Part 3

Joshua Peniman shook his head. "No, brother Charles, thee knows that that would not be possible. Thy affectionate heart is speaking now, not thy reason. Thee knows how I stand on this matter of slavery. Thee knows that already I have embroiled myself, have made many and bitter enemies for myself by my connection with the underground railway. I _have_ run off runaway slaves, and I will run them off again every chance I get; for I believe it to be a wicked and iniquitous business. No man has a right to own and control another human being. I am a man of peace, who loves my fellow-man, and yet"--he paused and turned his eyes upon Joe, who crimsoned under the scrutiny,--"no longer ago than yesterday I found my oldest son, an offshoot of good old Quaker stock, drilling a company of boys in the manoeuvres of war."

"I didn't mean any harm, Father," burst forth Joe, "thee knows that I would not hurt any one! It is only that it is fun to drill. I love to march and counter-march my men about."

His father nodded. "I know, my son. And therein lies the danger. Thou art breathing in the spirit of warfare with the very air. I do not blame thee, lad; how could it be otherwise? The minds of men are full of it. The papers are full of it, and people talk of little else. I tell thee, friends, war is inevitable, and I will not have my young lads filled with the spirit of it. Hannah thinks as I do, and long before the red carnival of blood-lust is let loose in the land we will be far away, out on the clean, wholesome prairies, where our boys and girls can grow up to noble man and womanhood untouched and untainted by the unholy slaughter."

"But thee should think of the material prosperity of thy children as well as their spiritual good, brother Joshua," argued Charles. "Thee knows that out there in that untrodden wilderness they will have little or no opportunity for education----"

"We are thinking of their material prosperity. What chance in life would our nine children have here? I would be a poor man all my life, and could do nothing to establish a future for them. With a big family like ours we need room, more opportunity for development, and that we will find in the new country. If we go west now, while the children and the country are both young they will have great opportunities. I will take up a homestead and make them a good home, and as the boys grow old enough they can take up timber-claims and homesteads so that by the time they reach manhood they will each have a valuable property, a good start in life, and a chance to make of themselves whatever they see fit."

"Yes, but their education----" urged Charles, whose heart was sore at the thought of seeing his brother and his young family set forth for that strange, far land, and hoped even now at the last moment to turn him from the purpose.

"That does not trouble us, Charles. Thee knows that I was once a teacher in a college, and that Hannah has also had a good education. There is nothing to prevent us from conducting a little school of our own for our children until such time as there will be good schools in that growing country for them to attend."

"But what good'll schoolin' do 'em if they was all to get skulped by them bloody Injuns out there?" put in Bill Hale. "My wife's sister-in-law's cousin went out west onct, an' he never come back. The Injuns got him. Like's not they made soup of him. But I'm bound to say that if he was anything like the rest of that family he'd 'a' made dern poor soup, even fer a cannibal."

Joshua Peniman did not join in the general laugh that followed Bill's remark. He glanced uneasily at his watch, then at the house.

"Call thy mother, Joe," he said; "it is growing late, the sun is up, and we should be on our way. Ah, here they come now!"

As he spoke Mrs. Peniman came down the steps, the baby in her arms, leading little David by the hand. Her sister Jenny followed with Mary, and Ruth and Sara walked on either side of their grandmother, their hands in hers, while Sam and Paul, with red noses and watery eyes, followed.

The powerful bay team, Jim and Charley, hitched to the big wagon, were prancing and fidgeting, and the sorrel team, Kit and Billy, hitched to the lighter wagon, which it had been decided that Joe should drive, were harnessed and ready, when Bill Hale came racing from the house waving a bundle in his hand.

"What's the matter?" cried Joe, checking them up. "We must have left something behind!"

"Couldn't have forgotten the baby, could we?" queried Sam.

By this time Bill Hale had reached them, carrying a large bundle tied up in a napkin in one hand, and in the other swinging a pair of squawking chickens by the legs.

