Into the Long Dark Night

by Michael Phillips

  I was going to see the President of the United States tomorrow! Why me? Who was I that he would care to see me? Why not one of the nuns, one of the soldiers wounded in battle—anyone but me?

  And yet . . . my name was written down in his secretary’s book for tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock!

  And where did God fit into the whole maze of questions?

  I knew where he fit. He was the force behind everything, the fountain of my life and everything in it, the one who had led me into every encounter I’d had, the one to whom I’d given my life, the one who directed my steps even when I didn’t know it. If my life was a story, a progression of events and situations, then he was the author!

  And if I didn’t know what the next chapter held, or even if I didn’t know what the chapter just written meant, it didn’t matter. I was just a character on the page. But it was his book, not mine! And as long as he knew what the past meant and where the future was going, then all was well.

  Did I possess the fiber, the character, the strength, the wisdom, the integrity to walk as a mature adult—as a woman of God at the same time as I was his daughter?

  I didn’t know. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to know just yet. But he knew. And if I didn’t, well, he would see to it in his good time. He knew how the story of my life was supposed to progress, and who was I to worry about it?

  As my swirling thoughts finally began to settle, I realized again that what I hungered for more than anything—a need which went deeper than people or experiences, beyond ideas and ambitions and dreams and goals, that settled fears and questions and uncertainties—was simply for more of God in my life. That hunger swallowed up all other desires. Intimacy with God absorbed and gave meaning to every other relationship. And being part of God’s story gave purpose and direction and significance to all other of life’s passing events, large and small. In God’s story, my few moments with Alan Smith on the field behind Cemetery Ridge might be more significant than the time I hoped to spend with President Lincoln tomorrow. I did not need to fret in any way about any of these questions that had occupied my mind all day as I’d walked.

  The presence and nearness of God . . . that is what mattered more than any significance my life might have, more than what I understood or didn’t understand, more than whether I was strong or weak, mature or immature, more than whether I was a “woman” or still in many ways only a little girl.

  “God, stay near me,” I prayed, “and put in my heart a trust in you to take care of everything else.”

  Chapter 30

  The President

  The moment I stepped into the room where Mr. Lincoln was waiting, a great sense of awe came over me.

  He was tall and thin, his face tired and his voice soft. Everything about him, from his black suit to the familiar beard, was exactly like the pictures I’d seen. And yet no picture could capture the aura of what it was like to be in the presence of a man of such stature and dignity.

  His secretary introduced me.

  The President came forward slowly, then extended his hand. I shook it, trying not to act as timid as I felt. At the touch of his grip, a thrilling surge of thrill passed through me. All over again it hit me—this is the President of the United States. This is Abraham Lincoln himself!

  “Miss Hollister,” he said softly. “I am so pleased to finally meet you, and pleased that you wanted to make the long trip here to Washington.”

  I swallowed and tried to say something, but couldn’t get anything out!

  “As I told you in my letter,” he went on, “I’m most appreciative of how you helped with my election, and with raising money on behalf of the Union and the Sanitary Fund. It is important work they do, especially now with so many wounded, and of course they need money to continue their humanitarian operations. It is people such as you that the country has to thank for allowing such a work to continue. So when I tell you thank you, it is from the bottom of my heart.”

  It was clear he really meant what he said. I was humbled for him to speak so graciously to me, but at last I managed to find my own tongue.

  “I . . . I saw some of the Sanitary Commission’s people at Gettysburg,” I said. My voice sounded so small! I felt like a tiny little fly in the presence of the President.

  “Yes, I did hear from one of our guards, through Mr. Hay, that you were at Gettysburg. I would like to know more about it. Surely you weren’t near the actual fighting?” As he spoke, Mr. Lincoln took a chair, motioning me to sit down opposite him. I did so.

  “It was dreadful,” I said.

  “The fighting itself?” he said. “Were you near enough to actually see what was going on?”

  “Oh yes . . . everything about it was terrible! And yes, we were very close.”

  “We?”

  “I was with some Catholic nuns. We were helping the wounded however we could. Although with as much dying as there was, our efforts didn’t seem to amount to much.”

  He asked how we came to be there, and I told him the whole story.

  Mr. Lincoln listened quietly and patiently, and, it seemed, with great interest and thoughtfulness, asking me a question now and then, but mostly just letting me tell him about everything. I almost forgot where I was, and who he was! When I stopped, he was quiet for a minute, just thinking about what he’d heard. At length he let out a long sigh, then rose from the chair he’d been sitting in and walked slowly to the window and gazed out. When he turned back to the room, anguish and heartache were evident in every line of his face.

  “Ah, Corrie,” he said, “this is indeed a dark night for our country. Perhaps the darkest hour we have ever faced as a nation.”

  He paused briefly, then went on, more as if thinking aloud than talking to me. I almost felt as if I were intruding into some private place in his mind.

  “Will we endure it? That is the question,” he said. “And if we do, what will be the cost? Is freedom for the Negroes and keeping this nation united as one—is it worth the terrible price we have paid? Will this nation survive, or will the fallen have died in vain? Will freedom survive . . . or will this noble experiment we call the United States of America one day perish from the earth?”

