But now, with a groaning of agony, I forced myself to raise my arms. Slowly I felt them leave my side. I stretched them upward and encircled Almeda’s waist, returning her warm embrace.
It felt so good to have her there at my bedside, to send the dark cloud of loneliness away with her loving presence.
I squeezed her tightly, crying freely now for joy. But why wouldn’t she return the pressure? I felt her arms around me and her hands on my back, but they seemed weak and limp.
A sudden chill swept through my body. Why was I suddenly so cold? But . . . but . . . of course, that was the reason . . . Almeda’s arms had grown cold . . . that was what I felt.
I hugged her tightly, but then felt her arms fall from around me lifelessly. I glanced up into her face.
Oh, God . . . God . . . no!
It wasn’t Almeda’s face at all! My arms were clutched around Jennie’s cold, dead body, where she lay, eyes closed, in a wooden coffin somewhere.
I tried to jump back, aghast. But once again I couldn’t move. My arms were locked in an embrace around the corpse that had once contained the life of young Jennie Wade!
But my head did move. I glanced to the right and left. All around me, stretching for as far as I could see in every direction, lay coffins . . . coffins . . . with the bodies of the dead. . . .
With sickening horror I realized I knew every face! There were the soldiers—Smith and Tomlinson, the lieutenant, with the sword that had killed him sticking morbidly out of his body . . . there was the dead face with open eyes . . . Oh, God, no it can’t be! . . . there lay Sister Janette! She had died from the wound in her shoulder!
I shut my eyes and tried to scream. I couldn’t look at another single coffin—it was too terrifying. I was afraid that in one of them I’d see my own face, and that the moment my eyes fell upon it . . . I’d be dead.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but could not stop the flow of tears. Still my arms clung to the cold body in the coffin. I could not pull them away.
I felt tears pouring out from under my closed lids and falling down onto the body beneath me.
Some inner compulsion forced my eyes to open. But I squeezed them tight . . . I didn’t want to look!
The cold was now beyond endurance. My arms felt as though they were wrapped around an iceberg. Slowly my eyes opened.
There, just inches from my face, my arms about the body her soul had once called home, was the white, pale, dead face of my mother.
Oh, Ma! I wailed in forlorn and bitter agony.
The cry of my own voice woke me suddenly. I jumped up with a start, glancing around wildly in the middle of the darkened room. My lungs were heaving, my body drenched with sweat. My arms were clasped around a pillow that was wet from my weeping.
For five or six seconds I stared into the darkness, bewildered and disoriented. As wakefulness gradually stole back over me, I remembered where I was.
The reality was nearly as bad as the dream. For with the return of consciousness the acrid reality of my aloneness returned as well. I slumped back onto the pillow and wept once more.
Chapter 26
Nighttime Thoughts
Sleep did not return for a long while.
I cried, at first from the renewed despondency of finding myself again so far removed from all those I loved, and then for a while from nothing more than a sorrowful sadness over my plight and the disappointment of the day before. Then I relived my dream, trying to sort through everything it caused me to think about. It was a long, dark night.
I didn’t have any idea what time it was, but finally I crawled off the bed. I was still wearing my clothes from the previous evening. I felt around for a match, lit the kerosene lantern, and once again beheld my dingy little quarters. The dress I had worn in the rain still hung damp over the wardrobe door. Outside I heard the continuing sounds of rainfall.
Slowly I undressed and changed into my bedclothes, then lay back down. Somehow the dream and the crying had taken my loneliness through the deepest valley of despair. And now as my tears began to dry, I found myself taking a few deep breaths of air, and with them drawing in the first breeze of a reviving hope.
I turned the wet pillow over, then stretched out on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I was here, I thought. I couldn’t leave just yet. The soonest I could leave would be tomorrow afternoon. Why not at least try again to make the best of it? Even if I missed tomorrow’s train, what would be the real harm to me? If worse came to worst and I had to remain another night, I could endure the sour disposition of the landlady through one more mealtime. And I’d be sure to be on time!
She was lonely too, I thought. Lonely and growing old . . . her husband was probably dead, or maybe she’d never married at all. What business did I have to be so absorbed in my own self-pity that I would ignore one of God’s children in such obvious need of graciousness and love as this lady?
I determined that I would stay another day, and that I would find an opportunity to return the landlady’s grumpiness with as much good cheer as I could muster! Maybe I was homesick, but that was no excuse for not doing what Jesus told me to do. And he said to do good and be kind and to treat others as I wanted to be treated. So I would make an effort to do just that tomorrow . . . at the first opportunity that presented itself, which would be at breakfast. I would be there at 7:29, with a smile and a kind word for every one of her cranky ones!
After that . . . well, who could tell? I would determine to make it a better day than the one just past. Even if circumstances didn’t go right—even if they all went miserably—I would make it a better day by my attitude toward it. I would be thankful for all things that came my way, for every person who crossed my path, and for every word that was spoken to me!
