if dead or asleep. Going straight to him, Mr. Davis laid his hand on
his shoulder, and this with some impatience, if not anger, I thought.
At first Mr. Singleton did not move, but after a while looked up
confused and blurred, as if awakening from a debauch. Collecting
himself, he arose and extended his hand in greeting, as if he had not
known before of Mr. Davis' presence on the boat. Accepting his
overtures, but somewhat curtly, it was apparent, Mr. Davis said:
"I come to tell you, Singleton, that Burke has left the boat, but before
going wished to return the money he had of you, as he has designed doing
from the first, he says. To accomplish this he has made me his
messenger, as you see." Saying which, Mr. Davis laid the money and
papers Burke had turned over on the table before him. At this Singleton
drew back, flushed and scowling, replying in a harsh voice:
"I'll not accept it, Davis. It is his, and the more scoundrel I for
risking it and ruining my family. No, he won, and that is the end of
it." Saying which he sank down and buried his face in his arms as
before.
"Very well," Mr. Davis answered, curtly, and placing the money in his
pocket without saying more, proceeded to the cabin set apart for ladies.
Here finding Mrs. Singleton, he called her aside, and after telling her
as much as he thought proper of what had occurred, leaving out indeed
all reference to the encounter, I thought, he handed her the package.
When she was able finally to comprehend that the fortune of her children
had thus been restored, she burst into a flood of tears, and would have
fallen had he not supported her. Recovering herself after a while, she
sought to kneel to him in gratitude, but he, lifting her up, made such
light of the affair that she was able presently to resume in a measure
her natural cheerfulness of manner. Then, and as if in remembrance of
her husband's dignity, she said, tears dimming her eyes:
"Will you not oblige me, Jefferson, by giving the money to Mr.
Singleton. Please do this for me."
"I have already offered it to him, dear lady," Mr. Davis, answered, "but
he will by no means accept it. So there is nothing for you to do but
take charge of it, for Burke has left the boat and will not return."
"God will surely bless you for your kindness in saving my husband and
protecting my children," Mrs. Singleton responded, her emotion again
overcoming her. Upon this ending, Mr. Davis stooping down with grave
respect took her hand and kissed it, saying:
"I have a favor to ask of you in return, dear lady, and it is that I may
present the gentlemen who have acted with me, and without whom I could
have done nothing. You already know and admire them, and they are every
way worthy of your high regard."
Saying which, and without waiting for a reply, he went forward, and
finding Mr. Lincoln and Uncle Job, presented them to her with every
expression of regard and friendship that one can in speaking of another.
Taking the hand of each in turn, Mrs. Singleton pressed it between both
her own, but overcome so that she could not speak. Then inclining her
head and smiling upon them her tender thanks, she went to her husband,
and seating herself beside him, put her arm about his neck in loving
embrace.
Thus this dear lady's sorrows came to a happy ending through the efforts
of the gentlemen who had been brought together in the strange manner I
have related. Never before, I must believe, have men stood beside each
other in such unconscious regard of the greatness of their souls and the
exalted destiny fate had in store for them as Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Davis.
Looking back now to that far-off day through the mists of gathering
years and over the heads of intervening men, I see them again, as then,
distinct and apart from all others; and thus I shall always see them.
In many things they were alike, differing only in unimportant
particulars. Mr. Davis' bearing was truly great, his carriage and
dignity and chivalrous character stamping him as one born to command.
Yet in all things his kingly air, for it was truly so, was softened into
sweet conventionality by gentle courtesy and regard for the small things
of life. Of his countenance, how shall I describe it, except to say
that it was singularly handsome, and so exquisitely refined and
attractive that no one could look upon it except with favor.[*]
[*] The painting of Mr. Davis in the War Department at Washington fully
bears out what Gilbert Holmes says of Mr. Davis in this respect. For of
all the faces there grouped of the War Secretaries, since the foundation
of our Government, his is by far the most refined and attractive.--THE
AUTHOR.
Differing from Mr. Lincoln, with whom he afterward came to share the
events of a great epoch in the world's history, Mr. Davis's life had
been nurtured in love and amid surroundings every way attractive. The
crucible of misery through which Mr. Lincoln had passed, and that ever
caused his heart to pulsate with tender emotion, Mr. Davis had happily
escaped. Yet in all things he was not less gentle, nor did he in any
way lack in conception of men's needs or desire to further them so far
as lay in his power.
