, I'm all
right, an'll git over it, for I'm goin' to cut myself down, an' that
I've made up my mind to."
"Why don't you stop altogether?" Uncle Job asked.
"I can't, Job; I'd rather fall ninety-nine times than resist oncet.
That's the way I'm built, you see, an' it's no use tryin'."
"Nonsense! You can stop if you want to."
"That's what people say; but if you had the thirst in the throat an' hot
cravin' an' crawlin' in the stomach that I have, when the malary's
comin' on an' the sky's red, an' you dasn't put out the light, nor shut
your eyes for seein' things at night, you'd not give it up. Nor'll I,
but I'm goin' to be more moderate-like." And ceasing to speak, he
reached out as if to pick some object from Uncle Job's coat, but finding
nothing, looked up abashed, and without saying more, turned and walked
away.
Thus reassured in some measure in regard to Blott's purpose, we went on
to the saloon of the majestic vessel. Here again I live in the memory
of the past and what I saw, but not without a sob filling the throat,
that it should all have proven so unreal. For it is not what we see as
children, but the newness and strangeness of it, that causes our hearts
to beat and our eyes to open with wonder. Never afterward, and that is
the pity of it, does the splendor of real things cause the pulse to
throb as do the small things of youth. For the vast apartment on the
threshold of which I now stood seemed to my inexperienced eyes grand
beyond the power of speech. Nor was it cut off in its limits, but
reached away in perspective like the lengthened glade of a forest--a
forest wherein overhanging clouds were frescoed with golden filigree and
glistening silver, from which descended, as if held by outstretched
arms, row upon row of glistening chandeliers, resplendent with radiating
surfaces and pendent crystals. Such was the view; not cramped or
confined, but reaching far away and bathed in light and soft, illusive
shadows.
In the center of this vast room, tables succeeded each other as far as
the eye could reach, while on either side chairs with gilded backs
stretched away like disks of beaten gold. Above these, and from the
borders of the ceiling, ferns and wild roses drooped, and beside them
windows, half-concealed, gave a soft and glimmering light, as if the day
were just beginning. On the sides of the room there were doors without
number, of pearly white, inlaid with gold, and on the floor crimson
carpets that gave back no sound to the footfall more than the moss one
finds in the shadows of the dark woods. Such things I saw, and standing,
wondered, and there I would have stayed; but to those about me it was
only commonplace, so quickly are our impressions dulled by use. So,
with scarce time to catch my breath or give expression to my thoughts,
we hurried on to our room--and oh, its snugness and compactness! A
playhouse fit for children indeed, but for bigger animals all too small!
When we emerged the great hall was full of the bustle and stir of
supper, but of this last I remember only a little. For my mind was busy
with other thoughts--with Wild Plum, my mother, Constance, the forlorn
highwayman, the weazen-faced lawyer. This so fully that I scarce
noticed the eager throng that laughed and chatted by my side. When
supper was over, Uncle Job went forward to smoke, and I being alone, set
out to explore the great palace, so calm and steadfast, yet pulsating as
with the breath of life. This last in greater semblance of reality
because of the far-off sound of the exhaust, so like a man breathing
heavily in his sleep. Curious and loitering by the way, I after a while
approached a part of the saloon set off by a great screen. This
division I for a time respected, but presently reaching the barrier, and
being curious, passed beyond. A group of ladies occupied the space thus
set apart, and seeing this, I stopped, and would have turned about.
No sooner, however, did I come into view than one of them of gentle
presence, detached herself from those about her and came toward me.
