In The Boyhood of Lincoln Part 4

"My father," began the old story-teller, "came to Kentucky from Virginia. His name was Abraham Lincoln. I have always thought that was a good, solid name--a worthy name--and so I gave it to my boy here, and hope that he will never bring any disgrace upon it. I never can be much in this world; Abe may.

"This was in Daniel Boone's day. On our way to Kentucky we began to hear terrible stories of the Indian attacks on the new settlers. In 1780, the year that we emigrated from Virginia, there were many murders of the settlers by the Indians, which were followed by the battle of Lower Blue Licks, in which Boone's son was wounded.

"I have heard my mother and the old settlers talk over that battle.

When Daniel Boone found that his son was wounded, he tried to carry him away. There was a river near, and he lifted the boy upon his back and hurried toward it. As he came to the river, the boy grew heavy.

"'Father, I believe that I am dying,' said the boy.

"'We will be across the river soon,' said Boone. 'Hold on.'

"The boy clung to his father's neck with stiffening arms. While they were crossing the river the son died. Oh, it was a sight for pity--now, wasn't it, preacher? Boone in the river, with the dead body of his boy on his back. Our country has known few scenes like that. How that father must 'a' felt! You furriners little know these things.

"The Indians swam after him. He laid down the body of his son on the ground and struck into the forest.

"It was in this war that Boone's little daughter was carried away by the Indians. I must tell ye. I love to talk of old times.

"She was at play with two other little girls outside of the stockade at Boonesborough, on the Kentucky River. There was a canoe on the bank.

"'Let us take the canoe and go across the river,' said one of the girls, innocent-like.

"Well, they got into the boat and paddled across the running river to the opposite side. They reached shallow water, when a party of Indians, who had been watching them, cunning-like, stole out of the thick trees 'n' rushed down to the canoe 'n' drew it to the sh.o.r.e. The girls screamed, and their cries were heard at the fort.

"Night was falling. Three of the Indians took a little girl apiece, and, looking back to the fort in the sunset, uttered a shriek of defiance, such as would ha' made yer flesh creep, and disappeared in the timber.

"That night a party was got together at the fort to pursue the Indians and rescue the children.

"Well, near the close of the next day the party came upon these Indians, some forty miles from the fort. They approached the camp cautiously, coyote-like, 'n' saw that the girls were there.

"'Shoot carefully, now,' said the leader. 'Each man bring down an Indian, or the children will be killed before we can reach them.'

"They fired upon the Indians, picking out the three who were nearest the children. Not one of the Indians was. .h.i.t, but the whole party was terribly frightened, leaped up, 'n' run like deer. The children were rescued unharmed 'n' taken back to the fort. You would think them was pretty hard times, wouldn't ye?

"There was one event that happened at the time about which I have heard the old folks tell, with staring eyes, and I will never forget it. The Indians came one night to attack a log-house in which were a man, his wife, and daughter, named Merrill. They did not wish to burn the cabin, but to enter it and make captives of the family; so they cut a hole in the door, with their hatchets, large enough to crawl through one at a time. They wounded Mr. Merrill outright.

"But Mrs. Merrill was a host in herself. Her only weapon was an axe, and there never was fought in Kentucky, or anywhere else in the world, I'm thinkin', such another battle as that.

"The leader of the Indians put his head through the hole in the door and began to crawl into the room, slowly--slowly--so--"

Mr. Lincoln put out his great arms, and moved his hands mysteriously.

"Well," he continued, "what do you suppose happened? Mrs. Merrill she dealt that Indian a death-blow on the head with the axe, just like _that_, and then drew him in slowly, slowly. The Indians without thought that he had crawled in himself, and another Indian followed him slowly, slowly. That Indian received his death-blow on the head, and was pulled in like the first, slowly. Another and another Indian were treated in the same way, until the dark cabin floor presented an awful scene for the morning.

"Only one or two were left without. The women felt that they were now the masters in the contest, and stood looking on what they had done.

There fell a silence over the place. Still, awful still everywhere. What a silence it was! The two Indians outside listened. Why were their comrades so still? What had happened? Why was everything so still? One of them tried to look through the hole in the door into the dark and b.l.o.o.d.y room. Then the two attempted to climb down the chimney from the low roof of the cabin, but Mrs. Merrill put her bed into the fireplace and set it on fire.

"Such were some of the scenes of my father's few years of life in Kentucky; and now comes the most dreadful memory of all. Oh, it makes me wild to think o' it! Preacher, as I said, my father was killed by the Indians. You did not know that before, did you? No; well, it was so.

Abraham Lincoln was shot by the red-skins. I was with him at the time, a little boy then, and I shall never forget that awful morning--never, never!--Abraham, mind the potatoes; you've heard the story a hundred times."

