The Darkest Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  Although several ministers, including Dr. Gurley from Lincoln’s church, joined to eulogize the late president, the services were kept short and simple. As a result, many were emotionally moved. While tears trickled down the weathered face of Grant, Robert Lincoln sobbed quietly nearby, his face buried in a handkerchief.10

  By 2 P.M., when all had viewed the body—including the new president, who gazed reflectively down for a few minutes—the casket was carried from the White House by Grant, Admiral David Farragut, the new vice president, Lafayette Foster, and other pallbearers.11 Amid the sounds of booming minute guns and tolling bells, the funeral cortege moved off toward the Capitol. As the numerous bands that accompanied the procession played dirges, the thousands who lined the sunny streets viewed Lincoln’s riderless horse and the torn flag from Ford’s Theater.12

  When the procession passed his home, William Seward sat painfully up in bed to catch a glimpse out the window. Even though the secretary of state was recovering far faster than anyone could have imagined, his son Fred still teetered between life and death. “He will die,” Frances Seward repeated over and over again in her still-stunned state. “He will die.”13

  At length, with a regiment of black soldiers in the van and a large contingent of colored civilians bringing up the rear, the cortege reached the Capitol.14 There, the coffin was placed on a bier beneath the rotunda, and the public was permitted once more to pass and pay their respects. The journalist and old Lincoln friend Noah Brooks was on hand to view the scene:

  While this solemn pageant was passing, I was allowed to go alone up the winding stairs that lead to the top of the great dome of the Capitol. Looking down from that lofty point, the sight was weird and memorable. Directly beneath me lay the casket in which the dead President lay at full length, far, far below; and, like black atoms moving over a sheet of gray paper, the slow-moving mourners . . . crept silently in two dark lines across the pavement of the rotunda, forming an ellipse around the coffin.15

  Simultaneous with the ceremonies in Washington, similar services—called “the mid-week Sabbath”—were occurring throughout America. In San Francisco, the funeral was by far the largest and most extravagant ever witnessed on the West Coast, with a procession of thousands that stretched for miles.16

  At Boston, the famed orator Edward Everett Hale noted that during the nationwide funeral, more people attended church than at any time before.17 Wrote an amazed editor from the same city: “[E]ven the thoughtless idlers, who form such an element in every large city, were for the time abashed and orderly.”18 And the displays of mourning that hung from every home and business were without precedent.19

  “To-day the tokens of mourning are even more plentiful than when I wrote yesterday,” a correspondent in New York City noted on April 19:

  Crape on the left arm is largely worn, while miniature portraits and badges of the late President are seen in the bosom or on the coat front of most of the immense throng of pedestrians. Small flags, bound around in black, are also everywhere visible, and pictures of the fearful scene are displayed in the streets. . . . The rail cars that come dashing into the city from distant points are shrouded in the dismal color of the day; steamers and sail boats glide along the rivers with the same solemn exhibitions; the newspapers are black as ink can make them, and there is nothing the eye can see that has not the pall of death flung over it. . . . Even the drink to quench our thirst, and the meat from off the butcher’s stall, is handed us beneath a massive overhanging of black.20

  “Every body and every thing . . . look gloomy and dismal,” remarked a woman in New York.21

  Although most throughout the nation did indeed seem somber and sad, that did not necessarily mean that all mourned the slain president. Nevertheless, in the deadly, dangerous climate that still existed five days after the murder, everyone acted as if they did.22 At Reading, Pennsylvania, those walking the streets displayed “the blankest faces that I ever witnessed,” thought one observer. “[N]o man could utter a word not of grief without proclaiming himself a partisan of the assassin.”23 Elsewhere, failure to wear the prescribed black crape or mourning badge was itself grounds for suspicion and surveillance.24

  “O, Lord, lay not innocent blood to our charge but bring the guilty speedily to punishment.”25

