by Jane Peart
Give them all my dearest love, for it is still as true and strong as ever. Give Shelby especially a hug and kiss from his sister. I long to see you all.
Ever your loving daughter,
JoBeth
April 14, 1865
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Out on the streets, hawkers passed out the handbills that had been hastily printed to announce the special performance that would be held that evening.
FORD’S THEATER TONIGHT !! APRIL 14, 1865
Special Performance ** Farewell Appearance
of
Miss Laura Keene
In the Celebrated Comedy by Tom Taylor,
Our American Cousin
We will be honored by the attendance of
President Lincoln
Wes came home early that evening. Smiling broadly, he held up two theater tickets. “Guess what, Mrs. Rutherford? Tonight we are going out! Compliments of Major Meredith. He and Mrs. Meredith were unable to use them for some reason. So we are the lucky holders of dress circle seats to see Our American Cousin playing for one performance only at Ford’s Theater tonight.”
“How absolutely marvelous, Wes! How kind of the Merediths.”
“And the president himself will be attending.”
“Oh, good heavens!” JoBeth struck her forehead theatrically. “How can I stand it? I am most overcome with our good fortune!”
Wes laughed. He always enjoyed JoBeth’s antics. Playing to her nonsense, he held up his hand, declaring, “Wait, you haven’t heard all—General and Mrs. Grant will be accompanying them.”
At this JoBeth staggered toward the sofa in a mock swoon. “Spare me, kind sir. I can stand no more!”
“What’s more, afterwards”—Wes took a declaratory pose—“we’ll go to supper at an elegant restaurant.” He followed her over to where she sank back onto the cushions.
“And to whom do we owe that luxury?”
“To your husband!” he told her, laughing as he gathered her into his arms, cuddling her to him.
JoBeth struggled up from his embrace. “Good heavens, what shall I wear?”
Frowning fiercely, Wes relaxed his hold and, pretending to be outraged, demanded, “Here I am, kissing you—and you’re thinking about clothes!”
“Well darling, after all, this is quite an occasion. I must dress appropriately. The dress circle certainly requires my most elegant gown. I know—my blue velvet!”
She dressed with much excitement. It had been so long since she could look forward to an evening like this, so long since she had felt free to enjoy herself. She had not had a chance to wear this beautiful gown yet in Washington. This was the right event. Anyone who was anyone in Washington would be there tonight. The city had been exuberant since victory. And tonight both the president and the victorious general would be in attendance.
Her elation enhanced the honey-rose glow of her skin, deepened the sapphire sparkle of her dark-lashed eyes. The Shelby Italian cameo set—brooch and earrings of pale carnelian stone set in filigreed gold with their creamy carving of a Grecian lady’s profile—were perfect accessories.
Wes was ready first and sat on a chair beside her dressing table while JoBeth fixed her hair.
“We’d better leave a little early, at least forty minutes before curtain time. They’ve got posters out announcing the fact that the president is going to attend this evening. So crowds will be forming for a glimpse of him as he comes into the theater,” he told JoBeth as she twisted her hair into a chignon. “Poor fellow, he deserves some relaxation and entertainment after all he’s been through. You know, he’s aged even in the two years since I came here to Washington. The war has taken its toll on him as well as the country. But now, thank God, it’s over and we can rejoice along with the president.”
As Wes suggested, they left for the theater a little earlier than would ordinarily have been necessary. He was right about the publicity surrounding the president’s attendance that evening. True to his prediction, the streets were jammed with carriages, buggies, hansom cabs. The crush of vehicles all vying with each other to dispatch their occupants as close to the theater entrance as possible clogged the thoroughfare. It was so crowded that after making futile attempts to get them nearer, their cab driver gave up and let them out a block from Ford’s Theater. Already two lines on either side were pushing toward the ticket booth. The whole front of the theater was crowded with hopeful last-minute ticket-buyers and scalpers vending tickets to latecomers. Gawkers, waiting to see the president when he arrived, pushed against the queues of theatergoers.
