Washington was an armed city. “The new President of the United States will be inaugurated—” General Scott was as good as his word. But the crowds did not cheer when Abraham Lincoln appeared. There was a hush, as if all the world knew it was a solemn moment.
Douglass looked on the gaunt, strange beauty of that thin face—the resemblance to John Brown was startling—and as he bared his head, Douglass whispered, “He’s our man, John Brown. He’s our man!”
Amelia saw Frederick Douglass in the crowd. She tugged frantically at Jack Haley’s arm.
“Look! Look!” she said. “It’s him!”
Jack, turning his head, recognized the man he had heard speak years ago in Providence, Rhode Island. Older, yes, broader and grown in stature, but undoubtedly it was the same head, the same wild, sweeping mane.
As the crowd began to disperse and Douglass turned, he felt a light pull on his sleeve and looked down on a slight, white-haired woman whose piquant upturned face and bright blue eyes were vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Douglass?” Her voice fluttered in her throat.
“At your service, ma’am.” Douglass managed to make a little bow, though the crowd pressed upon them. Her eyes widened.
“Still the same lovely manners!” she said. At this the tall man at her elbow spoke.
“Mr. Douglass, you will pardon us. I am Jack Haley, and this is Mrs. Amelia Kemp.”