The Crisis — Complete

CHAPTER II. ABRAHAM LINCOLN

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 met 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? Wal 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.

CHAPTER III. IN WHICH STEPHEN LEARNS SOMETHING

It was Mr. Lincoln who brought him back. The astonishing candidate for the Senate had sunk into his chair, his face relaxed into sadness save for the sparkle lurking in the eyes. So he sat, immobile, until the laughter had died down to silence. Then he turned to Stephen.

“Sonny,” he said, “did you want to see me?”

Stephen was determined to be affable and kind, and (shall we say it?) he would not make Mr. Lincoln uncomfortable either by a superiority of English or the certain frigidity of manner which people in the West said he had. But he tried to imagine a Massachusetts senator, Mr. Sumner, for instance, going through the rat story, and couldn't. Somehow, Massachusetts senators hadn't this gift. And yet he was not quite sure that it wasn't a fetching gift. Stephen did not quite like to be called “Sonny.” But he looked into two gray eyes, and at the face, and something curious happened to him. How was he to know that thousands of his countrymen were to experience the same sensation?

“Sonny,” said Mr. Lincoln again, “did you want to see me?”

“Yes, sir.” Stephen wondered at the “sir.” It had been involuntary. He drew from his inner pocket the envelope which the Judge had given him.

Mr. Lincoln ripped it open. A document fell out, and a letter. He put the document in his tall hat, which was upside down on the floor. As he got deeper into the letter, he pursed his mouth, and the lines of his face deepened in a smile. Then he looked up, grave again.

“Judge Whipple told you to run till you found me, did he, Mr. Brice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the Judge the same old criss-cross, contrary, violent fool that he always was?”

Providence put an answer in Stephen's mouth.

“He's been very good to me, Mr. Lincoln.”

Mr. Lincoln broke into laughter.

“Why, he's the biggest-hearted man I know. You know him, Oglesby,—Silas Whipple. But a man has to be a Daniel or a General Putnam to venture into that den of his. There's only one man in the world who can beard Silas, and he's the finest states-right Southern gentleman you ever saw. I mean Colonel Carvel. You've heard of him, Oglesby. Don't they quarrel once in a while, Mr. Brice?”

“They do have occasional arguments,” said Stephen, amused.

“Arguments!” cried Mr. Lincoln; “well, I couldn't come as near to fighting every day and stand it. If my dog and Bill's dog across the street walked around each other and growled for half a day, and then lay down together, as Carvel and Whipple do, by Jing, I'd put pepper on their noses—”

“I reckon Colonel Carvel isn't a fighting man,” said some one, at random.

Strangely enough, Stephen was seized with a desire to vindicate the Colonel's courage. Both Mr. Lincoln and Judge Oglesby forestalled him.

“Not a fighting man!” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, the other day—”

“Now, Oglesby,” put in Mr. Lincoln, “I wanted to tell that story.”

Stephen had heard it, and so have we. But Mr. Lincoln's imitation of the Colonel's drawl brought him a pang like homesickness.

“'No, suh, I didn't intend to shoot. Not if he had gone off straight. But he wriggled and twisted like a rattlesnake, and I just couldn't resist, suh. Then I sent m'nigger Ephum to tell him not to let me catch sight of him 'round the Planters' House. Yes, suh, that's what he was. One of these damned Yankees who come South and go into nigger-deals and politics.”'

Mr. Lincoln glanced at Stephen, and then again at the Judge's letter. He took up his silk hat and thrust that, too, into the worn lining, which was already filled with papers. He clapped the hat on his head, and buttoned on his collar.

“I reckon I'll go for a walk, boys,” he said, “and clear my head, so as to be ready for the Little Giant to-morrow at Freeport. Mr. Brice, do you feel like walking?”

Stephen, taken aback, said that he did.

“Now, Abe, this is just durned foolishness,” one of the gentlemen expostulated. “We want to know if you're going to ask Douglas that question.”

“If you do, you kill yourself, Lincoln,” said another, who Stephen afterwards learned was Mr. Medill, proprietor of the great 'Press and Tribune'.

“I guess I'll risk it, Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. Suddenly comes the quiver about the corners of his mouth and the gray eyes respond. “Boys,” said he, “did you ever hear the story of farmer Bell, down in Egypt? I'll tell it to you, boys, and then perhaps you'll know why I'll ask Judge Douglas that question. Farmer Bell had the prize Bartlett pear tree, and the prettiest gal in that section. And he thought about the same of each of 'em. All the boys were after Sue Bell. But there was only one who had any chance of getting her, and his name was Jim Rickets. Jim was the handsomest man in that section. He's been hung since. But Jim had a good deal out of life,—all the appetites, and some of the gratifications. He liked Sue, and he liked a luscious Bartlett. And he intended to have both. And it just so happened that that prize pear tree had a whopper on that year, and old man Bell couldn't talk of anything else.