Holding JoBeth’s arm firmly, Wes managed to get past the shoving crowd and into the theater at last. He handed their tickets to one of the harried ushers in the foyer. The lobby was full, glowing with the flickering gas lights of the chandeliers, bright with the colors of women’s hoop-skirted dresses, the flash of jewelry. In the snatches of conversation buzzing all around JoBeth, there was a mixture of exhilaration and relief The victorious end of the war had brought a special excitement to this gala occasion.
JoBeth squeezed Wes’s arm as they followed the usher down the plushly carpeted aisle, found their row, and settled into their seats. She was thrilled to discover that from where they were seated, she had a very good view of the presidential box.
Draped with red-white-and-blue bunting, it was one of two at the upper right-hand tier and was decorated with flags and flowers. The interior was wallpapered in dark red and hung with Nottingham lace curtains. An upholstered rocking chair with a carved frame had been provided for the president.
Suddenly a hush descended as the house lights mysteriously dimmed, and the rustle of the curtain being raised could be heard in the quieted theater. JoBeth’s surreptitious glance up at the presidential box showed no occupants.
Act one began. The star, Laura Keene, a well-known comedienne, was well into the humorous dialogue when a definite stir rippled through the audience. For a moment everyone was distracted and turned to see Mr. Forbes, the theater owner, lead the presidential party down a side aisle. As they went up the stairs and into their box, a murmur circulated. Everyone immediately became aware of the arrival. There was a general shifting. People began to stand up and applaud. Miss Keene immediately halted in her lines and also began to clap her hands.
Then the whole audience got to its feet and the place rang with enthusiastic applause. The orchestra leader tapped his baton, and the first notes of “Hail to the Chief” rang out. The shadowy, tall figure of the president, half hidden by the draperies, could be seen standing as he acknowledged the recognition. Then he seated himself beside Mrs. Lincoln.
JoBeth had only one swift glimpse of the president himself, the unmistakable profile, the noble brow, the long nose, the dark beard. But she could see Mrs. Lincoln quite clearly as the lady fluttered her fan, turned to chat with the couple sitting behind them, who were definitely not the Grants. They were much too young, much too handsome. Who were they? JoBeth wondered. While the actors resumed the play, Mrs. Lincoln fidgeted. She patted her hair, adjusted her skirt, leaned forward with her small opera glasses to her eyes to look down at the orchestra seating, then touched her husband’s arm as if to draw his attention to something or someone below.
JoBeth debated whether she dared draw her own tiny mother-of-pearl opera glasses from their velvet case and focus them on the presidential box. She had only seen Mr. Lincoln once: as she passed through the reception line at the White House. This was a chance to study him more closely. She couldn’t let it go by.
Cautiously she took them out. Surely she could pretend to be viewing the stage. Discreetly she put the glasses up to her eyes, moved the tiny wheel to focus the lenses, slowly turned toward the pivotal box. A single second and she saw his face, and in that moment its expression etched itself indelibly on her memory.
She thought of all the times she’d heard him derided, spoken of with scorn, anger, hatred! And even worse, his physical appearance had been cartooned and described as “ap
ish,” “ugly.” Yet what she saw was infinite compassion, conviction, and courage. She lingered on that face. Then, fearful to seem too obvious, she moved her glasses to view the two other occupants of the box. An extremely good-looking officer in dress uniform and a strikingly attractive young lady sat directly behind the president and Mrs. Lincoln. Whoever they were would probably be in tomorrow morning’s society news. And surely Mrs. Hobbs would inform JoBeth.
Perhaps they were relatives of Mrs. Lincoln’s, decided JoBeth, putting down her glasses. The First Lady had often had family members visiting and staying at the White House, even though it had caused vitriolic press attacks. Especially when her younger sister, the widow of a Confederate general, had been a guest there over a long period of time. That fact had even brought allegations that Mrs. Lincoln was a spy! Poor lady, JoBeth thought, turning her attention again to the stage. Mary Lincoln was probably more glad than anyone that the war was over and she would no longer be the target of such scurrilous rumors.
