Into the Long Dark Night

by Michael Phillips

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows quite the whole story in detail,” answered Mr. Hay, “least of all me. There were rumors of trouble even before the election, to the effect that Surratt was in league with some big-money fellows from the South—you’ve probably never heard of Senator Goldwin?”

  The very name suddenly filled my mind with memories of Derrick Gregory and my daring ride to Sonora and the whole plot against John Fremont. But it was too long a story to tell Mr. Hay about!

  So I merely nodded. “Yes . . . yes, I have heard of him,” I answered.

  “And you know what kind of man he is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, as I said, rumors started flying, including some that said there was trouble between Surratt and his wife—that’s Marge. Surratt was defeated in fifty-eight. He went back to Ohio, but Marge stayed on. Word had it that she was still in league with Goldwin. If you ask me, she just couldn’t stand to suddenly be cast adrift after years in the limelight. I suppose she thought that if she remained in Washington, the glow of power and prestige would linger about her life. Then he died the next year.”

  “And did it?”

  “No. She never set foot in the White House again, as I understand it. Even James Buchanan, southern sympathizer and ineffective as he was, was shrewd enough to realize that having her anywhere near his administration would tarnish his already shaky reputation. After her husband died there were reports of all manner of nefarious things Marge was mixed up in. Probably more than half of them aren’t true, but once people began to talk about her in connection with slave-selling and gold-running, and even more serious plots on behalf of Goldwin and the southern cause, she became a pariah among the honest and upright politicians in the city.

  “Once Mr. Lincoln was elected and the war broke out, Marge faced three choices: go back to Ohio where she was from, go South and join the Confederacy, or stay here. By then, I think, Goldwin had no more use for her. With the war on, he had bigger problems than the fading star of an aging woman in the North. For whatever reasons, she remained here, broken, embittered, and angry at the whole world. She opened that run-down, dilapidated boardinghouse and has been there ever since.”

  “And she’s no longer involved in politics or anything like that?”

  Mr. Hay laughed with a curious expression. “Politics . . . no,” he said. “But as to anything like that, it is hard to say. There continue to be persistent rumors that float about from time to time about what Marge is associated with. Gutter stuff, mostly, but sometimes more serious.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Well, you can imagine her feelings of antipathy toward the North, with her years of southern connections. She hates Mr. Lincoln with a passion rivaled only on the streets of Atlanta or Montgomery! Nothing against her has ever been proven, but as I said, rumors persist of her association with low causes that would stir up trouble for the Union, and especially with people intent on the President’s defeat and the victory of the Confederate cause.”

  I was silent. Mr. Hay had certainly given me a great deal to think about. I had wanted something more tangible to pray for the landlady about, and some insight into her that might make it easier for me to be nice to her. Now all at once I knew too much about her! Knowing how she felt about Mr. Lincoln, whom I admired, and about the Union cause, which I supported, would make it harder, not easier, to love her in a Christian way! And yet it still seemed that that was what I had to try to do. She wasn’t exactly my “enemy,” but when Jesus said to love your enemies, it probably applied to situations like this as well.

  “In any event, Miss Hollister,” Mr. Hay went on, “we can’t have you staying at Marge’s place. Whatever may or may not be true about Marge herself, the boardinghouse itself is rundown and dirty, and certainly not suitable for a young lady such as you.”

  “It’s really not so bad,” I said.

  “Hmm . . . well, let’s see . . . we shall have to make some other arrangements for you. Something closer by would be good.”

  “I . . . it isn’t necessary for you to go to any trouble . . . not for me,” I said.

  “Nonsense, Miss Hollister,” said Mr. Hay. “You just wait here for a few minutes. I will arrange for a carriage for you, and I will have one of the women on the staff accompany you and see what can be done. I’m sure after the letter the President sent, he would not take it kindly if we did not do everything possible to make your stay in Washington comfortable. You will be the President’s guest . . . we will see to everything.”

  There was a slight pause, then he rose. I didn’t want to be stubborn. After all, he could take it wrong. He might even suspect my loyalty and cancel my appointment on Friday. But something inside told me I had to do it anyway. I had prayed for an opportunity, and now that I had one, I couldn’t let the offer of more plush quarters make me selfishly lose sight of it.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult,” I said, “but I really feel I need to stay where I am, for another night or two at least. I told her I would be back.”

  “It’s nothing but a flea trap, Miss Hollister!”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . well, I feel I wasn’t altogether as gracious to . . . to Mrs. Surratt as I ought to have been.”

  “Gracious . . . heavens! That’s the last word I would ever associate with Marge! She hasn’t a gracious bone in her body, and certainly would not return any graciousness she was shown.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s my duty to be gracious to her, whether she returns it or not.”

  At length Mr. Hay shook his head in consternation.

  “Have it your own way, Miss Hollister,” he said, “although it makes not an ounce of sense to me! You won’t object, will you, to my arranging the carriage for you?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. “You’re very kind, and I appreciate it.”

  “Nor to the White House, and paying the tab for your expenses? You are the President’s guest, wherever you choose to stay.”

