I’d figure out what to do about my future later.
I did write for the next two weeks, though I still didn’t get caught up. I wrote individual letters to everyone at home, a letter to the sisters at the convent, a letter that I never finished and probably wouldn’t send anyway, and on top of it all I did start an article about some of the things that had happened. I called it “Bravery in the Quiet Places,” though it had nothing to do with me. And after all that, I had barely even begun to get caught up-to-date in my journal! I also renewed all my acquaintances at the Sanitary Commission, and tried to find where Clara Barton was. By the end of that time, some of the former busy schedule had begun to return because the Commission had grown steadily and was involved with more aspects of the war than ever.
Toward the end of February, I returned to Mrs. Richards’ to find a message from John Hay waiting for me. The President would like to see you was all it said. Tomorrow at 2 p.m.
I arrived at the White House, eager and nervous.
Mr. Lincoln was already waiting when Mr. Hay showed me into the reception room.
The poor man looked so old and tired! He looked three or four years older than the last time I had seen him. I must have made some comment because he replied, “Yes, I am tired, Miss Hollister. You can’t imagine how war tires a man, and how the presidency ages him. But the two together are bound to be the death of any but one with the constitution of a horse! Sometimes I think I am the tiredest man on earth.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. It was such a lame reply, but I didn’t know what to say.
“Don’t worry about me, Miss Hollister. Any man who runs for the presidency deserves what it gives him. But my reason for wanting to see you was to thank you for your courage in attempting to warn General Grant about the plot against him.”
“It wasn’t anything that—”
“Come, come, Miss Hollister,” interrupted the President with a smile, “don’t try to tell me it was really nothing. I happen to know a little about bravery. War separates brave men and women from cowards. Ulysses Grant happens to be a brave man, and so when he tells me you are braver than half the men under his command and deserve a medal for it, and that you were shot besides, well then, I listen to what a man like that tells me.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. I could feel that I was blushing dreadfully.
“I decided to take the good general’s advice,” Mr. Lincoln went on. “John—” He motioned to Mr. Hay, who picked something up off the table and brought it forward. He handed it to Mr. Lincoln.
“This, Miss Cornelia Hollister,” he said, “is a Medal of Valor. I want to present it to you on behalf of the United States of America, with the gratitude of her President.”
He handed me the little silk-lined box with the medal lying in the middle of it, then shook my hand.
I was speechless.
“I . . . I . . . I don’t know what . . . thank you, Mr. President . . .” I stammered, feeling so embarrassed but grateful at the same time.
“You may well be the youngest woman ever to receive this honor, Miss Hollister,” said Mr. Hay, approaching me with a smile. “We are very proud of you.”
“And now one more thing,” added Mr. Lincoln. “I would be honored if you would like to attend my inauguration next week. I have arranged for an invitation for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. President!” I said, finding my tongue at last. “I would very much like to attend!”
“Good. I’m delighted. You will be John Hay’s special guest. John, you will see to all the arrangements?” he added to his secretary.
“It’s already been done,” answered Mr. Hay. “A carriage will pick you up at the boardinghouse, Miss Hollister, and bring you here to me. We will ride to the Capitol building together.”
The date was March 4, 1865.
The Capitol dome was at last completed, just in time for the inauguration—a huge, soaring new white dome with the crowning bronze Liberty statue on its peak, all looking down on the city of Washington.
The words of Mr. Lincoln’s speech after taking the oath of office a second time held the same determination to make sure truth and freedom prevailed as if the war were only a month or two old. Yet at the same time they looked ahead to the peace and enormous job of reconstruction which everyone knew was now close at hand.
Here are some of Mr. Lincoln’s words. I copied them down in my journal straight out of the next day’s newspaper.
Both sides read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. The Almighty has His own purposes. “Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!” If we shall suppose that American Slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a Living God always ascribe to Him?
Fondly do we hope—fervently do we pray—that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still must be said, “The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”
With malice towards none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations.
The words of President Lincoln’s inaugural address seemed to signal a new effort to make a final end to the war. Three weeks later he sailed down to City Point, where he met on the River Queen with Generals Grant and Sherman and Admiral Porter. Two days of meetings resulted in detailed plans for a final campaign against General Lee and the Confederacy.
By this time, General Grant’s force had grown to one hundred twenty-five thousand, while Lee’s had shrunk to only thirty-five thousand. As soon as the meetings with the President were completed, General Grant moved against the long Confederate line around Petersburg.
