Into the Long Dark Night

by Michael Phillips

  “Bah, Corrie, who are you trying to kid?” he spat back. “There are no noble causes. It’s every man for himself in this world!”

  “I don’t happen to agree, Cal. I think the future of this country is a noble cause, and I intend to keep fighting for it, whatever you may think.”

  “You always were a starry-eyed idealist.”

  “I’ll still take my ideals over your principles, Cal.”

  “Do your principles include betraying a friend?”

  “A friend, Cal? After what you did to me, after what you have tried to do to the Union? Whose friend are you, Cal—anyone’s but your own?”

  “You’re a fool, Corrie, if you think—”

  But Jacob had had enough of his derision, and the rude coarseness of his tone toward me.

  “Shut up, you!” he snarled, jabbing Cal with his boot.

  “You big ox,” Cal snapped back. “You’re not going to shoot me in the middle of town. A shot would bring soldiers down on you like a swarm!”

  “You’d be just as dead though, wouldn’t you, Massah Cal? But before it comes to that, I’ll stuff your mouth full of hay and tie it shut like your slimy friend back there. So shut your mouth, or I’ll get down there and start feeding you like I do my hogs back home!”

  Apparently Cal believed the threat and said no more.

  We went on a while longer in silence. Beside me I could see Captain Dyles glancing furtively about, his eyes scanning the streets and buildings, looking for any signs of threat or trouble. At the same time, I knew him well enough by now to know he was thinking about how we were going to get out of town, through the sentries watching the roads, and safely back to the Union encampment on the other side of Petersburg with our kidnapped quarry. Even though we had Cal, the hardest part of the whole plan might still be ahead of us!

  “We gotta get rid of this stuff back here before long, Geoff,” said Jacob at length, as if reading both my mind and that of the captain at the same time.

  Dyles nodded. “Yeah . . . I’m thinking. We still got about a mile to go.”

  The houses and buildings of Richmond were thinning and we were reaching the outskirts of the city.

  “You’ll never get away with it,” said Cal. “They search every wagon in and out of the city!” His voice was cocky; I wondered if anything would ever humble him!

  “I told you to shut up,” said Jacob, grabbing a handful of hay and throwing it in Cal’s face. “One more word, and I’ll make it so that mouth of yours can’t utter a peep!”

  We bumped along another few minutes; then the captain noticed a barn off to the right side of the road that looked unused. At least there was nobody anywhere nearby, and the fields next to it were vacant of cows or horses. Immediately he pulled at the reins and steered our wagon toward it. He drove around to the back side, stopped, handed me the reins, then jumped to the ground.

  The great door had no lock. He swung it open and nodded to me; I flicked the reins and the horse pulled us inside. The moment the trailing horse was through, Captain Dyles closed the door behind us, then jumped back up onto the wagon.

  “Miss Corrie,” said Jacob, handing me the gun. “If he makes a move, shoot him.”

  I knew my eyes widened and my heart started beating hard. I was glad for the darkness of the barn. I didn’t want Cal to know I was afraid.

  “Nobody’ll hear it now, Burton,” he added to Cal.

  “She’d never have the guts!” shouted Cal, given new boldness by seeing the gun in my hand.

  “You don’t have to kill him, Miss Corrie,” said Jacob. “Just a bullet in his leg someplace’ll be fine.”

  Already the captain and Jacob were struggling with the barrels. Jacob popped the lid off the first. The next moment I heard the swish of the grain falling onto the floor. Then they did the same with the second, and within two minutes we were ready to leave the barn and be back on our way.

  Again I was at the reins and Captain Dyles began to open the large rear door of the barn.

  Suddenly he stopped.

  “Hold on, Miss Hollister,” he said.

  I pulled back and stopped the wagon.

  “I just don’t like the idea of leaving a good animal for the Rebs,” he said, looking back into the barn at the horse he had untied from the back of the wagon. “Not to mention your safety being a mite worrisome to me . . .”

  He thought a few seconds more.

