Into the Long Dark Night

by Michael Phillips

  I could just see them! Robin would be jealous, but he’d try not to let it show. Mr. Kemble would try to pretend that it wasn’t anything so out of the ordinary, as if his reporters went to Washington and talked to people in the White House all the time! But then when he was alone, he’d mutter something like, “C.B. Hollister . . . I can hardly believe it! I didn’t think you had it in you . . . but you’ve done all right, Corrie!” If I were there in his office, though, his next words would probably be, “But don’t you go getting a swelled sense of your own importance to this newspaper . . . I’m still only going to pay you six dollars for the article, even if you are supposedly a friend of Abraham Lincoln’s!”

  I laughed at the thought. I didn’t care if he paid me a cent! This article’s on me, Mr. Kemble! I thought.

  And when everybody in Miracle Springs got the paper and saw an article from the National Capital with my name on it, what a day that would be! The thought brought a great lump to my chest, and I wanted to burst out laughing and crying both at once! I didn’t know if I could stand not being there with them all when that happened!

  “Look . . . look here! It’s Corrie!”

  “Why didn’t she tell us . . . ?”

  “How could she have told us, Drum? She’s all the way back—”

  “Why, if that don’t beat all! Miz Corrie’s done met Mister Lincoln himself. . . .”

  “Let me look at it!”

  “Hold your horses, Tad, son—we’ll all get a chance to read it.”

  “We’re all gonna be famous now, hee, hee, hee!”

  “Aw, nobody’s gonna be nothin’, Alkali, you old goat!”

  “Don’t be so sure, Nick. . . . Corrie might put Miracle Springs on the map yet.”

  Voices and faces crowded into my mind all at once . . . laughing, grabbing at the Alta . . . all talking about me, and yet with me not there with them.

  All these thoughts about writing and home flew swiftly through my mind in two or three seconds, even as Mr. Hay was nodding his head and replying to what I’d said.

  “Yes . . . hmm, that’s right,” he said. “He spoke to me about that when we were discussing you this morning.”

  “I want to do whatever I can, but writing’s what I do best.”

  “And indeed, we want you to do it. Are you still set on staying at the Surratt woman’s place? It doesn’t seem that the atmosphere would be terribly conducive to what you have in mind.”

  “I suppose you’re right. . . . There isn’t even a desk in the room.”

  “There, you see! It’s imperative that you let me make arrangements for more suitable quarters. Why, you’re practically working for the President now, Miss Hollister!”

  “Yes, I see the practicality in what you’re saying. Just give me another couple of days, and then I’ll be happy for you to put me anywhere you like.”

  “Fine! Early in the week I’ll have everything arranged! And in the meantime, I’ll have your itinerary set as well. Why don’t you come see me again on Tuesday morning? We’ll send someone over to pick up your things, get you settled in one of the better boardinghouses close by—with a desk!—and by noon you can be hard at work on your first article. How does that sound?”

  “Just fine, Mr. Hay,” I replied, “but I . . . uh, I don’t know if I can . . . that is, I don’t have a great deal of money, and until the articles—”

  “Miss Hollister,” he interrupted, “I told you before, don’t worry a thing about it. As I said, you are our guest. We will see to all your expenses—lodging, meals, cabs, whatever else you might need. And if the newspapers pay you for your articles besides, keep the remuneration with our blessings.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you.”

  “The President was quite taken with you. He’s counting on you to help him in this fight to preserve the Union. He feels it’s the least he can do in return.”

  Chapter 32

  My First Assignment

  The next few days I spent mostly at the boardinghouse, either in my room or trying to find opportunities to visit with Mrs. Surratt. Neither was particularly fruitful. Mr. Hay had certainly been right—it was not a place where I could work very well. And even with all the friendliness I could muster, Mrs. Surratt remained distant and untalkative.

