Hanks rolled to his left and knocked into the headstone that shadowed him. Startled, he rolled back, hitting his crown. He was awake but stiff and chilled. The sun almost blinded him as he looked up at the boughs of a tall oak that rose above the gravestones. He stood up, and faced the rising sun, letting it warm the night’s chill out of his bones. Then he brushed off his pants with a quick stroke of his hat, put it on his head, and turned south to the Rush Street Bridge.
“Hurrah for Seward!” cried a young lady standing outside the Wigwam, her bonnet adorned with tiny flags.
Inside the wigwam shouts of delegates rose to the rafters of the magnificent building, which seemed to shake from the multitudes. Ten thousand Republican delegates from all over America, except the South, were packed in the hall. The rafters rose to over fifty feet. Delegates crowded the floor with their friendly constituents.
“Mr. Parker!” shouted Washburne, seeing the familiar face as he entered the visitor’s gallery above the delegates.
Ely turned his head and waved Washburne over. Within a minute Washburne was at his side.
“Hello, sir, how was your trip from Galena? Are the Wide Awakes here?”
Parker hesitated for a second and then hugged the congressman. “It’s been too long, old friend. Yes, they are here!” he responded as if boasting. “John E. Smith is here, and we picked up Fire Marshal Putnam on the way. Everyone should be here shortly.”
“Very good,” replied Washburne. “We will give Mr. Republican Seward a run for his money. We have placed the Pennsylvanians between the Indiana and Illinois delegations.”
There was a hush followed by the distinct retort of a band. The echo faded in the rafters.
“We are here!” Putnam interjected. “It has been a long road, but we are all here.”
Washburne and Parker looked at the Galena-Freeport contingent.
John E. Smith raised his pipe and then extended his hand to Parker and Washburne. “Indeed,” he said. “We are all here!” He beamed with enthusiasm.
“When will Seward approach the stand?” Parker asked, stroking his goatee.
“Hopefully never,” Washburne replied. “He will be nominated by one of his own, as Old Abe will by our Mr. Judd shortly. I think it best that…” A rousing brass band entered the wigwam, drowning out Washburne’s voice.
The tune of “Oh, Isn’t He a Darling” echoed throughout the wigwam, drawing attention to the New York crowd of delegates pouring through the front door. Pandemonium erupted among the delegates. The flutter of flags flipped and rolled with the undulating crowd of spectators.
“What a grand entrance!” Washburne shouted to his cronies with his hands cupped to his mouth. “But wait till those New Yorkers take to their seats!” He smiled confidently.
“What do you mean, Congressman?” asked Parker.
“They have no seats,” Washburne replied as he tilted his head and looked spryly to the others. “The Pennsylvanians and our Suckers took them all.”
The rising shouts from the New York delegation mixed with the cadence of the band. Then the music stopped abruptly, allowing the New York delegates to move as one tight group to the center of the platform where the seats of the delegation were supposed to be.
Suddenly, Mr. Evarts, a short, stout man bellowed out an exclamation that was muffled in the crowd. Within minutes heads twirled every which way; then several of the more prominent leaders of the New York delegates began waving their arms. Muffled shouts could be heard from the floor by those on the platform.
“Watch, now,” Washburne continued. “They will disperse like a storm that’s lost its fury. When it comes to Mr. Lincoln, we will see a calm before the rising storm.”
“Strike one up for the Suckers, Congressman” Putnam replied. “I’m sure they are not finished hearing from us tonight!”
Parker and Smith smiled.
A hush came over the crowd. Below, a stately figure with a large top hat in his hand slowly strode onto the platform.
“That is William M. Evarts,” Washburne commented. “He will introduce Mr. Seward as a nominee.”
A shout knifed through the silence of the wigwam, followed by another as the crowd waited with anxious anticipation for a long-expected announcement. Mr. Evarts placed his hat to the side of the lectern and then pulled a small piece of paper from his right pocket. Reaching into his left pocket, he pulled out spectacles.
