The boyhood of Abraham Lincoln

Preface

The following stories about the boy Abraham Lincoln were given to me at intervals, during a period of four or five years, by Austin GoUaher, who spent all his life among the hills of LaRue County, Kentucky, having been born in that county in the year 1806, and having died there on February 22, 1898.

Twenty-five years ago, when I was on The LaRue County Herald j a weekly newspaper published at Hodgenville, Kentucky, the town of my birth and upbringing, I found much pleasure in visiting the home of Mr. Gollaher, and drawing from him these tales of the days when he and Lincoln, children of the -wilderness, played in the woods, and along Knob Creek, upon the banks of which the boy Austin Gollaher lived when the Lincolns moved from Cave Spring Farm to the Knob Creek hills.

Mr. Gollaher was unschooled, but he pos-

PREFACE

sessed a keen intellect, and talked interestingly and intelligently of his and Lincoln's childhood in LaRue County. In answer to my questions Mr. Gollaher, little by little, related the narratives quite free from intentional embellishment, I feel sure.

In following these pages, however, the reader is asked to bear in mind that they are leaves from the loving memory of an old man. Abraham Lincoln was, in the recollection of Austin Gollaher, the great event ; he was at once playmate and prophet, the day's companion and the man for the ages. ]Mr. Gollaher saw the boy through the splendor of the man's later years, and while he sought a scrupulous truth to fact — for he ever made probity his watchword — it would have been extraordinary, if not impossible, for his narration of early youth to escape the coloring and the glamour of an imperishable name.

It is undoubtedly true that no one, except the writer, preserved the data from which this series of stories has been written. I did so because they were of great personal in-

PREFACE

terest to me, and not with any thought at the time of offering them to the public. But since every word about Lincoln has become precious I feel it my duty and my pleasure to give to the world these simple stories, simply told, of the great American's birth, infancy and childhood. They can hardly fail to interest all who love his memory and the many who know but little of these young years in LaRue County.

INIr. Gollaher contended that some of the historians were in error in saying that Thomas Lincoln and his family moved to Indiana in the fall of 1816; he said the Lincolns did not leave Kentucky until a year later, as recorded in Mrs. Gollaher's diary, or as he called it, "Mother's book of things"; that he and his father went with the Lincolns to JNIiddle Creek, a small stream, now the dividing line between Hardin and La- Rue Counties, to help with a cow which was a little unruly, and that the journey was begun one bright morning in November, 1817.

Mr. Gollaher associated Lincoln with

PREFACE

practically all of his memories of pioneer days in the Knob Creek hills. The essentials of the stories are presented as he gave them to me. In retelling them I believed it permissible to go back more than one hundred years into the homes of the pioneers — to visit among them — to be with the Lincolns, the Gollahers, the Hodgens and others — to go with Abe and Austin into the hills, to watch them at their play, to listen to and record their conversations. I have, therefore, dramatized Mr. Gollaher's reminiscences in order to reconstruct with more realism the life of the period, and have allowed Abe and Austin, their friends and neighbors to talk in character and so, naturally, reveal in anecdote and experience the early life of the boy who was to become one of the world's greatest figures.

J. R. G.

Hodgenville, Kentuckj^

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I Austin Gollaher 13

II Looking Backward 20

Chapter I Austin Gollaher

"God has been mighty good to me all of these years," said Mr. Gollaher. "He has given me strength and health, and enough sense to keep me always in the straight and narrow path. In the closing days of my life I am happy ; my children are kind to me, and so are my friends and neighbors, and I have lots to be thankful for. Why!" he said seriously, "even now my eyesight is pretty good and I can read my Bible and teach my Sunday-school class."

For thirty years he was a deacon in a 13 little Baptist church which nestled among the hills near his home. There he preached and sang and taught until the weight of time weakened his strong body and forced him to the seclusion of his cabin home.

