A sullen dawn dimmed the bleak gaslight after a night of such horror as Washington had never known—the shuddering fear of secret assassins, creeping with knife and pistol through the city.
The entire Cabinet had been wiped out, the people heard; Johnson was another victim; Grant had been murdered on the train. Men wept and cursed and seized their arms, while the long roll beat in the barracks and the startled troops turned out. All night, patrols pounded through the streets, and guards stood tense at the homes of the Government officials.
Rain beat on waiting crowds, as in the early morning the dignitaries filed out of a little bedroom in an obscure lodginghouse in Tenth Street. A doctor laid silver half-dollars on Lincoln’s eyelids. Mrs. Lincoln was led to her carriage, crying, “Oh that dreadful house! that dreadful house!” at the sight of Ford’s. At seven-thirty, the bells tolled, and the flags drooped to half-mast. A long coffin was edged down the narrow lodginghouse steps. A group of army officers, walking bareheaded, followed Lincoln to the White House. Along the route, men, women and children stood in a silence broken only by the noise of sobs and the tramp of the soldiers’ feet.
Washington seemed stunned, paralyzed by a pistol shot. There were guards on all the roads that led from town. Market wagons, milk carts and mail riders were turned back from the suburbs. Drinking places had been shut by the police. Government departments and business houses were closed. Theatres and music halls canceled their engagements. Concerts and social functions were postponed. Societies called meetings to arrange for participation in the funeral services.
The community felt the disgrace of the crimes, and hastened to disown them. The city councils assembled to eulogize the dead President, and to arrange to wear mourning badges, and cause the buildings of the corporation to be draped in mourning. They also passed a bill offering a reward of twenty thousand dollars for the murderers. Another reward of ten thousand was announced by General Augur on behalf of the Department of Washington.
At an early hour, the gala decorations began to disappear behind lengths of black. The columns of the White House were shrouded, and somber folds were looped on the Federal buildings, and on residences and places of business in all parts of town. Sorrow seemed universal among the poor. Hovels and huts had their scraps of black cloth or ribbon. On the Avenue before the White House, hundreds of colored people stood wailing in the rain.
“Oh, Mr. Welles, who killed my father?” Tad sobbed, as the Secretary of the Navy came down the stairs of the mansion. Welles and his companion, Attorney General Speed, could not restrain their tears. They did not know how to give the boy a satisfactory answer.
All Washington, by this time, knew the answer. Actors and members of the audience had recognized Booth, as he jumped from the box and ran across the stage, and many witnesses had identified him before midnight. His name, however, did not appear in the first orders and dispatches. The guards who watched the roads and the troopers scattered at dawn along the Virginia side of the Potomac had been directed to arrest any suspicious person who tried to leave the city. The announcement of Booth’s identification was nearly the only definite fact to emerge from a maze of hearsay. Cavalry and mounted police went galloping into Maryland to search for him. Because of a fancied resemblance to Booth, a man just arrived from Kansas was arrested on Saturday morning. There was a taint and a dreadful importance in having been his associate. During the night, police had paid a visit to the Surratt house. There were rumors that John Surratt was “the man who cut Mr. Seward.” Weichmann went early to police headquarters to aid in the investigation. In her sister’s fancy house on Ohio Avenue, Ella Turner took chloroform. Booth’s picture was under her pillow, and she did not thank the doctors who revived her.
A name, bright with gaiety and talent, had overnight become that of an outcast. That the actor had murdered the President on his own responsibility seemed too fantastic to be believed. People sprang to the conclusion that Booth and his unknown accomplices were the agents of a powerful organization, which had instigated a program of murder, which still might strike again. Memories of the enemy’s conspiracies, to spread revolt in the Union, to deliver prisoners of war and fire Northern cities, flashed hot and bitter in men’s minds. Behind the figure of Booth loomed the Confederacy, plotting, since force of arms had failed, to disrupt the Federal Government by assassination.