  “There just might be a way . . .” he mumbled to himself. “Yep . . . it might work.” Then he glanced up at me. “I haven’t been too comfortable with your part in this, Hollister. If anything was to happen to you . . . well, there’s got to be some way to insure that if anything goes wrong, you can get safely away. Yep, it just might work. . . .”

  Even as he was talking to me I could tell he was still thinking about what we might do.

  “That’s what we’ll do,” he said finally, with a sound of resolve, closing the door again. “Get down from there, Miss Hollister and unhitch that mare. We’re going to swap her for Lee’s nag.”

  Having no idea what he meant to do, I obeyed. Jacob remained where he was watching over his charge in the back of the wagon.

  Five minutes later we were set to go again. This time, however, I wasn’t sitting next to Captain Dyles on the board of the wagon, but was on the bare back of the mare that had pulled us faithfully all the way from Petersburg.

  “Okay, let’s be off,” said the captain, flipping the reins and leading the wagon through the open door of the barn. I followed on the mare.

  “I hate to leave behind the pie the sergeant made us,” Jacob said, laughing.

  “It’ll make some Reb farmer happy when he finds it,” said Dyles. “And we don’t need it now. It won’t do us no good, but the horse still might.”

  A few minutes later we were back on the road. Half a mile farther on, the soldiers from the guard unit appeared up ahead of us. I inched the mare up alongside the wagon.

  “You stick close, Miss Hollister,” said Captain Dyles, “but keep to that side of me so the Reb don’t get too good a look. We can’t have him recognize that white star on the mare’s forehead.”

  “I’ll try to keep her nose turned away from him,” I said.

  “If anything goes wrong, you save your own neck.”

  “Nothing will go wrong,” I replied, wishing I felt as confident as my words.

  “You hear me, Miss Hollister—you don’t worry about us if anything happens. You get that mare back to General Grant in one piece, and yourself along with her. That’s an order. That’s why I put you on her . . . just in case.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Five minutes later we approached the gray-clad Confederate guard.

  “Howdy theyere, Lieutenant Gibb,” drawled Dyles in such a heavy accent that I almost had to laugh. “We’re on our way back to th’ farm.”

  “General Lee like his new horse?” said the friendly sentry with a smile.

  “Shore did. He didn’t think it was no nag, neither.”

  Just then I heard a faint groan and a kicking sound from the back of the wagon. I glanced over and saw Jacob kicking against an empty barrel lying on its side—rolling it back and forth to drown out the sound of Cal kicking against the inside of the other.

  Poor Cal! Jacob had finally stuffed his mouth full of hay, tied a rag around it, put him inside the empty grain barrel, replaced the lid, and sat down on top of it himself. No one would be able to budge it with Jacob’s weight holding it down.

  Both Dyles and the guard glanced over at the sound. The captain barked out angrily at his black friend.

  “If you can’t keep that empty barrel from rollin’ round back theyere while I’m talkin’ to the lieutenant, I’ll whip your hide when we get home, boy!”

  “Yessuh, massah,” mumbled Jacob, casting his eyes down, but managing to keep making enough noise to cover Cal’s.

  “What’s she doing?” asked the guard, glancing over at me.

  “My wife?�
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  “Where’d that horse come from?” he asked, eyeing my mount carefully, then looking at the one hitched to the reins the captain held in his hand. He seemed to be turning over something in his mind, but it hadn’t quite occurred to him that we’d just switched the two.

  “Why, that there’s the genrul’s old horse. We was tradin’ the two of ’em.”

  “Why’s she riding it?” he asked, now beginning to look back and forth between the two horses.

  “Genrul Lee wanted it that way.”

  I didn’t like the suspicious look in Lieutenant Gibb’s eye. But before I had a chance to worry about it further, Captain Dyles spoke again, to me this time.

  “You might as well get goin’, dear,” he said. “We’ll catch up with you in a minute or two.” With his eyes he motioned me to go. I saw that he was worried.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the guard starting to object. I think it might have suddenly dawned on him that we still had the same two horses as we’d gone into the city with that morning. But I wasn’t about to look at him. Instead, I urged my horse on and moved gently forward in front of the wagon and along the road leading out of town.

