“You should challenge him to debates across every county. But, especially, you should force him to come up North so you will have an advantage over him. My constituency and those around Freeport are very strong Republicans. You know, Abraham, south of Springfield those voters would side with southern Democrats. Douglas has roots there already.”
“Interesting,” pondered Lincoln as he stared directly into the lamplight. He looked as if he saw a vision of the actual debate unfolding in front of him. “I believe you are correct in your strategy, Congressman. But what if he says no to the idea of coming this far north?”
“The ‘little giant’ believes himself to be invincible in any debate. I have seen him in Washington. His supporters also will not allow him to back down from any debate. I am sure he will do it!”
Lincoln reached around the oil lamp with his large, wide hand and gripped Washburne’s. “I have known you to be correct in your assessments on many occasions. And I believe you are duly correct on this one. As the old farmer says to his boys, ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head.’ Let’s keep hitting it hard.”
Washburne smiled at Lincoln and then noticed a man to his right who glared at him from the shadows across the parlor room. The man took one puff of his cigar and then blew it in the direction of Washburne’s table as he looked down at the tablecloth in front of him. He shook his head as the cigar smoke swirled to the ceiling.
Washburne looked over again. “Sir, have I offended you?”
The stranger pulled his napkin out of his stiff collar, uncrossed his legs, and then stood up in a methodical manner. He was dressed in tailor-made garments that had a greenish sheen to them. His cravat was tied in the Windsor fashion. Barely five feet five inches tall, he crossed the room erect, like Napoleon, with his right hand tucked deliberately between the loosened buttons of his crimson vest.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, Congressman,” he said with a wry smile.
His short stature was even more apparent as he stood before the table. Washburne drew in a deep puff of his cigar, turned his head, and blew the smoke to the right of the intruder, as not to be discourteous.
“And how can I help you, sir?” Washburne asked respectfully.
“I am a Democrat,” he said.
Washburne drew a couple more puffs from his cigar.
“And do you hail from this state?”
“No, I hail from three states. I have lived in Connecticut and Wisconsin, and I am now relocating to Chicago. I guess I’m a Sucker now…like both of you.”
Lincoln let out a hearty laugh. He stood, towering at least a foot over the stranger.
“Please allow me to be the first to welcome you into the Sucker family,” Lincoln said, extending his hand as he winked at Washburne.
The stranger took a step back and kept his cigar firmly in the grasp of his right hand so the shake could not be returned. He looked fleetingly at Lincoln and then stared into Washburne’s eyes without smiling.
“I don’t shake hands with Republicans, especially from the Sucker State. I am a Douglas man and will vote for him in the next election. I heard your strategy, and it has no chance for success. Whatever you do, Mr. Lincoln, you will fail against the man you call the ‘little giant.’”
“And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing, sir?” Lincoln asked in earnest.
“I am John Mason Loomis the third!” the stranger replied as he nodded his head in a cavalier fashion. The light reflected off his half-balding head. He drew another puff from the cigar and blew it toward the table lamp.
He continued. “I am from Windsor, Connecticut. My family’s roots go back to colonial times. My ancestors have fought in all the wars and, in fact, were friends of the founding fathers. I myself have spent many years traveling across the seas doing business in China tea.” He held his head up.
“And what brings you to the port of Chicago, Mr. Loomis? Are you sure you are following your sextant correctly?” Washburne replied in jest. He looked at Lincoln who placed a hand over his mouth to hide a slight grin.
Loomis looked at the ceiling and perked his thin lips. He then reached over to the ashtray, crushing his cigar in it. “Gentlemen, if you wish to know, I am one who is not tied to just one soil. I am not tied to just one business. I am an adventurer. I am an investor. I own a lumber company in Milwaukee. I also own a new lumber business in Chicago. That’s why I am here.”
Loomis nodded and turned away, quickly marching back to his table as if on a retreat. He abruptly pulled on his gray beaver top hat, which rested on the seat of a neighboring chair, and grabbed his black wool coat, tossing it in one motion over his left arm. He turned in a quick, catlike motion to Washburne and Lincoln.