“Now there was an ugly galoot whose name isn't worth mentioning. He knew he wasn't in any way fit for Sue, and he liked pears about as well as Jim Rickets. Well, one night here comes Jim along the road, whistling; to court Susan, and there was the ugly galoot a-yearning on the bank under the pear tree. Jim was all fixed up, and he says to the galoot, 'Let's have a throw.' Now the galoot knew old Bell was looking over the fence So he says, 'All right,' and he gives Jim the first shot—Jim fetched down the big pear, got his teeth in it, and strolled off to the house, kind of pitiful of the galoot for a, half-witted ass. When he got to the door, there was the old man. 'What are you here for?' says he. 'Why,' says Rickets, in his off-hand way, for he always had great confidence, 'to fetch Sue.'”

“The old man used to wear brass toes to keep his boots from wearing out,” said Mr. Lincoln, dreamily.

“You see,” continued Mr. Lincoln, “you see the galoot knew that Jim Rickets wasn't to be trusted with Susan Bell.”

Some of the gentlemen appeared to see the point of this political parable, for they laughed uproariously. The others laughed, too. Then they slapped their knees, looked at Mr. Lincoln's face, which was perfectly sober, and laughed again, a little fainter. Then the Judge looked as solemn as his title.

“It won't do, Abe,” said he. “You commit suicide.”

“You'd better stick to the pear, Abe,” said Mr. Medill, “and fight Stephen A. Douglas here and now. This isn't any picnic. Do you know who he is?”

“Why, yes, Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, amiably. “He's a man with tens of thousands of blind followers. It's my business to make some of those blind followers see.”

By this time Stephen was burning to know the question that Mr. Lincoln wished to ask the Little Giant, and why the other gentlemen were against it. But Mr. Lincoln surprised him still further in taking him by the arm. Turning to the young reporter, Mr. Hill, who had finished his writing, he said:

“Bob, a little air will do you good. I've had enough of the old boys for a while, and I'm going to talk to somebody any own age.”

Stephen was halfway down the corridor when he discovered that he had forgotten his hat. As he returned he heard somebody say:

“If that ain't just like Abe. He stopped to pull a flea out of his stocking when he was going to fight that duel with Shields, and now he's walking with boys before a debate with the smartest man in this country. And there's heaps of things he ought to discuss with us.”

“Reckon we haven't got much to do with it,” said another, half laughing, half rueful. “There's some things Abe won't stand.”

From the stairs Stephen saw Mr. Lincoln threading his way through the crowd below, laughing at one, pausing to lay his hand on the shoulder of another, and replying to a rough sally of a third to make the place a tumult of guffaws. But none had the temerity to follow him. When Stephen caught up with him in the little country street, he was talking earnestly to Mr. Hill, the young reporter of the Press and Tribune. And what do you think was the subject? The red comet in the sky that night. Stephen kept pace in silence with Mr. Lincoln's strides, another shock in store for him. This rail-splitter, this postmaster, this flat-boatman, whom he had not credited with a knowledge of the New Code, was talking Astronomy. And strange to say, Mr. Brice was learning.

“Bob,” said Mr. Lincoln, “can you elucidate the problem of the three bodies?”

To Stephen's surprise, Mr. Hill elucidated.

The talk then fell upon novels and stories, a few of which Mr. Lincoln seemed to have read. He spoke, among others, of the “Gold Bug.” “The story is grand,” said he, “but it might as well have been written of Robinson Crusoe's island. What a fellow wants in a book is to know where he is. There are not many novels, or ancient works for that matter, that put you down anywhere.”

“There is that genuine fragment which Cicero has preserved from a last work of Aristotle,” said Mr. Hill, slyly. “'If there were beings who lived in the depths of the earth, and could emerge through the open fissures, and could suddenly behold the earth, the sea, and the—vault of heaven—'”

“But you—you impostor,” cried Mr. Lincoln, interrupting, “you're giving us Humboldt's Cosmos.”

Mr. Hill owned up, laughing.

It is remarkable how soon we accustom ourselves to a strange situation. And to Stephen it was no less strange to be walking over a muddy road of the prairie with this most singular man and a newspaper correspondent, than it might have been to the sub-terrestrial inhabitant to emerge on the earth's surface. Stephen's mind was in the process of a chemical change: Suddenly it seemed to him as if he had known this tall Illinoisan always. The whim of the senatorial candidate in choosing him for a companion he did not then try to account for.

“Come, Mr. Stephen,” said Mr. Lincoln, presently, “where do you hail from?”

“Boston,” said Stephen.

“No!” said Mr. Lincoln, incredulously. “And how does it happen that you come to me with a message from a rank Abolitionist lawyer in St. Louis?”

“Is the Judge a friend of yours, sir?” Stephen asked.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Lincoln, “didn't he tell you he was?”