  “That will be fine. Thank you again.”

  “And when you have discharged what you feel is your duty to Mrs. Surratt, you will allow me to put you up in a more suitable place?”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” I said with a smile.

  Chapter 28

  Marge Surratt

  How could I possibly make Mr. Hay understand my feelings about Marge Surratt? I had prayed for some kind of a chink to open into her crusty, crabby, lonely heart. And now that I knew something about her, I couldn’t just turn my back and walk away. But how could he understand? All he could see was that it was a dingy place and that I might have a much nicer room somewhere else. For me, however, it was a matter of the heart, not how nice the linens and blankets might be, or what kind of curtains hung in the window.

  Maybe nothing would come of it. Marge Surratt could just as easily take offense at my trying to be nice to her as receive it kindly. Still, I had to try.

  But Mr. Hay was very kind in every other way. He arranged for a carriage to take me back, and the lady who took me spent several hours with me, showing me around Washington. I saw the Capitol building, where the big dome for the top was in the middle of construction, the Washington monument, and some of the other important buildings. When she left me I had plenty to occupy my attention, and I spent the rest of the day walking.

  Just the day before I had thought the whole thing a terrible mistake. But now I was gradually warming up to the city and thought maybe I did like it here, after all.

  My opportunity to talk to Mrs. Surratt didn’t come till the following evening.

  After all the dinner dishes had been washed and put away, I tentatively left my room and walked downstairs, then knocked softly on her sitting room door.

  “Who’s there?” I heard from inside.

  “Corrie . . . Corrie Hollister,” I said.

  I opened the door a crack and looked in. “I wondered if you’d mind if I talked to you for a minute,” I said.


  “Yes, I would mind,” she answered irritably. “What is it?”

  I opened the door enough to step across the threshold. As I did so I went on, hoping not to give her the chance to throw me out.

  “I was at the White House yesterday,” I said quickly, “and Mr. Hay said he knew you, that you used to be at the White House a lot, and that you knew President Buchanan.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, a regular politician I was! What of it? And what were you doing with John Hay, anyway?”

  I didn’t want to tell her that I’d come to see President Lincoln, if it was true she hated him.

  “What was it like to know a President so well?” I asked. For the first time since I’d knocked on the door, she looked up at me. She eyed me cautiously for a moment or two. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But if it bothered her that I hadn’t answered her question, she didn’t show it, because finally she answered mine.

  “Aw, it wasn’t much. It was my husband who knew him. That was the only reason we got invited to the White House.”

  Her voice betrayed the hint of pain at the memory. It was the first time she’d let down the tough mask she was wearing, letting out just a thin beam of light from her inner self.

  “Your husband?”

  “Yeah, he was a senator.”

  “Where from?”

  “Ohio.”

  “So you were a senator’s wife!” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t no big thing.”

  “It seems pretty important to me.”

  “Don’t seem to mean much now, does it?” she said, then laughed bitterly at the irony, glancing around at the poverty of her surroundings.

  The laugh contained no joy, but through it I glimpsed a little deeper place in her heart.

  “What happened? Did he—”

  “He got himself defeated, that’s what. Then he went back to Ohio and died.”

  “But you wanted to stay here?”

  “Look around for yourself. Can’t you see that I stayed?”

  “Why did you?” I asked, inching still farther into the room.

  For the first time she seemed to grow thoughtful for a passing moment. A look came over her face that was more than hurt. It was a pensive kind of pain, as if she were wondering whether she had done the right thing. Finally she spoke, but her words didn’t have an enthusiastic ring to them.

  “I had friends, professional associates, things I didn’t want to leave behind. That fool of a husband of mine was going back to Ohio to retire, right when everything was getting interesting and when they needed us more than ever. So I figured I’d start a business and stay.”

  “Who needed you?”

  “Never mind who—it’s none of your concern.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Aw, forget it, dearie. It’s just that there’s too many loose tongues and long ears in this town—especially now. Someone like me who used to know important people—people on the other side of the fence, if you get my meaning—someone like me’s got to be careful every minute.”

  I was dying to ask what she meant, but didn’t dare.

  “Well, you have your business, anyway,” I said.

  She laughed sardonically. “Yeah, some business!”

  “It’s a nice place,” I said, trying to be positive, “and you seem to be busy with plenty of people.”

  She glared at me and didn’t respond. “So what do you want?” she asked at last. “You said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. I’m a long way from home, and I don’t know anyone in Washington, and I just wanted to visit with you.”

  “Visit . . . with me?”

  “Yes—you know, just get to know you a little better.”

  The laugh she gave at my words sounded like a grunt of disbelief, as if the idea of someone wanting to get to know her was too preposterous to even be thinkable.

  “Well, suit yourself,” she said. “And you might as well sit yourself down instead of standing there like that,” she added. I think she was as surprised as I was to hear coming out of her mouth words that were almost an invitation to join her. From her look and tone, I don’t think anybody had ever sat down with her right here in her sitting room just to chat.