  Actually, my greatest worry became one of making a pest of myself. Something about the poor, lonely old lady had gone into my heart. It would be exaggerating to say that I loved her. Jesus told us to love people, especially those who were difficult to love, those who treated us badly, and even our neighbors. I doubt he meant we were to feel the same kinds of things for those kinds of people as we did our family and friends and the folks we called our loved ones. Yet he still said we were supposed to love them.

  I found myself wondering exactly what he did mean when he told us that. It seemed like a contradiction to tell us to love people we don’t, and maybe even couldn’t love in the way we think of the word. All I could figure out was that he must have been telling us either to try to love them, or else to do nice things for them and to be kind to them no matter what we felt. In either case, it was still confusing.

  But confusing or not, Jesus didn’t leave much room for doubt about the matter. He said we were to do it—whatever it meant. We had to love people—enemies, friends, people we liked, and people we didn’t like. So that meant I had to love Marge Surratt, whether I liked her or not. And I figured that meant I had to do my best to try to love her by being kind and nice and looking out for opportunities to help her or speak kindly to her, however I could. I didn’t know if that was all Jesus meant, but it’s all I could lay hold of for the time being, and I knew I’d better do that much.

  So I puttered around the boardinghouse, and I’m afraid did make kind of a nuisance of myself. Nothing much came of it. She still spoke harshly to me. But we did have some more conversations, and she didn’t object when I helped her with the meals from then on. And she seemed halfway interested when I told her what I was going to be doing, and even asked a question or two. I made sure I didn’t get into things when we were talking that would have turned into an argument over different viewpoints about the country or the war or Mr. Lincoln or anything like that. If she really had been for the South, as Mr. Hay said, and if she disliked Mr. Lincoln as much as he’d said, then I knew there could be nothing worse than getting on different sides of issues like that. Arguing or talking about things you disagreed about was the worst thing you could do if you were trying to love somebody as Jesus commanded.

  When Tuesday came and it was time for me to leave, she gave me a halfway sort of smile and said I’d be welcome back anytime. My heart jumped inside me, and I almost felt like telling Mr. Hay I’d changed my mind and I was going to keep staying with Marge Surratt! One of the interesting things I learned from my time with her was that when you do try to do what Jesus said, whether you love somebody or not, eventually something starts to happen inside your own heart just from the effort, and by and by you do find yourself starting to love them. I was surprised to find myself a little regretful about leaving her. I had already grown more fond of her than I realized.

  Yet I knew there were other important things I had to do. So I packed up my things as planned and said goodbye to Marge Surratt, but told her I’d be back to see her sometime.

  I did have to admit, though, that the new boardinghouse where Mr. Hay’d arranged a room for me was so much nicer. Not that niceness all by itself mattered so much. Some of the soundest sleeps I’d enjoyed had been around a campfire with Zack or Pa, and even a time or two by myself, on hard ground with nothing for company but the crickets and owls and distant coyote howls. So it wasn’t the large bed with pretty yellow and white quilt, or the ruffly curtains, or looking out from my second floor room right out on the White House half a mile away . . . it wasn’t those things alone that made the new boardinghouse so perfect. But the room had a nice desk where I could work, and it was quiet, without the sounds of trains coming and going. And seeing the W
hite House out the window as I sat there at my writing table helped keep me inspired about why I was there and how important it was that I do a good job at what Mr. Lincoln had asked of me.

  And I did get right to work as soon as I had my things put away in the wardrobe. It had been a long time since I had actually sat down with pen and paper and ink in front of me. Once I started, I realized how much I’d missed writing.

  When I did start, something happened that I’d never felt before in any of the articles I’d done. I don’t know if it was being so far away from home, or because of what I was writing about, or because of the importance of it—Mr. Lincoln had stressed that people needed to understand about what being at war really meant and how urgent was the need for money and help and supplies and medicine and volunteers. Maybe it was all those things together. But I found myself thinking more “personally” about what I was writing, and imagining myself talking to real people as I was doing it, as if I were standing up talking to them. I felt as if I were talking especially to the people in California—just as if I were writing a letter home.