Those thoughts lingered in JoBeth’s mind as she tried to get back to the gist of the play. For some reason it did not seem to hold her interest. It was a tired comedy of manners, and the acting was overdone. Still, it was amusing and brought a few chuckles and murmured laughter from the audience. It was, after all, a farce. Not to be taken seriously. She might have preferred a drama, a Shakespearean play for which the dramatic family of the Booths was famous. Perhaps another time.
An actor blared out his lines. “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old mantrap!”
As appreciative laughter ran through the audience, at almost the same time, there was a loud, cracking sound, like a storm door banging closed. Suddenly there was a scuffling noise and raised voices that seemed to be coming from the president’s box. JoBeth turned her head just in time to see two figures wrestling, and she heard several piercing screams. The figure of a man scrambled to the ledge of the balcony, then leaped to the stage. There he sprawled for a minute before scrambling to his feet and running across the stage. A hoarse shout from the president’s box rang out, “Stop that man!” Onstage, the actors seemed frozen in their places, their startled looks turning to horror as hysterical shrieking shrilled out from the presidential box. A young woman leaned over the railing and cried pleadingly, “Water!”
The audience rose to its feet. A protesting roar swelled into a crescendo. Exclamations, cries, gasps, screams, echoed throughout the building. There was a rush to the aisles. People pushing and shoving each other, clustering below the president’s box. Then the horrible word circulated among the stunned theatergoers: “The president’s been shot!” “Someone tried to kill Lincoln!”
JoBeth felt her knees weaken. She slumped against Wes, who was standing behind her. His hands tightened on her bare arms.
“Oh, dear God!” she heard him whisper. “This is what we’ve all been afraid of—he wouldn’t listen to tighter security. And now, dear God, it’s happened.”
JoBeth felt a wave of nausea sweep over her.
The heart-wrenching screams and broken sobs could still be heard coming from the president’s box. They watched in helpless shock as uniformed men clambered into the Lincolns’ party box. Confusion reigned. People waited underneath the flag-draped balcony, with raised, questioning voices.
Wesley grabbed JoBeth’s cloak, dropped it over her shoulders, leaned down, and spoke into her ear so as to be heard. “I should report to headquarters, in case—whatever. I should be there until—until anything happens. You must go home. I’ll try to get you a cab. If there are any available. Otherwise, we’ll make it back to Mrs. Hobbs some way. But then I must return, get to headquarters. God knows what this is all about. You understand?”
“Of course,” she said, shuddering from shock and fear.
The cries and sobs rose all around them as the dreadful event took hold of the crowd. JoBeth bit her trembling lower lip.
“Poor, poor Mrs. Lincoln! Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid—pray. That’s all that’s left—but it may be too late.” Wes’s hands gripped her shoulders, firmly manipulating her through the dense crowd. “I have to get you out of here.”
JoBeth was only aware of the confusion, bordering on panic, that surrounded their exit from the theater. To get a cab, of course, was impossible. They walked all the way back to Mrs. Hobbs’s. JoBeth’s feet, in her thin satin slippers, became sore trying to keep up with Wes’s longer stride. They were both breathing hard when they finally saw the night lantern on Mrs. Hobbs’s porch. Wes handed JoBeth the key, then kissed her. “I have to leave now, get to headquarters. There’s no telling what this means. Perhaps it’s some kind of conspiracy, some plot to assassinate not only the president but others in the government. It may be a full-scale insurrection.”
“Oh, Wes.” She clung to him, trembling.
“Be brave, darling. I’ll send word or come home as soon as I can.” He took the key from her and opened the door. “Now go inside—-and pray for the president and our country!” he said tensely. Then he was gone.
Almost staggering, JoBeth climbed the stairway up to their apartment. She paused briefly outside Mrs. Hobbs’s door, then decided against waking her. Tomorrow would be soon enough for her to learn the news.
The night seemed endless. She moved restlessly from room to room, unable to settle down, praying for the president. The hours ticked away, spinning out into eternity.
