Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  I had my fill of Seward’s propaganda, and by God, I may box someone’s ears if I hear his dreadful campaign song, Isn’t He Darling, one more time. I found a reporter from the Terra Haute Times sitting by himself and asked him for his impressions of Mr. Abraham Lincoln.

  “Well, mister, Old Abe’s from these parts and we like that quite a bit. He used to live over in Spencer County, Indiana, you know. Let’s see, he served well in the Black Hawk War, his grandpa was killed by Indians, and he’s got more sense than schoolin. We like that too … well, not the part about his grandpa, you understand. But, hell, mister, there’s no use in talkin’ to me ‘cause I gotta history of real bad luck.” I asked what he meant. “Well, believe it or not, I was the feller who made the popular term, ‘Go West Young Man.’ Yep, that was me alright. But look at what good it’s done me. Mr. Horace Greeley got all the credit, and he don’t need a damn lick of it neither. If I tell you Lincoln’s the man, then Cassius M. Clay will most likely win. I’m a man of real bad luck.”

  May 18, 1860

  Nomination Day

  Steinhaeuser and I agreed that we could feel it in the air as soon as we awoke. Mrs. Munson predicted it over breakfast, and every butcher, shopkeeper, and street Arab in Chicago had the word Wigwam on his lips. We could hear the roar of thousands of voices a full mile before we reached the convention center and the planks of the sidewalks positively rumbled as if moved by a growing earthquake. It was not a surprise then to find the greatest crowd to date surrounding the building. Steward’s band, The Irrepressibles, passed us with their epaulets and snappy capes decorated with white and scarlet feathers, and marching behind them in military formation were two thousand pressure men.

  To their horror, they were unable to fit inside the building because fifteen hundred seats, which had been occupied by the Seward forces for the past two days, were now in the possession of a noisy group of “Chicagoans for Lincoln,” who had gained entry on forged tickets. A crowd of thirty thousand pushed in on the entrance doors, and all adjectives may be exhausted trying to describe the spectacle inside. Vulgarity was in the ascendant and there was a rumble of violence as a mighty shoving match broke out on the floor near the podium.

  A flagrantly bogus group who pretended to be members of the Texas delegation was being ousted by regular conventioneers. The Texans were all dressed after the fashion of yesterday’s hero, David Crockett, and looked ridiculously out of place in fresh buckskins and hats made from whole, dead raccoons. As they were being forced through the crowd, a member of the Texas group was recognized as one of the cowards that lynched an anti-slavery man named Bill Bewley down in Austin. A dirk was produced and the man was stabbed through the shoulder; blood gushed from the wound and soaked his new buckskin jacket. He was lifted over the crowd and passed hand-to-hand towards the door, all the while screaming, “Secession, secession” and “all niggers must go to hell.” A loud chorus then broke into chanting for Seward, and they were in turn shouted back by a rolling, deep cry for “Abraham Lin-coln, Abraham Lin-coln.” There was a danger that bad taste may carry the day, but Reverend Green of Chicago seized the podium and delivered an impassioned opening prayer.

  “Oh God, we entreat thee that at some future but not distant day, the evils which now invest the body politic shall not only have been arrested in their progress, but wholly eradicated from the system. And may the pen of the historian trace an intimate connection between that glorious consummation and the transactions of this convention.”

  President Ashmun thanked Reverend Green, hammered away with his gavel and quickly added, “The Chair feels it his first duty this morning to appeal, not merely to the gentlemen of the Convention, but to every individual of this vast audience, to remember the utmost importance of keeping and preserving order during the entire session—as much silence as possible—and he asks the gentleman who are not members of this Convention, in the name of this convention, that they will, to their utmost ability, refrain from any demonstrations that may disturb the proceedings of the Convention.”

  Rather than taking the words of these two men to heart, the crowd responded with prodigious shrieks, shoving matches, and often vulgar cheers that shook the Wigwam down to its foundation.