The Washington press was quick to charge the South with the blame for Lincoln’s murder. The Chronicle, recently filled with conciliation and forgiveness, declared in an editorial written at dawn that treason had culminated in this crime. It foretold a widespread demand for vengeance on the authors of the rebellion. The Star spoke of “the terrible act committed by the conquered South yesterday, through its representative, the assassin of President Lincoln.” Even the Constitutional Union, which had been antagonistic to Lincoln, now talked of retribution for the honored dead, and called on God to save the republic.
Under a subdued and mourning aspect, the capital was agitated by a mob spirit of revenge. Men stood murmuring on every crape-hung corner, and loitered in groups before the shop windows where Lincoln’s portrait was displayed. Their hostility drove Confederate soldiers into hiding. The only gray uniforms to be seen, those of prisoners under guard, started riots. The appearance of two Confederate officers, escorted by cavalry, shattered the quiet of Sunday afternoon. At first, there were shouts of “guerrilla“—some said Mosby himself—but the cry soon changed to “Booth.” There was such a clamor outside the provost marshal’s office that Senator Hale and General Spinner were sent for. They vainly addressed the mob with persuasions to disperse. Eventually, the Confederates were whisked through a rear door to the security of the Old Capitol. A similar demonstration occurred on Monday, when one prisoner was mistaken for Booth, and another for John Surratt. With yells of “Shoot them! Hang them!” a crowd surged around the prisoners, whose seizure was prevented only by the firmness of the guard of Veteran Reserves.
Prudent secessionists hung mourning on their houses. Only a few reckless persons dared to oppose the popular feeling, and found themselves in jail. Among these were several women of Hooker’s Division, charged with exulting over the murder of the President, and pulling mourning emblems from the windows of their neighbors. A warrant was issued for the arrest of Miss Mary Jane Windle, chronicler in prewar days of the doings of Washington society, who had recently returned after a long absence in the South. Miss Windle was accused of maliciously tearing down flags from her boardinghouse, and throwing them into the street. At the Mission Church in the First Ward, a preacher made some slurring comment on Lincoln in the course of his Sunday sermon. Veteran Reserves in the congregation seized him, and dragged him from the pulpit. Outside the church, he was put under arrest.
For the most part, the capital’s ministers, hastily revising their Easter sermons, exhorted their congregations to resignation to bereavement. The sun shone bright, and birds sang in the blossoming trees, as people trailed dejectedly to church to hear the soothing platitudes. One hospital nurse would remember the smell of the lilacs, and the weeping soldiers coming to ask for bits of crape and ribbon to fasten on their sleeves. At the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, the President’s pew was draped in black, and Dr. Phineas D. Gurley spoke of the chastening hand of a wise God. The Unitarians, however, heard a challenging discourse from their pastor, Dr. William H. Channing. He denounced the ruling class of the South, saying that they must either totally submit, or be brought as criminals before the law, and be condemned as guilty. His listeners repeatedly broke into applause, and several persons muttered “Hang them!”
The agitation was calmed by no official counsels of moderation and suspended judgment. In the despair and hysteria of Friday night, Mr. Stanton had grasped the reins of Government in his strong and trembling hands. He had been told of a prowler, skulking at his house on K Street, and believed that he, too, had been marked for assassination. Fearful of a vast murderous conspiracy, he had called Grant back to defend th
e capital. At the prisons he ordered special vigilance over rebel officers and soldiers. As though an invading army were marching on the city, he directed that the forts be alert and the guns manned. But, though the Secretary of War was frightened, he was not impotent. The wheels of Government turned, as he dictated his orders. All night, while Lincoln lay dying, mounted couriers had dashed from the boardinghouse to the War Department. With blanched faces, the telegraph operators had sent out Mr. Stanton’s dispatches. They spread the terror of Washington over the nation, but they also carried the reassurance of authority in the crisis.
On Saturday morning, the Union had a new President. Andy Johnson, hastily inducted into office in his guarded rooms at the Kirkwood House, was a silent figurehead. Seward lay speechless on his bed. Stanton was still in power. He was convinced that the crimes had been deliberately planned by the rebels to avenge the South and aid the Confederate cause, and he would turn the great resources of the War Department into proving it.