Young Abraham Lincoln turned the potatoes and brightened the fire.

Thomas Lincoln bent over and rested his body on his knees, and held his pipe out in one hand.

"Preacher, listen. One morning father looked out of the cabin door, and said to mother:

"'I must go to the field and build a fence to-day. I will let Tommy go with me.'

"I was Tommy. I was six years old then. He loved me, and liked to have me with him. It was in the year 1784--I never shall forget the dark days of that year!--never, never.

"I had two brothers older than myself, Mordecai and Josiah. We give boys Scriptur' names in those days. They had gone to work in another field near by.

"We went to the field where the rails were to be cut and laid, and father began to work. He was a great, n.o.ble-looking man, and a true pioneer. I can see him now. I was playing near him, when suddenly there came a shot as it were out of the air. My poor father reeled over and fell down dead. What must have been his last thoughts of my mother and her five children? I have often thought of that--what must have been his last thoughts? Well, Preacher, you listen.

"A band of Indians came leaping out of the bush howling like demons. I fell upon the ground. I can sense the fright now. A tall, black Indian, with a face like a wolf, came and stood over me, and was about to seize hold of me. I could hear him breathe. There came a shot from the house, and the Indian dropped down beside me, dead. My brother Mordecai had seen father fall, 'n' ran to the house 'n' fired that shot that saved my life. Josiah had gone to the stockade for help, and he returned soon with armed men, and the Indians disappeared.

"O Preacher, those were dark days, wasn't they? Dark, dark days! You never saw such. They took up my father's body--what a sight!--and bore it into the cabin. You should have seen my poor mother then. What was to help us? Only the blue heavens were left us then. What could we do? My mother and five children alone in the wilderness full of savages!

"Preacher, I have seen dark days! I have known what it was to be poor and supperless and friendless; but I never sought revenge on the Indians, though Mordecai did. I'm glad that you're going to preach among them. I couldn't do it, with such memories as mine, perhaps; but I'm glad you can, 'n' I hope that you will go and do them good. Heaven bless those who seek to do good in this sinful world--"

"Abraham, are the potatoes done?" said a gentle voice.

"Yes, mother."

"Then pa.s.s them 'round. Give the preacher one first; then your father. I do not care for any."

The tall boy pa.s.sed the roasted potatoes around as directed. Jasper ate his potato in silence. The stories of the hards.h.i.+ps of this forest family had filled his heart with sympathy, and Thomas Lincoln had _acted_ the stories that he told in such a way as to leave a most vivid impression on his mind.

"These stories make you sad," said Mrs. Lincoln to Jasper. "They are heart-rendin', and I sometimes think it is almost wrong to tell them. Do you think it is right to tell a story that awakens hard and rebellious feelin's? 'Evil communications corrupt good manners,' the Good Book says. I sometimes wish that folks would tell only stories that are good, and make one the better for hearin'--parables like."

"My heart feels for you all," said Jasper. "I feel for everybody. This life is all new to me."

"Let us have something more cheerful now," said Mrs. Lincoln.--"Abraham, recite to the preacher a piece from the English Reader."

"Which one, mother?"

"The Hermit--how would that do? I don't know much about poetry, but Abraham does. He makes it up. It is a queer turn of mind he has. He learns all the poetry that he can find, and makes it up himself out of his own head. He's got poetry in him, though he don't look so. How he ever does it, puzzles me. His mother was poetic like. It is a gift, like grace. Where do you suppose it comes from, and what will he ever do with it? He ain't like other boys. He's kind o' peculiar some.--Come, Abraham, recite to us The Hermit. It is a proper good piece."

The tall boy came out of "the flue" and stood before the dying fire. The old leather-covered English Reader, which he said in later life was the best book ever written, lay on the table before him. He did not open it, however. He put his hands behind him and raised his dark face as in a kind of abstraction. He began to recite slowly in a clear voice, full of a peculiar sympathy that gave color to every word. He seemed as though he felt that the experience of the poet was somehow a prophecy of his own life; and it was. He himself became a skeptical man in religious thought, but returned to the simple faith of his ancestors amid the dark scenes of war.

The poem was a beautiful one in form and soul, an old English pastoral, by Beattie. How grand it seemed, even to unpoetic Thomas Lincoln, as it flowed from the lips of his studious son!

_THE HERMIT._

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with Nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man:

"Ah, why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languis.h.i.+ng fall?

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall.

But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O soothe him whose pleasures like thine pa.s.s away: Full quickly they pa.s.s--but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays: But lately I marked when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.

Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again: But man's faded glory what change shall renew?