Mr. Gollaher loved children, and was always pleased when he could visit a schoolhouse and tell some of his favorite stories of ''Abe." He was a good talker and, while his language was not entirely free of grammatical errors, what he said was always sensible and entertaining, and his advice to boys and girls always wholesome. The children returned his love, and would often cling to him, pat his ruddy cheeks and beg him to tell more stories from the Bible, or about his boy friend, ''Abe."

Mr. Gollaher was a stalwart man, and even in his old age was strong and athletic. He was six feet high, broad-shouldered and full of untiring energy. He greeted stranger and friend with a cordial hand-shake and never failed to say: "I

.J

AUSTIN GOLLAHER 15

hope your health and the health of your family is good." Particularly did he ask after the health of the people of the neighborhood. If he found illness anywhere he would lose little time in going to the bedside of the afflicted. He knew something of medicine and was glad when he could contribute to the comforts of the suffering.

He was a leader in his community and there was none who disliked him. As he rode his mule through the hills, he would often break into song, the folks along the way joining with him. He used to say he had the biggest band of singers in the world, that even the birds belonged to his choir.

Mr. Gollaher was without personal ambition, but was always eager to assist in any project for the upbuilding of the neighborhood. He was one of the leading spirits and speakers in meetings called for the advancement of pioneer interests. In his younger days he was a fighter, although not quarrelsome, but after he was twenty-five he settled into peaceful ways and would say, laughingly, that all the fights of his youth could have been avoided. He found more pleasure in felling trees to build cabins than he would have found in laying corner-stones for mansions — more satisfying pleasure in the hunt than he would have found in business or politics.

*'I regret that I neglected to well educate myself," he said. "Abe always tried to get me to learn from the books, but I couldn't at that time see the need of it. Why, do you know," he exclaimed, "that had I been well educated I would have been Abe 's law partner ? And then, when he became president, he would have appointed me to a judgeship. I learned to read and write and figure pretty well, because Abe begged me to, and I have been glad of it always, because I was able to read of the greatness of my boyhood companion.

AUSTIN GOLLAHER 17

"The fact is," continued Mr. Gollaher, **I studied hard for a while, and learned fast, but I didn't keep at it; there were too many attractions in the hills, and I would neglect my studies any time to go hunting. In those days I believed a coonskin more valuable than a book, and every time my dog barked, I went to the woods. I spent lots of my time in taking coons from the hollow trees. But notwithstanding I whiled away a great many hours loafing with my dog I was better educated than most of the folks in our community ; in fact, I was considered such a smart fellow that they put me to teaching school when I was not much more than a youngster. I taught over there where the Wilkins post-office now stands, and was fairly successful, though largely because Mrs. Sarah Hodgen helped me with many little things I did not understand. I taught two terms, and then went back to the woods with my dog and my gun."

While no record of it can be found, it is said that at one time Mr. Gollaher was a justice of the peace iu LaRue County, and I remember that some of the people in his neighborhood called him "Judge," a title he did not like. *'The office is small," he would say, "and the title is big, and the misfit is bad. It reminds me of a small girl diked out in her mother's dress."

On one occasion he was trying two young boys for disturbing public worship. The evidence showed that the culprits had thrown rocks against the church house during service. Mr. Gollaher heard the testimony, and was preparing to render his decision when the mother of one of the boys arose and addressed the court, saying:

"Jedge, ef you'll let the boys go this time we will give them a good whuppin'. "

"I can't do that," replied Mr. Gollaher; "I must sentence these youngsters." And he commanded the boys and their mothers to stand up. "The offense is a serious one," he said, "one for which no

AUSTIN GOLLAHER 19

excuse can be offered, except that these boys have not been properly brought up, that they have had no religious training. I therefore sentence the prisoners at the bar, together with their mothers, to six months "

He paused and both women began to weep, pleading :

"Fer Gawd's sake don't do that, Jedge Gollaher!"

*' Order in the court!" commanded the judge. "As I was saying, I now sentence the prisoners and their mothers to six months' attendance at all services in the church during that period. They will occupy the bench directly in front of the pulpit — the Mourners ' Bench — w here they will give strict attention to the teaching of the Bible."

