________________________________________________
_ It is sometimes instructive to look back and see hour Destiny gave us a
kick here, and Fate a shove there, that sent us in the right direction at
the proper time. And when Stephen Brice looks backward now, he laughs to
think that he did not suspect the Judge of being an ally of the two who
are mentioned above. The sum total of Mr. Whipple's words and advices to
him that summer had been these. Stephen was dressed more carefully than
usual, in view of a visit to Bellefontaine Road. Whereupon the Judge
demanded whether he were contemplating marriage. Without waiting for a
reply he pointed to a rope and a slab of limestone on the pavement below,
and waved his hand unmistakably toward the Mississippi.
Miss Russell was of the opinion that Mr. Whipple had once been crossed in
love.
But we are to speak more particularly of a put-up job, although Stephen
did not know this at the time.
Towards five o'clock of a certain afternoon in August of that year, 1858,
Mr. Whipple emerged from his den. Instead of turning to the right, he
strode straight to Stephen's table. His communications were always a
trifle startling. This was no exception.
"Mr. Brice," said he, "you are to take the six forty-five train on the
St. Louis, Alton, and Chicago road tomorrow morning for Springfield,
Illinois."
"Yes sir,"
"Arriving at Springfield, you are to deliver this envelope into the hands
of Mr. Abraham Lincoln, of the law firm of Lincoln & Herndon."
"Abraham Lincoln!" cried Stephen, rising and straddling his chair. "But,
sir--"
"Abraham Lincoln," interrupted the Judge, forcibly "I try to speak
plainly, sir. You are to deliver it into Mr. Lincoln's hands. If he
is not in Springfield, find out where he is and follow him up. Your
expenses will be paid by me. The papers are important. Do you
understand, sir?"
Stephen did. And he knew better than to argue the matter with
Mr. Whipple. He had read in the Missouri Democrat of this man Lincoln,
a country lawyer who had once been to Congress, and who was even now
disputing the senatorship of his state with the renowned Douglas. In
spite of their complacent amusement, he had won a little admiration from
conservative citizens who did not believe in the efficacy of Judge
Douglas's Squatter Sovereignty. Likewise this Mr. Lincoln, who had once
been a rail-sputter, was uproariously derided by Northern Democrats
because he had challenged Mr. Douglas to seven debates, to be held at
different towns in the state of Illinois. David with his sling and his
smooth round pebble must have had much of the same sympathy and ridicule.
For Mr. Douglas, Senator and Judge, was a national character, mighty in
politics, invulnerable in the armor of his oratory. And he was known far
and wide as the Little Giant. Those whom he did not conquer with his
logic were impressed by his person.
Stephen remembered with a thrill that these debates were going on now.
One, indeed, had been held, and had appeared in fine print in a corner of
the Democrat. Perhaps this Lincoln might not be in; Springfield; perhaps
he, Stephen Brice, might, by chance, hit upon a debate, and see and hear
the tower of the Democracy, the Honorable Stephen A. Douglas.
But it is greatly to be feared that our friend Stephen was bored with his
errand before he arrived at the little wooden station of the Illinois
capital. Standing on the platform after the train pulled out, he
summoned up courage to ask a citizen with no mustache and a beard,
which he swept away when he spat, where was the office of Lincoln &
Herndon. The stranger spat twice, regarded Mr. Brice pityingly, and
finally led him in silence past the picket fence and the New England-
looking meeting-house opposite until they came to the great square on
which the State House squatted. The State House was a building with much
pretension to beauty, built in the classical style, of a yellow stone,
with sold white blinds in the high windows and mighty columns capped at
the gently slanting roof. But on top of it was reared a crude wooden
dome, like a clay head on a marble statue.
"That there," said the stranger, "is whar we watches for the County
Delegations when they come in to a meetin'." And with this remark,
pointing with a stubby thumb up a well-worn stair, he departed before
Stephen could thank him. Stephen paused under the awning, of which there
were many shading the brick pavement, to regard the straggling line of
stores and houses which surrounded and did homage to the yellow pile.