  It certainly didn’t feel as if I were writing an “article.” Before I knew it, I’d written what I’d seen at Gettysburg and what I’d thought and felt, too. I showed it to Mr. Hay the next day. He showed it to the President and some of the Washington newspaper editors, and by the following week what I’d written was appearing in the papers of Washington, Philadelphia, Boston, and Chicago. Mr. Hay said he’d wired it to Mr. Kemble at the Alta as well, and then told me to get working on another.

  “But I thought—” I started to say.

  “Never mind what you thought,” said Mr. Hay. “I thought perhaps one article and a speech or two might be all we’d need. But the President says what you wrote about Gettysburg is better and more to the heart of the matter than three fourths of the war journalism he’s seen so far. I have to tell you, Miss Hollister, he likes what you’ve done very much. This is a man who’s seen a great deal and is not easily impressed or swayed. ‘A breath of fresh air,’ that’s what he called your story. And he wants more of the same. He says you’re just what the war effort in the North has needed to rouse the people out of their complacency and to strengthen their resolve once again to fight on to preserve the Union.”

  “It pleases me that he liked it,” I said.

  “Liked it!” Mr. Hay exclaimed. “I should say he liked it! Now you get your mind and your pen busy. In the meantime, I am lining up some things for you with Mrs. Harding and Mr. Vargo.”

  The moment I saw the actual article in the paper, I had to laugh. What would Mr. Kemble say when he saw it? However it came to him over the telegraph, once he actually saw the printed copy in the Post and the Mirror and the Globe when they came to him later, he was sure to make some exclamation. There were the words in black and white! I could hardly believe them myself, even as I read them:

  By Corrie Belle Hollister, reporter for the California Alta, on special assignment with the White House.

  What a byline for a girl who’d started writing just to keep a journal, and whose first articles were about leaves, trees, and snow! I almost didn’t believe it myself . . . but there it was! What had Almeda begun by giving me a journal and then by running for mayor? She’d gotten me writing, then interested in politics, and look where it had led!

  I settled back in the chair and began to read the article. Even though I had written it, somehow it was different to read it once it was actually in the paper. They always made a few changes, of course, and I wanted to see those. But most of all I wanted to read my words as if I were a reader myself, seeing them for the first time. I’d written When I came . . . , but they changed the first sentence to the third person. I was glad they let me get onto the page as myself a little farther on.

  When this reporter came east from California, she had no intention of getting involved in the war up close. But war seems to have a nasty way of intruding into life in ways that aren’t always expected. And that is certainly what happened to me as I was traveling by train through Pennsylvania.

  I had never heard of Gettysburg. Probably neither had most of you a month ago. It used to be just a sleepy little farming community in the rich heartland of southern Pennsylvania. But ever after this, whenever the name of that place is heard—that place where the fate of North and South collided—the very word will call to mind images in my memory that will bring tears to my eyes and a wrenching feeling of hurtful loss to my heart. For I will never hear the word Gettysburg without seeing in my mind’s eye the faces of friends I knew there, some of whom I shall never see again.

  I then went on to tell about how I had come to be at Gettysburg, and about Jennie Wade, Isaac Tomlinson, Alan Smith, and Sister Janette.

  One was on the side of the North, the other fought for the South. The two women did not fight at all. Their only involvement was in trying to help. None of the four were bad people. They had all been swept up into events larger than their own lives. None deserved to die.

  Yet today, only two of them are alive. The other two—an aging southerner and an innocent citizen of Gettysburg—are dead. The two who live are still, even as these words are written, nursing serious wounds, and their recoveries may never be complete.

  Yes, war always intrudes into life when we least expect it. And its intrusions are always cruel. For war takes life.