Chapter II Looking Backward

When Mr. Gollaher talked of ^^Abe" he glowed with enthusiasm. He believed implicitly that God gave Lincoln to the world, and watched over him and guided him that He might use him as an instrument to do a great work. He recalled instances in the child life of Lincoln that he believed miraculous — things which could not have occurred had not God's guiding hand been present.

He said Abe was smarter than many of the older people and that he was always doing or saying something that astonished them ; that his solemn wit was refreshing to those who understood it, his philosophy and wisdom frequently beyond belief.

LOOKING BACKWARD 21

"Big," he said, raising his hands above his head, *'is not the right word to describe Abe either in mind or body. I'll tell you that boy towered ! He was nearly a head taller than I, yet I was three years older; and when it came to being smart he was way yonder ahead of me. God did it ; God made him big in body and mind so that he could work hard and never tire — so that he would not give up until the job was finished."

In describing Abe's appearance, Mr. Gollaher said: "His legs were long, his arms were long, his ears were long and his head was long. He was the longest boy in the world. He could walk farther, throw farther and hear farther than any other boy. His eyes were as mild as the moon, but 'pon my word, he could see through these hills here," and he waved his hand toward a chain of hills that almost circled his home.

"But I felt mighty hard toward Abe once upon a time, just for a little while,"

22 THE BOYHOOD OE LINCOLN

said Mr. Gollalier, a smile playing upon Ms tobacco-stained lips. "You see, I never heard a word from him until after he was elected president, and I thought he had entirely forgotten me— I thought maybe he thought I was too common for him to remember after he became so great. But I was mistaken, and I now believe Abe thought of me often, and loved me just like he did when we were inseparable playmates upon the hills and in the hollows along Knob Creek.

''One time," he continued, "when Doctor Jesse Eodman, who lived and died at Hodgenville, was in Washington, he saw Abe, and Abe asked all about me, and sent word to me that he would pay my expenses if I would come to Washington to see him. But I didn't go, because I was always afraid to ride on a train of cars. Abe also told Doctor Rodman that shortly after he moved to Indiana he learned how to read and write pretty well; that he wrote two letters to me and gave them to

LOOKING BACKWAED 23

passers-by coming this way, and asked that they hand them along to others until they should finally reach me. But I never got them. Abe wrote another letter to me from somewhere in Illinois, but I didn't get that either. He told Doctor Rodman that he thought maybe I had died, or that we had all moved away. Why," the old man said seriously, "I'd give this whole f ai*m for those letters right now.

"Abe talked a long time to Doctor Rodman," continued Mr. Gollaher, "and they ate dinner together there in the White House. He asked all about me, and told the doctor about the time I pulled him out of Knob Creek with a fishing pole and saved him from drowning, and also about his billy-goat that stuck a stob in its belly and was killed. He spoke freely of everybody he used to know here, and tears came into his eyes. Doctor Rodman said, as he recalled old Mrs. Sarah Hodgen, the widow of Robert, the owner of the old Hodgen Mill over there at Hodgenville.

She and two of her sons, John and Isaac, were among the best friends Abe ever had in the world. As between the Hodgen boys Abe loved John the most, because John ran the mill, where Abe used to pla}^ John Hodgen thought Abe was a wonderful youngster, and he did lots of nice things for him.

"Abe also asked about my father and mother and many friends who had passed to the other world. He loved my father and mother because they were always good to him. Lots and lots of times mother used to hug both Abe and me to her breast and tell us Bible stories.

"He told Doctor Rodman that he had known few sadder days than the day when he said good-by to me and crossed Middle Creek on his way with his parents to Indiana. He said he was coming over here some of these days to see what was left of us ; but he never came. I reckon it would have made him feel bad to have seen how things have changed — to have seen the

LOOKING BACKWARD 25

graves of the people who were so good to him when he was a boy. Abe was always sad, anyhow, and seemed like he was worried about something; every day of his child and boy life here he seemed that way, and I guess he never outgrew it.