Two days after the President’s return to Washington from his strategy meeting with General Grant and the others, I went to the White House to see Mr. Hay about something he had asked me to write. When our business was completed, he said, “Oh, and we received this letter yesterday—addressed to you, in care of the White House.”
He handed me an envelope. I knew the handwriting immediately, but tried not to show my excitement. But seeing my name written in the familiar hand sent a tingle all the way up my spine!
I took it, thanked him, and left, fairly running all the way back to the boardinghouse. I could not read this anywhere except in the privacy of my own room, with the door closed.
Oh, but my heart beat wildly all the way . . . and not from the run! I ran into the house, flew up the stairs, threw the door of my room open, then shut it behind me a second later, sat down on my bed, and with trembling fingers ripped at the envelope.
Dear Corrie,
What a bold thing to do, is it not, to write you a letter in care of the White House? But I didn’t know what else to do. Our parting was so sudden and ill-planned that we made no provision for correspondence. I hadn’t an idea how to reach you.
And truthfully, Corrie, after the previous two months, the very idea of no longer being able to communicate and talk to and listen to one
who I think has understood more the pulse of my spiritual heart than anyone previously encountered in my life was a thought to me unbearable. It has not, I grant, yet been a long life, for we are both young yet by standards of the three score and ten allotted to healthy men. But it has been long enough for me to recognize that unique form of relationship called “knowing,” and to know that such knowing comes not many times across the path of any one individual’s life. When it comes, therefore, it is to be cherished and not let go of without better reason than I now possess.
All the way back to the farm, without incident by the way—I know you will be worried for my safety—I chastised myself for the idiocy of saying nothing to you in that moment when our gazes locked. Honestly, words were the furthest thing from my mind just then, and my eyes were dancing with too much liquid to think clearly. Worse, however, when I came to myself halfway home, feeling such a heavyhearted sense of aloneness at your departure, was the realization that you were as unreachable to me as the moon!
How I pray this letter finds you, though the very hope that it will seems tinged with absurdity. Yet I am hoping whatever your former association with President Lincoln was, that such will open the pathway for this letter to find its way into your hands.
Mrs. Timms is well and sends her regards. She misses you almost as much as I do, I think, though such is hardly possible. The cows and chickens and goats and pigs are also well . . . and all miss you too! Most of all, the house misses you.
Nothing is the same. A huge quiet has settled upon the place which neither Mrs. Timms nor I find pleasant.
I am enclosing my address here, so that at least you will be capable of locating and writing to me—should the inclination ever strike you to do so—even though your whereabouts remain a mystery to me.
They say the war is nearly done. Jefferson Davis continues to make outlandishly foolish remarks about “our certain triumph” and “our unquenchable resolve” and promising that “no peace will be made with the infamous invaders.” But it is idle and hopeless prattle. The cause of the Confederacy was never a holy cause, but only a selfish and hopeless and vainly proud one. I am a Southerner, but the Confederacy causes me only shame. The disaster and destruction and death that has come has all been well-deserved. If judgment is to fall upon men for ills and torments they perpetrate upon others of their kind, then surely the self-righteous southern leaders who led this nation to split apart and then wage war with itself will have to bear an intolerable load of it upon their shoulders. Robert E. Lee is considered a great man, whose convictions were so strong he was honor bound to do what he has done. I find little within me capable of honoring him, when his refusal to lay down arms had caused such widespread suffering and death. The war was over a year ago. What has it benefited to prolong it?
Please forgive me. As the war ends, as Richmond prepares, by all indications, to crumble, I find myself rather caustically pensive about the worthlessness of it all. Does war ever resolve the conflicts that cause it? I doubt it. Though perhaps it does, if only by killing all those whose intransigence led to the hostilities in the first place.
You may think I am being rather candid for a Southerner. If this fell into the wrong hands, I would be lynched before dusk! Believe it or not, I rode into Richmond and paid your friend Mr. Gregory one more visit. I explained to him my dilemma and asked if he had any means whereby a letter might be gotten north to Washington safely. He said he had ways, and for Corrie he would do anything. He really did say just that! We had a pleasant visit. I believe the seeds have been well planted and watered. A new child of God is in the process of being birthed, I believe.
There is evidence that Lee’s army is disintegrating. Soldiers on foot pass by here almost daily now. The end is days, not weeks, away. Why do you not return to us, even if for a short time? I promise you a quiet corner where you could write undisturbed. And I believe the opportunities for service and ministry to the crumbling armies may yet be great. I am sure you would be of great help and encouragement to the suffering.
In any case, please do write, if only to let me know this arrived safely into your hands.
