SKETCH OF THE REBEL GENERAL LEE.
Robert E. Lee was born in Virginia about the year 1808. He entered West Point, where he received the usual military education. He graduated honorably in 1829, and received an appointment as Second Lieutenant of Engineers. For eighteen years he served in the army, drawing the usual pay from the government, and rising to the rank of Major and Lieutenant-Colonel of cavalry. In the Mexican war he was further honored by a brevet of Colonel, and on the appointment of Albert S. Johnston to the command of the Utah expedition Lee succeeded him in command of the Second cavalry. After filling this honorable and agreeable post in the military service of his country for several years, he was tempted with others, to desert his flag at the moment of his country’s sorest need. When the Richmond politicians passed their Ordinance of Secession, Robert E. Lee threw up his commission, and accepted the rank of General in the rebel army.
ROBERT E. LEE.
In Mexico, Lee had been Chief of General Scott’s Staff, and won high praise for his skill. It was a common remark in our army, before the war, that “Bob Lee” was the ablest strategist we had. His first performances in the rebel array did not increase his reputation; he was eclipsed for a time by both Beauregard and Johnston. After the latter was wounded, however, at Fair Oaks, Lee took the whole command of the rebel army in Virginia, and directed its operations during the seven days’ battles before Richmond. He likewise led the rebels into Maryland, and commanded them at Antietam, and subsequently at Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, the Wilderness, Spottsylvania, and all the other battles incident to the closing campaign in Virginia.
ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.
Night of April 14, 1865.
A glorious sunburst parted the clouds over Abraham Lincoln’s head just as he took the inauguration oath which made him President for a second term—and from that period his life was one series of cheering events. Was it a promise of redemption to the Nation, or the halo of martyrdom? The rebellion melted away like snow from that hour. Richmond was taken; Lee surrendered his grand army. The brave blood which had crimsoned the wilderness with a terrible rain, bore quick and glorious fruit all over the land. Lincoln was a good man. Even his enemies said this, when they found themselves a mere handful among millions that loved him for his honesty, his simple truthfulness, and that genuine patriotism which no man doubted and all men revered. Triumphant as a President, happy in the bosom of a family that adored him, blessed with an attached wife, a son of fine promise and faultless character, another son whom he loved with intense affection, and who returned it with all the touching ardor of early childhood, worshiped by many and respected by all, the 14th of April found him a happy and triumphant man.
A box had been taken that night for the President and a select party at Ford’s Theatre, a fashionable place of amusement in Washington, where Thomas Taylor’s comedy of Our American Cousin was to be performed by Miss Laura Keene and her company. A private box in the upper tier, on the right of the audience, had been all that season so frequently used by the President, that it was generally known as the “President’s box.” That evening it was richly draped for his reception. The Stars and Stripes glowed brightly above it, and easy chairs were placed for the President’s occupancy. It had been announced that General Grant would accompany the Presidential party and a brilliant audience had assembled, eager to greet the two most popular men of The Nation.
The first act of the American Cousin had commenced, when President Lincoln, Mrs. Lincoln, Miss Harris, and Major Rathbon entered the theatre. General Grant was not of the party; he had left Washington a few hours before. They seated themselves, with the National flags draped above them, and the eyes of a brilliant audience turned that way. The President was always deeply interested in the dramatic performances before him, and sometimes, doubtless, sought the theatre as a refuge from political cares. That night no premonition seemed to haunt him. He was tranquil, silent, and interested. Usually, when he visited any place of amusement, his youngest son might have been seen hanging about his chair, whispering his observations in childish confidence, and sometimes leaning for half an hour together upon his father’s knee. The devotion and companionship which existed between Lincoln and this warm-hearted lad was touching in its simple tenderness. No frown was ever seen on that kindly face when the boy, in his ardent affection claimed what might have been deemed untimely notice. Whatever thought harassed his mind, those connected with the boy always brought smiles with them.
But, in mercy, this most ardently loving of sons was spared the horrors of a scene that soon sent an awful shock through the audience, and threw the whole nation into bitter mourning.
The play went pleasantly on, and nothing happened to disturb the cheerfulness of the occasion, till, close on ten o’clock. Then John Wilkes Booth was first seen in the audience.
