A BUSY SINNER
While Peter Cartwright was laboring with every honest ounce of energy
in his energetic soul and body to get his fellow-men safely aboard the
old ship of Zion, Abe Lincoln was finding diversions from the regular
routine of store work, in kind as different as whipping a bully and
feeding a baby.
The bully happened into the store one afternoon while Abe Lincoln was
waiting on a couple of ladies. He had not seen the stranger before, and
greeted him with his usual salutation, "Howdy, partner--come in."
It was soon evident that the stranger was on no friendly mission.
Hardly was he inside the store than he began to talk abusively and to
deliver himself of an abundance of profanity.
Leaning over the counter Lincoln called the man's attention to the
fact that there were ladies present. The man continued his abuse and
swearing. Again Abe Lincoln spoke to him, this time saying in positive
terms that no swearing was allowed when ladies were in the store.
The reply to this remark was worse swearing.
Abe Lincoln said nothing more until the ladies were gone. Then he
walked out from behind the counter and looked the stranger over.
"There's some sort of folks who can't listen to reason," he remarked.
"Them kind has to have the daylights whaled out of them. What you need,
partner, and what you are goin' to get is a spankin'."
This seemed to be what the stranger had desired. Pushing out his chest
he stepped before Lincoln and told him to come on.
"Let's move out onto the face of the earth," Lincoln said. "I don't
want to tear up the crockery and kick the molasses over."
When they were out at the side of the store and while the big bully was
yet telling what he was going to do, he was seized suddenly, thrown to
the ground and rolled over a couple of times. Then the tall man grabbed
a handful of smart-weeds and rubbed it in the eyes of the profane
stranger until he bellowed like a bull.
A crowd had collected to discover what the row was about, among them
John McNeil.
When Lincoln had extracted a promise from his visitor that he would
keep his swearing for men only, he let him up, and, taking him by the
arm, led him back to the store-steps and seated him. He then brought
water, bathed the eyes of the subdued stranger, and shook hands with
him.
This incident furnished talk for New Salem for a couple of days, and
John McNeil made a special trip to camp-meeting that night to tell Ann
Rutledge about the fresh pugilistic outbreak of the tallest sinner in
their midst.
In less than a fortnight after this incident, the stranger came again
to the store with the request that Lincoln return with him at once to
his home, as his wife was sick. He had recently moved out from Indiana
and was not acquainted in the neighborhood, and he felt, some way, that
Lincoln could help her.
To Honey Grove, a few miles distant, Lincoln went with him, and in
a poor little cabin found a woman with a small baby. The woman was
suffering from some sort of fever which had followed a severe chill.
"We didn't have nary remedy," she said with labored breath. "Back at
Wild Cat Run in Indianny, I had some black dog ile rendered in the dark
of the moon. Lots of folks was cured with it, but I couldn't git no
black dog ile, nor blood of a black cat, nor even the blood of a black
hen here. Do you know whar thar's a black cat or dog? I'm powerful
hot--I can't hardly breathe, I'm so hot. Jim, he says if there's
anybody in this neck of the woods can do it it's Abe Linkum. Kin you
help me? Do you know where there's a black dog?"
As the tall youth stood over the bed hearing the plea his face was
moved with pity.
"Yes, I'll help you. But I know something better than a black dog.
We'll get Dr. Allen. He's the best doctor and got the biggest heart of
any man in Illinois. He'll come and cure you."
Then Abe Lincoln wrote a few lines on a paper which he had in his
pocket. "Hurry with bearer if possible, and bring Hannah Armstrong. We
may save a mother's life. She has a little baby. A. Lincoln."
This he gave to the waiting husband, bidding him go back with all
possible speed to New Salem.
At best it would be a couple of hours before the doctor could arrive,
for it was several miles to town. Dr. Allen and Jack Armstrong both
had good horses; Hannah was a fine rider, and Lincoln knew they would
hasten if the doctor was not away on some other call.
When the husband had gone Abe Lincoln found himself alone in a small
clearing circled about by miles of woods. The short, heavy breathing of
the woman broke the stillness of the warm fall afternoon. He turned to
the bed and looked down at the sufferer. Her face was saffron yellow,
brightened to copper on her cheeks by flush of fever. Her eyes shone
like glass. Her features were pinched, and her mouth drawn.
The young man by the bedside knew that unless help speedily came death
was not far. Bending over her, he drew his long, strong fingers across
her burning forehead.
"How good that feels!" she said, half closing her eyes. "You got
fingers soft as a baby's."
He brought some water, and not being able to find a cloth, used his
hand, making it cool and brushing her face very gently.
For a few moments she seemed easier, murmuring her thanks. "Your maw,"
she said, opening her eyes, "how she must love you."
