The River Rising

The big majestic stone home of Colonel Davenport was built on the Illinois bank of the Mississippi River, facing the Iowa shore. It served as a fort and trading post for residents and traders dealing with the Indians.

The Colonel stood on the porch of his home, insisting that the members of his family go without him to the celebration that was planned for that hot July day at the Rock Island courthouse. It was the Fourth of July, 1845.  The Colonel was tired because of a rough week of debates over the planned location of the railroad bridge. He hoped the issue would soon be settled. This new railroad bridge, if approved for Rock Island, would soon span the Mississippi River and be the tie to the new western sections of the United States. The argument the Colonel had made over and over to the government officials was that the location here at Rock Island would better serve the entire nation because of its proximity to Chicago. Chicago was already becoming a highly industrialized city with a thriving railroad center.

The Colonel waved to the last of his family, who were heading for the celebration of the American Independence being held at the Rock Island courthouse.

He hated missing such a wonderful event with his family, but thought his time better spent reviewing his thoughts and notes concerning the bridge problem. He needed to work on some of his new ideas which he would submit to officials, and to write letters to some of his Washington friends whom he felt he could count on for backing him when the decision of bridge placement came up for finalization.   The family would enjoy the celebration, and that was very important to him. He could celebrate later.  Hopefully, at the site of the new bridge.

The Colonel turned and went into the house, heading for his parlor. He settled down in his favorite chair, lit his pipe and began to read the newspaper, with an occasional glance up to see the turbulent motion of the Mississippi River as it rushed by his lovely home. 

His attention was suddenly interrupted when he heard a faint noise outside.

“Must be some children playing out by the well or it’s just someone drawing water,” he thought. 

Returning to his reading again, another noise startled him. Thinking he’d better go check it out, he rose from his chair, and headed toward the door to see what was causing the commotion.  As he stepped to the door, he saw a shadowy figure cross in front of the door and he knew by its size it was an adult, and not a child.

“What do you want?” he shouted.

The shadowy figure suddenly filled the doorway. It was no one that the Colonel could immediately identify because the intruder was silhouetted against the blinding sunlight from outside.

Suddenly the door pushed open and three men stood before him. Still no one he could recognize. Nothing extremely unusual, as many people wanting something from the trading center often came to the house.

Three men bolted into the room, shoving him violently. Not a word was said. One discharged his n s, pistol at the Colonel, hitting him in the left thigh. The Colonel fell backward in pain as he tried to reach for his cane.  Feeling the hot sticky substance coming from his leg, he knew he was bleeding profusely. He tried to right himself to a position in which he could protect himself. His left side was painful and unstable. The bullet was lodged in his upper left leg and he was unable to stand. One of the intruders looked familiar, but the Colonel was in too much pain to remember who this intruder might be. At first glance something in his mind flashed— “something about the bridge.”

“Could this be someone with a grudge concerning the bridge? Yes,” he surmised as he wrenched in pain.

Thoughts of having survived Indian warfare, the dangers of the Mexican war, and the lonely residence here on the very outskirts of civilization sent visions through his throbbing brain. How could this be happening to him when everything seemed so right and so peaceful now? 

After thirty years at this place, he, in the last couple of years, had