"Ye 'most missed it, I tell ye," he grinned. "Ol' Mis' Perkins brought ye over some things t' take on your journey, an' she never got here until jist now. I've et Ma Perkins' pies an' things an' I couldn't abear fer ye to miss 'em."

He handed the package tied up in the napkin to Mr. Peniman.

"Mis' Perkins 'lowed she wanted to send some chicken along fer yer lunch," he went on, looking down at the squawking fowls in his hand, "but hearin' that the Friends had cooked up s' much fer ye she figgered she hadn't better cook hern, but send 'em along on th' hoof like, so's ye could have 'em any time ye liked."

The children all laughed, and even Mr. Peniman smiled.

"That was very kind of Friend Perkins," he said. "Thank her for us, won't you, Bill? But I declare I don't see how we are going to take those live chickens! We've got about all the live stock we can handle now."

"Oh, we must take them, Joshua," said Mrs. Peniman. "It would never do to send them back when she was so kind. We can manage to take care of them somehow."

"I've got a box in my wagon that hasn't much in it, Father," said Joe; "we could turn the things out and put them in that."

"You can kill and eat them any time they get to be a bother, you know," said Uncle Charles, who stood by.

Ruth, who loved every living creature, and who would have fed and mothered any number of pets, protested loudly.

"Oh, we will _not_ kill them, Uncle Charles!" she cried. "Look at them, Father, aren't they perfect darlings? Let's take them along for pets, Father, I'll take care of them!"

By this time Joe and Lige had cleared the box of its contents, and with Bill Hale's help soon had the struggling fowls shut up in it, with slats nailed up in front to keep them in.

"Oh, aren't they _lovely_ chickies?" cooed Ruth, who had jumped out of the wagon to watch the operation. "We'll call this one Dicky, and this one Mother Feathertop, to always remind us of our old Mother Feathertop at home."

"All right; ready there?" called Mr. Peniman.

Cherry, the red cow, that was tied behind the big wagon, looked back and gave a mournful bellow, as if she knew that she was leaving her old home forever; Spotty, the collie dog, leaped forward with a bark, and the children scrambled to their places in the wagons.

Joe never liked to remember the few moments that followed, as relatives, friends, neighbors, chums, and playmates of a lifetime crowded close about the wagons to bid them good-bye. There were sobs and tears, close embraces, choked words of love and farewell; hands were shaken, tears shed, husky good-byes spoken. But it was soon over.

The boys sprang to their places, the reins were gathered up, the word of command spoken, and the prairie schooners drove slowly out of the farmyard, en route for the Golden West.

*CHAPTER V*

*WESTWARD HO!*

The road over which the Peniman family set forth led through southern and eastern Ohio, where the roads were good, shade and water abundant, and where pretty towns and villages lined the way, so that their larder was always plentifully supplied with fresh meat, fruits, and vegetables.

The wagons in which they were to make their long overland journey to the new territory of Nebraska had been carefully prepared for the comfort of the travelers, and the first part of the trip was like nothing so much as a prolonged family picnic. Their night camp was made in beautiful woods beside murmuring streams, and if bad weather came a town or village was always within easy reach, where the wagons could be put in a stable and the family repair to a hotel until the storm was over.

On their seventh day out they reached Columbus, and during the week that followed traveled across the western part of Ohio and crossed into Indiana, where they made a stop of a few days with old Quaker friends.

Their progress was necessarily slow, averaging not more than fifteen to twenty miles a day. On June seventh they arrived in Indianapolis, then but a small and inconsequential town, where they made a stop of a few hours to lay in a fresh suppy of meat, fresh fruits, bread, butter, and vegetables, then struck into the main road leading north and west to Crawfordsville, where they stopped long enough to buy a doll for little Mary, a tin trumpet for David, and ice-cream for the rest of the family.

This part of the journey, while pleasant and interesting, was uneventful, and though the boys enjoyed it, much as they would have enjoyed a prolonged picnic, they were looking eagerly forward to the adventures which lay in the wild and untrodden land beyond the Missouri River.