This young man was a member of the profession, and had a free entrance to all parts of the theatre, where he was a great favorite. The son of perhaps the most talented tragedian known to our country, belonging to a family of young men all rich in genius, accomplished and endowed with wonderful physical beauty, he had found a respectable place even in the best social life of Washington, during the three months that he had spent in apparent idleness at one of the most fashionable hotels of the city.
When this man entered the theatre that night, many people knew him, and some remarked the intense pallor of his face. He was remarked, at this time, to be slowly working his way through the crowd towards the door of the President’s box. For a moment he was observed leaning against the wall, pale, and with a startling wildness of the eyes, looking over the audience. Then he attempted to enter the box, but was challenged by the sentry stationed there. Booth answered that he was a senator of the United States, and that the President had sent for him.
He was admitted; the door closed behind him, which he immediately fastened by placing a wooden bar, arranged in advance, across it.
He moved toward the President, and stood for an instant behind his chair. The stage was almost deserted. Asa Trenchard, represented by Mr. Hawk, was its sole occupant. Mr. Lincoln was watching the scene with his eyes bent on the stage, quiet, calm, almost smiling. Booth crept closer to his victim, drew his pistol, and fired. A spring toward the front of the box, a backward lunge with the bowie-knife, held in one hand, which pierced Major Rathbon’s arm, wounding him severely; then a wild dangerous leap over. His spur entangled itself with the flags, and the impetus flung him forward on the stage, where he fell upon one knee. An instant, and he leaped up, brandishing the naked bowie-knife in his hand, which was red with the blood of Major Rathbon. In a strong, clear voice, thrillingly dramatic, he cried out the old Latin motto of the State of Virginia, “Sic semper tyrannis.” With these defiant words on his lips, Booth rushed across the stage, down a side passage, where his red hand almost brushed against Laura Keene, and out of a rear door which opened to a lane back of the theatre.
There a horse stood ready, held by an accomplice, on which he leaped, and dashed down the lane. The audience for one awful minute were struck dumb. The smoke from the President’s box, the excited shrieks of Mrs. Lincoln, which rang with awful meaning over the crowd, threw the whole multitude into bewildering confusion. Only one man had presence of mind enough to understand the awful truth, and pursue the assassin. Colonel J. B. Stewart, a tall, powerful man, full of cool courage, leaped upon the stage from the orchestra seats, and rushed after Booth across the stage to the rear of the theatre. Once his hand almost grasped the assassin’s garments, but the door which was flung open fell to with violent force, and Stewart lost a precious moment in attempting to open it. It swung back at last, but Booth had already leaped to his horse, and, in an instant, was engulfed in the murky darkness of the lane.
Meantime the crowd swayed wildly to and fro; shrieks of anguish from distracted wife rang through the multitude with maddening effect. The President had fallen forward, with his head on his breast, breathing, but senseless. The ball had entered his head just back of the left ear, passed completely through the brain, and lodged above the right eye. Laura Keene rushed to the box, calling for help, and aided Miss Harris to support the murdered man in his seat. There, pale with terror, one pleading for help, the other crying out for water, those two frightened ladies kept him from falling forward with their trembling hands.
The crowd understood the awful catastrophe now, and a mad rush was made for the stage—all too late. By that time Booth was galloping through the stormy night, on a horse whose swiftness defied pursuit. Then the inner bar was forced away from its rude sockets, and there was a rush to the box where President Lincoln was still supported by those feeble women, who stood by him firmly, their hands red with his blood, and their garments wet with the crimson rain which never came from a more thoroughly kind heart. On the back of the cushioned chair, on the partition, and on the floor, that martyr blood had fallen. On the carpet lay a single-barreled pistol.
They lifted the dying man, carried him through the heaving surges of the crowd, to the house of Mr. Peterson, in Tenth street, close by the theatre. Then the multitude swayed doorward, and filled the street, packing it with white, anxious faces. A guard was placed at the door, who in vain strove to answer the questions urged upon him. All he could say was, that the President was dying; a few minutes or hours, at least, must close his life. Then a dreadful stillness fell upon the crowd; some went away in painful silence; others—stout, strong men, too—turned away weeping like little children.