"I have no mother," he said huskily "--not in this world."
"Your woman, then," she said, breathing the words out with labor
"--every man has his woman."
He made no answer.
Under the touch of his cool hand she seemed for a time to grow quiet.
But the fever was burning higher in her veins, and soon she began to
rock her head and utter incoherent words.
Then she opened her eyes again. "I'm skeered," she said. "I'm awful
skeered. I hain't done nobody no harm--but I ain't never been
religious."
"Don't be afraid," he said huskily. "What is there to fear?"
"Hell--hell," she moaned, "I've heerd it preached."
Abe Lincoln started to say something reassuring, but again her mind was
wandering. When she spoke now, it was of the baby lying on the back of
the bed. After opening her eyes and steadying them, she half moaned,
"He's hungry, the fever's dried me up--can you feed the baby? There's
milk--there's milk----"
She did not finish the sentence. It seemed hard for her to speak.
"I'll find the milk and feed the baby. Don't worry," and he brushed
her hot arms and hands and forehead with his big, wet hands.
Again she sank back into that restless drowsiness broken by moans and
incoherent mutterings. Sometimes there was a sharp outcry, and always
the labored breathing, growing ever faster and faster.
Abe Lincoln went to the door and looked anxiously up at the sun, and
from the sun, down the roadway.
When he returned to the bed the woman wanted to speak again. She opened
her eyes. At first there was only a glassy stare, but with an effort
she gathered her vision and, fixing her eyes on the homely face by her
side, she said with words that seemed beaten out by some raging inward
force, "Abe Linkum, kin you pray?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation, "what's prayer but callin' on
God when there ain't no one else can help?--yes."
"Pray," she pleaded--"kneel down and pray for me--I'm--burnin' up."
The young man knelt beside the bed. The woman reached out and clutched
him. He took her burning hand in his. By its pressure he knew that she
was hearing what he said, as in a few simple words he brought to the
attention of the Father the needs of a helpless and suffering child.
When he arose, the expression in the shining eyes told him the woman
was still conscious.
A moment she looked into his face. Then she said: "Tain't nothin' to be
skeered of--is ther'--I ain't skeered no more--God, He won't let them
git me and carry me to hell--God--God----" then the intelligent light
passed and the fitful fire of consuming fever took its place.
The end was at hand. Anxiously Abe Lincoln looked up the roadway,
praying in his heart for a sight of Dr. Allen. The woman was raving
wildly, and before another ten minutes had gone, life had left her body.
Abe Lincoln folded the hot hands over the fevered breast, straightened
the head on the pillow and turned the cover up.
As he stood looking down on the clay tenement the baby cried. After a
brief search the milk was found, and taking the little one from its
dead mother, the gawky young man began the task of feeding it with a
spoon.
Scarcely had he finished this task than the ring of horse's hoofs
sounded down the roadway. Good Dr. Allen was coming, and with Hannah
Armstrong.
"Too late, Doc," Abe Lincoln said quietly, looking toward the bed. Then
holding the baby to Hannah Armstrong, he said, "I've fed calves and
pups, but this one seems to leak about the ears. So far all the milk
has gone down its neck."
Hannah Armstrong took the baby. Doctor Allen was looking at the hot
body, which even now was beginning to turn black under the finger nails
and about the mouth.
"Swamp poison," he said. "I could not have saved her--not to-day."
After Dr. Allen and Hannah Armstrong had gone back to New Salem Abe
Lincoln stayed long enough to help the woman's husband make a coffin.
On her way home, Hannah Armstrong stopped at Rutledge Inn to consult
Mrs. Rutledge as to what should be done for the baby, and it was
through her Ann Rutledge heard a portion of the story.
"If there's any preacher or elder or deacon or shoutin' saint in this
whole country that's doin' more for his fellers than Abe Lincoln, I
want to see the color of his eye," declared Hannah. "He's fulfillin'
the Scripture what says, 'Let not one hand know what the other one's
doing,' and yet they say he's a sinner."
"I never heard Abe Lincoln called a sinner," Mrs. Rutledge protested in
surprise.
"Yes, they do. Jack Armstrong himself heard John McNeil telling a bunch
at Hill's store that Peter Cartwright himself said Abe Lincoln was a
poor, deluded sinner." Then she turned to Ann and said: "Ann, if I was
you, I'd speak to John McNeil about talkin' about Abe Lincoln. John
McNeil's a nice fellow, best there is, but 'tain't fair for him to be
pointin' Abe Lincoln out as a sinner. 'Twix the two of them, John with
his ten thousand, and Abe Lincoln with nothin', I guess Abe's doing his
share."
Ann gave Hannah Armstrong no answer.