**The story of the birth of Abe, as I heard it from my mother and father, impressed me so much," said Mr. Gollaher, ''that I have dreaded winter ever since. To this day, when I hear cold winds howling my mind goes back to that terrible blizzard on the morning of February 12, 1809, and I see old Mr. Isom Enlow over there near the Cave Spring Farm, stumbling and falling as he plows through the snow — lost in the gray woods, in the blinding storm. And then I see him as he falls over the cliff and struggles up the hill to the Lincoln cabin, where he found Mrs. Lincoln and little Sarah and the baby, Abe, half starved and almost frozen.

Chapter III

The winter of 1809 was a severe one. It came a little late, but it came suddenly, with its blighting winds, its ice and snow and low-hanging clouds, and it dealt desolation to field and forest in Kentucky. Those pioneers who lazily lounged in the sunshine of November and December, failing to prepare for the winter, were hopelessly caught in the grip of that mighty blizzard. Cattle and game which did not find shelter were driven to the slaughter-pens of the storm. Even the well-to-do suffered unusual inconveniences and hardships, and there was much sickness and many deaths among the families of the pioneers in the remoter wilds.

The cold came in January and continued through February, with only brief intervals of mild weather. On February 11, 1809, Isom Enlow, a brawny and well-to-do backwoodsman, taking advantage of a likely morning — a lull in the storm — went to visit a neighbor who lived six or seven miles from the Enlow home in the South Fork River section of LaRue County. Early in the afternoon, while Mr. Enlow was yet in the home of his neighbor, the blizzard renewed its attack, continuing bitterly into the night, so that he found it necessary to remain until the morning of the twelfth, as neither man nor beast could withstand the onslaught of the storm. But on the morning he set out afoot, in spite of protests, for he was anxious to quiet the fears of his family who had expected him the day before. He threw his strong body against the wind and trudged along, fighting his way inch by inch over a trail deeply hidden and treacherous.

The storm, after a brief lull, was soon again at its height, the stiff wind blowing the dry snow from the hills, filling the hollows and drifting deep along the fields. Mr. Enlow traveled as one under a mighty load ; his finger-tips frozen, his feet clumsily numb. Lashed by the wind and snow, his eyes were burned and his sight was so dimmed that the big trees were as dancing shadows; confusion was rioting in his brain, and his strong heart was perilously weak. He must find shelter quickly or perish. His strength was waning rapidly, and he felt that numbness creeping into his body which frequently produces indifference — the indifference that causes one to lie down, smiling, into the arms of death.

But to such a man there was no thought of surrender; he was a born fighter; his was the red blood of the frontiersman. It might have been easier, even more pleasant, to have given up the fight and died, but the predominating desire in his heart was to outwit the storm and to escape the chagrin of defeat. There were friendly cliffs and caves in the neighborhood, but in the storm's wild confusion the halfconscious man could not locate them. Yet he knew that he must find a refuge where he could rest for a few moments or he would lose the battle. At last he crawled under a heavy clump of bushes, roofed with snow and ice.

There, not more than two miles from the home of the friend whose hearthstone he had left an hour before, the pioneer was lost in a neighborhood where, under ordinary conditions, he would have known well every foot of soil, where even the trees would have served him as guideposts. But there was no fright in the stout heart of Isom Enlow. He peered through the lattice of ice, hoping to find a familiar landmark that would enable him to get his bearings and to resume his journey. But his beclouded eyes saw nothing save the whirling mists. He rubbed bis limbs and beat bimself witb bis big frozen bands to warm bis blood — to make ready for another round with the storm — then, pulling bimself to his feet, be moved slowly on among the snowclad trees.

Somewhere in that vicinity, Thomas Lincoln had built a cabin upon a bill — a one-room cabin of small logs. Isom Enlow had helped to build it, but now everything was strange to him. He traveled as one in a dense fog. Those great sheets of snow were waving around him and above him. Suddenly, without warning, the stalwart woodsman plunged down a precipice ten feet high and rolled to the snowcovered rocks below. Stunned and bewildered, be clamored to his feet. Then smiled hopefully, for he had fallen over the cliff sheltering the cave-spring at the foot of the steep hill upon which Thomas Lincoln had built his cabin.