I had no thought, in recounting the story of my life, it is proper for
me to tell you, to say aught of Mr. Davis or his chivalrous action in
Mrs. Singleton's behalf, as my share therein was not worthy of mention.
I have, however, been led to change my mind in this, for the reason that
afterward, in the great struggle between the North and South, I had
occasion to experience his gentleness and kindness of heart in my own
person. At the time to which I refer I was confined in Libby Prison,
broken in health by long confinement and irritating wounds, and above
all, distressed on account of my dear wife, who was ill and sorely
afflicted. Fearing a disastrous termination to my troubles, after many
days' anxious thought I wrote to the President of my distressful plight,
and doing so, recommended myself to him by recalling the memories of the
past, and especially the link of friendship that bound each of us to
Mrs. Singleton, who was now grown to old age, but still beautiful and
kindly as in the years that were gone. Sealing my letter with much
trepidation of heart, it had scarcely left my hand when a Confederate
officer came with directions for me to accompany him, and doing so, he
took me straight to the President. Mr. Davis received me with every
show of hospitality, afterward plying me with tender inquiries about the
Singletons and their life in the new home. Then, so great was his
courtesy, he took me to sup with his family, where it was my good
fortune to meet many of the officers of the Confederacy, and among them
that great and serene man General Lee. Very kind they were to me too,
and amiable of countenance and full of gentle speech, solicitous in all
things of my comfort and ease of mind, that I should not feel myself to
be a stranger in an enemy's country. When I returned to my prison,
which I did much cheered in mind and body, the officer in command
presently brought me word that the President had directed I should be
permitted to be at large in Richmond, on my giving my word of honor to
respect the parole. That is how it happened, you must know, that I was
not among those who escaped from Libby Prison, some to reach their homes
in safety, but many to suffer recapture or perish by the way. Directly
after this Mr. Davis sent for me again, and receiving me graciously, as
in the first instance, gave me a pass through the lines, there to remain
on parole until exchanged. This with many kind messages to the
Singletons and expressions of good will toward myself. For his act of
unsolicited grace, by which I was able once more to be with my dear wife
and children, I cherish him in grateful remembrance, as you may well
believe, and each day with deeper and more tender affection.
Mr. Lincoln took leave of us the third day, much to the regret of every
one, for in so short a time his kindness of heart and the simplicity of
his nature had won the regard of all, as they never failed to do
throughout his eventful life. This exalted man had many peculiarities,
and all of them agreeable. The angularity of his features, not the
least, lent piquancy of interest to what he said, and discovering this
in early life, he used it, and wisely, to further his ambitious ends.
For his story-telling was but a political device, designed to win and
control the rude and impulsive men among whom his lot was at first cast.
Afterward, when President, it became an instrument of vast significance
to his country, to be used in the divertisement of those who surged
about him in greed of place and preferment, or for other objects not
consistent with the good of the state. In that moment of the nation's
peril, when wealth melted away unnoticed and men sunk into the ground
without a cry, this simple device of an alert mind, not less than what
was truly great and majestic in his nature, helped in its place, and as
intended, to control and hold the government on its appointed course.
Of Mr. Lincoln I saw but little more as a youth, but in after days the
chance fell to me to have been of supreme service to him, had I been
wiser or more alert. This on the fatal night of his assassination, in
April, 1865, when the hearts of men stood still and the nation cried out
in anguish; but being dilatory, without knowing it, the chance passed.
I was in Washington at the time, brought there by some small affair of
the army, and late in the afternoon, loitering about my hotel, a rumor
reached me, though how I did not know, that some demonstration was
contemplated in connection with Mr. Lincoln at the theater that night.
Regarding it as unimportant, and yet thinking it otherwise in the
disturbed condition of affairs, I determined to be present. Arriving at
the theater, and observing Mr. Lincoln's unprotected state, and
remembering why I came, and yet not knowing why, I passed to the side
where he sat, striving as I went, but vainly, to think of some excuse
for going to him, or, indeed, for being there at all. As I pressed
forward, perplexed whether to go on or turn back, a gentleman brushed
past me, going in the direction of the President's box. Upon the
moment, and in impulse of thought, I reached out my hand to stay him;
and this I had done, but looking up, saw it to be the actor Booth, whom
I knew to have access to places of this kind. Thinking idly that he was
on his way to the stage, I stepped aside and let him pass; and alas that
I did so, for while I was yet deliberating, and some distance from the
President, I heard the report of a pistol, and a moment afterward saw
the assassin leap upon the stage, with that strange cry of his mad
brain, "_Sic semper tyrannis_." Thus the opportunity to serve my
benefactor came without my knowing it, and the strangeness of it all has
closed my lips till now; but it recurs to me at this time, to add to the
mournfulness of the picture as I look back to that far-off parting on
the great river in May, 1838.
