In the spring of 1832, Mr. Offutt failed, and Lincoln had nothing to do. For some time past, an Indian rebellion, led by the famous Black Hawk, Chief of the Sac tribe, had caused the greatest alarm in the Western States. About the beginning of this century (1804–5), the Sacs had been removed west of the Mississippi; but Black Hawk, believing that his people had been unjustly exiled, organised a conspiracy which for a while embraced nine of the most powerful tribes of the North-West, and announced his intention of returning and settling in the old hunting-grounds of his people on the Rock River. He was a man of great courage and shrewdness, skilled as an orator, and dreaded as one gifted with supernatural power, combining in his person the war-chief and prophet. But the returning Indians, by committing great barbarities on the way, caused such irritation and alarm among the white settlers, that when Governor Reynolds of Illinois, issued a call for volunteers, several regiments of hardy frontiersmen were at once formed. Black Hawk’s allies, with the exception of the tribe of the Foxes, at once fell away, but their desperate leader kept on in his course. Among the companies which volunteered was one from Menard County, embracing many men from New Salem. The captain was chosen by vote, and the choice fell on Lincoln. He was accustomed to say, when President, that nothing in his life had ever gratified him so much as this promotion; and this may well have been, since, to a very ambitious man, the first practical proofs of popularity are like the first instalment of a great fortune paid to one who is poor.
Though he was never in an actual engagement during this campaign, Lincoln underwent much hunger and hardship while it lasted, and at times had great trouble with his men, who were not only mere raw militia, but also unusually rough and rebellious. One incident of the war, however, as narrated by Lamon, not only indicates that Abraham Lincoln was sometimes in danger, but was well qualified to grapple with it.
“One day, during these many marches and countermarches, an old Indian, weary, hungry, and helpless, found his way into the camp. He professed to be a friend of the whites; and, although it was an exceedingly perilous experiment for one of his colour, he ventured to throw himself upon the mercy of the soldiers. But the men first murmured, and then broke out into fierce cries for his blood. “We have come out to fight Indians,” they said, “and we intend to do it.” The poor Indian, now in the extremity of his distress and peril, did what he should have done before—he threw down before his assailants a soiled and crumpled paper, which he implored them to read before taking his life. It was a letter of character and safe conduct from General Cass, pronouncing him a faithful man, who had done good service in the cause for which this army was enlisted. But it was too late; the men refused to read it, or thought it a forgery, and were rushing with fury upon the defenceless old savage, when Captain Lincoln bounded between them and their appointed victim. “Men,” said he, and his voice for a moment stilled the agitation around him, “this must not be done—he must not be shot and killed by us.” “But,” said some of them, “the Indian is a spy.” Lincoln knew that his own life was now in only less danger than that of the poor creature that crouched behind him. During this scene, the towering form and the passion and resolution in Lincoln’s face produced an effect upon the furious mob. They paused, listened, fell back, and then sullenly obeyed what seemed to be the voice of reason as well as authority. But there were still some murmurs of disappointed rage, and half-suppressed exclamations which looked towards vengeance of some kind. At length one of the men, a little bolder than the rest, but evidently feeling that he spoke for the whole, cried out—“This is cowardly on your part, Lincoln!” “If any man think I am a coward, let him test it,” was the reply. “Lincoln,” responded a new voice, “you are larger and heavier than we are.” “This you can guard against; choose your weapons,” returned the Captain. Whatever may be said of Mr. Lincoln’s choice of means for the preservation of military discipline, it was certainly very effectual in this case. There was no more disaffection in his camp, and the word “coward” was never coupled with his name again. Mr. Lincoln understood his men better than those who would be disposed to criticise his conduct. He has often declared himself that “his life and character were both at stake, and would probably have been lost, had he not at that supremely critical moment forgotten the officer and asserted the man.” The soldiers, in fact, could not have been arrested, tried, or punished; they were merely wild backwoodsmen, “acting entirely by their own will, and any effort to court-martial them would simply have failed in its object, and made their Captain seem afraid of them.”
During this campaign, Lincoln made the acquaintance of a lawyer—then captain—the Hon. T. Stuart, who had subsequently a great influence on his career. When the company was mustered out in May, Lincoln at once re-enlisted as a private in a volunteer spy company, where he remained for a month, until the Battle of Bad Axe, which resulted in the capture of Black Hawk, put an end to hostilities. This war was not a remarkable affair, says J. G. Holland, but it was remarkable that the two simplest, homeliest, and truest men engaged in it afterwards became Presidents of the United States—namely, General, then Colonel, Zachary Taylor and Abraham Lincoln.
It has always been usual in the United States to urge to the utmost the slightest military services rendered by candidates for office. The absurd degree to which this was carried often awoke the satire of Lincoln, even when it was at his own expense. Many years after, he referred thus humorously to his military services13:—
“By the way, Mr. Speaker, did you know I was a military hero? Yes, sir, in the days of the Black Hawk war I fought, bled, and came away. Speaking of General Cass’s career reminds me of my own. I was not at Sullivan’s defeat, but I was about as near to it as Cass was to Hull’s surrender, and, like him, I saw the place soon after. It is quite certain that I did not break my sword, for I had none to break;14 but I bent my musket pretty badly on one occasion. If Cass broke his sword, the idea is he broke it in desperation. I bent the musket by accident. If General Cass went in advance of me in picking whortleberries, I guess I surpassed him in charges upon the wild onions. If he saw any live fighting Indians, it was more than I did; but I had a great many bloody struggles with the mosquitoes, and, although I never fainted from loss of blood, I certainly can say I was often very hungry.”
The soldiers from Sangamon County arrived home just ten days before the State election, and Lincoln was immediately applied to for permission to place his name among the candidates for the Legislature.15 He canvassed the district, but was defeated, though he received the almost unanimous vote of his own precinct. The young man had, however, made a great advance even by defeat, since he became known by it as one whose sterling honesty had deserved a better reward. Lincoln’s integrity was, in this election, strikingly evinced by his adherence to his political principles; had he been less scrupulous, he would not have lost the election. At this time there were two great political parties—the Democratic, headed by Andrew Jackson, elected President in 1832, and that which had been the Federalist, but which was rapidly being called Whig.