Garrison and Douglass decided to attend the inauguration together. “I want to show you the White House, Douglass. You must see the Capitol to which you have sent Lincoln.” Douglass smiled. He had never been in Washington, and he was glad they were together again. Garrison was far from well. The winter months had tried his failing strength. After electing Lincoln, the North drew back, in large part disclaiming all participation in the “insult” to their “sister states” in the South. The press took on a conciliatory tone toward slavery and a corresponding bitterness toward antislavery men and measures. From Massachusetts to Missouri, antislavery meetings were ruthlessly stoned. The second John Brown Memorial at Tremont Temple was broken up by a mob, some of the wealthiest citizens of Boston taking part in the assault on Douglass and the other speakers. Howling gangs followed Wendell Phillips for three days wherever he appeared on the pavements of his native city, and hoodlums broke the windowpanes in Douglass’ Rochester printing shop. These things weighed heavily on Garrison’s spirits. For a while he had been uplifted by the belief that moral persuasion was winning over large sections of the country. Now he saw them fearfully grasping their possessions--repudiating everything except their “God-given” right to pile up dollars. But across the country stalked one more grim man. His face was turned to the east--to the rising sun; his lanky, bony body rose endless on a prop of worn, out-size shoes. And deep in the hollows of the South, behind the lonesome pine trees draped with moss, down in the corners of the cotton fields, in the middle of the night--the slaves were whispering. And their words rumbled like drums along the ground: “_Mistah Linkum is a-comin’! Praise da Lawd!_” Washington was an armed city. “The new President of the United States will be inaugurated--” General Scott was as good as his word. But the crowds did not cheer when Abraham Lincoln appeared. There was a hush, as if all the world knew it was a solemn moment. Douglass looked on the gaunt, strange beauty of that thin face--the resemblance to John Brown was startling--and as he bared his head, Douglass whispered, “He’s our man, John Brown. He’s our man!” Amelia saw Frederick Douglass in the crowd. She tugged frantically at Jack Haley’s arm. “Look! Look!” she said. “It’s him!” Jack, turning his head, recognized the man he had heard speak years ago in Providence, Rhode Island. Older, yes, broader and grown in stature, but undoubtedly it was the same head, the same wild, sweeping mane. As the crowd began to disperse and Douglass turned, he felt a light pull on his sleeve and looked down on a slight, white-haired woman whose piquant upturned face and bright blue eyes were vaguely familiar. “Mr. Douglass?” Her voice fluttered in her throat. “At your service, ma’am.” Douglass managed to make a little bow, though the crowd pressed upon them. Her eyes widened.