The past four years had been horrible. I lost my father at Antietam in ’62 and my older brother at Gettysburg in ’63. Now, it was just my mother and I. My mother worked as a nurse at the soldiers’ hospital. Since I was only sixteen, I had not been called to the war, and just two weeks ago, we learned that Lee had surrendered to Grant somewhere out in Virginia. I sold newspapers, and I sure sold a lot on that day the news came that the war was over. There were celebrations and parties every night. Everyone in Washington was just glad that the war was over. Not everybody here hated the Rebs like I did. Some people here even were real Confederates, but they kept it to themselves. After all, the streets were filled with Union soldiers.
My mother and I were not inclined to celebrate in the streets, but did want to do something special to take our minds off the war and take a break from our hard work. So, yesterday morning, mother surprised me by telling me that we were going to the theater that night. She had two tickets to see “Our American Cousin” at Ford’s Theater. I was so excited. We didn’t get out much, and going to the theater was a real special occasion - so special that we wore our church cloths when we went which was not so often. All day yesterday, I could not keep my mind on selling newspapers. I was so excited about the night to come.
We got to the theater early and found our seats. Since we had a half hour to wait before the play began, I excused myself to my mother and went downstairs to the gentleman’s smoking parlor. Even though I was only sixteen, I already had some beard growth, and people took me as being older, so I was accepted in gentleman’s smoking parlors. As I entered the small, heavily draped and gilded room, at first I thought it was empty, but then I noticed a man sitting in the corner, smoking a pipe. He appeared very tall as he sat most upright, resting his stove-top hat on one large knee. His hands were enormous – one rested on his leg; the other held his pipe.
When he noticed me looking at him, he said, “Come closer young man. I should like to ask you a question.” It was then that I realized who the man was. I had seen his picture in the newspaper a million times. I was alone in the room with President Lincoln! I walked toward him and stammered, “Mr. PresidentsirMr. Lincoln – I mean President Lincoln – I am sorry to disturb you.”
“Now, now young manyou are not disturbing me as I hope I am not disturbing you. This is a public place, and as you are a member of the public, you have every right to be here as I do. Now I want to ask you a question. I want your opinion on an important matter.” President Lincoln then began to explain, in a weary, strained voice, how the long war had been so costly in human lives and human suffering. I stood right in front of him as he went on about the weight of the responsibility he felt for all the tumult and horror of the past four years. He looked down. “I believe I did what was necessary.” His eyes then met mine again. “I preserved the Union. I have brought an end to this country’s most terrible sin – slavery. But was it worth the cost and what will the new Union be like? And what of the future of the freed slaves? There exists so much resentment and bitterness towards them among the rebellious southerners. These questions weigh heavily upon me. What do you have to say?”
The weight of the President’s worries were apparent in the strain his voice and the deep melancholy that lined his forehead. I could not speak. How could I talk to President Lincoln about these matters? What difference did my opinion make? He was staring at me. I lowered my eyes. Just then a Union soldier in full-dress uniform entered. He announced that the play was about to begin. “Very well,” said Lincoln. “We shall have to discuss this some other day.” He stood, bowed and waved his hat in front of me, then followed the soldier out of the smoking parlor.
Today, I am selling newspapers faster than they can be printed, but I am in no mood to deliver the news. Last night the play had been interrupted. Something terrible had happened in the President’s box. There was a loud bang, and then a man had jumped from the box onto the stage, shouted something, and limped off backstage. My mother and I did not speak to each other on the way home from the theater.
Tears flow from eyes with each paper I pass out. The huge black letters across the front page – “President Lincoln Dead” – stab my heart each time I see them. I wish for only one thing. I will regret it for the rest of my life. I wish I had told the President that he had done the right thing. That he lead the country through its most difficult years, and preserving the Union and freeing the slaves were perhaps the greatest thing any President had done or ever will do. I hope he knows this in heaven. I hope he will see his country recognize his greatness in the decades to come and that he may truly rest in peace.
