All along the way, people were talking about the war. Men got on and got off that I could tell had been part of it, some still wearing their uniforms, many with slings and bandages or limping with canes. None of them wore happy expressions. I don’t think that war made anyone feel happy.
I overheard people talking about the war, about President Lincoln and General Grant and General Lee, and about so many things having to do with the war. I even heard Clara Barton’s name mentioned.
I didn’t talk to many of my fellow passengers, though, nor let on that I knew any of the people they were talking about or had had anything to do with the war effort. Not that I wanted to keep it from them, but my mood was quiet and thoughtful, and I just didn’t feel like talking about it all.
That was another way in which I sensed that a new era or chapter of my life was beginning. The war was over and my thoughts were already turning in new directions. I didn’t even feel like writing an article about my thoughts, though I knew Mr. Kemble at the Alta in San Francisco would surely have printed it.
Everything just felt so changed. Me most of all.
The train took me through Ohio and Indiana, across Iowa and to Omaha. They were working on the transcontinental railroad beyond that, but the stretch from Omaha to Cheyenne, Wyoming, was still not complete. So I boarded the stagecoach in Omaha.
The coach seemed so slow after riding railroads throughout the East. This part of the journey reminded me again how huge the country was and how wild parts of it still were.
I suppose after five years of civil war in the East, you could hardly consider the East more civilized than the West. More people had been killed by civilized and refined northerners and southerners in just a few years than by all the gunfighters and cattle rustlers and train robbers throughout the West in fifty years. But I guess you could still say the West was wild in the sense of being big and pretty much empty and untamed.
I rode the stage the rest of the way to Sacramento.
Chapter 3
Reunion
I’d telegraphed home telling my family when I was to arrive. The train line was being extended northward and westward from Sacramento, making it possible to get to Sacramento, depending on which way you went to meet the train, in one day. But since I had no way of hearing from them, I didn’t know if they might come to Sacramento or just wait for me in Miracle Springs.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out!
The moment I stepped out onto the platform in Sacramento, all of a sudden I heard shrieks and shouts and people calling my name, and then I saw six yelling, laughing, waving bodies running toward me.
“Look . . . there she is!”
“Corrie . . . Corrie . . .”
“It’s Corrie!”
“Corrie!”
Before I even had a chance to fix my eyes on who they all were, I was engulfed in arms and faces and hands and hair and wet cheeks and hugs and a dozen welcoming smiles and shouts and kisses all at once!
“Welcome home, Corrie Belle!” came a deep voice from behind all the hugs.
I knew the voice but still looked around to focus on where it had come from. The others stepped back just enough to let Pa wrap his big arms around me.
“Oh, Pa . . .” was all I could say before I started crying like a baby.
All of a sudden I was a little girl again, come to California to find my father. I stretched my arms around him and melted into his embrace.
We stood in each other’s arms for just a minute. If the others were still making noise I didn’t hear it. Everything faded into silence while I was wrapped up in Pa’s arms. Years and years of memories with this most wonderful of men flew through my brain, from that fateful day when we’d first arrived in Miracle Springs until today—twelve years of memories. I just hung on to him—I didn’t want to let go. It felt so good to have his arms around me again.
Almeda told me later that Pa was crying too, but with my own tears pouring out against his chest, I never saw it.
After a bit he stepped back, put his two big hands onto my shoulders, looked me up and down, and then peered straight into my eyes. Then he smiled.
“Tarnation, Corrie Belle, if you ain’t turned into a grown-up woman—and a dang fine-looking one at that!”
Then he leaned down and kissed me, right on the lips.
“Welcome home, girl,” he added. “It’s mighty good to have you back!”
Before I could say anything in reply—even if I could have found my voice amid the choking sensations in my throat!—all at once the other voices came clamoring into my ears again. There was Becky and Tad and Zack and my little sister Ruth Agatha, who was seven years old! Now I found myself in Almeda’s arms, both of us crying and laughing so that we could hardly say a word.
“Oh, Corrie, Corrie . . . I’ve missed you so!” she whispered and cried and laughed into my ear all at once.
“I’m so happy to be here,” I said. “It’s so good to see you again!”
Now all the others crowded in for their share of the greetings.
“Zack!” I exclaimed.
“Howdy, Corrie.”
“When did you start looking so much like Pa? Why, you’re a grown man! And you, Tad—”
“Hi, Corrie.”
“When did you get so tall?”
“I was this tall when you left.”
“Not that I remember!” I laughed. “Oh, Becky, I’m so happy to see you—”
We embraced. It was so special! Suddenly we were sisters who loved each other as young adults.
Growing up together year after year never gives you the chance to step back and take stock of where you are each going. All along you are aware of changes taking place within yourself, but you don’t really think that the same kinds of changes are taking place inside your brothers and sisters too. But when there’s a time of separation and then you see them again, all at once you realize that they’ve grown up too. Here I was with my two brothers and my younger sister, and they were all in their twenties just like me, though Tad was just barely twenty!
