The stricken president had since been hauled on a hay-and-horsehair mattress to the station’s second floor. Opening his eyes, he beheld a strange collection of faces: his sons’, weeping; his cabinet’s, stunned. Few were paler than that of Secretary Lincoln, who had witnessed the attack from about forty feet away, then sprinted to the station’s telegraph room to summon troops and doctors to the scene. That done, the secretary of War had realized how ironic his presence was.
“My god,” Lincoln was soon saying aloud. “How many hours of suffering I have passed in this town.”
No comments:
Post a Comment