  But even in the midst of war, people can give life. Wars are fought about large issues of national importance, and perhaps individuals like you and me—as well as Jennie and Alan and Isaac and Sister Janette—cannot stop them from coming. The terrible civil war that is tearing at the very fabric of this nation is perhaps one that must be fought so that the liberties and freedoms upon which the Constitution is based might be preserved. But if it must be fought, we must nevertheless save life wherever opportunity is given us.

  I then explained about the Sanitary Commission’s work of caring for the wounded, and about what we’d done at St. Xavier’s, and told everyone how desperate was the need for help. Whether they could actually help someone face-to-face or not, there was plenty they could do to make sure the Commission and other such agencies had everything they needed. Mr. Hay helped me add a few things that they wanted to make sure people knew.

  Then I said a few words just to my fellow Californians, reminding them of things Mr. King and I had said, and encouraging them to continue giving aid however they could. A sickening feeling of guilt crept in when I thought of the money Cal stole. But it just made me all the more determined to make up for it now!

  As I put the paper down, I smiled to myself. All I could think was what it was going to be like around the house when Pa and Almeda and the others opened the paper and saw me there.

  The very thought made me cry. When I sat down at my writing table again fifteen minutes later, it was not to write anything for the papers, but to begin a long overdue letter home.

  Chapter 33

  A Tiring Agenda

  Before I knew it I was writing more articles and traveling around with Mr. Vargo to fund-raising events on behalf of the Sanitary Commission, and with Mrs. Harding to help her get people to become part of the volunteer “army of helpers,” as she called it.

  When I was introduced to Mr. Vargo, he shook my hand with a momentary puzzled look on his face.

  “This isn’t the Corrie Belle Hollister?” he said, glancing toward Mr. Hay.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” replied Mr. Hay. “She is Corrie Hollister, of that much I am certain.”

  “But are you the Corrie Belle Hollister who writes . . . are you the author?” he said, to me this time.

  “She writes for the Alta . . . in San Francisco,” said Mr. Hay.

  “But the book—are you the young lady who wrote the book about the little town in California . . . about the gold rush and your coming across the desert and the cave falling in on the young boy?”

  I nodded sheepishly.

  Mr. Hay looked puzzled. He hadn’t known anythi
ng about my journals.

  “My wife read your book, Miss Hollister,” Mr. Vargo went on. “It is such a pleasure to meet you! She told me all about it! She has a friend in Chicago who sent it to her. She will be very excited when I tell her you are here in Washington and are going to be working with me.”

  Mr. Hay asked a few more questions, and Mr. Vargo told him what he had heard about me from his wife. I must say it was dreadfully awkward and embarrassing to hear the two men talking to each other . . . about me!

  My days were taken up with so many activities that I scarcely had time to sit down and do much more writing. I did, however, manage to keep a regular series of articles appearing and being sent back to California. By then it was clear to me that I might be in the East for quite some time. I began writing letters home, too, so they would know more about what I was doing than they would find out from reading the stories in the paper.

  I had to laugh when Mr. Hay brought me a copy of the Alta with that first story in it about Gettysburg. Mr. Kemble had changed the byline. Above it, and with every article that appeared later, were the words By the Alta’s own Corrie Belle Hollister, on special assignment in Washington to cover the war effort. It was obvious he wanted everyone to think he’d sent me himself!

  There wasn’t any more fighting anywhere close by all the rest of that summer. The battles of Vicksburg and Gettysburg had exhausted both armies, and they spent the following months recuperating. Word did begin to come to us, however, about movements in and around Tennessee, the last great Confederate stronghold now that the North and West were securely in Union hands.

  President Lincoln continued to be frustrated by General Meade’s allowing Lee to escape so easily after Gettysburg. As Lee retreated southward, Meade followed but made no attempt to inflict any further damage. When Lee came to the Potomac River, he found it swollen from heavy rains and he was unable to cross. Meade caught up and found the Confederate army trapped. Once again he could have overcome Lee and possibly ended the war for good. But he did nothing. The water level fell, and Lee got his army across to safety.