“He said nothing at all, sir, except to tell me to travel until I found you.”

“I call the Judge a friend of mine,” said Mr. Lincoln. “He may not claim me because I do not believe in putting all slave-owners to the sword.”

“I do not think that Judge Whipple is precisely an Abolitionist, sir.”

“What! And how do you feel, Mr. Stephen?”

Stephen replied in figures. It was rare with him, and he must have caught it from Mr. Lincoln.

“I am not for ripping out the dam suddenly, sir, that would drown the nation. I believe that the water can be drained off in some other way.”

Mr. Lincoln's direct answer to this was to give Stephen stinging slap between the shoulder-blades.

“God bless the boy!” he cried. “He has thought it out. Bob, take that down for the Press and Tribune as coming from a rising young politician of St. Louis.”

“Why,” Stephen blurted out, “I—I thought you were an Abolitionist, Mr. Lincoln.”

“Mr. Brice,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I have as much use for the Boston Liberator as I have for the Charleston Courier. You may guess how much that is. The question is not whether we shall or shall not have slavery, but whether slavery shall stay where it is, or be extended according to Judge Douglas's ingenious plan. The Judge is for breeding worms. I am for cauterizing the sore so that it shall not spread. But I tell you, Mr. Brice, that this nation cannot exist half slave and half free.”

Was it the slap on the back that opened Stephen's eyes? It was certain that as they returned to the tavern the man at his side was changed. He need not have felt chagrined. Men in high places underestimated Lincoln, or did not estimate him at all. Affection came first. The great warm heart had claimed Stephen as it claimed all who came near it.

The tavern was deserted save for a few stragglers. Under the dim light at the bar Mr. Lincoln took off his hat and drew the Judge's letter from the lining.

“Mr. Stephen,” said he, “would you like to come to Freeport with me to-morrow and hear the debate?”

An hour earlier he would have declined with thanks. But now! Now his face lighted at the prospect, and suddenly fell again. Mr. Lincoln guessed the cause. He laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and laughed.

“I reckon you're thinking of what the Judge will say.”

Stephen smiled.

“I'll take care of the Judge,” said Mr. Lincoln. “I'm not afraid of him.” He drew forth from the inexhaustible hat a slip of paper, and began to write.

“There,” said he, when he had finished, “a friend of mine is going to Springfield in the morning, and he'll send that to the Judge.”

And this is what he had written:—

It is worth remarking that this was the first time Mr. Brice had been called “Steve” and had not resented it.

Stephen was embarrassed. He tried to thank Mr. Lincoln, but that gentleman's quizzical look cut him short. And the next remark made him gasp.

“Look here, Steve,” said he, “you know a parlor from a drawing-room. What did you think of me when you saw me to-night?”

Stephen blushed furiously, and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.

“I'll tell you,” said Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic smile, “you thought that you wouldn't pick me out of a bunch of horses to race with the Senator.”

CHAPTER IV. THE QUESTION

Many times since Abraham Lincoln has been called to that mansion which God has reserved for the patriots who have served Him also, Stephen Brice has thought of that steaming night in the low-ceiled room of the country tavern, reeking with the smell of coarse food and hot humanity. He remembers vividly how at first his gorge rose, and recalls how gradually there crept over him a forgetfulness of the squalidity and discomfort. Then came a space gray with puzzling wonder. Then the dawning of a worship for a very ugly man in a rumpled and ill-made coat.

You will perceive that there was hope for Stephen. On his shake-down that night, oblivious to the snores of his companions and the droning of the insects, he lay awake. And before his eyes was that strange, marked face, with its deep lines that blended both humor and sadness there. It was homely, and yet Stephen found himself reflecting that honesty was just as homely, and plain truth. And yet both were beautiful to those who had learned to love them. Just so this Mr. Lincoln.

He fell asleep wondering why Judge Whipple had sent him.

It was in accord with nature that reaction came with the morning. Such a morning, and such a place!

He was awakened, shivering, by the beat of rain on the roof, and stumbling over the prostrate forms of the four Beaver brothers, reached the window. Clouds filled the sky, and Joshway, whose pallet was under the sill, was in a blessed state of moisture.

No wonder some of his enthusiasm had trickled away!

He made his toilet in the wet under the pump outside; where he had to wait his turn. And he rather wished he were going back to St. Louis. He had an early breakfast of fried eggs and underdone bacon, and coffee which made him pine for Hester's. The dishes were neither too clean nor too plentiful, being doused in water as soon as ever they were out of use.

But after breakfast the sun came out, and a crowd collected around the tavern, although the air was chill and the muck deep in the street. Stephen caught glimpses of Mr. Lincoln towering above the knots of country politicians who surrounded him, and every once in a while a knot would double up with laughter. There was no sign that the senatorial aspirant took the situation seriously; that the coming struggle with his skilful antagonist was weighing him down in the least. Stephen held aloof from the groups, thinking that Mr. Lincoln had forgotten him. He decided to leave for St. Louis on the morning train, and was even pushing toward the tavern entrance with his bag in his hand, when he was met by Mr. Hill.

