Land of the Brave and the Free (Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister Book 7)

by Michael Phillips

  I suppose I expected the normally closed-mouthed woman to reply with some ordinary pleasantry like, “Oh, it was no trouble.” Instead, she just looked at me for a second, then her eyes filled with tears, and she took me into her arms and hugged me tight.

  “You dear, Corrie,” she said, “it won’t be the same without you here! Now you take good care of yourself!” she added in a motherly tone, trying to free one of her arms to brush back her tears.

  I was so overcome I didn’t know what to say. It was the first display of emotion like that she’d shown me, and now I was leaving and it was too late to find a way to return it.

  I rode in silence as we left, bound away from the Confederate capital toward the west, and then southward, following the exact route Captain Dyles, Jacob, and I had on our way to Richmond to kidnap Cal. Christopher again was wearing the garb of a priest, hoping that might keep the rest of us out of danger. It was obvious enough by now that concern for his own safety was the least of the things he was thinking about.

  The ride that day was a quiet one.

  As upbeat and cheerful as the atmosphere around the farm had been after Christopher’s return, it had now grown very somber between us. Mrs. Timms had wept when I’d said good-bye to her, then embraced me. I was thinking about that, and I reckon the other three all had their own private thoughts too. Even though we’d been together only a few days, and the contrasts between us were great, somehow I think there was a sadness for all of us in realizing this peaceful brief interlude was coming to an end.

  The war was still going. The divergent paths of our lives, after this moment of intersection, had to move forward in their own directions. Life never just sat still. This was one of those times when it kept moving, even though we might like to slow it down for a while longer.

  We didn’t expect to see any Confederate patrols out in the direction we were headed, away from where General Lee’s forces were encamped between Richmond and Petersburg. Just in case, though, Christopher had thrown several bales of hay in the back of the wagon, along with two large tarpaulins. Try as we might, there was nothing much that could be done to disguise the two men’s shirts and trousers as anything but Union issue. If we did happen to run into any soldiers wearing gray, Christopher said he’d talk his way through the encounter while the captain and Jacob hid underneath the hay in back.

  The first day passed uneventfully. We rode on till dark, then made camp off the road in a small clump of trees. The men slept under the wagon, and I inside it. Even though it was January, the clear weather held. And the cold wasn’t too bad since Mrs. Timms had made us bring along every blanket in the place.

  We crossed the Appomattox River early the following morning, making our way southward in a wide arc, intending to come up toward the Union forces from the southwest of Petersburg.

  We’d followed just the same route, in the opposite direction, in October. But what none of us realized was that the Confederate line just south of Petersburg had since then stretched much farther to the west, between Grant and the Appomattox. The line was thin, and only sparsely patrolled in spots, but held by southern troops nevertheless.

  The first indication that we had not gone far enough west was when a Confederate sentry suddenly stopped us. We’d been going through a densely wooded area and hadn’t seen him ahead. All at once there he was walking toward us, rifle poised. There was no time for Jacob and Captain Dyles to hide on the floor of the wagon.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant!” called out Christopher quickly, reining in the horses, then jumping down to the ground. “How far are we from the Union line?”

  “About six hundred yards, Reverend,” the man replied. “That’s no-man’s-land out there ahead. Say, what is this you’re up to?” he asked, moving closer and eyeing the two men. “Those two look like Yankees.”

  “You’ve got sharp eyes, Sergeant,” said Christopher, giving him a slap on the back. “They’re Yankee prisoners, and I’m transporting them to the general.”

  “General who?”

  “General Lee, of course. This here’s Captain Dyles, Union army. Surely you heard that General Lee’s been searching high and low for him.”

  “No, I ain’t. Why ain’t they tied up?” he asked. The man had a mean look and didn’t seem the least bit swayed by Christopher’s friendliness.

  “I didn’t think they needed it. I’ve had no trouble with them so far.”

  “What! That’s the most fool thing I ever heard of! Prisoners need tying up. And what are you doing going that way if you’re looking for General Lee?”

  “Isn’t that the direction of General Lee’s headquarters?” asked Christopher innocently.

  “No, you lame-brain priest! I told you, straight out there’s the dad-blamed Union lines!”

  “Rev. Braxton,” I said, slowly getting down from the wagon, “perhaps it would be best for me to go on ahead with the two prisoners, while you finish explaining things to the nice sergeant here.”

  I approached with what I hoped was an equally innocent smile on my face. The sergeant was a seasoned veteran, however, and the charade didn’t fool him for a minute.

  “What kind of an idiot do you two take me for! You’re talking gibberish, and you expect me to let you walk right through here with a Union officer and some big black runaway slave!”

  “I can assure you, Sergeant, that he is not a slave but a free man,” said Christopher.

  “I don’t care if he’s Abraham Lincoln’s houseboy and you’re the pope! None of you are getting through here unless you want a bullet from this rifle of mine in your head!”

  “I assure you, there will be no need for such extreme measures. Nurse Hollister,” Christopher said calmly to me, while still eyeing the sergeant with a steady gaze. “I think your suggestion was an excellent one. Why don’t you get the two men and go on ahead. I will try to make everything clear to the sergeant.”