Glancing first to the right and then to the left and then to the center of the massive crowd, he dramatically paused, nodded to the crowd, and then announced in a rising tenor voice, “I, William M. Evarts, am honored to be here on this platform, and on behalf of the proud delegation of New York, and on behalf of these United States, I nominate William H. Seward for president!”
The roar from the crowd spilled over like a cup flowing over. The wigwam seemed to shudder from it all. Flickering flags rippled again like waves. And then it all stopped when Evarts took a step away from the lectern. He turned and waved his top hat, and then the band struck up its cadence again. “Seward for president! Seward for president!” was chanted to an almost deafening level.
After Evarts exited, another figure approached the steps.
Washburne smiled and said, “This is our man, gentlemen—Norman Judd. We will see what befalls the crowd when he introduces Old Abe. I suggest that all of you keep your hats on your heads.”
The others glanced at each other, perplexed by Washburne’s comment.
Standing taller than Evarts, Judd ascended the stairs, the noise of the crowd diminishing with each step. Judd was without hat and spectacles. He had no paper in his coat pocket. Placing both hands confidently on each side of the lectern, he looked over the crowd who again waited in breathless anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted, “I desire, on behalf of the delegation from Illinois, to put in the nomination as a candidate for president of the United States—Abraham Lincoln of Illinois!” As he uttered those last words, the roar of the crowd almost drowned them out. Then the clamor abruptly stopped.
Suddenly, thousands of tiny round wood chips rained down on all the delegates from the rafters, like hail dropping from the sky. Shrieks of laughter and shouts of glee mixed with the rising voices and created a new crescendo in the wigwam.
As the chips descended on the convention, Putnam reached down and picked one off the floor. Squinting, he peered at the chip closely and then looked at Washburne, shook his head, and smiled like a giddy child.
“Are you glad now you kept your hats on, gentlemen?” Washburne chuckled. “Take a close look at who’s on that wood chip!”
“Why, it’s Mr. Lincoln,” Parker replied as he passed the small wood engraving over to Smith.
Smith squinted at the chip and exclaimed, “Nice move, Congressman! What else do you have up your sleeve?”
“Well, gentlemen, you should always expect the unexpected from the Wide Awakes!”
Parker, Putnam, and Smith chuckled in unison. The noise from the rafters changed now as hundreds of delegates passed the engravings around to their cronies. Instead of a roar, it was a steady flow of sounds like one could hear in a train station. Not pitched, but steady. Then things changed again.
A rolling laughter mixed with excited shouts echoed by the front entrance of the wigwam. The crowd looked toward the source of the noise.
“My God, it’s Old Abe’s uncle,” Washburne cried out in disbelief.
The laughter and shouts increased as the tall lonely figure crossed in front of the delegates who were closest to the platform. Some of the ladies held their hands to their mouths like schoolgirls.
John Hanks was dressed as he was the day before. No suit, just his country clothes. As the crowd shouted their appreciation, he nodded and beamed with pride. With each step the laughter and excitement continued to build, causing the wooden wigwam to shake.
There was no reason for Uncle John to take the podium. He would make no speeches. He knew he didn’t have to. As he did i
n his hometown of Decatur, Illinois, he proudly carried two ten-foot-long split rails, one in each arm, dragging them through the forum like a plodding horse on the prairie. Attached to the rails, a sign which read:
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
The Rail Candidate
FOR PRESIDENT IN 1860
Two rails from a lot of 3,000
Made in 1830 by Thos. Hanks and Abe Lincoln
Whose father was the first pioneer of Macon County
Washburne turned to his friends. “Gentlemen, this is our night. Old Abe will win this nomination!”
As the midnight hour approached, the Morse telegraph began to click away. A young attendant earnestly transcribed the message from Chicago. He passed it over to Lincoln, who was awaiting the news in Springfield.
Placing his reading glasses on his nose, Lincoln pored over the message. After reading the telegram, he looked at his friends and said with an earnest smile, “Well, there’s a little lady down on Eighth Street who’ll want to hear the news.”
That night Abraham Lincoln was elected the Republican Party nominee for president.
The Wide Awakes would keep the fires lit for sure!