Reaching the spot where I stood, to my great amazement, she clapped down
on me as my mother was wont to do. Folding me in close embrace against
her bosom, she kissed me as if I were her son, saying with tender
emotion:
"My sweet child! how glad I am to see you again, and to know you got
safely off from that little dragon of a lawyer. I have not thought of
anything else since I returned to the boat, and oh, the pity of it and
the pathos of the trial! I could not stay to see the end, but still I
felt that no one, and least of all that kind-faced judge, could resist
the adorable man who pleaded for you as for his son." Thus she went on,
and giving me no chance to say a word, led me to a sofa, and drawing me
to a seat beside her, sat down, her arm about my body. "Come now, my
dear, tell me all about yourself and your Uncle Job, and that acrid old
Aunt Jane, for I know she is both old and sour."
"My aunt's cold, madam, but she's more like ice than vinegar," I
answered, not knowing what to say.
"Because of that you do not love her?"
"How can I, for she doesn't love me as my mother did."
"No one, my sweet child, ever will, save one, if you are lucky. But
where do you come from?" the lady went on, as if to make me forget my
unhappy state.
"From Little Sandy, madam."
"How quaint! And who is Uncle Job? What a droll name for so sprightly
a gentleman."
"He is my mother's brother, and is to be my guardian, I hope."
"I hope so too, for I am sure he will be more indulgent than the other;
and children do so much need indulgence," she went on, looking over at
the little group she had just left. "Where are you going? How I wish
you might live near us! I have children of my own, but I am sure I could
love you too"; and with that she bent over and kissed me again, as my
mother might.
"It would be better than I could hope, to be near you, but I am glad
I've seen you, anyway," I replied, returning her caress, so gentle and
kind were her ways.
"You have not told me where you are going. In this sparsely settled
country one can never hope to live near anybody; but still," she went on
comfortingly, "you might not be far away."
"I'm going to Appletop, where Uncle Job lives, but I have no idea where
it is," I answered.
"Why, that is where we are going. How fine! You will be near us, and
can come to me when you want anything--and you will come, anyway, I
know, my dear?" she went on, pressing her cheek against mine.
"I will indeed," I replied, scarce able to restrain my tears.
"Well, now that we are to be neighbors, I am going to get acquainted
with your Uncle Job, and make him promise to leave you with me when he
is away. But come, I want you to get acquainted with my children"; and
rising, she took my hand and led me across the room to the group she had
left when I entered. "This is the young gentleman, my dears, I was
telling you about when he came in just now," and she smiled as if
expecting them to be as interested as herself. "This is my daughter
Amelia, Gilbert," she went on, "and this is Viola, and this is the baby,
Betty, though she is sixteen, and a pert miss, as you will find out when
you come to know her," the sweet lady concluded, kissing her
affectionately.
They were all fine-looking children, like their mother, with smiling
faces and amiable manners, having about them the air of young people who
have no thought beyond the present. Seating myself, I was overjoyed at
being again in such company: for, as I may have told you, I have ever
found my greatest pleasure in the society of women. Seated thus, it
seemed a long time since I had felt the fragrance of their presence or
listened to their gentle talk. Thus I was in the mood, ever more common
to me than any other, to sit without speaking, and watch the faces of
the dear creatures, and smile back my heart's response to their sweet
ways and pretty speeches.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE SHADOWS OF LIFE*
While occupied in the agreeable manner I have described, our little
group was joined by a gentleman whom the lady welcomed as if he were a
brother or dear friend--and not too heartily, I thought, for his person
and manner were engaging in the extreme, and such as to attract and hold
the attention of any one. Of commanding presence, and full of the glow
and fire of life, his years sat so lightly upon him that he seemed only
to have reached manhood, though he was in reality quite thirty years of
age. Calling him to take a place by her side, he responded with
pleasure, his high and noble features lighting up in response to her
salutation and those of her children with so much animation and kindness
that I was at once captivated by him, as in the case of Mr. Lincoln.
When he was seated Mrs. Singleton spoke up, without preface of any kind,
as was her way:
"Oh, Jefferson, I have had the queerest adventure! Something like a
play at the theater, only a hundred times more exciting."
"Indeed," he answered, encouragingly.
"A play wherein a little tigerish lawyer sought to carry off a child.
