by Jane Peart
JoBeth didn’t know how long she’d slept when she was aroused by movement in the darkened room. Struggling out of her heavy sleep, she squinted her eyes and glanced around. Then she saw Wes’s figure silhouetted against the light seeping in through the draperies.
“Wes!” she called to him. He turned, then came over and sat down on the bed beside her. “Why are you up? Didn’t you sleep at all?”
“I couldn’t. I can’t believe the president is dead.”
“Oh, Wes!” JoBeth held out her arms to him. He leaned toward her and she held him, his head on her shoulder.
“It all seems so pointless,” he said hoarsely. “He tried to make a difference. To bring this country back to its beginnings, hold the Union together. And now … I thought it was all over—the hatred, the killing … but it’s not. It will begin all over again, and there will be no end to it—” His voice broke.
She could feel his body shake with deep sobs.
“Darling, darling,” she crooned as if soothing a weeping child, her hands stroking his neck. She felt his tears dampening her shoulder through her nightgown. Her embrace tightened and she drew him down to her and they wept together, embraced in their mutual sorrow.
When JoBeth awakened again, Wes was gone. He’d left a note for her. He’d gone back to report to Major Meredith to see if he could be of any use.
Her head throbbed. She felt shaky and ill. Her eyes were burning, her eyelids swollen from all the tears of the night before. Her hair was tangled, for in all this time, she had not even removed her hairpins or the ornamental comb she’d worn to the theater.
The remembrance of the tragedy made her shiver, and she pulled on her quilted robe. She had been witness to murder. Had seen the alleged assassin jump onto the stage in front of her very eyes! She would see that scene over and over for the rest of her life, hear Mrs. Lincoln’s piteous screams echoing down the years.
JoBeth moved stiffly over to the spirit burner, struck a match to light it, but her hand was shaking so badly that she had to do it twice. She’d feel better when she had some tea, she told herself hopefully. She waited impatiently for the water to boil, the tea to brew. Hot tea should bring some warmth into her unnaturally cold body. She got a fire started in the fireplace, then huddled in the chair in front of it, sipping the scalding hot tea.
Over and over she relived last night’s horror. The scene played itself out on the stage of her mind, as if she were again viewing it in all its tragic drama.
She would never forget it. Never, never!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Remembering Wes’s dire prediction about what would happen to the South in the wake of the president’s death, she tried to imagine the mood in her own home when word came of the assassination. Lincoln had publicly stated his policy of rebuilding the nation. Even against the advice of some of his cabinet, and despite the fact that members of his own political party did not agree with him, he had advocated “malice toward none, and charity toward all.” Now what would be the South’s fate at the hands of its vindictive conquerors?
It seemed ironic that Lincoln’s death should come on Good Friday. The great humanitarian, the emancipator of slaves, the president who had preserved the Union—struck down on the same day as the Crucifixion. Both Savior of the world and savior of the nation killed by their enemies.
She must do something—something personal—to mark this terrible deed, create something to memorialize this his toric event….
JoBeth began to visualize the design for a quilt—perhaps the outline of three crosses rising across a field of lilies. It would be her personal reminder that she must hold on to the belief that as senseless and devastating as this death seemed, it had some purpose in God’s mysterious plan. It would say, in a very individual way, that there was hope beyond the crosses of life. The design formed very clearly in her mind. Excitedly she took out a piece of paper, a pencil, and began to sketch it.
The very act of doing this seemed to bring her mother very close to her. It was the tragedy of her father’s early and unforeseen death that had been the motivation for her mother’s lifework of making quilts to sell. Johanna had painstakingly disciplined herself to learn a craft for which she had no particular talent. She had done it out of necessity at first. She had gone back to her hometown a penniless widow with two small children, to live with relatives. Even though they welcomed her with love and generosity, she hated being a “poor relation” in the household of her affluent aunt and uncle. Johanna prayed for some way to support herself and her fatherless children. The answer came with her creativity. She soon became known for her beautiful quilts. Her skill and the demand for her work provided the education she wanted for her daughter, and her son’s college tuition and seminary fees. JoBeth felt a surge of energy, a rush of elation. As her mother had done before her, she would make something beautiful out of this tragedy.
Later in the morning, an ashen-faced Mrs. Hobbs tapped at JoBeth’s door, holding the latest edition of the newspaper with its black-banner headlines. She told JoBeth that they had almost certainly identified the assassin as the actor John Wilkes Booth.
Of course, JoBeth had heard of John Wilkes Booth. He was a matinee idol, adored by young lady theatergoers. She had seen his pictures, and he had once been pointed out to her in front of the theater. Tall, handsomely built, an Adonis with curling dark hair, high color, white teeth, features as finely sculptured as those on some Greek statue. Mrs. Hobbs had read extravagant raves about him in theatrical reviews of plays in which he had appeared in Washington. He was known as quite a “ladies’ man,” and it was even rumored that Bessie Hale, the daughter of Senator John Hale, was infatuated with him.
As more was learned about the assassin, the profile of a vain, arrogant man seething with a murderous hatred of the president emerged. Imbalanced, his weakness of character led him to believe he could commit murder and get away with it.