  No sooner had the Texas frauds been expelled than Montgomery Blair of Maryland rose and instantly initiated another controversy. He asked for the accreditation of five new delegates at this last minute before the nominations began. These five were known to everyone in town as ardent supporters of candidate Edward Bates. Charles Armour, a Marylander for Seward, objected and denounced the five as outsiders. “We ain’t outsiders,” protested the prospective delegates. Armour threw a stack of loose papers in the air and exclaimed, “God almighty only knows where these men live.” A noisy vote was taken and the Bates men were foiled in their plot. Nevertheless, a tone was set for this most important of days. The crowd grew restless and began agitating for the nominations to begin. Seward’s and Lincoln’s names were the first to be put forth and both were received with thunderous ovations.

  Next were those of Dayton, Cameron, and Salmon Chase, who together did not command half the applause and cheers of the first two. Then, Caleb Smith of Indiana stunned the crowd with an early second for the nomination of Abraham Lincoln, and after that it did not matter that Mr. Bates, McLean, Clay, Banks, or Bell were mentioned at all. Seward’s second occasioned a fury of hat waving and loud cheering, but when Columbus Delano delivered another and unexpected second for Lincoln, a thousand hats flew in the air and people in the balcony began stamping their feet and loudly shouting for joy.

  Over the course of the next hour, Seward and Lincoln were in a horse race. Tally takers occasionally punctuated the deafening noise of the duel by shouting vote counts. “Mr. Seward 173 1/2, Mr. Lincoln 154,” etc., etc. The anticipation became almost unbearable around two o’clock when Lincoln pulled within a vote and a half of the Republican nomination. At this point, David Cartter slowly rose, stood on his chair and addressed the anxious crowd. The Wigwam fell completely silent for the first time in a week, and Cartter began to stutter as he said, “I-I-I a-a-arise, Mr. Chairman, to a-a-anounce the c-c-change of f-four, four of my delegation’s votes from M-M-Mr. Chase to Abraham Lincoln.” There was a great collective heave as air rushed from a thousand lungs. A man with a tally sheet in his hand broke the silence when he called out to a sentry at the skylight, “Fire the salute! Abe Lincoln is nominated!”

  The sound of the cannon blast on the roof was dwarfed by a vociferous explosion that was let loose by the crowd. It was worth a man’s lifetime to hear. Someone later told me that, “A thousand steam whistles, ten acres of hotel gongs, and a tribe of Comanches might have mingled in the scene unnoticed.” Women put their fingers in their ears to ease the pain, and many pistols were recklessly discharged into the air.

  The news of Lincoln’s nomination quickly spread through the large crowd outside the Wigwam, and their wild salutes added to the general pandemonium. The City of Chicago in general experienced a tremendous frenzy of enthusiasm that lasted for two days.

  God only knows what the future holds for the American political system. If this spectacle is any indication it may be studied better as a case study in mass hysteria rather than as a proper system of the electoral process. Needless to say, there is also something profoundly disturbing about the presence of firearms at such events but these “irons” are seemingly as much a part of American dress as the very clothes they wear, and it does not take a great prophet to see that great trouble is brewing any time more than a few people appear in public. I asked one gentleman who had a pistol handle conspicuously displayed near the opening of his waist coat if he always carried that thing. “Oh hell no,” he answered. “This is the one I call my dress-up gun. I use it for special events like this on account of the fancy grip and the nickel plating and all.” He let me know he was just an ordinary chap most of the time by delivering a soft chuckle and adding, “I use a regular ol’ six-shooter for things
like shoppin’, gettin’ my hair cut, an’ going about here and there.”

  The pistol seems to be the Chicago equivalent of the pocket watch in London, and it appears no decent fellow would think of arriving anywhere without one. If the man with his “dress gun” is just a regular citizen in a large city, then what will be in store once across the mighty river and into the “wild” territories? I will say finally that when men bring guns into convention halls, barber shops, and haberdasheries, one can only imagine the results when such hardware accompanies them into pubs and other venues that serve liquor. I fear it is already too late to even suggest disarmament or, god forbid, prohibition. Trouble brews in the New World, I say.

  I have not seen Steinhaeuser since the announcement of the final vote. He ran off somewhere as soon as we left the Wigwam; I suspect he is horribly drunk by this time and out of control in some saloon. We are scheduled to depart for New Orleans in the morning and I am hoping better from America than I have seen so far. It is not just the lawlessness and pervasive violence. It is more about how such things are relished hereabouts.

  Nevertheless, if the laibon could only see how apt his choice of hunting grounds has been he would be pleased, for here the game is varied, wild, and on display at every turn and on every occasion. No attempt at formality can veil it, be it sport or politic. There is no cosmetic strong enough around here.