  Then suddenly everything started to happen fast.

  I heard Lieutenant Gibb’s voice yelling at me to stop. And I heard more ruckus than ever coming from the back of the wagon. I knew Cal was kicking at the barrel where he was crumpled up underneath Jacob’s weight, and I knew Jacob was kicking and rolling the empty barrel about to keep Cal from being heard.

  But a third sound seemed to mingle with the sound of my horse’s hoofs on the dirt road, Cal’s kicking and the barrel rumbling about, and the sentry’s shouts.

  Unconsciously I began to quicken my pace.

  The noise increased . . . there was more shouting . . . the sound of galloping hooves!

  I glanced back.

  A rider was approaching from the city, galloping hard, shouting, calling out to the guard.

  The sound of his voice sent a chill of fear up my spine. Still turned, I squinted to see if I could make out the figure atop the fast-approaching horse.

  It was John Surratt!

  In panic I hesitated, then stopped. What should I do?

  My question was answered the next second. Seeing my uncertainty and that I had stopped, Captain Dyles shouted above the din.

  “Go, Hollister . . . I gave you an order . . . now ride!”

  Already I could see that Lieutenant Gibb had his rifle aimed at the captain and Jacob, and that one of his men was helping Cal out of his temporary imprisonment.

  A cloud of dust from Surratt’s approaching horse swept over the scene as he reined in to a frantic stop amid more shouts.

  Everything was a confusion. “Union spies!” Someone shouted, “After her! Don’t let her get away!” But my mind and arms and legs all seemed paralyzed, and images of jail cells and gallows flitted through my imagination like a dreadful nightmare come to life.

  Then the sound of Jacob’s enormous booming voice raised louder than all the rest echoed thunderously through the air.

  “Get out of here, Miss Corrie!” he cried, and I don’t think ever a voice sounded so commanding or penetrated so deep into my bones. “Ride like the wind, and don’t—”

  His voice was cut short. The butt of Surratt’s rifle clubbed him alongside the head, and he slumped to the ground unconscious.

  It was all I needed. Suddenly I was awake again!

  I spun around on the mare’s back, dug my heels into her sides, and galloped away, my eyes filling with tears for Jacob and the captain.

  Behind me I heard more voices and shouts. Then came a shot from Surratt’s rifle!

  Still riding, I glanced back. He was mounting his horse to follow me. I heard Cal’s voice calling after him. “Let her go . . . she’s of no more use to us.”

  “I’ve got a score to settle with the lady, Burton!”

  I was well down the road now, probably two hundred yards away and riding with a desperation I’d never known.

  Another shot came! Though I heard nothing, somehow I knew the bullet had whizzed by me not more than inches away.

  “Stop, Surratt!” I heard Cal’s voice faintly in the distance.

  There was no answer, only the sound of Surratt’s horse, now galloping after me. I knew he was making up the distance rapidly.

  Another shot . . . closer yet!

  This poor mare was no match for whatever Surratt had under him! I could feel his approach with terror.

  Suddenly I felt a slamming sensation in my back. My right arm went limp and dropped to my side. The pain was different than anything I’d ever felt before.

  The explosion of sound which followed the bullet seemed hazy and slow and dreamlike, as though it were coming ten minutes after the impact. My fading consciousness somehow was still alert enough to realize that the sound and the bullet had left Surratt’s rifle at the same time, and my confused mind tried to make sense of the contradiction . . . but couldn’t.

  The pain lasted but a moment. Then followed only numbness.

  All sounds began to fade.

  I heard several more shots; then I heard nothing more of Surratt’s hoofbeats. I could not even hear my own horse . . . all was quiet and still.

  Still I rode, though I hardly knew it. Vaguely I was aware of my hair flying out behind me.

  I was slumped over the mare’s neck, struggling to maintain my grasp of her mane, trying to stay on her back.