Three days later, his death—he was ambushed and shot as he hid from his pursuers—seemed almost judgmental, and few mourned him.
In the days that followed, the assassinated president drew the most mournful expressions of loss. A poem by the well-known author Herman Melville was published in the newspaper, and reprints were offered.
Spontaneous expressions of sorrow, grief, and respect began to appear in front of Ford’s Theater. Garden bouquets, floral wreaths, formal funeral arrangements—sprays of lilies and other spring flowers—seemed poignant reminders of the one who would never see another spring.
Drawn by some irresistible impulse, JoBeth also trod the pilgrim’s way there. Because she had been in the theater when it happened, she felt some inexplicable bond to the slain president and to his widow. She had heard her screams, felt her pain like a knife through her own heart. Although her own short life had known few losses, her sensitive nature suffered deeply with the mourning wife of the slain president. She could only imagine what she would have felt had it been Wes. Her sympathy was very real as she moved forward and, her bell-shaped skirt swaying, knelt and gently laid her small memorial bunch of flowers with the others.
Easter Sunday, April 16, 1865
JoBeth attended service alone that Sunday, because Wes had to be at Major Meredith’s side in case he was needed to facilitate any of arrangements for the funeral. As she walked the few blocks over to the church, the bright sun and the sound of birdsong in the blossoming trees seemed a bitter counterpoint to the dejected churchgoers. How could it be, when the dark cloud of national tragedy hung so heavy?
A pall of foreboding gloom hovered over the city. On Tuesday, Wes escorted JoBeth to where the president lay in state, so she could pay her respects. Her heart ached remembering the last, festive occasion on which she had come to the White House. Long lines stood patiently to file past the catafalque, draped in black silk, that had been erected in the East Room. At the head and foot of the casket—braided, studded, and starred with silver—in which the body of the slain president lay, uniformed officers
stood at attention. Sepulchral light filtered in from windows hung with black drapery, and the veiled mirrors added to the somber atmosphere. The heavy fragrance of lilies and roses permeated the room.
The funeral on Wednesday was limited to six hundred guests. Two days later the president was to be taken by railroad car back to Illinois.
Friday morning, tolling bells awakened JoBeth to another day of sorrow. There would be a final, brief service conducted for the president in the Rotunda of the Capitol before the last solemn march to the depot.
From Major Meredith’s office window, JoBeth watched the sad, solemn procession from the White House to the train station, where the body of the president would be placed in a special car for the journey back to Springfield, Illinois, to his final resting place. Black plumes adorned the heads of the six gray horses pulling the hearse, which was festooned in black crepe, as they moved along the street in slow, measured steps. Behind was the president’s horse, his boots placed in the stirrups. People lined four-deep along the way, many openly sobbing.
The newspapers had been filled with eulogies. Even the great Confederate general George Pickett, the nephew of Andrew Johnston, and years before a partner in Lincoln’s Illinois law firm, was quoted as saying, upon hearing the news of the assassination, “My God! My God! The South has lost its best friend and protector, the surest, safest hand to guide and steer her through the breakers ahead. Again must we feel the smart of fanaticism.”
After the mournful scene, returning to their rooms, JoBeth removed the black satin ribbons from her bonnet, sadly folded them, and put them in a box. As she did, an idea for another way of marking this particular time in her life formed. These years she had lived in Washington made up a period separate from all the others in her life. In the space of less than two years, momentous things had occurred. Unforgettable things. Besides her journal, which she’d written in only intermittently, how could she keep some sort of record? No matter how sharp they are at first, memories often fade.
She remembered Mrs. Hobbs’ telling her about a new kind of quilt that was becoming popular. An elaborate, fancy kind, a “memory” quilt made up of pieces from special gowns, such as a wedding dress, or clothing worn at other special occasions. The material was not cut into patches but in a variety of shapes fitted together in any sort of pattern—thus it was also called a “crazy quilt.” Trimmed with lace or satin braid, it was more a quilt to be displayed than used.
JoBeth had already decided she could never again wear the blue velvet she had worn to Ford’s Theater that night. It held too many horrible memories. Yet it had been worn on a historic—if tragic—occasion, and as such should be kept. A crazy quilt such as Mrs. Hobb had described would be a way to memorialize her time in Washington, all the things that had happened to her during this historic era. She recalled Mrs. Hobbs’ saying, “As yet in my life, nothing very important or dramatic has happened that I could make a quilt about!” But JoBeth realized that her experience had been different. Hers would be worth remembering.
May 1865
Chapter Twenty-Nine
JoBeth flitted from armoire to trunk, from bureau to port-manteau, back and forth, happy and rather distracted at the thought that she was at last going home—well, to Hills-boro. In this last week of May, Washington was already sweltering. She looked forward to being once more in the cool foothills town, surrounded by the mountains, sheltered by the tall pines.
It would be such a relief also to be away from the ferment of the capital city. Ever since the president’s assassination, the air literally breathed of fiery speeches, of excoriating vengeance, of speeches swearing retribution for the murder. Wes seemed to grow more weary and worn each day from handling the bulk of correspondence flowing into the major’s office.
