At first my duty had been plain enough—get her to safety, dress the wound, and do my best to save her life and nurse her back to health. Now that aspect of it seemed completed, or nearly so.
What now? I couldn’t let her remain here forever. Surely she had family and responsibilities elsewhere. I must set some inquiries afoot—try to contact the lady in California and the newspaper. Yet I would have to be discreet. I could not put her at risk. Communications between North and South were unreliable just now. I could not let inquiries about her fall into the wrong hands. If she were found here by the wrong people, she could be put under guard as a spy.
I could not even ignore the possibility—though I could hardly make myself believe it after all I had heard from her own lips—that she was a spy. Why else would she be in the South? And the greatest mystery of all that constantly plagued me was the most obvious dilemma of all: Was the shooting an accident, or had someone actually attempted to kill this gentle, sensitive, thoroughly Christian young lady named Corrie Hollister? If so . . . what possible motive could they have had? Unless . . . she was indeed on some kind of secret mission for the Union behind the Confederate lines!
I could come to no immediate resolution of what to do.
To write letters concerning her to California and to a northern newspaper seemed too risky. I did not want to put her in the slightest jeopardy! Therefore, I decided to wait awhile longer.
If and when her memory returned and I could learn more of why she had been on a road outside Richmond, then I would do everything in my power to help her. Until then, I would be content to serve her as I had till now, looking to God to reveal any change I should make when the time was right.
Christmas Day, 1864, was surely the most memorable and unusual Christmas I had ever spent!
Since deciding not to send out letters of inquiry just yet, I had been turning over another plan in my mind and had finally resolved upon what to do. Whether or not it would have any direct result I didn’t know, but I wanted to do it regardless, even if just as a friend. It required a trip into Richmond a week before Christmas, and then many late-night hours of work by candlelight thereafter. But when the day came I was satisfied with my efforts and had managed to catch it almost completely up-to-date.
I found Corrie midway through the day on Christmas Eve, sitting with the newspaper from Richmond in her lap that had just come a day or two earlier. She again had an expression on her face that indicated a return to the perplexed and frustrating introspection of several weeks before. I approached. She glanced up at me, still with the same expression, then pointed to an article she had been reading.
“Do you know this man?” she asked me.
“You mean who wrote the article?”
She nodded.
I read the byline. “Not personally, of course,” I answered. “But I know of him. He’s a well-known reporter in Richmond. He’s been covering the war and has been writing for the paper for years. Why?”
“The moment I saw his name, I felt that I ought to know him.”
“You’re both reporters, Corrie. It wouldn’t surprise me for you to have heard of him.”
“No, I mean really know him,” she insisted.
“A friend?” I suggested.
“I don’t think so. When I saw the name, a feeling came over me that I don’t even know how to explain—that feeling of danger again, but different than before . . . not something close by but maybe from a long time ago . . . and with a little anger mixed in too. I felt myself getting kinda riled up without knowing why.”
We were both silent a minute.
“You know,” I said, “now that you’ve got me thinking about it, I seem to recall that he did spend some time out West quite a while back. I don’t know where or what it was about. I think I was in seminary at the time. But something about it now begins to sound very familiar. You don’t suppose. . . ?”
I let my tone indicate the question instead of finishing the words.
“Suppose what?” said Corrie, either not knowing what I meant, or else suspecting but wanting me to say it anyway.
“That . . . maybe you are from the West, and that your path did cross this fellow’s, maybe that you wrote for the same newspaper even.”
Corrie said nothing, but it was clear enough she was thinking hard. The confusion, however, remained on her face.
The next morning was Christmas. I had been up past midnight finishing my final entries, but was up at dawn regardless—stifling down a few yawns, it is true, yet eager and excited for the day. Whatever became of it, I had determined to make it special, memorable, and happy for my friend and sister Corrie Hollister, whom I had grown extremely fond of.
I was in the barn just finishing with the four cows when I heard the creak of the door. I looked up. There was Corrie walking toward me.
