Chapter 28

THE MAN FOR THE HOUR.

On the 15th day of April, 1865, the country was thrilled from end to end by the almost incredible report that President Lincoln had been assassinated the evening previous while witnessing a performance at Ford's Theatre, in Washington.

The war was not yet over, but peace seemed close at hand. All were anticipating its return with joy. The immense sacrifices of loyal men seemed about to be rewarded when, like a clap of thunder in a clear sky, came the terrible tidings, which were flashed at once over the telegraphic wires to the remotest parts of the country.

The people at first were shocked and silent. Then a mighty wave of wrath swept over the country--a wrath that demanded victims, and seemed likely in the principal city of the country to precipitate scenes not unlike those witnessed in the "Reign of Terror" in France.

The boys who read this story can not understand the excitement of that day. It was unlike the deep sorrow that came upon us all on the second of July, for Lincoln died a martyr, at a time when men's passions had been stirred by sectional strife, and his murder was felt to be an outgrowth of the passions which it engendered; but Garfield fell, slain by the hand of a worthless wretch, acting upon his own responsibility.

I shall venture, for the information of young readers, to whom it may be new, to quote the graphic description of an eye-witness, contributed to General Brisbin's interesting life of our subject:

"I shall never forget the first time I saw General Garfield. It was the morning after President Lincoln's assassination. The country was excited to its utmost tension.... The newspaper head lines of the transaction were set up in the largest type, and the high crime was on every one's tongue. Fear took possession of men's minds as to the fate of the Government, for in a few hours the news came on that Seward's throat was cut, and that attempts had been made on the lives of others of the Government officers. Posters were stuck up everywhere, in great black letters, calling upon the loyal citizens of New York, Brooklyn, Jersey City, and neighboring places, to meet around the Wall Street Exchange and give expression to their sentiments.

"It was a dark and terrible hour. What might come next no one could tell, and men spoke with bated breath. The wrath of the workingmen was simply uncontrollable, and revolvers and knives were in the hands of thousands of Lincoln's friends, ready, at the first opportunity, to take the law into their own hands, and avenge the death of their martyred President upon any and all who dared to utter a word against him.

"Eleven o'clock A.M. was the hour set for the rendezvous. Fifty thousand people crowded around the Exchange building, cramming and jamming the streets, and wedged in as tight as men could stand together. With a few to whom special favor was extended, I went over from Brooklyn at nine A.M., and even then, with the utmost difficulty, found my way to the reception room for the speakers in the front of the Exchange building, and looking out on the high and massive balcony, whose front was protected by a massive iron railing.

"We sat in solemnity and silence, waiting for General Butler, who, it was announced, had started from Washington, and was either already in the city or expected every moment. Nearly a hundred generals, judges, statesmen, lawyers, editors, clergymen, and others were in that room waiting for Butler's arrival.

"We stepped out to the balcony to watch the fearfully solemn and swaying mass of people. Not a hurrah was heard, but for the most part a dead silence, or a deep, ominous muttering ran like a rising wave up the street toward Broadway, and again down toward the river on the right. At length the batons of the police were seen swinging in the air, far up on the left, parting the crowd, and pressing it back to make way for a carriage that moved slowly, and with difficult jags through the compact multitude, and the cry of 'Butler!' 'Butler!' rang out with tremendous and thrilling effect, and was taken up by the people.

"But not a hurrah! Not one! It was the cry of a great people asking to know how their President died. The blood bounced in our veins, and the tears ran like streams down our faces. How it was done I forget, but Butler was pulled through, and pulled up, and entered the room where we had just walked back to meet him. A broad crape, a yard long, hung from his left arm--terrible contrast with the countless flags that were waving the nation's victory in the breeze. We first realized then the sad news that Lincoln was dead. When Butler entered the room we shook hands. Some spoke, some could not; all were in tears. The only word Butler had for us all, at the first break of the silence was, '_Gentleman, he died in the fullness of his fame_!' and as he spoke it his lips quivered, and the tears ran fast down his cheeks.

"Then, after a few moments, came the speaking. And you can imagine the effect, as the crape fluttered in the wind while his arm was uplifted. Dickinson, of New York State, was fairly wild. The old man leaped over the iron railing of the balcony and stood on the very edge, overhanging the crowd, gesticulating in the most vehement manner, and almost bidding the crowd 'burn up the rebel, seed, root, and branch,' while a bystander held on to his coat-tail to keep him from falling over.

"By this time the wave of popular indignation had swelled to its crest. Two men lay bleeding on one of the side streets, the one dead, the other next to dying; one on the pavement, the other in the gutter. They had said a moment before that 'Lincoln ought to have been shot long ago!' They were not allowed to say it again. Soon two long pieces of scantling stood out above the heads of the crowd, crossed at the top like the