  I only knew there was danger behind me. I had to get away . . . had to keep riding. Why was it so quiet? Was I asleep? And if so, why did this dream seem so real?

  Let me sleep a few minutes more, Almeda . . . be up soon . . . had the strangest dream . . . about a war . . . men dressed in black . . . they both have beards . . . they are in danger. . . .

  I’ll be awake soon . . . Ma . . . what are you making for breakfast . . . strange dream, Ma . . . I thought I saw Pa . . . he was somewhere far away . . . we were all with him, Ma . . . all except you . . . I didn’t see you there, Ma. . . .

  The quiet of the dream grew quieter . . . all was still . . . nothing but silence . . . peace . . . no pain . . . everything was white . . . bright. . . .

  Then even the silence faded into nothingness.

  Slowly the brilliant whiteness turned pale, then ashen . . . then gray . . . and finally gave way to blackness.

  Epilogue

  When I next woke up, I found myself staring into a face I had never seen before.

  How much time had passed, I didn’t know. The room was clean and white, and I was lying in bed. The first sensation I felt was a slight pain in the back of my shoulder. It didn’t occur to me immediately that it was from the wound where I’d been shot.

  This, however, was not the biggest surprise of all. That was the simple fact that when I woke up and looked around, I couldn’t remember who I was!

  But that is another whole story, and I’ll have to tell you about it later!

  From: Gettysburg, The National Shrine, Pictoral Edition Guidebook, Copyright by N.A. Meligakes, 1948, Gettysburg, Pa.

  JENNIE WADE—The only citizen of Gettysburg who was killed during the battle. Miss Jennie Wade, 20 years old, was struck by a sharpshooter’s bullet in a little brick house on Baltimore Street, near the National Cemetery. She and her mother were taking care of her sister, who had given birth only three days before the battle started. Jennie and her mother were compelled to remain in the house for her sister’s sake; nearly all of the citizens of Gettysburg were in their cellars. On the morning of the third day she was in the rear room baking bread, and was killed instantly by a bullet, which passed through two doors before striking her. The others in the house escaped without injury. The house, still standing, shows the marks of several hundred bullets.

  From: Gettysburg, The National Shrine, Pictoral Edition Guidebook, Copyright by N.A. Meligakes, 1948, Gettysburg, Pa.

  St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church in Gettysburg, used as a hospita
l for wounded during and after the battle.

  About the Author

  Michael Phillips is a bestselling author of a number of beloved novels, including such well-known series as SHENANDOAH SISTERS, CAROLINA COUSINS, CALEDONIA, THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER, and THE SECRET OF THE ROSE. He has also served as editor of many titles, adapting the classic works of Victorian author George MacDonald (1824–1905) for today’s reader, and his efforts have since generated a renewed interest in MacDonald. Phillips’s love of MacDonald’s Scotland has continued throughout his writing life.

  In addition to his fifty published editions of MacDonald’s work, Phillips has authored and coauthored over ninety books of fiction and nonfiction, ranging from historical novels to contemporary whodunits, from fantasy to biblical commentary.

  Michael and his wife, Judy, spend time each year in Scotland but make their home in California. To learn more about the author and his books, visit FatherOfTheInklings.com He can be found on Facebook at MichaelPhillipsChristianAuthor@facebook.com To contact him, write to: macdonaldphillips@sbcglobal.net.

  Fiction by Michael Phillips

  THE RUSSIANS*

  The Crown and the Crucible

  A House Divided

  Travail and Triumph

  THE STONEWYCKE TRILOGY*

  The Heather Hills of Stonewycke

  Flight from Stonewycke

  Lady of Stonewycke

  THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY*

  Stranger at Stonewycke

  Shadows over Stonewycke

  Treasure of Stonewycke

  THE SECRETS OF HEATHERSLEIGH HALL

  Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

  Wayward Winds

  Heathersleigh Homecoming

  A New Dawn Over Devon

  SHENANDOAH SISTERS

  Angels Watching Over Me

  A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton

  The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of Your Heart

  Together Is All We Need

  CAROLINA COUSINS