And then they came from all the by-streets and the lanes. They came shouting his name, flinging their hats into the air, waving their hands. The empty streets thronged with black folks. They stretched their hands and called out:
“Gawd bless yo’, Mistah Lincolm!”
“T’ank yo’ kin’ly, Mistah Lincolm!”
“T’ank yo’! Praise de Lawd!”
An old man dropped upon his knees and kissed his hand.
They saw the tears streaming down Lincoln’s face, and a hush fell over those nearest him as he laid his hand upon the bowed white head, then stooped and helped the old man to his feet.
“God bless you—God keep you all!” Lincoln could say no more at the moment. They allowed him to move along his way, but by the time he had reached his destination as far as he could see the streets were black.
They waited while he went inside—waiting, cheering, and singing at intervals. When he came out he stood on the high steps and lifted his hands for silence. Many of them dropped on their knees and all listened, their faces turned to him as to the sun. He spoke simply, sharing their joy. He accepted their devotion, but he said, “God has made you free.” They knew he had come from God.
“Although you have been deprived of your God-given rights by your so-called masters, you are now as free as I am; and if those that claim to be your superiors do not know that you are free, take the sword and bayonet and teach them that you are—for God created all men free, giving to each the same rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
He went away with their voices in his ears. A few days later came Appomattox; and Lincoln, his face flushed, his eyes bright, his strength renewed by secret wells of energy, covered his desk with plans for reconstruction. Not a day to lose, not a moment. The wounds must be healed, a better, stronger nation rise.