“If you truly wish to know, Mr. Congressman and you Mr. Lincoln, I am looking to establish my headquarters somewhere between Milwaukee and Chicago. In the interim, gentlemen, I will be on my white mare riding frequently between both locations. Therefore, one could say, my headquarters will be in my saddle!” With this, he turned quickly without looking at them, entered the lobby, and exited. The front door slammed behind him.
There was a short pause.
Lincoln moved upward in his seat and looked at the oil lamp and then at the congressman. He shook his head slightly back and forth. He cracked a slight smile. “Well, Wash, I think that last comment he made about his saddle sums it all up for Mr. Loomis.”
“And how is that, my friend?”
“If what he says is true about his saddle, Mr. Loomis doesn’t know his headquarters from his hindquarters!”
Washburne let out a deep laugh. Lincoln grinned. Both stood up in one motion and retired back to the lobby.
Chapter 4
John E. Smith Home
High Street
Galena, Illinois
Grand Mississippi Riverboat Town
Fifty Miles West of Freeport
Christmas Eve, 1857
Thick snowflakes swirled slowly down onto High Street. The peaceful glow of a porch lantern faded into the darkness where a steep cliff dropped off. A hundred feet below, Galena straddled the river for which it was named. Faint echoes of riverboat men resonated through the streets, up the hillside, and over High Street to the lead mines above the Smith home.
Cheers and an occasional distant laugh filled the chilly air this night. Spirits were up because the mercantile year had ended on a very high note. Galena’s lead business was booming. The riverboats, which were typically loaded to the gunwales with lead, were now snugly settled onto the riverbank. It was a special time. It was Christmas.
“Adelaide, my dear, could you play a tune for me this fair night?” Washburne beckoned. He sat comfortably in the warm parlor with his legs crossed. He turned and winked at the rest of the Smith family, most of whom were standing by the piano. John E. was not to be seen as yet. He was still gathering wood from the shed, which was cut into the hill out back.
John E. was a good man known for his high integrity. He had one of the finest reputations in Galena. As Galena’s only jeweler and watchmaker, he had made quite a fortune since moving from St. Louis a few years back. He was happy to have the entire family together. Alfred was even home this season from West Point and Freeport, where he fought the fire just a week ago. Nearest to the piano was young Ben, quite diminutive at eleven years old, who worked his summers at the Grant & Perkins store, the Grant family being friends with Mr. Smith. Eight-year-old Adelaide, nicknamed “Addie” by her father, was the youngest and was eager to show her talent at the piano.
“I can play ‘Silent Night,’ Mr. Congressman!”Adelaide replied as she turned to her mother, Mrs. John E. Smith, known as Amy to her friends in Galena.
Mrs. Smith nodded in approval to her daughter, who was tiny for her age but whose confidence always was greater than her years. Adelaide beamed and then nodded back with a quick smile. The others in the room felt the grace of her childlike charisma.
“I will sing for you, too, if you wish, Mr. C
ongressman. Did you know ‘Silent Night’ was first written in German, but then the French loved it so much they put it to their own words? Grandfather taught me all the words before he died. He fought with Napoleon and knew German, Swiss, and French!” she stated proudly as she glanced to John E. for acknowledgment.
His eyes welled, and he spoke softly, “Adelaide, my dear, please play and sing the song for all of us. Grandpa would be very proud of you.”
“Adelaide, I would be honored to hear you sing and play.” Washburne uncrossed his legs and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He nodded again and smiled.
Adelaide placed her quaint, little hands to the white and ebony keys. She sat with her back arched in a ladylike fashion. After a brief hesitation, she found her place on the song sheet, which had the French version on the left and the English translation on the right. With a deliberate tone, she began the slow and solemn song, bowing her head, mouthing each slight rhythmical change.
Douce nuit, sainte nuit!
Dans les cieux! L’astre luit.