Without avail, though, for he was beaten off finally by a melancholy
knight who appeared suddenly on the scene, to the great joy of those who
were looking on," the lady concluded, with rising voice.
"I am sure it must have been interesting," he answered. "Pray tell me
about it."
"Yes, it was interesting, and something more than that. I was shopping,
you must know, while the boat waited at Quincy, and in the most
accidental way ran across the trial. The quaintest thing it was, too,
that any one ever heard of. It was before a little justice, in the back
part of his store, and all about the possession of this young
gentleman," she went on, laying her hand on mine, "who was being fought
over by his Uncle Job, a fair-spoken young man, on one side, and a
little dragon of a lawyer, who moved about like a hawk hovering over a
brood of chickens. Oh, you should have seen him!"
"He was put to rout, though, finally, as you say?" the gentleman
responded, smilingly.
"Yes; and in the end the good fairy carried off the child in triumph, as
it does in the story-book."
"It must have been a sight worth seeing," he answered.
"Indeed it was. When the trial was going on you could have cried out
with pain and rage, but not have laughed to save your life, it was so
pitiable. It was grand, too; and what made it so was the presence of
the sublime man who pleaded for the child--did he come on with you,
Gilbert, the lawyer, I mean, who defended you?" the good lady stopped
abruptly to inquire.
"Yes, madam."
"Well, Jefferson, you must hunt him up, for to know such a man is an
inheritance in itself, he has such gentleness and wisdom; and oh, the
pathos and mournful sweetness of his speech! His knowledge of mankind,
and of children most, I would never have believed any one could
possess--and he so young, too"; and the lady stopped as if to conjure up
anew the tall figure and melancholy face of Mr. Lincoln. "When he
pleaded for his little friend, such sweetness of soul and honesty of
heart shone in his face and lighted up his eyes that I know I shall
never see the like of it again. Oh, you must know him, Jefferson,
indeed you must!"
"I am sure it will be a pleasure, after what you have said," he replied.
"But what is the name of the gentleman? Surely such a man must be well
known."
"No, I think not, for he is only a young lawyer making his way. I
inquired his name in the store as I came out, and they told me it was
Abraham Lincoln. Is that it, Gilbert?" she asked, turning to me.
"Yes, madam; and except for him I should have been lost, I know," I
answered, remembering the desperate strait I was in when he came forward
to plead my cause.
"That you would; but his benignity of manner and ingenuous truthfulness
of speech no one could resist. His voice, Jefferson, was filled with
such sweet melancholy that I could not listen without my eyes filling
with tears. Oh, I could be enthusiastic in his praise if such a thing
were possible to me," the good lady concluded, with a sigh.
At this reference, the gentleman's eyes wavered for a moment and filled
with mirth, but respecting her kind heart and the intuition women have
of men, he answered, soberly enough:
"I know Mr. Lincoln, or did at one time, for he was with General Gaines
in Black Hawk's war, and commanded a company of Illinois troops."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Singleton responded.
"Yes; and he was much commended, I remember, for his tact and courage."
"I can well believe it; but you were yourself in that war, Jefferson?"
"Yes."
"Your dear wife, I remember, never tired of telling of the years of
peril you passed among the Indians in this far-off country. Surely,
such wisdom and courage in a mere lad would have made a great name had
you stayed in the army."
"It is very kind of you to say so, but I was only one of many who risked
their lives similarly in the uprisings and ambuscades of the Indians."
"Yet you have always been friendly inclined toward them?"
"Yes, their cause has always appealed to me; nor was the danger ever
sufficient to efface it from my heart."
"Their wars have been so cruel, though, Jefferson."
"They fight in the way they have been taught," he answered, gravely,
"and for their homes, as white men do and will. Their love of country
is not less than that of our race, and greater, maybe, for they live in
its very bosom. Everything they treasure is threatened by the inroad of
the whites, and has been from the beginning, the waves rolling on and
over them like a cruel sea from which they cannot escape. They have
sought to check or stay them, but only here and there have they been
successful, and then only for a moment. Their fate is pathetic, and
such, it seems to me, as to make men cry out. Brave and lost souls,
they are like little children, made old and savage by the subtlety of
the whites and our disregard of plighted faith."
