THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN
I had never heard Mr. Lincoln make a public speech, and, knowing the man
so well, was very anxious to hear him. On the morning of the Tuesday
after our return from City Point, Mrs. Lincoln came to my apartments,
and before she drove away I asked permission to come to the White House
that night and hear Mr. Lincoln speak.
"Certainly, Lizabeth; if you take any interest in political speeches,
come and listen in welcome."
"Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln. May I trespass further on your kindness by
asking permission to bring a friend with me?"
"Yes, bring your friend also. By the way, come in time to dress me
before the speaking commences."
"I will be in time. You may rely upon that. Good morning," I added, as
she swept from my room, and, passing out into the street, entered her
carriage and drove away.
About 7 o'clock that evening I entered the White House. As I went
up-stairs I glanced into Mr. Lincoln's room through the half-open door,
and seated by a desk was the President, looking over his notes and
muttering to himself. His face was thoughtful, his manner abstracted,
and I knew, as I paused a moment to watch him, that he was rehearsing
the part that he was to play in the great drama soon to commence.
Proceeding to Mrs. Lincoln's apartment, I worked with busy fingers, and
in a short time her toilette was completed.
Great crowds began to gather in front of the White House, and loud calls
were made for the President. The band stopped playing, and as he
advanced to the centre window over the door to make his address, I
looked out, and never saw such a mass of heads before. It was like a
black, gently swelling sea. The swaying motion of the crowd, in the dim
uncertain light, was like the rising and falling of billows--like the
ebb and flow of the tide upon the stranded shore of the ocean. Close to
the house the faces were plainly discernible, but they faded into mere
ghostly outlines on the outskirts of the assembly; and what added to the
weird, spectral beauty of the scene, was the confused hum of voices that
rose above the sea of forms, sounding like the subdued, sullen roar of
an ocean storm, or the wind soughing through the dark lonely forest. It
was a grand and imposing scene, and when the President, with pale face
and his soul flashing through his eyes, advanced to speak, he looked
more like a demigod than a man crowned with the fleeting days of
mortality.
The moment the President appeared at the window he was greeted with a
storm of applause, and voices re-echoed the cry, "A light! a light!"
A lamp was brought, and little Tad at once rushed to his father's side,
exclaiming:
"Let me hold the light, Papa! let me hold the light!"
Mrs. Lincoln directed that the wish of her son be gratified, and the
lamp was transferred to his hands. The father and son standing there in
the presence of thousands of free citizens, the one lost in a chain of
eloquent ideas, the other looking up into the speaking face with a
proud, manly look, formed a beautiful and striking tableau.
There were a number of distinguished gentlemen, as well as ladies, in
the room, nearly all of whom remarked the picture.
I stood a short distance from Mr. Lincoln, and as the light from the
lamp fell full upon him, making him stand out boldly in the darkness, a
sudden thought struck me, and I whispered to the friend at my side:
"What an easy matter would it be to kill the President, as he stands
there! He could be shot down from the crowd, and no one be able to tell
who fired the shot."
I do not know what put such an idea into my head, unless it was the
sudden remembrance of the many warnings that Mr. Lincoln had received.
The next day, I made mention to Mrs. Lincoln of the idea that had
impressed me so strangely the night before, and she replied with a sigh:
"Yes, yes, Mr. Lincoln's life is always exposed. Ah, no one knows what
it is to live in constant dread of some fearful tragedy. The President
has been warned so often, that I tremble for him on every public
occasion. I have a presentiment that he will meet with a sudden and
violent end. I pray God to protect my beloved husband from the hands of
the assassin."
Mr. Lincoln was fond of pets. He had two goats that knew the sound of
his voice, and when he called them they would come bounding to his side.
In the warm bright days, he and Tad would sometimes play in the yard
with these goats, for an hour at a time. One Saturday afternoon I went
to the White House to dress Mrs. Lincoln. I had nearly completed my task
when the President came in. It was a bright day, and walking to the
window, he looked down into the yard, smiled, and, turning to me, asked:
"Madam Elizabeth, you are fond of pets, are you not?"
"O yes, sir," I answered.