Le mystère annoncé s’accomplit
Cet enfant sur la paille endormi,
C’est l’amour infini!
C’est l’amour infin.
“Excellent, Adelaide!” Washburne exclaimed with great cheer. “May I have a translation?” He scooted to the edge of the red leather chair, tilting his head to the right so he could hear more intently.
Adelaide turned to the congressman and glanced fleetingly back at her parents. She did not look at her siblings because she was in her moment and felt quite pleased. Tipping her head gracefully, she nodded and smiled at Washburne. Again she postured herself at the keys and continued to play and sing for them.
Silent Night! Holy Night!
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon godly tender pair.
Holy infant with curly hair,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Washburne. “I’m sure Grandpa in heaven is very proud of you, as we all are, on this most heavenly night. You have many bright years ahead of you, young lady.” He pushed back into his chair and crossed his legs again.
“Would you like some eggnog, Congressman?” Mrs Smith asked. “I am bringing one for John and Alfred. Please stay and share more time with us.” Amy met his eyes directly and then blushed, realizing she was pushing a little too much for the situation.
“I would be honored to stay for a while. I hope I am not keeping you up into the night.”
“The night is still young, Wash,” John E. replied as he turned to Ben and Adelaide. “It is time, my children. You best be off to bed. The morning will come sooner than you think. Thank you, Adelaide, for the great little rendition. Grandpa and Grandmomma are as proud of you as the whole family is.”
Alfred stood in the corner as resolute as a vigilant sentry. He was dressed in his stout gray uniform for this special occasion with the congressman who had appointed him to West Point. He was as proud as all West Point cadets were. The parlor lamp where he stood caused his eyes to glisten like the buttons on his waistcoat. There were twenty-one buttons aligned in three vertical rows of seven connected by a smart, black piping. The collar was stiff. His head rested on it as if it was a statue on base marble.
“Alfred,” called Washburne with his low, resonant voice, “please join your father and me for an eggnog. I’d like to hear what the latest news is at the Point. But before that, tell me about the fire in Freeport. I heard you were there.”
“Yes, Congressman, I was near the bucket brigade. I assisted Fire Marshal Putnam. He asked for my advice on controlling the fire. Elmer Ellsworth was there, too. It was a sight to see. The whole damn town was ablaze, and we had to blow it up. And we sure as hell did!” Alfred paused embarrassingly. He glanced down at his feet, fleetingly to his father, and then across the room to Washburne. “Forgive me, sir, for my language!”
“That’s absolutely fine, young man. Please continue.”
“Well, some kid from Buda named T.J. Lockwood walked up with a Sharps rifle. Now how many kids have a sniper’s rifle like that? I took him quickly to the belfry tower of the First Presbyterian Church where we could clearly see the seven powder kegs that we had placed around the fire. The kid told me he could get a bead on anything, and he did it right quick. Elmer said he grabbed onto a tree when all hell broke loose. The seven shots that were fired by this kid sounded like a damned artillery duel.” Alfred caught himself again. He shook his head sideways and smiled. Washburne and his father did not flinch this time.
“Well, to continue, Congressman, seven powder kegs exploded in less than one minute! The entire town was stunned by the enormity of it all. I could barely speak a word after it was over. We all fell silent, and then Fire Marshal Putnam led the bucket brigade and every man in the town with three loud ‘huzzahs.’ The huzzahs were so loud they echoed up and around the belfry tower where T.J. and I were. Imagine, in less than one minute, the entire fire was snuffed out. The kid saved the town with his marksmanship. It was a sight to behold.”
John E. looked at Washburne.
The congressman lowered his eyebrows and slowly raised his eggnog to his lips. “Well, one does wonder what would have happened to that town. That young man is a hero, truly.”
John E. nodded. The congressman paused for a moment, looking into his china glass.
“Alfred, may I be so imposing as to ask you about a few issues that have every legislator in Washington up in arms?”
“Sure, Congressman.”
“Do you have friends at West Point who are from the southern states?”