Wes had insisted JoBeth go to Hillsboro as soon as travel became possible, promising he would follow as soon as he received his discharge.
At first she had refused to leave him. But as both the weather heated and his persuasion increased, she gave in. She was anxious to see her mother and Shelby. It had been over two years. In the last, desperate months of the war, Shelby had left his classes at the seminary and joined a local unit to make the final, hopeless stands against Sherman’s irrevocable advance through the South. He had, however, contracted typhoid and become dangerously ill—he’d been sent home to die, in fact. Thankfully, with good nursing and heartfelt prayer he had slowly recovered and was planning to go back to resume his studies in the fall.
However, the deciding factor in JoBeth’s decision to go was her happy suspicion. One about which she was not yet sure enough to tell Wes. By the time he could join her in Hillsboro, she hoped to be able to share the exciting news that they were to become parents.
JoBeth hummed happily as she packed. Then, hearing a familiar footstep on the stairway, she halted for a minute, her face turned to the door to welcome her husband home. She was eager to share with him the letter she had received from her mother that morning saying that everyone was happily looking forward to her “homecoming.”
All her own doubts about not being welcome faded with this reassurance. But one look at Wes’s expression gave her pause. She knew that since the murder of the president, Wes had been depressed. He had idealized and admired Lincoln for his noble purpose. She had thought recently that he was coming out of his deep melancholy, but today he looked solemn, almost sad.
After greeting her, he slumped into one of the armchairs and surveyed the packed boxes, the valises, and the open trunk thoughtfully. In an attempt to cheer him, JoBeth declared gaily, “I’m afraid we are going to have to make you some new clothes, Wes. You must have grown an inch in height and several wide in the shoulders and chest since you were a civilian!”
He made no comment, nor did his tired face lift in a smile as it usually did to her lighthearted teasing. Immediately she sensed something was wrong.
“Do you have a headache, Wes?” she asked worriedly. “Could I fix you some tea or a tisane?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you, but I do need to talk to you, JoBeth.”
“You sound serious. What is it?” she asked, alarmed.
She put aside the garment she was folding and went over and knelt down beside the chair in which he was sitting. She took his hands, which hung limply, and looked anxiously up into his eyes. They were haunted, miserable.
“I can’t go to Hillsboro,” he said heavily.
“I knew that, Wes. Not right away, of course, but you’ll come later. Mama says—,” she began, but he cut her off.
“No, I don’t mean just now. I mean ever.” A muscle in his cheek worked, as if he were trying to control his emotion. “What I mean is, we can’t live there. I know that’s what we’ve talked about, what we’ve planned, but—” He took an envelope from the inside pocket of his tunic. “I’ve done some testing of the waters, so to speak. I wrote to Cousin Will, asked him to tell me frankly what the climate would be in Hillsboro should we return to make our home there once more.”
“And?”
“This is his answer.” He tapped the envelope on the palm of his other hand. “He says resentment runs very high. North Carolina feels especially bitter, not being a large cotton-growing state nor a large slave-holding one and yet having lost more men per capita in the war than many of the states in the Deep South whose property they were defending. They’ve suffered a great deal. They’re very much afraid of the new reconstructionist policies now being discussed in Congress. This is what he wrote: They’re not satisfied in bringing us to our knees—they want to place their foot on our neck, grind our faces into the dirt.'” Wes looked up and into JoBeth’s eyes. “So you see how impossible it would be for us to go back—to try to live among people who would despise us?”
JoBeth drew her breath in a little gasp.
“I know Will wouldn’t lie. He’s telling me the truth. Because he cares about us”—Wes’s smile was ironic—“loves us even.” He sighed deeply, his jaw set, and he told h
er, “If we go back to Hillsboro, hate will surround us like a thick, smothering cloak. We won’t be able to breathe. We’ll suffocate. We cannot—I will not stay in such killing atmosphere, in an environment where love cannot overcome, survive.”
“Then what, Wes? What do we do?”
“I don’t know. At least, I’m not sure. I don’t think we have many alternatives. But I do have an idea I want you to think about—”
“Tell me.”
“I say we go west—a new life, a clean slate.”
“Where out west?” She tried to keep her voice from shaking.
“California, that’s where.”
“California?” she gasped, then asked, “Not the gold fields, Wes. You don’t plan to mine—”
“No, no, darling. There are all sorts of opportunities. And land and all kinds of things we can do once we’re there.”
“Oh, darling, but it’s such a risk!”
“Life is a risk, JoBeth. The person who risks nothing does nothing, has nothing, is nothing, becomes nothing. He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, change and grow, and live. He has forfeited his freedom. Only the person who risks is really free.”
“It seems like you’ve already thought about this a great deal.”
“I have. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d investigated it more on my own.” He took both her hands in his, raised them to his mouth, and kissed her fingers, saying tenderly, “I know how hard it would be for you to leave your family—”
JoBeth’s heart recoiled from another parting with her dear ones. It had been hard enough the first time. But her own experience confirmed the resentment Will described. Even the warmth and closeness and love of her family hadn’t been able to protect her before. How much worse it would be now if Wes, a veteran of the hated conqueror’s army, returned and tried to make a home, earn a living.