After our marriage, we removed
to Quincy, Ill., but our happiness was of short duration, as my
husband was killed in the explosion of the steamboat Edward Bates, on
which he was employed. To my mind it seemed a singular coincidence
that the boat which bore the name of the great and good man, who had
given me the first joy of my meagre life--the precious boon of
freedom--and that his namesake should be the means of weighting me
with my first great sorrow; this thought seemed to reconcile me to my
grief, for that name was ever sacred, and I could not speak it
without reverence.
The number of killed and wounded were many, and they were distributed
among friends and hospitals; my husband was carried to a friend's,
where he breathed his last. Telegraphs were wanting in those times, so
days passed before this wretched piece of news reached me, and there
being no railroads, and many delays, I reached the home of my friend
only to be told that my husband was dead and buried. Intense grief was
mine, and my repining worried mother greatly; she never believed in
fretting about anything that could not be helped. My only consolation
from her was, "'Cast your burden on the Lord.' _My_ husband is down
South, and I don't know where he is; he may be dead; he may be alive;
he may be happy and comfortable; he may be kicked, abused and
half-starved.
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