*CHAPTER XXI*
*WHAT THE CANTEENS HELD*
One evening, some days after leaving Quincy, we again ran across Blott,
and seemingly not different from what he was at first. Accosting him,
Uncle Job asked:
"How do you find yourself to-night, Blott?" but this as if seeking
diversion rather than from any interest in the poor wretch.
"Oh, I'm just runnin' by gravity. The insects is botherin' me, but
not's bad, not's bad. Why, they made more noise than a fannin' mill at
one time, givin' me no peace, nor lettin' me sleep," Blott answered,
kicking mechanically at some object before him. "Tell me," he went on,
with the old scared look, "how're the stars appearin' to you to-night,
Mr. Job? Sorty as if rain was comin'?"
"No; how do they look to you?"
"Like red blotches with purple rings about 'em, an' movin' here an'
there quick, as if they was alive."
"You are ill, Blott," Uncle Job answered, sympathetically.
"No; it's nothin' but them toothache drops, an' it'll work off. You
think it's whisky, mebbe, but it ain't, for I've drunk it for years, an'
it's never hurt me before, an' I don't believe it'll hurt any one. No;
it's the drops an' the malary," Blott answered.
"What makes you think you have malaria, Blott?" Uncle Job asked.
"Why, I've had it ever since Black Hawk's war, six years ago. It come
of sleepin' out nights."
"Were you in that war?" Uncle Job asked, his voice showing more
interest.
"Was I? I was one of the main guys; had a horse, an' helped pull the
cannon an' things. The malary come on me first at Stillman's Run, where
Black Hawk scart us stiff."
"Is that why the battle is called Stillman's Run?"
"It wa'n't a battle, just a volley an' a whoop an' a scramble to git
away. Why we were that scart you could have stood on our coat-tails,
they stuck out so."
"Tell us about it; I am sure it must be interesting," Uncle Job
responded, offering Blott a chair and taking one himself.[*]
[*] In Mr. Holmes' references to Blott he at first manifested some
impatience with was not strenuous in the matter and so I have included
it, feeling it worthy of regard because relating to an historical event
of great importance to the people of the Upper Mississippi Valley, in
which Blott took a part.--THE AUTHOR.
"You see we were all cooped up at Fort Dixon," Blott went on, seating
himself, "when Major Stillman determined to go an' do somethin'. So we
marched out, full of expectation an' ignorance, in the direction where
Black Hawk was. When he heard we was comin' he sent out three Injuns
with a white flag to meet us. These we took prisoners, an' some of our
people killed one of 'em. Then the boys in front lit out after the
mounted scouts Black Hawk had sent to see what become of his flag, an'
succeeded in killin' two of these. When Black Hawk saw this he took to
the woods, an' by an' by, when our fellers come along, the Injuns gave a
great whoop an' fired in the air, not hurtin' anybody. At that we
turned an' run, an' them in the camp hearin' us comin' an' thinkin' we
was Injuns, lit out, every one on his own hook, an' never stopped till
they'd got under cover. It seems funny now, but it wasn't funny then.
I happened to be on a long-legged mare that you couldn't see for the
dust when she was runnin', an' so kept ahead. It was lucky for me, too,
for them who got off first in the panic, thinkin' in the dark that them
who was tearin' after was Injuns, fired, an' so a lot of our people was
killed that way. Scart! Why we thought every bush or shadder was an
Injun, an' one of our fellers' bridle ketchin' on a stump, an' he
thinkin' it was an Injun, jumped off to surrender; but when he saw what
it was, he gave the tree a whack, an' mountin', never stopped till he'd
reached Dixon. If anythin' on earth can make an Injun laugh, they must
have laughed that day."
"What was Black Hawk doing in Illinois, anyway?" Uncle Job asked.
"He came over from Iowa to have a dog-feast an' a talk with the
Pottawatamies an' plant corn for his people, he said. Anyway, if he'd
meant war, he wouldn't have brought his women an' children, would he?
But our people was scart, an' said it was contrary to the treaty.