The brick house in which Mr. Lincoln's office was had decorations above
the windows. Mounting the stair, Stephen found a room bare enough, save
for a few chairs and law books, and not a soul in attendance. After
sitting awhile by the window, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he
went out on the landing to make inquiries. There he men; another citizen
in shirt sleeves, like unto the first, in the very act of sweeping his
beard out of the way of a dexterous expectoration.
"Wal, young man," said he, "who be you lookin' for here?"
"For Mr. Lincoln," said Stephen.
At this the gentleman sat down on the dirty top step; and gave vent to
quiet but annoying laughter.
"I reckon you come to the wrong place."
"I was told this was his office," said Stephen, with some heat.
"Whar be you from?" said the citizen, with interest.
"I don't see what that has to do with it," answered our friend.
"Wal," said the citizen, critically, "if you was from Philadelphy or
Boston, you might stand acquitted."
Stephen was on the point of claiming Boston, but wisely hesitated.
"I'm from St. Louis, with a message for Mr. Lincoln," he replied.
"Ye talk like y e was from down East," said the citizens who seemed in
the humor for conversation. "I reckon old Abe's' too busy to see you.
Say, young man, did you ever hear of Stephen Arnold Douglas, alias the
Little Giant, alias the Idol of our State, sir?"
This was too much for Stephen, who left the citizen without the
compliment of a farewell. Continuing around the square, inquiring for
Mr. Lincoln's house, he presently got beyond the stores and burning
pavements on to a plank walk, under great shade trees, and past old brick
mansions set well back from the street. At length he paused in front of
a wooden house of a dirty grayish brown, too high for its length and
breadth, with tall shutters of the same color, and a picket fence on top
of the retaining wall which lifted the yard above the plank walk. It was
an ugly house, surely. But an ugly house may look beautiful when
surrounded by such heavy trees as this was. Their shade was the most
inviting thing Stephen had seen. A boy of sixteen or so was swinging on
the gate, plainly a very mischievous boy, with a round, laughing,
sunburned face and bright eyes. In front of the gate was a shabby
carriage with top and side curtains, hitched to a big bay horse.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Lincoln lives?" inquired Stephen.
"Well, I guess," said the boy. "I'm his son, and he lives right here
when he's at home. But that hasn't been often lately."
"Where is he?" asked Stephen, beginning to realize the purport of his
conversations with citizens.
Young Mr. Lincoln mentioned the name of a small town in the northern part
of the state, where he said his father would stop that night. He told
Stephen that he looked wilted, invited him into the house to have a glass
of lemonade, and to join him and another boy in a fishing excursion with
the big bay horse. Stephen told young Mr. Lincoln that he should have to
take the first train after his father.
"Jimmy!" exclaimed the other, enviously, "then you'll hear the Freeport
debate."
Now it has been said that the day was scorching hot. And when Stephen
had got back to the wooden station, and had waited an hour for the
Bloomington express, his anxiety to hear the Freeport debate was not
as keen as it might have been. Late in the afternoon he changed at
Bloomington to the Illinois Central Railroad: The sun fell down behind
the cardboard edge of the prairie, the train rattled on into the north,
wrapped in its dust and Smoke, and presently became a long comet, roaring
red, to match that other comet which flashed in the sky.
By this time it may be said that our friend was heartily sick of his
mission, He tried to doze; but two men, a farmer and a clerk, got in
at a way station, and sat behind him. They began to talk about this man
Lincoln.
"Shucks," said the clerk, "think of him opposing the Little Giant."
"He's right smart, Sam," said the farmer. "He's got a way of sayin'
things that's clear. We boys can foller him. But Steve Douglas, he only
mixes you up."
His companion guffawed.
"Because why?" he shouted. "Because you ain't had no education: What
does a rail-sputter like Abe know about this government? Judge Douglas
has worked it all out. He's smart. Let the territories take care of
themselves. Besides, Abe ain't got no dignity. The fust of this week I
seen him side-tracked down the road here in a caboose, while Doug went by
in a special."
"Abe is a plain man, Sam," the farmer answered solemnly. "But you watch
out for him."