  Similar words were uttered in other churches throughout the land that April 19. In this case, the words were not as important as how and by whom they were spoken. Leading this prayer in a Washington church was a small, slight man in a sergeant’s uniform. With his long hair tied back, the newcomer soon warmed to his subject and began stalking among the pews. As the shocked church members watched in disbelief, the shouting stranger soon steered the services away from a eulogy of the dead president to a common revival rant on the wages of sin. There was a shrill fervency in his cries of “Glory to God” and “Come to Jesus,” and anyone who peered into the man’s wild eyes could see at a glance that a dangerous, unbalanced mind was at work.26

  Like many another latecomer to God, Thomas Corbett was determined to recover lost ground with fanatical intensity. Soon after emigrating from England with his parents at the age of seven, the boy had apprenticed as a hatter. While still very young, Corbett took a wife. Several years later, though, the woman died during childbirth. Despondent over his loss and deeply in debt, the young man soon turned to liquor, which only accelerated his plunge. One night in Boston, the drunk stumbled up to a street evangelist. Despite his reeling brain, Corbett heard for the first time in his life the voice of God. And with those words still echoing in his head, a miracle occurred. Casting off his old life, including his name, the reborn Christian became a crusading missionary on the spot.27

  “In Boston I was converted; and there met my Redeemer,” said the grateful man simply, “and Boston is the only name I wish to be called by.”28

  In addition to reading the Bible day and night, Corbett allowed his hair to grow long and parted it in the middle, in imitation of Christ. He also took his Savior’s message to heart by sharing his meager resources with those less fortunate. As his religious verve grew, young Corbett also refused to work for any employer whom he considered “un-Godly.” And even when he did find a boss who measured up to his standards, Corbett’s habit of halting work to kneel and pray for profane co-workers ensured that would find himself habitually unemployed.29

  Moving to New York City, the crusader quickly joined a Methodist church. It was not long, though, before the newest member began to “greatly annoy” others in the flock with his peculiar brand of religion. According to one account:

  He took part frequently, and in his prayers was in the habit of adding “er” to all his words, as “O Lord-er, hear-er our prayer-er.” When anything pleased him he would shout, “Amen,” “Glory to God,” in a sharp, shrill voice, to the great horror of the Dutchman who controls the meeting. All remonstrance was in vain, and he shouted to the very last.30

  When the newcomer was especially aroused, he would whoop and scream like an Indian, startling to a panic the more sedate parishioners.31 Boston Corbett’s missionary work was not limited to the temple. Like John the Baptist of old, he took his message into the field. Remembered the Reverend J. O. Rogers:

  He often visited the docks, and places of toil, where he would mount some box or chair, and speak to the rough natures around him of Christ and the resurrection. He was frequently threatened with mischief, and on one occasion a burly Irishman succeeded in banding a considerable force for the purpose of compelling him to leave. Corbett was not in the least dismayed. “Now you cannot scare me. I am not made of any such stuff as you suppose. You may bring all Ireland with you, and it won’t frighten me in the least.”32

  Although he and the Lord may have faced down Irish mobs, inwardly Corbett was troubled by his own demons. One night, after his return to Boston, Corbett discovered two young women watching him closely with a gleam in their eyes that was anything but godly. Frightened by the carnal passions rising within, the desperate
young man—now in his mid-twenties—had a “vision” right there on the spot. Racing home, Corbett reached up to a shelf, grabbed a pair of very sharp scissors, lowered his trousers, then promptly castrated himself.33 Once purged of the devil, the fanatic went to a prayer meeting that same night and followed it up with a “hearty dinner.”34

  When war came in 1861, Corbett was initially torn between patriotism and the teachings of Christ. At length, he reached a decision.