"Well, come here and look at my two goats. I believe they are the
kindest and best goats in the world. See how they sniff the clear air,
and skip and play in the sunshine. Whew! what a jump," he exclaimed as
one of the goats made a lofty spring. "Madam Elizabeth, did you ever
before see such an active goat?" Musing a moment, he continued: "He
feeds on my bounty, and jumps with joy. Do you think we could call him a
bounty-jumper? But I flatter the bounty-jumper. My goat is far above
him. I would rather wear his horns and hairy coat through life, than
demean myself to the level of the man who plunders the national treasury
in the name of patriotism. The man who enlists into the service for a
consideration, and deserts the moment he receives his money but to
repeat the play, is bad enough; but the men who manipulate the grand
machine and who simply make the bounty-jumper their agent in an
outrageous fraud are far worse. They are beneath the worms that crawl in
the dark hidden places of earth."
His lips curled with haughty scorn, and a cloud was gathering on his
brow. Only a moment the shadow rested on his face. Just then both goats
looked up at the window and shook their heads as if they would say "How
d'ye do, old friend?"
"See, Madam Elizabeth," exclaimed the President in a tone of enthusiasm,
"my pets recognize me. How earnestly they look! There they go again;
what jolly fun!" and he laughed outright as the goats bounded swiftly to
the other side of the yard. Just then Mrs. Lincoln called out, "Come,
Lizabeth; if I get ready to go down this evening I must finish dressing
myself, or you must stop staring at those silly goats."
Mrs. Lincoln was not fond of pets, and she could not understand how Mr.
Lincoln could take so much delight in his goats. After Willie's death,
she could not bear the sight of anything he loved, not even a flower.
Costly bouquets were presented to her, but she turned from them with a
shudder, and either placed them in a room where she could not see them,
or threw them out of the window. She gave all of Willie's
toys--everything connected with him--away, as she said she could not
look upon them without thinking of her poor dead boy, and to think of
him, in his white shroud and cold grave, was maddening. I never in my
life saw a more peculiarly constituted woman. Search the world over, and
you will not find her counterpart. After Mr. Lincoln's death, the goats
that he loved so well were given away--I believe to Mrs. Lee, _nee_ Miss
Blair, one of the few ladies with whom Mrs. Lincoln was on intimate
terms in Washington.
During my residence in the Capital I made my home with Mr. and Mrs.
Walker Lewis, people of my own race, and friends in the truest sense of
the word.
The days passed without any incident of particular note disturbing the
current of life. On Friday morning, April 14th--alas! what American does
not remember the day--I saw Mrs. Lincoln but for a moment. She told me
that she was to attend the theatre that night with the President, but I
was not summoned to assist her in making her toilette. Sherman had swept
from the northern border of Georgia through the heart of the Confederacy
down to the sea, striking the death-blow to the rebellion. Grant had
pursued General Lee beyond Richmond, and the army of Virginia, that had
made such stubborn resistance, was crumbling to pieces. Fort Sumter had
fallen;--the stronghold first wrenched from the Union; and which had
braved the fury of Federal guns for so many years, was restored to the
Union; the end of the war was near at hand, and the great pulse of the
loyal North thrilled with joy. The dark war-cloud was fading, and a
white-robed angel seemed to hover in the sky, whispering "Peace--peace
on earth, good-will toward men!" Sons, brothers, fathers, friends,
sweethearts were coming home. Soon the white tents would be folded, the
volunteer army be disbanded, and tranquillity again reign. Happy, happy
day!--happy at least to those who fought under the banner of the Union.
There was great rejoicing throughout the North. From the Atlantic to the
Pacific, flags were gayly thrown to the breeze, and at night every city
blazed with its tens of thousand lights. But scarcely had the fireworks
ceased to play, and the lights been taken down from the windows, when
the lightning flashed the most appalling news over the magnetic wires.
"The President has been murdered!" spoke the swift-winged messenger, and
the loud huzza died upon the lips. A nation suddenly paused in the midst
of festivity, and stood paralyzed with horror--transfixed with awe.
Oh, memorable day! Oh, memorable night! Never before was joy so
violently contrasted with sorrow.
At 11 o'clock at night I was awakened by an old friend and neighbor,
Miss M. Brown, with the startling intelligence that the entire Cabinet
had been assassinated, and Mr. Lincoln shot, but not mortally wounded.
When I heard the words I felt as if the blood had been frozen in my
veins, and that my lungs must collapse for the want of air. Mr. Lincoln
shot! the Cabinet assassinated! What could it mean? The streets were
alive with wondering, awe-stricken people. Rumors flew thick and fast,
and the wildest reports came with every new arrival. The words were
repeated with blanched cheeks and quivering lips. I waked Mr. and Mrs.
Lewis, and told them that the President was shot, and that I must go to
the White House. I could not remain in a state of uncertainty. I felt
that the house would not hold me. They tried to quiet me, but gentle
words could not calm the wild tempest. They quickly dressed themselves,
and we sallied out into the street to drift with the excited throng. We
walked rapidly towards the White House, and on our way passed the
residence of Secretary Seward, which was surrounded by armed soldiers,
keeping back all intruders with the point of the bayonet. We hurried on,
and as we approached the White House, saw that it too was surrounded
with soldiers. Every entrance was strongly guarded, and no one was
permitted to pass. The guard at the gate told us that Mr. Lincoln had
not been brought home, but refused to give any other information. More
excited than ever, we wandered down the street. Grief and anxiety were
making me weak, and as we joined the outskirts of a large crowd, I began
to feel as meek and humble as a penitent child. A gray-haired old man
was passing. I caught a glimpse of his face, and it seemed so full of
kindness and sorrow that I gently touched his arm, and imploringly
asked:
"Will you please, sir, to tell me whether Mr. Lincoln is dead or not?"
"Not dead," he replied, "but dying. God help us!" and with a heavy step
he passed on.
"Not dead, but dying! then indeed God help us!"
We learned that the President was mortally wounded--that he had been
shot down in his box at the theatre, and that he was not expected to
live till morning; when we returned home with heavy hearts. I could not
sleep. I wanted to go to Mrs. Lincoln, as I pictured her wild with
grief; but then I did not know where to find her, and I must wait till
morning. Never did the hours drag so slowly. Every moment seemed an age,
and I could do nothing but walk about and hold my arms in mental agony.
Morning came at last, and a sad morning was it. The flags that floated
so gayly yesterday now were draped in black, and hung in silent folds at
half-mast. The President was dead, and a nation was mourning for him.
Every house was draped in black, and every face wore a solemn look.
People spoke in subdued tones, and glided whisperingly, wonderingly,
silently about the streets.
About eleven o'clock on Saturday morning a carriage drove up to the
door, and a messenger asked for "Elizabeth Keckley."
"Who wants her?" I asked.
"I come from Mrs. Lincoln. If you are Mrs. Keckley, come with me
immediately to the White House."
I hastily put on my shawl and bonnet, and was driven at a rapid rate to
the White House. Everything about the building was sad and solemn. I was
quickly shown to Mrs. Lincoln's room, and on entering, saw Mrs. L.
tossing uneasily about upon a bed. The room was darkened, and the only
person in it besides the widow of the President was Mrs. Secretary
Welles, who had spent the night with her. Bowing to Mrs. Welles, I went
to the bedside.
"Why did you not come to me last night, Elizabeth--I sent for you?" Mrs.
Lincoln asked in a low whisper.
"I did try to come to you, but I could not find you," I answered, as I
laid my hand upon her hot brow.
I afterwards learned, that when she had partially recovered from the
first shock of the terrible tragedy in the theatre, Mrs. Welles asked:
"Is there no one, Mrs. Lincoln, that you desire to have with you in this
terrible affliction?"
"Yes, send for Elizabeth Keckley. I want her just as soon as she can be
brought here."
Three messengers, it appears, were successively despatched for me, but
all of them mistook the number and failed to find me.
Shortly after entering the room on Saturday morning, Mrs. Welles excused
herself, as she said she must go to her own family, and I was left alone
with Mrs. Lincoln.
She was nearly exhausted with grief, and when she became a little quiet,
I asked and received permission to go into the Guests' Room, where the
body of the President lay in state. When I crossed the threshold of the
room, I could not help recalling the day on which I had seen little
Willie lying in his coffin where the body of his father now lay. I
remembered how the President had wept over the pale beautiful face of
his gifted boy, and now the President himself was dead. The last time I
saw him he spoke kindly to me, but alas! the lips would never move
again. The light had faded from his eyes, and when the light went out
the soul went with it. What a noble soul was his--noble in all the noble
attributes of God! Never did I enter the solemn chamber of death with
such palpitating heart and trembling footsteps as I entered it that day.
No common mortal had died. The Moses of my people had fallen in the hour
of his triumph. Fame had woven her choicest chaplet for his brow. Though
the brow was cold and pale in death, the chaplet should not fade, for
God had studded it with the glory of the eternal stars.
When I entered the room, the members of the Cabinet and many
distinguished officers of the army were grouped around the body of their
fallen chief. They made room for me, and, approaching the body, I lifted
the white cloth from the white face of the man that I had worshipped as
an idol--looked upon as a demi-god. Notwithstanding the violence of the
death of the President, there was something beautiful as well as grandly
solemn in the expression of the placid face. There lurked the sweetness
and gentleness of childhood, and the stately grandeur of godlike
intellect. I gazed long at the face, and turned away with tears in my
eyes and a choking sensation in my throat. Ah! never was man so widely
mourned before. The whole world bowed their heads in grief when Abraham
Lincoln died.
Returning to Mrs. Lincoln's room, I found her in a new paroxysm of
grief. Robert was bending over his mother with tender affection, and
little Tad was crouched at the foot of the bed with a world of agony in
his young face. I shall never forget the scene--the wails of a broken
heart, the unearthly shrieks, the terrible convulsions, the wild,
tempestuous outbursts of grief from the soul. I bathed Mrs. Lincoln's
head with cold water, and soothed the terrible tornado as best I could.
Tad's grief at his father's death was as great as the grief of his
mother, but her terrible outbursts awed the boy into silence. Sometimes
he would throw his arms around her neck, and exclaim, between his broken
sobs, "Don't cry so, Mamma! don't cry, or you will make me cry, too! You
will break my heart."
Mrs. Lincoln could not bear to hear Tad cry, and when he would plead to
her not to break his heart, she would calm herself with a great effort,
and clasp her child in her arms.
Every room in the White House was darkened, and every one spoke in
subdued tones, and moved about with muffled tread. The very atmosphere
breathed of the great sorrow which weighed heavily upon each heart. Mrs.
Lincoln never left her room, and while the body of her husband was being
borne in solemn state from the Atlantic to the broad prairies of the
West, she was weeping with her fatherless children in her private
chamber. She denied admittance to almost every one, and I was her only
companion, except her children, in the days of her great sorrow.
There were many surmises as to who was implicated with J. Wilkes Booth
in the assassination of the President. A new messenger had accompanied
Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln to the theatre on that terrible Friday night. It
was the duty of this messenger to stand at the door of the box during
the performance, and thus guard the inmates from all intrusion. It
appears that the messenger was carried away by the play, and so
neglected his duty that Booth gained easy admission to the box. Mrs.
Lincoln firmly believed that this messenger was implicated in the
assassination plot.
One night I was lying on a lounge near the bed occupied by Mrs. Lincoln.
One of the servants entering the room, Mrs. L. asked:
"Who is on watch to-night?"
"The new messenger," was the reply.
"What! the man who attended us to the theatre on the night my dear, good
husband was murdered! He, I believe, is one of the murderers. Tell him
to come in to me."
The messenger had overheard Mrs. Lincoln's words through the half-open
door, and when he came in he was trembling violently.
She turned to him fiercely: "So you are on guard to-night--on guard in
the White House after helping to murder the President!"
"Pardon me, but I did not help to murder the President. I could never
stoop to murder--much less to the murder of so good and great a man as
the President."
"But it appears that you _did_ stoop to murder."
"No, no! don't say that," he broke in. "God knows that I am innocent."
"I don't believe you. Why were you not at the door to keep the assassin
out when he rushed into the box?"
"I did wrong, I admit, and I have bitterly repented it, but I did not
help to kill the President. I did not believe that any one would try to
kill so good a man in such a public place, and the belief made me
careless. I was attracted by the play, and did not see the assassin
enter the box."
"But you should have seen him. You had no business to be careless. I
shall always believe that you are guilty. Hush! I shan't hear another
word," she exclaimed, as the messenger essayed to reply. "Go now and
keep your watch," she added, with an imperious wave of her hand. With
mechanical step and white face the messenger left the room, and Mrs.
Lincoln fell back on her pillow, covered her face with her hands, and
commenced sobbing.
Robert was very tender to his mother in the days of her sorrow.
He suffered deeply, as his haggard face indicated, but he was ever manly
and collected when in the presence of his mother. Mrs. Lincoln was
extremely nervous, and she refused to have anybody about her but myself.
Many ladies called, but she received none of them. Had she been less
secluded in her grief, perhaps she would have had many warmer friends
to-day than she has. But far be it from me to harshly judge the sorrow
of any one. Could the ladies who called to condole with Mrs. Lincoln,
after the death of her husband, and who were denied admittance to her
chamber, have seen how completely prostrated she was with grief, they
would have learned to speak more kindly of her. Often at night, when Tad
would hear her sobbing, he would get up, and come to her bed in his
white sleeping-clothes: "Don't cry, Mamma; I cannot sleep if you cry!
Papa was good, and he has gone to heaven. He is happy there. He is with
God and brother Willie. Don't cry, Mamma, or I will cry too."
The closing appeal always proved the most effectual, as Mrs. Lincoln
could not bear to hear her child cry.
Tad had been petted by his father, but petting could not spoil such a
manly nature as his. He seemed to realize that he was the son of a
President--to realize it in its loftiest and noblest sense. One morning,
while being dressed, he looked up at his nurse, and said: "Pa is dead.
I can hardly believe that I shall never see him again. I must learn to
take care of myself now." He looked thoughtful a moment, then added,
"Yes, Pa is dead, and I am only Tad Lincoln now, little Tad, like other
little boys. I am not a President's son now. I won't have many presents
any more. Well, I will try and be a good boy, and will hope to go some
day to Pa and brother Willie, in heaven." He was a brave, manly child,
and knew that influence had passed out of their hands with the death of
his father, and that his position in life was altered. He seemed to feel
that people petted him, and gave him presents, because they wanted to
please the President of the United States. From that period forward he
became more independent, and in a short time learned to dispense with
the services of a nurse. While in Chicago, I saw him get out his clothes
one Sunday morning and dress himself, and the change was such a great
one to me--for while in the White House, servants obeyed his every nod
and bid--that I could scarcely refrain from shedding tears. Had his
father lived, I knew it would have been different with his favorite boy.
Tad roomed with Robert, and he always took pride in pleasing his
brother.
After the Committee had started West with the body of the President,
there was quite a breeze of excitement for a few days as to where the
remains should be interred. Secretary Stanton and others held frequent
conferences with Robert, Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lincoln's cousin, and Dr. Henry,
an old schoolmate and friend of Mr. Lincoln. The city authorities of
Springfield had purchased a beautiful plat of ground in a prosperous
portion of the city, and work was rapidly progressing on the tomb, when
Mrs. Lincoln made strenuous objection to the location. She declared that
she would stop the body in Chicago before it should be laid to rest in
the lot purchased for the purpose by the City of Springfield. She gave
as a reason, that it was her desire to be laid by the side of her
husband when she died, and that such would be out of the question in a
public place of the kind. As is well known, the difficulty was finally
settled by placing the remains of the President in the family vault at
Oak Ridge, a charming spot for the home of the dead.
After the President's funeral Mrs. Lincoln rallied, and began to make
preparations to leave the White House. One day she suddenly exclaimed:
"God, Elizabeth, what a change! Did ever woman have to suffer so much
and experience so great a change? I had an ambition to be Mrs.
President; that ambition has been gratified, and now I must step down
from the pedestal. My poor husband! had he never been President, he
might be living to-day. Alas! all is over with me!"
Folding her arms for a few moments, she rocked back and forth, then
commenced again, more vehemently than ever: "My God, Elizabeth, I can
never go back to Springfield! no, never, until I go in my shroud to be
laid by my dear husband's side, and may Heaven speed that day! I should
like to live for my sons, but life is so full of misery that I would
rather die." And then she would go off into a fit of hysterics.