He passed down the aisle, tall, loose-jointed, with ill-fitting clothes and awkward mien; but to those two wounded soldiers on their cots it seemed that a more beautiful presence than his had never passed their way.
Wounds heal rapidly when light hearts and clean living add their measure of assistance to the surgeon’s skill. And so it came about that both Bannister and his son were discharged from the hospital a week later. With the surgeon’s certificates in their pockets, they were ready to start toward the North, toward home, toward the sweetest, most life-giving spot in all the world. They would not need to come back, they knew that, for the war was practically over. Richmond had fallen, Lee had surrendered, Johnston’s army would soon be in the hands of Sherman, there was no more fighting to be done. So they went on board a transport one day, and rode down the James and up the Potomac to Washington. It was early in the evening when they reached the city, and after a good meal and a refreshing rest they went out on the streets for a short stroll before retiring. They were to leave Washington on an early train the next morning, and they thought to get a glimpse of it this night in its holiday attire, as it might be many years before either of them would come that way again.
It was a beautiful spring night. The air was soft, and heavy with the scent of blossoming lilacs. The night before, the city had been splendidly illuminated in honor of the recent victories and the dawn of peace, and to-night the rejoicings were still going on. The crowds that filled the streets were happy, high-spirited, exultant. Oh, but it was a different city from the one through which Bob Bannister went, on his way to war, in the fall of ’63! Then gloom, anxiety, was on the face of every person who went hurrying by; despondency in the slow gait of every loiterer on the streets. And over the head of the Chief Magistrate hung ever the horror of blood, on his heart weighed ever the apprehension of unforeseen disaster. But to-night, how different! Some one who had seen the President that day said he had not been so happy, so contented, so tender and serene, since he had been in Washington. His son Captain Robert Lincoln had come up from the South and spent the morning with him. Some friends from the West had occupied his joyful attention for a brief time in the afternoon. All who saw him that day never afterward forgot the peaceful and gentle serenity of his face. He had said to the members of his Cabinet at their meeting that morning, that, on his part, there was no feeling of hate or vindictiveness toward any person of the South. That, so far as he could control it, now that the war was over, there should be no persecution, no more bloody work of any kind. That resentment must give way and be extinguished, and harmony and union must prevail.
As Bannister and his son walked through the gay crowds on the streets that night, they heard people say that the President and Mrs. Lincoln had gone with a small party to see the play, “Our American Cousin,” at Ford’s Theatre on Tenth Street. It was a time for relaxation and pleasure, and the President wanted the people to feel that he rejoiced with them. When the play should be over, there would be a crowd waiting at the door of the play-house to see the Chief Magistrate come out and enter his carriage, and to show their admiration and love for him by cheers and huzzas and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. The theatre was not far away, and Bannister and Bob thought to go there and take part in the demonstration. F Street, along which they were walking, was almost deserted. The crowds had gravitated down into E Street and beyond, and were thronging Pennsylvania Avenue.
Bob looked at his watch,—the boys of his company had sent it to him as a memento before he left the hospital,—and saw that it was nearly half-past ten.
“I think we’ll have to hurry a little, father,” he said, “the play must be nearly over now.”
So they quickened their steps. Between Tenth and Eleventh Streets, as they hurried along, a strange thing happened. As they passed the mouth of an alley leading to the centre of the block, toward E Street, their attention was attracted by an unusual noise proceeding from the depths of the passageway. Some one down there was shouting and cursing. Then there was a clatter of horse’s hoofs on the cobblestone pavement; around the corner of a building, and into the light of the dim lamp hung at the foot of the alley, clanging up the passage and dashing out into the street, came a man on horseback. He was hatless, wild-eyed, terrible in countenance and mien. In one hand he held his horse’s rein, in the other he grasped a dagger, shining in the moonlight at the hilt, stained with blood on the blade. Heading his horse to the north, bending forward in his saddle, his long, dark hair flying out behind him, he went, in a mad gallop, up the half-deserted street, and, before the astonished onlookers had fairly caught breath, he had vanished into the night. A half-dozen men, strolling along in that vicinity, turned and gazed after the flying horseman, and then all, with one accord, involuntarily started in the direction he had taken. At the corner of Tenth Street, as they looked down toward Ford’s Theatre, they saw that there was some confusion there. Men were running toward the play-house, other men were pushing their passage from its doorway. There were shouts which Bannister and his son could not understand, but they, with the others, ran down toward the centre of the disturbance. Before they were able to reach the front of the theatre, the cry came, loud and clear, so that all could hear it:—
“Lincoln has been shot!”
And again:—
“The President has been killed!”