On June fourteenth they arrived at the beautiful Wabash River, and made their camp upon its banks for the night, where the whole family had a refreshing bath in its sparkling waters.

Up to this time the weather had been fine, the roads excellent, and the traveling pleasant. But the day they began their journey across the State of Illinois the weather changed and a heavy rain set in which materially interfered with both their comfort and their progress.

At first the children found it rather fun sitting snug and dry under their canvas roof while the rain pattered down upon it. But when day followed day and the rain continued to fall, when they had to make camp at night in wet groves with a fire that would not burn and clothes and shoes that were never dry, it was not quite so pleasant.

Betrayed into neglecting his canvas covers by the long dry spell Mr. Peniman now found that they had shrunken from the sun and were beginning to leak, and the family woke morning after morning to find the rain spraying down into their faces, and to crawl out of damp beds to find the ground a mush of wet grass and mud, and no dry wood obtainable with which to start their fire.

There was no running before or behind the wagons these days, no playing in the fields, picking wild-flowers or frolicking on the road as the white-topped wagons crawled along; all day long while the horses plodded monotonously along through puddles of water or mud that went over their fetlocks and ruts that let the wagons down almost to the hubs of the wheels, they sat tired, bored, and hoping for fair weather and sunshine.

On the fourth day of the rain, when the wagons had become so damp that they were decidedly uncomfortable, they came to a house toward evening, and Mr. Peniman alighted to ask if the people who lived in it would give them shelter for the night. They found both husband and wife down with the ague, and little cheer or comfort in the neglected house, but were glad to accept the shelter of its roof and the chance to dry their clothes by the fire. When they were starting on in the morning Mr. Peniman tried to buy some hay and grain from the owner of the place, whose name was Grigsby, but he refused to sell.

"Nope," he said, drooping listlessly against the door-post with a shawl over his shoulders, "I cain't sell you no grain nor hay. Had th' shakes so bad this spring I hain't got to do much farmin', and I hain't got hardly enough to feed my stock." Then, as a shrill squeal pierced the air his eyes brightened and an idea seemed to strike him. "But I tell you what I will do," he drawled, "I'll sell you two of the nicest little suckin' pigs you ever see. Their mother up an' died of the cholery a few nights ago, and they ain't old enough to eat yit. Me an' the old woman, havin' th' shakes so, cain't bother to feed 'em, so I'll let you have the pair of 'em for two dollars. Goin' off in th' wilderness like you be they might come in handy."

He shuffled off to the barn, and soon returned carrying a basket in which were two tiny pigs only a few days old. With a grin he drew from his pocket a nursing-bottle filled with warm milk and held it to the little white pig's mouth. It took hold like an old hand at the business, and the children shouted with glee while the little spotted brother squealed shrilly with envy.

When the nursing-bottle had been refilled Ruth demanded the privilege of feeding the protesting young porker, and sitting down in the straw took the little pig in her lap and fed it so dexterously that her brothers yelled with delight.

Of course that settled it.

With one accord the children demanded the possession of the two little pigs, and with a long-headed thought for the possible needs of the future Mr. Peniman agreed, and the listless Grigsby filled a box with straw and packed the little fellows cosily into it.

"What shall we name them, Father?" cried Ruth, hanging lovingly over them. "They are such darlings they ought to have real lovely names."

"Call them Romeo and Juliet," said Mr. Peniman, with a twinkle in his eyes.

In talking with the Grigsbys Mr. Peniman had learned that they had chosen a bad road, and were traveling through a poor and swampy part of Illinois, where the roads were all bad and chills and fever prevalent, and by their advice had left the road over which they came and striking north and west came out upon a much better road, that in the course of a few days' traveling brought them to the Sangamon River, and a few days later to Decatur. Here they remained a few days to dry out their clothes and wagons and renew their supply of provisions, being regaled at supper that night with sweet corn and watermelons.