  Again he paused, and I was surprised to hear my own voice speaking in response.

  “It will survive, Mr. President,” I said. “It has to . . . I am sure of it.”

  “But again the question—at what price?” he replied. “How much longer will the night of conflict last? Oh, that the dawn would soon break through!”

  It was the first time the great passion locked away inside his large frame had revealed itself. He was obviously very moved.

  “Wasn’t Gettysburg a great victory?” I said. “Perhaps the end of the war will come soon. Perhaps it is nearly over,” I added hopefully.

  “Perhaps,” he said, nodding his head thoughtfully. “And Vicksburg.”

  “Vicksburg?” I repeated.

  “The huge bastion of the Confederacy on the Mississippi. General Grant finally took it the day after Gettysburg, on the fourth.”

  “That’s wonderful news!” I said.

  “Yes . . . yes, I suppose it is.”

  I told him of seeing Mr. Grant long ago in California.

  “My, but you have seen a great deal for one so young—the gold rush, Ulysses Grant, two national election campaigns, Gettysburg. . . .”

  “I am more honored to be able to meet you, Mr. Lincoln,” I said, “than all the rest of it.”

  He gave a slight chuckle at my words, and I was immediately embarrassed.

  “Do you think, then, that the war will be over quickly,” I asked, “now that the southern army has been defeated both at Vicksburg and Gettysburg?”

  “We can only hope so,” he replied. “Yes, the war in the West has culminated and it would appear the Mississippi Valley is at last ours for good. I doubt they will give us more serious trouble in that region. Their supplies and troops are thinning badly, from the reports I have. But—”

  H
e stopped abruptly and suddenly an altogether different look than I had yet seen came over his face.

  “But Lee,” he went on after a moment, “is a skilled and crafty officer. I fear we let him off too easily.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant. Lee’s army had been turned back and his invasion of the North stopped. I thought it had been a great Union victory.

  About that same time, Mr. Hay came back into the room.

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said, “but this telegram just came in from General Meade. I thought you should see it. He is still following Lee’s retreat.”

  Mr. Lincoln took the paper from his secretary, scanned it briefly, then replied heatedly.

  “Lee has crossed back into Virginia and is in full retreat toward the south, he says! He rejoices that he has been driven away from our soil, as he puts it!”

  He tossed the telegram onto his desk behind him, then slammed the fist of his right hand into the open palm of his left. His face was red, and he didn’t look tired anymore.

  “Will our generals never get that idea out of their heads!” he exclaimed angrily. “The whole country is our soil! The Union has been endangered for three years, not merely because Lee attempted an invasion of Pennsylvania. His army moving north of the Potomac isn’t the threat, but rather that Lee’s army exists in the first place!”

  Mr. Hay excused himself. Mr. Lincoln gradually calmed, then looked back to where I was sitting, still wondering what I was doing listening to such talk between the most important man in the country and his private secretary!

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that, Miss Hollister,” he said. “But, you see, that is exactly the point I was trying to make to you before. When word came to me from Gettysburg, calling it a great triumph, I found myself seriously displeased rather than enthusiastic.”

  “Why, sir? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Because it was our opportunity to destroy Lee’s army completely. Once Lee cut his ties with Virginia and marched his men deep into the North, he was isolated. We could have compelled him to surrender, or perhaps to destroy himself if he tried to escape. We should never have allowed him to escape! But Meade didn’t pursue him, and now the wounded lion will live to fight against us another day—mark my words.”

  It was surprising to hear him talk so ruthlessly about destroying General Lee. I had always taken him for a peaceful and gentle man.

  “But surely you wouldn’t want to have seen more men killed?” I said.

  “Of course not. But there will be more killing, and the war will be prolonged now, I fear. You must understand, the ruthless pursuit of Lee I was advocating would have, I am convinced, shortened the war. We might have exacted a surrender at any moment. But now, alas, Lee will rebuild his army, the senseless killing will go on, and the war may drag out for another year.”

  “I think I understand now.”

  “We may have won the battle, yet we had an opportunity to end the war, and that mission we did not accomplish. I hate the killing! Yet sometimes to get to the light at the end of a tunnel, we must go through a long darkness first. Every day reports come to me of more death, more killing, more destruction of our nation, and every time it breaks my heart to realize the means by which we are being forced to obtain freedom for all our people—white and black, North and South.”

  “Do you think that aim is worth a war—freedom, I mean?” I asked.

  Mr. Lincoln sighed deeply. “Ah, you’ve asked the question of my life, Corrie,” he replied, his voice soft again and far away. “I shall go to my grave trying to find the answer. I know that when I became President, it looked to many as though I had run for this office just to start a war. You cannot imagine how such talk grieves my heart. Yes, we are engaged in a dreadful conflict—but not because I wanted it. There are two reasons. One, to keep these United States whole without being divided, and second, to declare to all the world that all men are created equal. That is, of course, the question of slavery.”