'Tain't likely, though, that our boys would have killed the flag of
truce bearer, or shot Black Hawk's scouts, or run away, as they did
finally, but a wagon breakin' down that had a barrel of whisky aboard,
some of our soldiers drank all they could an' filled their canteens with
the rest. It was their drinkin' of this stuff that brought on the
trouble, an' for that reason it ought to be called the "Canteen War."
"So that is where you got the malaria, was it?" Uncle Job interrupted.
"But were you in the battle of Bad Axe, too, in that war?" he went on,
tilting his chair against the wheelhouse and crossing his legs, as if
going to make a night of it.
"Well, I should say I was; but shakin' an' as full of malary as a
'possum is of fat."
"Tell us about it, please," Uncle Job demanded, lighting a cigar and
offering one to Blott.
"Well, we lined up there finally, with Black Hawk's warriors an' twelve
hundred Injun women an' children in the willows on the water's edge
between us an' the river. When we'd got 'em cornered they wanted to
surrender, but this our fellers wouldn't have, an' disregardin' the
white flag, as before, shot 'em down like rabbits whenever one showed
his head."
"That was cruel."
"Yes, but clean-like an' satisfyin' to our boys, who didn't want any
prisoners, but was in for finishin' it onct for all."
"Was there no outcry?"
"Not a cry. The men an' squaws just dropped in their tracks like lead
when we shot 'em down, them as was only hurt tryin' to creep away into
the swamps."
"Did the Indians show fight?"
"When they saw they was bein' shot like pigeons, an' no attention was
paid to the white flag, they fired back, an' so a lot of our fellers was
killed that needn't have been. Some of the Injun women tried to swim
the river with their little ones, but the men on the steamboat killed or
drove 'em back. Some did git over, though, but the Sioux killed an'
scalped these, I heard."
"Did you take any prisoners?"
"Yes; some women an' children, but not many men."
"It is shameful that white men will be so cruel, even in the heat of
anger," Uncle Job exclaimed, puffing out great clouds of smoke.
"Mebbe, but that's the way they fight Injuns. 'Tain't as if one man was
fightin' another, but like he'd fight a panther or wildcat."
"Was Black Hawk in the battle?"
"No. He was up the river with some warriors, tryin' to git our army to
chase him, so's to give his squaws an' children a chance to git across;
but our people was too smart for that."
"Was Black Hawk a brave man?" Uncle Job asked.
"Yes; a badger to fight an' a fox to git away if need be."
"What became of him when the war was over?"
"He surrendered, an' they sent him to Jefferson Barracks, an' when I saw
him he was draggin' a ball an' chain around like any common thief.
Afterward, though, they let him off on his agreein' to go to Iowa."
"Was he a good general?" Uncle Job persisted.
"Yes; like a lightnin'-bug on a dark night in battle. First here an'
then there, an' so quick you couldn't git a bead on him. He never slept
in a campaign, some claimed. Torpid Liver an' Split Ear, our Injun
scouts, said he could go a week without sleepin', though I didn't
believe that; but in the chase from Stillman's Run to Bad Axe he
couldn't have slept more'n an' hour a day. Except for his copper color,
he was as fine a lookin' man as I ever saw; an' when he put his eyes on
you 'twas as if two coals of fire was just droppin' into your stomach,
they were so fierce an' hot-like. For all that, he wasn't cruel, an'
didn't drink, an' was agin scalpin' an' torturin' white prisoners, or
deviltry like that, though when fightin' other Injuns he follered the
custom of his people."
"I saw such an Indian once," I spoke up, remembering the chief who had
rescued my father and mother. "He looked like a king, and his eyes
burned you."
"You never saw any one like Black Hawk unless it was him, for there
ain't any other such Injun," Blott answered.
"What else happened in the war?" Uncle Job asked, lighting a fresh
cigar.
"Nothin', except such things as always happen in Injun wars. Shootin'
an' burnin' an' skirmishin' here an' there, day an' night, an' women an'
children scart to death, though mostly without cause," Blott answered,
making a furtive dive at some object before him.
"Were you hurt in any way?"
"No, 'cept I got the malary; an' for months I didn't do nothin' but take
quinine an' whisky, first one an' then the other."
"The other mostly, I fear," Uncle Job interrupted, drily. "When you got
well why did you not quit drinking?"
