The Riderless Horse
by Brother Stavros
But,
on Sunday afternoon, November 24, a chilly very blustery day, the avenue grand
was another thing entirely. It was the thoroughfare of grief. I watched from
the west side of the capitol as the cortege bearing President Kennedy’s body
moved steadily up the hill. The drums that kept time, though muffled, carried
on the wind with almost hair-raising intensity. Before long the clopping of
horses’ hooves counterpointed the drums. Passing just ahead of the family was
“Black Jack” the restive riderless horse with the empty boots reversed in the
stirrups, one of those civil-liturgical details no commentator failed to point
out. No cheers and streamers; the silence was stunning, shattered by barked
military commands, tinged with the hoarseness of emotion, to cue the escorting
troops to carry out their kabuki-like rituals of removing the casket and
carrying it ever so carefully up the long flight of steps to the rotunda. Lines
had already formed for ordinary people to view the lying-in-state.
Then,
with a seeming suddenness, there came the gun carriage bearing the coffin, the
Kennedy clan, and on their heels the heads of state, most striking for the
contrast: Charles de Gaulle next to Emperor Haile Selassie, who was weighed
down by epaulettes and gold braid and ranks of medals so that his head barely
reached le génerale’s shoulder. In the same file were Queen Frederika of Greece
and King Baudouin of Belgium. This was before the technology of outdoor mega
screens, so once the funeral began we returned to campus.
The
first time I voted, actually the first time any resident of the District of
Columbia could vote for president, I cast it for JFK. At his inauguration,
along with hundreds of other local Scouts, I served as an usher on the
Southwest corner of Lafayette Square, diagonally across from the reviewing
stand. Pennsylvania Avenue was my hometown’s main street. Inaugurations came
and went along its once-cobbled pavement, and I was prone to be blasé about the
pomp of state. Four years previously, for Eisenhower’s parade, the living
symbol of the GOP was quartered in the firehouse around the corner from my
grandmother’s house. I got to watch the firemen scrub the elephant down. There
were also tanks included as cold war accouterments; their treads chewed up the
local streets.
But,
on Sunday afternoon, November 24, a chilly very blustery day, the avenue grand
was another thing entirely. It was the thoroughfare of grief. I watched from
the west side of the capitol as the cortege bearing President Kennedy’s body
moved steadily up the hill. The drums that kept time, though muffled, carried
on the wind with almost hair-raising intensity. Before long the clopping of
horses’ hooves counterpointed the drums. Passing just ahead of the family was
“Black Jack” the restive riderless horse with the empty boots reversed in the
stirrups, one of those civil-liturgical details no commentator failed to point
out. No cheers and streamers; the silence was stunning, shattered by barked
military commands, tinged with the hoarseness of emotion, to cue the escorting
troops to carry out their kabuki-like rituals of removing the casket and
carrying it ever so carefully up the long flight of steps to the rotunda. Lines
had already formed for ordinary people to view the lying-in-state.
Walking
three blocks along East Capitol Street to a stately old apartment building, my
great-aunt Rena let me climb out onto a Lilliputian balcony looking across to
the Folger Shakespeare Library to survey the lines. They already stretched to
Lincoln Park some ten blocks East. The lines would extend ten miles and last
for eighteen hours. No chance to make it into the capitol before I had to be
back for Vespers. Monday’s classes were canceled, the country frozen in front
of TVs, and I was determined to get as close as possible to St. Matthew’s
Cathedral. With a fellow seminarian we achieved the corner of Rhode Island and
Connecticut, where the procession had to make a right turn to reach the great
doors of the church. The police on this dawn of the era of terror were
indulgent, letting people scramble for any vantage point. Ray and I found a
perch on the wrought-iron and glass marquee over a hotel entrance right at the
corner. It was still windy and cold, but sunny. We could see everything,
sitting with our feet dangling like kids. And again the sound was
unforgettable. The cortege was very long, with the Marine Band at the head, the
Scottish Black Watch pipers sent by Queen Elizabeth in the middle, and an Irish
Cadet band at the rear.
Then,
with a seeming suddenness, there came the gun carriage bearing the coffin, the
Kennedy clan, and on their heels the heads of state, most striking for the
contrast: Charles de Gaulle next to Emperor Haile Selassie, who was weighed
down by epaulettes and gold braid and ranks of medals so that his head barely
reached le génerale’s shoulder. In the same file were Queen Frederika of Greece
and King Baudouin of Belgium. This was before the technology of outdoor mega
screens, so once the funeral began we returned to campus.
