TO FORGIVE

The summer of 1863 had been unbearably hot. There had been an increasingly ominous list of military disasters. Even the loyal were begining to murmur about Mr. Lincoln's management of the war. Then Will Ripley's letters had ceased, and Mr Ripley could get no satisfaction from headquarters about the fate of his son. Dan, the youngest Ripley, was irritable with fatigue and his secret worry. His family was nearly sick with the heat and fatigue.

The climax to this state came from an unforseen event. Jack, Dan's dog crazed by the heat or some secret taste for blood, ran amuck one night and stampeded the sheep, doing a lot of damage. Father Ripley doubtless acted on what he considered the most merciful course—he had Jack killed and buried before Dan got back from the city, but to Dan it seemed in the first agony of his broken heart , an unforgivable thing. Weariness, worry and now this new woe changed the boy into a heartsick being who flung himself on the fresh mound of hay and stayed there the whole day despite the entreaties of his mother and the commands of his father.

 

That evening his Mother carried some food out to him. He refused to talk to her and he would not touch the food. Sometime later, as the night wore on, he stole into the house, tied some of his clothes into a bundle, took some food and crept away from his home. Once more he went to the grave of his slain friend to say a final goodbye.

Muttering, "Will is the only one who ever loved or who understands me," he started walking across the pasture that separated his farm from the road. Glancing up at the dark velvety night,
he ruminated, "Might as well join Will in the army, these folks don't need me anymore."

Looking around to plot his course, he instinctively turned toward the old Soldiers' home. He was leaving the farm forever. He hoped that someone, there, could tell him how to get to Will's regiment. The sultry starless night of a Washington midsummer night enveloped him; the woods were dark and breathless. His head throbbed, but he pushed on, high tempered and unforgiving. He would show them!

Suddenly he remembered that he had not said the Lord's prayer that night. Dan had been reared in a strict Christian home. He tried saying it while walking, but that seemed sacrilegious.

He knelt in the dark, by the side of the road and tried, but when he got to "as we forgive our debtors," he stopped awash in tears. There, in the dark, Dan bitterly cried himself to sleep.

Not far away, at the same hour, another man, tall lean and gaunt overcome with the sorrows of a nation at war with itself paced the floor of the White House. At Gettysburg, three days before, the rebellion had reached its zenith . He, the President had stayed the tide, bearing in tireless sympathy the weight of countless responsibilities. Now, all day long, decisions of the affairs of state had borne down upon him—decisions that concerned not only armies but races, not only races but principles of human welfare. Grief-stricken from the recent death of his son Willie, carrying the dismal burden of his rebellious country, Abraham Lincoln thoughtfully, sorrowfully trod the hard wooden floors. Downstairs, his secretary, unconsciously counted his steps. Lincoln had given instructions that no one was supposed to interrupt him. For within his own heart a mighty battle raged.

Just before dawn, the footsteps stopped; the secretary's door opened, and a gaunt gray face looked in. "Stoddard, do you want anything from me tonight?"

 

The secretary rose. "I want you in bed , Sir. Mrs Lincoln should not have gone away. You are fair to her or to us."

"Don't reproach me, Stoddard," Lincoln said kindly. It had to be settled, and with God's help, it has been. Now I can sleep. But I must have a breath of fresh air first. There is nothing?"

The President passed his hand over his deeply lined face. "Only!" he murmured. "Only! How wicked this war is! It leads us to consider lives by the dozen, by the bale, wholesale. How many in this batch, Stoddard?"

The secretary turned some papers. "Twenty-four, Sir. You remember the interview with General Scanlon yesterday."

Lincoln hesitated saying, "twenty-four! Yes, I remember Scanlon saying that leniency to the few was injustice to the many. He was right too." Lincoln held out his hand for the papers, then drew it back and looked at Stoddard. "I can't decide," he said in a low voice, "not now, Stodard, you see a weak man. But, I want to thresh this out a little longer. I must walk. These cases are killing me; I must get out."

"Let me call an attendant, Mr. Lincoln."

"They are all asleep. No, I'll take my chances with God. If anybody wants to kill me, he will do it, You must go to bed, Stoddard."

The two men shook hands and Lincoln slipped into the night, his long legs bearing him rapidly westward. During the heat he usually slept at the Soldier's home being escorted there by cavalry with sabers drawn. But he hated the noise of it and during Mrs. Lincoln's absence he was playing truant to her rules. When he neared the old folks' home, he felt slightly refreshed and turned into a wooded road. The sky at his back had begun to lighten.

The faint glimmer of light from the emerging day showed the ruts in the road, Lincoln suddenly realized he was tired. Thinking out loud he said, "Abe, Abe, at one time you were great at splitting rails, and now a five mile stroll before breakfast and you are tired. Well! What do he have here?" he said sidestepping a youngster laying in the road.

The tall man stooped and with tenderness said, " Hello, boy. How's the mattress?"

Dan sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily

To be continued