  I took the chance while I had it, and grabbed the nearest chair to the door.

  We talked for a while longer. The conversation didn’t get lively, and she didn’t warm up much to the idea. But at least she put up with it, although I was hard pressed to find things to ask her, and she remained as tight-lipped as ever. So I told her a little about my life and about Miracle Springs. She didn’t seem particularly interested in anything, but listened.

  Finally I could tell I had stretched it about as far as I could. I had hoped to find some way to get in where I could touch the real human soul of the woman, but the fences she had up around her heart were too thick and too high. Still, I hoped it was a beginning and that more might come of it. In the meantime, I intended to pray for Marge Surratt that God would soften her crusty exterior enough so that he might find a way in.

  I stood up and thanked her for letting me spend the time with her.

  She nodded an acknowledgment, but said nothing.

  “Well,” I added, “I hope you have a pleasant evening and a good sleep. Good-night.”

  She grunted again, and I left, closing the door quietly behind me, wondering what the poor lonely lady was thinking.

  Chapter 29

  A Windy, Cleansing Walk

  My talk with Marge Surratt had an unsettling effect on me. And as I lay down that night to go to sleep, lots of anxieties gnawed at me.

  I slept all right, but when I awoke it was still with a sense of inner agitation. It was Thursday. I had another twenty-four hours to wait before my appointment with President Lincoln. As much as I hoped for another chance to find some opportunity to speak with the landlady, I didn’t much like the prospect of spending the whole day cooped up in my tiny room. So after breakfast I went out.

  A storm had blown in as I’d slept, and the day was windy and blustery, with a fitful shower now and then. The rain would pour down, then stop suddenly. But it was warm, and when it was not raining, it felt comfortable. The smell was somehow different than the storms at home. Maybe it had something to do with the Atlantic, or with the fact that it was a summer storm. There was never rain in Miracle Springs during the summer.

  I enjoyed the warm wind and the wetness in the air, and when the downpours came, I found the protection of some building to take shelter in until it passed. During one of the particularly long showers early in the afternoon, I wandered through the halls of the Capitol, and found myself wondering how Pa was doing in Sacramento, and even entertaining the fanciful notion of him coming here to Washington, D.C., someday. Yet as the thought came, I knew he’d never do such a thing, even with an engraved invitation from the President himself. He loved the West and California, especially Miracle Springs, far too much ever to leave it!

  I went outside again, walking for miles, it seemed.

  Part of me couldn’t help feeling small, lonely, and insignificant in the midst of all the important things that Washington, D.C., represented. Moments would sweep over me, as they had two nights earlier, when I thought I had made a mistake in interpreting God’s intention that I come here. Who was I? . . . what did I matter to the country, to the President . . . to anything? Then I’d remember the loneliness and the people I missed, and would feel sad and isolated and far away again.

  But such feelings didn’t usually stay with me for too long. Mostly I found thoughts of deep reflection that were directed at me—what kind of person I was becoming through all this. There was a certain melancholy to it, and yet something that felt good at the same time. I found myself taking in deep breaths of the warm, stormy air, almost as a symbol of taking in the thoughts and experiences and conversations I’d had since leaving Miracle Springs.

  I suppose if I tried to put it into
words, I was struggling with the deeper reality of what it meant for me to be growing fully into an adult—for me to be becoming someone completely my own, disconnected from home and Pa and my family and everything that had come before. Of course I would never really be disconnected. Yet being so far away from home was forcing me to step into a new level of individuality. I was meeting people and getting into situations as me. Not as Corrie Belle Hollister—my father’s daughter and part of his family. Not as Corrie Belle Hollister, who was associated with Ma and Uncle Nick and the past generations of my family name. Here I was Corrie, a person of my very own. Myself . . . alone . . . God’s daughter . . . an adult . . . with no one but myself to fall back on. It was a scary sensation, but it was strengthening at the same time.

  The security of home was far away. I thought a lot about my life. I had had many adventures, but compared to being so far away, as I was now—somehow my early life seemed almost protected. Now the person I had become had to stand up to the test of whatever I might face—every day! There was no comfortable nest to return to at night, no secure arms to rest in, no shoulders to cry on. It was time for me to find out what kind of fiber I was made of, what kind of person I was down at the deepest parts of my being, my soul.

  I thought about all the encounters I’d had with people thus far. Even the Englishman in the stagecoach, for all his pomp, had character and personality. Did I? Sister Janette and the rest of the nuns . . . their lives seemed to contain so much purpose and significance. Did mine? Lt. Tomlinson and Alan Smith and all the soldiers at Gettysburg had fought for their beliefs. Would I be willing to do that?

  Everything I had been through had gone much deeper into me than I realized at the time of each encounter. I found myself comparing my life all over again to the Sisters of Unity, wondering anew if there was something for me there.

  Who had I been? . . . who was I now? . . . who would I be a year from now? Was there any significance to my life, my being, to the person I was—any significance alongside the lives of Sister Janette and Jennie Wade and Alan Smith and even Abraham Lincoln? Toward what purpose in life had God been leading me?