“Merry Christmas, Corrie!” I said. “You look very nice today. If I didn’t know better, I would never know you had been wounded.”
“Thank you, Christopher.” Her smile was bright and showed not a trace of yesterday’s inner turmoil. “My arm and shoulder feel wonderful. I am so glad to have the sling and bandages finally off.”
“Does it feel well enough for a ride?” I asked, squeezing out the final drops from the cow’s udder into the pail below.
“In the wagon?”
“No . . . horseback. I’ve been waiting until you were ready and I thought we could try it out for Christmas. You do ride, don’t you?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I’ve seen the way you eye the horses around here, Corrie. You have the look of one who knows them.”
“Is it . . . I didn’t realize. But now that you say it, something tells me you’re right, that I do ride.”
“There’s a very special place I’ve been wanting to show you, but we can only get to it on horseback. I’ve been hoping today would be the day.”
“You’re my doctor. If you think I’m ready, then I’d love to go.”
“After dinner then,” I said, rising from the three-legged stool and giving the faithful milk cow a pat. “But before this day gets too far advanced, I’ve got to see to some hay and feed for these girls, as well as the others of the family. Christmas means nothing to them.”
“Let me take care of the chickens and goats,” offered Corrie.
“Not in your nice clean dress.”
“I’ll be careful. Please, I want to help. You’ve been doing nothing but waiting on me for too long.”
“All right,” I said, “but only if you put on that old overcoat of mine there—” I pointed to a hook beside the door where I kept my work coat. “And a pair of my boots.”
“Agreed!” said Corrie with a smile, spinning around and bounding off. She snatched the coat from the hook and threw it around her shoulders, then disappeared out the door.
I cleaned up the cows’ stalls, supplied Mrs. Timms’ bovine ladies fresh straw for their beds, fresh hay for their feeding stall, then led them out to the pasture for the day. Returning to the barn, I saw to the pigs’ breakfast, and met Corrie as she was latching the gate to the chicken coop.
“All done,” she announced, holding up five fresh eggs in her hands.
“Mrs. Timms will be delighted. Could you use some help with the goats?”
“You’re the boss, remember?” said Corrie playfully.
“Then we will feed them together!” I said. I offered Corrie my arm. She took it. And side by side we marched toward the pen where twenty hungry, rude, and insistent goats waited without an inkling of what happiness swelled my heart!
Mrs. Timms had no family. She and I had forged a tolerable friendship under circumstances which had thrust us together when neither of us were at our best. She was struggling with the loss of her husband, I with the loss of my spiritual vision, and neither of us could offer the other what we needed most. Corrie’s presence, therefore, had slowly enlivened the whole house. And as Christmas had approached I saw light and life in the eyes
and face of my landlady that I had never before witnessed. Without her knowing it, Corrie Hollister was bringing fresh hope to both Mrs. Timms and me.
When the day came, it was no surprise to me that my landlady was up at dawn making preparations for a Christmas feast such as had not been seen on this farm since before the war. Provisions were scarce enough because of the war, but with eggs and milk and cheese and vegetables and fruit of our own from the farm, and with a few items she had asked me to pick up when I had gone into the city, and by virtue of the fact that there were only three mouths to feed rather than General Lee’s entire army, she managed to put together what was nothing less, in my humble eyes, than a marvelously sumptuous holy day banquet. We had ham from a pig I had butchered and smoked back in September, topped with the delicacy of honey and molasses Mrs. Timms had been hoarding frugally, with yams on the side. We still possessed an abundant supply of potatoes in the root cellar from the fall harvest, baked to the perfect point where the pulpy white interior could be popped between the thumb and fingers, exploding out of their brown skins amid steam and a rich aroma. I had churned fresh butter only the day before for just this occasion, and a small pitcher of the purest cream stood ready, to be poured thickly over the melting butter, which made of the potatoes a luxurious treat indeed! Winter peas and carrots we still had too, in addition to plenty of wheat flour for steamy, thick-sliced brown bread, the recipe for which—though simple enough for its list of ingredients, was yet unique in the proportions Mrs. Timms guarded with a jealousy of pride well-known among women of the old South. Apples were in the cellar if not exactly in abundance, yet in sufficient quantity for the two double-crusted pies—which came steaming and fragrant out of the cookstove just as Corrie and I were lamenting the last slice of ham we had talked each other into.