Chapter 13
Wigwam
Pecatonica River
Summer, 1860
Light rain fell gently along the Pecatonica. The rising and falling mist coated everything. Stout meadow grasses mixed with pink prairie roses and purple violets, and goldenrods lined both sides of the river to blend a fragrant and colorful bouquet. The deep-green branches of the holly bushes that hid the wigwam sprouted tiny white flowers now. All was quiet except an occasional chirp of a red cardinal flickering through the boughs.
The friends were inside the wigwam. All except Trick, who stood vigilantly in the rain, holding his cane pole, which he had planted firmly in the riverbank. July was a good time to fish on the Pecatonica.
“You can’t right catch a thing in this rain, Trick. Come on inside now!” Allie announced, breaking the silence.
Trick put his finger to his lips. “Keep quiet, Allie, you’re gonna scare the big ones away!” His wide hat dripped from accumulated mist. He dropped his finger and smiled.
“Well, I’m gonna go inside then. T.J. sent me out here to git you. You can git as wet as you want, but we ain’t gonna start any fires here to dry you off.”
“Wait, Allie, I want to show you somethin’. This rain doesn’t fall like this but only once in a few years. It sets everything at peace on the river. Take a look around you. If you catch it right, you can see the sparkle on the leaves.”
Allie looked curiously at Trick. She thought it strange that her newfound friend could say such beautiful things about the Pecatonica. She paused then and looked up to the boughs overhanging the river. She peered across the river and marveled at the colors, glancing even to the fishing line that Trick had thrown deep into the river. The line caused a perfect V-shaped wake as the gentle water rippled along.
“Look up yonder at the Winnebago oak, Allie. You see how sadly it bends over the river. You showed me that last year. Now look up to the leaves. Do ya see what’s a happenin’?”
Allie peered up again. Her eyes followed the trunk. The leaves were a brilliant green.
“Do you see, Allie?” Trick said softly.
“Yes, I do.”
“What do you see?”
“Some of the leaves look like they’re droppin’ tears. It looks like there cryin’ right sure. Like maybe that Winnebago warrior is missin’ his maiden.”
“Thought the same thing,” Trick replied as he grasped his cane pole with a swagger. “This was their special place for sure.”
Kerplunk. A splash broke the silence. The cane pole bent down with force and then quickly arched back upward again. Trick, with one swift motion, flicked his wrists. “I sunk that hook in ’em good,” he said as he grappled with the pole, his heels driving deeper into the mud.
After another quick pull, the fish flapped in a desperate flurry on the surface, turning the water into a churning mix of green and brown. Trick quickly grasped the wobbly pole with his left hand. In a moment he clutched the fishing line with his right and, in one swift motion, jerked the fish onto the riverbank. Fins and tail rolled alternately on the muddy bank. The great fish gyrated in an attempt to fall back to familiar waters. After pausing to catch his breath from the excitement, Trick reached casually down, put his thumb in a gill, and raised his captured river prey.
“Jumpin’ jiminy,” Aaron cried, “that’s gotta be the granddaddy catfish of the Pecatonica. Maybe the biggest in the Sucker State!”
Trick turned to see the entire group of friends behind him. He grinned as always in awkward situations and then laid out a high-pitched chuckle. “Hee, hee…this old cat is a good un,” he said. “And we won’t right have to eat squirrel tonight for supper, T.J.! No need for your shooter today.”
T.J. smiled and nodded. Will and the rest of the friends laughed. They were delighted to see Trick’s new trophy.
“You can git back in the wigwam, now,” said Allie. “Besides, I got some more stories to tell.”
Trick could barely lift the catfish with his right hand, and he raised the catch just slightly above his head. He then grabbed his soaked hat with his left hand and shook it downward with a flap and placed it smartly back on his crown. With slow, deliberate steps of a waddling duck, he paused, took a breath, and then continued across the muddy riverbank to see his friends in the cozy, dry wigwam.
“Good job, Trick,” Jenny said as she took her spot along the cave again. “Nice, Trick,” Aaron added as he squatted down beside her.
