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turning to page one
turning to page one
Lincoln stands in front of William Hutton's row house, talking to Hutton. The funeral wreath still hangs on the door behind them, displaying the marks of time passing: faded, weatherbeaten, dusty.
WILLIAM HUTTON
I can't make sense of it, what he
died for.
Mr. Lincoln, I hate them all, I do,
all black people. I am a prejudiced
man.
The door opens slightly behind Hutton. His wife looks out. Hutton exchanges a glance with her, and the door shuts again.
LINCOLN
I'd change that in you if I could,
but that's not why I come. I might
be wrong, Mr. Hutton, but I
expect... Colored people will most
likely be free, and when that's so,
it's simple truth that your
brother's bravery, and his death,
helped make it so. Only you can
decide whether that's sense enough
for you, or not.
Hutton walks slowly back to his house.
LINCOLN (CONT'D)
My deepest sympathies to your
family.
Lincoln goes back to his buggy. Hutton pauses at his door to watch Lincoln's buggy drive away.