I found myself thinking about the White House again and what had happened there. I don’t suppose I should have expected anything different. Who was I, anyway, to be given an audience with President Abraham Lincoln? But, I thought further, had I indeed mistaken his meaning? I had been so sure that coming to Washington was what I was supposed to do. Where had I misunderstood?
I jumped off the bed, went to my suitcase, and pulled out the letter. I opened it and read it again, though I hardly know why—I’d already read it enough times to have memorized it ten times over!
MISS CORNELIA BELLE HOLLISTER,
I have been made aware of all your work for the Republican party on behalf of my election, as well as your efforts to raise money for our Union forces in this present conflict. I want to express my deepest appreciation on behalf of the nation, to tell you that your patriotism has not gone unnoticed. It would be my pleasure to meet you here at the White House in Washington, if circumstances would permit you to make the journey. I would very much like to give you my personal hand of gratitude, as well as ask you to help me in the war effort with a new project here in Washington.
Yours sincerely,
A. LINCOLN
President
How could there be a mistake? What could I possibly have misread about his words? It would be my pleasure to meet you here at the White House. . . . I would very much like to give you my personal hand of gratitude . . . as well as ask you to help. . . . Surely, if the man at the White House gate knew what the President had said, he would realize his mistake.
I had to try again! I wouldn’t be so easily discouraged this time. I would tell them that I was supposed to see Mr. Lincoln . . . that he’d invited me. How could everyone around the grounds be expected to know everything the President said or did? I should have expected them to turn me away. I had been completely unprepared. But I wouldn’t be next time.
Making a mental resolve is the quickest way out of an emotional valley. Engaging your will and deciding to do something, however small a thing it may be, is the surest method for battling feelings of discouragement. And now that I’d decided upon two things I was going to do the next morning—smile and be nice to the landlady, and go back to the White House—I felt a great deal better.
It was probably only an hour or two before dawn, but with a considerably lighter heart, I finally fell asleep.
Chapter 27
The White House Again
The next morning, despite the rough night and lack of sleep, I appeared in the dining room at 7:28. The other men were already there. A couple of them nodded at me as I entered. We sat down, and the lady called Marge served us. There wasn’t much more conversation than the previous evening, but I tried to smile whenever I could catch anyone’s eye.
When I was through, as the men were finishing up, I stood, picked up a couple of the dishes from the table, and followed the landlady as she was heading back into the kitchen.
“Would you like some help?”
She hesitated briefly, looked at me from under a suspicious bushy black eyebrow, then replied, “If you want to.”
I followed her the rest of the way in, deposited my load on a sideboard, then turned to go back out to the dining room.
“I’ll get the rest of them,” I said. She didn’t reply, but she didn’t follow me back out, and when I returned to the kitchen again she had begun washing the other dishes, and let me continue until the men had gone and the table in the dining room was clean.
It was a rather silent affair, but I remained a while longer, found a dish towel, dried the dishes as she washed them, and then finally excused myself.
“If it won’t be too much trouble,” I said, “I have decided that I would like to remain at least one more night, maybe two.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “I got nobody else for the room.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I’ll probably be gone all day,” I added.
She said nothing.
“I hope you have a pleasant day,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I turned and left. It wasn’t much of a conversation, I’ll admit, but at least I felt better for having tried.
I went back upstairs, got my bonnet, and set off again for the city. Forty minutes later I was approaching the White House. I went straight around to the east gate where I had gone yesterday, greatly relieved not to see the man who had been gruff to me before. Two men, both with guns, stood there letting people in and out. It seemed considerably calmer and more orderly than it had been yesterday.
I walked up to them.
“I’m here to see the President,” I said as cheerfully as I could.
One of the men stared rather blankly at me, looked over at his partner with the hint of a grin, then back at me.
“The President,” he repeated. “President Lincoln?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “The President.”
Again he glanced at his partner, this time with a definite grin. I didn’t altogether like his expression.
“She says she wants to see the President,” he said, and it was obvious from his tone he was mocking me.
“Look, Miss,” said the other man to me, “we can’t let just anybody who wants to see the President in here.” At least his tone was more friendly.
“Why, there was a crazy man just yesterday who got over the fence, had a gun, and was trying to shoot the President. Luckily we nabbed him in time. But there are constant threats, and protecting him is our job. I’m sorry.”
Everything he said made perfect sense, and now I understood what I’d seen yesterday. But as he spoke I found myself forgetting everything I’d planned to say.
“But I’ve been traveling for a long time, just to see him,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Those are our orders. That’s why we’re here—to keep people from getting in.”
My face fell. I tried to collect my shattered thoughts so I could think. But before I had much of a chance to, the first man spoke again, and at least he wasn’t teasing me anymore.