Outside, dawn was breaking. Its cold, misty light crept in between the curtains that JoBeth had pulled together the night before—as if to shut out the terrible truth, the inevitable news she dreaded.
Stiffly, JoBeth roused herself from her cramped position on the couch. From sheer emotional exhaustion, she had finally drifted off into a troubled sleep. She sat bolt upright. Wide awake. Her heart throbbed as if she were awakening out of a nightmare. Then memory struck with new impact and she remembered. It wasn’t a nightmare. It had really happened. She had been there. She shuddered violently.
Almost at the same moment, she heard footsteps on the stairs and stiffened. Wes? The tread was slow, dragging. Outside the door they stopped, as if hesitating reluctantly. She watched the doorknob as one mesmerized. Slowly it twisted. Then the door opened.
Wes stood there on the threshold, his shoulders drooped, his face haggard, drawn. JoBeth held her breath. Her eyes, riveted on him, begged the question her lips dared not ask.
“The president is dead.” Wes’s voice was like lead.
“Oh, no!” JoBeth gasped. “Dear God, no!”
Wes walked over to her, then half fell onto the sofa beside her. He put his arms around her waist as she laid her head against his chest. Neither spoke for a full minute. Finally he asked, “You’ve been up all night? Not slept?”
“I couldn’t. At least not for hours. And you?”
He shook his head. She put both her hands on either side of his face, searched it. His eyes were bloodshot, circled with dark shadows. His expression bore the signs of the night’s vigil.
“What was it like—waiting there?”
“We were all locked into a kind of desperate trance. Hoping against hope. Nobody spoke much. Everyone prayed.”
“Mrs. Lincoln?”
“Prostrated. They took her home to the White House. Poor woman. Out of her mind with grief.”
“Poor, poor woman. This will break her.” Tears of sympathy rolled down JoBeth’s cheeks.
Wes sighed deeply. “The poor South.” He shook his head sadly. “There’ll be no magnanimity now … nothing but revenge. Everyone blames the secessionist sympathizers. When I was coming home, there was already talk in the streets that it was a Southern conspiracy. Vengeance—” Wes put his head in his hands. His words were muffled as he said, “It’s tragic. All he desired was amnesty, binding up the wounds, reconciliation….”
JoBeth wondered briefly how the news would be received in Hi
llsboro. In the Cadys’ home. Many had hated Lincoln. But she knew Wes was right—the South would bear the brunt of the nation’s anger at the killing of the president.
“Come, you must get some rest.” Wes took both her hands and drew her gently up. The fire in the hearth had long since gone out and she shivered. Wes’s arm went around her, supporting her as he led her toward the bedroom. She leaned heavily against him, feeling that all the strength had gone out of her. He eased her down to sit on the side of the bed.
“Here, let me help you.” He proceeded to unbutton her long kid gloves, now streaked and stained with tears. His fingers fumbled with the pearl buttons, but she seemed to have no energy to assist him. Finally he pulled them off, finger by finger, then took her hand, lifted it to his cheek, pressing it there for a few seconds. Slowly he turned it over and kissed her palm. He laid her gloves on her lap. She smoothed them out and placed them in the long, narrow box he held out for her.
Then he knelt and took off the satin slippers with the silk rosette on each toe. For a moment, he held her feet in his palms, tenderly rubbing each instep.
“You must get into bed, darling.” He helped her to her feet. She held on to the carved bedpost while he unfastened the hooks on the back of her bodice, unbuttoned the waistband of her skirt. The beautiful velvet dress slid to the floor. He picked it up and hung it carefully on the front of the armoire. But JoBeth knew she would never wear it again.
Wes turned back the quilt and covers for her. She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked wearily. “You need rest, too.”
“I’ve been ordered home to get a few hours’ sleep. However, we have a full day’s work ahead, arrangements to be made, and …”
The last of what he said faded as, sighing deeply, JoBeth fell back upon the pillows and closed her eyes.