Stanton’s rage against the South was to become remarkable for its blind and passionate persistence; but on the day that Lincoln died it was representative of the wild revulsion of feeling that swept the capital and the nation. Even Grant was swayed by prejudice. On Saturday afternoon, he telegraphed to Richmond, “Extreme rigor will have to be observed whilst assassination remains the order of the day with the rebels.” Although he later changed his mind, his first drastic order was to arrest the Confederate officials in Richmond, as well as all paroled officers who had not taken the oath of allegiance. The virulent reaction of the Federal army was reflected in a dispatch from General Horatio Wright, advising that rebel officers within control of the Army of the Potomac should be closely confined with a view to retaliation on their persons.
The frail shoots of good will to the defeated enemy had been blasted in a night. All over the Union, a hoarse cry of vengeance sounded a discordant requiem for Lincoln.
The preparations for the funeral were a somber diversion which served partially to abate the excitement in the capital. The services, set for noon on Wednesday in the East Room, were to be followed by a grand procession to the Capitol. The War Department issued orders for the military escort, and Lamon’s office nominated the marshals for the civic procession of dignitaries, delegations, societies and clergy. Boswell’s Fancy Store advertised its readiness to make up sable sashes, batons and rosettes. Shops sold quantities of black gloves, crape for hat and arms, and badges, adorned with Lincoln’s portrait. Large supplies of mourning draperies had been rushed down from New York, and were offered at bargain prices. Every train disgorged a load of visitors. Tenth Street swarmed with sight-seers, staring at Ford’s, which was guarded by soldiers, and invading the lodginghouse to see the room where Lincoln had died.
On Monday afternoon, the embalmers had finished, and Lincoln lay in his new black suit in the White House guest room. Officials came to bow beside the four-poster bed, whose pillow was strewn with flowers. Mrs. Lincoln did not leave her room. As though in death Lincoln belonged not to his family, but to the nation, the funeral arrangements were made with official impersonality. The total expenses amounted to thirty thousand dollars.* Carpenters and costumers had come and gone past the military guard around the White House. In the middle of the East Room towered a catafalque, festooned with black silk. The domed canopy, lined in white, rose so high that it had been necessary to remove the central chandelier. The two remaining chandeliers were swathed in mourning. The frames of the mirrors were similarly darkened, and white material was stretched over the glass. A series of steps, which had been built around three walls of the room, were covered in black, as were also the chairs provided for the press. Black draperies, concealing the lace and crimson damask at the windows, gave the room the gloom of a vault. When all was ready, Lincoln’s body was laid in the casket, braided and studded and starred with silver.
On Tuesday, Lincoln lay in state on the catafalque in the East Room, just as he had dreamed. Officers stood, rigid and severe, at his head and feet. The sepulchral light glinted on the veiled mirrors and the silver trimmings of the casket, as the people ascended the steps of the catafalque for a lingering look at his dim face. There were many soldiers and colored folk in the sorrowful procession which all day wound through the entrance, through the Green Room, slowly through the East Room, and over the black-draped platform which led from one of the windows. In the late afternoon, when the doors were closed, a long line was still waiting on the Avenue.
The hotels were as crowded as they had been for Lincoln’s first inauguration, and it was said that six thousand persons spent Tuesday night in the streets and in depots and outbuildings.
At sunrise on Wednesday, a Federal salute awakened the capital to the most solemn day in its history. All places of business had been voluntarily closed, and nearly every house was deserted, as families, servants, boarding-house keepers and lodgers hurried to find vantage points from which to view the funeral procession. From the White House to the Capitol, the Avenue was bordered by two thick, dark stripes of humanity. Spectators gathered on roof tops, and weighted trees. Lafayette Square and the Treasury colonnade were packed. As the morning passed, fresh arrivals filled the town to overflowing— soldiers who had managed to slip away from the army, travelers by boat and train, and country people in hay wagons, donkey carts and dearborns.