“Looks like you won’t be needing your rifle today, T.J.,” Will announced nodding his head to Trick.
“Right sure,” T.J. replied, I suspect that cat will hold us over for a couple days. We’ve had enough squirrel for a good time now.”
“Well, why don’t you shoot somethin’ else?” Allie interjected. She was anxious to tell her Indian stories but kept getting sidetracked. She continued. “You oughta shoot some of those birds that hang by the dragon’s foot. Ya know, the ones that hoo and a hoo at you.”
“You mean the turtledoves?” replied Trick.
“Yeah, the slow ones that have holes in their heads. I’m sure they taste like chickins,” Allie replied. She braced her back with a slight swagger to see how Trick and T.J. would respond.
T.J. sat down against the wall where there was a tall shadow. The cave light now was much dimmer because of the mist. You could still, however, see everyone’s movements.
“When I was younger I used to shoot everything that moved.” T.J. continued. “I shot lots of birds for sport. I didn’t eat any of them ’cause they were too small. Anyway, not many got away.” T.J. looked at the friends to catch a reaction, yet all were transfixed on him, so he continued.
“I came home with a turtledove I shot one day, and my pa saw me throw it to the pigs. He ran out of the shed and asked me what I threw into the pen. I told him a turtledove. He at once grabbed my rifle, said nothing, and went into the house. He didn’t talk to me for two days.” The friends remained silent.
Will cut through the silence. “Why was your father so upset?”
“Well,” replied T.J. with a low voice, “I didn’t know that turtledoves come in pairs. I mean they mate for life. Like a husband and wife.”
Silence again.
“When I shot the one, I killed the other, too, I reckon. I remember that the other one flew away quickly, but it returned and hooed from a tree nearby. It even followed me down the river for a while. Then I didn’t see it again. I suspect it never did go back to the place where I shot the other.”
Jenny began to sob. Aaron put his arm around her. Allie’s posture slipped back to normal. She raised her arm and buried her face in the bend of her elbow.
T.J. continued. “Well, I don’t shoot birds anymore. In fact, I only kill what we can eat. I believe God put me on this earth to hunt in this way. I don’t kill for killi
ng’s sake.”
The friends could see that Allie was not her normal self. She began to sniffle with her face buried in her shirt jacket, pulling out little gasps of air. Will stood up and walked to her and placed his arm around her. She looked up. Her tears reflected in the beam of light.
“I didn’t think I’d ever sob so,” Allie cried as she dried her eyes with her forearm. “But I must tell you somethin’.”
The friends looked at her. Jenny held her fancy silk kerchief to her eyes. The boys looked over in dismay. All of the friends were intrigued. There was a hush in the wigwam.
“Gramma Lucy is not my gramma,” she said in a reserved tone. “She took a baby girl sixteen years ago from some travelin’ folks who adopted the baby and then couldn’t afford to feed the young infant. They told me the mother had died soon after the infant was born, and then the father died soon after that. Well, that youngin was me. The folks said my momma told them I was born on Christmas, and I was a gift from God to them.”
Allie continued. “Turns out my folks were like those turtledoves. They were happy together when I was born, but they died soon after in separate places somewhere between Ireland and the Rock River. Those nice folks who gave me to Gramma Lucy are nowhere to be found. I guess, as it is, I did get lucky havin’ Gramma Lucy to take care of me so.”
“Well, Allie,” Jenny replied softly, “you are the lucky one. You have us all now as friends and family.”
Will stood up. “Friends are family. Doesn’t matter where you come from or who you are. Friends are true to the end.”
“That’s right,” exclaimed Aaron as he looked quickly to Jenny for her nod.
T.J. and Trick remained silent as if undisturbed by any of the conversation. The boys from Buda just looked ahead, waiting to see who would speak next.
“All of us here are friends.” Will continued. “And to the day I die, we will always be family. We will always be friends of the wigwam.”
Allie dried her tears on her sleeve again. “I guess it’s best we all head home for supper now. Gramma Lucy will be worried sick if I don’t head upriver now. It’s a gittin dark.”
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 10