It was ten o'clock when Stephen descended at his destination. Merciful
night hid from his view the forlorn station and the ragged town. The
baggage man told him that Mr. Lincoln was at the tavern.
That tavern! Will words describe the impression it made on a certain
young man from Boston! It was long and low and ramshackly and hot that
night as the inside of a brick-kiln. As he drew near it on the single
plant walk over the black prairie-mud, he saw countrymen and politicians
swarming its narrow porch and narrower hall. Discussions in all keys
were in progress, and it, was with vast difficulty that our distracted
young man pushed through and found the landlord, This personage was the
coolest of the lot. Confusion was but food for his smiles, importunity
but increased his suavity. And of the seeming hundreds that pressed him,
he knew and utilized the Christian name of all. From behind a corner of
the bar he held them all at bay, and sent them to quarters like the old
campaigner he was,
"Now, Ben, tain't no use gettin' mad. You, and Josh way, an' Will, an'
Sam, an' the Cap'n, an' the four Beaver brothers, will all sleep in
number ten. What's that, Franklin? No, sirree, the Honerable Abe, and
Mister Hill, and Jedge Oglesby is sleepin' in seven." The smell of
perspiration was stifling as Stephen pushed up to the master of the
situation. "What's that? Supper, young man? Ain't you had no supper?
Gosh, I reckon if you can fight your way to the dinin' room, the gals'll
give you some pork and a cup of coffee."
After a preliminary scuffle with a drunken countryman in mud-caked boots,
Mr. Brice presently reached the long table in the dining-room. A sense
of humor not quite extinct made him smile as he devoured pork chops and
greasy potatoes and heavy apple pie. As he was finishing the pie, he
became aware of the tavern keeper standing over him.
"Are you one of them flip Chicagy reporters?" asked that worthy, with a
suspicious eye on Stephen's clothes.
Our friend denied this.
"You didn't talk jest like 'em. Guess you'll be here, tonight--"
"Yes," said Stephen, wearily. And he added, outs of force of habit,
"Can you give me a room?"
"I reckon," was the cheerful reply. "Number ten, There ain't nobody in
there but Ben Billings, and the four Beaver brothers, an' three more.
I'll have a shake-down for ye next the north window."
Stephen's thanks for the hospitality perhaps lacked heartiness. But
perceiving his host still contemplating him, he was emboldened to say:
"Has Mr. Lincoln gone to bed?"
"Who? Old Abe, at half-past ten? Wa1 I reckon you don't know him."
Stephen's reflections here on the dignity of the Senatorial candidate of
the Republican Party in Illinois were novel, at any rate. He thought of
certain senators he had seen in Massachusetts.
"The only reason he ain't down here swappin' yarns with the boys, is
because he's havin' some sort of confab with the Jedge and Joe Medill of
the 'Chicagy Press' and 'Tribune'."
"Do you think he would see me?" asked Stephen, eagerly. He was
emboldened by the apparent lack of ceremony of the candidate. The
landlord looked at him in some surprise.
"Wal, I reckon. Jest go up an' knock at the door number seven, and say
Tom Wright sent ye."
"How shall I know Mr. Lincoln?" asked Stephen.
"Pick out the ugliest man in the room. There ain't nobody I kin think of
uglier than Abe."
Bearing in mind this succinct description of the candidate, Stephen
climbed the rickety stairs to the low second story. All the bedroom
doors were flung open except one, on which the number 7 was inscribed.
From within came bursts of uproarious laughter, and a summons to enter.
He pushed open the door, and as soon as his eyes became, accustomed to
the tobacco smoke, he surveyed the room. There was a bowl on the floor,
the chair where it belonged being occupied. There was a very
inhospitable looking bed, two shake-downs, and four Windsor chairs in
more or less state of dilapidation--all occupied likewise. A country
glass lamp was balanced on a rough shelf, and under it a young man sat
absorbed in making notes, and apparently oblivious to the noise around
him. Every gentleman in the room was collarless, coatless, tieless, and
vestless. Some were engaged in fighting gnats and June bugs, while
others battled with mosquitoes--all save the young man who wrote, he
being wholly indifferent.