With renewed energy, Mr. Enlow scrambled up the hill and pushed his way, uninvited, into the cabin. It was miserably desolate and cold. He staggered to the fireplace to find only a few smoldering coals buried in the ashes. There came a faint cry from the corner of the room. Upon a bedstead, made of saplings on which was a tick of straw, lay a woman and a little girl, both too weak from cold and hunger and illness to speak except in the faintest whisperings.

**0h, I am so ill, and I am afraid my baby is dead," the woman said in a sobbing whimper. ^ ' Won 't you do something for us ? " she begged.

Rubbing his eyes and drawing closer to the bed, Mr. Enlow saw the little girl; then he said, **Mrs. Lincoln, this is Isom Enlow; don't you recognize me? The little girl is alive and will soon be all right."

"Not the little girl, Mr. Enlow," answered the faint quivering voice ; "I have a baby, a boy, born early this morning. Oh, Mr. Enlow, do something for him," she pleaded.

The backwoodsman raised the scant covering and there lay an infant, blue from cold, with nothing over it but the light bed-clothes. The little drawn face had upon it the imprint of death, and Mr. Enlow believed he had come too late.

There was not a piece of wood in the cabin, nothing with which to rekindle the fire. Hurriedly he seized an ax and went again into the storm. Beating the snow and ice from limbs and twigs, he broke them into pieces, and then, realizing how precious the moments were, he ran back into the cabin with barely enough kindling to restart the fast dying embers. Out and back he went again and again until the fire finally leaped high and bright in the stick-chimney. Then Mr. Enlow warmed the bed-clothing and wrapped it about the mother and her baby.

He rubbed them gently with his rough hands and soothed Mrs. Lincoln with promises that he would soon make them more comfortable. Continuing to apply the warm covering, the backwoodsman soon was rewarded with, a faint whimper from the infant and a glance of gratitude from the mother. Enlow searched everywhere in the cabin for a morsel of food, but the rough shelves were as bare as the walls. He thought of game in the fields and woods, but everything had sought shelter, and besides it would be sheer folly to go out into the storm again.

But something must be done to get food for the mother and her children. He remembered that in his pocket was a small earthen jar of wild turkey grease which he used to clean the rifles of his gun. In that grease there was nourishment, perhaps ; at least he must try it in this dire emergency. Adding some boiling water, Mr. Enlow made what he called soup, and after much persuasion Mrs. Lincoln sipped some of the unpleasant concoction. Then he dipped a string into the melted grease and put one end of it into the mouth of the infant.

Never did physician watcli more closely at the bedside of his patient than did Isom Enlow watch for sign of life on that wintry twelfth of February in the year 1809.

The little girl, Sarah Lincoln, sipped the hot greasy water, and insisted in her childish way that her mother drink more of the bitter stuff. When Isom Enlow^ took the cup from the hand of the little girl and said to Mrs. Lincoln "Drink," she obeyed him mechanically and without thought of herself. Her heart and her hope were in the baby — the boy — that ''long, eel-like string of famished flesh," as Austin Gollaher put it, lying there by her side upon the tick of straw. Almost too weak to turn her throbbing head, she watched for further signs of life in the infant and when she saw its purple lips tighten upon the grease-soaked string, happy tears came into her eyes and she said, ''The child will live."

The improvement in the baby was as tonic to Mrs. Lincoln ; she immediately became brighter and stronger, ready to wage the winning fight — that fight which gave to America its great commoner — the embodiment of the promise that all are created equal and that there shall be neither master nor bond-servant.

But food must be found somewhere; the mother and her children must have nourishment. So Enlow told Mrs. Lincoln he was going to the nearest neighbor's, and that he would return during the day with food and help. Then with a word of cheer, and a wave of the hand, he stooped through the low door of the cabin out into the woods again to face the storm.