  I signaled Captain Dyles and Jacob to follow me, then began to walk slowly forward.

  “Why you fools!” he cried, and I could hear the anger rising in his voice. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him swing his rifle up from his side and point its barrel in the direction of the wagon where Jacob was just jumping to the ground. “Once that darkie blood spills on the ground, you’ll know I ain’t nobody to think you can walk past with a pack of lies!”

  I heard the gun cock.

  “No!” I cried, leaping back toward him and knocking the barrel up into the air.

  A sharp report of gunfire echoed through the trees.

  “You miserable, perverse—” He shouted at me, grabbing my arm, giving it a painful twist, then knocking me to the ground.

  It was the worst thing he could have done. Whatever evil name he was going to call me, no more words left his lips. The next instant he was lying unconscious on the ground from a punishing blow from Christopher’s fist.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, Corrie,” he said apologetically. “It’s a cowardly thing to strike another man. But it’s even more cowardly to strike a woman and to call her names that mock the creation of God. It’s something I will not tolerate.”

  “You’re some fellow, Braxton!” said Captain Dyles, jumping to the ground and running forward. “Give yourself up to prison for two men you don’t even know, won’t utter a word to defend yourself, but you’d probably take on the whole Confederate army to protect Miss Hollister here. I can’t say as I can quite figure you out. But once again I find myself obliged to you!”

  “Get out of here, all of you!” yelled Christopher. “You heard him, you’ve just got six hundred yards to run.” As he spoke he picked up the rifle and gave it a mighty heave into the woods.

  “What about you?” I said.

  “I will be fine. I intend to get the wagon turned around and move away from here as fast as I can without arousing suspicion. A minister, all alone in a wagon with a few bales of hay—no harm will come to me. Now go, you three! That shot will likely bring other men that you don’t wa
nt to see!”

  Captain Dyles and Jacob needed no more exhortation. They were already working their legs into a run in the direction we had been going.

  But I couldn’t move. I stood where I was. My eyes met Christopher’s. He was standing about five yards away, one hand grasping the reins of his horses to lead them around.

  Suddenly there was so much to say, yet neither of us could speak. It could only have been a second or two that we stood there, both of our faces so full with the sudden realization of what this moment meant. All my senses froze in that instant. Everything seemed to stretch out ahead and behind that dividing line of time. Yet within it, as I stood there, a giant moment of now consumed everything else, and I did not want to leave it.

  Everything I thought I needed to get back to Washington for was all at once so distant and far away. What did any of that matter . . . now?

  So many thoughts . . . so many words . . . so many unexpected feelings. Yet none could find escape. They just hung heavy in the silent air between us, unsaid, but pounding as an unwelcome weight of sudden grief in my chest.

  “Miss Corrie, you gotta come . . . now!” came Jacob’s urgent voice, suddenly crashing through the dreamy moment of now that was already fading into the past.

  I turned. The big black man was imploring me with gestures, yelling at me to come. “Miss Corrie, we gotta hightail it outta here afore them Rebs shoot us good and dead!”

  I took a step toward him, then two, then realized I was running. Behind me I heard the sound of Christopher turning his wagon around.

  I paused and glanced back one last time. Christopher must have sensed it, for he was looking straight at me. I was just close enough to see one of his eyes glisten with a tear. Again we held each other’s gaze, but this time only for a moment. Then he smiled, spoke softly to his horses, turned, and was gone.

  I spun around and sprinted after Jacob toward the bend in the road around which he had already disappeared, blinking hard to keep my vision from getting so blurry I might stumble.

  Two nights later I found myself in a comfortable bed at General Grant’s new headquarters up north at the mouth of the Appomattox at City Point. Captain Dyles had arranged for everything. When we returned, he made a full report, including about my being shot.

  General Grant gave us all, if not exactly a hero’s welcome, at least a warm one, and invited the three of us to have dinner with him. We were as relieved to see him alive as he was to see us again!

  “I was worried about you, sir,” I told him, “once I came back to myself and realized we hadn’t done anything to stop the plot against you.”

  “Ah, but you did!” replied the general. “Seems you stirred things up so much in Richmond that your Burton fellow and that no good Surratt got worried. They tried to get word to their spy here to make a change in the plans. But by then I had men watching everything that came in, and we intercepted the message.”

  “Who was it, General?” asked Captain Dyles.

  “Clary . . . Lieutenant Clary.”

  “Hmm . . . I suppose that might figure. From Missouri, isn’t he?”

  The general nodded. “Anyway, we locked him up and that was the end of it. So in a roundabout way, you three might have saved my life, after all, even though you paid a heavy price to do it. I want you to know, I’m in debt to each of you for the bravery you displayed, and I intend to see that you’re all given medals for it by the President.”

  “There’s someone else who deserves one as well, sir,” said the captain. He then told General Grant about Christopher.

  “A Southerner . . . hmm, though I don’t suppose he’s the first to help our cause. I’ll see what I can do.”

  We talked awhile longer around the table. General Grant asked me what I wanted to do. I said I thought I ought to go back to Washington.