“How far did you come, Miss?” he asked.
“From California,” I answered.
Both men looked at each other with wide expressions of surprise. “That is some distance. We ever had anyone come that far, Joe?” he asked the other guard. “Private citizen, I mean?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Please, I’ve just got to see him!” I interrupted, suddenly seeing a ray of hope.
“Suppose we ought to tell Hank?” said one of the men.
“Couldn’t hurt,” replied the one called Joe.
He turned and began walking toward the building behind him, while his partner, acting very nice and friendly now, spoke to me again.
“I’m sorry, Miss. We don’t mean to be gruff with you. But with the war on, and with the battles of Gettysburg and Vicksburg just over with, it’s been mighty tense around here. Lots of comings and goings—generals and couriers. There have always been lots of warnings of possible danger to the President. But then after yesterday, suddenly everything tensed up a whole lot more. I’m sure you can understand.”
“I was at Gettysburg,” I said.
“I thought you said you came from California.”
“I did. But on the way I was at Gettysburg, right during the battle.”
The man looked at me with an expression of mild interest and surprise. But after a couple of seconds, he apparently decided against whatever he had been thinking, and said with finality. “I’m sorry, Miss, but we’re under orders not to let anybody in without a thorough check.”
I nodded.
“We just don’t get many visitors from quite as far away as you’ve come. Most folks write the President first. He does get lots of mail.”
“Oh, but I did write him!” I said, suddenly remembering the letter.
“Oh?” One of his eyebrows raised slightly. “Did you receive a reply?”
“No,” I answered. “I was replying to him.”
“Who?”
“The President.”
“President Lincoln?”
“Yes.”
“He wrote you a letter?”
“Yes, and my letter was in reply to that, telling him I’d come.”
“That you’d come where?”
“Here . . . to visit him, just like he asked.”
“The President wrote you, inviting you here . . . for a visit?” By now the man’s voice was incredulous.
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” I pulled the letter out of my pocket. “Here it is,” I said, handing it to the guard.
He didn’t look at it long enough to read it, only long enough to see the signature at the bottom.
“Hey, Joe!” he called out to the other man, who was just entering the building across the wide walkway. “Wait a minute . . . come back. I don’t think we need to bother Hank about this.”
Joe turned and came part of the way back to the guardhouse, while the man I had been talking to thought a moment.
“I think you’d better go call Mr. Hay.”
Joe hesitated. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I think so. And I think once he meets Miss Hollister here, he’s going to ask us why we didn’t call him down immediately.”
Joe turned and went into the building. When he returned, the other man led me inside to a waiting room, where I sat down. In less than ten minutes I was talking with John Hay, Mr. Lincoln’s private secretary. I showed him the letter I had received. He read it over carefully.
“Well, Miss Hollister,” he said at last, “you certainly have come a long way to see our President.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied nervously. “I would have been here sooner—in June, as my letter stated. But I got caught up in the fighting at Gettysburg, and it seemed like the right thing to stay and help out with the wounded.”
“Certainly,” he said. “We’re very grateful for your help.” He paused. “We, uh . . . we would like to speak with you, of course, but you must understand—not knowing exactly when you would arrive—it will be a matter of fitting you into the President’s sc
hedule.”
“Yes . . . I understand.”
“And after that terrible business yesterday, things are in a bit of a stir around here. The President is out of town. We got him out of the city to safety immediately, just in case there was a larger plot afoot—there have been some nasty rumors floating about, and we just can’t be too cautious about the President’s safety.”
I nodded.
“He will be out of town, we think, until the day after tomorrow. Might you be available, let me see—”
He glanced down at a notebook in his hand, turning the pages, then pausing.
“The day after that. Friday, that would be . . . how would that work out for you, Miss Hollister?”
“That will be fine,” I said.
“Shall we pencil it in for three o’clock in the afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine—very good!” He rose, then shook my hand. “Where are you staying, Miss Hollister, just in the event I should find it necessary to reach you for any reason?”
I gave him the address of the boardinghouse.
“Why, that’s old Marge Surratt’s place!”
“I believe that’s correct.”
“Nobody but railroaders and hobos stay there!”
“It’s not so bad,” I said, trying to put the best construction on it.
“Not so bad? It’s a dreadful place! Marge Surratt is the surliest, nastiest landlady in this town. Everybody knows her . . . and stays away from her!”
“Do you know her, Mr. Hay?” I asked.
“Sure. Like I said, nearly everyone in town does.”
“Where do you know her from if everybody tries to avoid her?”
“Oh, it wasn’t always this way with Marge. She used to be quite the political dilettante. She was married to a senator, and the two of them hobnobbed with all of Washington’s society. Why, Marge has been right here in the White House dozens of times.”
Into the Long Dark Night Page 13