It was now July first, and very hot weather. The travelers were burned and tanned as brown as Indians, and were beginning to feel like real pioneers. They drove into Springfield, the capital of the State, on the evening of the third of July, and Joshua Peniman suggested to his wife that the wagons be put up in a livery stable and the whole family go to a hotel, where they could all have a good tub bath, a night's rest in a real bed, and a few meals at a real table.

"We are going far away into the wilderness," he said, "and it may be years before our children will have a chance to see a Fourth of July celebration again. I believe that all young Americans should love and honor that day. I think we had better stay over to-morrow in Springfield, let the little ones have a good time, and take the boys to see the celebration we see advertised, while thee has a good rest at a hotel."

When told of this plan the young Penimans were delighted. The novelty of traveling in the wagons had begun to pall a trifle, and the thought of a day in a city, a night at a hotel, and the exciting events promised by the great posters that lined the roads, gave them great pleasure.

It turned out to be a great day for them. They started out immediately after breakfast, and firecrackers, torpedoes, flags, and rockets were purchased at the first store they came to, and in the intervals of other excitement the boys revelled in pops and bangs and explosions, while the girls exploded their torpedoes on the sidewalks, and they all marched gaily to the music of many bands.

There was a great parade in the forenoon, in which the Whigs and Democrats vied with each other in the exhibition of floats, bands, and flower-decked carriages. Long columns of men of both parties marched and shouted, bearing transparencies extolling the virtues of their particular candidates. The Buchanan men wore white coats and caps, and carried huge portraits of their candidate.

There was to be a great political rally at the park in the afternoon, and after dinner the boys and their father followed the crowd to the pretty shaded inclosure, where a great pavilion had been erected, gorgeously decorated with flags and bunting.

The place was already crowded when they arrived, but they pushed their way through the throng and succeeded in getting seats on a long bench before the speakers' stand.

It seemed a little thing that they should be so placed that Joe should be able to look directly into the speaker's face and hear his every word, but upon such trifling things the whole course of a life sometimes depends.

Bands played, a great chorus upon the platform stood up and sang "America," and then a stir and flutter passed through the crowd as a party of gentlemen in frock coats with tall "chimney-pot" hats, made their way to the platform, where they were greeted with great bursts of applause.

The Peniman boys had never heard a public speech in their lives. Partly owing to the fact that their father was a Quaker and avoided discussion of the question that was beginning to seethe and burn through the length and breadth of the land, partly because of the remote and quiet farm from which they had come, they had heard little of the agitation of the times.

Politics were at a white heat throughout the country. The pro-slavery and anti-slavery parties were each using every artifice in their power to elect their candidates. Arguments, discussions, public speeches and inflammatory meetings were taking place in every part of the United States, and the fire that later burst into so fierce a conflagration was beginning to smoulder hotly beneath the surface.

There was something in the very air of that meeting that breathed tension, excitement. And Joshua Peniman felt a cold chill smite his heart, as sitting with his young sons he listened to the conversation that went on about him. Joe, too, felt the electric atmosphere. His eyes brightened and his color rose. When a dapper little gentleman with a massive head and a keen, ruddy face mounted the platform and began to speak he leaned forward eagerly.

He liked the speech. The cultured voice, the smooth periods, the forceful gestures of the man fascinated him. Yet he found his mind continually protesting against the statements he made. The boy knew nothing of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, the Wilmot Proviso, or the Missouri Compromise, but as the speaker proceeded he found himself arguing passionately against him in his own mind. When the speaker sat down, amid terrific applause, Joe turned to his father.

"Who is he, Father?" he asked in a whisper.

"His name is Douglas--Stephen A. Douglas. He is a United States Senator from Illinois," replied Mr. Peniman.

"He's a great speaker," whispered Joe thoughtfully; then half-hesitatingly, as if trying to put into words a thing that was not clear in his own mind, "but somehow--I suppose it's pretty presumptuous of me to say so--but somehow I don't agree with what he says."

Joshua Peniman turned a quick, pleased look upon his son's face.