"I never got well, or if I felt better, the fear of the thing kept me
from quittin'. Oh, it's awful!--the malary, I mean; an' I feel it
comin' on now, an' if you'll excuse me I'll go an' git somethin' to head
it off afore it gits the start." Saying which, Blott rose to his feet
and hurried away before Uncle Job could ask him another question.
"Poor devil, he will never overcome his malaria as long as there is
whisky to be had," Uncle Job remarked, as we watched him disappear down
the stairway.
*CHAPTER XXII*
*ROLLAND LOVE*
Cloudless days and nights scarcely less brilliant added to the pleasure
of our journey, and this fortunately, for we were, throughout, greatly
delayed by reason of low water and drifting sands and shifting currents.
These, however, are ever obstacles in the summer months on the upper
river, but at the time of which I speak the stream was little known, and
the pilots, in the main, ignorant of the courses of the river, so that
we were hindered more than would be the case at the present time. The
delay, however vexatious it might have been under some circumstances,
only added to the pleasure of the many who, like myself, were abroad in
the world for the first time, and so little or nothing was thought of
it.
On the fourth evening, Uncle Job asked me to go with him to the upper
deck, and this I was glad to do, for there the view was always finer
than at any other place. Seating ourselves, we idly watched the river
and the country round about, enjoying to its full the serenity and
tranquil beauty of the night; and to me it has ever been memorable in
this respect above all others. The stars reflected on the placid
surface of the water seemed fixed in its depths, and nowhere else, so
bright and steadfast did they appear. Far off, the moon, at its full,
filled the valley with mellow light, except at some distant point where
it glistened in silvery whiteness on the surface of the broad river, or
was lost in the gathering mists beyond. About us the distant hills
stood out like sentinels, silent and observant, as if noting our
progress, or asleep in the fullness of nature. On one side a black
forest banked itself against the blue sky, save where some giant tree,
lifting its head above its fellows, was outlined for a moment against
the distant horizon.
"From out that forest, now so still," Uncle Job spoke up, softly, as we
watched, "there came, only a little while ago, the fierce cries of the
Sacs and Foxes as they gathered for battle or were scattered by our
pursuing armies. Now where are they?" he added, sadly, as if stirred by
the picture.
Farther on, patches of hawthorn and elder peered out from the steep bank
of the river, or lurched forward into the stream, as buffaloes or wild
horses will when stooping to drink. Back of these, on lonely peaks,
towering cottonwoods and elms stood watching us, and as if mourning our
inroad on their peaceful domain and the confusion it presaged. Thus we
sat without speaking, attentive, yet half-asleep, watching the view that
changed with each passing moment, yet never changed at all. When in
this way the night was half gone, Uncle Job, who had scarce moved,
uttered an exclamation of impatience, and stretching his legs across the
guard, spoke up, though not as if he were addressing any one in
particular:
"If no more delays occur we ought to reach Rock Island in the morning,
or by noon at the farthest."
"Yes," I answered, not regarding what he said.
"A beautiful place it is, too--great trees lining the sloping bank, with
a grassy plain beyond, backed by a forest reaching down to the edge of
the town," he went on, as if reading from an advertisement.
"It must be fine," I responded, nowise interested.
"It is not an island, though, in any sense, as one would suppose. Nor
rocky, either, but with green, soft as velvet, reaching to the water's
edge. At one time its people thought it would be a great city, perhaps
the greatest, but already the belief is dying out. That is the way,
though. A town springs up in a day, only to be followed later by a rush
to some other place, and so everything has to be commenced anew"; and he
sighed, as if these transformations had been the cause of many grievous
disappointments to him in his short life.
"Have you ever lived in Rock Island?" I asked, seeing he wanted to talk.
"Yes, for a while, as I have in other places; but only to be caught up
and carried on to some new town," he replied.
"Will you ever get fixed in one place, do you think?" I asked.
"How would you like to live in Rock Island for a while--say a month or
two?" he replied, as if not hearing my idle question.
"Why do you ask, uncle?" I answered, wondering what he meant.
"Oh, we have a relative there. A sort of a cousin, named Rolland Love,
and a very agreeable man, too. He married a second cousin of yours when
young, but she dying, he has married again; so he is a cousin and not a
cousin, if you can make that out."
"If he was once a cousin I suppose he is always a cousin, isn't he?" I
answered.
"I suppose so, and more particularly," he replied, "as he is a man to
open your heart to."
"Are we going to stop at Rock Island?" I asked, conscious that what he
was saying led up to something, I could not tell what.