"Why did you quit the service, Jefferson? Surely it was a great loss to
our country," she went on, as was her way, without stopping to give him
time to reply; "and how does it happen that you come back here? Some
speculation, I suppose, for I hear the country is full of opportunities
of that kind."
"No, madam; I am on my way to Dubuque to adjust the claim of a poor man
who is kept out of his rights, partly by reason of my action while in
the service," he answered, simply.
"Pray tell me about it," Mrs. Singleton asked.
"There is little to tell. When I was in the service the government sent
me to Dubuque with troops to remove the miners who had established
claims there in advance of an understanding with the Indians, and who,
up to that time, had obstinately refused to move."
"Did you succeed?" Mrs. Singleton interrupted.
"Yes; partly by show of force and partly by persuasion, they were in the
end prevailed upon to withdraw, but only on my pledging my word of honor
that I would see to it finally that every man was reinstated in his
claim."
"Has not this been done?"
"Yes, except in the case of one man, and it is to aid in reinstating him
that I am now on my way to Dubuque."
"Have you come all the way from your home in Mississippi to do this?"
Mrs. Singleton asked, half incredulously, and yet with a note of
admiration and believing in her voice.
"Yes; there was no other way," he answered simply.
"Oh, happy the cause, whatever it may be, that such men serve!" she
answered, glancing at him with the pride women ever feel in the honor of
men. "Surely, something great must be in store for one so brave and
just and truly honorable."
"I have no thought of greatness, dear madam, but live on my plantation,
busied with its small affairs, and the sad thoughts that fill my mind of
her I lost," he answered, his face clouding.
For a time nothing further was said, but after a while, looking up, he
continued, curiosity and interest showing in his face: "How does it
happen, Mrs. Singleton, if I may ask, that I find you and all your
belongings in this far-off land? What was it that tore you up by the
roots, to transplant you to this savage country? Surely, you had no
thought of leaving Mississippi when I saw you last."
"In that you are mistaken, Jefferson, for we have always looked forward
to such a thing, but not to speak of it, except among ourselves. It
dates back, indeed, to a time long before John and I were married," the
lady answered; and here, at mention of her husband, her face suddenly
became overcast, as one awakened from some pleasant dream to find a
world full of worry and unhappiness.
"I do not understand, but perhaps you do not care to speak of it," he
answered, as if puzzled by her manner and disturbed look.
"No there is nothing to hide. Our leaving grew out of an intolerable
dislike of the surroundings of my home life that I had when a girl. I
need not tell you what it was. Perhaps I was not justified, but when
John asked me to marry him I refused unless he would come North. How
could he, though? He had his father's plantation and the care of its
slaves; and so he pleaded with me, but though I loved him, I would not
yield. Thus weeks and months passed, he urging and I refusing, always
with tears. Finally my mother, who knew of my reasons and how firmly I
could cling to them, thought of a way out of our trouble. It was this:
We were to marry and continue on, but if we had children, so she
planned, we were, before any of them came of age, to leave the South and
come North. To this we agreed, and gladly, for we loved each other
devotedly, as we have to this day and will to the end." Here stopping,
her face clouded again, as if some dire thought obtruded itself upon her
to disturb her happiness and peace of mind.
"How strange; and yet I do not know that I should say that," he
answered, after a while, "for others have done the same before and will
probably to the end"; and ceasing to speak, his face showed in its
lowering depths a trace of fear as of a vision of some far-off time when
a nation should look upon slavery with her eyes and stand firm as she
had stood. "Are you satisfied you have acted for the best?" he went on
presently. "Your daughters will find the new life far different from
the old, I fear."