  “I have prayed over it,” he told Rev. Rogers, “and I must go.”35

  “He thought it right to shoot traitors wherever they could be found. . . . [and] he had announced his willingness to ‘shoot men like dogs,’” revealed a friend. “He rejoined that the rebels deserved just that; he would first say to them: ‘God have mercy on your souls,’ and then ‘pop them off.’”36

  Trouble began almost the moment Corbett entered the army. When a colonel cursed his men one day as they stood at attention, the new recruit was stirred to action.37 Recorded a witness:

  Corbett stepped out of the ranks and reproved him, saying that he had violated military regulations and the laws of God, and he considered it his duty to reprimand him. Corbett then took a Bible out of his pocket and read the commandment, “Thou shall not swear.” The result was that Corbett was ordered into the guard-house for punishment. He went cheerfully, declaring on the way that he had done only what was right, and that he was willing to accept what should come of it. In the guard-house he sung psalms, disturbing the other prisoners. He was then directed by the officer in charge not to sing any more, but he would not obey, and did as he pleased.38

  This initial brush with military law would not be his last. “I have seen him often in the guard-house,” recalled a comrade, “with his knapsack full of bricks as a punishment, with his Testament in his hand, lifting up his voice against swearing, preaching temperance, and calling upon his wild companions to ‘seek the Lord.’”39 Unlike other prisoners, Corbett would emerge from his numerous confinements smiling and happy, announcing that he had spent a “good time with his God and his Bible.”40

  When the incorrigible soldier abandoned his post one night, declaring that his enlistment was up at midnight, he was arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be shot. The government settled on drumming the troublemaker out of the military instead.

  With his patriotism soon rekindled, Corbett reenlisted, this time with the 16th New York Cavalry. In a fight with John Mosby’s guerrillas in Virginia, Corbett found himself suddenly cut off from his comrades. Although his predicament was dire, surrendering to rebels never entered his head.41

  “I faced and fought against a whole column of them,” he later reminisced. Before his ammunition finally gave out, Corbett reportedly killed seven of the enemy, shouting “Amen! Glory to God!” as each man fell.42 Soon overwhelmed, the defiant Yankee was captured and packed off to the Andersonville prison camp in Georgia. After several months of captivity, Corbett was exchanged and returned to the North. Again, unlike other prisoners who managed to survive the hellish conditions at the camp and harbored only nightmarish memories of their imprisonment, the freed man could only praise the lord.

  “There God was good to me, sparing my life,” he said matter-of-factly. “But bless the Lord, a score of souls were converted, right on the spot where I lay for three months without any shelter.”43

  After recovering his health at a military hospital in Maryland, Corbett found himself in Washington on Black Friday, April 14. Like everyone else, the sergeant lamented the slain president and longed to see the assassin caught and punished. Unlike most, though, Corbett prayed day and night that God might make him the instrument of his wrath by allowing him the honor of “popping off” the murderer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  OH! ABRAHAM LINCOLN!

  EARLY ON FRIDAY, APRIL 21, after a prayer delivered by Phineas Gurley, the coffin was closed and the body of Abraham Lincoln was carried from the Capitol. One week after the assassination, the slain president at last began his long trip back to the home he had left four years before. Preceding the long column through the cold, rainy streets was a wedge-shaped detachment of cavalry.

  “Very slowly they proceeded, making their way steadily into the crowds which swarmed the streets, forcing them silently back to the curb,” wrote a viewer. “The horses’ footfalls were the loudest sounds, while sobs punctuated the stillness of the watching multitude.”1

  When the cortege reached the railroad depot, a special train was waiting. In a beautifully ornate funeral car near the rear, the coffin was gently lowered. Nearby was placed a smaller casket. At Mary Lincoln’s insistence, the body of her little son Willie had been disinterred that he might be buried alongside his father in Illinois.2

  With a pilot engine moving in advance several miles to prevent mishaps, the long journey officially began. Lining the track as the train pulled away were thousands of federal soldiers, including large numbers of sobbing black troops. Reported a chronicler:

  They stood with arms reversed, heads bowed, all weeping like children at the loss of a father. Their grief was of such undoubted sincerity as to affect the whole vast multitude. Dignified Governors of States, grave Senators, and scar-worn army officers, who had passed through scenes of blood and carnage unmoved, lost their self control and were melted to tears in the presence of such unaffected sorrow.3

  At 10 A.M., the funeral train reached Baltimore, its first scheduled stop. Here, in the same city that Lincoln had secretly slipped through to avoid assassination four years earlier, the coffin was removed to the Merchants’ Exchange so that loyal Marylanders might pay their respects. After only a few hours, and with thousands of viewers still waiting in the rain, the casket was returned to the train for the planned 3 P.M. departure.4 Despite its brevity, the ceremony in Baltimore was solemn and moving.