“You two young folks save some room for these!” said Mrs. Timms, at which we looked at each other and burst out laughing.
During the last two winters, I had experimented with means to preserve fresh apples all winter long and into the next spring. Though a few lingered on the trees into November, my methods had proved so successful that I kept Mrs. Timms in a steady supply of fruit. She, therefore, perfected her baking techniques as I perfected my storage methods, and I was an eager and willing practical source upon whom she could test various minor alterations in the quantity of cinnamon, sugar, flour, butter, or nutmeg. Notwithstanding my raves, when an hour later we sat down to the table again, to slices much too large of the still-warm pies, Mrs. Timms’ eyes were aglow with anticipation, and resting entirely upon Corrie for whatever verdict she would pronounce after the first bite. A man may be enjoyable to cook for, but the palate of another woman is the truest measuring stick for success in any kitchen. So my own mother had once told me, and so Mrs. Timms’ glowing eyes now confirmed.
“Oh, Mrs. Timms!” Corrie exclaimed, “you can’t know how delicious this is. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it!”
It was all that was needed. Corrie now had a friend for life in the proud, lonely, quiet southern woman. And for the rest of the day her eyes shone with the light of happy contentment.
I let the two women clean up the table and kitchen alone. I would honestly have preferred to remain and help them. But by the time our slices of pie had been consumed, their talk had become so animated that I wanted to do nothing to intrude. I was so pleased for both of them, and I knew how rich it must feel for the doors of their hearts to be unlocking each toward the other.
I quietly excused myself and went out to the stables.
There I groomed and fed the horses, then saddled the roan and the dark gray. No matter how long the women talked, I would not be diverted from my intent. I was glad for the time alone, for I didn’t want Corrie to see me place in the saddlebag the package I had prepared.
There were also many things I had to pray about. The sense was growing within me that this important day was only just beginning.
I was still in the stables, quietly sitting atop a bale of hay talking silently to the Father, when I heard Corrie enter.
“Is the invitation for a ride still there?” she asked.
I was having second thoughts about having encouraged her to ride. But since I usually went out myself at this time of day, I did not see what harm could come of it.
“It is,” I answered. “How about your acceptance?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she replied.
“Good!” I said, jumping down from where I was sitting. “The horses are waiting for us. What is your preference—roan or gray?”
Corrie approached the two horses, standing nearly side by side in adjacent stalls, walked to them and stroked their long heads and noses one at a time. She had been here many times, but all at once she seemed to be taking in the individuality and personality of the two animals in a deeper way than before. The old gray had been in my family for years, and although an old horse, she was just as strong and trustworthy as the roan that I usually rode.
I watched as she looked them over. “I love to get out into the fresh morning air,” I said. “It’s a wonderful way to start a day alone—only you and your horse, with the cold morning air blowing in your face. This day is brisk enough that the afternoon will feel the same!”
“I hope my going with you doesn’t intrude on your privacy,” said Corrie with a questioning expression, suddenly looking at me anxiously.
“Quite the contrary,” I said. “I have maintained the tradition of riding alone only because I had no one to ride with. Mrs. Timms, you see, is not exactly what you would call a horsewoman.”
I smiled, and it seemed to relieve Corrie’s anxiety. “With you here, your company will make it all the more enjoyable.”
Corrie grew thoughtful for a moment, one hand still absently stroking the long neck of one of the horses. “The smell of leather and hay is somehow familiar in my nose,” she said, breathing in the aroma of the stable in long, deep breaths of air.