Chapter IV Great Rejoicing

The storm had abated somewhat, but the skies were still oppressively gray and the wind still strong enough to break the weakest twigs and limbs and scatter them over the fields and through the forests. Isom Enlow stood upon the high hill in front of the cabin, his heavy coat of skins pulled tightly about him. He was undecided. Should he go to Gabriel Kirkpatrick's, two miles to the west, or to the home of Jimmie McDougal, a good two and a half miles to the south, or his own home some four miles to the east ? Believing it his duty to let his family know that he had safely escaped the blizzard, he turned his face eastward. 36

GREAT REJOICING 37

His steps were slow, but there was determination in his heart and soul. His mission was one of love and charity — those two beautiful qualities so deeply rooted in pioneer hearts — and if successful three lives would be saved. If unsuccessful, if he should perish out there in

the woods, it would mean But at the

thought his muscles grew tense, his head lifted, determination blazed on his red rough face, and he trudged forth along the pathless waste.

He had not gone far when his keen ears, deeply hidden beneath the cape-like collar of his fur coat, caught the faint sound of crunching snow. His grip tightened on his rifle and he stood at attention behind a tree, ready to send a bullet through the heart of a deer. But there upon the brow of a near-by hill, picking their way with precision, were a man and a woman and a mule. Their heads were bowed so that they did not see Mr. Enlow, who shouted to attract them.

''Gollaher! Oh, Gollaher!" excitedly called the pioneer. "The Jehovah sent you; I am glad; the Lord has been good to me this day!" And upon his knees, a mile from the Lincoln cabin, there among the snow-drifts, Isom Enlow thanked God for His merciful goodness.

Mrs. Gollaher knew of the expected confinement of Mrs. Lincoln, and notwithstanding the blizzard she and her husband had struggled to reach the little cabin in time. Strapped to the back of the mule were sacks containing corn-meal and bacon, dried apples and peaches, roots of sassafras bushes for tea, butter and eggs and bed-clothing. Following the trail Mr. Enlow had made, the three friends were soon spreading good cheer before a blazing wood fire in Thomas Lincoln's cabin home.

While Enlow and Gollaher chopped wood in the forest and piled it high within easy reach of the house, Mrs. Gollaher, after Mrs. Lincoln and Sarah were made

GREAT REJOICING 39

comfortable, wrapped the new baby in a blanket of wool and held it close to her warm motherly bosom until a whimper, a faint wail, assured her that all present danger was past. Then there was great rejoicing in the rude little home among the trees, and Isom Enlow, his long hair falling back from his high forehead, lifted his hands to the very roof of the cabin and said, "I thank thee. Lord, for the strength thou gave to me this day." Then to Mrs. Lincoln: "Name the child ^Abraham' after my son, of whom I am very fond."

"I will call him Abraham, for that too was his grandfather's name," she replied, a hapiDy smile of gratitude upon her face.

Note. — There is a tradition that Thomas Lincoln, on the morning of the birth of his son, Abraham, in going across the fields for a mid-wife, met Abraham Enlow (a son of Isom Enlow) riding a horse, and that he (Lincoln) borrowed the horse from young Enlow and rode it to the home of "old Aunt Peggy Walters," who, the tradition further says, ministered to Mrs. Lincoln. But Mr. Gollaher contended that this tradition is in error; that Mr. Lincoln was not at home when Abraham was born, and that he did not reach home until the following day; that three or four days before the birth of the son, he had gone to Elizabethtown, a distance of some fifteen miles from his home, to attend to an important business matter; that he expected to return the following day, but that neither man nor beast could travel in that fearful blizzard and he was forced to remain away until weather conditions improved; that upon his return the following day he was sorely grieved that his wife had given birth to their son under such distressing circumstances, and that in tears, he knelt by the bed of his wife and begged the forgiveness of his "beautiful Nancy," as he always called her; that in the early afternoon of the following day Mr. Lincoln went to the home of a Mrs. Keith, a mid-wife, riding a horse which he borrowed from Abraham Enlow, who was on his way to the Hodgen Mill with a turn of corn, and that the Enlow boy remained in the Lincoln cabin until Mr. Lincoln returned with the old woman, who relieved Mrs. Gollaher.