Ethel left her uncle’s house in tears, but before reaching her
destination had wiped them away and assumed an air of determined
cheerfulness. Mrs. Baker gave her a kindly reception, said she was glad
to see her, hoped she would never find reason to regret having come, and
bade her sit down by the stove and get well warmed before taking off her
hat and sack, for it was a cold, blustering March day.
“We’ll not be likely to have much custom to-day,” she remarked
presently; “it’s so raw and cold out that I should think folks that have
no particular call to go abroad would be likely to stay at home. Perhaps
it’s a good thing for us, as we’ll have time to look over the bits of
needlework you were telling me of. You have brought them along, I
suppose?”
“I put them in my trunk,” replied Ethel.
“And that’s come and been carried up to your room; and when you’re right
warm you may bring them down, if you choose.”
Ethel presently availed herself of the permission, and Mrs. Baker and
her mother, Mrs. Ray, both examined the work with interest. “I think
they are very handsome indeed, and shouldn’t wonder if she’d find a
customer for them—some of them, anyhow—directly,” remarked the old lady.
“I never saw as pretty work done by one so young.”
“I quite agree with you, mother, and hope she’ll make a good deal on
them,” returned Mrs. Baker, with a pleasant smile into Ethel’s face, now
rosy with pleasure at their warm commendation of her work. “I advise you
to keep on, Ethel, as you tell me you have been doing, using spare
moments in adding to your stock, and I think you’ll find it paying you
well one of these days,” she continued, addressing the young girl. “If
you wish, I’ll buy a piece of muslin for you some day soon when I’m out
purchasing goods for the store. I think maybe I can get a better bargain
than you could, seeing you are so young and not used, as I am, to such
business; then I’ll help you with the cutting out of the garments, so
that they’ll be ready when you can find time to work on them.”
“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” exclaimed Ethel, tears of gratitude springing to
her eyes, “you are very kind to me.”
“Tut, child, I haven’t done anything yet to speak of,” laughed the
kind-hearted woman. “But I want to do by you as I’d want anyone to do by
my little Jenny, if she should ever be left fatherless and motherless,
poor little soul!” glancing with moistened eyes at her four-year-old
daughter, who was playing about the floor.
“Dear little thing!” Ethel said, holding out her hand to the child, who
had paused in her play to look wonderingly from one to the other, “she
reminds me of what my little sister Nan was when God took our father and
mother to heaven.”
“My papa aint gone dere,” lisped the little one, gazing up into Ethel’s
face; “he’s gone to de war to fight de rebs.”
“Has he?” said Ethel; “so have two of my cousins. Oh,” turning to Mrs.
Baker, “I hope this dreadful war will soon be over!”
“So do I,” was the emphatic rejoinder; “or rather I wish it; things
don’t look so very hopeful just at present. But folks seem to think the
new general may be expected to make better progress against the rebels
than the others did, I think myself it’s more than likely, considering
what he has done out West.”
“And we are all praying for him, that the Lord will give him wisdom and
success with his plans, so that this awful war may come to an end, and
the country be saved,” said Mrs. Ray. “The men at the head of the
rebellion have a great deal to answer for. They were not oppressed, but
were dreadful oppressors—of the negro first, then of the whites both
North and South, in order to hold on to slavery, which they found so
profitable to their pockets, besides ministering to their wicked pride.”
“Well, I am sure the backbone of the rebellion is broken now; they know
it can’t succeed, and I for one can’t see how the consciences of the
rebel leaders can allow them to go on with the struggle—sacrificing so
many lives to no purpose,” sighed Mrs. Baker. “Now, Ethel, I will show
you round the store and make you acquainted with the places of the
different articles we have for sale, so that you will be able to find
them when called for.”
“And I must go and see to household matters,” her mother said, hurrying
away in the direction of the kitchen.
Ethel was kept very busy all day, except for a little while in the
afternoon, when Blanche came with Harry and Nannette to see her in her
new quarters.
Mrs. Baker received them kindly and invited them to come again for
Ethel’s sake, and though some tears were shed by the three girls at
parting, they all felt better contented than they had before.
As the days, weeks, and months rolled on, Ethel was more comfortable and
found things going more smoothly with her at Mrs. Baker’s than she had
dared to hope. Waiting upon customers was not repugnant to her, she was
fond of her needlework, and not averse to using the sewing-machine;
though Mrs. Baker was kindly careful not to let her do too much of that
last, lest she should injure her health; also she kindly contrived some
errand for her every day, squares away from the store, that she might
have the benefit of outdoor air and exercise.