Corrie chose the dark gray mare. I offered her my assistance in climbing into the saddle, but found to my surprise that despite her injury she was quite capable of hoisting herself up into the saddle, and she appeared as comfortable as if riding had been a regular routine. Ten minutes later we were heading west across the wide pasture. Now that we were actually in the saddle, I realized that there were a great many places I wanted to show Corrie. At the far end of the pasture grazed the four cows which made up our small herd. We rode slowly. I wanted to do nothing that might endanger Corrie’s arm. But I knew her silence was not due to such a concern in her mind. The melancholy feeling of confusion and frustration had returned the moment she was in the saddle and had taken the leather reins in her hands. From the very way she sat, I knew in an instant that she was more than a moderately accomplished horsewoman.
I think she sensed it too. The smell of horseflesh, the squeak and feel and movement of the saddle and muscular equine body beneath her, the clomping sound of the hoofed feet on the ground, the occasional neigh or snort—all of it was familiar to Corrie, but she could not lay hold of it with her memory.
After leaving the pasture, we embarked on a gradual yet steady ascent up the slope of a small hill. The ridge of it extended for miles and miles as far as the eye could see toward the north.
I was thinking to myself that a short conversation about something unrelated to horses might pull Corrie out of the quiet mood that had come over her. When she spoke again, her very words gave me an idea with which to find out more, if I could, of what she thought about spiritual things.
“Where are we going?” she asked after several minutes, turning toward me.
“To a favorite spot of mine,” I replied. “Up about another four miles, to the top of this ridge we are climbing, from which you can see for miles around in every direction. It’s a wonderful view. I’ve wanted to show it to you for some time. I’ve ridden up here I don’t know how many times to think and pray.”
“What do you think about?” she asked.
“Well, then, what are you thinking about today?”
“To tell you the truth, I was just mulling over in my brain what would make a great illustration for a sermon.”
“Tell me.”
“All right. I was thinking that this gradual hill we’ve been climbing reminds me of our acts of kindness and goodness that we do over a lifetime. In the same way that our horses’ feet move up the hill at such an incremental small rate, by the time they have taken ten thousand small steps, we will indeed be on the very top of the hill up ahead. In the same way, good deeds, small and insignificant as each one may seem by itself, pile up one by one, as slowly as each single horse’s step, but all taken together along with all the events of our lives will someday form a magnificent monument of testimony to a life with God. Just as we have been slowly and steadily climbing this gradual hill, so should be the acts of obedience and kindness toward others, so that in heaven, toward which we are climbing, the deeds will stack upon one another to form a mountain of eternal value.”
I stopped. “Does that make sense?” I said. “I don’t think it’s quite ready for a sermon! I’m not sure I said it very clearly.”
“I think I understand,” replied Corrie. “It almost sounds familiar, as if I once knew someone else who explained things just like you do, with illustrations like that. Tell me more of what you were thinking.”
“It’s not only good deeds, so to speak, but the whole way we approach life, the way we approach everything. Besides doing things for others, there’s the element of conquering selfish motives and attitudes within ourselves—they are like upward steps of the horses’ feet too. Every time we squelch something that our soul or flesh might have wanted to say or do, that adds to the mountain of heavenly treasure too.”
Now it was my turn to grow quiet. Corrie noticed, but did not interrupt it.
“My father used to say,” I finally went on, “that every action, every thought, every decision that we did or thought or decided added a little piece of something to our future heavenly storehouse—either a tiny piece of straw, or a tiny flake of gold dust. And then, he said, someday, in the next life, it will all be set to blazing so that the fire can test to see what kind of things we were putting into the storehouse, straw that will burn up, or gold that will still be there even after the fire dies away. Then we will find out, just like with this hill we’ve been climbing, what all our words and deeds and attitudes and decisions have added up to.”
Land of the Brave and the Free (Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister Book 7) Page 6