“I’m glad you liked it.”
Douglass rejoiced that Lincoln had his hour—an hour when he was bathed in joyful tears of gratitude. It happened on a soft, spring day in Richmond. General Weitzel had taken the city a few days before, with the Twenty-ninth Connecticut Colored Regiment at his back. Now on this April morning, the battered city was very still. White people who could leave had fled. The others shut themselves inside, behind closed doors and drawn shades. But lilacs were blooming in their yards.
It was a Negro soldier who saw the little rowboat pull up at the dock and a tall gaunt man, leading a little boy, step out. He waved back the sailors, who moved to follow him.
“We’ll go alone,” he said. Taking the little boy by the hand, he started up the embankment to the street.
“Which way to our headquarters?” he asked the soldier. The soldier had never seen Abraham Lincoln, but he recognized him. He saluted smartly.
“I’ll direct you, sir,” he offered. He was trembling. The President smiled and shook his head.
“Just tell me.”
It was straight ahead up the street—Jefferson Davis’ mansion. He couldn’t miss it. The soldier watched him go. He wanted to shout. He wanted to run—to spread the news—but he could not leave his post.
No conquering hero he—just a tired man, walking down the street, his deeply lined, sad face lifted to the few trees showing their spring leaves. All around him lay the ravages of war. Suddenly a black boy turned into the way and stared.
“Glory! Hit’s Mistah Lincoln!” he yelled.