At five o’clock on Saturday morning, the President lay in his death agonies. He was lying upon the bed, apparently breathing with great difficulty. He was entirely unconscious, and had been ever since his assassination. His eyes were protruding from their sockets and suffused with blood. In other respects, his countenance was unchanged. At his bedside were the Secretary of War, Secretary of the Navy, Secretary of the Interior, Postmaster-General, and the Attorney-General; Senator Sumner, General Farnsworth, General Todd, cousin to Mrs. Lincoln; Major Hay, M. B. Field, General Halleck, Major-General Meigs, Rev. Dr. Gurley, George Oglesby, of Illinois; Drs. E. N. Abbott, R. K. Stone, C. D. Hatch, Neal, Hall, and Lieberman. In the adjoining room was Mrs. Lincoln, her son, Captain Robert Lincoln; Miss Harris, who was with Mrs. Lincoln at the time of the assassination of the President; Rufus F. Andrews, and two lady friends of Mrs. Lincoln.
Mrs. Lincoln was under great excitement and agony, wringing her hands and exclaiming, “Why did he not shoot me instead of my husband? I have tried to be so careful of him, fearing something would happen, and his life seemed to be more precious now than ever. I must go with him,” and other expressions of the intense agony of her coming widowhood. She was constantly going back and forth to the bedside of the President, exclaiming in great anguish, “How can it be so!” The scene was heart-rending, and it is impossible to portray it in its living light. When General Farnsworth went in, hoping to comfort her, she seized him by the arm and with touching appeal besought him to save her husband, as if any human help could avail then.
Captain Robert Lincoln bore himself with great firmness, and while quivering with anguish himself endeavored to assuage the grief of his mother by telling her to put her trust in God and all would be well. Occasionally, being entirely overcome, he would retire into the hall and give way to most heart-rending lamentations. In his affliction, as in the sunshine of the greatest prosperity, this young man proved worthy of the father who was dying—worthy of the nation with whom his after fortune should be held as a sacred inheritance. Let what will come in the hereafter, the orphaned sons of Abraham Lincoln have a right to claim adoption from the American people.
About a quarter of an hour before the President died, his breathing became very difficult, and in many instances seemed to have entirely ceased. The surgeons who were holding his pulse supposed him to be dead, but he would again rally and breathe with so great difficulty as to be heard in almost every part of the house. Mrs. Lincoln took her last leave of him about twenty minutes before he expired—she could not endure to await the awful footsteps of death.
The surgeons and the members of the Cabinet, Senator Sumner, Captain Robert Lincoln and Rufus Andrews stood leaning over the headboard of the bed watching every motion of the heaving breast of the dying President. Robert Lincoln was supporting himself upon the arm of Senator Sumner. The members of the Cabinet were standing by the side of the bed—Secretary Stanton at the left of Mr. Andrews—Mr. Andrews near Mr. Lincoln’s head. Next to him was Mr. Dennison, and the others arranged along at his left, and the surgeons were sitting upon the side and foot of the bed, holding the President’s hands, and with their watches observing the slow declension of the pulse, and watching the faint ebb of that noble spirit. Such was the solemn stillness for the duration of five minutes that the ticking of many watches could be heard in the room. At twenty-two minutes past seven, A. M., the soul of Abraham Lincoln fled from its earthly tabernacle “to that bourne from which no traveler returns.” As he drew his last breath the Rev. Dr. Gurley addressed the Throne of Grace with a fervent prayer for his heart-broken family and his mourning country.
Mrs. Lincoln sat in an adjoining room, hushing her tears and waiting solemnly. When they told her in such tender words as pity finds for grief, that her husband was dead, the growing stillness of her heart gave way and she cried out in sudden anguish, “Oh, why did you not tell me that he was dying?” Abraham Lincoln was dead, but scarcely had the cold hand touched his features when over them dawned that gentle smile which those who have seen him in his happiest moments will never forget. Except the blackness of his eyes his face appeared perfectly natural. He died without a struggle, or even a perceptible motion of the limbs. The morning was calm, and the rain was dropping gently upon the roof of the humble apartment where they had laid him down to die. Guards had been stationed to keep the people from the house, and no sound could be heard in the streets save the footsteps of the sentry passing to and fro, as he guarded all that remained of Abraham Lincoln.