The sun beamed from a cloudless sky, and a gentle breeze stirred the draperies on the buildings. The hush of the crowds was penetrated by the minor strains of the bands, as they took their places in line. Officers, with mourning knots on their sword hilts, led out the military escort. Black-gloved civilians were forming in every side street. Delegations from outside cities swirled around the City Hall. At noon, the church bells tolled, and the minute guns began to boom.
The press had arrived early in the fragrant stillness of the East Room. Flowers carpeted the platform of the catafalque, and were scattered on the coffin top. A cross of lilies stood at Lincoln’s head, and an anchor of roses at his feet. General David Hunter silently paced the room, his buttons and twin stars and crape-hung sword faintly gleaming. Now and then he spoke to the other officers of the guard, before they all went to stand like statues beside the catafalque. The upholsterers softly drove the last nails, and smoothed the draperies, and the guests began to arrive. Tickets had been limited to six hundred, and the Treasury Department, which was in charge of the admissions, had been besieged. Clergymen, governors, mayors and councilmen, and the corporate authorities of Washington took their places on the tiers of steps, together with the Cabinet, the justices, senators and representatives, the diplomatic corps and many officers. President Johnson stood on the lowest step, facing the middle of the coffin, with his hands crossed on his breast. Grant, in white gloves and sash, was seated alone at the head of the catafalque. At the foot sat Robert and Tad and a few Todd relatives. In all the room, there were but seven ladies: Mrs. Welles, Mrs. Stanton, Mrs. Usher, the two daughters of Chief Justice Chase, and Mrs. Dennison and her daughter.
Dr. Gurley preached the funeral sermon, and, when the closing prayer had been spoken, the casket was closed. A detachment of Veteran Reserves carried it to the high, black-canopied hearse, drawn by six gray horses. Propped on the pillows of his bed near a window on Lafayette Square, a sick man vaguely saw the moving, plume-decked structure. Mr. Seward was too weak to understand its meaning, but he would keep a dreamy memory of those black, nodding plumes.
The dirges of the bands mingled with the tolling bells, and the minute guns repeated their methodical punctuation, as the military escort started down the Avenue. Regiments and battalions marched in slow time, with arms reversed and draped banners. Heavy artillery rumbled behind them. Hundreds of army and naval officers went on foot. There was one unforeseen change in the line of march. The Twenty-second Colored Infantry, just landed from Petersburg, found itself unable to proceed up the Avenue from Seventh Street. Wheeling about, the Negro soldiers headed the procession to the Capitol.
Block after block, grief moved along the sidewalks at the sight of the casket, followed by Lincoln’s horse, with his master’s boots in the stirrups. Dignitaries, delegations and societies filled the wide street, on foot or in their carriages. Thirty thousand people took part in the funeral pageant, which ended with the colored lodges. When Welles drove back along the Avenue after the service at the Capitol, he met the broad platoons, still marching.
For one more day, Lincoln’s corpse lay on view in a catafalque under the high dome. The walls were heavily draped, and the pictures and statues were covered, save only the figure of General Washington, on which a black sash was tied. From early morning until dark, soldiers marshaled the visitors into a double line which passed on either side of the casket.
At six on Friday morning, there was another brief service in the Rotunda. Stanton drove up in great haste, attended by Lincoln’s guard of cavalry. Grant was present with his staff, and there were other officers, several members of Congress, and the Illinois delegation. Followed by this small cortege, the casket was removed to the railroad depot before Washington was well awake. It was placed on the funeral train, and Willie’s smaller coffin, brought from the cemetery vault, was placed at its foot. The officers of the guard of honor, headed by General Hunter, took their places. The Illinois delegation and other friends and political associates climbed aboard. From the rail-road yard came a melancholy clangor of engine bells. Crowds, which the early service at the Capitol had been designed to avoid, struggled to pass the lines of soldiers around the depot.
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