"
The other wiped his clay-bespattered fingers on his dingy Jean pants,
and gripped the offered hand, appearing homelier than ever because of a
smear of blood on one cheek.
"Thank ye, sir," he answered good humoredly. "I'm Abe Lincoln, of
Salem, Illinoy, an' I ain't got but just one job right now--that's ter
make them boys tote this stuff, an' I reckon they're goin' ter do it."
With the exchange of another word or two they parted, and not until
thirty years later did I realize what that chance meeting meant, there
in the clay mud of Yellow Banks, at the edge of the Indian wilderness,
when Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois, and Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi,
stood in comradeship with clasped hands.
I recognized the majority of those disembarking passengers who passed
by me within a few feet, but saw nothing of Kirby, the deputy sheriff,
or caught any glimpse of their prisoners. The only conclusion was that
they still remained on board. I was not at all surprised at this, as
their intention undoubtedly was to continue with the steamer, and
return south the moment the cargo of commissary and quartermaster's
stores had been discharged. Neither had any interest in the war, and
there was nothing ashore to attract them which could not be comfortably
viewed from the upper deck. It was safer far to keep close guard over
their charges, and see that they remained out of sight.
We had unloaded perhaps a quarter of our supplies, when an officer
suddenly appeared over the crest of the bank and hailed the captain.
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