Stephen picked out the homeliest man in the room. There was no mistaking
him. And, instead of a discussion of the campaign with the other
gentlemen, Mr. Lincoln was defending what do you think? Mr. Lincoln was
defending an occasional and judicious use of swear words.
"Judge," said he, "you do an almighty lot of cussing in your speeches,
and perhaps it ain't a bad way to keep things stirred up."
"Well," said the Judge, "a fellow will rip out something once in a while
before he has time to shut it off."
Mr. Lincoln passed his fingers through his tousled hair. His thick lower
lip crept over in front of the upper one, A gleam stirred in the deep-set
gray eyes.
"Boys," he asked, "did I ever tell you about Sam'l, the old Quaker's
apprentice?"
There was a chorus of "No's" and "Go ahead, Abe?" The young man who was
writing dropped his pencil. As for Stephen, this long, uncouth man of
the plains was beginning to puzzle him. The face, with its crude
features and deep furrows, relaxed into intense soberness. And Mr.
Lincoln began his story with a slow earnestness that was truly startling,
considering the subject.
"This apprentice, Judge, was just such an incurable as you." (Laughter.)
"And Sam'l, when he wanted to, could get out as many cusses in a second
as his anvil shot sparks. And the old man used to wrastle with him
nights and speak about punishment, and pray for him in meeting. But it
didn't do any good. When anything went wrong, Sam'l had an appropriate
word for the occasion. One day the old man got an inspiration when he
was scratching around in the dirt for an odd-sized iron.
"'Sam'l,' says he, 'I want thee.'
"Sam'l went, and found the old man standing over a big rat hole, where the
rats came out to feed on the scraps.
"'Sam'l,' says he, 'fetch the tongs.'
"Sam'l fetched the tongs.
"'Now, Sam'l,' says the old man, 'thou wilt sit here until thou hast a
rat. Never mind thy dinner. And when thou hast him, if I hear thee
swear, thou wilt sit here until thou hast another. Dost thou mind?'"
Here Mr. Lincoln seized two cotton umbrellas, rasped his chair over the
bare boor into a corner of the room, and sat hunched over an imaginary
rat hole, for all the world like a gawky Quaker apprentice. And this was
a candidate for the Senate of the United States, who on the morrow was to
meet in debate the renowned and polished Douglas!
"Well," Mr. Lincoln continued, "that was on a Monday, I reckon, and the
boys a-shouting to have their horses shod. Maybe you think they didn't
have some fun with Sam'l. But Sam'l sat there, and sat there, and sat
there, and after a while the old man pulled out his dinner-pail. Sam'l
never opened his mouth. First thing you know, snip went the tongs." Mr.
Lincoln turned gravely around. "What do you reckon Sam'l said, Judge?"
The Judge, at random, summoned up a good one, to the delight of the
audience.
"Judge," said Mr. Lincoln, with solemnity, "I reckon that's what you'd
have said. Sam'l never said a word, and the old man kept on eating his
dinner. One o'clock came, and the folks began to drop in again, but
Sam'l, he sat there. 'Long towards night the boys collected 'round the
door. They were getting kind of interested. Sam'l, he never looked up."
Here Mr. Lincoln bent forward a little, and his voice fell to a loud,
drawling whisper. "First thing you know, here come the whiskers peeping
up, then the pink eyes a--blinking at the forge, then--!"
"Suddenly he brought the umbrellas together with whack.
"'By God,' yells Sam'l, 'I have thee at last!'"
Amid the shouts, Mr. Lincoln stood up, his long body swaying to and fro
as he lifted high the improvised tongs. They heard a terrified squeal,
and there was the rat squirming and wriggling,--it seemed before their
very eyes. And Stephen forgot the country tavern, the country
politician, and was transported straightway into the Quaker's smithy. _
Read next: BOOK II: Volume 3: Chapter III. In Which Stephen Learns Something
Read previous: BOOK II: Volume 3: Chapter I. Raw Material.
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