“I had about given you up, Mr. Brice,” he said. “Mr. Lincoln asked me to get hold of you, and bring you to him alive or dead.”

Accordingly Stephen was led to the station, where a long train of twelve cars was pulled up, covered with flags and bunting. On entering one of these, he perceived Mr. Lincoln sprawled (he could think of no other word to fit the attitude) on a seat next the window, and next him was Mr. Medill of the Press and Tribune. The seat just in front was reserved for Mr. Hill, who was to make any notes necessary. Mr. Lincoln looked up. His appearance was even less attractive than the night before, as he had on a dirty gray linen duster.

“I thought you'd got loose, Steve,” he said, holding out his hand. “Glad to see you. Just you sit down there next to Bob, where I can talk to you.”

Stephen sat down, diffident, for he knew that there were others in that train who would give ten years of their lives for that seat.

“I've taken a shine to this Bostonian, Joe,” said Mr Lincoln to Mr. Medill. “We've got to catch 'em young to do anything with 'em, you know. Now, Steve, just give me a notion how politics are over in St. Louis. What do they think of our new Republican party? Too bran new for old St. Louis, eh?”

Stephen saw expostulation in Mr. Medill's eyes, and hesitated. And Mr. Lincoln seemed to feel Medill's objections, as by mental telepathy. But he said:— “We'll come to that little matter later, Joe, when the cars start.”

Naturally, Stephen began uneasily. But under the influence of that kindly eye he thawed, and forgot himself. He felt that this man was not one to feign an interest. The shouts of the people on the little platform interrupted the account, and the engine staggered off with its load.

“I reckon St. Louis is a nest of Southern Democrats,” Mr. Lincoln remarked, “and not much opposition.”

“There are quite a few Old Line Whigs, sir,” ventured Stephen, smiling.

“Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, “did you ever hear Warfield's definition of an Old Line Whig?”

Mr. Medill had not.

“A man who takes his toddy regularly, and votes the Democratic ticket occasionally, and who wears ruffled shirts.”

Both of these gentlemen laughed, and two more in the seat behind, who had an ear to the conversation.

“But, sir,” said Stephen, seeing that he was expected to go on, “I think that the Republican party will gather a considerable strength there in another year or two. We have the material for powerful leaders in Mr. Blair and others” (Mr. Lincoln nodded at the name). “We are getting an ever increasing population from New England, mostly of young men who will take kindly to the new party.” And then he added, thinking of his pilgrimage the Sunday before: “South St. Louis is a solid mass of Germans, who are all antislavery. But they are very foreign still, and have all their German institutions.”

“The Turner Halls?” Mr. Lincoln surprised him by inquiring.

“Yes. And I believe that they drill there.”

“Then they will the more easily be turned into soldiers if the time should come,” said Mr. Lincoln. And he added quickly, “I pray that it may not.”

Stephen had cause to remember that observation, and the acumen it showed, long afterward.

The train made several stops, and at each of them shoals of country people filled the aisles, and paused for a most familiar chat with the senatorial candidate. Many called him Abe. His appearance was the equal in roughness to theirs, his manner if anything was more democratic,—yet in spite of all this Stephen in them detected a deference which might almost be termed a homage. There were many women among them. Had our friend been older, he might have known that the presence of good women in a political crowd portends something. As it was, he was surprised. He was destined to be still more surprised that day.

When they had left behind them the shouts of the little down of Dixon, Mr. Lincoln took off his hat, and produced a crumpled and not too immaculate scrap of paper from the multitude therein.

“Now, Joe,” said he, “here are the four questions I intend to ask Judge Douglas. I am ready for you. Fire away.”

“We don't care anything about the others,” answered Mr. Medill. “But I tell you this. If you ask that second one, you'll never see the United States Senate.”

“And the Republican party in this state will have had a blow from which it can scarcely recover,” added Mr. Judd, chairman of the committee.

Mr. Lincoln did not appear to hear them. His eyes were far away over the wet prairie.

Stephen held his breath. But neither he, nor Medill, nor Judd, nor Hill guessed at the pregnancy of that moment. How were they to know that the fate of the United States of America was concealed in that Question,—was to be decided on a rough wooden platform that day in the town of Freeport, Illinois?

But Abraham Lincoln, the uncouth man in the linen duster with the tousled hair, knew it. And the stone that was rejected of the builders was to become the corner-stone of the temple.

Suddenly Mr. Lincoln recalled himself, glanced at the paper, and cleared his throat. In measured tones, plainly heard above the rush and roar of the train, he read the Question: