Behind the Scenes or, Thirty Years a Slave, and Four Years in the White House by Elizabeth Keckley

Author:Elizabeth Keckley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

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.

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