And there were many exchanges of visits between herself and her younger
sisters and brother; occasional letters from Mrs. Keith and her mother
to be read and replied to, and interesting news from the seat of war,
the daily papers being eagerly searched for it by Mrs. Kay, Mrs. Baker,
and herself.
With what a thrill of horror they read of the awful massacre by the
savage Forrest and his troops at Fort Pillow, taken by a resort to
trickery under a flag of truce; the terrible battles of the Wilderness,
Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and others of the sanguinary conflicts of
that last year of the war of the rebellion!
These divided Ethel’s attention with her needlework, waiting upon
customers, doing errands for Mrs. Baker, and chatting with the little
ones, who were a source of entertainment, and of whom there were two
boys in addition to Jenny. They were but little fellows, going to school
until the summer holidays began, but full of fun and frolic when at
home, and Ethel and they soon became fast friends.
One day early in the fall Ethel received a letter from Mrs. Keith, in
which she told of the coming home of her husband, a paroled prisoner
from Andersonville, where he had been for some time, suffering so
terribly that his health seemed ruined for life. His parents and other
near relatives in Indiana were anxious to see him, she added, and they
had decided to go out there for some weeks, taking the children with
them. She hoped the trip would prove of benefit to Mr. Keith, and that
he would return home looking and feeling more as he did before going
into the army, for now he was so pale and thin that it almost broke her
heart to look at him and hear his sad story of the barbarous treatment
he and his fellow-prisoners had received at the hands of their cruel
jailors; then from that she went on to tell of the starvation, filth,
exposure to the weather, and shooting down on the slightest protest,
which made of Andersonville prison-pen a veritable hell upon earth.
Ethel read that part of the letter first to herself, then aloud to Mrs.
Baker and Mrs. Ray, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, while her
hearers wept with her.
“Ah,” sighed Mrs. Baker, “God grant this cruel war may soon be over, and
that my poor husband may never be a prisoner in the hands of those worse
than savage men!”
“And oh, I hope my poor cousins, George and Albert, may escape it too!”
exclaimed Ethel. “How very, very dreadful it is! how can men be so
cruel? worse than any wild beast.”
“Oh, hark!” exclaimed Mrs. Baker. “What is it that newsboy is crying?
Atlanta taken? I must have a paper!” and she rushed to the door,
beckoned to the lad, and in a minute was back again with the paper in
her hand, and reading aloud to her mother and Ethel.
They rejoiced together in this new proof that the Union cause was
gaining, the rebellion nearing its end.
Ethel had come to feel very much at home with these good women; though
her wages were but small, she had succeeded so well in the disposal of
the garments she had made on her own account and adorned with the
specimens of needlework she had brought with her, that she felt in good
spirits and very hopeful of being, at no very distant day, able to carry
out her plan of starting in a business of her own and making a home for
herself, her brother and sisters.
She was extremely desirous of doing that; yet she had become so attached
to the two good women she was with that it gave her something of a
heartache to think of leaving them.
She had thought she might be able to accomplish her desire at the end of
her first year with Mrs. Baker, but her means were not sufficient, and
all the friends she consulted esteemed her too young for such an
undertaking; they also thought that while the war lasted she would not
be so likely to succeed as in the better times to be hoped for at its
close. So she waited and worked on with patience and perseverance,
comforting herself with the thought of the future.
In April came the glad news of Lee’s surrender, which virtually ended
the war. It was glorious news to her and those she was with, as well as
to all other loyal Americans, filling their hearts with joy and
gratitude to the Giver of all good; but alas! how quickly followed by
intense grief and indignation over the cruel and cowardly assassination
of him who had guided the ship of state through the breakers and the
fearful storm that had raged about her, threatening her destruction for
the last four years.
On Saturday morning, April 15, the news reached Philadelphia,
telegraphed from Washington, that President Lincoln had been shot the
previous night and had just died of his wound.
The early breakfast was over at Mrs. Baker’s, the store was in order,
and Ethel sitting behind the counter engaged upon a bit of needlework
while awaiting the coming of customers. Mrs. Ray was busy in the back
part of the house, little Jenny playing about on the pavement in front
of the door, and Mrs. Baker had gone to market, taking the two boys with
her.
As Ethel’s needle flew in and out, her thoughts were busy with the glad
news of a few days before—that Lee had surrendered to Grant.
