The old man did not answer at once. He sat, for a full minute, looking off to the faint line that marked the western hill-range from the star-flecked sky. Over in the corner of the porch the boy, who had listened intently, breathlessly, to the discussion, moved and drew nearer. From somewhere in the house came the faint music of a good-night song. Then Seth Mills, straightening up in his chair, took up again the thread of conversation.
“I don’t see as it’s any use fur you an’ me to argy this thing, Rhett. We don’t git no nearer together. We’ve each got our opinions, an’ so fur as I can see, we’re likely to keep ’em. But you’ve called Abe Lincoln a coward. Now, I want to tell you somethin’. I knowed Lincoln out there in New Salem when he was runnin’ Denton Offut’s store. I’ve told ye that before. An’ I’ve told ye how the Clary’s Grove boys come down one day to match Jack Armstrong ag’inst Lincoln in a wrastlin’ match. An’ how, when Jack tried a foul, Abe got mad, an’ ketched him by the throat an’ give him the blamedest shakin’ up he ever hed in his life. I didn’t see that, but I know the story’s straight. An’ I’ve told ye how he straddled a log with a rope tied to it, an’ pushed out into the Sangamon River at flood, that spring after the deep snow, an’ went tearin’ down with the current, an’ saved the lives o’ three men a-clingin’ to a tree-top in midstream, an’ come near a-losin’ of his own life a-doin’ of it. I seen him do that myself. An’ one night, when we was settin’ round the stove in Offut’s store, swoppin’ yarns, Jim Hanniwell come in considable the worse fur liquor, an’ begun a-cussin’ an’ a-swearin’ like he us’ally did when he was drunk. An’ some women come in to buy somethin’, an’ Jim never stopped, an’ Lincoln says, ‘Jim, that’ll do, they’s women here.’ An’ Jim allowed he’d say what he blame pleased, women or no women, an’ he did. An’ w’en the women was gone, Lincoln come out aroun’ from behind the counter an’ says, ‘Jim, somebody’s got to give you a lickin’ an’ it might as well be me as anybody.’ An’ he took him an’ chucked him out-doors, an’ throwed him into the mud in the road, an’ rubbed dog-fennel into his mouth, till the feller yelled fur mercy. I seen him do that too. Mebbe I’ve told ye all these things before, an’ mebbe I ain’t; but I never told you, nor no one else, what I’m goin’ to tell ye now, an’ I wouldn’t tell ye this ef you hadn’t ’a’ said Abe Lincoln was heartless an’ a coward. It was in that same winter of ’32. I was out with the Clary’s Grove boys one night, an’ the liquor went round perty free, an’ to make a long story short, I was layin’ in a snow-bank alongside the road, about midnight, half a mile from my cabin, dead drunk, an’ the weather around zero. An’ Abe Lincoln happened along that way an’ found me. It ain’t a nice story, Rhett, so fur’s I’m concerned, but I’m a-talkin’ plain to-night. He wasn’t under no obligation to me. I wasn’t much account them days, anyway. But he turned me over an’ seen who I wuz an’ what the matter wuz, an’ then he twisted me up onto his long back, Abe Lincoln did, an’ toted me that hull half-mile up-hill, in zero weather, to my home an’ my wife, God bless her, an’ he dropped me on the bed an’ he says, ‘Let him sleep it off, Mis’ Mills; he’ll feel better in the mornin’; an’ when he wakes up tell him Abe Lincoln asks him not to drink any more.’ An’ I ain’t, Rhett,—I ain’t teched a drop o’ liquor sence that night. But what I want to say is that the man that had strength enough an’ heart enough to do that fur me who was nothin’ to him, has got strength enough an’ heart enough an’ grit enough to carry this country that he loves, on his bent shoulders, through the awfulest storm that ever swept it, till he brings it home safe an’ sound an’ unbroken to all of us. It’s a mighty task, Rhett Bannister; but he’s a-goin’ to do it; I know ’im, an’ I tell ye he’s a-goin’ to do it; an’ when he’s done it, you an’ me an’ ev’ry man ’at loves his country as he ort to, is goin’ to git down on our knees an’ thank God ’at Abraham Lincoln ever lived.”
Clear and resonant on the night air the old man’s voice rang as he finished his story and rose to his feet. And while his face could not be seen for the darkness, they who heard him felt that it was aglow with enthusiasm and love for the largest-minded, biggest-hearted man that had ever crossed his path—Abraham Lincoln. And Bob, leaning far forward in his chair, drinking in every word of the story, thrilled with the earnestness of the speaker, felt his heart fired anew with reverence and enthusiasm for the great war-president, and with zeal for the cause which he had so faithfully espoused.
Rhett Bannister was too much of a gentleman and too deeply artistic in temperament to try to break with argument or depreciation the force of the old man’s recital.
“Oh, well!” he said, rising. “We all have our heroes. This would be a sad world if there were no heroes to worship. And I can’t blame you, Seth, for having put a halo around Lincoln’s head.”
“Thank you, Rhett; good-night!”
The old man limped slowly down the path and out into the road and turned his face toward home. After that, to those who sat upon the porch, the quiet of the windless, starlit summer night was unbroken. Over in the direction of the village an occasional rocket flared up into the sky and fell back into darkness—nothing more.
But from that night the dominating personality in Bob Bannister’s life was Abraham Lincoln. Look which way he would, the vision of that rugged, kindly face, which he had seen so often pictured, and the tall, gaunt form, stood out ever before his eyes, heroic, paternal, potential to the uttermost. From Seth Mills he obtained a small volume published in 1860 reciting the President’s career. And from the same source he got what was much better, that modest, unique sketch of Lincoln’s life, written by himself at about the same time for the same purpose. These books he read and reread many times, and the oftener he read them the greater grew his admiration for the one great hero of his thought and life.
In the meantime, under the conscription act of March 3, 1863, put in force by the proclamation of the President, the enrollment for the draft went on. In many of the states the drawings were made in July. On the thirteenth of that month began the draft riots in the city of New York, which were suppressed only after the destruction by the mob of much property, after the shedding of much blood and the loss of many lives. The country was deeply stirred. The anti-war party took advantage of the opportunity to denounce the government at Washington openly and bitterly. Only in communities where the sentiment was intensely patriotic was the policy of the draft upheld. Mount Hermon was one of these communities. Already partially depopulated by her voluntary contributions of men to the Union armies, she nevertheless accepted the situation philosophically and cheerfully, believing with Lincoln, that this was the only practical way to put a speedy end to the war.