We were all so much closer to each other now. The years between us didn’t make as much a difference as they had when we’d been younger.
I especially noticed it with Becky. When we stepped back, she was weeping just like me. And I knew the tears said she loved me, just like I loved her.
“I’ve missed having a sister at home,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re back!”
“Me too, Becky,” I replied. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
I felt a tug on my coat. I looked down. There was little Ruth looking up into my face.
“Oh, Ruth, how are you?” I said, scooping her off the ground with a big hug.
“Good, Corrie,” she said. “Mama says we’re going to have ice cream when you get home.”
I laughed, and all the others joined in. Pretty soon I was engulfed in a new round of hugs, followed by everyone talking at once. Only Pa seemed to keep a clear and practical head in the midst of it all.
“Let’s go get your bags, Corrie,” he said, “so we can be on our way. How many you got?”
“Just two, Pa.”
We all turned and made our way in a single cluster to the stage office. Ten minutes later we were heading outside to enjoy the rest of our reunion.
The whole rest of the day was one of the happiest I remember in my whole life.
Pa took us all out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, and we talked and talked and talked! We stayed that night at a boardinghouse—though not Miss Baxter’s, who’d got married and left Sacramento since I’d been away—and then got up real early the next day to go home.
What a trip home it was! We took two days, staying over in Auburn. And such talks we had! We talked practically the whole way. I told them just about everything that had happened in my life from the day I’d left California right up to the present, although I left out the most personal parts about Christopher. I still wasn’t used enough to that situation to know qui
te how to talk about it. No doubt I’d have to get used to the idea by sharing it a little bit at a time with Almeda.
I’d written letters home about most of my experiences, of course, and they had seen some of the articles I wrote while I was away, but still there’s something different about telling it and hearing the stories in person. I told them about meeting Sister Janette and then visiting the convent, about Gettysburg and how horrible it had been, then about living in Washington, D.C., and meeting President Lincoln. I also told about writing articles in support of the Union, going to Gettysburg again with the President and hearing his speech about working with the Sanitary Commission in fund-raising, then going farther south and working with Clara Barton to help the wounded. I told them all about Mr. Lincoln’s campaign, and about overhearing the plot against General Grant and trying to warn him.
And when time for it came I did explain about being wounded and about Christopher’s finding me and nursing me back to health at Mrs. Timms’ farm. By the time we pulled into Miracle Springs I guess I had said quite a bit about Christopher himself, and I don’t think there was any doubt that I thought him a pretty fine man.
But I didn’t do all the talking! All six of them had just about as many stories to tell about those two years as I did—Pa about the town and his involvements in Sacramento, Almeda about home and changes in the business she knew I’d be interested in, Zack and Tad and Becky about their lives, and of course Ruth and all she had been learning.
When Pa talked about his work in the state legislature, I noticed that there wasn’t the same enthusiasm in his voice as before. I got the feeling he didn’t like being away from home so much and that he missed mining and working with his hands. When we were in Sacramento, he hadn’t said a word about his work or even gone by the capitol building. We had just headed straight north out of the city.
Zack and his friend Little Wolf were training and raising horses both at our place and up the hill at Little Wolf’s. Little Wolf’s father, Jack Lame Pony, was getting too old to do much breaking, but he’d built up a good enough business that it kept both the young men busy. According to Pa, it made them decent money too.
Tad was working some of the time for Zack and Little Wolf and some of the time at the livery stable in town.
Becky helped Almeda at home and worked at the Supply Company a little, like I had. She also had become an assistant to the schoolteacher, Mrs. Nilsen, and taught if she was sick. Mrs. Nilsen had taken over the school when Harriet Rutledge quit to take care of their newborn daughter six years ago.
By the time we got home, in the evening of the second day, I think I was as tired from the talking as from the riding! By then everybody was pretty well caught up-to-date on everyone else’s lives.
We rode through Miracle but didn’t stop. What emotions I went through seeing the town again!
So much was new, so much looked exactly the same. Not many people were out. The Gold Nugget wasn’t as busy these days as back during the gold rush, but we could still hear the familiar saloon sounds coming from behind its swinging doors as we rode quietly past, then out of town and on toward our place a couple miles away.
“Oh, I’d completely forgotten,” said Almeda as we rattled up to the house. “There are several letters waiting for you, Corrie. They’re postmarked from Richmond, Virginia.”
My heart immediately began to pound, but I did my best not to show it!
Chapter 4
Letters
Dear Christopher,
I am home!
Can you believe it? I cannot!
It has been two years and a little over a month since I left Miracle Springs. How fast time goes, yet also how slow. May 1863 to June 1865 . . . but it seems like ten years!
I hadn’t realized how much I missed everyone until suddenly there their faces were in front of me.
Oh, I cried and cried! I’m sorry, Christopher, but I hardly thought of you for an hour once they all were gathered around.