“Yes, sir. We have quite a few at the Point,” Alfred replied.
“What do they say about the slavery issue? Do they think it will lead to a war?”
Alfred backed off the parlor wall and walked toward the piano bench. He placed his eggnog on top of the piano and then turned and sat down, looking at his polished black boots that seemed to reflect like mirrors. Pausing, he looked up to Washburne, who was still sitting in the big red mahogany chair. He pondered about his West Point friends spending Christmas in warmer climates as he stared at the parlor lamp on the other side of the room. There was a look of sadness and a sense of solemnity in his gaze.
“Congressman, we will certainly have a fight from them. I pray it does not come soon.”
“Have those southern boys heard of Senator Sumner’s beating at the Capitol? He was struck over the head with a walking stick and almost killed by a fanatic congressman from the Carolinas.”
“Yes, they have heard of it. And they’re all quite glad. They think he deserved it for insulting their people. I certainly don’t defend it, but it serves my point. I think they will leave the states. It is just my opinion, Congressman.” Alfred sat upright, now, spine straight, pleased to be conversing with a man of stature.
“Well, thank you for being candid, Alfred.” Washburne raised his glass again and continued. “I have talked to Mr. Lincoln, who will soon make a run for senator against Mr. Douglas. Lincoln told me directly that the talk in Washington is that we will let them keep their slaves as long as they do not secede from the Union. If they do, then responsibility for war is on their shoulders. Let us pray that the South comes to its senses.” Washburne paused and then looked at John E.
“John, you have not said a word. What do you think of it?” He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
“If they call it on, we will give them the good fight,” John E. replied with conviction. He pulled himself up from his chair in the corner and walked over to the fireplace. He stoked the fire, causing ashes to briefly swirl above the burning wood. He leaned the poker on the brick face and then reached for a case that was centered on top of the mantel. The evergreen swag above it had a blood-red bow that curled downward. The crackle of the fire rose, sending a reflection back into the room. The brass buttons of Alfred’s military waistcoat began to burnish. John E. opened the ca
se and carefully pulled out a small revolver.
“Congressman, this handgun was my father’s.” John E. walked across the room to the red mahogany chair. He handed it to the curious congressman.
“It looks like a French military piece,” noted Washburne, who held the brass backstrap toward the fireplace. “I see it is inscribed ‘J. B. SMITH.’ Is this your father’s inscription?”
“Yes, it stands for John Bander Smith. He was from Switzerland. He was an officer on the staff of Napoleon, like Adelaide mentioned before her recital. We are quite proud of Grandfather,” John E. replied as he looked to Alfred for endorsement.
Alfred nodded and pushed out his chest proudly. The brass buttons brightly reflected the glow from the fireplace.
“Well, Alfred,” replied Washburne, “you have quite a tradition to uphold. Was your grandfather on the winter death march from Russia?”
“Yes, sir, my grandfather was determined to make it back to his family, and he made it all the way. Ten thousand men perished during that winter march. It was the end for Napoleon.”
“Your grandfather’s conviction is most admirable,” Washburne replied in earnest, “And he obviously kept good company.” He stood up and held his glass upright. “I would like to make a toast.”
Alfred rose quickly from the piano stool. His father stood by the parlor light. Both stood erect, like soldiers at a military round table, with glasses raised. The congressman looked at the fire and then turned to both father and son. With a stoic look of confidence in his eye, he tilted his head to the right and lifted his glass.
“I would like to toast the past, present, and future military success of the Smith family. God forbid, if our country comes to conflict in the coming age, the people of this city, this state, and this country will need your services. You are leaders, all of you. You will get us through the conflagration, and for this, Godspeed and God bless you.”
Alfred and his father nodded their heads in appreciation and downed their drinks in unison. The parlor was silent now except for the crackling of the fire. Washburne stood up. He placed his glass on the top of the piano. Grabbing Alfred’s right hand with his own, he took his left hand and grabbed Alfred’s wrist. “God bless you, Alfred, and Merry Christmas.”
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 4
