Remembering Wes’s dire prediction about what would happen to the South in the wake of the president’s death, she tried to imagine the mood in her own home when word came of the assassination. Lincoln had publicly stated his policy of rebuilding the nation. Even against the advice of some of his cabinet, and despite the fact that members of his own political party did not agree with him, he had advocated “malice toward none, and charity toward all.” Now what would be the South’s fate at the hands of its vindictive conquerors?
It seemed ironic that Lincoln’s death should come on Good Friday. The great humanitarian, the emancipator of slaves, the president who had preserved the Union—struck down on the same day as the Crucifixion. Both Savior of the world and savior of the nation killed by their enemies.
She must do something—something personal—to mark this terrible deed, create something to memorialize this his toric event….
JoBeth began to visualize the design for a quilt—perhaps the outline of three crosses rising across a field of lilies. It would be her personal reminder that she must hold on to the belief that as senseless and devastating as this death seemed, it had some purpose in God’s mysterious plan. It would say, in a very individual way, that there was hope beyond the crosses of life. The design formed very clearly in her mind. Excitedly she took out a piece of paper, a pencil, and began to sketch it.
The very act of doing this seemed to bring her mother very close to her. It was the tragedy of her father’s early and unforeseen death that had been the motivation for her mother’s lifework of making quilts to sell. Johanna had painstakingly disciplined herself to learn a craft for which she had no particular talent. She had done it out of necessity at first. She had gone back to her hometown a penniless widow with two small children, to live with relatives. Even though they welcomed her with love and generosity, she hated being a “poor relation” in the household of her affluent aunt and uncle. Johanna prayed for some way to support herself and her fatherless children. The answer came with her creativity. She soon became known for her beautiful quilts. Her skill and the demand for her work provided the education she wanted for her daughter, and her son’s college tuition and seminary fees. JoBeth felt a surge of energy, a rush of elation. As her mother had done before her, she would make something beautiful out of this tragedy.
Later in the morning, an ashen-faced Mrs. Hobbs tapped at JoBeth’s door, holding the latest edition of the newspaper with its black-banner headlines. She told JoBeth that they had almost certainly identified the assassin as the actor John Wilkes Booth.
Of course, JoBeth had heard of John Wilkes Booth. He was a matinee idol, adored by young lady theatergoers. She had seen his pictures, and he had once been pointed out to her in front of the theater. Tall, handsomely built, an Adonis with curling dark hair, high color, white teeth, features as finely sculptured as those on some Greek statue. Mrs. Hobbs had read extravagant raves about him in theatrical reviews of plays in which he had appeared in Washington. He was known as quite a “ladies’ man,” and it was even rumored that Bessie Hale, the daughter of Senator John Hale, was infatuated with him.
As more was learned about the assassin, the profile of a vain, arrogant man seething with a murderous hatred of the president emerged. Imbalanced, his weakness of character led him to believe he could commit murder and get away with it.
Three days later, his death—he was ambushed and shot as he hid from his pursuers—seemed almost judgmental, and few mourned him.
In the days that followed, the assassinated president drew the most mournful expressions of loss. A poem by the well-known author Herman Melville was published in the newspaper, and reprints were offered.
Spontaneous expressions of sorrow, grief, and respect began to appear in front of Ford’s Theater. Garden bouquets, floral wreaths, formal funeral arrangements—sprays of lilies and other spring flowers—seemed poignant reminders of the one who would never see another spring.
Drawn by some irresistible impulse, JoBeth also trod the pilgrim’s way there. Because she had been in the theater when it happened, she felt some inexplicable bond to the slain president and to his widow. She had heard her screams, felt her pain like a knife through her own heart. Although her own short life had known few losses, her sensitive nature suffered deeply with the mourning wife of the slain president. She could only imagine what she would have felt had it been Wes. Her sympathy was very real as she moved forward and, her bell-shaped skirt swaying, knelt and gently laid her small memorial bunch of flowers with the others.
Easter Sunday, April 16, 1865
JoBeth attended service alone that Sunday, because Wes had to be at Major Meredith’s side in case he was needed to facilitate any of arrangements for the funeral. As she walked the few blocks over to the church, the bright sun and the sound of birdsong in the blossoming trees seemed a bitter counterpoint to the dejected churchgoers. How could it be, when the dark cloud of national tragedy hung so heavy?
A pall of foreboding gloom hovered over the city. On Tuesday, Wes escorted JoBeth to where the president lay in state, so she could pay her respects. Her heart ached remembering the last, festive occasion on which she had come to the White House. Long lines stood patiently to file past the catafalque, draped in black silk, that had been erected in the East Room. At the head and foot of the casket—braided, studded, and starred with silver—in which the body of the slain president lay, uniformed officers stood at attention. Sepulchral light filtered in from windows hung with black drapery, and the veiled mirrors added to the somber atmosphere. The heavy fragrance of lilies and roses permeated the room.
The funeral on Wednesday was limited to six hundred guests. Two days later the president was to be taken by railroad car back to Illinois.
Friday morning, tolling bells awakened JoBeth to another day of sorrow. There would be a final, brief service conducted for the president in the Rotunda of the Capitol before the last solemn march to the depot.
From Major Meredith’s office window, JoBeth watched the sad, solemn procession from the White House to the train station, where the body of the president would be placed in a special car for the journey back to Springfield, Illinois, to his final resting place. Black plumes adorned the heads of the six gray horses pulling the hearse, which was festooned in black crepe, as they moved along the street in slow, measured steps. Behind was the president’s horse, his boots placed in the stirrups. People lined four-deep along the way, many openly sobbing.
The newspapers had been filled with eulogies. Even the great Confederate general George Pickett, the nephew of Andrew Johnston, and years before a partner in Lincoln’s Illinois law firm, was quoted as saying, upon hearing the news of the assassination, “My God! My God! The South has lost its best friend and protector, the surest, safest hand to guide and steer her through the breakers ahead. Again must we feel the smart of fanaticism.”
After the mournful scene, returning to their rooms, JoBeth removed the black satin ribbons from her bonnet, sadly folded them, and put them in a box. As she did, an idea for another way of marking this particular time in her life formed. These years she had lived in Washington made up a period separate from all the others in her life. In the space of less than two years, momentous things had occurred. Unforgettable things. Besides her journal, which she’d written in only intermittently, how could she keep some sort of record? No matter how sharp they are at first, memories often fade.
She remembered Mrs. Hobbs’ telling her about a new kind of quilt that was becoming popular. An elaborate, fancy kind, a “memory” quilt made up of pieces from special gowns, such as a wedding dress, or clothing worn at other special occasions. The material was not cut into patches but in a variety of shapes fitted together in any sort of pattern—thus it was also called a “crazy quilt.” Trimmed with lace or satin braid, it was more a quilt to be displayed than used.
JoBeth had already decided she could never again wear the blue velvet she had worn to Ford’s Theater that night. It held too many horrible memories. Yet it had been worn on a historic—if tragic—occasion, and as such should be kept. A crazy quilt such as Mrs. Hobb had described would be a way to memorialize her time in Washington, all the things that had happened to her during this historic era. She recalled Mrs. Hobbs’ saying, “As yet in my life, nothing very important or dramatic has happened that I could make a quilt about!” But JoBeth realized that her experience had been different. Hers would be worth remembering.