  VII

  DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI BY PADDLEWHEEL STEAM SHIP

  May 22, 1860

  Rock Island

  Away by train from the wildness of Chicago and today arrived at The Father of Rivers. With apologies to “Father Nile,” this Mississippi, while perhaps not as long as its Egyptian counterpart, appears a full five times as wide and double the darkness. Its name is derived from a coupling of two Indian terms, missi—most likely a mispronunciation of the Chippewa kitchi, meaning great—and zibi, which is the common Algonquian or Ojibwa word for river.

  We reached this river landing via the Rock Island Line, which is but five years old and represents the western reach of the American rail system. Here there is a pandemonium of excitement as stevedores and roustabouts prepare various cargoes for the arrival of our steamship. Dozens of barrels filled with oil, nails, molasses, and whiskey line the dock. There is livestock of every kind including a score of horses and several enormous oxen. A complete disassembled sawmill awaits the holds, along with stacks of hides, mounds of coal, rows of wheels, and runs of freshly cut lumber. I ask what manner of river ship could possibly swallow such a load.

  Beyond the various hardware, liquids, and hoofs, there is a great deal of human cargo as well. Immigrants speaking a dozen languages idle along the shore. They are often young and single or grouped in small families with meager possessions wrapped in blankets and clutching the battered portmanteau and tin cooking pots. These plebes, while still no better off than they were at the place from which they came, seem cheered by just the promise of a future—something wholly unavailable to most of them back home.

  John and I wandered the dock awaiting the coming of our ship. He met some Swiss from his native land and asked of recent developments at Berne or Biel, and I mixed with the Americans and searched for Indians. There were second generation Americans in a ratio of two or three to one with Europeans, and plenty of Negroes doing most of the work, but only a blink of the Red Man observing the goings-on from a distance.

  Our ship will arrive from Galena to the north with lead taken from mines, once the property of the Sac and Fox tribes. These were the People of the Red Earth and the People of the Yellow Earth who were for years subjected to the outrages of both the French and Iroquois. Their sad saga finally ended some thirty years ago in the Black Hawk Wars, which resulted in the final loss of lands and eventual deportation. The involuntary movement of native tribes from their homelands to the Territories is a growing enterprise with the new Americans, and no place east of the big river is immune from these unholy uprootings. It is a diaspora worse than slavery itself. When I think ahead to my eventual shift into the territories where thousands of displaced and dissatisfied Indians have been forced onto the land of other tribes, and likewise made to deal with the bold and ferocious Americans already settled there I may well look back on Yankee baseball games and political conventions as models of civility. The traveler can only anticipate some appalling situations and so I must be ready.

  Near sunset our ship appeared around a great bend in the river just above the landing. This occasioned much excitement with all parties coming alive and shuffling things about in preparation for boarding. She was enormous and looked like a floating city in silhouette, complete with steeples or minarets and peekings of lights from various portals. Her great paddle wheel slapped at the water, and the voice of the leadman calling depths was the only sound on the river in the failing light. As she gently turned for the dock, a screeching blast was issued from her whistle and this sent the Indians scurrying over the hill. After the landing was completed it became necessary to illuminate the dock with dozens of torches. It was then I first noticed that this lord of the river bore a most unlikely name. She was called the Sucker State and would be our home as far south as St. Louis.

  The Captain, a religious man by the name of Ezekiel Bibbs, stood on the hurricane deck and closely supervised the loading of his ship. Ladies, of which there were few, and gentlemen were shown their cabins and others were condemned to far inferior quarters below. A cheaper ticket bought stuffy middle-deck lodgings and few comforts. Those less well-off were jammed far below with the sweat hands, Negroes, livestock, and machinery. Deck space was reserved for short term passengers and cargo.

  Under the stern hand of Ezekiel Bibbs our journey on the Sucker State lost much of the legendary romance we had learned to associate with Mississippi paddlewheels. Bibbs had declared the vessel alcohol free, gambling free, and there would be no smoking, cursing, fighting, or spitting. Bible readings were offered and group prayers were encouraged.

