CHAPTER V.—THE FIRST THROUGH CARS, AND THEIR BURDEN AND BAPTISM
E had little heart for the rest of our business. The whole city was like the house of mourning. Shops and mills, were closed, and the street crowded with those who could neither sleep nor rest nor cease talking. Some wept, some prayed, some told of fearful dreams and strange imaginings. I heard men declare that they had seen blood dripping from the flags just before Lincoln was shot.
We went to one of the mines, and then to Harrisburg, and waited for the funeral train. The car which Mr. Lincoln had used on the United States military road was to convey his body to the home he had left long before to continue the work now finished.
The car of the president of the Baltimore road, with its parlor, bedroom, dining-room, and kitchen, was to convey the family and their immediate friends to the same destination. These cars were to be transferred from one road to another, and rolled into Springfield, Illinois. As a railroad enterprise, it marked the beginning of new things. The train came in a rain at 8.30 on the evening of April 21st, its cars and engine heavily-draped. We had telegraphed for permission to ride on the pilot-engine, which was to lead the way north half an hour ahead of the train. About midnight word came to us that our request would be granted. Next morning at 10 the bearers arrived at the depot with the body, which had been lying in state at the City Hall of Harrisburg, and the bearers conveyed it to the funeral car. Big panels of plate-glass in the sides of this car enabled one to see the coffin from the street level. The engine had her bell muffled, and large portraits of Lincoln, draped with black crape edged with silver lace, on either side of her cab.
At 10.30 we left on the pilot engine.
Well, my children, we began to know, then, what had happened. Oh, it was a wonderful thing to see and feel—the love of millions! The railroad—why, it was a way of sorrow sprinkled with tears. North to Albany and west to Springfield the people stood deep on either side of the long ironway. I saw them waiting patiently in sleet and rain, some weeping, some kneeling as we passed, thinking, no doubt, that he they loved was among us.
We left the pilot-engine in Philadelphia and hurried to a city on the Erie road, where we had work to do. We reached Albany some days later, about an hour ahead of the funeral train. There the beloved President was to be taken from the train and borne to the State-House, so that those of the north country might have a look at him. We waited among tens of thousands gathered in the streets, and the train came at midnight. I shall never forget the hush that fell upon all as the body passed in the darkness, and the low, tremulous murmur of the crowd. It was like the sound of a great bass string when it is lightly touched—it was the note of a people's sorrow. Slowly, silently, we made our way to the State-House. All about us men and women were sobbing, and we said not a word to each other.
For a moment my tears blinded me at the bier, for there by the coffin-head stood Pearl, in the uniform of a sergeant, with three medals on his blue cape. A squad of veterans walled the passage. Pearl stood calm and erect, with strange authority in his scarred face. He was the soldier again. A little ahead of me, as I walked in line, were Jo and Colonel Busby. I saw the Colonel seize the hand of Pearl and speak to him, but only a word. I did my best to gain the side of Jo, and failed—there were so many between us. Soon I had lost sight of them in the crowd and the darkness beyond the open doors. It would all have been different maybe—all in these latter years of our history—but for those twenty feet or so that lay between us that night. Just that little glimpse of her face, ennobled by our common sorrow, revived my love of her, and then I knew that even if I lost her I should never lose that. I hoped that we should find them next day, and so contented myself.
McCarthy and I walked to our inn together, and talked of the wonderful things we had seen and of the great captain of the people. We had read many columns in the press which had told of the gentleness of his heart and of his simplicity, which had amounted to uncouthness in the view of some.
“The outside of a man isn't of so much importance, after all,” said my friend, as we were going to bed. “The gentleman is a lover of men, and seeks not to charm but only to serve them. And when he passes away it is as if there were some one dead in every house that knew him. Let us pray God to help us.”
We knelt by our beds in silence, and so ended one of the saddest days in my history.
Next morning I tried to find the Colonel and Jo, but with no success. I found Pearl, soon after dinner, sitting on the steps of an old church. His head rested on his hands; his cheeks were tear-stained.
“Did you know Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.
“Yes,” said he.
“Tell me about him,” I said, as I sat down by my friend.
“Oh, you'll hear of that some time,” he answered. “I'm goin' to stop talkin' and mournin', and go back to Rushwater and get to work.”
“Let's find McCarthy,” I said, and we rose and walked toward the Delevan House. “Last night I saw you shake hands with Colonel Busby,” I remarked.
“Yes; I knew the Colonel long ago, and we met here yesterday,” he said.
“Do you know where they are now?”
“They left this morning to make a trip around the world. She is to be married on their return.”
“Married! To whom?”
“I cannot tell you.”
So it happened that I gave up the last dream of my youth.