  “Then I’ll see to it directly,” replied the general. “The River Queen is going north for supplies and repairs to the engine in a few days. That’s my personal floating headquarters. Of course, I won’t be on board because I have to remain here. But you will be my personal guest on the River Queen, Miss Hollister, all the way to Washington.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are very kind.”

  “Anyone who would risk her life for me, which you have done two or three times already as I understand it, deserves whatever an old war campaigner can do for her!”

  And so it was that I reached Washington, D.C., the nation’s capital, at the end of January, by water, some three and a half months after I had left it by rail—stowed away in a boxcar early one morning. Back then I had been desperate to reach General Grant to warn him of an attempt on his life. Now I returned on his personal riverboat as his guest and with a letter in my hand from him that he had instructed me to deliver to President Lincoln himself.

  There had been only two fronts left where the South still fought on—in Georgia and at Richmond under General Lee. But as the year 1865 opened, only Lee was left.

  In the middle of November, General Sherman had burned a portion of the city of Atlanta, then sent his army on a march through Georgia to the sea, destroying everything that got in his way, determined to keep the rebel South from rising again against the Union. On December 22, 1864, Sherman sent President Lincoln a telegram that read: I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition; also, about 25,000 bales of cotton.

  President Lincoln was said to be delighted. Now all that was left was for Grant to take Richmond. Sherman was sent north, through South Carolina, to meet Grant’s forces. Robert E. Lee was a stubborn adversary.

  The winter turned more severe—freezing cold and much rain. I was so happy to be back in the capital before the worst of it. Yet from the reports reaching us, it didn’t seem to slow down General Sherman’s march northward.

  At the same time, however, Lee’s men were deserting in droves. All through the South, refugees, slaves, former plantation owners, women, children fled from what had once been their homes. The entire Confederacy was collapsing, and yet General Lee’s resistance meant that still many more men and boys had to die before the end would come. Robert E. Lee would not admit defeat while there was yet a single regiment left to fight.

  Upon reaching Washington I went first to see Mrs. Richards. She was so happy to see me, and I was happy that she had a room available and had kept the few clothes and books I’d left there, though she’d had no idea what had become of me. Next, I went to the White House to see Mr. Hay and deliver the letter from Mr. Grant.

  “Miss Hollister!” exclaimed Mr. Hay when I was shown in to him. “We have been anxious about you! We have had numerous requests—from the Sanitary people and several of the newspapers—everyone asking us what became of you. And we didn’t know ourselves!”

  I explained briefly about what I’d overheard at the boardinghouse and why I had left town so suddenly.

  “Surratt . . . hmm,” he said. “I told you long ago that he was a bad apple. Haven’t heard of the fellow Burton, though the name Booth is familiar too.”

  “He’s an actor,” I said.

  “Oh yes, that’s right. Now tell me what you heard them saying.”

  I repeated it as best I remembered.

  “I don’t like the sound of it,” he said seriously. “But you say the general is safe?”

  I told him what General Grant had said about apprehending the spy.

  “What about Surratt? Is he in custody?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Not that I’m aware of. General Grant said nothing about him.”

  “With the election over and the war nearly won, security is not nearly so tight these days. Still, I worry about the President. There are too many people still about who hate him with a passion.”

  I handed him the letter from General Grant.

  “Thank you, Miss Hollister. Will you be at Mrs. Richards’ place should I need to contact you?”

  “Yes, sir . . . that is, I don’t have any definite plans.
Will you be wanting me to do anything more . . . any writing?”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course, Miss Hollister. The election is behind us, but the war is not over yet. There is yet a great deal to be done, money to be raised. I know the Sanitary people are most anxious to have you back. And even after the war, the country will need rebuilding. I know the President will be looking to people like you, people with a voice that is respected, to help bind the wounds and bring healing to this land of brave and free men and women.”

  I walked back to Mrs. Richards’, thinking about everything the President’s secretary had said. I tried to tell myself that nothing had changed, and that I could enter back into my writing and my work with the Sanitary Commission just like before.

  Yet I knew that somehow it had all changed. Was it that the election was past? Is that what made it seem different? When I reflected on writing newspaper articles or making speeches to raise money for the Commission now, it wasn’t filled with the same kind of purposefulness as before. A year ago I was filled with an enthusiasm for what I was doing. I almost felt at home here in Washington, with the friends I had made and the work that kept me occupied. It didn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

  Now all the old thoughts and questions and doubts began to flood through me about where I really did belong, what I was supposed to be doing, what my writing meant . . . and where home truly was.

  Sister Janette came to my mind again, and all the Sisters of Unity. Every time I thought of them, so many feelings came tugging at my heart because of the life they lived in dedication to Jesus—a kind of commitment that I truly wanted to make part of my life, too. Yet . . . did I belong there . . . with them . . . or someplace else . . . with someone else?

  I could not even bring myself to face the questions squarely. I needed to get settled first. I had lots of writing to catch up on. I still had months to make up for in my new journal! And letters to my family! They would all be so worried. A pile of thirteen letters had been waiting for me at Mrs. Richards’, all from Miracle Springs!