At precisely noon, Reverend Perry, her minister since infancy, stepped to the pulpit and began the service. Rebekah wished to focus her attention on the hymns and prayers, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Even the agonizing details of Christ’s trial and crucifixion failed to pierce her thoughts. Her mind was just too full.
Just as she feared, the moment the service dismissed, Councilman Nash came to her father. Rebekah dared not look in their direction, but she strained to hear their conversation. She knew they were discussing her. Even at the far end of the pew, she could catch words in snatches.
“Out on business...my apologies...time to discuss... Saturday morning...”
Beside her, six-year-old Joseph, fidgety as always, had taken to tapping his fingers on the pew railing in front of him. Rebekah stilled his hands at once, hoping both to save him from a stern parental rebuke and to hear what else she could.
It was to no avail. Her father had concluded the conversation. Councilman Nash stepped back, allowing her father to lead his family from their pew. Heart pounding, Rebekah chanced a glance in the man’s direction as she moved into the aisle. He nodded to her. The expression on his face was hardly cold or disapproving, but the look was still a far cry from loving.
Rebekah did her best to maintain her composure, although inside her emotions were swirling. She could tell herself that she’d protect her heart from hurt, that she’d accept her lot, but the pain of imagining a loveless union still stung.
She followed her family to the foyer, down the steps and then outside. While Teddy and Gilbert mounted their horses, Rebekah climbed into the barouche alongside Austin and Joseph. Her mother and father claimed the seat facing opposite them. The open-air carriage offered a good view of their surroundings. It also allowed them to be seen.
At her father’s command, their coachman, Brooks, urged the horses forward. The carriage began to roll. The family traveled the length of two blocks in silence. Then her father spoke.
“Councilman Nash plans to pay a call tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock,” he said, leveling his stern gaze on Rebekah. “I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly.”
You mean you expect me to accept his formal proposal, she thought, and do so eagerly.
Her eyes drifted to her mother, silently appealing once more for her intervention. Susan simply looked aside.
“Is that clear?” her father asked.
“Y-yes, sir,” she said, giving him the answer he expected. “I will do so.”
He nodded curtly to her, then commenced smiling and waving at the potential voters passing by on the street.
Rebekah swallowed back her tears. I must face facts. There is no changing the circumstances. Tomorrow I will become engaged to a man I do not love. I will go from one prison to another, and I must bear it with endurance, strength and fortitude.
Much to her surprise, however, the encounter with Mr. Nash was delayed, but in a way she never would have imagined. When Rebekah woke the following morning, she learned the man himself had postponed the meeting due to urgent official business with the city council. The nation was in mourning and accordingly, Rebekah’s father immediately ordered his entire household to put on black.
President Abraham Lincoln was dead.
Henry still could not believe the news.
The president has been assassinated! How can this be? And shot during a performance at Ford’s Theatre? His wife seated just beside him?
He didn’t know what sickened him more—the thought of the slain leader or the fact that less than forty-eight hours ago, he had shaken hands with the perpetrator of the crime. The ride to the train station with John Wilkes Booth replayed through his mind over and over again.
“Rest assured, my name will make all the papers.”
Indeed it had, for now every press was churning out the details.
“He leapt from the president’s box...”
“...from the stage he shouted to the crowd...”
“Wielding a blood-smeared dagger, he then fled...”
A Federal manhunt was now underway. Those suspected of aiding Booth were quickly being rounded up. Henry nervously wondered if the provost marshal would soon come calling for him.
I drove him to the train station... I shook his hand...
Fellow councilman George Meriwether nudged Henry, jolting him back to the business at hand. “Your vote, Nash,” George whispered.
Fearing bloody reprisal in the wake of the president’s death, the mayor had suggested that saloons be closed and the entire city police force be put on alert. Henry agreed.
“Aye,” he cast.
The measure passed. With business concluded, the council then dismissed. In a daze, Henry slowly made his way home. Is it really true? Is the president really dead, or is this some horrible nightmare from which I will awake?
But every step he took toward home dripped with reality. Already the church bells were beginning to toll. They would continue to ring until noon. The patriotic bunting that had draped the government buildings all week in celebration of victory was now being replaced by black crepe. Flags were lowered to half-mast. Nearly every person he passed on the street wore a grief-stricken or confused expression.
Henry didn’t know whether to weep or clench his fists in anger at the enormity of the country’s loss. While he hadn’t voted for Lincoln, or agreed with all of his policies, he had believed the president truly wanted what was best for the nation. In the end, Lincoln had wanted peace, and had died just as it was achieved. What a cruel and senseless conclusion to the man’s life.
What will this mean for our country now? he wondered.
Upon reaching home, James, his manservant, met Henry at the door. Already he wore a black mourning band on his upper left arm. Taking Henry’s greatcoat and hat, he said, “You had a visitor earlier. I told him you weren’t here.”
“Who was it?”
Before James could answer, Henry’s father stepped from the parlor. “That’ll be all, James.”
Henry shot his father a disdainful glare as James exited. He didn’t like how Harold ordered his servants about.
“You could have let him answer,” Henry said.
“You’d better be grateful that James didn’t ask your visitor to stay.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Detective J. E. Smith is the one who paid the call.” His father offered the calling card for proof.
Fear slowly snaked its way up Henry’s neck. He’d had dealings with this particular provost marshal detective before. Last year, a city council member had been investigated on accusations of bribery and extortion. The man was not guilty, and eventually his name was cleared, but not before his entire life had been turned upside down by Smith and his men.
Does Smith know of my encounter with Booth? Henry wondered. Is that why he came to see me?
Harold was well aware of the interaction with the detective, and he knew the fear it stoked. He added fuel to the fire. “You’ve another matter with which to be concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
He encouraged Henry toward the study. On his desk was a copy of the day’s paper. Picking it up, his father explained, “A man by the name of Lewis Paine is now under arrest for the attempted murder of