“The war must be just about over,” she said to herself, “and how glad
dear, good President Lincoln and all the people that love the Union must
feel! I don’t think one wants to punish the rebels now, much as we have
lost and suffered through the efforts of the Confederates to destroy
it—the grand old Union—we just say ‘They’ve given up now, and we will do
all we can to help them to repair their losses and begin to prosper
again.’ But, oh, hark! what’s that the newsboys are crying?”
With the last words she dropped her work and ran to the door.
The newsboy, drawing nearer, was literally crying, sobs mingling with
the words, “President Lincoln shot——”
“Oh, what—what’s that he’s saying?” cried Mrs. Ray, rushing in from the
back room and through the front door. “Here, boy, bring me a paper! Oh,
it can’t be possible that anybody’d be so wicked as to fire at the
President! Was he much hurt?” as she took the paper from the hand of the
weeping boy and gave him the money for it.
“Oh, ma’am, he’s dead! he’s dead! He was shot last night and died just a
few minutes ago. And they’ve murdered two or three more o’ the big men
in Washington,” and with the last words, accompanied by a sob, the lad
passed on, repeating his mournful cry.
“Oh, I can’t believe it! I don’t know how to believe anybody, even a
reb, could be so wicked,” sobbed Mrs. Ray, hastily glancing over the
headings. “Yes, yes: here it is! but I can’t believe it; it’s surely a
hoax; for who could be so wicked as to murder such a good, kind man as
dear Mr. Lincoln?”
“I can’t believe it either!” exclaimed Ethel, tears raining down her
cheeks, “but read it aloud, won’t you, Mrs. Ray?”
“I can’t—I can’t! the tears come so fast. You—you may,” thrusting the
paper into Ethel’s hand.
The young girl did as requested, but with many a pause to wipe away the
falling tears and check the sobs that well-nigh choked her utterance.
She had not finished when Mrs. Baker and her boys returned, all three
weeping.
“Oh, mother, mother, so you’ve got the news! I thought you would before
we could get home, for it has gone over the city like wildfire, and
almost everybody’s heartbroken!” cried Mrs. Baker, laying on the counter
a parcel she carried and wiping her streaming eyes.
“Not just everybody, mother; you forget that mean, bad woman we saw get
paid off so well in the market,” exclaimed Mark, the eldest boy, his
eyes flashing through tears. “You and Miss Ethel should have seen it,
grandmother. We were buying some fish for dinner, the fishwoman and
everybody round talking about the dreadful news, and most of them crying
to think of dear, good President Lincoln being murdered, when up came a
woman dressed in her best—at least I should think it might be her very
best—and she says to the fishwoman, ‘How much do you ask for these fine
shad? I’ll buy one, for I’m bound and determined to have an extra good
dinner to-day to show how delighted I am at the good news I’ve heard.’
‘And what may that be?’ the other woman asked. ‘Why, that that old
tyrant, Abe Lincoln, is killed!’ and she’d hardly got the words out when
that big shad was flapping round her ears in the liveliest kind of a
way; and it went on flapping till it was all broken to pieces, her face
smeared with the fish, and her bonnet crushed and broken and soiled till
nobody would ever want to wear it again.”
“Just what she deserved,” said his grandmother. “I can’t pity her in the
least.”
“And nobody did,” said Mark exultingly; “the crowd around just cheered
the fishwoman, and groaned and hissed at the other, till she was glad to
hurry away as fast as she could. There, mother, now you tell about what
we saw and heard on Walnut Street.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Baker. “As we were coming home along that street a
servant girl was scrubbing off the pavement in front of one of those
big, handsome residences, and, a gentleman going past, she hailed him
with, ‘An’ it’s the good news we’ve got this marnin’, sor; that ould
Lincoln’s shot to death an’ won’t nivver——’ But there he interrupted
her, his eyes fairly flashing with anger and his fists clenched. ‘If you
weren’t a woman I’d knock you down!’ he said in a tone as if it would be
a great satisfaction to him to do it. Then the gentleman of the house
came to the door (I had seen him step to the parlor window as the girl
began her remark) and said in a tone as if he would enjoy knocking her
down, ‘You may consider yourself dismissed from my service, Bridget. You
shall never enter my doors again with my knowledge and consent. I’ll
have your clothes sent out to you and you may go at once.’”
“I don’t blame him,” said a lady customer who had just come in; “it was
exactly what she deserved. Think of anybody being so heartless as to
rejoice in such a murder—the assassination of a man so patient and kind
to all, desirous to have rebels forgiven who in any other country would
be speedily executed for their attempt to destroy the government.