  “Today has been a funeral day in every sense,” said one sad reporter. “The heavens are hung with black. . . . Not a gleam of sunlight has even for a moment burst through the heavy clouds which hang like a leaden pall over the city. All is gloom; deep, dark, impenetrable gloom.”5

  When the train reached the Pennsylvania state line, Governor Andrew Curtin boarded the cars and rode along as a gesture of honor and respect for the fallen chief.6 After a brief stop in York, the funeral train reached the state capital, Harrisburg. There, at 8:20 P.M., during a terrible thunderstorm, the train finally halted.7 Because of the downpour, a scheduled procession through the streets was canceled, much to the chagrin of more than a thousand soldiers who had stood in the rain for an hour.8 From 9:30 until midnight, amid the roar and flash of both cannons and lightning, thousands defied the elements and trudged through the Capitol to view the body.9

  Prior to reopening on the following day, April 22, an undertaker was compelled to chalk the president’s rapidly discoloring face and brush away dirt and soot that had accumulated on the beard and hair.10 When the doors opened at 8 A.M., again the people streamed in. At one point during the viewing, a terrible stampede occurred when gas jets ignited some drapery hanging from the chandeliers. Although the flames rose rapidly and fiercely, the fire was quickly brought under control.11

  By 11:15 that morning, with forty thousand saddened citizens looking on, the train pulled away from Harrisburg and steamed east for America’s second largest city, Philadelphia.12 Now under a sunny, cloudless sky, the track was lined with mourning Pennsylvanians.13 One of those on the funeral train was a member of the honor guard, Robert Schenck. Although in private the Union general had detested Lincoln, referring to him as “the baboon” and to his wife, Mary, as “her royal majesty,” Schenck was stunned by the outpouring of emotion he witnessed.14

  “All along the road,” the general noted, “it has been affecting to see the people assembled not only at stations, but in front of farm houses, by the fences, and in the fields beside the railway, to gaze at our passing funeral train—women often weeping and men standing respectfully uncovered.”15

  At
Lancaster, an immense crowd watched the cars pass slowly through town while nearby a huge sign proclaimed: “ABRAHAM LINCOLN, THE ILLUSTRIOUS MARTYR OF LIBERTY, THE NATION MOURNS HIS LOSS. THOUGH DEAD, HE STILL LIVES.” On the outskirts of the crowd, sitting silently in his carriage, was Lincoln’s predecessor, James Buchanan.16

  From West Chester east, said a chronicler, those lining the track “were not counted by thousands, but by acres.”17

  At 4:30 P.M., the funeral train reached Philadelphia. During the thundering cannon salute that announced the arrival, an artillery piece exploded prematurely, critically injuring two men.18 For more than a few, this event seemed an ill omen. Indeed, the ceremony in Philadelphia began on a tragic note, and it never got any better.

  In order that the grand procession might have more daylight for public viewing, organizers had requested that the funeral train arrive two hours earlier than scheduled, which it did. Nevertheless, because of some “blunder,” the huge cortege did not even manage to move until 6:30 P.M. Because of this and other mishaps, it was well past dark when the head of the column finally reached Independence Hall, where the coffin was placed near the Liberty Bell. Given the enormous length of the procession, it was after eight o’clock before those bringing up the rear finally began to move.19 Contributing to the sloth-like pace of the parade were the unexpectedly large crowds encountered along the route; one estimate placed the figure at over 250,000.20 But this was nothing compared to what lay ahead.

  By midnight, long lines were already forming outside Independence Hall. Even though the doors would not open until the following day, many spent the night in line because there was not a vacant bed to be had in the city. Thus, with hundreds of thousands of people pouring into Philadelphia from every direction, almost all went hungry and sleepless that night.21