I am, your servant and friend and fellow sojourner after truth,
Christopher Braxton
Long before I had finished reading it, I was sobbing for joy and loneliness and longing to see him again. Reading his words was just like being with him, listening to him talk. I could hear his voice even as I read!
I was out of the house and on my way back to the White House even before my tears had dried. I hoped Mr. Hay would see me! “Mr. Hay,” I said, “I need to get back to Richmond.”
“Richmond!” he said. “The city will be under siege in a day or two if Grant has his way with it.”
“Not exactly in Richmond, just near it.”
“Everything’s perilous right now, Miss Hollister. This is it. We are on the eve of the final battle—that is, if Lee stays to fight.”
“Is there no way, then?”
“If Grant is successful, the President himself may go down the Potomac and to Richmond. If the southern capital falls, he wants to be on hand personally as a symbol that the country is again one.”
“If that happens, might there be space on the boat?”
“For you?”
I nodded. “I don’t even need a seat,” I added hopefully.
“I will see what I can do, Miss Hollister. I’m sure if there is space the President would be only too happy to accommodate you.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Five days later, by April 1, the Confederate line between General Grant and the city of Petersburg had collapsed altogether. Union troops poured into the city, General Lee retreated across the Appomattox River, desperately searching for food for the starving and hopeless army which followed him, and the whole horde of Union forces at last marched freely to the Confederate capital of Richmond. Jefferson Davis and what was left of the rebel government fled.
The next day I was on board the President’s boat, sailing down the Potomac, then down the Chesapeake Bay, and up the inlet of the James to Cold Harbor and Richmond.
The war was over. All that remained now was to find Lee and still the few guns that remained under his command.
Smoke from the ruins of large sections of burning Richmond still lingered in the air as I galloped out of the city westward toward the Timms’ farm.
Chaos was everywhere. Shattered buildings of brick were in ruins, women dressed in black mourned the death of the Confederacy, in some of the business sections of the city, mobs plundered what little was left in the shops.
The Confederate navy had blown up all that was left of its own fleet anchored in the James. Some ships sank outright, others lay on their sides, others still bellowed smoke. Even as I rode through, an occasional glass-shattering explosion could be heard. The landfire had engulfed a Confederate arsenal filled with gunpowder and artillery shells, and the explosions from them had spread the fires even farther. The doors of Libby Prison were blown off their hinges and the rest of Captain Dyles’ and Jacob’s and Christopher’s fellows at last gained their freedom, along with slaves, still at that late hour of history walking the streets in chains behind die-hard dealers in the horrid trade.
But though historic events and changes were going on all about me, there was only one destination toward which I pointed the nose of the army horse I had asked President Lincoln to have commandeered for me. It felt like home again to have a saddle and galloping horse underneath me, and I covered the ground in a fourth the time it had taken us to traverse it in the wagon.
I galloped straight for the house and was out of the saddle and running to the door even before I had the exhausted beast well slowed to a canter. Not even stopping to tie him, nor to knock, I burst through the door.
Christopher had risen from his chair to see what the commotion was outside. A look of such stunned shock came over his face at the sight of me that he stood absolutely motionless for a second or two.
I s
uddenly realized what I’d done, and a wave of sheepish embarrassment swept over me. What if I had completely misconstrued his letter! What if he was only being polite? What if his letter hadn’t been an invitation at all?
A mortified panic gripped me, and I felt my face go pale. What if he didn’t want to see me?
But still I stood there. Our eyes met. But it was so different than last time. A huge uncertainty and fear filled me, and all at once I wanted to run away and hide. How could I have done such a foolish thing? Yet I was paralyzed in my tracks.
Then slowly his numbed expression melted. His eyes filled with light, and his cheeks flushed with color. His lips fumbled for words, but he seemed to be as incapable of finding them as I was.
“Corrie!” he breathed at last, half in question, half in quiet disbelieving exclamation.
Still I stood. Slowly the mortification gave way to sheepishness as I realized he was actually happy to see me, and the pallor in my cheeks was replaced by the blush I could feel rising up my neck and over my face.
“It is you!” he said, now slowly walking toward me. “I can hardly believe my eyes!”
“It’s me,” I whispered, but the voice I finally found sounded like the silly squeak of a mouse.
“But . . . but why . . . how did you get here . . . the war’s—?”
“You wrote and told me to come,” I said.
“You got my letter!”
I nodded.
He burst out in the most magnificent and wonderful laugh of delight I had ever heard. “I can’t believe it! It actually got to you!”
“Did you not really want me to come?” I said, fear trying to rise into my heart again.
Land of the Brave and the Free Page 15