  The final barrels and passengers were put on board at midnight and we headed south into the darkness along the border of the American frontier. I spent my first four hours watching the stars, filling my lungs with the damp evening air and straining against the night to catch a glimpse of activity along either bank. The rest of the ship had gone to bed leaving only myself and the leadman on deck and Bibbs at the wheel. He looked ever straight ahead with the granite countenance of Ahab in Melville’s The Whale, his posture stiff, and his grim face under-lit by a dim lantern.

  It is no small feat to ply this great swirling river and learn its shifting hazards and currents. Sandbars form around every turn and sometimes lurk just below the muddy surface. The steam wheeler itself is a floating bomb with boiler always pressured for momentum, and explosions and fires are said to be common. An immigrant family I met on the dock told me they were following the footsteps of fellow countrymen who were blown off the Sara Ann near Hannibal in 1845 and never seen again. There are dozens of similar stories; however, I must confess to feeling a measure of security with a man like Bibbs at the helm.

  Steinhaeuser was fast asleep when I entered the cabin. We are three days since leaving Chicago and this, I’m certain, is the longest he has gone without drinking since stepping foot on the continent.

  We are another three days to St. Louis under the stern watch of Ezekiel Bibbs, and this may serve to dry him completely.

  May 25, 1860

  St. Louis

  We have passed Nauvoo, the erstwhile home of the Mormon Saints, dropped off lead, and replaced it with cut stone. At Hannibal the oxen and some horses were traded for additional passengers. Other events on the journey of the sober Sucker State are mostly un-noteworthy. Bibbs was at the wheel on almost every occasion, watching the river and his charges like a hawk, and leaving me to wonder when the man slept, ate, or relieved himself. The only time I ever saw him away from his post was when the river widened broad enough to accommodate Nelson’s entire fleet. When this happened, he would seize the oppo
rtunity to mix with passengers on deck and occasionally he found a group who would join him in long and lugubrious prayer.

  Ezekiel Bibbs kept his ship as he liked it by refusing bookings to characters he thought undesirable. At both Nauvoo and Hannibal, he stood at the gangplank and turned away those carrying private bottles or weapons, those who were dressed too rough and those who were dressed too well. The former he suspected of being ruffians, and the latter gamblers. He made a habit of turning them back with the phrase, “God’s ship for God’s people, and may God have mercy on your soul.” Routine and God’s work were the food of Mr. Bibbs and our last three days must have nourished him well. The unending slapping of the paddlewheel and the monotonous callings of the depths from the leadman were our most entertaining companions. Always at the bow with his weight and rope the leadman called out incessantly to the pilot, “Ma-a-ark three, half twain, quarter less twain, mark twain. Ma-a-ark four, quarter twain, mark twain.” At Hannibal I asked a young bushy-haired apprentice what this term meant. He told me it was “two fathoms, in English,” and added something about a failure to understanding our common language. He gave me a wry smile and provided me with my first laugh on the river.

  We came into smelling distance of St. Louis City about three miles before we could actually see any of its buildings, and this preview was not a pleasant one. The river was fouled and the early afternoon sun was almost blotted out by black smoke belching from dozens of mills and factories. Our docking was alongside a structure so dirty and dilapidated it looked as if it were constructed before the Revolutionary War.

  As this was the final destination of the Sucker State we gathered our belongings and bid a religious adieu to Captain Bibbs and his church of the waters. It was now up to us to go ashore and secure passage on a similar but hopefully more exciting ship for the eight day journey to New Orleans. Our first human contact in this city was made by newsboys who bothered us to purchase two lurid publications, a shilling shocker called Under the Gaslight and a weekly rag entitled Criminal News. I had managed to brush them aside and was on my way down the dock when I heard Steinhaeuser call, “I say, Burton, have a look at this.” He had purchased a copy of Criminal News and was reading the contents as he walked down the street. The first part of this publication featured images of professional criminals with their description, alias, and particular specialty described below. There was Edward Dinkleman, Bank Sneak and Pickpocket; Phillip ‘Phillie’ Vosberg, Sneak and Stall; Hugh L. Courtenay alias Lord Courtney, Swindler and Bogus Lord; Abraham Greenthal, alias General; Abe Goodie, Confidence Man, Skin Gambler and leader of the Sheeney Mob; James Wells, alias Funeral Wells; General Sneak, Bond Forger and Murderer after a Rough and Tumble. And so on.