It used to be we’d go into Sacramento either by stage, once the line extended all the way north to Miracle Springs, or in a bouncy old wooden wagon. But while I was gone Pa’d bought a big new open carriage that seated six and was as comfortable as any Butterfield coach. We took the train north as far as the line extended, then squeezed into Pa’s waiting carriage and had the most wonderful ride back from the capital.
How could I have been gone so long!
Once we rode into town earlier this evening, I started crying all over again. I love Miracle Springs so much, yet I had stayed away from it for two whole years! I could hardly imagine I had done that.
Then tonight when I sat down to write this letter to you, I realized that if I hadn’t been away all that time, I would never have had so many experiences that I’m glad I had. And most importantly, I wouldn’t have met you! So I’m glad I went away, yet coming home is hard in its own way too.
It’s late, probably past eleven o’clock. After we got home we went up and visited Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie for a while. Then we came back, and everybody was so tired they practically fell straight into their beds. I’m tired too, but I just can’t end the day without visiting with you.
I’m back in my old room. It’s just the same as always, like I was never gone. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for hours. Now that everything is quiet after the exciting day, my thoughts again are filled with you.
Several of your letters were waiting for me, but I promised myself I wouldn’t open them until I was all alone and that I would try to save a few for the next day and answer them one by one.
So now I’m sitting here, writing and thinking of you, but still looking at the first envelope with my name written in your hand. Why do I feel so shy, even afraid, to open it? I know I am not afraid of you, dear Christopher! Why am I timid to open your letter?
I will begin . . . right now! Goodbye for now. I am going to let you speak to me for a while. . . .
Dear Corrie,
Words cannot express my excitement and relief at receiving the letter that you mailed from the train in Pittsburgh!
It was like being with you as you were riding along in the train.
I know you will not receive this until you reach home. I wish there could be a letter waiting for you at every station, but I have little choice but to address them to Miracle Springs, even though I am thinking of you still riding along west in the train.
I do not know if you can fully imagine my trepidation in hearing from you. I cannot truthfully say that my reservations and fears reached such a point that I seriously considered trying to retrieve my letter from Sister Janette before she gave it to you. But I did not sleep as well as usual for a week after mailing it, being anxious over what might be your response.
I hoped I knew you well enough to know that what I felt in my heart was mutual between us. But one is never sure about such matters of the heart. And my natural timidity kept my heart beating more rapidly than usual whenever the postman approached Mrs. Timms’ farm.
What if you should take offense by the boldness of my words? What if your time in New York should have been used by our Lord to clarify a direction in your life different than what I hoped might be the case? What if your future was not to include me and the prayers I found welling up from within my heart were not in accordance with the will of the Lord as I hoped they might be?
So many what ifs filled my anxious thoughts . . . until today!
As my perspiring fingers fumbled with the envelope, I was fearful of tearing the precious letter inside—all the time my heart pounding in anticipation of seeing the familiar writing from your hand once again—and wondering what you would say.
Even as I tore at the envelope, I hastened into my room and closed the door. Mrs. Timms said something to me, but I don’t remember my reply. She knew the letter was from you, for she had met the postman. I wanted to ride out to the hill where we went together on that wonderful Christmas Day we shared and read your letter there and imagine you were wi
th me again. But alas, I couldn’t wait. I had to know your reply!
Ah, Corrie, what a tremendous burden your letter released from my mind! Your two letters, I should say! I laughed and cried together as I read them both!
I dared hope . . . but now it is my turn to ask you—did you really mean what you said? Can it be that . . . that you love me too?
Oh, if only I could see you!
Yet it is best this way. I know that. Yes, I would say what you said I would. And so would you, because you did say it!
Christopher
. . . Christopher,
It’s just a few minutes later. I read your letter.
You cannot imagine the joy it brought to my heart to see your hand flowing across the page! Oh, I do miss seeing you, but reading your words and imagining your voice speaking them was nearly the next best thing.
And your smiling, thoughtful, friendly, earnest face! The expressions of your mouth and eyes filled my mind as I read too.
Oh, I am being so silly! What will you think of me?
Yes, yes, Christopher, I meant the words I wrote! I do love you and can think of no greater joy and privilege than to be able to share life with you.
I must stop for now. It is late, though I do not know if I will sleep a wink tonight.
Good night, dear Christopher!
Yours,
Corrie
Dear Corrie,
It is only three days after I wrote you my previous letter, and already I have received two more from you.
What joy you bring me! Are you sending me letters from every stop the train makes? Though even as I ask, I know you will not read this until after you are home. But keep writing! Write me every day if you can!
If this letter reaches you soon enough after you arrive home and you have not yet spoken with your family about our correspondence, I ask you please not to divulge my intentions. It is right and proper that I speak with your father before you and I presume to plan a future together. I must not seem to determine either my course or ours before consulting him.
A Home for the Heart Page 2