People’s hearts are very sore,” she went on, weeping as she spoke, “and
no wonder they cannot and will not stand hearing any rejoicing over this
terrible calamity that has befallen the country—the dear land just saved
from the dismemberment which threatened it! They are draping the public
buildings with black, putting all the flags at half mast, and tying them
with crape. Men shed tears; some women will wear deep mourning as for a
near relative; others rosettes of the national colors and black ribbon.
I came in here to look for the ribbons needed for mine.”
Ethel waited upon her and while she did so another customer came in on
the same errand. Her eyes were also wet with tears.
“Oh, isn’t it dreadful?” she sobbed. “I think I could hardly feel worse
if I’d lost my own father. And to think that some folks talk of the
awful deed as if they were delighted that it was done. The heartless
wretches! They might know, if they had any sense, that the loyal
people—who were just rejoicing that the dreadful fight was over and the
country saved—can’t and won’t stand it. I don’t know whether it’s true
or not, but I just heard that a fellow who was so heartless as to be
openly rejoicing over the dastardly deed, was knocked down for
expressing his exultation and kicked along the pavement by the
exasperated crowd till he was dead, and that a soldier shot down another
such rejoicer at one of the depots and nobody made any attempt to arrest
him for it.”
“Oh, those are dreadful things!” exclaimed Mrs. Kay. “It is certainly
wrong to kill a man for expressing his opinion; but they should have
sense enough to keep such opinions and feelings to themselves while
loyal people’s hearts are so sore over this dreadful, dreadful thing.”
“Well there is one comforting thought—that the dear man was certainly a
Christian, ready to die, and is now done with all earth’s troubles and
trials,” said Mrs. Baker, tears of mingled joy and sorrow shining in her
eyes. “How sweet the rest and peace of heaven must be to him—so worn and
weary as he was with the griefs and cares of the last four dreadful
years. We must weep for our own great and irreparable loss, and for all
he suffered before God took him home, but at the same time we may
rejoice in the blessedness that is now his in that better land.”
“Yes, indeed,” responded the two lady customers, one of them adding, “I
don’t know how anyone can doubt that he was a Christian man, well
prepared to die; for he certainly displayed a Christian spirit toward
all—even the rebels who were his deadly foes and had planned to murder
him on his way to his first inauguration. It must be a blessed change
for him; but oh, what is the country to do without him!”
“Oh, ma’am, our God still lives,” said Mrs. Ray. “He is our Rock and
Refuge, a very present help in trouble.”
“Oh, mother, all the stores are putting black over their doors and
windows,” exclaimed Mark, peering out into the street; “tying their
flags with crape too. Can’t we do the same with ours?”
“Yes, yes, to be sure,” she replied. “I’ll go at once and buy some yards
of black stuff and we’ll fasten it along under the windows of our second
story and around the doors here.”
“Get some crape for the flag, too,” said her mother. “Here, I’ll pay for
it,” taking out her purse as she spoke. “And hadn’t you better lay in a
fresh supply of black, red, blue, and white ribbons for making the
rosettes? I feel sure that a great many folks will be putting them on as
a sign of mourning for him—the dear, murdered President!”
“Yes, mother, I’ll lay in a fresh stock, and the sooner I get off to see
about it the better; for I’m pretty certain that there will be a great
demand for it before the day is over,” replied Mrs. Baker—and hurried on
her way.
A busy day followed—a day full of sad, heart-breaking excitement. Troops
were in hot pursuit of the murderers—the one who had slain the
President, and his confederates, him who had attacked Secretary Seward,
and those who had aided and abetted them.
The newsboys’ cry of “Extry! Extry!” was frequently heard, and the
papers sold rapidly. All loyal hearts rejoiced that though evidently it
had been the intention of the conspirators to slay Secretary Seward,
perhaps General Grant also, both had escaped with life, though the
secretary had been severely wounded by his would-be assassin.
Cavalry and a heavy police force were speedily sent out in pursuit of
the criminals, who were finally taken and brought back to Washington to
receive the punishment due to their crimes—with the exception of Booth
who, refusing to surrender, was shot and killed in the barn which, he
had made his hiding place.
When it was known that he was no longer at large, had not escaped with
impunity after his awful deed—people seemed to breathe more freely,
their hearts to be a little less sore, though they still mourned deeply
for the loss of their martyred President, who was borne to the grave
amid the tears and lamentations of almost the entire nation. There were
few who did not mourn for him as for one very near and dear; one whose
place could never be filled.