  Suddenly he seemed to catch himself. He stopped, gave a little chuckle, then added, “I’m sorry. I still have an old lawyer’s habit of thinking out loud. I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear an old man ramble on about his woes.”

  I was shocked to hear him refer to himself as an old man. But I didn’t say anything, and when he spoke again it was in a different vein altogether.

  “As I told you earlier, Corrie,” he said, “I am grateful for your help in the past. And now that I have met you face-to-face and heard of your experiences at Gettysburg, I am doubly glad for inviting you here and that you were willing to come. I think you may indeed be able to help the Union cause.”

  “I would, of course, be happy to do anything I could . . . but I don’t see how . . .”

  “Don’t you see how your testimony of having actually been on the battlefield could galvanize the citizens of the Union? You could tell of the crying need for supplies and volunteers and money on behalf of the Sanitary Commission. As long as this war continues, there will be more bloodshed, more wounded, and more need for volunteers to help with them, just as you and the sisters from the convent did. You can help us make this crying need known.”

  “I might be able to write an article about the battle,” I suggested, “telling people how important it is they contribute to the Sanitary Fund.”

  “Exactly. It could be telegraphed back to your home state of California, and we might arrange for several of the eastern papers to run it as well. Yes, I think that is a splendid idea!”

  Even as he was finishing his statement, Mr. Hay walked into the room again.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s your four o’clock appointment with the French Ambassador.”

  “Ah, yes . . . has he arrived?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s waiting down in the east parlor.”

  “Miss Hollister . . . Corrie . . . I am sorry to have to cut our visit short like this,” Mr. Lincoln said, turning toward me again. “I have so enjoyed talking with you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, standing up. He approached and shook my hand again, very affectionately, I thought.

  “I meant every word,” he said. “I sincerely hope you will be able to help in some of the ways we discussed. I’ll leave you and Mr. Hay here to make the arrangements for the remainder of your time in Washington. Good-day, Corrie, and thank you again for a fine visit.”

  Chapter 31

  Mr. Hay’s Big Plans

  President Lincoln had been gracious, humble, and at the same time so honest and down-to-earth. Even though I had been in his presence, and even though now his face still filled my memory along with everything he’d said, it would be a long time later before I’d really comprehend what I had just experienced. And when it began to dawn on me what a unique and treasured encounter this had been, I found myself thinking that America would surely remember Abraham Lincoln, for years to come, as one of the nation’s greatest Presidents ever.

  And I had actually spent an hour with him! He had listened to me talk. He had seemed interested. And he had, just as in his letter, asked me to help the country and the cause of the war! All my doubts and reservations about coming East suddenly evaporated. I walked out of the White House more full of enthusiasm and a sense of purpose than I had for months. I said goodbye to the two guards at the gate, Joe and Al, who were now very friendly to me every time I passed, and fairly skipped on down the street.

  Mr. Hay asked me to come back and see him the following day, even though it was Saturday. When I did, he made arrangements for all kinds of things for me to do. He was very businesslike, but not like Almeda and Mr. Ashton. White House business was a lot different than Miracle Springs gold-country business!

  When I left after my interview with the President’s secretary, I had a list of things a whole page long to do. I just hoped I’d remember everything!

  There wasn’t much chance of my forgetting, of course, because Mr. Hay had written down the same lis
t and had said he’d take care of everything.

  There were many people he wanted me to meet, he said, beginning on Monday. Mrs. Harding, a nurse who had been out on the field, was now recruiting and training volunteers for the Sanitary Commission to send them out behind the troops where battles were anticipated. Mr. Vargo, the Sanitary Commission chairman in Washington, was primarily in charge of fund raising.

  Both of them, Mr. Hay said, would have plenty for me to do. Once Mrs. Harding heard what I’d been through in Gettysburg, he said, she would be putting me up in front of women’s and church groups all over the North to tell about it and to encourage others to help them save lives.

  “And Vargo, too,” he went on, “will be anxious to enlist your support on behalf of his financial efforts, especially once he learns that you already have experience in that sort of thing out in California.”

  I was starting to get tired just listening to him make plans for me. It sounded like a busy schedule!

  “How long did you plan to be in Washington, Miss Hollister?” he asked me.

  “I . . . I didn’t really have specific plans,” I replied. “I don’t know, a few weeks perhaps. . . .”

  “Hmm,” thought Mr. Hay, “two or three weeks . . . that doesn’t give us much time. We’ll have to make use of every minute we can.”

  “Mr. Lincoln mentioned something about writing, too,” I reminded him.

  I was willing to talk to people if the subject was something I believed in enough and could talk naturally about. But “speechmaking,” as I had heard politicians do plenty of times, was not something I could do, or wanted to do. Besides, I felt more comfortable expressing my thoughts on paper.

  So I didn’t want Mr. Hay to forget what the President had said about article-writing. I had already become excited about writing something to be telegraphed back to the West Coast. Wouldn’t Mr. Kemble and Robin O’Flaridy come out of their chairs when it came across the wire!