"Nor do I, Joe. His reasoning is false, spurious. Such a policy as he is advocating could only plunge our country into endless trouble. He is a Democrat, and though he claims that he does not care whether 'the cause of slavery be voted up or voted down' he is doing more, perhaps, than any other one man in the Senate to uphold it and increase its power and territory."

"But, Father----" began Joe, but his whispering voice was lost in a terrific storm of cheers and hoots and yells as a tall, gaunt man in a long-tailed coat of shabby black, mounted the platform.

As he began to speak, in a deep, earnest voice, that had in it now and then a whimsical quality of humor, now and then a deep note of pathos, there was a general craning forward in the crowd, a stillness, a breathless attention, that had not been accorded the previous speaker.

From his first words Joe sat entranced. In every statement that he made the boy found an echo in his own heart. His blood tingled, his color rose, he clenched and unclenched his hands, a great surge of exultation, excitement, a stir that he had never before known passed through all his being.

The crowd about him seemed equally roused and swayed by the words of the speaker. At times as the impassioned sentences rose and swelled through the air they were stopped by the wild cheers that burst from the throats of the thousands of listeners. And when he leaned forward, pointing his long, gaunt finger at them, his deep, sad eyes fixed as if in prophetic vision, a stillness so great passed over the audience that the breathing of the man next him was perfectly audible.

"And I contend," thundered the orator, "that no man is good enough to own and govern another man without that other's consent. Slavery is founded on the selfishness of man's nature; opposition to it is founded on the love of justice. These principles are in eternal antagonism, and when brought into collision so fiercely as slavery extension brings them, shocks and throes and convulsions must ceaselessly follow. These two principles cannot stand together. They are as opposite as God and Mammon; and whoever holds to one must despise the other. 'A house divided against itself cannot stand.' I believe that this government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved--I do not expect the house to fall--but I do expect that it will cease to be divided."

The last words rang out in such an earnest, impressive, almost prophetic tone as to make a cold shiver run through the audience. For a moment the speaker stood silent, his black hair fallen forward over his forehead, his sad grey eyes, deep-set and hollow, gazing out over the assembled people. Then as a great storm of applause broke out and the people made a rush for the platform he bowed and retired.

Joe woke as from a trance when the audience began to file out.

"Who was he, Father?" he asked breathlessly. "Who was that man?"

As he looked up into his father's face he saw that his cheeks were flushed and his usually gentle, kindly eyes were blazing.

"His name is Lincoln, I believe," he answered, rousing himself with an effort from the thoughts the address had set running in his mind. "He is a lawyer, a member of the legislature from Sangamon County, some one told me."

For a long time Joe was silent. Lige spoke to him about something else, but he did not hear him. When he spoke again they were out on the street and on their way back to the hotel.

"Do you believe I could ever be a lawyer, Father?" he asked.

His father smiled, then answered gravely, "I have no doubt you could, Joe, if you set your mind on it."

"And a member of the legislature--like that man?"

Joshua Peniman laughed outright. "Well, I don't know about that, my son. That man appears to me to be a rather unusual sort of a person. But you might become a member of the legislature, perhaps."

"Then that's what I'm going to do when I'm a man," said Joe decisively.

After a long pause he lifted his eyes to his father's face.

"Do you believe in the abolition of slavery, Father?"

"I do indeed, my son," replied Mr. Peniman earnestly. "As Mr. Lincoln said 'No man has a right to own and govern another without that other's consent.'"

"Do you believe in the abolition of slavery enough to fight for it, Father,--if our country should have to go to war?"

"Quakers cannot fight, Joe. We are bound to peace."

"But if war should come," urged the boy, "if we should have to fight--if the South should secede----"

"_God forbid!_" cried Joshua Peniman, in a voice whose deep, quavering earnestness was a slight indication of the storm that was raging in his heart. "May God forbid such a catastrophe! Let us not talk of it. Let us not _think_ of it. Let us pray the Almighty Ruler of the Universe to avert so frightful a calamity to our nation!"